Читать книгу: «The Three Sisters Inn»

Marta Perry
Buried Sins

MILLS & BOON

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This story is dedicated to my Love Inspired sisters,

with thanks for your support. And, as always, to

Brian with much love.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ONE

She was being followed. Caroline Hampton pulled her wool jacket around her, fingers tight on the Navajo embroidery, but even that couldn’t dissipate the chill that worked its way down her spine.

Santa Fe could be cold in early March, but the shiver that touched her had nothing to do with the temperature. She detoured around the tour group in front of the central monument of the plaza. Ordinarily, she might stop there to do a little people-watching, her fingers itching for a pad and a charcoal to capture the scene. But not when she felt that inimical gaze upon her.

Evading a vendor determined to sell her a carnita, she hurried across the square, only half her attention on the colors, movement and excitement that she loved about the old city. She was letting her active imagination run wild; that was all. This persistent sense that someone watched her was some odd aftereffect of shock and grief.

She stopped at a magazine stand, picking up a newspaper and pretending to study it as she used it for a screen to survey the crowd. There, see? No one was paying any attention to her, or at least, no more attention than her tousled mass of red curls and artistic flair with clothing usually merited. Everything was fine—

Her heart thudded, loud in her ears. Everything was not fine. The man had stopped at a flower stand but his gaze was fixed on her, not on the mixed bouquet the vendor thrust at him. Short, stocky, probably in his forties, dressed in the casual Western style that was so common here—he looked like a hundred other men in the plaza at this moment.

But he wasn’t. She’d spotted him before—when she was leaving the gallery after work, when she returned to the apartment she and Tony had shared overlooking the river.

This wasn’t grief, or an overactive imagination. This was real.

She shoved the newspaper back on the rack, hurrying toward the Palace of the Governors. It was bustling with tourists, its entrance turned into a maze by the Native American craftspeople who spread their wares there. She’d lose him in the crowd; she’d go back to the gallery….

But he’d been at the gallery. He knew where she worked, where she lived. The chill deepened. Her fingers touched the cell phone that was tucked inside the top pocket of her leather shoulder bag. Call the police?

Her stomach seemed to turn at that, emerging memories of the moment they’d arrived at her apartment door to tell her that her husband was dead. To ask her questions she couldn’t answer about Tony Gibson.

She wound her way among the craftspeople, nodding to some of the regulars. Ask them for help? But what could they do? They’d want to call the police.

The knot in her stomach tightened as her mind skirted the older, darker memory that lurked like a snake in the recesses of her mind. She wouldn’t think of that, wouldn’t let herself remember—

She risked a quick look around. The man was no longer in sight. The tour group, apparently released by their guide, flooded to the crafts vendors on a tide of enthusiasm, swamping everything in their path.

All right. She’d slip around the Museum of Fine Arts and make her way to the city lot where she’d left her car. It would be fine. She rounded the corner.

The man stepped from a doorway to grab her arm.

Caroline took breath to scream, jerking against his grip, trying to remember the proper response from the self-defense class she’d taken last winter.

“You don’t want to scream.” His voice was pitched low enough to hide under the chatter of the passing crowd. Cold eyes, small and black as two ripe olives, narrowed. “Think of all the questions you’d have to answer about Tony if you did.”

“Tony.” Her mind seemed to skip a beat, then settle on the name. “What do you have to do with my husband? What do you want?”

“Just the answers to a couple of questions.” He smiled, nodded, as if they were two acquaintances who’d happened to meet on the street. “We can stay here in full view of the crowds.” The smile had an edge, like the faint scar that crossed his cheek. “Then you’ll feel safe.”

She summoned courage. Act as if you’re in control, even if you’re not. “Or you can beat it before I decide to scream.”

She yanked at her arm. A swift kick to his shins might do it—too bad she didn’t have heels on today. She’d—

“Just answer me one thing.” His tone turned to gravel, and his fingers twisted her wrist, the stab of pain shocking her. “Where is Tony Gibson?”

She could only stare at him. “Tony? Tony’s dead.”

Fresh grief gripped her heart on the words. The fact that Tony hadn’t been the man she thought him, had lied from the first moment they’d met—none of that could alter the fact that she grieved for him.

Incredibly, the man smiled. “Nice try. Where is he?” The fingers twisted again on her wrist—her right hand, she’d never be able to finish the project she was working on if he broke it, she—

Think. Focus. She’d pray, but God had deserted her a long time ago.

“I’m telling you the truth. Tony died over two weeks ago. His car went off the road up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Check the papers if you don’t believe me. They covered the story.”

With a photograph showing the burned-out car that was all that was left of her month-long marriage.

“I saw it. A handy accident is a nice out for a man who’d made Santa Fe too hot to hold him.” He sounded almost admiring. “Maybe the others will even buy that. Not me.” He leaned closer, and she fought not to show her fear. “Your husband owes me a hundred thousand. I want it. All of it. From him. Or from you.”

He released her so suddenly that she nearly fell. She stumbled back a step, rubbing her wrist, trying to find the words that would convince this madman that Tony was dead and that she could no more produce a hundred thousand dollars than she could fly.

“Tell Tony.” He moved away, raising his hand in a casual goodbye. “Tell him I’ll be in touch.”

Before she could speak he was gone, melting away in the crowd of camera-laden tourists who rounded the corner. She stood, letting them flow past her, forcing her mind to work.

Run. That was all it would say. That’s what you do in a situation like this. You run, you find a new place, you start over.

As she had when she’d come to Santa Fe. As she always did. She shoved the strap of her bag back on her shoulder and walked quickly in the direction of the car park. She could go north, head for Colorado, get lost in Denver. Or west to LA.

An image formed in her mind, startling her—peaceful green fields dotted with white barns, farmhouses, silos. Gray Amish buggies rattling along narrow roads.

She had a choice. For the first time in years she had a choice. She could choose to run home.

Zachary Burkhalter, Chief of Police, pulled the squad car into his favorite place to watch for drivers speeding through his town. The hardware store shielded him from the view of anyone coming east who was inclined to think the residents of tiny Churchville, Pennsylvania, weren’t serious about the twenty-five-miles-per-hour speed limit.

They’d be wrong. One of his charges from the township supervisors was to make sure this isolated section of Lancaster County didn’t become a speedway for tourists who were eager to catch a sixty-mile-per-hour glimpse of an Amish wagon or a farmer in black pants and straw hat plowing his field behind a team of horses.

No favors, no leeway, just the law. That was what Zach preferred—a nice, clean-cut line to enforce, with none of the gray fuzziness that so often marred human relationships.

Ruthie, with her mop of brown curls and her huge brown eyes, popped into his head as surely as if she were sitting there. She was almost six now, the light God had brought into his life, and he knew that sooner or later she’d start asking questions about how her parents died. He’d rehearsed his answers a thousand times, but he still wasn’t sure they were right. He didn’t like not being sure.

A blur of red whizzing past brought his attention back to the present. With something like relief at the distraction, he pulled out onto Main Street in a spray of gravel. He didn’t even need to touch the radar for that one. Where did the driver think she was going in such a hurry?

He gave a tiny blare on the siren, saw the woman’s head turn as she glanced at the rearview mirror. She flipped on the turn signal and slowed to pull off the road.

He drew up behind her, taking his time. New Mexico license plates—now, there was something you didn’t see in Pennsylvania every day. For some reason the image stirred a vague response in his mind, but he couldn’t quite place it.

Never mind. It would come. He got out, automatically checking the red compact for anything out of place.

The woman’s hair matched her car, swinging past her shoulders in a tangle of curls. She had rolled down the driver’s-side window by the time he neared it. Her long fingers tapped on the side mirror, as if she had places to go and people to see, and a silver bangle slid along her left wrist with the movement.

Memorable, that’s what she was. He sorted through the computer banks in his mind, filled with all the data anyone could want about his township, and came up with the answer. Caroline Hampton, youngest of the Hampton sisters who owned the Three Sisters Inn, just down the road. The one who lived in New Mexico.

“I wasn’t speeding, was I?” She looked up at him, green eyes wide.

So apparently they were going to start with innocence. “I’m afraid you were, ma’am. Can I see your license and registration, please?”

She grabbed the oversize leather bag on the seat next to her and began rummaging through it, her movements quick, almost jerky. Irritation, because he’d caught her speeding? Somehow he didn’t think that was it.

So Caroline Hampton had come home again. She’d been at the inn at Christmas. They hadn’t been introduced, but he remembered her. Any man would—that wild mane of red curls; the slim, lithe figure; the green eyes that at the moment looked rather stormy.

“Here.” She snapped the word as she held out the cards.

His hand almost brushed hers when he took them. And there was the thing that set his intuition on alert—her almost infinitesimal recoil from the sleeve of his uniform jacket.

Sometimes perfectly innocent people reacted as if they were serial killers when confronted by the police. It wasn’t unusual, but it was something to note.

“How fast was I going? Surely not that much over the speed limit.” She tried a smile, but he had the feeling her heart wasn’t in it. “I’m afraid I didn’t see the sign.”

Amusement touched him at the effort. He didn’t let it show, of course. He had the official poker face down pat, but even if he hadn’t, generations of his Pennsylvania Dutch forebears had ensured that his stolid expression didn’t give away much.

“The speed limit drops to twenty-five when you enter Churchville, Ms. Hampton.”

Funny. In spite of some superficial resemblance, she wasn’t much like her sisters. Andrea, the efficient businesswoman; Rachel, the gentle nurturer. He’d come to know them over the past year, to consider them acquaintances, if not close enough to be friends.

“You know who I am.” Those jewel-like green eyes surveyed him warily.

He nodded. “I know your grandmother. And your sisters.”

No, Caroline Hampton was a different creature. Jeans, leather boots, chunky turquoise jewelry that spilled out over the cream shirt she wore—she definitely belonged someplace other than this quiet Pennsylvania Dutch backwater.

“I’m on my way to see my grandmother. I guess I got a little too eager.” The smile was a bit more assured, as if now that they’d touched common ground, she had a bit of leverage.

He ripped off the ticket and handed it to her. “I’m sure Mrs. Unger would prefer that you arrived in one piece.”

The flash of anger in those green eyes was expected. What wasn’t expected was something that moved beneath it—some vulnerability in the generous mouth, some hint of…what?

Fear? Why would the likes of Caroline Hampton be afraid of a hick township cop?

For a moment she held the ticket in her left hand, motionless. Then she turned to stuff it in her handbag. The movement to grasp the bag shoved up her right sleeve.

Bruises, dark and angry, even though they’d begun to turn color, marred the fair skin.

“Can I go now?”

He nodded. “Drive safely.”

There was no reason to hold her, no excuse to inquire into the fear she was hiding or the marks of someone’s hand on her wrist. He stepped back and watched her pull out onto the road with exaggerated caution.

No reason to interfere, but somehow he had the feeling Caroline Hampton wasn’t there on an ordinary visit.

“Thank you, Grams.” Caroline took the delicate china cup filled with a straw-colored brew.

Chamomile tea was Grams’s solution to every ill. Declaring Caroline looked tired, she’d decided that was just what she needed.

The entrance of Emma Zook, Grams’s Amish housekeeper, with a laden tray looked a little more promising. One of Emma’s hearty sandwiches and a slab of her shoofly pie would do more to revive her than tea.

Rachel hurried to clear the low table in front of the sofa, giving Emma a place to deposit the tray. Since Rachel, her two-years-older sister, and Grams had turned the Unger mansion into a bed-and-breakfast inn, the room that had once been Grandfather’s library was now converted into a sort of all-purpose office and family room.

The walls were still lined with books, and Grandfather’s portrait presided over the mantel, but the desk held a new computer system. Magazines devoted to country living overflowed a handmade basket near the hearth, and Grams’s knitting filled one beside her chair.

Caroline took a huge bite of chicken salad on what had to be fresh-baked whole wheat bread. “Thank you, Emma,” she murmured around the mouthful. “This is wonderful.”

Emma nodded in satisfaction. “You eat. You’re too skinny.”

That surprised a laugh out of her. “Most women I know would consider that a compliment.”

Emma sniffed, leaving no doubt of her opinion of that, and headed back toward the kitchen and the new loaf of bread she no doubt had rising on the back of the stove.

Grams’s blue eyes, still sharp despite her seventy-some years, rested on her in a considering way. “Emma’s right. You don’t look as well as you should. Is something wrong?”

Since there was no way she could tell just part of the story, she couldn’t tell any of it. “I’m fine. Just tired from the trip, that’s all. It’s good to be here.”

“If you’d let us know, I’d have had a room ready.” Rachel was ever the innkeeper. “Never mind. It’s just good to have you home.”

Now was not the moment to point out that this hadn’t been home to her since she was six. After beginning her prodigal-daughter return with an encounter with the police, she was just relieved things were going so well with her grandmother and sister.

Her mind cringed away from that moment when she’d heard the wail of the siren. It was not the local cop’s fault, obviously, that the sound still had a power to evoke frightening memories. Still, he hadn’t needed to give her a ticket. He could have just warned her.

Pay the two dollars, as the old joke went. Just pay the fine, which was likely to be considerably more than that, and forget the whole thing.

Barney, Grams’s sheltie, pressed at her knee, and she broke off a tiny piece of sandwich for him and then stroked the silky head. Tiredness was settling, bone deep. She hadn’t stopped for more than a few hours all the way back, pushed onward by a panic she’d only just managed to control. That was probably why she’d been speeding when she hit the Churchville village limits—that unreasoning need to be here.

She glanced across the table at Rachel, who was curled up in an armchair, nibbling on a snickerdoodle. Neither she nor Grams had asked the question that must be burning in their minds: Why had she come?

She ought to have created some reasonable explanation during that long trip, but she hadn’t. How could she begin? They didn’t even know she’d gotten married.

It had seemed like such a sweet idea when Tony proposed it—to wait until they had time to make the trip east and then tell both her family and his in person about their marriage. He’d said his people lived in Philadelphia. Was that true, or was it a mirage, like so much of what he’d told her?

As it had turned out, it was just as well that her family didn’t know. If they did, it would be one more reason for them to look at her with the faintly pitying, faintly censoring expression they so often wore.

Poor Caro, the one who’s always in trouble. Poor Caro, the one who can’t seem to get her life together.

“You look beat,” Rachel said, getting up abruptly. “We can catch up on things later. I’ll make up a room so you can get settled and take a nap if you want.”

Grams stopped her with a slight gesture. “It occurred to me that Caroline might want to have Cal’s apartment. Now that he and Andrea are living over in New Holland, it’s just standing empty.”

Rachel stared at her. “But…won’t she want to be in the house? Why would she want to be out in the barn apartment by herself?”

When she’d been here at Christmas, Caro had seen the apartment her older sister’s husband had built in one end of the barn where he’d started his carpentry business. It was simple and uncluttered, with a skylight that would give her plenty of natural light for painting. As she so often did, Grams had known exactly what she needed.

“It would be perfect.” She interrupted Rachel’s argument about her quarters ruthlessly. “Grams, you’re a genius. I’d love to have the apartment. If you’re sure—I mean, you could rent it to someone else.”

“Nonsense.” Grams’s smile warmed her heart. “It’s yours. I thought it would suit you.”

Rachel still looked troubled at the idea, but she nodded. “Well, fine, then. It’s clean and ready. I’ll help you move your things in.”

“Great.” It seemed to be a done deal. She’d gone from mindless running to having a home. The thought was oddly disorienting.

Had she really been thinking rationally when she’d packed up what she could fit in the car, arranged to ship the rest, written a note to her boss at the gallery and fled Santa Fe without a backward glance? What would Rachel think if she knew? Or worse, Andrea, the oldest of the three of them, with her sensible, businesslike approach to every problem?

She couldn’t explain it, even to herself. She’d just known she couldn’t stay there any longer. The urge to run was too strong. The frightening encounter in the plaza had tipped her over the edge, but the need to leave had been building since before Tony’s death—probably from the moment she’d realized she’d married a man she didn’t really know.

She could only be grateful Grams and Rachel hadn’t asked for explanations. She didn’t think she could lie to Grams, certainly not under Grandfather’s judicious eyes, staring wisely from the portrait. Maybe, somehow, after a little rest, she could figure out what part of the truth she could bear to tell.

The doorbell chimed, startling her. Rachel, already on her feet, headed for the hallway, muttering something about not having any reservations for today.

A low rumble of voices, the sound of footsteps in the hallway. She set down her cup and rose, something in her already steeling. It couldn’t be anything to do with her, could it?

The cop—the one who’d stopped her earlier—paused for a moment in the doorway and then came toward them.

“Chief Burkhalter wants to see Caro.” Rachel, behind him, looked perplexed. “What…”

She forced a smile. “The chief has already given me a speeding ticket today. Maybe he wants to make sure I’m going to pay up.”

Slate-gray eyes in a lean, strong-boned face studied her. “I’m not worried about that, Ms. Hampton.” He took a step toward her, and she forced herself not to move back. “Fact is, I’ve had a call inquiring about you. A call from the Santa Fe Police Department.”

TWO

Zach was aware of the sudden silence that greeted his words. The room was so still he could hear the tick of the mantel clock and the thud of the dog’s tail against the Oriental carpet.

But there was nothing peaceful about it. Tension flowed from Caroline Hampton. And, to a lesser extent, from her sister and grandmother.

It was a shame they were here, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. If he’d come to the door and asked to speak to Caroline privately, it would only have raised more questions.

The plain fact was that something was going on with this woman, and if it had to do with the law, it was his responsibility. And he knew there was something, would have known it even if not for that call from the Santa Fe PD. He could see it in those brilliant green eyes, read it in the tense lines of her body.

“I can’t imagine why you’d hear from the Santa Fe police about me. Did I leave behind an unpaid parking ticket?”

He had to admire, in a detached way, the effort it had taken her to produce that light tone.

“Not that I know of.” He was willing to pull out the tension just a little longer in the hope that she’d come out with something that wasn’t quite so guarded.

“I don’t understand.” Katherine Unger sat bolt upright in her chair, chin held high. He’d never met anyone who had the aristocratic manner down any better than she did. “Why on earth would the police be interested in Caroline?”

The words might have sounded demanding. But there was a sense of fragility underneath that made it clear he couldn’t prolong this.

“Apparently your granddaughter left Santa Fe without telling her friends where she was going. They’re worried about her.”

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying someone reported me missing?”

“Raised an inquiry is more like it. The police department down there was willing to make a few phone calls to allay the woman’s fears.” He made a play of taking his notebook out and consulting it, although he remembered perfectly well. “Ms. Francine Carrington. I gathered hers was a name that made the police sit up and take notice.”

“Caroline, wasn’t that your employer at the gallery?” Mrs. Unger glanced from her granddaughter to him. “My granddaughter had a position at one of the finest galleries dedicated to Southwestern art in the state.”

She nodded stiffly. “Francine was my boss. And my friend.”

“Well, then, why didn’t you tell her where you were going?” Rachel looked puzzled. Obviously, that was what she’d have done under the circumstances.

“Because—” Caroline snapped the word and then seemed to draw rein on her anger. “I left a letter of resignation for her, planning to call her once I got here. I certainly didn’t expect her to be so worried that she’d call the police.”

So she’d left what was apparently a good, successful life at a moment’s notice. In his experience, people didn’t do that without a powerful reason.

“Apparently she told the officer she spoke with that you’d been despondent over the recent death of your husband. She—”

A sharp, indrawn breath from Mrs. Unger, a murmured exclamation from Rachel. And an expression of unadulterated fury from Caroline. Apparently he’d spilled a secret.

“Husband?” Mrs. Unger caught her breath. “Caro, what is he talking about? Does he have you confused with someone else?”

Shooting him a look that would drop a charging bull, Caroline crossed the room and knelt next to her grandmother’s chair.

“I’m sorry, Grams. Sorry I didn’t tell you. Tony and I planned to make a trip east this spring, and we were going to surprise you. But he—” She stopped, her voice choking, and then cleared her throat and went on. “He was killed in an accident a few weeks ago.”

It was his turn to clear his throat. “I apologize. I thought you knew all about it, or I wouldn’t have blurted it out that way.”

Caroline stood, her hand clasped in her grandmother’s. She had herself under control now, and again he found himself admiring the effort it took her. “I intended to tell my family when I got here, but I haven’t had the chance.”

“I understand.” But he didn’t, and he suspected Mrs. Unger didn’t, either.

“I’m sorry that I worried Mrs. Carrington. I’ll give her a call and let her know I’m all right.”

There was more to it than that. He sensed it, and he’d learned a long time ago to trust that instinct where people were concerned. Caroline Hampton was hiding something.

She’d left Santa Fe in such a rush that she hadn’t even talked to the people closest to her. That wasn’t a trip. It was flight.

“I’ll be in touch with the department in Santa Fe, then. Let them know you’re fine and with your family.”

She nodded, eyes wary. “Thank you.”

And that was just what worried him, he realized as he headed out the door. Her family.

Mrs. Unger had welcomed her granddaughter with open arms, as was only natural. But from everything he’d heard, she didn’t know a lot about the life Caroline had been living in recent years.

It was entirely possible that Caroline Hampton had brought trouble home with her. Someone ought to keep an unbiased eye on her, and it looked as if that someone was him.

Caroline woke up all at once, with none of the usual easy transition from dreams to morning. Maybe because it wasn’t morning. She stared at the ceiling in the pitch-black, clutching the edge of the Amish quilt that covered the queen-size bed in the loft of the apartment, and willed her heart to stop pounding.

She’d been doing this for so many weeks that it had almost begun to seem normal—waking suddenly, panic-stricken, with the sense that something threatened her out there, in the dark. Nothing. There was nothing. There was never anything other than her own haunted memories to threaten her.

She rolled over to catch a glimpse of the bedside clock. Four in the morning. Well, it served her right for getting onto such a crazy schedule. As it was, she’d slept twelve hours straight after that encounter with the cop and the endless explanations to Grams after the man had finally left.

Much as she’d like to blame every problem in her life on Zachary Burkhalter, she really couldn’t in all honesty do that. And it wasn’t his fault that just seeing him sent her mind spinning back crazily through the years, so that she was again a scared sixteen-year-old, alone, under arrest, at the mercy of—No. She jerked her thoughts under control. She didn’t think about that ugly time any longer. She wasn’t a helpless teenager, deserted by her mother, thrust into the relentless clutches of the law. She was a grown woman, capable of managing on her own. And if she couldn’t sleep, she could at least think about something positive.

She shoved pillows up against the oak headboard and sat up in bed. Her new brother-in-law was certainly talented. Most of the furniture in the apartment, as well as the barn apartment itself, had been built by him. Since so much of the furniture was built-in, he’d left it here, and she was the beneficiary.

She couldn’t blame Burkhalter, she couldn’t blame the comfortable bed, and it was pointless even to blame the stress of the trip. She hadn’t slept well in months, maybe since the day she’d met Tony Gibson.

She’d been working on a display of Zuni Pueblo Indian jewelry for the gallery, repairing the threading of the delicate pieces of silver and turquoise, set up at a worktable in the rear of the main showroom. That had been Francine’s idea, and Francine had a sharp eye for anything that would draw people into the Carrington Gallery.

As usual, there was a cluster of schoolkids, accompanied by a teacher, and a few retirement-age tourists, in pairs for the most part, cameras around their necks. She’d already answered the routine questions—what did the designs mean, how valuable was the turquoise, did the Pueblo people still make it and, from the tourists, where could they buy a piece.

She gave her spiel, her hands steady at the delicate work as a result of long training. Eyes on her—she was always hypersensitive to the feeling of eyes on her—but she wouldn’t let it disrupt her concentration.

The group wandered on to look at something else eventually. Except for one person. He stood in front of the table, close enough to cast a long shadow over the jewelry pieces laid out in front of her.

“Did you have another question?” She’d been aware of him the entire time, of course. Any woman would be. Tall, dark, with eyes like brown velvet and black hair with a tendency to curl. An elegant, chiseled face that seemed to put him a cut above the rest of the crowd. Even his clothing—well-cut flannel slacks, a dress shirt open at the neck, a flash of gold at his throat—was a touch sophisticated for Santa Fe.

“I was just enjoying watching you.” His voice was light, assured, maybe a little teasing.

“Most people like seeing how the jewelry is put together.” She wasn’t averse to a little flirting, if that was what he had in mind.

“They were watching the jewelry,” he said. “I was watching you.”

She looked up into those soulful eyes and felt a definite flutter of interest. “If you want to learn about Zuni Pueblo jewelry,” she began.

“I’d rather learn about C. Hampton,” he said, reading her name badge. “What does the C stand for? Celeste? Christina? Catherine?”

“Caroline. Caro, for short. And you are?”

“Anthony Gibson. Tony, for short.” He extended his hand, and she slid hers into it with the pleasurable sense that something good was beginning.

“It’s nice to meet you, Tony.”

He held her hand between both of his. “Not nearly as nice as the reverse.” He glanced at the gold watch on his wrist. “I have a meeting with Ms. Carrington about the Carrington Foundation charity drive. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Might you be ready for coffee or lunch by then?”

“I might.”

“I’ll see you then.”

He’d walked away toward the stairs, his figure slim, elegant and cool against the crowd of tourists who’d just come in. Well, she’d thought. Something could come of this.

Something had, she thought now, shoving the quilt back and getting out of bed, toes curling into the rag rug that covered the oak planks of the flooring. It just hadn’t been something nice.

She would not stay in bed. If there was one thing she’d learned in the weeks of her disillusionment about her marriage, the weeks of grief, it was that at four o’clock in the morning, thoughts were better faced upright.

She pulled her robe around her body, tying it snugly. She wouldn’t go back to sleep now in any event, so she may as well finish the unpacking she’d been too tired to do earlier. She slung one of the suitcases on the bed and began taking things out, methodically filling the drawers of the tall oak dresser that stood on one side of the bed. The loft was small, but the design of closets and chests gave plenty of storage.

Storage for more than she’d brought with her, actually. She’d packed in such a rush that it was a wonder she even had matching socks. Anything she hadn’t had room for had been picked up by the moving company for shipment here. When it arrived, she would figure out what to keep and what to get rid of.

Especially Tony’s things. Maybe having them out of her life would help her adjust.

She paused, hands full of T-shirts. When had it begun, that sense that all was not right with Tony? Was it as early as their impulsive elopement, when his credit card hadn’t worked, and they’d had to use hers? It had grown gradually over the weeks, fueled by the phone calls in the middle of the night, the money that vanished from her checking account, to be replaced a day or two later with only a plausible excuse.

The fear had solidified the evening she’d answered his cell phone while he was in the shower. He’d exploded from the bathroom, dripping and furious, to snatch it from her hands. She’d never seen him like that—had hoped never to again.

Yet she’d seen it once again on the night she’d confronted him, the day she’d realized that her savings account had been wiped out. She still cringed, sick inside, at the thought of the quarrel that followed. She’d always thought she was good in an argument, but she’d never fought the way Tony had, with cold, icy, acid-filled comments that left her humiliated and defenseless.

Then he’d gone, and in the morning the police had come to say he was dead.

She dropped a stack of sweaters on the bed and shoved her hands back through her unruly mop. This was no good. The bad memories were pursuing her even when she had her hands occupied.

She’d go downstairs, make some coffee, see what Rachel had tucked into the refrigerator. She’d feel better once she had some food inside her, able to face the day and figure out where her life was going now.

Shoving her feet into slippers, she started down the open stairway that led into the great room that filled the whole ground-level space. Kitchen flowed into dining area and living room, with its massive leather couch in front of a fieldstone hearth.

She’d start a fire in the fireplace one evening. She’d put some of her own books on the shelves and set up a work table under the skylight. She’d make it hers, in a sense.

She went quickly into the galley kitchen, finding everything close at hand, and measured coffee into the maker that sat on the counter. The familiar, homey movements steadied her. She was safe here. She could take as much time as she needed to plan. There was no hurry.

A loaf of Emma’s fruit-and-nut bread rested on the cutting board. She sliced off a couple of thick pieces and popped them in the toaster. She had family. Maybe she’d needed this reminder. She had people who cared what happened to her.

She could forget that sense of being watched that had dogged her since Tony’s death. She shivered a little, pulling her robe more tightly around her while she waited for the toast and coffee. She’d confided that in only one person, telling Francine about her urge to give up the apartment, get rid of Tony’s things, try to go back to the way she’d been before she met him.

Her boss had been comforting and sympathetic, probably the more so because it hadn’t been that many months since she’d lost her own husband.

“I know what I was like after Garner’s death,” she’d said, flicking a strand of ash-blond hair back with a perfectly manicured nail. “I could hardly stand to stay in that big house at night by myself. Jumping at every sound.” She’d nodded wisely. “But what you need is stability. All the grief counselors say that. Don’t make any big changes in your life, just give yourself time to heal. And remember, I’m always here for you.”

Caro smiled faintly as the toast popped up and busied herself buttering it and pouring coffee into a thick, white mug. Dear Francine. She probably didn’t think of herself as the nurturing type, but she’d certainly tried her best to help Caro through a difficult time.

The smile wavered. Except that their situations weren’t quite the same. Garner had died peacefully in his bed of a heart attack that was not unexpected. Tony had plunged off a mountain road after a furious quarrel with his wife, leaving behind more unanswered questions than she could begin to count.

And it hadn’t been grief or an overactive imagination. Someone had been watching her. She shivered at the thought of that encounter in the plaza. Someone who claimed Tony owed him an impossible amount of money. Someone who claimed Tony was alive.

She hadn’t told Francine about that incident. She would the next time they talked. Francine had known Tony longer than she had. She might have some insight that eluded her.

Something tapped on the living room window. She jerked around so abruptly that coffee sloshed out of the mug onto the granite countertop. She pressed her hand down on the cool counter, staring.

Nothing but blackness beyond the window. The security lights that illuminated the back of the inn didn’t extend around the corner of the barn.

A branch, probably, from the forsythia bush she’d noticed budding near the building. The wind had blown it against the glass.

Except that there was no wind. Her senses, seeming preternaturally alert, strained to identify any unusual sound. Useless. To her, all the sounds here were unfamiliar.

Something tapped again, jolting her heartbeat up a notch. The building could make dozens of noises for all she knew. And everything was locked up. Rachel had shown her, when she’d helped bring her things in, still worried at the idea of her staying alone. But even Rachel hadn’t anticipated fear, just loneliness.

How do you know that’s not what it is? You’re hearing things, imagining things, out of stress, grief, even guilt. Especially guilt. Tony might be alive today if that quarrel hadn’t sent him raging out onto the mountain road.

She shoved that thought away with something like panic. She would not think that, could not believe that.

Setting the mug on the countertop, she turned to the window. The only reasonable thing to do was to check and see if something was there. And she was going to be reasonable, remember? No more impulsive actions. Just look where that had gotten her.

She walked steadily across to the window and peered out. Her eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness, or maybe that was the first light of dawn. She could see the outline of the forsythia branches, delicate gray against black, like a Chinese pen-and-ink drawing.

Her fingers longed for a drawing pencil. Or a charcoal, that would be better. She leaned forward, trying to fix the image in her mind.

Something, some sound or brush of movement alerted her. She stumbled back a step. Something man-sized moved beyond the window. For an instant, she saw a hand, fingers widespread, dark and blurry as if it were enclosed in a glove, press against the pane.

Then it was gone, and she was alone, heart pounding in deep, sickening thuds.

She ran back across the room, fingers fumbling in her handbag for her cell phone. Call—

Who would she call? Grams or Rachel? She could hardly ask them to come save her from whatever lurked outside.

The police? Her finger hovered over the numbers. If she dialed 911, would Zachary Burkhalter answer the phone?

The man was already suspicious of her. That wouldn’t keep him from doing his job, she supposed. It wasn’t his fault that she feared the police nearly as much as she feared the something that had pressed against the window.

She took a breath. Think. The apartment was locked, and already the first light of dawn stained the sky. She had the cell phone in her hand. He…it…couldn’t possibly get in, at least not without making so much noise that she’d have time to call for help.

The panic was fading, the image with it. It had been so fast—was she even sure that’s what she’d seen? And if she wasn’t sure, how did she explain that to a skeptical cop?

Clutching the phone in one hand, she snapped off the light. Safer in the dark. If someone were outside, now he couldn’t look in and see her. She crept quickly toward the stairs, listening for any sound.

Upstairs, she pulled the quilt from the bed and huddled in the chair at the window, peering out like a sentinel. She stayed there until sunrise flooded the countryside with light, until she could see black-clad figures moving around the barn of the Zook farm in the distance.

THREE

In the light of day, sitting in the sunny breakfast room at the inn across from her sister, Caroline decided that her fears had been ridiculous. Already the images that had frightened her were blurring in her mind.

The figure—maybe a branch moving, casting shadows. What she’d thought was a gloved hand could well have been a leaf, blown to stick against the windowpane for a moment and then flutter to the ground. There were plenty of last year’s maple leaves left in the hedgerow to be the culprit. Her overactive, middle-of-the-night imagination had done the rest.

“Thanks.” She lifted the coffee mug her sister had just refilled. “I need an extra tank of coffee this morning, I think.”

“Did you sleep straight through?” Rachel looked up from her cheese omelet, face concerned. “You looked as if you could barely stay on your feet. Grams wanted to wake you for supper, but I thought you’d be better for the sleep.”

“You were right.” If not for what happened when she woke up, but that wasn’t Rachel’s doing. Besides, she’d just decided it was imagination, hadn’t she?

She’d looked in the flower bed when she went outside this morning. Crocuses were blooming, and tulips had poked inquisitive heads above the ground. The forsythia branches, so eerie in the night, were ready to burst into bloom. There had been no footprints in the mulch, nothing to indicate that anyone had stood there, looking in.

She’d clipped some sprigs of the forsythia, brought them inside and put them in a glass on the breakfast bar as a defiant gesture toward the terrors of the night.

She put a forkful of omelet in her mouth, savoring the flavor. “Wonderful. Your guests must demand seconds all the time. Did Grams eat already?” She glanced toward the chair at the head of the table.

“Emma thought she looked tired and insisted she have her breakfast in bed. When Emma makes up her mind, not even Grams can hold out.”

She put down her fork. “Was she that upset because of me?” Because of all the things Caro hadn’t told her?

“Don’t be silly.” Rachel looked genuinely surprised. “She’s delighted to have you here. So am I. And Andrea. No, it’s just Emma’s idea of what’s right. You’ll see. When people are here, Grams is the perfect hostess, and no one could keep her in bed then.”

“It’s going well, is it?” Rachel and Grams had started the inn in the historic Unger mansion at the beginning of last summer on something of a shoestring, but they seemed to be happy with how things were going.

“Very well.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled. “I know people thought this was a foolish decision, but I’ve never been happier. Being a chef in someone else’s restaurant can’t hold a candle to living here, working with Grams and being my own boss.”

“And then there’s Tyler to make you even happier.” Her sister was lucky. She’d found both the work that was perfect for her and the man of her dreams. “How is it working out, with him in Baltimore during the week?”

“Not bad.” Rachel’s gentle face glowed when she spoke of her architect fiancé. “Right now he’s in Chicago, but usually he works from here a couple of days a week, while his partner handles things at the office.”

“I’m glad for you.” Caro reached out to clasp her sister’s hand. Rachel deserved her happily-ever-after. She just couldn’t help feeling a little lonely in the face of all that happiness.

Rachel squeezed her hand. “I shouldn’t be babbling about how lucky I am when you’ve had such a terrible loss.”

“It’s all right.” What else could she say? Rachel didn’t know that the real loss was the discovery that Tony had lied to her, cheated her and then abandoned her in the most final way possible.

That was what happened when you trusted someone. She’d learned that lesson a long time ago. Too bad she’d had to have a refresher course.

She could tell Rachel all of it. Rachel would try to understand. She’d be loving and sympathetic, because that was her nature. But underneath, she’d be thinking that poor Caro had blown it again.

It was far better to avoid that as long as possible. She didn’t need to lean on her sister. It was safer to rely on no one but herself.

She took a last sip of the cooling coffee and rose. “I’m going to drive down to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Do you need anything?”

Rachel seemed to make a mental inventory. “Actually, you could pick up a bottle of vanilla and a tin of cinnamon for me. Otherwise, I think I’m set. Just put everything on the inn account. Your stuff, too.”

“You don’t need—”

“Don’t argue.” Rachel was unusually firm. “If you were staying in the house, you wouldn’t think twice about that.”

She nodded reluctantly. There was independence, and then there was the fact that her bills were coming due with no money in her bank account, thanks to Tony. What did you do with it all, Tony?

She felt a flicker of panic. How could she have been so wrong about him?

Main Street was quiet enough on a Tuesday morning in March that he could patrol it in his sleep. Zach automatically eyeballed the businesses that were closed during the week, making sure everything looked all right. They’d open on the weekends, when the tourists arrived.

The tourist flow would be small awhile yet, and his township police force was correspondingly small. Come summer, they’d add a few part-timers, usually earnest young college students who were majoring in criminal justice.

He enjoyed this quiet time. He liked to be able to spend his evenings at home, playing board games or working puzzles with Ruth, listening to the soft voices of his parents in the kitchen as they did the dishes.

Families were a blessing, but worry went along with that. Look at Caroline Hampton, coming home to her grandmother with who-knows-what in her background. No matter how you looked at it, that was an odd story, what with her not telling her family she was married, let alone that her husband died. The sort of odd story that made a curious cop want to know what lay behind it.

He’d poked a bit, when he’d called the Santa Fe PD back to let them know that the lost sheep was fine. The officer he’d spoken with had been guarded, which just increased his curiosity.

It might have been the city cop’s natural derision for a rural cop, or something more. In any event, the man had said that there was no reason to think the death of Tony Gibson was anything but an accident.

And that way of phrasing it said to him that someone, at least, had wondered.

He slowed, noticing the red compact pulled to the curb, then a quick figure sliding out. Caroline Hampton was headed into Snyder’s Grocery. Maybe it was time for his morning cup of coffee. He pulled into the gravel lot next to the store.

When he got inside, Etta Snyder gave him a wave from behind the counter. “Usual coffee, Chief?”

“Sounds good.”

Caroline’s face had been animated in conversation, but he saw that by-now-familiar jolt of something that might have been fear at the sight of him. It could be dislike, but he had the feeling it went deeper than that.

She cut off something she was saying to the only other customer in the shop—tall guy, midthirties, chinos and windbreaker, slung round with cameras. He’d peg him as a tourist, except that tourists didn’t usually travel in the single-male variety, and the cameras looked a little too professional for amateur snapshots.

“Here’s the person who can answer your questions,” she said, taking a step toward the counter. “Chief Burkhalter knows all about everything when it comes to his township.”

He decided to ignore the probable sarcasm in the comment, turning to the stranger. “Something I can help you with?”

The guy looked as if he found him a poor substitute for a gorgeous redhead, but he rallied. “Jason Tenley, Chief. I was just wondering what the etiquette is for getting photos of the Amish. I’m working on a magazine photo story, and—”

“There isn’t any,” he said bluntly. He’d think any professional photographer would have found that out before coming. “Adult Amish don’t want their photographs taken, and it would be an invasion of privacy to do so.”

“What about from behind? Or from a distance?”

The guy was certainly enthusiastic enough. “You can ask, but the answer may still be no. Sometimes they’ll allow pictures of the children, but again, you’ll have to ask.”

“And you’d better listen, or the chief might have to give you a ticket.” Caroline, turning toward them, seemed to have regained her spunk along with her purchases.

“That’s only for speeding,” he said gravely. “Although I’ve been known to ticket for blocking public access, when some outsider tried to take photos of an Amish funeral.”

“I’ll remember that.” The photographer didn’t act as if the prospect was going to deter him.

Caroline seemed ready to leave, but they stood in front of the doorway, and he suspected she didn’t want to have to ask him to move. Instead she sauntered to the bulletin board and stood staring at it.

“Well, thanks for your help.” Tenley glanced at Caroline hopefully. “Goodbye, Ms. Hampton. I hope I’ll see you again while I’m here.”

She gave him a noncommittal nod, her attention still focused on the bulletin board.

Tenley went out, the bell jingling, and Zach moved over to stand behind Caroline at the bulletin board.

“What are you looking for? The mixed-breed puppies, or that convertible sofa bed? I should warn you that the puppies’ parentage is very uncertain, and the sofa bed is one that the Muller kid had at his college apartment.”

“You really do know everything about everyone, don’t you?” That didn’t sound as if she found it admirable. “Neither, but I’ve found something else I need.” She tore off a strip of paper with information about the upcoming craft show at the grange hall.

She turned to go, and he stopped her with a light touch on her arm. She froze.

“I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for bringing up your husband’s death in front of your grandmother. I shouldn’t have assumed she already knew about it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She seemed to force the words out. “I was about to tell her, anyway. If you’ll excuse me—” She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm.

He let go, stepping back. What would you do if I asked you why you’re so afraid of me, Caroline? How would you answer that?

It wasn’t a question he could ask, but he wondered. He really did wonder.

Caroline drove straight to the barn by way of the narrow lane that ran along the hedgerow. She pulled up to the gravel parking space near the apartment door and began to unload. She would put her own perishables away before running the vanilla and cinnamon over to Rachel at the house. Maybe by then she’d have controlled her temper at running into Chief Burkhalter once again.

Arms filled with grocery bags, she shoved the car door shut with her hip. And turned at the sound of another vehicle coming up the lane behind her.

It was with a sense almost of resignation that she saw the township police car driving toward her. Resignation was dangerous, though. This persistence of Burkhalter’s was unsettling and unwelcome. She’d dealt with enough lately, and she didn’t want to have to cope with an overly inquisitive country cop.

She leaned against the car, clutching the grocery bags, and waited while he pulled up behind her, got out and walked toward her with that deceptively easy stride of his. If he were anyone else, she might enjoy watching that lean, long-limbed grace. But he wasn’t just anyone. He was a cop who’d been spending far too much time snooping into her business.

Her fingers tightened on the bags. “Why are you following me around? Police harassment—”

His eyebrows, a shade darker than his sandy hair, lifted slightly. “Etta Snyder would be surprised at the accusation, since she sent me after you.” He held up the tin of cinnamon. “She thought you might need this.”

Her cheeks were probably as red as her hair. “I’m sorry. I thought—” Well, maybe it was better not to go into what she’d thought. “Thank you. That’s for my sister, and she’ll appreciate it.” She hesitated, realizing that probably wasn’t enough of an apology. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions about you.”

Those gray eyes of his didn’t give anything away. “No problem. Let me give you a hand with the bags.”

Before she could object, he’d taken the grocery bags from her. Snatching them back would only make her look foolish, so instead she fished in her purse for the key.

She was very aware of him following her to the door. Knowing his gaze was on her. The combination of cop and attractive, confident male was disturbing.

“Does Etta often turn you into a grocery deliveryman? I’d think police work would be enough to keep you busy, even in a quiet place like this.”

“You haven’t been here on a busy Saturday in tourist season if you find it quiet,” he said. “Dropping off something you forgot at the store is just being neighborly.”

Neighborly. She didn’t think she was destined to be neighborly with the local cop. She reached the door, key extended. The door stood ajar. Panic froze her to the spot.

“What is it?” His tone was sharp.

She gestured mutely toward the door. “I locked it when I left.” Her voice was breathless. “Someone’s in there.”

“It doesn’t look as if it was broken into. Anyone else have a key?”

She took a breath, trying to shake off the sense of dread that had dogged her in Santa Fe. She was being ridiculous.

“Of course. You’re right.” Her voice was still too high. “Rachel has a key. She might have brought something over from the house. I’m being stupid.”

She stepped forward and ran into an arm that was the approximate strength of a steel bar.

“Probably it’s one of the family.” His voice was casual, but his expression seemed to have solidified in some way, and his eyes were intent. “But let’s play it safe. You stay here.” It was a command, not a request.

She opened her mouth to protest and then closed it again. He was right.

He put the bags down and pushed the door open gently with his elbow. She wrapped her arms around herself, chilled in spite of the warmth of the sunshine.

No one would be there who shouldn’t be. The things that had troubled her after Tony’s death were far away, in a different world, a different life. They couldn’t affect her here.

Zach’s footsteps sounded on the plank floor, softened when he crossed the braided rugs. She could follow his progress with her ears. First the living room, then the adjoining dining area, then around the breakfast bar into the kitchen. That sound was the door to the laundry room; that, the door to the pantry.

When she heard him mounting the stairs to the loft, she could stand it no longer. She sidled inside. It wouldn’t take him long to look around the loft bedroom. Had she made her bed before she left? She hoped so.

Then he was coming back down, frowning at her. “I thought you were going to stay outside.”

“This is my home.” Brave words, but she wasn’t feeling particularly brave.

“There aren’t any obvious signs of a break-in. Maybe you’d better check upstairs for any money or valuables you have with you.”

She hurried up the steps, brushing against him as she did so, and was a little startled by the wave of awareness that went through her.

She had made the bed, and thank goodness nothing embarrassingly personal was lying out in plain sight. Although Grams would probably find it embarrassing that she’d left things half-unpacked. Grams was a great one for finishing anything you started.

In a moment she was starting back down. “I don’t see anything missing upstairs. I was in the middle of unpacking, so it’s a bit hard to tell.”

And the truth was that neatness had never been her strong suit. Or even a virtue, as far as she was concerned.

Zach stood at the worktable she’d pulled out from the wall, staring at the cartons that held her supplies for jewelry making. She’d wanted those things with her, because it was both a vocation and avocation. Or it would be, if she could ever find a way to make enough money to live on. She patted her pocket, where she’d tucked the information about the local craft show.

He held up a box that contained the supply of turquoise she’d brought. “This must be valuable, isn’t it?”

“Fairly. I don’t have any really expensive stones. I’ve been experimenting with variations on some traditional Zuni designs in silver and turquoise.” She touched a stone, tracing its striations with the tip of her finger, longing to lose herself in working with it.

“I doubt anybody’s been in here with the intent to rob you, or they’d have gone for the obvious.”

She nodded, reassured. “Thank you. I—well, I’m glad you were here. I probably overreacted for a moment.”

He shrugged, broad shoulders moving under the gray uniform shirt. “A break-in didn’t seem likely, but we have our share of sneak thieves, like most places. It’s always better to be cautious.” His voice had softened, as if he spoke to a friend. “And you’ve been through a rough time with your husband dying so suddenly.”

The sympathy in his voice brought a spurt of tears to her eyes. He was being kind, and she never expected kindness from someone in a uniform.

“We quarreled.” The words she hadn’t spoken to anyone here just seemed to fall out of her mouth. “We had a fight, and he drove off mad. And in the morning they came to tell me he was dead.”

Strong fingers closed over hers, warming her. “It was not your fault. Survivors always think that if they’d done something differently, their loved one wouldn’t have died. Don’t let yourself fall into that trap.”

He had a strength that seemed contagious. She could almost feel it flowing into her. Or maybe she was starting to see him as a man instead of a cop.

“Thank you.” She turned away, willing herself to composure. “I appreciate your kindness.”

“Plenty of people around here are ready to be neighborly. Just give them a chance.”

She nodded, shoving her hair back from her face. Something lay on the breakfast bar—a white sheet of paper that looked as if it had been crumpled and spread flat again. She took a step toward it, recognizing that it was something out of place even before she reached the counter.

She stopped, staring down at the paper, unwilling to touch it. She couldn’t seem to take a breath.

“What is it?” Zach covered the space between them in a couple of long strides. “What’s wrong?”

She turned, feeling as if she moved all in one piece, like a wooden doll. “That letter.” She took a breath, fighting down the rising panic. “Someone has been in here.”

Zach grasped her arm, leaning past her to look at the paper without touching it. “Why do you say that?” His tone was neutral, professional again.

“It’s a letter my husband wrote to me. I threw it away before I left Santa Fe. Someone came into the house and left it here for me.”

FOUR

Zach took a moment before responding. Was this hysteria? Caroline was upset, but she didn’t seem irrational, no matter how odd her reaction to that letter.

“Are you sure about that?” Careful, keep your voice neutral, don’t jump to conclusions. Getting at the truth was a major part of his job, and he didn’t do that by prejudging any situation.

He pulled a pen from his pocket, using the end of it to turn the paper and pull it toward them. “Take a closer look and—”

Before he could finish, she’d snatched up the letter, adding her fingerprints to whatever was already on it. Still, even if what she said was true, returning a letter that belonged to her to begin with probably wasn’t a crime.

“I know what I’m talking about.” Her voice was tight, and her fingers, when she grasped the letter, showed as white as the paper.

A highly strung person might imagine things after a tragic loss. Her actions in leaving Santa Fe so abruptly weren’t what he’d call normal, but she might have reasons no one here knew about. That was what worried him. As well, there were those bruises he’d seen on her arms.

“Isn’t it possible this was among the things you brought with you? It could have fallen out when you were unpacking.” He glanced toward the stack of boxes that overflowed one of the armchairs. “Maybe Emma or your sister came in, tidying things up, found it and put it there.”

That generous mouth set in a firm line, and she shook her head. “They couldn’t find something I didn’t bring.”

Stubborn, and the type to flare up at opposition. Well, she hadn’t known stubborn until she’d met a Burkhalter. He could be as persistent as a cat at a mouse hole if necessary. His fingers itched to take the letter and find out what had her so upset about it.

“How can you be so sure it’s the same one?”

“Look at it,” she commanded. She thrust the paper into his hands, just where he wanted it. “You can see the marks where I crumpled it up before I threw it away.”

She was right. The marks were visible, even though the paper had been smoothed out before it was put on the counter. He read quickly, before she could snatch it away again, not that there was much to read—just a single page, written in a sprawling, confident hand. A love note.

Caroline grabbed it. “I wasn’t asking you to read it.”

“Not many men write love notes anymore, I’d think. Too easy to e-mail or text message instead.” And not many women would throw such a message away, especially when the sender had just died. “He must have been thoughtful.”

Her expressive face tightened. “Tony could be very charming.”

That was the kind of word that could be either praise or censure. “How long were you married?”

She turned away, as if she didn’t want him to see her face. “Just over a month.”

At that point most couples were still in the honeymoon-glow period. “I’m sorry. That’s rough.”

She swung back again, temper flaring in her eyes. “You obviously think I’m imagining things. I assure you, grief hasn’t made me start to hallucinate. I threw the letter away in Santa Fe. It reappeared here. Now that’s real, not imagination, whatever you may think.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the granite countertop, taking his time answering. “Question is, do you want to file a complaint about someone entering your apartment?”

“You said the door hadn’t been forced.” She frowned, the quick anger fading. “I know I locked it when I left.”

“The windows are all securely closed now, with the locks snapped.” A sensible precaution when no one had been living here, especially since the entrance to the apartment wasn’t visible from the main house. “Let’s take another look at the door.”

He crossed to the entry, and she followed him. He bent to study the lock, moving the door carefully by its edge. The metalwork of the lock was new enough to be still shiny, and no scratches marred its surface.

“I don’t see any signs the lock has been picked or forced.”

“So only someone with a key could get in.”

He shrugged. “Unless it wasn’t locked. Easy enough to forget to double check it.”

“I suppose.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

“Look, if you want to file a complaint—”

“No.” She backed away from that. “I don’t. As you said, there could be some rational explanation.”

He studied her face for a moment. “You’re not convinced.” He wasn’t too happy about the situation himself, but he didn’t see what else he could do.

Caroline raked her fingers back through that mane of hair, turquoise and silver earrings swinging at the movement. “I’ll talk to Emma and my sister. Find out if either of them was in here this afternoon. If not—” She shrugged, eyes clouded. “If not, I guess it’s just one of those little mysteries that happen sometimes.”

He didn’t like mysteries of any size. And he was about to take a step beyond normal police procedure.

“You know, if you were to tell me what made you leave Santa Fe in such a hurry, I might be able to help you.”

Her eyes met his for an instant—wide, startled, a little frightened. “How did—”

She stopped, and he could almost see her struggle, wanting to speak. Not trusting him. Or having a good reason why she couldn’t trust whatever-it-was to a cop.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Her voice was flat and unconvincing.

“Neither of us believes that,” he said quietly. “I can understand that you don’t want to talk to me about your private life, but talk to one of your sisters. Or move into the house, where there are people around all the time.”

“I’d rather stay here.”

He let the silence stretch, but she had herself under control now. She didn’t speak. And he couldn’t help her if she wasn’t honest with him.

“If you want me, you know how to reach me.” He stepped out onto the flagstone that served as a walk.

She summoned a smile, holding the door to close it as if he’d been any ordinary visitor. “Yes. Thank you.”

She might change her mind. Decide to tell him about it. But he suspected he was the last person she’d choose to confide in. He just hoped Caroline’s secrets weren’t going to land her in a mess of trouble.

They were eating dinner around the long table in the breakfast room, but Rachel had made it both festive and formal with white linens, flowers and Grams’s Bavarian china. Caroline discovered that the sense of being welcomed home was a bit disconcerting. Nice to know they considered her arrival a cause for celebration, but at the same time, that welcome seemed to call for a response from her that she wasn’t sure she was ready to make.

Depend on yourself. That was what life had taught her. Rachel and Andrea were her sisters, but they hadn’t lived under the same roof since she was fifteen—longer than that with Andrea. They’d left their mother’s erratic existence as soon as they could, as she had.

Andrea and Rachel had left conventionally for college. She was the only one who’d gotten out by way of a correctional facility.

“Great roast, Rachel.” Cal, Andrea’s husband of four months, leaned back in his chair with satisfaction. “You are one inspired cook. You ought to give the guests breakfast, lunch and dinner.”

“No, thanks.” Rachel flushed with pleasure at the compliment. “We have enough to do as it is. I’ll save my favorite dinner recipes for family.”

Andrea nudged her husband. “Haven’t I mentioned to you that it’s not the wisest thing to praise someone else’s cooking more than you praise your wife’s?”

“You make the best tuna fish sandwiches this side of the Mississippi,” he said, leaning over to kiss her cheek.

Andrea tapped his face lightly with her fingers, eyes sparkling in the glow of the candles. “Sweet-talking will only get you more tuna fish,” she warned.

Caro’s gaze crossed with Grams’s, and she saw an amusement there that was reflected in her own. Marriage had taken away some of Andrea’s sharp edges. She’d always be the businesslike one of the family, but Cal had softened the crispness that used to put people off a bit. You could even see the difference in the way she looked, with her blond hair soft around her face and wearing slacks and a sweater instead of her usual blazer.

Had she and Tony ever looked at each other with that incandescent glow? If so, it had been an illusion.

Cal tore his smiling gaze away from his wife. “How do you like the apartment, Caroline? If you find anything wrong, all you have to do is give me a shout.”

“Everything seems to work fine.” Except for the fact that someone got in while I was out. She wasn’t sure she wanted to tell them that, wanted to have them look at her the way Zach Burkhalter had, with that doubt in their eyes. “You’re obviously a good craftsman.”

“He is that,” Andrea said. “You have to come over to our new house, so you can see how we’ve fixed it up. Cal built my accounting office on one end, and his workshop and showroom are in a separate building in the back.”

“I’d like to.” She could hardly say anything else.

How would they react if she asked how many keys to the barn apartment were floating around in possession of who-knew-who? Would they think she was afraid—the baby sister who couldn’t manage on her own?

This was ridiculous. She was a grown woman who’d been taking care of herself for years. There was just something about being back at her grandmother’s table that made her feel like a child again.

“You fix up the apartment to suit yourself,” Cal said. “That’s only right. Maybe I ought to put up a few more outside lights.” He nodded toward the wall of windows that overlooked the gardens, lit up now by the security lights on the outbuildings.

More lighting sounded like a comforting idea. “Thanks. I’m careful to lock up, but it would be nice to be able to see a bit farther outside at night.”

“Why? Is anything wrong?” Andrea, sharp as ever, jumped on that immediately.

“No. Nothing.”

They were family, she argued with herself. She could tell them. Except that she couldn’t tell them just a piece of her troubles—she’d have to expose the whole sorry story.

“When you asked if I’d been in the apartment earlier—was it because something happened?” Rachel’s voice was troubled.

Andrea’s gaze whipped round to her. “You thought someone had been in there?”

“It was nothing.” She should have remembered that you could never get away with half truths with Andrea. She’d always taken her role as oldest sister seriously. Far more seriously than Mom had taken motherhood, in fact.

“You had better tell us, Caroline.” Grams sat very straight in the chair at the head of the table.

She began to feel like a sulky child, being told to behave by her elders. “It wasn’t anything serious. I found the door ajar when I came home from the store, and I was sure I’d locked it when I left.”

“You probably forgot.” Andrea’s response had echoes of childhood—of Andrea bringing the lunch she’d forgotten to school or picking up the jacket she’d left at a friend’s house. When are you going to be more responsible, Caro?

“I didn’t forget.” She could hear the edge in her voice. “I’ve been living on my own in the city for years, and it’s second nature to lock up.”

“Even so—”

It looked as if Cal nudged his wife under the table to shut her up. “To tell the truth, I seldom locked up when I lived there. The latch is probably sticking. I’ll stop by in the morning and take care of it.”

“You don’t need—” she began.

Cal shook his head decisively. “I’ll come by.”

His tone didn’t leave room for argument, so she just nodded. Apparently Andrea had found herself a man who was as strong-willed as she was.

The entrance of Emma from the kitchen put an end to anything else Andrea might have had to say. Emma placed a platter in front of Caroline. One look, one sniff of the delectable aroma, and she knew what it was.

“Emma, your peaches-and-cream cake. That was always my favorite.”

“I remember, ja.” Emma’s round face beamed with pleasure. “You’d come into the kitchen and tease me to make it when you were no more than three.”

For an instant she was back in that warm kitchen, leaning against Emma’s full skirt, feeling the comfort of Emma’s hand on her shoulder, the soft cadence of her speech, the sense that the kitchen was a refuge from tension she didn’t understand elsewhere in the house.

“I did, didn’t I?” It took an effort to speak around the lump in her throat.

“You’ll have a big piece.” Emma cut an enormous slab and put it on a flowered dessert plate. “And there is a bowl of whipping cream that I brought from the farm this morning to top it.”

Funny. Cal and Emma, the two outsiders, were the ones who made her feel most at home.

But not even their intervention could change the way the others were looking at her. Wondering. Waiting to say it. Poor Caro, always needing to be bailed out. Poor Caro, in trouble again.

“I’m sure we’ll find something up here that you can use for your booth for the craft show.” Rachel led the way into the attic the next day. She’d been quick to offer her help when she learned that Caroline planned to sell some of her jewelry at the show. “As far as I can tell, no one has thrown anything away in the history of Unger House. They just put it in the attic.”

“I see what you mean.” She’d forgotten, if she’d ever known, how huge the connecting attics were, and how stuffed with furniture, boxes, trunks and some objects that defied classification. She picked up an odd-looking metal object with a handle. “What on earth is this?”

Rachel grinned. “A cherry pitter. See what I mean?”

“I see that I wouldn’t want to be the one to sort all this out.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Rachel worked her way purposefully through a maze of trunks. “I’d vote for Andrea, myself. She’s the organized one.”

“I doubt she’d appreciate that.” She followed Rachel, wondering a little at how easy she was finding it to talk to her sister. The years when their lives had gone in separate directions seemed to have telescoped together.

“Here’s the screen I was talking about.” Rachel pulled a triple folding screen out from behind a dusty dress form. “This would do for a backdrop, and then you could use one of the folding tables to display your jewelry.”

“It’s pretty dark. I’d like to find something a little brighter to draw people’s attention.” She hefted the screen. At least it was easily movable. She’d left most of her craft-show things to be shipped with the apartment’s contents, and who knew when the moving company would finally get them here?

“I know just the thing. There are loads of handmade quilts stored in trunks. Throw one of them over the screen, and you’ve got instant color.”

“That would work.” It was nice to have Rachel so willing to support her.

Rachel lifted the lid of the nearest trunk. “By the way, did you ever get in touch with your friend in Santa Fe? The one who was worried about you?”

And that was the flip side of support. You owed someone else an explanation of your actions.

“Yes, we had a long talk. I should have called her sooner.”

She hadn’t, because she hadn’t been especially eager to listen to Francine, who had been appalled that Caro had, as she put it, run away.

Well, what else would you call it? That’s what you do. You run away when things turn sour. She’d run from home. She’d packed up and left every time a relationship went bad or a job failed. That was always the default action. Leave.

Rachel, burrowing into the trunk, didn’t respond, leaving her free to mull over that conversation with Francine. She’d told Francine what she hadn’t told her family—about the man who’d accosted her in the plaza, his demands, his conviction that Tony was still alive.

Surprisingly, Francine hadn’t rejected that instantly.

“Honestly, Caro, I can’t say I knew Tony all that well.” She’d sounded troubled. “We worked on a couple of charity events together, and I knew basically what everyone else did—that he was smart, charming, well connected. As for any problems…well, did you think he might have been gambling?”

“That would be an explanation, wouldn’t it?” She’d felt her way, trying that on for size. “I never saw any proof, one way or the other.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Francine about the disappearance of her own money, but something held her back. Loyalty, maybe, after the wedding promises she’d made. Or just because it revealed how stupid she’d been.

“One thing I’m sure of,” Francine said. “If Tony did fake his death in some bizarre need to get out of a difficult situation, he’d find some way to let you know he’s still alive. You can be sure of that.”

She hadn’t found that as comforting as Francine had obviously intended. How could she?

“Caroline.” Rachel’s voice suggested that she’d said Caro’s name several times. “Where are you? You look a thousand miles away.” Her expression changed. “I’m sorry. Were you thinking about your husband?”

“Yes, I guess I was.” But her thoughts hadn’t been what Rachel probably imagined. She went to help her lift a sheet-wrapped bundle from a trunk. “I’m all right. Really.” Her mind flicked back to that conversation over the dinner table. “No matter what Andrea might think.”

“Oh, honey, Andrea didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Don’t be mad at her.”

“I’m not.” She found herself smiling. “You were always the buffer, weren’t you? Sometimes you’d side with me, sometimes with Andrea, but usually you were the peacemaker.”

“Well, somebody had to be.” Smiling back, Rachel began unwrapping the sheet.

The urge to confide in Rachel swept over her, so strong it startled her. She could tell Rachel, because Rachel had always been the understanding one.

But it wasn’t fair to ask Rachel to keep her secrets. And she wasn’t ready to risk trusting anyone with her troubles and mistakes.

“There.” Rachel unrolled the quilt, exposing the vibrant colors of the design. “It’s a Log Cabin quilt, one of the ones Emma’s mother made, I think.”

“It’s beautiful.” She touched the edge carefully, aware of the damage skin oils could do to aged fabric. “If you’re sure you don’t mind—”

“It’s as much yours as mine,” Rachel said. “There might be something you’d like better, though.” She pulled out the next bundle, this one wrapped in a yellowing linen sheet. “Goodness, this is really an old one.” She squinted at a faded note pinned to the fabric. “According to this, it was made by Grandfather’s grandmother in 1856.”

“It should be on display, not stored away.” The sheet fell back, exposing the quilt. She frowned. “That’s an unusual design, isn’t it?”

Rachel pointed to the triangles that soared up the fabric. “Flying geese, combined with a star. I don’t know enough about antique quilts to have any idea.” She folded the sheet back over it.

Caro felt an almost physical pang as the quilt disappeared from view. To actually hold something that had been made by an ancestress almost 150 years ago—had she been as captivated by color and pattern as Caro was? Had she lost herself in her work, too?

“Well, it certainly needs to be better preserved than it is. If you don’t mind, I’ll see if I can find out how it should be kept.”

“Be my guest. That’s more your domain than mine.” Rachel laid the bundle gently back in the trunk.

Taking the Log Cabin quilt, Caroline stood, stretching. “I’ll run this down first and then come back and help carry the—”

Her words died as she passed the attic window. She hadn’t realized that from this height she could see over the outbuildings to the barn, even to the walk that curved around to the door of her apartment. And to the flash of movement on that walk.

“Someone’s out there.” She grabbed Rachel’s arm, her heart thudding. He was back. The person who’d been in the apartment was back.

“Who? What?” Rachel followed her gaze. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Someone was there, by the apartment. I’m not imagining things, and I’ll prove it.” She thrust the quilt into Rachel’s arms and rushed toward the stairs.