by Jane Kindred
Some histories should stay lost. Especially those written in blood.
The only things Millie Lang’s mother gave her were third-degree burns, and a name Millie refuses to use. Abandoned as an infant, Millie grew up as “the girl with the scars”, shunted from one foster family to the next.
Before she met Lukas Strand, she’d never understood what “home” meant. Then Lukas disappeared without a word. Eight years later, Millie is secure in the life she’s built as a physical therapist. Until she gets a letter from a mysterious stranger who knows her real name.
From the moment she arrives at the sprawling vineyard manor on California’s Lost Coast to work with the owner’s young son, she begins to doubt her secret benefactor’s motives. The vineyard is known as The Strand—and Lukas is her patient’s father.
As Millie delves into the tangled threads of their family histories, she realizes the fire that scarred her may not have been an accident—and Lukas’s son is in danger. Unless she survives long enough to unearth the key to some very uncomfortable truths…
Warning: Contains a vineyard owner whose family tree may not have the ideal number of branches, and a woman who is about to discover the magic hidden in her own DNA. May cause unsettling feelings of creeping anxiety and a sudden urge to make bad puns about wood.
The Lost Coast
Jane Kindred
Chapter One
I have been marked by fire all my life. It isn’t the scars I mean, though I have those to remember it by. Fire claimed me when I was just an infant, and yet chose to spare me. I have felt its warm, sentient presence around me ever since—circling; waiting—and I have always been drawn to it. Like a moth, I seek it out, knowing its embrace will ultimately destroy me, but unable to resist its pull.
Whether my own mother burned me deliberately when I was only hours old or whether circumstances beyond her control led to my injury and abandonment, I had never known. I only knew I’d been found at a fire station with third-degree burns on the right side of my face and neck, my right shoulder and arm above the elbow, and down the right side of my torso to my inner thigh.
Fire defined me. An infant with special medical needs and surgeries in the offing wasn’t high on any adoptive parent’s wish list, and even after my recovery was complete, I was the girl with the scars. I survived foster care without any additional ones—at least, none physical—but family was something I’d never truly experienced.
I had never belonged anywhere, had no roots, no past except the mystery of my birth—until yesterday.
“Millie Lang,” the email read, “is not your name. You were born Emilie Petty.”
The only thing my mother had given me was my name, Emilie, stitched onto the blanket I was found in. Instead of pronouncing it like Emily, it was a Scandinavian name, pronounced Eh-MEE-lee, as my caseworker had so helpfully determined. I’d always gone by Millie. It was hard enough to be the girl with the scars. Being saddled with an unusual name made the Lord of the Flies world of elementary and middle school that much worse, particularly the version I found myself in after acting out landed me in the YGC—the Youth Guidance Center, a pleasant-sounding name for juvie.
When I turned eighteen, I had my name legally changed to Millie. If my mother hadn’t wanted me, I didn’t want her gift. I kept the last name that had simply been filled in by a nurse at the hospital to put something on my birth certificate. No one knew me as Emilie and it was on no official documents. Emilie Lang’s juvenile records were sealed.
I stared at the name in the email. Emilie Petty. Not an anonymous foundling, but someone with a history. I read the brief message repeatedly, trying to find meaning in it. Was this a relative of mine? Was it some kind of scam? The generic address gave no clues. But there was no way I could let it go, and the sender knew it. I replied.
Who are you and how do you know?
The answer came immediately. A friend. I can tell you more in person when you come for an interview. What followed was a forwarded ad from a popular online community: In-home Pediatric Physical Therapist. Short-term, live-in position assisting with orthopedic rehabilitation for a seven-year-old boy with a compound leg fracture. Room and board included, generous salary.
Someone not only knew who I’d been at birth, they knew a great deal about me in the present. The clinic where I’d worked until two weeks ago had cut a quarter of its staff due to budget constraints, and I was in desperate need of a job.
The ad was legitimate, placed through an agency I was already registered with. The salary was more than generous. I could keep my rent-controlled Haight Ashbury apartment. With the market in San Francisco, the only way I was ever leaving that apartment was in a pine box.
The location of the position was listed as outside Jerusalem, California, a tiny burg on the Lost Coast so small it was barely an intersection on Google Earth.
And someone there could tell me who I was.
Twenty-four hours later, with only a contact name and an address, I was driving through a forest of the most massive redwoods I’d ever seen to reach a stretch of coastline so treacherous, a highway couldn’t be built on it. One of my favorite places in the world was Muir Woods just over the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco, but I’d never been much farther north. The trees here seemed positively prehistoric.
I felt like a wayward child in a fairy tale traipsing off into the forest without heeding the warnings about lurking wolves. How anyone could focus on anything but the beauty of the rich red trunks soaring into the deep green into a point overhead that made the perspective seem impossible was beyond me. I was glad there was no other traffic besides my beat-up convertible because I would have driven right into anyone in front of me, my gaze drawn continually upward.
I passed through Jerusalem before I realized it was a town. The road dwindled after that into a one-lane stretch of dirt and emerged from the trees onto a rocky bluff over the ocean. A wooden sign over the drive identified the place my GPS had taken me as The Strand Winery and Lighthouse. This couldn’t be right.
The lighthouse rose from the bluff in front of me, the empty lens housing sitting atop a tall, whitewashed tower to the left side of a two-story, red-roofed cottage. I got out of the car to take a closer look, shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun as it headed toward the ocean below. What I could see of the view was incredible, and the quiet was nothing short of magical, with the mist soughing audibly through the trees. I couldn’t resist heading down the trail past the cottage a bit to get a better look.
The top of the path was little more than a gap between the spreading roots of the coastline trees, but beyond, it wound down the rocky side of the bluff to a wide landing with an unimpeded Pacific vista over a sharper drop.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The tenor of the unexpected voice behind me dropped a lead weight into my stomach, sending my pulse pounding into my ears, and I tripped over a twisting root and went skidding downward. A firm hand closed around my upper arm, yanking me back from a certainly fatal slide.
I closed my eyes for an instant, shaken by the narrowly averted catastrophe and by the sound of the voice. It couldn’t be him. I was imagining things.
“Millie?”
I looked up into the face of the last man on earth I’d ever expected to see again.
The ash-blond hair was brushed with dashing streaks of gray at the temples, and the warmth I remembered in the moss-green eyes had turned flinty, but it was him: Lukas Strand—the one man who’d broken down my defenses, who’d finally managed to get the girl with the scars to let someone in. He’d let me be vulnerable—and then turned my world upside down.
&
nbsp; His grip on my arm wavered, and I nearly toppled backward. Lukas grabbed my other shoulder to steady me, bringing me too close to the earthy scent I thought I’d forgotten—an odd blend of moss and rich soil after a rain, with a touch of leather—and far too close to those sensuous lips that had never even said “good-bye.” He’d vanished so thoroughly from my life, I’d almost managed to convince myself I’d imagined him. Except my body remembered him mercilessly.
“I still know kung fu,” I said.
For a moment, I thought he’d laugh, but it was as if someone punched him in the gut before he had the chance.
He let go of me carefully, making sure I had my balance before taking two broad steps back, his shock now masked by a guarded expression. “How did you find me?”
I shook my head. “I didn’t.” He might not have been the best student in our kung fu class, but he’d just managed a superb roundhouse kick to my head. “I didn’t even know you were hiding.”
His eyes flickered with pain as if I’d returned it in kind. “I wasn’t hiding, I—” Lukas stopped, apparently unable to provide a better answer. “Millie, what are you doing here?” Eight years I’d wondered whether he was alive or dead, and he wasn’t even going to offer an explanation.
I wanted to bridge the space between us, to feel the touch I’d been denied. I wanted to weep and rail at him and pound on his chest, demanding an answer. I wanted to push him off the cliff.
I did none of these things. I’d become an expert at sublimating. “Obviously, I have the wrong address. I was supposed to meet someone out here about a job working with a disabled boy. I’m a physical therapist.”
He stared at me as if I’d claimed to be an astronaut. My career had happened AL—After Lukas—my life divided into AL and BL in a sort of self-deprecating private joke between me and myself that even I didn’t think was funny. I hadn’t discovered what I was meant to do until I’d given up looking for him, given up hoping he’d come back, channeling the pain of his abandonment into something positive and solely focused on myself. Something I could do, and damn well.
Lukas looked gobsmacked. “You’re Konstantin’s therapist.”
So maybe it wasn’t the wrong place. Except it really was. “And what are you doing here?”
“You don’t know.” His eyes held stark disbelief. “I own the Strand. It’s my winery.”
Crap. The Strand. He’d told me his family was in the wine business. I’d never made the connection.
Lukas sighed heavily, running his hands up over his scalp and holding them against his head for a moment like he was trying to keep his brain in. “You shouldn’t be fooling around up here. It’s dangerous.” He stepped closer, and my entire body went tense—bracing for what, I wasn’t sure—but he was going around me onto the trail. He headed sure-footed down the path while stripping off his shirt, and I had to grab for the tree beside me to keep from teetering back on the hillside once more.
The long, white scar around Lukas’s trunk from a childhood car accident was the only thing marring the perfection of lean muscle—that, and the fact that he’d torn my heart out and I didn’t know why.
He reached the landing I’d been heading for, and I shrieked involuntarily when he dove off into the empty sky.
“Cliff diving.”
I turned with a start toward the slender, dark-haired woman behind me who’d approached so quietly, she seemed to have simply materialized among the trees. A deep ebony fall of hair draped one shoulder with the perfect straightness of a Brazilian blowout, and a fawn sweater that matched her eyes hugged her slim frame, tucked into a pair of extremely skinny jeans. Her feet were bare. I was noticing things that had no relevance to me, cataloguing them, trying to drown out the screaming in my head.
“He does it all the time. He was born here, so he knows all the good spots. And all the treacherous ones.” She smiled, and her demeanor changed completely as she held out her hand. “I’m Aravella Apostolou.” This was my potential client. Her gaze flitted quickly over my scars, but to her credit, she didn’t stare or ask questions. “You must be Millie Lang.”
Nervousness always made me flippant, a defense mechanism from my days in the foster system. “I hope so,” I said as I shook her hand. “I’m wearing her underwear.”
Aravella laughed instead of looking at me like I’d just escaped a mental ward. “Real Genius. I love that movie.” So did Lukas. I really wished my head would shut up.
She glanced at the wrinkled cotton shirt sticking to my back with sweat from the drive. “You probably want to freshen up before dinner. Are your bags in the car?” She started walking toward the convertible without giving me a chance to speak, and I followed awkwardly. “You’ll be staying in the cottage with Koste. The main house isn’t exactly designed for someone with mobility problems.”
Aravella reached in and grabbed the large duffel bag from the backseat—my “getaway” bag, easy to shove things into if I ever needed to leave somewhere suddenly; another habit left over from foster care days.
I stopped her as she hoisted the strap onto her shoulder. “Ms. Apostolou—”
She smiled. “Aravella, please.”
“Aravella. I thought you were going to interview me.”
“I just did. You’re the perfect candidate.” Her expression turned wry. “Someone actually willing to show up.”
I put a hand on her arm as she turned toward the cottage. “Aravella, wait. Look, I’m really sorry about this, but I’m not going to be staying.”
She looked crushed, her delicate, classical beauty the sort that made marring it with disappointment seem cruel. “But Koste’s waiting to meet you. You can’t imagine how hard of a time we’ve had trying to get someone to come all the way out here. If we can’t fill the position, we’ll have to admit him to the hospital for inpatient therapy. The nearest one is an hour and a half away in Fortuna, and he’s never spent the night away from home before.” Tears had sprung to her eyes.
With anyone else, I would have firmly stood my ground, but Aravella had a persuasive personality. I felt like I was personally killing her child.
At the hesitant expression on my face, she started walking to the lighthouse cottage with my bag as if the matter were settled. “I know it’s remote, but I think you’ll find the perks are worth it. Just wait and see how you feel about it after you’ve freshened up and had dinner. Then we’ll talk.”
My stomach growled audibly at the mention of food. I hadn’t eaten since an early lunch, and Jerusalem didn’t look promising for getting anything to eat after dark. I supposed I could at least stay for dinner and find out what this was all about, though I hoped to God Lukas Strand wasn’t going to be at the table.
The main floor of the cottage contained a rustic but comfortably furnished living room and a spacious kitchen, a hallway splitting off into two bedrooms, and a bath at the back. Inside the hallway on the right, a carpeted staircase led up to the second floor, while on the other side, a set of four wooden steps led to a narrow door; above must be the base of the lighthouse.
Aravella noted where my gaze fell. “That’s where Koste had his accident. One of the steps in the tower collapsed, and he broke his leg in several places. We didn’t find him for hours. I thought for sure he’d fallen from the cliff and drowned.” Her face had gone a bit pale as I glanced back at her. “The door’s locked now, of course.”
She set my bag down in the center of the spiral rag rug covering the hardwood floor. “You can take whatever room you’d like, but even though it gets cold out here at night, it stays a bit warm on the second floor with our Indian summer.” She went to the door. “When you’ve freshened up, just head down the road to the right of the cottage, and it’ll take you straight to the house. I’ll let Aunt Signe know you’re coming.”
“Aunt Signe?”
“She’s the one who actually hired you. She’s kind of the matr
iarch of the family.” She smiled, though her fawn eyes held a hint of bitterness. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Signe.”
* * * * *
I grimaced when I saw my reflection in the bathroom. I’d forgotten about the stupid hat I was wearing, complete with drawstring under the chin, to keep the sun off my head while I drove with the top down. As a redhead, I tended to freckle at the very thought of sun, and burned no matter what SPF I used. Aravella had been very diplomatic in saying I’d want to freshen up.
After a quick shower, I dressed in the one skirt I’d brought with me, a long, loose cotton sheath in a dark heather gray paired with a vintage black mock turtleneck that zipped up the back. I tended toward clothing that covered my scars, not because I was ashamed of them, but because it was easier than constantly answering questions.
As I pulled on a pair of matching cotton stockings and slipped my feet into my black suede ankle boots, I told myself I just wanted to appear professional. I didn’t care what Lukas Strand thought. Besides, as Aravella had said, it was getting chilly up here on the bluff.
Although a little blush and eyeliner wouldn’t hurt. I leaned over the bathroom vanity and drew the lines around my eyes with care. Screw Lukas. So I wanted to look good in case I was eating dinner with the man who’d stomped on my heart. Why not admit it? Luckily, my short curls didn’t need any styling beyond a quick scrunch with some glosser on my fingers. Actual hairstyling would be going too far.
Before I headed out for the house, my phone chimed with a message from an unidentified number, and an odd chill ran up my spine at the words. So glad you’re here at last, Emilie. I hope you like the cottage. It’s where you were born.
Aravella had put me off only to send a cryptic message on the way to dinner. What the hell kind of game was this?
Chapter Two
I took my antianxiety meds before I set out, but I was still uneasy as I walked down the hill to the house, unable to shake the feeling of something lurking in the trees. The sun had disappeared completely, and I quickly regretted not looking for a flashlight at the cottage. Darkness on the Lost Coast was total. Only the glow of light from the house itself provided any illumination. I managed to trip on some stray roots crossing the wooded path, slipping against a damp pool of water that had been captured between them from condensed fog, and scraped the hell out of my palm as I caught myself against the bark of a tree. Brilliant.
