by Willa Blair
“I know better than most how appearances can be deceiving. And the very people who are supposed to love and take care of you can turn on you in a heartbeat. An infant’s heartbeat, at that. Besides, you forget, my mother said my father died.”
“She might have thought so, or just said that because she didn’t know what happened to him. Maybe she didn’t want you to keep asking about him. If he went away…”
“Oh, he did that,” Holt bit out. “One way or the other.”
Caitlin stood and moved to the other side of the desk, needing some distance between them. It wasn’t fair that Holt and his mother had been treated so badly. Caitlin knew that. But she was not his great-aunt. And she was not trying to rip him off. “I care about you,” she insisted. She reached out a hand, then dropped it when his gaze shifted away. “I do. Once you get over this shock, you’ll remember that and stop throwing around crazy accusations.”
Holt shook his head. “People have tried to scam me before. I spent the last six months in court because of a woman who got close to me and tried to steal my company’s secrets.” He stared off into space for a moment. “I can’t let you be another.”
Caitlin held her breath, afraid to move. He was working himself up, and it was her fault. “Holt, if you don’t want to know if he’s your father, or anything else, then dinna fash. I’ll forget all of it. I thought I was helping you, but I see now I was wrong. Your past, your family, is none of my business. I’ll finish the catalog and be on my way back to Scotland and out of your life before ye ken it.”
Holt nodded, but something in his gaze reflected pain Caitlin did not want to imagine. He’d been abandoned by his great-aunt before he was born. His mother’s early death was another abandonment. Then some woman at work betrayed him. He had no reason to trust another woman. To trust her. Except, they’d grown close during their time together. He couldn’t deny that. He had feelings for her, she was sure of it, just as she had for him.
Then he grimaced and looked away. “Maybe it’s best if you leave now,” he finally said. “You want to be with your family for New Year’s. You can be there for Christmas, too.”
“What?” She could not have heard him correctly. Her belly filled with ice. Could she have been so wrong? “Go home? I haven’t finished my work here.”
She’d been a fool to think he would go along with her efforts to find his father. She should have known he’d have deeply buried pain. Instead, she’d clawed her way into wherever he’d kept it hidden and ripped away the indifference he used to keep it buried. And she’d done it here in this house he hated. Here, where all the horrible things that had been done to his mother had taken place. Here, where he’d seen his mother subjected to misery and unspoken pain by her aunt, the one person who was supposed to take care of her.
Caitlin had made the man—the cause of all of that happened to his mother and to him—seem real. She had effectively called his mother a liar by introducing the possibility that she’d lied about his father’s death. Add that to all the horror the discovery of his family’s legacy in the attic had shown him, and she'd been the one to bring it to light after it had been hidden away for decades.
“I only wanted to help bring you some happiness. Instead, I’ve ruined everything.”
“No, you haven’t.” He sighed, giving her a moment of hope, but he still didn’t look at her. “Maybe we need to turn down the heat for a while. Drop all of this and just think. I’m stuck here for the winter, but you’re not.”
This couldn’t be happening.
“You can finish the catalog anywhere,” Holt continued, his voice a sickening monotone. “I’ll fly you home for the holidays on my jet. I can have it here in the morning. You can take that damn apothecary cabinet with you when you go.”
“But…what if I need to come back?” What if you want me to come back? Losing Holt was bad enough. Losing Holt under a cloud of suspicion? Her professional reputation and dreams of the perfect job fizzled in front of her eyes.
“We’ll deal with that after the first of the year.” He turned his gaze on her, as cold and gray as the winter sky. “You’d better go pack.”
Holt looked miserable but resolute. He still wouldn’t meet her gaze, and that scared her. He’d talked himself into this. He meant it. Defeated, Caitlin left Holt alone. Now what should she do?
What could she do? She had no choice but to do as he asked—and go.
****
The next morning, Holt was focused on clearing his email queue and keeping his mind off a certain Scottish lass when the office door opened. He didn’t look up from his laptop. “Yes, Farrell?” A boom of thunder rattled the windows, followed by a long, low rumble. Perfect. Just the weather to reinforce his rotten mood.
A higher voice than he expected answered, “It’s me, Holt.”
Caitlin. He kept his gaze on the screen in front of him, hoping if he ignored her, she’d go away. She’d opened up old wounds yesterday with that scheme to make him think she’d found his father. Hell, he’d even considered her idea when she suggested sending the apothecary cabinet to her cousin in the Highlands. Was she trying to take the most valuable piece for herself? He’d made it damned easy for her to scam him, complete with a convenient family curse she could use to make him want to get rid of it. When he should have known better, he’d been fooled by a woman who professed to care about him. He’d be a damned idiot to let it happen again. Yet he’d trusted Caitlin. He’d fallen fast for her.
Still this was Caitlin, and if he took a breath and thought back over the time they’d had together, the discoveries they’d shared, he couldn’t stay angry with her. Disappointed, if his suspicions were correct. But now that he’d slept on it, he knew he had no real evidence. And DNA samples sent to a lab of his choice would provide irrefutable proof of her sincerity, and possibly, his father’s. His reaction yesterday was all about his painful history—a history that had nothing to do with her.
Caitlin cleared her throat, pulling him from his spiral of disappointment and anger.
“Mrs. Smith asked me to pry you out of here, or I wouldn’t disturb you. She’s making pancakes.”
Caitlin’s frown told him she was still angry. She had reason to be, and it was his fault. Holt met her gaze, trying to read her, to see into her soul. He wanted to trust her again. Despite the obvious irritation in her voice, he should be glad she was still there, not on her way to Islip to board his jet. She didn’t look happy to be confronting him—her shoulders were nearly up to her ears, and the knuckles of the hand gripping the door jamb were white.
He intended to ask her to come sit with him and let him apologize when she pointed at the ceiling.
“I imagine by now your pilot has probably informed you this weather isn’t good for flying.”
Just then, his laptop emitted a ping. Holt checked, then nodded. “Just now, actually. He got the local forecast late last night and stayed in California. This front stretches all the way to Texas.” She couldn’t go home until he—and the weather, he thought as another loud crash of thunder sounded—let her go. He might have a chance to salvage whatever had begun to grow between them. He could start by not being the horse’s ass he was yesterday. “I’m glad he did. I wouldn’t want you to risk flying anywhere in this storm.” Or anywhere at all away from me. But he dared not say the words. Not yet. Not until he had a better gauge on her mood. He rubbed a hand over his face and finally met her gaze.
Something sparked in her eyes, making Holt’s belly clench with an unfamiliar sensation. Hope, that’s what it was. He tried to quash the feeling, but it persisted, rocking him. He couldn’t have the conversation with her that he wanted until he regained his equilibrium.
Standing, Holt hooked a thumb toward the kitchen. “As long as you’re stuck here, we might as well eat.” He meant it as an olive branch if merely a broken one.
She leaned further into the room and crossed her arms. “The delay gives me time to work on the catalog you’ll need to dispose of eve
rything.” She paused a beat and added, “Should I include my photo in it, too?”
She’d grabbed his virtual broken olive branch and jerked it right out of his virtual hand.
Holt snorted and moved toward her, but she held her ground. So much for making amends using food. He’d been too subtle. He stopped and counted to three. He had to stay calm, or she’d bolt. “Look, now that I’ve slept on it, I’m sorry I reacted so harshly. As I said, I’ve been burned before by women I cared about and thought cared about me. So that attitude I tossed at you has become a knee-jerk reaction. After the way this week has gone, I don’t—I didn’t know what, or who, to believe. I’m sorry I acted like an ass. You have a right to be mad at me. But I hope you’ll forgive me. And I do need that catalog.”
“So you’ll play nice in order to get it?”
He deserved that. He did, but it irritated him all the same. “I’m trying to apologize, damn it. Don’t push your luck.” He moved to brush past her.
Caitlin grasped his forearm and stopped him. “It’s not mine in question. Yours is the only luck—and future—at risk.”
“I…wish we had proof.”
“I offered a way to get it…and you bit my head off.” Caitlin waved a hand in front of her face, forestalling any reply. “Fine. Never mind. I smell bacon. And coffee. That takes precedence over arguing with you.” She stalked down the hall and didn’t look around to see if he followed.
“Ah, just in time,” Mrs. Smith announced as Caitlin entered the kitchen, Holt on her heels. “And Mr. Ridley, too.” She added pancakes to the steaming stack on a serving platter and poured more batter onto the griddle. “Coffee?”
“Yes,” Holt answered.
“And breakfast?” Mrs. Smith poured coffee into a mug and handed it to him.
Holt nodded and found a seat at the table, inhaling the scent of bacon, pancakes on the griddle, melting butter, and maple syrup. The kitchen never seemed so warm to him as it did right now. Much more than when he first arrived from California, or, he supposed, as it might have been if he'd been in it as a child.
Caitlin moved toward the table, then paused, her gaze on Mrs. Smith. “Can I help?” She gestured toward the massive refrigerator/freezer pair that took up most of one wall in the kitchen. “I can pour the orange juice.”
So that’s the way she wanted to play it? She couldn’t sit with him for a few minutes before breakfast was ready—she’d rather ignore him. Or was she simply doing her best to avoid another argument? Holt straightened and reached for his coffee, at a loss for anything to say to Farrell or Mrs. Smith or Caitlin. Yet he didn’t want to let Caitlin think he wanted to ignore her, either.
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Smith flipped the last set of pancakes while Caitlin poured juice for the four of them and then set the glasses at each place setting on the table. She added the pitcher, too, before taking a seat.
A long rumble of thunder rattled dishes. The lights flickered but stayed on.
“Fine weather we’re having,” Caitlin muttered.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Mrs. Smith told her as Farrell stood and took the platter of pancakes and bacon from her and set it on the table. “Storms usually blow through quickly. It should be over soon.” She joined them at the table. “Do you have weather like this where you’re from?”
“Occasionally.” Caitlin’s gaze shifted to the platter being passed around the table. When it reached her, she took a serving, then lifted it toward Holt.
Her hand brushed his, and scattered hot prickles ran up his arm and down through his torso to his groin. He forced himself to ignore the sensation and took a helping of breakfast without meeting her gaze.
Then the lights went out.
“Well,” Mrs. Smith said, rising, “it’s a good thing we cook and heat this place with gas. Now where did I put those candles?” She pulled open one drawer after another. “This dreary daylight is enough to see by, but since we’re sharing a meal…ah, there they are…we may as well be romantic.” She lit two tapers she’d placed in holders and brought them to the table. “That’s better.” She looked at Holt. “I remember your mother used to laugh at storms. She was a lovely girl. Lively and brave. Had to be, after what happened.”
Holt cleared his throat and bent back to his breakfast. “After?”
“After that boy she dated disappeared. Well, it’s a shame he left town so suddenly. My boy and she were friends. He was in the same class at school and knew about the arguments her boyfriend had with his father. As I told Ms. Paterson, I heard he went into the army. Never came back. I imagine he’s dead.” She lifted a hand to her mouth, flustered. “Oh, I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…”
Caitlin filled the embarrassed silence as Holt dropped his gaze to his plate. “Since we talked, have ye remembered his name?”
Mrs. Smith shook her head. “James, I think. Or John. My boy would have known it, of course, but he was killed in the desert years ago.” She glanced at the photo on the window sill.
“I’m so sorry,” Holt choked out. He was surprised he could speak around the lump in his throat and the thrumming in his chest. Mrs. Smith had just confirmed Caitlin’s story. His disappointment in her evaporated like the echoes of distant thunder. But she also added another wrinkle, one he needed to think about.
“I am, too,” Mrs. Smith answered, “and sorry I can’t give you a name. Perhaps someone who lived in town then might know. One of your mother’s old classmates, perhaps. Were you able to contact any of them?”
Holt shook his head. “I met one of mine, but he didn’t know anything useful. He’d seen some of my mother’s friends—or coworkers—but not for years. I haven’t tried to find anyone else. I’m not sure where I would start.” He didn’t count Doc Coats. They had his story or thought they did.
Suddenly Caitlin reared back in her chair. “I know. Most schools do a book—a yearbook, aye? And keep previous classes’ editions? If we can find one of those…”
“The school Mr. Ridley’s mother attended was torn down years ago,” Farrell informed them.
“Maybe the local library has copies.”
Holt nodded. “Worth a try.” He smiled at Caitlin, feeling lighter than he had since blowing up at her yesterday when she smiled back. Then thunder rumbled, closer again. “Tomorrow, not today.”
****
The next morning, Holt tried to focus on work, staring at his laptop screen until the words displayed on it should have been burned into his brain. His ability to concentrate was one of his greatest strengths and one of the reasons his business was so successful. But he had a problem. A pretty, auburn-haired, feisty, Scottish lass of a problem. The one who insisted on working in the office at the big table, where, she said, she could spread out her notes and see everything at a glance. And the one who drew his gaze and his thoughts like a magnet. A powerful magnet. Yet she seemed to have no problem at all ignoring his presence, judging by the rustling of paper and tapping of keys on her laptop. The considerately muted sounds coming from that side of the room sounded like a symphony that… Damn it. Even thunder couldn’t compete with her presence.
Meals, breaks. They couldn’t get away from each other, thanks to the stormy weather. He suspected she knew exactly what she was doing, messing with him, and paying him back for accusing her of fraud. Not that he didn’t deserve serious payback. He couldn’t deny he’d flown off the proverbial handle. If he’d gone along with her DNA testing idea from the beginning, the question of his paternity might be solved by now.
He glanced at Caitlin, relieved that she seemed focused on her work. He studied her, imagining what life with her could be like, what their children might look like. And wondering how many she wanted to have.
And whether being involved with him really would put her in danger from some eighteenth-century Scottish curse. He’d laugh it off, but for those old pictures and the sad faces, despite the holiday trappings that surrounded them. Unlike the usual stoic expressions common to early photography, when the sub
ject had to hold a pose for an inordinate amount of time, many of these eyes reflected grief and tragedy—or so he imagined.
He’d been with her when they’d opened that chest, and from its condition, it hadn’t been opened in decades. No, she hadn’t faked those pictures. Or the carving in the apothecary cabinet that was the source of all their disquiet, and perhaps all the misery that had followed his family down through the generations. She’d arrived only a few days before he had. There hadn’t been time for her to do anything so elaborate. He was used to people trying to take advantage. He’d developed his suspicious nature the hard way—by being taken advantage of by people who only had their eyes on his money or his power.
And while he didn’t know either Farrell or Mrs. Smith before he arrived here, his mother had spoken fondly of Mrs. Smith even after the gazebo incident when her aunt had banished them from ever stepping foot on the property. Mrs. Smith would not be involved in any plot. He’d bet his fortune on it.
In fact, he was.
He sighed and turned his thoughts to the man Caitlin supposed might be his father. She insisted there was a resemblance, though Holt had always been told he took after his mother. He was starting to look forward to proof.
Did he even want a father? He’d been without one his whole life. He didn’t know how to be a son to a man who’d been absent since before he was born. The thought made him angry at himself for buying into the sympathetic idea, at the man for leaving his mother, and at Caitlin for opening this whole can of worms. But damn if he didn’t admire Caitlin’s tenacity. And creativity. He’d never thought to research his mother’s past. He’d just wanted to get as far from it as he could. That had been a mistake.
