Dylan went inside with her, and she packed her little suitcase as quickly as she could.
Fifteen minutes later, they turned onto a nearly hidden driveway off the road that rimmed the lake. She’d expected him to take her to a hotel, but what came into view was a beautiful old Victorian home. “What is this place?”
“Friends of mine own it,” Dylan said. “It’s a bed-and-breakfast, though it’s not open for business yet. They plan to have the official opening this fall for foliage season.”
“And we’re here because…?”
“Nobody will find you here.”
As soon as Dylan parked, the front door opened, and a woman stepped onto the porch and made her way to the pickup. She wore her brown hair in a ponytail, a red T-shirt, and khaki capris.
Chelsea opened her door as the woman approached.
“Hi there!” the woman called.
“Hello.” Chelsea climbed from the pickup and held out her hand. “Chelsea Hamilton.”
“Angel Gilcreast.” Angel looked at the bandages on Chelsea’s palms and patted her shoulder instead of shaking. “Those look like they hurt.”
Did they? Now that Angel mentioned it, her hands did ache a bit, but for that matter, so did everything else.
The sun hadn’t touched the treetops yet, but bedtime or not, Chelsea was exhausted.
Dylan came around the pickup, and Angel hugged him. “So good to see you.”
A feeling Chelsea didn’t have the energy to name sent a twinge of irritation to her heart. How did these two know each other? Was there a romantic involvement there?
Not that it was any of her business. Not that she should care.
“You look great.” Dylan turned to Chelsea. “How’s the foot? You need help inside.”
“I can manage,” she said, then added, “thank you,” though she was feeling less than generous.
Dylan grabbed her suitcase from the truck and spoke to Angel. “Lead the way.”
“Donovan’s moving a chair into one of the bedrooms upstairs.” She turned to Chelsea. “Dylan said you were injured, and he thought you might need a chair, since the beds are all ridiculously tall, too tall for a normal sized person like me to sit on easily.”
Chelsea smiled, because Angel was quite a bit on the shorter side of normal. Maybe five-two, a good five inches shorter than herself.
Chelsea said, “No need to go to any trouble.”
They climbed to the wraparound porch and stepped into the foyer. Chelsea stopped to take it in. Warm wood trim, lightly painted walls, period furniture. “This is marvelous.”
Angel beamed. “My husband restored it. He’s so talented.”
Husband. Inexplicably, Chelsea liked the woman more now.
She peeked into the first room inside the front door—a piano room. Across from it was a parlor.
The quintessential tall, dark, and handsome man came down the stairs with a quick, “Hey.”
He reached the bottom, and he shook Dylan’s hand as if they were old friends before turning to her. “Donovan Gilcreast.”
She shook his hand. “Chelsea. Nice to meet you.”
“Come on up,” he said, “I’ll show you to your room.”
Her room was at the top of the stairs and had an en suite bathroom. It was furnished with a heavy queen-size bed and matching bureau and nightstand. Two sets of towels had been left on the chair in the corner.
After Donovan deposited her suitcase, he and Dylan continued down the hall.
“We have extra toiletries in the bathroom.” Angel stepped inside. “Let me know if you need anything else. Also, I’m about to run a load of laundry. You need anything washed?”
Did she? She couldn’t even think… “Actually, if it wouldn’t be any trouble.” She pulled her dirty clothes from the suitcase. Angel snagged a laundry basket from somewhere else on the second floor, and Chelsea dumped her things in. “I didn’t plan to be gone so long. I didn’t pack nearly enough.”
“Not a problem,” Angel said. “You need anything to eat? A glass of water?” She leveled a gaze at Chelsea’s hands. “A first aid kit?”
Angel helped her clean the wounds on her hands and replace the bandages. She brought her a glass of water and two Tylenol to help with the ache in her foot.
By the time they were finished, the sun was setting. It was not quite nine o’clock, but Chelsea, despite two naps, felt as if she’d been awake for a week. She failed to stifle a yawn. “Pardon me.”
Angel just smiled. “Dylan is staying across the hall. Donovan and I will be downstairs. The house’ll be locked up tight, and we have a security system. You’re safe here. You’ll find the kitchen at the back of the house. Help yourself if you need a snack or a drink at night. The fridge is stocked.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Chelsea barely stifled another yawn.
“Sleep as late as you want,” Angel said. “You and Dylan are our only guests, so I’ll make breakfast when you’re ready.”
Ten minutes after Angel stepped out of her room and closed the door, Chelsea crawled into the bed feeling safer than she’d felt since Monday on the mountain. She fell sound asleep.
Chapter Thirteen
It was nearly eight in the morning. After Chelsea had gone to bed the night before, Dylan had gone to his apartment and gathered some things, enough to last a few days.
With his duffel packed, he’d returned to the B and B. Much as he’d have liked to sleep in his own bed after the day he’d had, he didn’t feel comfortable leaving Chelsea unprotected. So he’d taken the room across from hers and slept with one ear open for intruders. It hadn’t been very restful.
He was sipping coffee at the kitchen table the next morning when Chelsea wandered in.
She froze when she saw him. “Good morning.”
He stood. “How’d you sleep?”
Her smile was bright, the biggest he’d seen on her yet. “Amazingly well, actually. I usually have trouble sleeping in strange places, but I drifted off before the sun fully set and didn’t wake up until after sunrise.”
“You were exhausted.”
Chelsea took in the space. Whereas the rest of the house was filled with period furnishings and decor, the industrial kitchen was completely modern—granite countertops, subway tiles for the backsplash, stainless appliances. Chelsea turned to the wall of windows that overlooked the lake. “It’s lovely.”
“I was hoping you’d find it restorative,” he said. “After the week you’ve had…”
“Indeed.”
He studied her profile. Her blond hair shone in the sunlight. She’d put on makeup this morning and chosen a pair of denim shorts and a tank top. She wore one sneaker and her walking cast. Her cheeks had more color than they’d had the day before. She was beautiful. Stunning. And not at all like he’d first imagined her. Not a snob, not entitled, not self-absorbed.
She brushed her hair behind her ear, and he noticed that she’d taken the bandages off her hands. The scrapes were healing well. If not for the cast, one wouldn’t guess she’d been pushed off a cliff.
The thought twisted his stomach in knots.
She faced him, and blue eyes sparked when she caught him staring.
“Uh…” He looked away. “Coffee?”
She glanced at the counter beyond the bar. “I’ll get it.”
As she poured herself a cup, Angel stepped into the kitchen. “I thought I heard voices.”
Chelsea lifted her coffee cup. “You’re well named.” At Angel’s raised eyebrows, Chelsea went on. “Only an Angel could create such a wonderful haven.” She spoke to Dylan. “I handed her a pile of dirty laundry last night, and when I woke, my clothes were in a basket just outside my door, all folded neatly.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Angel said. “I’m trying out new recipes for when we open this fall. I hope you’re hungry.”
The women chatted as Angel made breakfast, Chelsea trying to help but mostly just getting in the way. Her desire to be useful was o
bvious, her lack of cooking skills, amusing.
Donovan came in, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sat at the table with Dylan. He said almost nothing, just watched the women work.
A few minutes later, the four of them ate a hot breakfast casserole, laughing and sharing stories.
Chelsea… the woman intrigued him. Here was a wealthy heiress who’d been sent to an English boarding school, probably surrounded by the rich and famous all her life, yet she fit right in with Donovan, an artist, and Angel, a former con woman who now spent her days preparing to open a B and B. Chelsea didn’t look down on them or patronize them. No, she complimented the beautiful property—though she’d no doubt seen places ten times as nice—and gushed over Donovan’s paintings. She acted as if the breakfast casserole were the best thing she’d ever eaten. Though, on that front, she might have been right. Angel had a gift for cooking.
Chelsea cracked jokes and laughed at theirs. She even managed to pull the normally quiet Donovan out of his shell, getting him to talk about his art, his projects around the house, and even his late sister, Katie.
The laughter faded at the mention of Katie, which led to Chelsea commiserating, telling them about her mother’s death. Chelsea and Donovan shared a moment of grief for those they’d loved and lost.
Dylan knew how they felt. His own sister had been taken from him when he was just a kid. Taken in the most horrendous way. He didn’t mention Bridget’s death. Never spoke of it to anybody except his parents, who’d done a good job of keeping their daughter’s memory alive.
Bridget’s death had altered the course of Dylan’s life. He’d been nine at the time. Carefree. Unaware of the dangers of the world. After Bridget disappeared, he’d seen danger everywhere.
His sister’s death had left a hole in Dylan’s life he was still trying to fill.
Donovan left to start his workday, and Angel, after she cleaned the kitchen, did the same, leaving Chelsea and Dylan alone in the kitchen.
“They’re wonderful people,” Chelsea said. “How did you meet them?”
“That’s an interesting story. When I still worked for the Manchester PD, Angel was a confidential informant for us. She helped us bring a murderer to justice, and she almost got killed in the process. I trusted my partner to keep her safe, but her safety wasn’t important to him. He was more concerned with…” With putting Angel behind bars. But Dylan didn’t share that. “Anyway, that was one of the biggest reasons I left the police force. I became a cop because I wanted to help people, but I felt like I always got involved too late to do much helping. Justice is important, but I wanted to keep people from needing the cops in the first place.”
“And do you do that now?” Chelsea asked.
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Many of my cases revolve around insurance fraud. I refuse to take some cases. I’m not about to help angry spouses looking for dirt to use in divorce proceedings, that kind of thing. My specialty is helping people find lost loved ones. I find lost kids—well, not all kids, but young people whose parents are worried about them. Unfortunately, most are lost because they want to be. Their home life was rough, and they left thinking they’d find something better on the street. They never do. It’s terrible when kids have to choose between bad and worse. When the place that should be safe for them isn’t. A lot of my clients’ loved ones are addicts. All they care about is their next fix, not the shattered people still at home. I tell them their parents miss them, encourage them to go home. When they’re minors, I bring them home or call the authorities. When they’re adults?” He shook his head. “Not much I can do.”
“Must be frustrating.”
“It is. Because if they don’t seek help, they’ll end up…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but he knew the answer. They’d end up like Donovan’s sister had. In her case, dead from a heroin overdose. Or murdered on the streets. Or frozen to death on a cold New Hampshire night, too high to realize the need to seek refuge.
But he could only do so much.
“You have a kind heart.” Chelsea’s blue eyes held his, and he swallowed a surprising rise of affection. Maybe something more than that.
He’d told himself the day before that she wasn’t the kind of woman for him because she was rich and snobby. After spending time with her, after seeing her with his friends today, he realized that, though she was rich, she was far from the woman he’d first met and judged.
But she was still way out of his league.
He had to keep that in mind. Because no matter how attractive he found Chelsea, she’d never go for a guy like him.
Chelsea would end up with some rich New Yorker or, worse, a rich European who came from old money, probably a duke or an earl or something.
She sure wouldn’t end up with an Irish redhead like Dylan O’Donnell.
Chapter Fourteen
Chelsea got herself out of the truck before Dylan made it around to help her, a small victory. Very small, all things considered, but she’d take it. Her broken foot wasn’t bothering her much now, though by the time she finished their task, it would likely be throbbing. She closed her door as Dylan stepped beside her.
“You sure you won’t let me go alone?” He glanced at her walking cast. “This doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
“It hardly hurts at all.”
His narrowed eyes told her he wasn’t buying it. “I can jog up there, have a look around, and be back in thirty minutes.”
She glanced at the small grass-and-gravel area that had been cleared years before. The small lot was full—cars, minivans, and SUVs. And, of course, Dylan’s pickup. This time of year, the walking trails around Mt. Coventry were often filled with hikers, and today was no exception. The sun was high, the air warm. Tourists were here to take in the scenery and get some exercise—much more enjoyable reasons to visit the mountain than hers.
“It’s a short hike.” She started across the parking lot. “I can handle it.”
“I’d rather you wait here.” But Dylan caught up, walked beside her.
A woman about Chelsea’s age smiled at them from behind a folding table at the far end of the parking lot. “Hey, guys. You need a map of the area?”
“No, thank you,” Chelsea said.
“Actually, yes.” Dylan stepped forward, and the woman unfolded the map and rested it on the table.
“You’re right here”—she circled the entrance to the trail—“and you’ll start out going this direction.”
Dylan listened to the woman’s spiel while Chelsea took in the area. She hadn’t been to this spot often in her life, usually coming up the mountain from the other side. There was a stand near the trailhead with a slot for donations—no doubt the woman would hit Dylan and Chelsea up soon enough—and a trash can with a painted sign that read Keep Mt. Coventry Beautiful.
The place had been maintained impeccably. Thanks to HCI, she knew. Her mother had taken caring for the community seriously, and the company had worked hard to support the town’s second largest source of income, tourism.
When the perky park worker was finished, Dylan asked, “Any chance you were here Monday morning about six?”
The woman said, “We don’t have anyone at the lot until seven-thirty. You could always talk to Dougie. He would have been here.”
Dylan took the map. “We’ll do that. Thanks.”
“Would you be willing to leave a donation to help us keep up the property and print these maps?”
“Uh, sure.” Dylan tugged his wallet from his back pocket and handed the woman a ten-dollar bill.
“Thanks. Have fun.”
Chelsea and Dylan walked to the trailhead.
“Are you sure you can do this?” He gave her foot a pointed look.
“The cliff’s not too far up the mountain. I can handle it.”
She hoped.
She went first on the narrow trail, and Dylan followed. They stepped on dirt and roots and rocks. Trees towered around them. The scents of pine and bracken brought back a million memories.
A slight breeze offset the warm air. The morning humidity hadn’t burned off yet, but the breeze made her think it would. The air would cool tonight, especially on the mountain. It would be brisk and chilly, a perfect night for roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories.
Except Chelsea didn’t need childish stories to be afraid. She’d lived enough fear this week to last a lifetime.
Above, a crow cawed. Squirrels rustled the bushes, chattering like schoolgirls over the new boy on campus.
Occasionally, she and Dylan met other hikers, some who passed them from below, others who were making their way back toward the parking lot. They exchanged hellos and how-are-yous but otherwise kept quiet on the climb.
At the top of the first big hill, the trail split. A sign indicated the red trail turned to the left. She paused and leaned on a skinny tree to catch her breath. The rough bark felt as familiar to her fingers as the handle of a coffee mug. It felt like home.
Before Monday, this had been her safe place, the place she’d longed for almost as much as her own house. The events of Monday had colored this whole mountain with a dull haze of fear.
“You okay?” Dylan’s hand gripped her upper arm. “How’s the foot?”
Throbbing. Aching. Begging for a Tylenol or four. “It’s fine.” She indicated the fork to the right, and they continued.
She paused beside a thick maple tree. “This is the entrance to the trail to my house.”
He looked around. “Where?”
From here, one couldn’t tell there was another trail. “We didn’t want people to follow it, as it’s not official and leads directly to my backyard.” She pointed ahead. “See those two birch trees?” The trees were three feet apart at the edge of thick woods.
“I see ’em.”
“Daddy always told me never to follow the same route to them. So I’d look for this tree”—she tapped the bark—“look around to make sure nobody was watching, and then pick my way to the birch trees over all this mess. The trail starts there.”
When she was younger, she’d come through enough with childhood friends that the bushes stayed short and small trails were cut around them. But now that she’d been gone so long, the trail was really and truly hidden.
Legacy Reclaimed Page 8
