Cider Brook

by Unknown

  “Only because I got out of my sleeping bag. The worst thing was the sense I was sleeping among ghosts out here. Do you ever think about all the people who lived here before you arrived on the scene?”

  He shrugged. “Not really.”

  “It was good, though. Being out here on my own. Imagining what it would have been like if Benjamin Farraday did make it this far west. There wouldn’t have been old stone walls and a cider mill, of course, but still...” She paused, swooping up her jacket at the front edge of her tent. “I heard an owl but no bears.”

  “Was staying out here necessary to your mission?”

  She pulled on her jacket. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  “It kept you from temptation, anyway.” He reached out a hand and untucked part of her jacket collar, his fingers skimming her cool skin as he smiled at her. “Better the cold ground, owls and thoughts of pirates than sleeping on my couch again.”

  She angled a look at him. “Are you always this cocky?”

  “Only when I have reason to be.”

  He thought she might have blushed, but it could have been the chilly air, too. She buttoned her jacket and pushed her hands through her hair, which didn’t help much with the errant curls. The curls worked somehow, going with her general air of high energy and purpose.

  “About this brunch,” she said. “You’re sure it’s okay? I haven’t taken a shower. I have bath wipes. They’re great in a pinch, but they’re not the same as a hot shower.”

  More images he didn’t need. He wondered if she knew it. “You’ll fit right in. It was a late night with all the partying.”

  “I should take this tent down before we leave. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “I’ll give you a hand. Where will you be tonight?”

  She shook her head. “No idea.” She pulled her sleeping bag and backpack out of the tent and set them off to the side in the grass. “Being as self-confident as you are, why didn’t you have a date for the wedding?”

  “Didn’t get around to it.”

  “I gather you don’t have a woman in your life at the moment.”

  “I have lots of women in my life.”

  “I’m not talking about your mother or your sister or your married and engaged women friends.” Samantha picked up one end of her sleeping bag and started to zip it. “Are you hard on women?”

  Justin walked around her and started dismantling the tent. It was a good design, easy to put up and take down. “Maybe women are hard on me.”

  “Ha. I doubt it. Need a hand with the tent?”

  “I’ve got it. Might want to roll up your sleeping bag, or at least fold it so we can toss it in the truck.”

  “I’ll do that.” But she narrowed her eyes, assessing him with a frankness—an openness—that damn near took his breath away. She said quietly, “I’m guessing you’re one of those men who isn’t that easy to get. You like the hunt. You’re not so sure about what comes after that. Home, hearth, the rest of it. Am I right? Are you a heartbreaker, Justin?”

  “I break hearts by the dozen.” He had the tent collapsed at his feet and knelt to fold it up while she finished zipping up her sleeping bag. “What about you, Sam? Have you left behind a trail of broken hearts?”

  She grinned. “Damn, I hope so.”

  Her flippant answer caught him by surprise and made him laugh. “I gather you’ve had your share of pirates and brigands in your life.”

  “More like your average SOBs.”

  “But no man in your life now?”

  “Not since before I went to work for Duncan McCaffrey.” She winced as she dropped her sleeping bag into a heap. “Now, why did I tell you that?”

  “Because you wanted me to know.” He got the tent into a neat square and stuffed it back in its handy case. “Samantha, I wouldn’t have kissed you if I had a woman in my life.”

  She waved a hand. “It was adrenaline left over from the fire.”

  “It was because I wanted to kiss you. Still do.” He winked at her. “Maybe after that hot shower.”

  “Justin—” She paused, those dark eyes again meeting his. “I let you kiss me, and I kissed you back, because I wanted to.”

  “I know.” He grinned at her. “Come on. Let’s go to the brunch. You can meet Fred the Duck and the rest of the gang.”

  * * *

  On the short drive up to the farmhouse, Samantha talked about woodpeckers and crows and whether they stuck around for the cold weather, but Justin suspected she wasn’t thinking about birds. She was thinking about what was going on with the two of them. Whatever it was, it was real, and it wasn’t going away.

  The sprawling farmhouse where he’d grown up stood on wide, open ground, with a large lawn that sloped down to the road. Behind the house were fields marked off by stone walls lined with maples, oaks and white pines, in sharp relief against the clear morning sky. The barn that housed the Sloan & Sons offices was shut up for the day. Today was for relaxing, getting together with family and friends after yesterday’s more formal and structured wedding festivities.

  Fred waddled across the top of driveway. Samantha nodded to him. “The dogs don’t give him any trouble?”

  Justin laughed. “They wouldn’t dare.”

  He introduced her to Charlie, the chocolate Lab—or, more accurately, Charlie introduced himself, nuzzling Samantha, wagging his tail. Justin didn’t know if she was a dog lover, but she patted Charlie and seemed to appreciate his infectious personality. Heather’s dog, Beaver, a mix of German shepherd and black Lab, was another story. Rambunctious, as spoiled as his owner, in Justin’s not-so-objective opinion. The big dog almost knocked Samantha over before running off with Charlie.

  “Why Beaver?” she asked.

  “Heather thought he looked like a beaver as a puppy.”

  “Ah. He reminds me of Buster.”

  “We think he’s Buster’s offspring from his days before Carriage Hill. Don’t tell Olivia.”

  Samantha laughed, obviously relaxing. Justin led her through the back into the kitchen. All four of his brothers were there, trying to help, but their mother shooed them out, pointing toward the dining room. At fifty-eight, Cora Sloan was still a force of nature. “Out. All of you. Thank you but everything’s done, and right now I don’t need to trip over size-twelve feet.” She paused, smiling at Samantha. “I’m so glad you could make it, Sam.”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “You can relax and enjoy yourself.”

  “And get out of the kitchen,” Justin added with a grin, leading Samantha into the dining room, where Heather and Maggie were standing next to the table, already crowded with food.

  His sister was in the middle of an involved explanation of how she had accidentally left the egg out of the pumpkin bread she’d baked for the brunch. “It’s a little burned on the edges, too,” she said, “but it tastes fine. I tried it myself.”

  “I’m sure it’s great,” Maggie said.

  “It won’t kill anyone.” She spotted Samantha. “You made it! We met yesterday. I don’t know if you remember me in the crowd. Heather Sloan.”

  “The only one of us who can’t be trusted in the kitchen,” Eric said, grinning as he helped himself to a slice of apple from a tray of cut fruit and cheese. Heather just rolled her eyes as the eldest Sloan nodded to Samantha. “How was camping?”

  If she wondered how Eric knew she’d pitched her tent last night, she gave no indication. “Perfect,” she said, leaving it at that.

  Eric munched on his apple. “Coldest night of the year so far.”

  “I wondered if that might have been the case. I’m definitely looking forward to coffee.”

  She headed for the coffee urn set up on the hutch, next to a window that looked out across the front lawn down to the road and a field below, at the bottom of which, out of sight, was the small cabin where Justin had lived for a few years.

  He watched Samantha as she filled a mug. Eric stood next to him with his own mug of coffe
e. “I guess a cold night in a tent is nothing compared to an expedition to Antarctica,” Eric said. “Must be hard to stand out in the Bennett family.”

  “I don’t think camping last night had anything to do with standing out as a Bennett,” Justin said, more to himself than to his brother.

  Eric grimaced. “Not going there.”

  “Good. You trying Heather’s pumpkin bread?”

  “Only on a dare. You?”

  “The same.”

  Eric grabbed another hunk of apple as Brandon came in with the boys and wandered off, and Justin joined Samantha at the coffee urn. She had a small rectangle of the pumpkin bread. “It’s not bad, really. Do you like being from a big family?”

  “I don’t know any different,” Justin said, pouring himself coffee.

  “I feel a little like a stranger in a strange land.”

  “Fred the Duck likes you.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “He didn’t attack you. It’s a good sign.” He decided to bypass the pumpkin bread and instead opted for a mini muffin. “It looks like one Adam made. He’s the best cook in the family. Heather and I are the worst, but she’s a lot worse than I am. It’s a point of pride with her.”

  “The youngest of six and the only girl.” Samantha laughed in amazement. “I can’t imagine.”

  “She’s damn lucky is how I look at it.”

  “Do your brothers run off men who might be interested in her?”

  “You’re assuming there are any.” Justin winked. “Kidding.”

  “It was a rude question,” she said simply.

  “You can ask any question you want, Sam. I don’t get offended easily.” He held up his muffin, still warm from the oven. “What kind of muffin do you think this is?”

  “I’ve no idea—”

  “Here,” he said, “have a bite.”

  He ended up popping the whole thing into her mouth since it was so small. He could feel her lips brush against his fingers, and he was pretty sure Eric gritted his teeth and Brandon grinned.

  “Your brothers are watching,” Samantha whispered, swallowing the muffin.

  He shrugged. “Everyone’s watching. Life in my family. What kind?”

  “Apple-walnut. It’s wonderful. You chose well.”

  “Good. I’ll have one.” He grabbed another muffin off the tray and tried it. “Not bad.”

  Brandon was helping his sons choose from the finger foods, warning them not to overdo it since there would be hot food soon. His mother-in-law, Elly O’Dunn, arrived with a huge, bubbling pan of scalloped potatoes. She set the pan on hot pads on the table. She’d been at the wedding yesterday, but Justin didn’t know if Samantha had met her. He made a quick introduction.

  Maggie stepped into the dining room. “Mom raises goats. Nigerian dwarf goats. They provide all the milk for our soap making.”

  Justin got out of there. He had no objection to Elly’s goats, but he’d heard all she had to say about them—which was a lot, once she got started. As he headed into the hall, Samantha was asking Elly follow-up questions on the qualities that made goat’s milk such a good option for soap. Damned if she didn’t sound genuinely interested. There wasn’t a chance Elly or her goats could have anything to do with Samantha’s pirate. That meant she had no ulterior motive—no reason to feign interest—and either wanted to learn about goats or to indulge Elly’s passion for them. Either way, Justin couldn’t figure her out.

  He went out to the front porch. Dylan and Olivia were there, sitting on the porch rail across from Grace Webster, who was wrapped up in a shawl on a wicker sofa, facing the view of the fields and woods. Dylan glanced at Justin as if he wanted to pull him aside about something, but Samantha joined them, fresh from her lesson on goats. She and Olivia launched into a further discussion of the virtues of goat’s milk soap.

  Dylan gave the two women an exaggerated grimace. “You’re not going to start talking about the benefits of lavender, are you?”

  “Not lavender,” Olivia said. “Litsea cubeba.”

  “I don’t even know what that is,” Dylan said.

  “It’s a small tree native to Southeast Asia. Every part of the tree is used in herbal medicine, but its fruit is commonly used to make a lovely lemon-scented essential oil.” Olivia smiled, obviously enjoying the topic—and her fiancé’s teasing. “It’s uplifting. Maggie and I are going to try making our own litsea oil.”

  Justin looked at Dylan. “I’m dying here.”

  His friend grinned, but Olivia patted Justin on the shoulder. “I’ll spare you and stop now,” she said happily. “I smell your mother’s homemade oatmeal bread. I want a slice while it’s still warm. Slathered with butter and honey.” She shifted to Samantha. “I’ll have to walk home to burn off the calories, but it’ll be worth it.”

  Dylan hopped off the rail and addressed his grandmother. “Would you like me to bring you a plate, or do you want to come inside?”

  “I’ll come in soon. Thank you, Dylan.” With an aged hand, Grace patted the cushion next to her on the wicker sofa. “Sit with me a minute, won’t you, Samantha?”

  Dylan frowned but said nothing as he and Olivia went inside. Samantha dutifully sat next to Grace. Justin noticed his grandmother coming up the porch steps. “Hey, Gran. Need a hand?”

  “I can manage, thanks.”

  Evelyn Sloan’s standard answer. She breezed past him and sat on a wicker chair at an angle from Grace and Samantha. Justin leaned against the porch rail. Grace tightened her shawl around her and made small talk about the weather. His grandmother got settled, declaring it was warm enough now that she didn’t need her coat. She took if off and glanced at Justin with a smile that struck him as not-quite genuine if not outright suspicious.

  The two older women were up to something that involved the younger one. He was positive, but Samantha, not attuned to the ways of Knights Bridge seniors, looked oblivious. Grace and his grandmother would have ferreted out by now that he was attracted to Samantha. Did they also know this energetic, brown-eyed, treasure-hunting Bennett was attracted to him?

  Because she was. No question in his mind.

  It wasn’t arrogance or wishful thinking on his part, and it damn sure wasn’t adrenaline. He wasn’t introspective by nature, but he was aware that he didn’t have a lot of patience with self-delusion. He wanted to see things as they were.

  Grace sat back with a certain satisfaction. “We don’t always know where the heart leads us. It’s the grandest adventure of all.”

  Justin felt his eyebrows go up. Where had that come from? He hadn’t been paying close attention to the conversation.

  Samantha seemed to be enjoying herself. “The cardinal sin in my family is to be boring.”

  “The Sloans are anything but boring,” Grace said.

  Justin grinned at her. “Listen to you, Grace.”

  “It’s true. Remember, I had your father and your grandfather in school.”

  “I can’t believe you’re old enough to have taught Gramps.”

  Grace waved a hand. “I’m old enough to have taught Moses.”

  His grandmother looked wistful. “It’s hard to believe Ralph’s been gone almost five years. He was a tough customer. You remind me of him, Justin. No beating around the bush with either of you.”

  “And both good men,” Grace said.

  Justin noticed his grandmother took a second to respond, but then she glanced at Samantha and said, “Damn good.”

  He grinned. “Blunt bastards, the two of us, but reliable.”

  “There’s a place for bluntness, to be sure,” Samantha said, “and you wouldn’t want to be unreliable.”

  His grandmother looked out at the view. “It really feels like fall today, doesn’t it? I love this time of year.” She turned to Samantha. “I understand you’re curious about the Hazeltons.”

  She nodded. “I am. Do you remember them?”

  “As far as I know, there were no Hazeltons in Knights Bridge when I was born, and I�
��m eighty. Grace is older, but she didn’t arrive in town until 1938. They were long gone by then.”

  “But there were stories,” Grace said, leaning forward.

  Justin watched his grandmother lift a quilt—one she’d made even before he was born—off the back of her chair. She spread it, still half folded, over her lap. “The man who used to own this place before we bought it insisted the Hazeltons told him a hermit was living out this way when Scots-Irish settlers first arrived in the area.” She winked at Samantha. “That would have been well before Grace’s and my time. Before the American Revolution, even.”

  “Probably about 1730, maybe a little earlier,” Grace said. “It was after war and disease had devastated much of the local Native American population. No one knew how long this hermit had been out here, or who he was. He hunted, fished, kept to himself.”

  “What happened to him?” Samantha asked.

  Grace sat back. “People left him alone, as was his wish, and he died an old man. Or so goes the story.”

  Justin noted Samantha’s clear interest, but she seemed to make an effort not to get ahead of herself. “Does anyone know this hermit’s name?”

  “I don’t,” his grandmother said.

  Grace shook her head. “I don’t, either.”

  “How did the Hazeltons come to hear this story?” Samantha asked. “Do you have any idea?”

  Justin stayed quiet, watching the three women from his position on the porch rail. His grandmother smoothed out the old quilt, her hands no longer those of the young woman who’d sewn it. “The man we bought this place from had only owned it for ten or fifteen years,” she said. “The Hazeltons had been here for a long time. The story could have come down generation to generation.”

  Samantha seemed transfixed. “It’s fascinating,” she said.

  Grace looked at her, her incisiveness reminding Justin of her grandson, Dylan. “We understand you’re interested in a pirate who might have ventured out this way.”

  “I have no proof of such a thing—”

  “Oh, we know that. We wondered if the story of this hermit somehow generated whatever lead brought you here.”

  “It’s possible. The lead I have isn’t much. Slim at best.”