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He found Cordie and Sophie at the table in the kitchen poring over a baby-furniture catalog. Kezia stood behind them. All three looked up expectantly as he walked in.
Dressed for shopping in the city, his brothers’ ladies were quite a picture. There had always been women around the house, but with Cordie and Sophie, Shepherd’s Knoll had a whole new atmosphere, one that included feminine giggling, too-loud rhythm and blues on the sound system, and more trails of perfume.
“Did she talk you into staying?” Sophie asked hopefully.
“He has to go,” Cordie replied before he could, the words intended to convey support for his stand on self-discovery. But he knew she wanted him to stay as much as Killian did. “He needs more scope than we provide,” she went on with a graceful wave of her hand. “Life on a bigger canvas, more depth and drama…”
He crossed to the table, caught the hand with which she gestured and kissed her knuckles. “There is no more drama anywhere, Cordelia,” he said, “than that which you provide.” She’d been a model, done marketing for her father’s furniture-manufacturing company, and buying for Abbott Mills. She was red-haired and unflaggingly cheerful, and had driven Killian to distraction.
But now, with twins on the way, she and Killian were ecstatically happy.
“Why are you looking at baby furniture?” he asked, going to the refrigerator. “I thought you were wedding-dress shopping.”
“We’re going to do both.”
He wondered why China wasn’t with them. The women had done a lot together since Cordie and Killian had come home from Europe, where they’d had a second honeymoon and checked on the Abbott Mills London office.
“We invited China,” Sophie said, “but she insisted she had work to do.”
“I think she’s going to try to keep her distance until her sister comes.” Cordie weighed in with that opinion. “She thinks because she isn’t an Abbott, she’s lost the right to hang around with us. You could explain to her that that isn’t true.”
He turned away from the open refrigerator. “Why don’t you explain it to her? You’re the ones she isn’t hanging around with.”
“Whose arms did she run into when she learned she wasn’t an Abbott?” Cordie asked significantly.
He turned back to the refrigerator. “I was closest.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“What are you looking for?” Kezia came to peer over his shoulder. “I can make you bacon and eggs, an omelet, French toast.”
“I was looking for the leftover peach pie from last night.”
“For breakfast?”
“Peach is a fruit,” he said, spotting the pie in the back on the bottom shelf and reaching in for it. “Crust is flour and water and butter. It’s just like having toast, only better-tasting.”
Kezia made a sound that suggested pain. “Please let me make you something nourishing.”
“This’ll be great.” He took the fairly large slice left on the pie tin, wrapped one end in a paper towel and took off for the orchard with a parting wave for the women, encouraging them to have fun.
He heard Cordie say feelingly, “That’s one bad Abbott.”
FROM BETWEEN the apple-laden branches of the Duchess, China saw Campbell striding toward the orchard. The Duchess was a large, old tree, part of a group of vintage trees at the end of the orchard. They were the legacy of a colonist who’d owned the property just after the American Revolution. According to local lore, he’d visited his friend, Thomas Jefferson, and brought home thirty-five Esopus Spitzenburg apple trees because he’d so enjoyed the fruit at Jefferson’s table.
Twenty-six of the trees had survived thanks to the tireless efforts of the Abbotts.
The family’s larger, commercial orchard was populated with Northern Spy apples, but family and friends preferred the “Spitz” for its crisp, sweet taste.
She’d come out this morning to continue to thin the developing crop so that the remaining fruit would have the chance to develop more fully, a process she’d been helping Campbell with for several days. Because of the age of the trees, he preferred to do the work himself, rather than leave it to the occasional staff that helped with the big orchard.
It amazed her to think that just a month ago she hadn’t even thought about apples having a history, and now she was blown away by the notion that Thomas Jefferson has probably touched this tree.
It saddened her to know that her days here were numbered, but she’d awakened today, determined to make the most of whatever time she had left at Shepherd’s Knoll. She’d also resolved to stop fighting with Campbell. She’d thought about it most of the sleepless night, and couldn’t imagine why she’d run into his arms last night after reading the DNA lab report. She could still see everyone’s shocked faces. Curiously, Campbell had been the only one who hadn’t seemed surprised.
She didn’t like him. He didn’t like her. Possibly he was willing to offer comfort because he was relieved she wasn’t his sister; he felt he could afford to be generous.
But what had prompted her to go to him? Some need to resolve things with him, maybe, because she knew her little fantasy of being an Abbott was over?
It didn’t really matter, she thought, working the shears carefully. She was going to be polite and productive, and pretty soon she would hear from Janet, tell her to come to Losthampton on the next available flight, and then when she was sure Janet was Abigail Abbott, she, China, would be free to go.
She didn’t want to infringe upon Janet’s right to assume her real life, nor on the Abbotts’ hospitality. They might try to talk her into staying, and Janet would probably remind her of their vow that they were sisters no matter what and that gave China some right to be here, but she wouldn’t stay. For she was part of whatever life Janet was discovering at this very moment somewhere in the northern Canadian wilderness. Poor shopping there, she imagined.
Campbell, in jeans and a dark blue T-shirt, came to stand under the Duchess. She smiled pleasantly at him to implement her new plan. Unfortunately she wasn’t watching what she was doing and dropped a small, hard-culled apple on his head. Or she would have if he hadn’t dodged it.
“You don’t have to do this today,” he said, steadying the ladder as she reached for a cull.
“This is your last chance to have someone else help you with the picking,” she said. “You should take advantage of it.”
“I’m leaving before you are. In a few days this is going to be someone else’s responsibility.”
She glanced down at him in surprise. “You’re leaving before Janet comes?”
“I had promised to report for work at the end of the week. And right now, you’re not sure where your sister is. I’ll come back to meet her when she arrives.”
“Who’s going to replace you?”
“Everyone’s hoping you are.”
Distracted again, she chipped her fingernail with the shears.
“It wouldn’t be fair,” she said. “This is another woman’s life. Maybe Janet’s.”
“Don’t we all live in each other’s lives?”
It was interesting, she thought, that though they didn’t get along at all, he was able to pinpoint the one thing in all this she was having difficulty letting go. When she’d set out on this journey to find out if she was Abigail Abbott, it was because she’d wanted to find the life that was really hers. True, she’d loved her adopted parents, and Janet couldn’t be more her sister than if they’d been born twins. But since she’d been aware of what adoption meant, she’d felt a burning desire, if not a desperate need, to know about her past. She couldn’t explain it.
And whoever had given her life had bequeathed her a possessiveness and a single-mindedness that often made her difficult to live with.
“Come down from there,” he said, tugging at her pant leg, “before you cut off your finger.”
Even she thought stopping was a good idea. She handed down the shears. “You’re right about living in each other’s lives,” she said when she had reached solid ground. She helped him fold the ladder. “But aren’t you the one who has to leave here to find the place where you belong? And you were born to Chloe. Your brothers are your blood. What is it you need to know?”
He laughed lightly, self-effacingly. “I guess I’m proof that blood isn’t always what it’s all about. It’s about feeling that you fit in, that you do your share, that your contributions are valuable and significant.” He grinned now, his expression ripe with all the unpleasant words that had passed between them since her arrival. “Much as it pains me to admit it,” he conceded grudgingly, “your time spent here has been all that.”
She couldn’t believe her ears, and made a production of slapping a hand against the side of her head as though something obstructed her hearing. “You didn’t just say I’ve worked hard and well?” she asked in a theatrically shocked voice as they picked up opposite ends of the ladder and carried it to the toolshed. “Because I don’t think I could survive a compliment from you. I’ve been so changed by all your criticisms and complaints that I survive on them. A kind word would—”
“Give it a rest,” he advised, pointing to the shed’s closed door. “Would you open it, please?”
She held the door open, putting her wrist to the back of her forehead as he walked past her and inside. “I’m feeling faint,” she went on. “Everything’s beginning to blur. The whole—”
He stood the ladder up and leaned it into its spot in the corner, then took the shears from his belt and placed them on the tool bench. She’d followed him inside. “Put a sock in it, China. Your work’s been good, but your mouth and your attitude have been a big problem for me.”
“Probably because you have the same mouth, the same attitude.”
They looked into each other’s eyes under the harsh fluorescent light, the smells of herbal supplements, natural pesticides and the oil that kept the equipment running permeating the air. She had that sense again of being somewhere that would have been so foreign to her just a month ago.
As this man would have been. Though dressed for physical labor, Campbell had the Abbott breeding and grace so apparent in Killian’s and Sawyer’s good manners and kindness. Until now she’d found it less visible in Campbell, because she’d always been focused on how difficult he was and how angry he made her, but though they’d exchanged little barbs this morning, some subtle change was taking place in the way they dealt with each other.
His treatment of her didn’t offend her quite so much now that she knew he wasn’t her brother, and he seemed a little more inclined to pull his punches—maybe for the same reason.
“If there’s a brother in your real life,” he speculated, taking her elbow in an unconscious gesture and pushing her ahead of him toward the door, “he may be harder to get along with than I’ve been.”
While he padlocked the door, she walked out into the sunshine, aware of a persistent prickling on her arm. She rubbed at it. “I don’t know if that’s possible,” she teased. “In any case, I’ll be well prepared.”
“Something bite you?” he asked, indicating the arm she chafed.
“I don’t know.” She twisted her arm awkwardly to look at it. “It just sort of…”
“Let me see.” He took hold of her arm and leaned down to study it more closely. “There’re spiders in the shed. Not that they’d mistake you for something sweet.”
“Ha-ha.” The artificial laugh came out breathy and surprised, instead of as the taunting response she’d intended. And as the air left her lungs, she understood the reason for the new tingle on her arm.
His touch!
The tingle ran from her shoulder to her elbow now as his fingertips traced a path there, looking for the source of the problem. Then it trickled down her wrist as he explored further.
“I don’t see anything,” he said finally, running his thumb over the back of her elbow one last time.
The tingle followed the path of his thumb. Against every ounce of willpower she tried to muster, heat rose from her throat and crept into her cheeks.
She saw him take note, watched his eyes linger on her blushing face, his expression changing from momentary confusion to something she didn’t even want to analyze.
She snatched her arm away. “I must have scraped it on the door,” she said quickly. I…I’ve got to get back to the house. I promised I’d go wedding-dress shopping with the girls and I have to shower.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t wait to hear. She ran for the house and into the kitchen, where Sophie and Cordie still sat.
“Oh, good!” she said breathlessly. “You haven’t left yet.”
Cordie studied her worriedly. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
“Nothing. Can I change my mind and come with you?”
Sophie nodded. “We’re still waiting for Chloe. She’s having trouble finding a comfortable pair of shoes.”
Thank goodness. China abhorred the thought of being left alone here alone with Campbell.
“I can be showered and dressed in twenty minutes,” she promised.
Cordie smiled. “Take thirty. We might still be waiting for Chloe.”
China took thirty, but the tingle would not wash off no matter how hard she scrubbed. Campbell’s touch was invisibly tattooed on her arm. She didn’t want to think about what that might mean.
Well, she told herself practically as she pulled on white slacks and a white cotton blouse. It could mean whatever she wanted it to mean. She was in charge of her own destiny. Reaction to a man’s touch did not have to mean attraction. The touch of any polite and presentable man might have done that to her. It was a physical response, nothing more.
She repeated that to herself as she brushed her unruly hair and pinned it into a neat knot at the back of her head. But her cheeks filled with color again as she remembered the moment.
She put both hands to her eyes and groaned. No. Please, no. She could not be attracted to Campbell Abbott.
She’d thought he was her brother, and she’d disliked him intensely. Now that she was almost free to leave here, she wanted nothing to get in her way.
But that, she remembered, was what he did best.
Chapter Three
Campbell transferred the contents of his desk into a box—a box, he noticed, that looked a lot like the one with which China had arrived on their doorstep.
He fell into his desk chair, wishing that thought hadn’t occurred to him. It reminded him of the terrible tension of the whole month she’d been here and the possible reason for it that was just beginning to surface.
He kept packing, refusing to let the idea form. No, no no. He was reporting to Flamingo Gables next Friday as he’d promised, and nothing or no one was going to stop him.
It was his chance—finally—to live life on his own terms and he wasn’t going to give up that chance because a woman had blushed when he’d touched her. A woman he’d thought until last night might be his sister. A woman who disliked him.
That was it. They were all victims of the emotional riot of the DNA report, the anticipation of it and the disappointment with the results of it. China Grant wasn’t attracted to him. She was so upset she barely knew her own name right now.
And he wasn’t attracted to her. She was too mouthy, too opinionated, too quick to say what she thought regardless of the consequences.
While he might have admired those qualities in any other woman, they were too much like his own bad habits to allow for coexistence within the same family. Of course, now they weren’t in the same family.
“Hey.” Killian walked into his office with several more empty boxes. He looked around at the stacks of things on the floor and asked in mild concern, “Is this progress or chaos?”
“I guess life is always a little of both,” Campbell replied, emptying the stationery in the last desk drawer into the box. He folded the flaps and wrote “Office” on the lid.
Killian came to sit on the edge of his desk. “That’s pretty philosophical for you. You usually just storm ahead without giving things too much thought.”
“Thinking complicates things.” Campbell carried the box to the wall near the door where others were stacked. “It’s best to go with gut instinct.”
Killian watched him walk to a pile of books and pick out a sturdy box to put them in. “What’s the matter?” Killian asked in the neutral voice that meant he was trying to sound interested, not like an authority figure. “There seems to be a new desperation in your eagerness to leave.”
Campbell looked up at him with deliberate innocence. “No. You’re just being paternal again. Reading things into the situation that aren’t there.”
“Okay.” Killian raised both hands in a backing-off gesture. “We’ll just presume that you know what you’re doing.”
“Let’s.”
“If it’s not challenging your autonomy too much, can you reassure me that you have a plan in place for the apple harvest since you won’t be here?”
Campbell stopped packing to go back to the desk, guilt plaguing him that Killian even had to ask the question. Campbell was the estate manager, after all. If the manager had been anyone else, he’d have had to present a plan in writing long before he was ready to leave.
