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Contents:
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13
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Chapter 1
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Fat, wet snow collected on the windshield, obscuring the view ahead. Jayne Miller nudged the intermittent action of the wipers up a notch, and the blades swept across the glass, but the view didn't improve. She wanted desperately to believe that she was at the wrong house, but the directions she'd gotten from the man at the gas station left little room for doubt. This was not only the last house on the left, it was the only house on the left for the past two miles.
The wooden sign hanging next to the front door, clearly visible with each swipe of the wipers, left even less room for doubt. Miller, it announced in rough letters carved in a half moon around a flower.
It was a great old house, Greg had told her when the news had come that he'd inherited it. Big, with high ceilings, hardwood floors and a banister just made for sliding down. It was too big for their little family of three, with its huge yard, gardens and orchard.
The wipers cleared the window once more and she stared at the house. It looked about the size of a two-bedroom apartment. There was no second story and, therefore, no banister. And the yard, if it had ever existed, had long ago returned to the wild. High ceilings? Hardwood floors? Gardens? She doubted it.
At some point in its existence, the house had been painted white—at least, that was the shade the few chips that remained took on in the headlights' glare. The shutters at one front window hung askew and were missing completely from the other. The porch appeared crooked from where she sat—or maybe it was straight and the house was tilted. Or, hell, maybe both porch and house were level and she was the one off balance.
She choked back a laugh for fear it would turn into a sob, then twisted in her seat to check her daughter. Five-year-old Lucy was asleep in the backseat, snoring softly, a quilt pulled over her and a teddy bear serving as a pillow. Their adventure, as she'd insisted on calling their move from Chicago to the southeast Tennessee mountains, had worn her out. Jayne was starting to feel pretty worn out, too.
She tucked the quilt closer around her daughter, then pulled on her coat, a hat and gloves. With the house key clenched tightly in one fist, she left the SUV's warmth for the wet snow that was rapidly accumulating and tramped across uneven ground to the porch. The first step sagged precariously under her weight, and she climbed the others with more caution. The last thing she needed was a broken ankle or neck out here in the middle of nowhere.
It took some effort to work the key into the lock, then a jiggle and a jerk to get it to turn. When she swung open the door, she could see little inside. It was only four in the afternoon, but the late-March snowstorm that had led them here turned the day dark. Groping blindly, she found a light switch and flipped it, but nothing happened. Of course not. She hadn't called ahead and arranged to have the power turned on … if there even was power. What if Greg's grandmother had lived by candlelight?
She shuddered, then gave herself a mental shake. The darkness was her own fault, and she could remedy it first thing in the morning.
With a glance back at the truck, she eased into the house. The lumpy shadows were furniture, draped in heavy dust cloths. There was one sofa-size, two chair-size. A fireplace of native stone filled most of one wall, so heat was a possibility—if there happened to be some firewood lying around somewhere—and the oil lamp on the mantel sloshed when she picked it up. Let there be light, she thought gratefully.
She did a quick tour of the house: a kitchen with a tiny corner set aside for the dining room, a decent-size bedroom, a bathroom—thank you, God—and a second bedroom about the size of a closet. There were beds in the bedrooms and mattresses on the beds. She had plenty of linens in the truck, along with enough blankets to warm an igloo for a night or two. Now if she could just find some dry wood, they would be in business.
She was returning to the living room when a shadow appeared in the open doorway. It stretched from the floor all the way to the top of the door frame and pretty much filled it side to side, as well. A startled cry escaped before she could stop it, and her heart leaped into her throat.
The shadow was a snow-dusted man. He wore jeans, a heavy coat and thick-soled boots, and a knitted cap covered his head and much of his face. Likely he lived in the house where the road ended its meandering journey. That didn't make her feel any safer or any less worried about her daughter.
Before she could find her voice to speak, he did. "What are you doing here?"
He was a neighbor, she counseled herself, and out here a neighbor was A Good Thing. Taking a deep breath, she started across the room toward him. "I'm moving in. I'm Jayne Miller. Edna Miller was my grandmother-in-law. My husband's grandmother. Actually, my ex-husband now. We're divorced, but he gave me the house. Well, he didn't exactly give it to me. He took everything we owned of any value and left me the deed to this place in exchange." Abruptly she caught her breath. "That's too much information, isn't it?" She offered her hand, remembered she still wore her gloves, stripped the right one off, then stuck out her hand again. "I'm Jayne Miller. Your new neighbor. And you are?"
His gaze dropped to her hand—she felt it as much as saw it—but he made no effort to shake it. Instead he looked at her again. "You're not planning to live here, are you?"
She felt foolish standing there with her hand out. She tugged the glove on again, slid her hands into her coat pockets, then pulled them out and folded her arms across her chest. "Yes. Probably. That was the plan, at least." And still was, she told herself. She needed a change of scene. Lucy would be better off growing up in Small-town, Tennessee, than in Chicago. And Jayne's writing career, barely alive the past few years, desperately needed the boost that time, inspiration and isolation could give it.
"Yes. We're going to live here."
"We?"
"My daughter and me—I—we. Lucy and me." She dragged in a cold, musty breath. "I didn't get your name."
He scowled harder and said, "Lewis."
"Lewis," she repeated. He didn't look like a Lewis. Naming characters was important in her work; sometimes it took longer to find just the right name for a character than it had to name Lucy. A Lewis should be older, heavier, less brooding. This Lewis was tall, lean though broad-shouldered, scowling and somewhat handsome. Not knock-your-socks-off gorgeous but attractive in a dark, brooding sort of way.
Dark and brooding always appealed to a romance author.
But at the moment she was in mother/woman mode, not romance author. "Well, Lewis, it's nice meeting you, but I've got to see if Gran left any firewood around here or head back into town and get a motel room for the night. I, uh, forgot to make arrangements to have the power turned on."
Though she took a step forward, he didn't move. "The nearest motel is thirty miles back north, not that it matters. You're not getting off the mountain today. The road's impassable. My truck's stuck at the bottom of the last hill."
That explained the snow that coated his shoulders. She glanced past him and saw that her SUV was shrouded in the stuff. "Well, then, that makes the firewood more important. If you'll excuse me…"
Still he didn't move. "Wouldn't matter if you had called ahead. The power's off. And there's not any firewood here. I'll bring some over."
Jayne swallowed hard. "You don't have to do that. I mean, I appreciate the offer, but if you'll just tell me where it is, I can bring it over myself. You probably want to get out of the cold." Probably almost as much as she wanted out of it. Lord, this had been a stupid move on her part—Greg-stupid, which was about as irresponsible as it got. But it had been seventy degrees that morning. How could she possibly have known they'd be in a snowstorm by midafter
noon?
Lewis looked as if he wanted to take her up on her offer, but his mouth tightened and instead he said, "Go ahead and get what you need out of the truck. You did bring food and blankets, didn't you?"
I'm not stupid, she wanted to say, but hadn't she just admitted that sometimes she was? "Yes." She'd stocked up when they'd stopped for lunch—chips, peanut butter and crackers, cookies, canned soup, bottled water and chocolate. She and Lucy could live for days on that.
Finally he moved out of the doorway, but instead of leaving, he came inside. He took something from the table pushed against one wall, then went to the fireplace and removed the globe from the lamp there. There was a strike, a flare of sulfur, then the odor of burning oil as the flame caught the lamp wick. A moment later the second lamp was also burning. "You might clean those globes before you put them back on," he said shortly, then left before he could hear her faint "I will."
Jayne went to the door to watch him. He moved with long strides, paying no attention to the snow that crept halfway up his calves. She hadn't really given any thought to neighbors when she'd decided to move here; she'd just assumed there would be more than enough. After all, in Chicago, neighbors were in plentiful supply. Lewis had the potential to be a good one—not too friendly, so he wouldn't interrupt her work the way Greg had, but willing to help when needed. She and Lucy wouldn't be alone up here on the mountain, but they could feel as if they were. That was a big plus.
Then she turned back and looked at the drab, dusty room that was even more depressing with the lamplight shining on its shortcomings and sighed. She really needed a big plus right about now.
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The last thing Tyler Lewis wanted in his life was a neighbor—no, make that a neighbor with a kid, he grumbled as he stacked a load of logs into a canvas carrier. When he'd built his house, he'd bought the most remote piece of land he could find around Sweetwater. Granted, he'd had old Edna just down the road for three years, but she'd pretty much kept to herself, and he'd done the same. He'd chopped wood for her, picked up her stuff at the grocery store when he did his own shopping and made a few repairs around her place when she needed them, but that hadn't made them friends. He hadn't been looking for any intrusions into his life, and neither had she.
Maybe her ex-granddaughter-in-law had that in common with her. A man could hope.
Jayne Miller. A plain name for a far-from-plain woman. Tall, with long legs, long brown hair and a husky voice… If he was a weaker man, he might be in trouble. But he'd had a lifetime of experience at keeping people at a distance. He excelled at it.
Not that he didn't have his weaknesses. He hated every one of them.
Grimacing, he finished filling a second canvas bag, then picked up one in each hand and trudged around his house and across the snow to Edna's house. She came out as he dumped his load on the porch. He didn't speak when he passed her on his way back, and neither did she as she heaved a carton from the cargo area of the truck.
By the time he'd delivered and stacked a good supply of wood, she was finished with her unloading. He took the last load inside, got the fire going, then piled the rest of the logs nearby. When he turned, she was watching him. Her smile was tentative as she huddled in her coat for warmth. He could relate. He'd lost contact with his feet a long time ago.
"Thank you."
He shrugged it off, then glanced at the little girl asleep on the sofa, bundled in so many blankets that only part of her face was visible—pale skin, pale brown hair. His sister teased that he wasn't a kid-friendly person, and he didn't argue the point. He didn't think he'd ever been a kid himself, and helping raise his brothers and sister had been enough exposure to small people to last a lifetime.
Still, he nodded toward her. "What's her name?"
"Lucy. She's five."
There were worse names for a five-year-old—Edna. Bess. Tiffany. If he had a preference, it would be for nice, common names like Sarah, Beth or Kate.
Or Jayne.
Still hugging herself, she eased a few steps closer to the fireplace. He thought he should say something before leaving but didn't have a clue what. He settled for gesturing toward the fire. "Try not to let it go out." The moment he heard the words, he grimaced. His sister would unload on him if he said something so patronizing to her.
But Jayne just smiled tightly. "I won't. Thanks again for your help. I really appreciate it."
He nodded, walked outside and pulled the door shut behind him. Stopping on the porch, he tugged on his gloves, adjusted the collar of his coat, then stepped out into the snow. Inside he would have said the house was no warmer than outside, but even those few moments of heat had made a difference that he could feel to his bones.
His own house, though, really was as cold as outside, and much darker. The dogs met him at the door, sparing a few seconds for a sniff and a lick, then darting outside before he could close the door. Out of habit, he flipped the light switch, but nothing happened. He found the matches in the gloom, lit the oil lamps that sat on tables around the room, then crouched in front of the woodstove. It didn't take long to get a fire burning, though it would be a while before the room warmed to the comfort zone. He removed his coat and hat anyway, hanging them near the door, where the snowmelt could drip on the tile, then kicked off his boots. After fixing a cup of instant cocoa with hot water from the tap, he wrapped up in a quilt and settled on the sofa.
The ring of the phone seemed out of place in the still, dark room. It seemed only fair that if he lost power and heat, the phone should go out, too, but he knew better than most that life wasn't fair.
"Enjoy your walk home?" his sister, Rebecca, asked in place of a greeting.
"You bet. Sliding uphill in the middle of a snowstorm has always been my idea of a fun time," he retorted, then asked, "How'd you know I wound up walking?"
"Because you always think you'll get home before the road gets too bad and you always wind up walking." Her tone turned sly. "Anything new to report?"
"Like what?" he asked, though he knew exactly what she meant. Sweetwater, with a population not worth counting, had the most effective gossip network around. Jayne Miller had probably stopped in town for supplies or directions, which meant that everyone within a ten-mile radius knew Edna's long-absent heir had put in an appearance before she'd even reached Sassie Whitlaw's four-foot-tall metal chicken. Everyone but him.
"Come on. Jayne Miller. From Chicago. Writer of some sort. Has a five-year-old daughter named Lucy. Divorced from Edna's grandson and got the house in the divorce. What do you think of her?"
"What makes you think I met her?"
She made a pffft sound. "Tell me you didn't haul firewood for her."
Tyler shifted uncomfortably. Rebecca knew him too well—all his secrets, all his shortcomings. "Just enough for a couple days."
"So? Tell me about her."
"Hell, you already know more than I do." She hadn't said anything to him about being a writer, though she had spilled out everything about how she'd come to own her ex's grandmother's house. Being a city girl, she probably wouldn't have much appreciation for country living. Maybe he could persuade her to do what Edna had always refused—sell the property to him. He'd bought the rest of Edna's land before she'd died. If he could have that small section, his privacy would be complete.
The slyness returned to Rebecca's voice. "Is she pretty?"
"I didn't notice." Just as he tried to not notice the heat in his cheeks that always appeared when he lied. It was better than any lie detector, his mother used to tease.
When she'd recovered enough to learn how to tease again.
There was a moment of silence, then Rebecca heaved a sigh. "You know, what happened with Angela was an aberration. It doesn't mean you're like…" The silence that followed was heavy. Final.
When had they agreed that they would never mention their father again? They hadn't actually discussed it or anything. One day not long after his death they had just stopped talking about him, and the
younger kids had followed their lead. Delbert Lewis had stopped existing for them.
Except in their dreams. Their nightmares.
Angela was another subject they didn't discuss. His old girlfriend was long gone—but never forgotten. Some of the best times in his life had been with her. So had some of the worst.
"What are the streets like in town?" he asked as if Rebecca hadn't trespassed into memories best left alone.
There was another silence, broken by another sigh. "Probably worse than the roads are out there. At least you were the only fool on the road out there."
"Gee, thanks for the compliment. Listen, I've got to change into dry clothes. I'll talk to you later." He moved the phone away from his ear, but not quickly enough to miss her quiet words.
"Yeah. Later."
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Shadows danced on Jayne's eyelids, applying pressure to her eyes, then easing. She tried to pull the covers over her face, but they wouldn't budge. Tried to brush the shadows away but found something solid instead. Blindly she groped and realized it was Lucy's hand, her pudgy little fingers probing. Wrapping her hand around her daughter's, Jayne moved it away, then opened one eye enough to see a blurry face peering at her.
"I knew you was awake inside there." Tugging her hand free, Lucy jumped to the floor. "Come look outside, Mama. It snowed and snowed and snowed. It's pretty."
Jayne lifted her head from the pillow to watch Lucy dance to the windows, glanced around, then sank down again, resisting the urge to pull the covers over her head. Snow. The house. No power, no heat. The fire. Lewis. That was why she'd spent the night on a less-than-comfortable sofa, why she'd awakened every few hours to stoke the fire, why she wanted to hide her face and go back to sleep.
Of course, that wasn't an option, so she sat up and pushed back the covers. Though Lucy had no qualms about twirling across the dusty floor in her bare feet, Jayne searched for the house shoes she'd kicked off after her last fire-stoking. Judging by the prints of her little bare feet, Lucy had explored the entire house before waking her mother. Now she was kneeling on a table in front of one window, the curtains held back in one hand, not even noticing the dust motes drifting down on her in a lazy shower.
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