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Jared had a weakness for wounded creatures. As a boy, he’d found injured birds, and brought them home to heal. To his discomfort, this woman aroused the same feeling, and something more—something he couldn’t quite define. He wanted to soothe her pain, remove the weight from her eyes.
But she was Laurel’s twin, which meant she wasn’t for him. He couldn’t let some fleeting physical attraction blind him, or get in the way of common sense. He resisted the urge to apologize again. At this stage, expressing condolences would sound hypocritical.
“If you’ll excuse me.” She looked pointedly at his fingers that were still wrapped around her slender wrist—as if he was loath to let go.
Nothing could be further from the truth.
“My apologies.” There, he’d said it. It was all very stiff and polite, very civil, he supposed. Very correct.
And yet, it felt all wrong.
With a rueful smile, Jared released her, unable to deny a small pang of regret. This woman probably needed his protection like he needed to collect one more wounded bird.
She was physically perfect, capable of holding a man captive, with fire in her hair…and ice in her veins, if she was anything like Laurel.
Jared winced, realizing how little he actually knew about the pretty young waitress from the Stillwater Inn. They’d shared a bed, but little else. Laurel never mentioned a twin—or much about herself for that matter—except that she’d moved to Stillwater to live with distant relatives. That would have made her an orphan, he supposed. Odd, she’d never invited pity. She was far too busy rebelling against her uncle’s strict rules and her aunt’s efforts to turn her into a lady. At the memory, Jared smiled ruefully.
There had been nothing remotely refined or ladylike about Laurel Hale.
Nevertheless, she’d taught Jared a valuable lesson—stay away from women who look as if they promise heaven, but deliver a little taste of hell.
Once released, Rachel couldn’t walk away. She rubbed the spot on her wrist where he’d held her in a strong unbreakable grip. At a glance, she saw he hadn’t left a mark, but it felt as if he had.
He was a total stranger, yet this man’s connection to Laurel had opened a door Rachel had thought closed.
“I’m sorry, I’m not Laurel.” She bit her lip, realizing how that sounded. But at that moment, she wished she shared more than a superficial resemblance to her twin sister.
She wished some man would look at her the way this one had—before he discovered his mistake. The way men had looked at Laurel. Inwardly, Rachel shuddered.
No, she didn’t want that.
Of course, she’d noticed him earlier in the courtroom. His eyes had been sending her X-rated messages all day. At first, she’d found it irritating, now she felt perversely sorry because the hot glances clearly weren’t intended for her. Now, when his frowning gaze swept over her, she felt wholly inadequate, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. Perhaps the trial had taken more of an emotional toll than she cared to admit. Or perhaps, it was just this man; perhaps she wanted to see his eyes light up for her.
“I didn’t know Laurel had a twin sister,” he apologized again, stating the obvious. He was shockingly handsome—tall and lean, his skin deeply tanned, his hair longish and streaky blond. But despite the smooth features, his expression was grim, his eyes gray—not a transient storm-cloud gray, but hard, like granite. There was cynicism, knowledge—as if he knew her. Or thought he did. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name,” he said, his voice crisp, like dry leaves.
She drew herself up. “I’m Rachel Hale.” Though not identical, her resemblance to Laurel was striking—an inherited alignment of features that somehow was never as attractive or vivacious as her twin. At one time, Rachel had found that shadow likeness a burden. Men had expected something from her, something she wouldn’t or couldn’t give.
At the reminder, her words tumbled over each other in a rush to escape. “If you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”
Without waiting for his response, Rachel turned and hurried down the stone steps. At the bottom, she pressed her way through the gathering crowd just as Drew emerged from a side door, escorted by the sheriff. A police car waited.
The motor was running.
To her surprise, the Pierces weren’t there. Apparently, they hadn’t stayed around to say goodbye to their son. Drew spotted Rachel and reached into his pocket. He tossed her a set of car keys.
She automatically caught them one-handed. Aware of the attention they were getting—particularly from a cold-eyed stranger leaning against a pillar on the courthouse steps—she stared at Drew in dismay. “I can’t take your car.”
Drew threw her a mocking look. “You need a new car. I don’t, not where I’m going. Take it—there’s nothing else I can do for you and Dylan.” Nothing.
Rachel stepped out of the way when the sheriff tugged at Drew’s arm. For a brief moment, the old Drew surfaced. He looked ready to challenge Seth Powers, who simply stared back. The two had once been friends—going way back to their teens—when Drew dated Laurel. Seth was part of the crowd that hung around the Stillwater Inn. Rachel knew him well enough to know this had to be hurting Seth. Drew once mentioned that the sheriff was dating his sister. But all that had ended a year ago when Seth arrested Drew. The explosion had severed so many links.
Without a backward glance, Drew climbed into the back of the police car—a danger to no one. Except himself. He would always be his own worst enemy, Rachel thought. In addition to hiding his good deeds behind a careless smile, he was impulsive, hotheaded and arrogant. The explosion was an accident, but why hadn’t he acted responsibly? Because he was Drew—always looking for a short cut, a quick fix.
Watching the police car drive away, Rachel wondered how he would survive in prison. Somehow, she couldn’t see him getting out early on good behavior. She pitied Drew. For the first time since he abandoned Laurel when she was pregnant, the anger was gone. The emptiness felt worse.
The crowd slowly dispersed. Suddenly aware that she was standing alone, Rachel squared her shoulders. Somehow, she had to get through the rest of this day.
Earlier, she’d left her nephew, Laurel’s son, at the summer school program. At her approach, Dylan looked up from his artwork and smiled. He was sitting alone at an outdoor picnic table while the other children played water-tag. He was the new kid in town, and Rachel worried about him making new friends. He was eight years old, no longer a baby. She couldn’t shield him from life.
“Hi.” Rachel smiled. However, her disappointment in the trial verdict must have shown on her face.
Dylan frowned. “Is Drew going to jail?”
She sat down beside him. “Yes, honey. He did something very wrong. And the court decided he has to be punished.”
“But he said he was sorry!”
“Sometimes that isn’t enough.” She met his troubled eyes with what she hoped was reassurance. “Things will work out, you’ll see. Let’s go home.”
Rachel stood and helped him gather his paperwork.
She took his hand, and they walked home—which wasn’t far. They lived in a rented cottage on the edge of town. A line of thick trees started a few feet from the back of the house. The Pierces owned the house, and the woods. In fact, they owned half the town.
When she opened the front door, the dog greeted them with an excited glad bark. Dylan grinned. Like his dog, he was sunny-natured and eager to please. At times, Rachel worried that he craved acceptance too much. He craved a father even more. She wanted love and security for Dylan—more than she wanted it for herself.
Dylan ducked his head as the dog licked his face, his ears, anyplace she could reach. “Down, Sunny.”
Rachel smiled at their antics. Her smile fled when she noticed Drew’s flashy red sports car conspicuously parked in the driveway. Apparently, he’d ordered his car delivered to her doorstep. She found the spare set of keys in the ignition. She could send the car back, but she knew it would only return—just as the new refrigerator, stove and washer had appeared and reappeared. Great! Her reputation was already in tatters, and this would only confirm the gossip.
When she first started work at the sawmill, she’d refused several offers of dates. Since Drew arranged her job, people assumed she belonged to him.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
The only connection was through Dylan. For years, he’d paid child support but never taken a personal interest in Dylan. Hoping to change that, Rachel had accepted his recent job offer and moved to Henderson, when the closing of the Stillwater Inn and the loss of her job forced her to make the difficult decision. Since the explosion was an accident, she’d felt sure that Drew would be found innocent. But nothing had worked out. While deeply immersed in the trial, Drew and his family had been kind, but understandably preoccupied, which left Rachel frustrated. Now, here she was in a strange town, and Drew was gone. The entire situation was on hold until he came home in five years—assuming he did.
Earlier that day, Rachel had felt the animosity in the courtroom. To add to her discomfort, there had been that awful man who kept staring at her. Well, maybe not so awful, she thought with a whimsical smile. He was tall, fair-haired with tanned even features. When he smiled, his gray eyes twinkled. From the fan lines around his eyes, she suspected he smiled a lot. She shook off the tantalizing memory.
In any case, his confusing her for Laurel explained his preoccupation. Laurel had had that effect on men—not Rachel, which was fine with her. She didn’t need complications in her life. She had Dylan. As sole guardian, she’d quickly learned that men weren’t interested in instant families.
Chapter Two
The trial of the century—Henderson style—was over. Life settled down to normal—whatever that was, Rachel thought a few days later. A morning breeze ruffled her hair, loosening a strand. She brushed it back from her face, glad that she’d gotten to work in her garden early in the morning before the day’s heat intensified.
She heard a dog’s frantic bark, then, “Mom, Mom!”
Hearing the note of panic in Dylan’s voice, Rachel dropped the tray of tulip bulbs, and ran. She didn’t stop to question her response. At first, she’d been Auntie, then Auntie Mom, and finally just plain Mom, which suited both her and Dylan. Although she tried to keep Laurel’s memory alive, Dylan’s childish memories of his mother were vague, colored by her long, frequent absences.
Sometimes, it seemed as if Laurel had never existed—except in Rachel’s memory. Sadly, Laurel had never been able to love her son, or at least she’d rarely shown it. A little boy needed a mom, and Rachel was it in every way that counted—short of giving birth to him. From the moment she set eyes on the squalling red-faced infant, Rachel adored him. A nurse had placed him in her arms. He was hers to love.
“Mom, Mom, come quick.” Dylan’s voice sounded confident that she would come because—well, because she always did.
Rachel arrived breathless. “What’s up?”
“It’s Sunny!” Dylan pulled on the dog’s collar but the yellow Labrador dragged him across the treed yard into the blackberry bushes.
Rachel caught Sunny’s collar. “Stay!”
At the sharp command, the dog stopped abruptly. Tail wagging, Sunny rested back on her heels. She inched forward.
Then, a rustling sound came from the bushes.
“Uh-oh!” Dylan groaned.
With one ferocious bark, Sunny tore loose, landing Dylan and Rachel in the dirt. They looked at each other and laughed as the dog disappeared into the thick bushes.
Dylan’s laughter warmed Rachel’s heart. Forgetting the dog for a moment, she leaned back on her hands. A faint breeze caught in the pine trees and whispered softly. Today was Saturday, the sawmill at this end of town was closed, and blessedly silent.
The dog let out a long series of high-pitched yelps. Rachel could hear her crashing around, but couldn’t see much.
Apparently Dylan could. “Sunny’s got something big!” He clearly hoped it was something huge. He’d been moping around for days—ever since the end of the trial.
Rachel felt the same. A restlessness still gripped her. She felt unsettled and wondered why the memory of a handsome face and a crooked smile should linger more than all the other images. She sighed. They could use a distraction—something pleasant for a change.
She whistled for the dog. “Here, Sunny.”
Dylan tried to whistle, then said, “I think it’s an alligator!” He sounded thrilled at the idea.
“Dylan, this is Maine. Alligators don’t live here.”
“But they could. I heard about people buying them at pet stores, and letting them loose, or flushing them down the toilet. It could be an alligator. Or a crocodile.”
“Mmm,” Rachel murmured with a straight face. She never laughed at his stories—his dreams—no matter how wild. She knew how important dreams were. Hers were so simple, but elusive. She wanted a place where she and Dylan could stay and put down roots—probably a first for a Hale, she thought with a smile as she recalled her parents’ wanderlust.
Tail wagging, Sunny came crashing out of the shrubs with a black plastic trash bag clamped in her mouth. She dragged it across the yard and dumped it at Rachel’s feet.
Obviously expecting praise, the dog sat back on her haunches and grinned. Oh well, at least it wasn’t a dead skunk this time. “All right, girl.”
The plastic bag moved.
Dylan stared at it. “That looks too small for an alligator.” He grinned at Rachel. “Maybe it’s a snake.”
Rachel hated snakes. With a shudder, she gingerly reached for the bag, then opened it. The inside was black, except for a couple of spots of white. Opening the bag wider, she exposed the contents.
Dylan looked over her shoulder.
“Puppies!” he breathed in shocked delight.
Rachel shared his shock. Someone had discarded an unwanted litter. She resisted the urge to cry at the careless cruelty. Weak and half-starved, the puppies were tiny, about the size of tennis balls, matted into smooth balls of fur. Their tiny claws had poked holes in the plastic bag to breathe.
When one shivered, she said, “Let’s get them inside.”
Dylan followed her into the house and watched as she fetched a wicker basket. “Are they going to be okay?”
Rachel lined the basket with a towel. “I hope so.” She hoped this wouldn’t lead to another disappointment for him. When she transferred the puppies to the basket, she noted how frail they were. One just lay there, its breathing shallow. If it didn’t survive, Dylan would be heartbroken.
Dylan still looked expectant. “Can we keep them?”
“Honey, they’re very young. We need to take them to the animal shelter. They’re going to need special care.”
The telephone book failed to yield an animal shelter, but there was an animal clinic. Rachel needed directions.
“We’re located about five miles out of town,” she was told by the woman who answered the phone. “Take a left at the end of Main Street, then a right, another left.” This was getting more complicated by the minute.
Although confusing on paper, the directions were easy to follow. Getting lost in Henderson was probably impossible, Rachel thought as she negotiated the one thoroughfare.
Until recently, she’d lived in Stillwater fifty miles away, not far in terms of miles, but each town had its own character. Henderson was isolated and rural, a farming and logging town. Stillwater catered to tourists; the population swelled each summer when families occupied the lakeside cottages. Sportsmen came the remainder of the year.
While Rachel drove, Dylan kept up a running commentary about the puppies. “They sure are small. What if no one else wants to take them?”
Rachel answered firmly, “I’m sure they have a list of people waiting for puppies.” She hoped.
The animal clinic was a surprisingly long drive out of town—uphill all the way. By the time Rachel got there, her small car was choking a bit, with that insistent knock in the four-cylinder engine that had her losing sleep at night. She could have used Drew’s car, but pride prevented her from accepting any form of charity, however well-intentioned.
Stones End, the signpost read.
Very apt, Rachel thought as she turned at the sign. Stone fences lined both sides of the farm road, then rambled into the fields, framing straight lush cultivated rows of deep-green potato plants stretching into the far distance. One nearby field had gone to seed, adrift in a gaudy sea of wildflowers, as if someone had thrown caution to the wind and let nature take over.
While admiring the view, Rachel almost missed the animal clinic, which blended into the scenery. She parked the car, and they got out. Dylan carried the basket of puppies as if they were breakable. They climbed the porch steps.
Obviously new, the scent of cedar shakes clung to the building—a long low structure set against the shelter of tall flaring pine trees. In the distance, a collection of farm buildings topped the hill. The place was oddly silent, peaceful. The stillness was broken by a baby’s cry.
The human sound startled Rachel. She opened the screen door and entered a reception area.
A bell stood on the receptionist’s desk. One ring brought someone rushing into the room. With a baby thrown over her shoulder, the young woman smiled. “Hello, I believe we spoke on the phone.”
“Yes, that’s right.” At the sound of Rachel’s voice, the baby turned to look, and grinned a toothless smile.
His mother chuckled. “This is Nathaniel. He’s not usually cranky, but he’s teething.”
“He’s lovely,” Rachel said. And he was—robust and rosy-cheeked, with dark hair. His mother had fair hair; but the infant had her soft rainwater-gray eyes.
The woman smiled. “We like him.” She transferred his weight to her hip. “I’m Jessie Harding by the way. You’re new in town. Welcome to Henderson. I hope you’ll be happy here. Where are you from?”
Liking the woman’s directness, Rachel introduced herself and Dylan. “My aunt and uncle ran the Stillwater Inn until they retired recently.”
“I know the place. Isn’t it closed for repairs?”
“Yes, indefinitely.” Rachel didn’t add any details about her move. Explanations were awkward.
