Forgotten Hearts: Dunblair Ridge Series Book One

by Sloan Archer

Gradually, Cash began to feel in control of his emotions, though he could do little about his shaking hands. He got out of bed, padded downstairs, and poured himself a glass of orange juice. The sugary tartness, he knew, would have a strangely calming effect on his body.

  These nightmares, unfortunately, were nothing new.

  During his career as a photojournalist, Cash had witnessed human suffering that no perfectly framed photograph or brilliantly written article could ever accurately portray: genocide, human trafficking, entire apartment blocks bombed to smithereens, villages obliterated by disease, famine. But the waste of innocent human life he’d seen at the school in South Sudan was like no other. Something inside him changed that day, his brain, heart, and soul forever scarred by the devastation. The nightmares had faded over time, but he doubted they would ever go away, not completely.

  On the lonely nights when Cash thought back to his dangerous journalism days, he was faced with bewilderment. It was a life so foreign to the simple, easy-going man he’d become in Dunblair Ridge that it felt as if it had been lived by somebody else. Though his current predicament with his father’s debt was plenty stressful, and though his day-to-day activities were laughably dull when compared to his other globetrotting lifestyle, nothing in the world could ever make him go back to the way things used to be. He was fairly content with the way things were now. The only thing missing was the comfort of a good woman. Because he could sure use some now, comfort.

  After returning to his bedroom, Cash gazed out the window toward the farmhouse across the field. The moon was out in full force, casting a soft white glow against its rooftop. He opened the window, closed his eyes, and inhaled, the clean mountain air filling his lungs. There was nothing quite like a fresh breeze that put Cash in a relaxed mood. Usually.

  What was she doing at that very moment, he wondered, the mystery woman? After checking the clock—it was three in the morning—he came up with an easy answer. Probably sleeping.

  She’s so close, yet so far away, he agonized as he crawled into bed. He stared up at the ceiling and barked out a soft laugh, embarrassed that he was carrying on like a lovestruck teenager. This wasn’t like him. Sighing, he rolled onto his side. Why couldn’t he shake the feeling that he knew her, this stunner whose name he did not even know?

  There was an obvious remedy to his unnecessary problem. He could find out her identity by preforming the simple task of talking to her. It wasn’t rocket science. He could walk across the field, knock on her door, and introduce himself the way any normal person would.

  Cash flopped on his back, frowning. But would that be wise on his part? A man doesn’t get a second chance to make a first impression with a woman, and what if he said something that gave away how lonely and desperate he felt? And maybe showing up at her door like a stray dog was desperate, he thought and then sputtered.

  He was being ridiculous, acting as if he’d never had a single encounter with a beautiful woman in his whole life! Of course he’d go over and introduce himself. That was the sort of thing that was expected in a place like Dunblair Ridge—it would be considered impolite and sketchy if he didn’t. Maybe he’d even bring over a couple steaks, since it was doubtful that she had many groceries stocked.

  Good. It was decided.

  Tomorrow, then.

  With the resolution made, Cash was finally able to relax. He pulled the covers up under his chin and let his eyes fall closed. Eventually, he drifted off.

  Not five minutes later, he jolted upright in bed. This time, it was not because of a nightmare. Heart thudding, he could still picture the woman’s lovely face. He reached out and stroked the air, as if to caress her.

  He did know her, just as he’d suspected!

  Though it had been a very long time since he’d last seen her. Years. Not since he was a child. Cash squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to remember . . .

  Vanessa.

  He knew her name with as much certainty as he knew his own. Vanessa, the childhood best friend who’d vanished from his life as quickly as she’d appeared. The only girl in his entire life that had given him flowers.

  Vanessa, the sweet girl he’d vowed to marry.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Vanessa had gotten plenty of practice waking up in an unfamiliar territory during the weeks she’d spent at Margo’s, but nothing could have prepared her for this. The chaos that unfolded before her now as she peeled open her tired eyes in her new Montana home hurled her through a loop, leaving her feeling dizzy.

  Aunt Jeanie, it seemed, had become quite the hoarder in her later years.

  The flight across country the day previous had really taken it out of her, physically and mentally. Vanessa had been so exhausted by the time she’d arrived in Dunblair Ridge that she could hardly remember her own name, and the only thing she could focus on was sleep. Uncomfortable with her new arrangement, however, and feeling as if she were somehow trespassing, she’d avoided Jeanie’s master bedroom. She’d opted instead for the first guest room she came across during a cursory tour of the farmhouse, which she could now see had been used mainly for storage. Yawning, Vanessa sat up on her elbows so that she could better scrutinize what could best be described as an arts and crafts tornado.

  The large space was lined with several mismatched antique bookshelves that brimmed with enough artificial flowers, yarn, and scrapbooking materials to stock a moderately-sized Michaels store. Her mouth fell ajar as it dawned on her that it was now her job to go through it all. She couldn’t even imagine how long it was going to take.

  Crammed here and there were canvases of varying sizes, most colored with only a stroke or two of bold paint, as if Jeanie had launched into her envisioned masterpieces with relish only to lose interest moments later. On a rolling cart nearby sat dozens of paintbrushes and at least a hundred tubes, bottles, and recycled jam jars of acrylic paint, most of which were dried and cakey.

  Atop a folding card table in the corner was a vintage Singer sewing machine that looked as if it would rip an arm off if used incorrectly. Next to it was half of a quilt that had been done in a stars and stripes checkerboard pattern. It would have been a cozy little number, had it been completed.

  What Jeanie had accrued more than anything was fabric—yards and yards of fabric, which sat in tall, crooked piles on shelves and fat spools in the corner. Vanessa wondered what in the world had been envisioned for all that material. The woman could have made sails for the entire Spanish Armada and still had plenty left over.

  It was a wonder that Jeanie had managed to cram a twin bed into the mix, which was the only thing that qualified (and barely at that) the space as a “bedroom.” When had the hoarding started? Vanessa couldn’t remember her aunt being anything but neat and orderly when she’d lived with her so many years ago.

  Was this what happened later in life to women who’d sworn off romance completely—they stockpile junk in place of kisses? Was this her destiny?

  Maybe amassing junk was simply a by-product of having so much space. Vanessa could only speculate on this front. As a child, she’d had very little possessions, since she and her mother had constantly moved around; as an adult, she’d viewed every square inch as gold, with the cost of New York real estate being so astronomical. There was never any room in her lifestyle for anything other than the bare necessities.

  Vanessa threw her legs over the side of the bed, letting out a loud yawn as she stood. She was once again struck by the strangeness of being in her own home—a farmhouse!—which had been bequeathed to her by a relative who she hadn’t seen in over twenty years. Stranger still, it was located in a town she’d only been to once as a child. A place where she was not acquainted with a single soul.

  The words echoed inside her mind: Not a single soul.

  I am completely and utterly on my own.

  It couldn’t hurt to make few friends while she was in town. She’d given up on the laughable idea of finding love in Montana, but a bit of company just might keep her from going completely i
nsane in her isolation. But how would she ever meet anyone living way out in the sticks?

  From what she’d read online, Dunblair Ridge was a lot more happening now than when she’d last visited. She hadn’t been too impressed yesterday with what she saw during her taxi ride from the airport, though they hadn’t exactly been sightseeing and had skirted downtown completely. In fairness, she had just flown in from New York City, which would make many metropolises seem underwhelming by comparison.

  Not that Dunblair Ridge was what she’d consider a “metropolis” by any stretch of the word.

  Getting to the farmhouse had been a mission in itself. She had to do some maneuvering with her flight to skirt the exorbitant cost of flying last minute, which translated into a long layover at Denver International before her final stop in Missoula. There, she’d rented a one-way car, which she dropped off at another rental car office on the outskirts of Dunblair Ridge, where she had a taxi waiting. Vanessa understood that she could have made things easier on herself by returning the rental car the following day, but she’d wanted to avoid having to run errands so that she could jump in head-first at the farmhouse with her unpacking.

  This was before she’d gotten a look at the state of the place, with its rooms overflowing with items ranging from exquisite antiques to worthless junk. Gary Hinkle had mentioned that the house was in need of repair, but he’d said nothing about the hoarding. Perhaps he didn’t know. The areas in the house that company would have seen—living and dining rooms, plus the kitchen—were neat and orderly. It was all the other rooms that Jeanie had filled to the gills. The packed guest bedroom she’d slept in was only the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the rooms looked pretty much the same. Or worse.

  This should be an interesting time in my life, Vanessa reflected as she wrapped her silky robe around herself and padded downstairs. If nothing else, she’d get a lot of soul searching accomplished in the next few months. Maybe she’d even take a crack at writing a novel. She’d been wanting to do so for years, but time constraints had always stopped her. And if there was one thing she was going to have in Montana, it would be lots (and lots) of time.

  Then again, there was the small matter of all the improvements she’d need to make around the farm before she could even consider putting it on the market. There was also the hoarder rooms that she needed to sort through. A single room alone might take a couple weeks—and that was being optimistic.

  In the kitchen, Vanessa searched the cupboards for coffee, finding only instant. It was better than nothing, she rationalized as she began a searching for a mug. After she found one, she turned the tap on, let the water run until it became hot, and then filled the mug. She dumped a hefty spoonful of powdered grounds in, stirred, and took a gigantic gulp. It wasn’t as delectable as the fancy-shcmancy coffee that she’d gotten accustomed to at Margo’s, but it was the easiest cup of coffee she’d ever made. And it did the trick. She was already feeling alert.

  Vanessa walked through the house as she sipped her coffee, contemplating how she was going to tackle her renovation. She’d need to make some room in the house before she could start unpacking the things she’d brought with her from New York—not unless she wanted to use the living room as her closet, which she didn’t—which meant first tossing out some of her aunt’s things.

  She felt awful to think about it that way, tossing out Jeanie’s things, but the house she’d inherited had come with everything under its roof. It was her prerogative to make it orderly in the manner she saw fit. She certainly didn’t want to appear ungrateful for the gift she’d been given—even if she was the only one around to observe her behavior—but she really couldn’t foresee having a use for Jeanie’s muddy old tennis shoes by the back door or the waist-high stack of Quilter’s Monthly magazines she’d found in the entryway closet. It was the things like old family photos and other irreplaceable heirlooms that she wouldn’t dream of throwing out. Those, she’d keep and cherish.

  She’d left all the doors to each room open the night before to let them air out. As she walked through them now, she was pleased to note that Jeanie, while a textbook hoarder, had at least been sanitary. Barring the dust that had settled around the house from lack of use, there were no obvious signs of slovenliness. No rotting food in takeaway containers or unheeded mold, thank goodness. Still, Vanessa wasn’t going to pretend that she didn’t have her work cut out for her. She pulled out a pen and notepad from the large tote bag she’d used as a carry-on during her flight and added “locate Goodwill” to her long list of tasks, which also included transferring the title of Jeanie’s truck into her name and shopping for groceries.

  Prior to her arrival, Vanessa had thought that her homecoming at the farm would have been a lot more emotional. As it turned out, her reaction had been underwhelming, probably because she’d been so tired—she’d feel a lot less numb once the reality of her situation sunk in fully, she figured. She’d shed only a few tears outside, and that was because the view of farmhouse in the setting sun had pulled at her heartstrings.

  Oddly, the view of the flowery field adjacent to the property had filled her with sad longing that she couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe it was standing on the driveway that piqued her emotions, since that was where she’d been so cruelly torn away from her aunt as a child.

  Vanessa still hadn’t told her mother about the inheritance. She really couldn’t see any point in relaying such information, since it would only do more harm than good and create problems down the road. If Marissa learned that she was in possession of Jeanie’s property, it would be only a matter of time before she and Benji came sniffing around to freeload. Before she’d know it, she’d have an RV parked in her driveway and Jeanie’s electronics sitting in pawn shops across Montana.

  Besides, Vanessa was still miffed over her mother’s misuse of the rent money. And every time she began to think about how her mother had neglected to inform her of Jeanie’s passing—which she tried not to do, since she had more pressing matters to fixate on—she bristled all over. Maybe someday she’d find it in her heart to pardon her mother, but she hadn’t been feeling too forgiving as of late after being betrayed by both Greg and J&M. Sometimes, Vanessa thought with mild bitterness, the only person you can truly rely on is yourself.

  Vanessa went to her suitcase and extracted her outfit for the day—jeans, lightweight cashmere sweater, nude ballet flats with gold detailing—which even she knew was far too glamourous for housecleaning. The thing was, she didn’t own any clothes that were suitable for farming for the obvious reason that she’d been living in the city for most of her life.

  What kind of clothes would she need for Dunblair Ridge? Overalls? Cowboy boots? Flannels? She added to her list of errands: Find farm clothing shop. Was this even a thing, she wondered and then made an amendment: Find out if there’s such a thing as a farm clothing shop.

  She chuckled to herself and said to the empty house, “I am so out of my depth here.” She went to take a sip from her mug and realized that it was empty. She was going to need more coffee.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Vanessa flipped to a new page in the notebook, drew a long line down the middle, and marked the two columns OUTSIDE and INSIDE. She’d use this list to keep track of the repairs needed around the farm. She figured both columns would be about equal when she was finished, but she had yet to really examine the house down to its bones.

  Vanessa’s intent was to remain in Dunblair Ridge no longer than absolutely necessary. Much like her original plan for her mother’s place in Maine, she’d lay low in Montana while she continued her job search in New York online and waited for her professional name to be cleared—or, at minimum, her phony criminal accusations to be forgotten. The only change in the plan was that she now had a farm to fix up, which she’d put on the market to sell once the repairs were completed. Given Dunblair Ridge’s recent increase in popularity as an upscale tourist destination, she just might walk away with a decent chunk of change, which she’d have for
her relocation to New York.

  Gary Hinkle had mentioned that some of the shingles on the roof needed replacing. So did about half the siding along the backside of the house. Vanessa jotted this down in the OUTSIDE column and then headed out the front door. Her strategy was to record the needed repairs starting from the outside in, though she imagined there might still be some things she’d miss, like possible structural damage that wouldn’t be evident to her untrained eye. Financial planning she could do, but she was positively green as far as home construction was concerned. Still, she intended on doing a good portion of repairs herself to help reduce renovation costs, but nothing too crazy—a splash of paint here, a bit of crown molding there.

  Vanessa wasn’t a few feet on the porch when she came across a loose board, which she noted on her list. When she glanced back up again, a large black and white object shifted in the corner of her eye. She went back to the list momentarily and then snapped her head back.

  A gigantic cow was standing on her porch, not ten feet away.

  Vanessa shrieked.

  Blinking lazily, it smacked its lips and provided a greeting of its own: MMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!

  She could have sworn the boards underneath her rattled. She began to back away, one tiny step at a time. The beast snapped its neck sideways and she froze. Its hide shivered, as if its muscles were electrified.

  Vanessa had never considered cows particularly scary, but this one had sure changed her mind in a jiffy. Did cows ever attack people?

  She wasn’t going to stick around to find out.

  “Easy, easy.” Vanessa raised her hands in a coaxing motion as she continued backing away again, keeping her eyes trained on the cow as she descended the stairs. As she reached the bottom step, a warm sensation squished up around her shoes and across her toes. Glancing down, she was met with yet another unpleasant surprise. She’d stepped directly into the center of a steaming cow patty.