My Child, Our Child (Silhouette Special Edition)

by Hagan, Patricia

  She kept her grip on the steering wheel as though it were a weapon. “I’m on my way home. I wasn’t used to this...this pig trail, and I’m afraid I let my tires slip out of the ruts and into some soft dirt.”

  He laughed in surprise. “Ma’am, nobody lives down this road. You must be really turned around. Now where were you headed? I don’t recollect seeing you or your car in these parts, and believe me, I know everybody for miles around.”

  “I told you,” she said defensively, “I’m on my way home. I live down this road—not that you can call it a road,” she added waspishly.

  He tapped on the window with his flashlight. “Ma’am, would you please roll it down so we can talk? You’re lost and don’t realize it.”

  She decided he did not sound like a serial killer. In fact, he had a very nice voice—warm, husky, and nothing about him had thus far given her reason to be wary. Still, she was alone and miles from civilization, so she cranked the window down only a few inches. “I’m not lost. I moved in earlier today and went into town for groceries. I made sure I took all the right turns, so if you’ll just give me a push, I’ll thank you and be on my way.”

  He gave an exasperated sigh. “I’ll give you a push but not to send you on down this road, because you’ve got no business there.”

  She decided it best not to argue further, at least not while one of her tires was buried to the hubcap. She made her voice light and sweet and very grateful. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am turned around. I’ll just go back to town and start over.”

  “Whatever. Just don’t keep going in that direction. You’re on private property.”

  She knew that, because it was her private property, which he would find out sooner or later. Probably he was a hunter, used to going and coming on Libby’s land anytime he felt like it, because, till now, there had been no one to protest. But it was late, and all she wanted was to go home and have that glass of wine on the porch she had promised herself. “Sure. Just give me a push.”

  “It’s not that easy. Looks like you spun your wheels to try and get out and wound up in deeper. I’ll have to use the winch.”

  She had no idea what a winch was but soon found out when she watched in the truck’s beams as he attached a thick black cable and hook to the rear of her car. Then he eased the truck back to pull her free.

  After he took the cable off, she started the engine and continued driving in the direction she had been going. He would think she was going to find a place to turn around. Already in the rearview mirror she could see he had turned around, but he wouldn’t expect her to try it without four-wheel drive. By the time he realized she was not following behind him, she would be safely inside the cabin with the door locked.

  She wondered what to do about a phone. There were no lines that she could see, no evidence of any jacks inside. Maybe there was a cell tower perched on a mountaintop somewhere nearby that would give a signal strong enough for her to have that kind of phone.

  Deep in thought, excited over everything in her life for the first time in too long to remember, she did not notice headlights coming up behind her. But when she did, she was ready to turn in the driveway, and by the time the stranger’s truck pulled in, she was running up the porch steps.

  “Wait, hold it right there.” He was out of the truck and rushing to follow. “I hate to call the sheriff on you, ma’am, but I will if you don’t stop.”

  She was at the door, hand on the knob. The groceries were still in the car. She hadn’t stopped to get them, anxious to get inside to safety. “Call him,” she yelled over her shoulder. “He can’t stop me from going in my own home, and neither can you.”

  She slammed the door and locked it.

  “Are you crazy?” He pounded on the door. “Who the hell are you?”

  She went to the open window to crisply inform him, “I am the new owner of this property. My name is Jackie Lundigan.”

  Instantly indignant, he cried, “That can’t be true. I would have heard about if Libby Pratt had sold this place. And she’d never do that, anyway.”

  Jackie leaned so that she could see him in the porch light she had switched on. He had a nice face, but at the moment it was a very angry face. “Did you know Libby?”

  “I’ve never met her, but I know enough about her to believe she’d never sell, and—” he paused “—wait a minute. You asked if I knew her. What is that supposed to mean?”

  Jackie swallowed hard, hating to put it in words. “She’s dead. She died a few weeks ago.”

  “Well, I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely sounding as though he were. “But that doesn’t explain your marching in and claiming this place as yours.”

  “I have papers to prove it.”

  “Then let’s see them.”

  She stiffened. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

  “Well, I’d say it most definitely is, since I happen to own all the land around here. My name’s Colton. Sam Colton.”

  Chapter Four

  Jackie darted quick glances out the window as she finished whipping eggs and cream for cheese blintzes.

  Butter sizzled in the skillet. Coffee was brewing. The table was set, and she had picked a bouquet of marigolds to go in the center.

  Everything looked nice and, most of all, friendly, which was the atmosphere she wanted when Sam Colton arrived.

  During their hapless encounter of the night before, she had produced her copy of the deed. Afraid to open the door for fear he might yank it out of her hand, she had shown it to him through the window. While he had remained unconvinced of her right to be there, at least he had capitulated enough that he had not called the sheriff on his CB. That would have been an unnecessary embarrassment for them both, not to mention the inconvenience for the sheriff.

  It had been her suggestion that they continue the discussion this morning, and he had grudgingly agreed.

  In the scant light she been unable to distinguish much about him except that he was tall and had a voice that crazily made her think of hot chocolate and marshmallows.

  She guessed him to be thirtyish and thought she’d caught a glimpse of blue eyes but told herself she wasn’t supposed to be interested in his looks. All she wanted was his cooperation in helping her learn all she needed to know to take an active part in her share of the tree farm. So she did not want to alienate him, if at all possible.

  Earlier, at the first light of dawn, she had gone out to pick the marigolds and taken time to walk up and down the rows of fragrant trees, savoring every breath she drew. It had been a magical time as she dared think she might actually be embarking on her true destiny in life, that all the hurts of the past had merely been stepping stones to peace, contentment, and—

  Gravel crunched, and she looked up from the stove to see a red truck. She had not noticed the color of Sam Colton’s the night before but knew it could only be him.

  He eased to a stop, was taking his time getting out. A good sign. It meant he wasn’t in a rush for an angry confrontation.

  By the time he walked up the steps, she was at the door to offer what she hoped was a dazzling smile. “Good morning. I hope Mrs. Colton didn’t fix too big a breakfast for you. I make a mean cheese blintz and would love for you to try one.”

  “There is no Mrs. Colton,” he said curtly, coldly. “And I never eat breakfast.”

  So he wasn’t married. Reminding herself not to care, she quickly said, “Well you should, you know. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  His sharp glance told her he thought she was out of line.

  She shrugged in apology. “I’m a dietician. Meddling with other people’s diets is what I do.”

  “Well, please don’t meddle with mine.” He glanced about. “Looks like you’ve made yourself right at home.”

  It was her turn to be curt. “Mr. Colton, I am at home.” Then, to soften, added, “Has someone else been living here? Everything seemed so well cared for.”

  “I had cause to live here
for a little while. I didn’t think Miss Pratt would mind. The place had been closed up for years. I just left it open after I moved out, thinking a worker and his family might want to use it one day, but so far that hasn’t happened.”

  “Well, I’ll be keeping it up from now on. I intend to live here permanently.”

  He frowned. “There’s a lot to be resolved here.”

  She was right. He did have blue eyes. And his hair was the color of corn shucks, and as wild and unruly as the silks blowing in the wind.

  With a mental shake to toss off such thoughts, she retorted, “Not really. I showed you the paper last night that the court issued pending probate of Libby’s will. The attorney said it was all the proof of ownership I need, and—”

  He cut her off. “And I don’t care what the attorney said. Nobody has told me anything. I didn’t even know Miss Pratt had died.”

  “I imagine Mr. Burkhalter—he’s the attorney handling her estate—will be sending you a letter as soon as he gets around to it He said it will take about six months to settle her estate, and—”

  “Please spare me the details. If you’re telling the truth, I’ll hear them sooner or later. Who are you, anyway? A relative of hers, I suppose.”

  She did not like his attitude one little bit, and he seemed to be growing more hostile by the minute. “No, we weren’t kin to each other,” she said, “but we were very close. My name is Jackie Lundigan, and I’m afraid you’re going to have to hear the details, since I’m the new owner.”

  He quirked a brow. “That’s what you say. The fact is, Libby Pratt never had any right to this land in the first place. I suppose you know how she happened to come by it?”

  “I do. Roy Colton willed it to her before he was killed.”

  “Yes, because he was going off to war and fancied himself in love with her. And it’s understandable how he could do something so impulsive. The part that is not understandable—and what my family could never accept—was her not seeing it that way and giving the land back. She had no right to it. She and Uncle Roy were never married. They were just teenagers. And if he’d had time to think about it, he never would have done it.”

  “Well, if your family objected so strongly, why didn’t they challenge Roy’s will? Who would have owned the land then, anyway? Your great-grandfather?”

  His frown deepened. “He was already dead, and the land had been divided between my father and Uncle Roy. There was nothing anybody could do—except Libby, who should have signed it back over to the Colton family, like I said. Only she didn’t.”

  He shook his head solemnly from side to side, then concluded, “No, Miss Lundigan. Libby Pratt had no right to this land, but at least she had the good sense to stay off it. She collected the money and left me alone. Now here you come, an intruder, all set to take over. It isn’t right.”

  Jackie put her hands on her hips and cocked her head and looked him straight in the eye. She had to raise her chin, because he was several inches taller than she was. She could smell butter burning and knew the blintzes were probably ruined but no longer cared. A nice get-acquainted breakfast between neighbors and business partners had suddenly turned ugly.

  It was all she could do to keep from wagging her finger in his face as she challenged, “Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Colton, that Libby Pratt kept this land because it was all she had left of the man she loved so much she could never love another? This land, and—” she rushed to the kitchen windowsill where she had placed the little carved rolling pin “—this.” She held it up for him to see. “He made it for her, and she treasured it almost as much as a wedding band.”

  He started to speak, but she rushed to continue, not giving him a chance. “And there’s something else I think we better get straight from the get-go, Mr. Colton, and that’s your remark about me being all set to take over. The fact is, I’m not set at all. I don’t know the first thing about growing Christmas trees, and I would be most grateful if you would teach me all I need to know. However, if you have a problem with that and continue your arrogance and resentment for me—as well as the memory of a woman I couldn’t have loved more if she’d been blood kin—then I think I’d best get busy and hire someone else to work my half of this farm.”

  He looked her up and down with incredulity. “You...you can’t do that,” he sputtered. “The Colton family has operated this farm since right after the Civil War, when Christmas trees started being sold commercially.”

  “Then think about that,” she said, a bit sharper than intended. It had to be quite a shock for him, so she softly added, “Look. I don’t want a land war here, Mr. Colton. I want us to be friends and partners if that’s possible. Now why don’t you let me fix a new batch of blintzes?” She wrinkled her nose and smiled. “I think the others are a lost cause. Then we can talk this out and get to know each other.”

  “I don’t need to get to know you, Miss Lundigan, because this isn’t going to work at all.”

  “Then I take it you want me to start looking for someone to oversee my share of the farm till I learn how to run things myself?”

  His eyes narrowed. “What’s the name of that lawyer again? I think I’d better call him and get this straightened out.”

  She crossed to where she had left her purse and dug around till she found Mr. Burkhalter’s card, then handed it to him. “There’s really nothing to straighten out, but I’m sure he’ll be glad to verify everything I’ve told you.”

  He stared at the card, tight-lipped and grim, then stuffed it in the pocket of his faded denim shirt. “It isn’t right. She should have given it back to the family.”

  “If you think about it, Mr. Colton, you might understand. It was all she had left of him and the love they shared. Except for the little rolling pin,” she added. “Now about those blintzes.” She forced another perky smile. “If you’ll try one, I promise you’ll change your mind about not wanting to eat breakfast.”

  “No, thanks.”

  He turned to go, and she was right behind him.

  “Wait. Please. I have so many questions to ask you. Can’t you stay for just a cup of coffee?”

  . He whirled on her, his glare withering. “Till I talk to this lawyer, I can’t see where you and I have anything to discuss, Miss Lundigan.”

  “Yes, we do,” she said, ire rising as she followed him down the porch steps. “For one thing you can stop calling me Miss Lundigan. Call me Jackie, please. And I’d like to call you Sam, because, like it or not, we are partners—for the time being, anyway.”

  Again he turned on her. “I want to ask you something. Just exactly where are you from?”

  She told him.

  “Durham, North Carolina,” he scoffed. “That’s in the flatlands. Have you always lived there?”

  She nodded, wondering where he was going with his inquisition. She could see the corners of his mouth twitching.

  “And how much time have you spent in the mountains?”

  She thought a moment. “Not much. A trip or two when I was a kid. But I already know I’m going to love it.” She swung her arms. “Who wouldn’t? It’s gorgeous here.”

  “Not all the time. Have you ever been here in the winter?”

  “No, but—”

  “It gets cold. Real cold. It freezes. We have snowstorms when the snow gets so deep it’s almost up to the roof of this cabin. Why do you think there are so many ski lodges around? Because we have snow.”

  “I like snow,” she crisply informed him. “It’s pretty.”

  “For a time, yes, but not when you have to get out and work in it. If there’s ice, it has to be shaken off the limbs of the young trees so they won’t break. There’s danger of frostbite if you aren’t careful, and it’s unbelievably cold.”

  She shrugged. “So I’ll layer.”

  “You’re trying to be smart, Miss Lundigan—Jackie—and that’s your first mistake—thinking mountain living is right out of a picture book. You won’t make it through the first winter. And the weather
isn’t the only thing you have to worry about. We have critters here—bears, timber rattlers, a panther once in a while. You can’t venture out at night without a gun.” He smirked. “And you don’t look like the gun-totin’ kind to me.”

  She went stiff from head to toe, and her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she silently commanded herself to respond, not react and let him make her lose control and look foolish. “I can learn to tote a gun, as you call it. I can also learn everything I need to know to survive. I’m not a wimp.”

  He took her by surprise, his hand snaking out to grab one of hers and hold it up to pry open, revealing her palm. “Nice manicure, lady. Nails all smooth and polished. No sap stains from the trees. No splinters. No calluses. Just a tender little hand that makes cheese blintzes. So I take back what I said about you not lasting the first winter. Hell, you won’t make through the first ice storm.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, and she felt like snatching up a rock to throw at his retreating back, but thought better of it. Who did he think he was?

  She watched, quaking with fury, as he started backing the red truck out of the driveway. Then, seeing the gun rack in the back of his cab, she cried, “Wait...” and ran down the steps.

  He did not try to hide his irritation as he leaned out the window. “Look, there’s no need arguing about this. I’m going to call the lawyer and see if there’s some way we can settle this. If it’s like you say it is, then we have to talk about me buying you out. It’s ridiculous for you to even think about staying.”

  “You don’t have enough money to buy me out,” she said, then pointed at the gun rack. “But we need to get something settled right away. There will be no hunting on my land. A man in town told me how he and others hunt here, and I won’t allow it.”

  Again, his expression was one of absolute amazement. “You can’t stop it. Folks have been hunting these mountains for generations—bear, deer, turkey.”

  “And I suppose you’re one of them?”

  “No. I’ve never cared for hunting.”