Dillon knew it was rude to stare.

But he couldn’t help himself. He was so amazed to be seeing her again after so many years. She’d literally knocked the wind out of him, and now, in typical Isabel style, she wanted to run away.

“Stay a while,” he said, his gaze lingering a little too long on her face. “Stay and tell me why you were taking my picture.”

“No.” She tried to move away. She didn’t want to be with Dillon Murdock.

But he refused to let her go. “Then stay long enough to tell me why you came back to Wildwood.”

Wanting to show him he couldn’t get to her the way he used to, Isabel retorted, “I think a better question would be—what are you doing here?”

“Well, that’s real simple, Isabel,” he said sarcastically. “I came back at my mother’s request.” Backing away, he called, “Yes, the prodigal son has returned.”

LENORA WORTH

grew up in a small Georgia town and decided in the fourth grade that she wanted to be a writer. But first, she married her high school sweetheart, then moved to Atlanta, Georgia. Taking care of their baby daughter at home while her husband worked at night, Lenora discovered the world of romance novels and knew that’s what she wanted to write. And so she began.

A few years later, the family settled in Shreveport, Louisiana, where Lenora continued to write while working as a marketing assistant. After the birth of her second child, a boy, she decided to pursue her dream full-time. In 1993, Lenora’s hard work and determination finally paid off with that first sale.

“I never gave up, and I believe my faith in God helped get me through the rough times when I doubted myself,” Lenora says. “Each time I start a new book, I say a prayer, asking God to give me the strength and direction to put the words to paper. That’s why I’m so thrilled to be a part of Steeple Hill’s Love Inspired line, where I can combine my faith in God with my love of romance. It’s the best combination.”

Wedding at Wildwood

Lenora Worth

It was right that we should make merry and be glad, for your brother was dead and is alive again, and was lost and is found.

—Luke 15:32

To my brothers, Windell, Waymon

and especially Jerry

And in memory of

my father,

Delma Humphries

Dear Reader,

I grew up on a farm in south Georgia and lived in a house similar to the one described in Isabel’s story. I couldn’t wait to leave that house, but it has stayed with me all of these years. My memories are sometimes bittersweet, but I realize now that I loved my home and I often dream of my life there.

The story of the prodigal son has always fascinated me. Coming from a big Southern family, I’ve learned lots of lessons about forgiveness, but this parable teaches all of us that there is sometimes more to the story than what appears on the surface.

In this story, there were two prodigal sons. Dillon lost his way by running away, and Eli lost his way because he’d never learned true humility. Not only does the Bible teach us to forgive those we love, we also have to remember that as human beings, we are all God’s children.

I’m glad Isabel and Dillon found each other again, and learned the lessons of forgiveness and acceptance. Hope you enjoyed their story.

Until the next time, may the angels watch over you while you sleep.

Contents

About the Author

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

Epilogue

Chapter One

She hadn’t planned on coming back to Wildwood. But now that she was here, Isabel Landry realized she also hadn’t planned on the surge of emotions pouring over her like a warm summer rain as she stood looking up at the stark white mansion.

Wildwood.

The house, built sometime before the Civil War, was old and run-down now. Abandoned and gloomy. And so very sad.

But then, most of her memories of growing up on this land made Isabel feel sad and forlorn, too. Staring across the brilliant field of colorful wildflowers in shades of pink, yellow and fuchsia, she clicked her camera, focusing on the old house, deliberately blurring the pink phlox, purple heather, and yellow black-eyed Susans that posed a sharp contrast to the wilted condition of the once grand mansion. Now shuttered and closed, its paint peeling and its porches overgrown with ivy and wisteria, the house with the fat Doric columns and the wide, cool verandas on each floor didn’t seem as formidable as it had so long ago.

Isabel had never lived in Wildwood, but oh, how she’d dreamed of living in just such a house one day. Now, she saw that fantasy as silly, fueled by the imagination of an only child of older parents, raised on land that did not belong to her family. Born on the Murdock land, in a quiet corner of southwest Georgia, known as Wildwood Plantation.

Glancing away from the imposing plantation house, she saw where she had lived off in the distance, around the curve of the oak trees and dogwoods lining the dirt lane. The small white-framed farmhouse hadn’t changed much in the ten years since she’d been away, and neither had Isabel’s determined promise to herself to rise above her poor upbringing.

“I don’t belong here,” she said to the summer wind. “I never did.”

Yet she lifted her camera, using it as a shield as she took a quick picture of the rickety little house she remembered so well. Just therapy, she told herself. That’s why she’d taken the picture; she certainly didn’t need or want a reminder of her years growing up there.

Looking up to the heavens, she whispered, “Oh, Mama, why did God bring me back here? I don’t want this.” Silently, she wondered if her deceased parents were as at peace up there in Heaven as they’d always seemed to be when they were alive and working here on Wildwood Plantation.

Mentally chiding herself, she smiled. “I know, Mama. Grammy Martha would scold me for doubting God’s intent. You are at peace. This I know. So, why can’t I find that same peace here on earth?”

Lifting up yet another prayer, Isabel knew she wouldn’t find any answers here on this red Georgia clay. Ever since her grandmother, Martha Landry, had called asking her to come home to take pictures of Eli Murdock’s upcoming wedding, she’d been at odds. But between assignments and with nothing pressing on her agenda, she’d had no choice but to come. Isabel knew her duties, and she was good at her job as a professional photographer. Besides, she could never turn down a request from Grammy Martha, even if it did mean having to face the Murdocks and bow to their commands once again.

She hadn’t been home in a long time, and she missed her grandmother. Often in the years since her parents had died—first her mother, then two years later, her father—Isabel had hurried home for quick visits with her grandmother. But on those occasions, she’d distanced herself from the Murdocks, always staying only a couple of days, sleeping in her old room at the farmhouse and keeping a low profile. During those rare trips, she’d never once ventured up the lane to visit the people who’d allowed her grandmother to stay on their land and still employed her grandmother’s services on occasion.

Now, she’d be forced to socialize with them, to snap happy pictures of Eli’s wedding to a girl Isabel had graduated high school with, a woman almost ten years younger than Eli. Well, at least Susan Webster was a wonderful woman. She’d make Eli a good wife, though for the life of her, Isabel couldn’t understand what had attracted petite, perky Susan to such a bully bear of a man.

“Oh, well, that’s none of my concern,” she reminded herself as she turned back to the mansion. She’d do her job, get her pay, then be on her way again to parts unknown. But right now, she wanted to get a shot of the house with the brilliant sunset behind it, and the wavering wildflowers out in the meadow in front of it. Then she’d head back to have supper with Grammy.

Finding a good angle, Isabel focused on the house, finding a side view so the massive columns lining the front of the two-storied house would be silhouetted in the sun’s glowing rays. With a flip of her wrist, she pushed her long blond hair back over her shoulders, then lifted her camera to click.

Then her heart stopped.

Through the lens, she saw a man standing at the edge of the wildflower patch on the other side of the house. Gasping, she dropped her arms down, almost dropping her expensive camera in the process. But surprise aside, Isabel knew a good shot when she saw one. She wanted to capture the man, whoever he might be, in the picture because the expression on his dark, rugged face clearly mirrored the mood of the mansion he stood staring up at.

Watching him as if he were a wild animal, Isabel barely moved for fear he’d spot her and bolt away. He looked that untamable, that intense. So intense in fact, that he wasn’t even aware she was just around the corner, hiding underneath a clump of tall camellia bushes.

For a minute, Isabel analyzed him, preparing herself for her subject. Tall, at least six feet, fit enough to fill out his faded jeans nicely, and…brooding. Definitely brooding. From the five o’clock shadow on his face and the stiff tufts of spiky hair on his forehead, he looked as if he had a chip on his broad shoulders that couldn’t be knocked off. His clipped dark hair mocked the wind playing through it, and every now and then, he’d lift a hand to scissor his fingers through the clump of hair that refused to stay off his face, the action speaking much louder than any gruff words he might want to shout out. This man was angry at someone or something. And…his actions seemed so familiar, so stirring.

Isabel wanted to capture that mood on film. Her artistic instincts had never failed her before. And the way her heart was beating now was a sure sign that she was on to something big here. She might not ever sell this photo, but she had to have this picture. Right now, while the light was playing off the planes and angles of his shadowed face.

Lifting her camera, she once again focused and then, holding her breath at the sheer poignant beauty of the shot, clicked the camera—once, twice, three times.

The third time, she moved closer.

And that’s when the man looked up and spotted her.

“Hey!” he shouted, a dark scowl covering his face as he began a mad stalk through the wildflowers like a raging bull about to attack. “What do you think you’re doing there, lady?”

Not one to take any unnecessary chances—she’d been in far more dangerous situations, but for some strange reason this man scared her—Isabel smiled and waved. “Just taking a picture. Thanks.”

Then she turned and as fast as her sandaled feet and flowing skirt could carry her, headed toward the lane, the echo of that deep, commanding voice wafting through her head on that vague mist of familiarity she’d felt on first seeing the man.

“Hey, wait a minute!”

She could feel him stomping after her. Picking up her pace, she trudged over delicate wildflowers, forgetting to follow the worn path that had been molded through the field over the years. Whoever he was, she’d apparently made him angry by interrupting his solitude. Maybe she should at least apologize and explain, but too many warning bells were clashing loudly in her head, telling her to get away.

“You’re on private property,” the man called, nearer now.

Isabel didn’t dare turn around, but from all the thrashing sounds, she knew he was gaining on her. Then, telling herself this was silly and that she really should speak to the man at least, she whirled just as he reached her. And came crashing into his firm chest.

The action sent the unprepared man sprawling backward even as he reached out a hand to grab Isabel. Which meant she went sprawling down with him, her camera still in one shaky hand.

Her breath coming hard, Isabel looked down at the man holding her, the scent of sweet flowers and rich loam wafting out around them as he stared up at her, a look of surprise coloring his features as his gaze moved over her face.

When she looked down into his gray eyes, Isabel gasped again as recognition hit her hard and fast, and a very real fear coursed through her. “Dillon?”

He squinted up at her, then as realization dawned in his deep blue-gray eyes, he dropped his hands away from her shoulders so she could get up. In a voice as hard-edged and grainy as the soil beneath them, he looked her over, his surprised gaze sweeping her face. “Isabel.”

It was a statement, said on a breath of disbelief.

Fussing with her blouse and skirt, Isabel used the brief time to gather her skittish thoughts. Had she also heard a bit of longing in his voice? Refusing to acknowledge her own longing, she turned to look him square in the face. “I’m sorry, Dillon. I didn’t realize who you were until you got close.”

Something in her drawling, soft-spoken words made Dillon Murdock’s squint deepen back into a scowl. He’d remembered that sweet voice in his dreams, in his memories, and he’d often wished he could hear it again in reality.

Maybe he was just wishing again now. The dusk was obviously playing tricks on his mind. After all, it wasn’t every day a man found a beautiful woman with long waves of blond hair and eyes as green as a pine forest, standing in the middle of a field of wildflowers as if she’d been waiting just for him. The same way Isabel used to wait right here for him.

To waylay the uneven beat of his heart, he said, “Well, since you’re the one who knocked me flat on my back, maybe you’d better tell me what you’re doing taking pictures of Wildwood.”

He didn’t know why she was here, Isabel thought wistfully. But then, he had no reason to know anything about her. They hadn’t exactly kept in touch over the years. And they’d both changed, obviously.

Last time she’d seen Dillon, he’d only been out of high school a few months, and in a rebellious resistance he’d sported long, scraggly hair and a thick beard. Now, the hair was different, cut short and spiky, and only the remnants of a day’s worth of beard covered his brooding face. Yet, she’d sensed something so familiar in him. Too familiar.

Determination and bitterness clouding her dreams away, she rose to her feet to stare down at him. “Relax, I’m just here to take pictures of your brother’s wedding.”

Dillon sat still, then let out a hissing breath before he stood to follow her retreating floral cotton skirts. Isabel. The minute he’d said her name, all the memories had come rushing back. Boy, she’d certainly changed from the scrawny, dirty-faced kid with cropped blond hair and bony knees. The last time he’d seen Isabel…He wasn’t ready to remember the last time he’d seen her. Not yet.

“Isabel?” he called now, refusing to go back to the dark days of his youth. “Hey, wait a minute, will you?”

“You told me I was on private property,” she reminded him with a haughty toss of her long locks. “I’m late, anyway.”

Stubborn as ever, Dillon thought as he hurried his booted feet after her. And more beautiful than he’d ever imagined. Little Isabel, the poor kid whose father had worked the land so hard it had eventually killed him. Little Isabel, whom Eli and he had teased unrelentingly all through grammar school and high school. Isabel, afraid and ashamed, defiant and lost, a young girl who’d worn her feelings on her sleeves and carried her heart in her hand.

He’d known the girl all his life. Now he wanted to know the woman. “Isabel,” he said as he reached out to grab her arm. “I’m sorry.”

She whirled to face him in the muted dusk, thinking his apologies always had come too easily. “Sorry for what? I was the one who got caught where I wasn’t supposed to be. Some things never change.”

He jammed a hand through his hair in frustration. “Well, you’re certainly right about that.” Her words only reminded him of all the things he’d done to bring his life to this point. Glancing back at the house looming in the distance, he said, “I don’t know why I came back here.”

“Me, either,” Isabel said, some of her anger disappearing. Why should she be angry with Dillon for questioning her about being on Murdock property? She’d always been a hindrance to the powerful Murdocks, anyway. And she’d do best to remember that now, when her heart was pounding and her mind was reeling at seeing Dillon again. “I’d better get back to Grammy,” she said at last, to break the intensity of his dusk gray eyes.

Dillon knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t help himself, and besides, he’d never been one to fall back on manners. He was so amazed to be standing here, seeing her again after so many years. She’d literally knocked the wind out of him, and now in typical Isabel style, she wanted to run away. “Stay a while,” he said, his hand still on her bare arm, his gaze lingering a bit too long on her face. “Stay and tell me why you were taking my picture.”

“No.” She tried to pull away. She did not want to be with Dillon Murdock.

But he refused to let her go. “Then stay long enough to tell me why you came back to Wildwood—and don’t tell me it was just to take a few pictures.”

Wanting to show him he couldn’t get to her the way he used to when they were younger, Isabel retorted, “I think a better question would be—what are you doing back here, Dillon?”

He dropped her arm then to step back, away from the accusation and condemnation he saw in her eyes. “Well now, that’s real simple, Isabel,” he said in a voice silky with sarcasm. “I came back at my mother’s request, to witness my brother’s happy nuptials.” He shrugged, then lifted a hand in farewell, or maybe dismissal. Backing away, he called, “Yes, the prodigal son has returned.”

With that, he turned into the gathering twilight, his dark silhouette highlighted by the rising moon and the silvery shadow of Wildwood—the house that once had been his home.

“Dillon, wait,” Isabel called a few seconds later. When he just kept walking, she hurried after him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t question your being here. You have every right to be here.”

“Do I?” he asked as he whirled around to face her, his hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans, his eyes flashing like quicksilver. “Do I really, Isabel?”

“It’s still your home,” she reminded him as they faced each other in front of the house. “And it’s still beautiful.”

Dillon snorted and inclined his head toward the other side of the country road, away from the mansion. “That’s not my home, and that house is not beautiful. Not to me.”

Isabel shifted her gaze to the big house sitting across the way. Eli’s modern new luxury home. Grammy had told her he’d built it a couple of years ago. Now, their mother, Cynthia Murdock, lived there with her son.

“I guess Susan will be moving in soon,” she said, very much aware of Dillon’s obvious scorn for the elegant brick house with the lavish landscaping.

“I guess so,” Dillon replied, his gaze reflecting the timid moonlight covering them like a fine mist. “Hope she can stand the squeaky clean linoleum and all the gadgets and gizmos my brother had installed.”

“It’s probably more convenient for your mother, at least,” Isabel said, trying to be tactful.

Dillon scoffed again. “Yeah, well, Eli always did have Mother’s best interest at heart.”

He turned then, his eyes moving over the old plantation house. He stood stoic and still, then said in a voice soft with regret, “I miss this house. I wanted to come home to this house.”

Isabel’s heart went out to him. Dillon, always the wild child, always the scrapper, getting into trouble, getting into jams that his father and older brother had had to pull him out of. Dillon, the son who’d left in a huff, mad at the world in general, and hadn’t looked back. Now, he was home, for whatever reason.

Isabel could feel sympathy for whatever Dillon Murdock was experiencing. He’d had it all handed to him. His life had been so easy, so perfect. And what had he done? Thrown it all back in his parents’ faces. What she would have given to have been able to live with that kind of security, with that kind of protection. But instead, she’d had to live in a house so full of holes, the winter wind had chilled her to the bone each night as she’d lain underneath piles of homemade quilts. She’d had to live in a house with run-down plumbing and a leaky roof, simply because the Murdocks didn’t deem her family good enough for repairs. They lived in the house for free; what more did they want anyway? That had been the consensus, as far as the Murdocks were concerned. No, she couldn’t feel sorry for Dillon Murdock. Yet she did, somehow. And that made her put up her guard.

“I always loved this house,” she said now as she strolled over to the raised porch of the mansion. Swinging her slight frame up onto the splintered planks, she sat staring out into the night, into Dillon Murdock’s eyes. “It’s a shame it has to stand empty. Some people don’t realize what they have, obviously.”

She hadn’t meant the statement to sound so bitter, but she could see Dillon hadn’t missed the edge in her words. He came to stand in front of her, his eyes lifting to meet hers. “You’re right there. It took me a long time to learn that lesson.”

Isabel studied him, searching for clues of the life he must have led. But Dillon’s face was as hard as granite, blank and unflinching, unreadable. Until she looked into his eyes. There, she saw his soul, raw and battered, his eyes as aged and gray as the wood underneath the peeling paint of this old house.

“So, you’ve come home,” she said, accepting that he didn’t owe her any explanations. Accepting that she didn’t need, or want, to get involved with the Murdocks’ personal differences.

Dillon stepped so close, she could see the glint of danger in his eyes, could feel the warmth of his breath fanning her hair away from her face. His nearness caused a fine row of goose bumps to go racing down her bare arms, in spite of the warm spring night. Yet, she didn’t dare move. She just sat there, holding her breath, hoping he’d back away. But he didn’t.

“We’ve both come home, Isabel,” he observed as he leaned against the aging porch. “But the question is, what have we come home to?”

With that, he turned and stalked away into the night, leaving her to wonder if she’d made the right decision after all. Taking a deep breath, she pushed her hair away from her face and wondered if maybe she should have stayed away from Wildwood a little longer. Well, she was here now. But while she was here, she’d be sure to stay clear of Dillon Murdock.

She didn’t like feeling sorry for him. She didn’t like feeling anything for him.

Yet, she did. Even after all these years, she still did.

Chapter Two

The smell of homemade cinnamon rolls greeted Isabel as she entered the screened back door of the old farmhouse. Grammy had already set the table, complete with fresh flowers from her garden. Touching her hand to a bright orange Gerber daisy, Isabel closed her eyes for just a minute. It was good to be home, in spite of her feelings regarding Wildwood. The meeting with Dillon had left her shaken and unsure, but being here with Grammy gave her strength and security. Grammy always made things seem better.

“There you are,” an aged voice called from the arched doorway leading to the long narrow kitchen off to the right. “I was getting worried.”

Isabel set her camera down on a nearby rickety side table, then stepped forward to take the two glasses of iced tea from her grandmother’s plump, veined hands. “Sorry, Grammy. I got carried away taking pictures of the wildflowers.”

She didn’t mention that she’d also gotten carried away with seeing Dillon Murdock again. She wasn’t ready to discuss him with her grandmother.

“You and that picture taking,” Martha said, waving a hand, her smile gentle and indulging. “The flowers are sure pretty right now, though.” Settling down onto the puffy cushion of her cane-backed chair, she added, “Miss Cynthia always did love her wildflowers. I remember one time a few years back, that Eli got it in his head to mow them down. Said they were an eyesore, what with the old house closed up and everything.”

“He didn’t do it, did he?” Isabel asked, her eyes going wide. “That would have ruined them.”

Martha chuckled as she automatically reached for Isabel’s hand, prepared to say grace. “Oh, no. He tried, though. Had one of the hired hands out on a mower early one morning. Miss Cynthia heard the tractor and went tramping through the flowers, all dressed in a pink suit and cream pumps, her big white hat flapping in the wind. She told that tractor driver to get his hide out of her flowers. She watched until that poor kid drove that mower clear back to the equipment barn. Then she headed off, prim as ever, to her Saturday morning brunch at the country club.”

Isabel shook her head, sat silently as Grammy said grace, then took a long swallow of the heavily sweetened tea. “I was right. Some things never change.”

Martha passed her the boiled new potatoes and fresh string beans. “Do you regret taking the Murdocks up on their offer?”

Isabel bit into a mouthful of the fresh vegetables, then swallowed hastily. “You mean being the official photographer for Eli’s extravagant wedding?”

“I wouldn’t use the same wording, exactly,” Martha said, a wry smile curving her wrinkled lips, “but I reckon that’s what I was asking.”

Smiling, herself, at her grandmother’s roundabout way of getting to the heart of any matter, Isabel stabbed her knife into her chicken-fried steak, taking out her frustrations on the tender meat. “Well, I’m having second thoughts, yes,” she admitted, her mind on Dillon. “But I couldn’t very well turn them down. They’re paying me a bundle and I can always use the cash. But, I mainly did it because you asked me to, Grammy.”

“Don’t let me talk you into anything,” Martha said, her blue eyes twinkling.

“As if you’ve ever had to talk anyone into anything,” Isabel responded, laughing at last. “You could sweet-talk a mule into tap dancing.”

“Humph, never tried that one.” Her grandmother grinned impishly. “But I did bake your favorite cinnamon rolls, just in case—Miss Mule.”

“For dessert?” Isabel asked, sniffing the air, the favorite nickname her grandmother always used to imply that she was stubborn slipping over her head. “Or do I have to hold out till breakfast?”

Martha reached across the lacy white tablecloth to pat her granddaughter’s hand. “Not a soul here, but you and me. Guess we can eat ’em any time we get hungry for ’em.”

“Dessert, then, definitely,” Isabel affirmed, munching down on her steak. “Ah, Grammy, you are the best cook in the world.”

“Well, you could have my cooking a lot more if you came to visit more often.”

Isabel set her fork down, her gaze centered on her sweet grandmother. She loved her Grammy; loved her plump, sweet-scented welcoming arms, loved her smiling, jovial face, loved her gray tightly curled hair. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to move back here permanently, a subject they’d tossed back and forth over the years.

Her tone gentle, she said, “Grammy, don’t start with that. You know I have to travel a lot in my line of work and I don’t always have an opportunity to come home.”

Martha snorted. “Well, you told me yourself you didn’t have any assignments lined up over the next few weeks, so you can stay here and have a nice vacation. Living in a suitcase—that is no kind of life for a young lady.”

“I have an apartment in Savannah.”

“That you let other people live in—what kind of privacy does that give you?”

“Very little, when I manage to get back there,” Isabel had to admit. “Subletting is the only way to hold on to it, though.”

“And you always going on and on when you were little about having a home of your own.”

Her appetite suddenly gone, Isabel stared down at the pink-and-blue-flowered pattern on her grandmother’s aged china. “Yeah, I did do that. But I never got that home. And I’ve learned to be content with what I do have.” Only lately, she had to admit, her nomadic life was starting to wear a little thin.

Wanting to lighten the tone of the conversation, she jumped up to hug her grandmother. “And I have everything I need—like home-baked cinnamon rolls and a grandmother who doesn’t nag too much.”

Martha sighed and patted Isabel’s back, returning the hug generously. “Okay, Miss Mule, I can take a hint. I won’t badger you anymore—tonight at least.”

“Thank you,” Isabel said, settling back down in her own chair. “Now, how ’bout one of those rolls you promised me?”

“Glad to be home?” Martha challenged, her brows lifting, a teasing glow on her pink-cheeked face.

“Oh, all right, yes,” Isabel admitted, taking the small defeat as part of the fun of having a remarkable woman for a grandmother. “I’m glad to be home.”

“That’s good, dear.”

Isabel smiled as Martha headed into the kitchen to retrieve two fat, piping hot cinnamon rolls. Martha Landry was a pillar of the church, a Sunday school teacher who prided herself on teaching the ways of Jesus Christ as an example of character and high moral standing, but with a love and practicality that reached the children much more effectively than preaching down to them ever could.

Isabel knew her grandmother wouldn’t preach to her, either; not in the way her own parents always had. It was a special part of her relationship with her grandmother that had grown over the years since her parents’ deaths. She could talk to Grammy about anything and know that Martha Landry wouldn’t sit in judgment. One of Grammy’s favorite Bible quotes was from First Corinthians: “For if we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged.”

Isabel knew her grandmother believed in accepting people as humans, complete with flaws. And that included their mighty neighbors. Yet Isabel couldn’t help but judge the Murdocks, since they’d passed judgment on her a long time ago.

“I saw Dillon tonight,” she said now, her gaze locking with her grandmother’s, begging for understanding. “He’s home for the wedding.”

Isabel watched for her grandmother’s reaction, and seeing no condemnation, waited for Martha to speak.

“Well, well,” the older woman said at last, her carefully blank gaze searching Isabel’s face. “And how was Mr. Dillon Murdock?”

“Confused, I believe,” Isabel replied. “He seemed so sad, Grammy. So very sad.”

“That man’s had a rough reckoning over the past few years. From what I’ve heard, he hasn’t had it so easy since he left Wildwood.”

Hating herself for being curious, Isabel asked, “And just what did you hear?”

Grammy feigned surprise. “Child, you want me to pass on gossip?”

Isabel grinned. “Of course not. I just want you to share what you know.”

Martha licked sweet, white icing off her fingers. “Yep, you want me to spill the beans on Dillon Murdock. Do you still have a crush on him, after all these years?”

Isabel cringed at her grandmother’s sharp memory, then sat back to try to answer that question truthfully. “You know, Grammy, I had a crush on him, true. But that was long ago, and even though I saw Dillon each and every day, I never really knew him. And I don’t know him now. It was a dream, and not a very realistic one.”

“Amen to that. And now?”

Isabel couldn’t hide the truth from her grandmother. “And now, I’m curious about the man he’s become. Seeing him again tonight, well, it really threw me. He seemed the same, but he also seemed different. I’m hoping he’s changed some.”

Martha gave her a long, scrutinizing stare. “That’s all well and good, honey. But remember, the boy you knew had problems, lots of problems. And as far as we know, the man might still be carrying those same problems. I’d hate to see you open yourself up to a world of hurt.”

Isabel got up to clear away their dishes, her eyes downcast. “Oh, you don’t have to worry on that account, Grammy. When I left Wildwood, I promised myself I’d never be hurt by the Murdocks again.”

“Including Dillon?”

“Especially Dillon,” Isabel readily retorted. Then she turned at the kitchen door. “Although Dillon never really did anything that terrible to me.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. Oh, he teased me a lot, but mostly his only fault was that he was a Murdock. Eli, on the other hand, made no bones about my being the poor hired help. I just can’t tolerate their superior attitudes and snobbery. Not now. I did when I was living here, but not now. Not anymore.”

Martha followed Isabel into the kitchen. “And did Mr. Dillon Murdock act superior tonight, when you talked to him?”

Isabel surprised herself by defending him. “No, he didn’t. Not at all. In fact, he was…almost humble.”

“I just hope that boy’s learned from his mistakes.”

“Me, too,” Isabel said. “Me, too.”

Dillon’s soul-weary eyes came back to her mind, so brilliantly clear, she had to shake her head to rid herself of the image. “You don’t have to worry about me and Dillon Murdock, Grammy. I don’t plan on falling for any of his sob stories.”

“Should be an interesting wedding,” Martha commented, her hands busy washing out plates.

Isabel didn’t miss the implications of that statement. She never could fool her grandmother.

Dillon stood at the back door of his brother’s house, every fiber of his being telling him not to enter the modern, gleaming kitchen. But his mother was standing at the sink, dressed in white linen slacks and a blue silk blouse, her curled hair turned now from blond to silver-white, her small frame more frail-looking than Dillon remembered. He smiled as he heard her loudly giving orders to the maid who’d been with their family for years.

“Now, Gladys, we want everything to be just right, remember? So finish up there, dear, then you can go on back to tidying the guest room for Dillon. He’ll be here any minute.”

Cynthia had written to him, begging him to come home for his brother’s wedding.

And so here he stood.

The minute he opened the glass door to the room, he was assaulted with the scent of dinner rolls baking, along with the scent of fragrant potpourri and a trace of his mother’s overly sweet perfume. At least some parts of Eli’s new home were familiar.

“Hello, Mama,” he said from his spot by the door.

Cynthia whirled from directing the maid to see who’d just entered her kitchen, her gray eyes wide, her mouth opening as she recognized her younger son. “Oh, my…Dillon. You came home.”

Dillon took his tiny mother into his arms, his hands splaying across her back in a tight hug, his eyes closing as memories warmed his heart even while it broke all over again. Then he set his mother away, so he could look down into her face. “This isn’t my home, Mother. Not this house. It belongs to Eli.”

“Well, you’re welcome here. You should know that,” Cynthia insisted as she reached up to push a stubborn spike of hair away from his forehead. “You look tired, baby.”

He was tired. Tired of worrying, wondering, hoping, wishing. He didn’t want to be here, but he wanted to be with his mother. She was getting older. They’d kept in touch, but he should have come home long ago. “I could use a glass of tea,” he said by way of hiding what he really needed. “Where’s Eli?”

“Right here,” his brother said from a doorway leading into the airy, spacious den. “Just got in from the cotton patch.” Stomping into the kitchen, his work boots making a distinctive clicking sound, Eli Murdock looked his brother over with disdain and contempt. “Of course, you wouldn’t know a thing about growing cotton, now would you, little brother?”

“Not much,” Dillon admitted, a steely determination making him bring his guard up.

His brother had aged visibly in the years that Dillon had been away. Eli’s hair was still thick and black, but tinges of gray now peppered his temples. He was still tall and commanding, but his belly had a definite paunch. He looked worn-out, dusty, his brown eyes shot with red.

“So, it’s cotton now?” Dillon asked by way of conversation. “When did we switch cash crops? I thought corn and peanuts were our mainstay.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Eli said as he poured himself a tall glass of water then pointed at his own chest. “I, little brother, I did all the work on this farm, while you were gallivanting around Atlanta, living off Daddy’s money. Why’d you come back, anyway—to beg Mama for your inheritance?”

“Eli!” Cynthia moved between her sons with practiced efficiency. “I invited Dillon home, for your wedding. And I want you to try to be civil to each other while he’s here. Do you both understand?”

Dillon looked at his mother’s hopeful, firm expression, then glanced at the brooding hostility on his brother’s ruddy face. “Why don’t you ask the groom, Mother?”

“I’m asking both of you,” Cynthia said, her eyes moving from one son to the other. “For my sake, and for Susan’s sake.”

Eli hung his head, then lifted his gaze to Dillon. “As long as he stays out of my way. I won’t have him ruining Susan’s big day.”

“Thoughtful of you,” Dillon countered. “But, hey, I won’t if you won’t, brother.”

“I’ll be too preoccupied with my bride to pay you any attention,” Eli retorted, a distinct smugness in his words.

Wanting to counter his lack of tact, Dillon said, “Well, it certainly took you long enough to find a woman willing to put up with you.”

That hit home. Eli set his glass down, then placed both hands on his hips. “I don’t see you bringing any young ladies home to meet Mama.”

Cynthia clapped her hands for quiet. “Enough of this. Can we please sit down to have a pleasant dinner together? Gladys and I made baked catfish and squash casserole.”

“Why did you have to invite him back here?” Eli asked. “And for my wedding, of all things?”

“I wanted your brother here,” Cynthia said, tears glistening her eyes. “I wanted my sons to make peace with each other.”

Eli stomped to the sink to wash his hands and face. Then turning to dry himself with a dishtowel, he said, “I don’t have to make peace with Dillon, Mama. He’s the one who should be doing the apologizing. He ran off.”

“No, you drove me off,” Dillon said, then he turned to his mother. “I’m sorry, I can’t stay in this house. I’ll be at the wedding, Mama, and I’ll show up at all the required functions, but if you need me, I’ll be at Wildwood.”

“You can’t stay in that run-down house,” Cynthia said, grabbing his arm as he headed for the door.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Let him go,” Eli called. “Let him try to survive in this heat, with no water or electricity. He’ll be back across the road soon enough.”

Dillon gently extracted himself from his mother’s fierce grip. “I’ll see you later, Mama.”

“That’s just like you,” Eli said. “Turn and run again. You never could stick around long enough to do any good around here.”

“Eli, hush,” Cynthia said. Then she called to Dillon, “I’ll bring you a warm plate over later.”

Dillon just kept walking, and he didn’t stop until he reached the wildflower field. Then he fell down on his knees and stared up into the starry sky. He wanted to get on his motorcycle and ride away. But, this time, something held him back. This time, Isabel’s green eyes and sweet-smelling hair haunted him and held him while her words came back to taunt him.

What are you doing back here?

Maybe it was time he found the answer to that question.

Maybe this time, he would stay and fight.

The next morning, Isabel remembered just how interesting things could become in a small town. The wedding of one of the most eligible, elusive bachelors in the county was the talk of the small hamlet, so everyone who was anyone would be invited to the event. And those who weren’t invited would bust a gut trying to hear the details.

Isabel was scheduled to meet Susan Webster at the bridal shop on Front Street at ten o’clock. Susan’s mother wanted Isabel to see Susan in the dress, then they’d decide where to start taking the preliminary pictures of the bride in all her splendor.

Pulling her rented Jeep up to the curve of the Brides and Beaus formal wear shop, Isabel got the strange sense that the curious townspeople were watching her return closely, too.

“Guess I’m a strange creature,” she told Susan after hugging the other woman. “The radical free spirit comes home to Wildwood.”

“We gave that particular honor to Dillon,” Susan said, her bright blue eyes lighting up in spite of the wisecrack. “Did you know he’s moved back in the old house? Opened up a couple of rooms. He refuses to stay in Eli’s house.”

Hoping she didn’t sound too interested, Isabel tossed her long braid aside and shrugged. “Dillon always was a loner.”

“Understatement,” Susan replied, dragging Isabel into the back of the long, cluttered shop. Past the pastel formals and tuxedos that went flying off the racks at prom time, they entered the bride room where Susan’s plump mother, Beatrice, sat going over the final details of the bridesmaid dresses with a clerk.

“Hello, Isabel,” Beatrice said, smiling up at her. “Isn’t this exciting? My baby’s finally getting married, and to Eli Murdock. I’m so proud.”

“It is exciting, Mrs. Webster,” Isabel replied, bending down to hug the older woman. She’d have to be careful about keeping her real feelings regarding this match to herself. “And I’m touched that you both wanted me to be a part of it.”

“Wait until you see the dress,” Beatrice enthused, her attention already back on her job as mother of the bride.

“Wow, look at all this lace and satin,” Isabel quipped, holding a hand to her eyes as she looked around at all the dresses and veils hanging in the prim room. “So bright and so white.”

“Still wedding shy, I see,” Susan said, sweeping around with her arms wrapped to her chest. “Not me, Isabel. I’m very happy.”

Isabel eyed her high school friend, wanting desperately to ask her how she’d fallen for a cold fish like Eli Murdock. But she wouldn’t dream of saying anything to hurt kind, gentle Susan. “You look sickeningly happy,” she told Susan, her smile genuine. “You were meant to be married.”

“Took me long enough to notice Eli, though,” Susan said as they settled down on a cushioned sofa. “Imagine, all those years in the same town, then one day we ran into each other at the Feed and Seed….”

“Very romantic,” Isabel said, grinning. “Tell me, did it happen over the corn seeds or maybe the…er…manure pile.”

“Oh, you!” Susan laughed, then patted Isabel’s hand. “I’m so glad you’ll be taking the pictures. I insisted, you know. I told them you were nationally famous and we might not be able to get you for such a frivolous assignment, so I convinced Eli to pay you big bucks.”

Isabel didn’t hide her surprise. “Well, that explains a few things. I couldn’t understand why the Murdocks wanted me so badly.”

“Oh, they do,” Susan assured her, her face flushing. “I mean, Mrs. Murdock agreed wholeheartedly—”

Seeing the other woman’s embarrassment, Isabel shrugged again. “I understand, Susan. Eli wasn’t too keen on the idea of hiring me to take your wedding pictures, huh?”

“I can explain that,” Susan began, clearly appalled that she’d let that little tidbit out.

“No need,” Isabel replied. “Eli and I never did see eye to eye. But that’s all in the past. And if the request came from you, then I accept completely, and…I don’t mind taking some of Eli’s money off his hands. Now, show me this dress everyone keeps raving about.”

Ever the excited bride, Susan hopped up. “It’s so beautiful!” Then she turned to stare down at Isabel, a troubled look on her pretty features. “Eli’s changed, Isabel. Really, he has.”

“I know you wouldn’t marry him if you didn’t believe that, Susan,” Isabel replied softly. “And I do hope you’ll always be as happy as you look right now.”

Just to prove her point, she snapped a picture of Susan. And captured the tad of sadness she saw flickering quickly through the girl’s eyes. Had Eli already started causing worry to his young bride?

“Susan,” she asked as she watched her friend chatting with one of the clerks, “you’d tell me if anything was wrong, right?”

Susan whirled around, her features puzzled. “Wrong? What could be wrong?” Then lowering her head, she sighed, “It’s just…I’m so excited I haven’t been able to eat or sleep. I’m so in love, Isabel.” With that, Susan was off to the dressing room to put on her elaborate bridal dress.

Not good at waiting, Isabel got up to saunter around the shop. She’d brought her own gown to wear to the wedding, but some of the dresses offered here were quite lovely. Remembering her first prom, she balked as a vision of a young Dillon in his prom tuxedo, with a popular cheerleader encased in satiny pink by his side, came to mind. Isabel’s dress that night had been homemade, an inexpensive knockoff made from a pattern with some gaudy material her mother had found on sale.

It had been Dillon’s senior year, but Isabel had still been a junior in high school. Dillon had teased Isabel about her date, a football player who had a reputation for taking advantage of young girls’ hearts, then later that night Dillon had asked Isabel to dance with him. She’d promptly refused, too afraid of her own mixed feelings to get near him. And too obsessed with Dillon to let the football player make any moves on her.

“Get over it, Isabel,” she told herself now as she watched a bright-eyed teenager drooling over the many formal dresses crushed together all around them like delicate flower buds. She refused to think about Dillon Murdock.

But when the front door of the shop opened and the man himself stepped into the room, she had no choice but to acknowledge him. His masculine presence filled the dainty store with a bold, daring danger. And his eyes on her only added to the rising temperature of the humid summer day.

“Dillon,” she said, too breathlessly.

“Isabel.” He strode toward her, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I see they’ve put you straight to work.”

“Yes. I’m here to get a few shots of Susan in her dress and to set up a more formal location for her portrait shots.”

He nodded, then ran his fingers through his hair. “Mama wanted me to get fitted for a tux. I tried to get out of it, but—” His shrug was indifferent.

The image of him in a tuxedo made Isabel want to drool just like a teenager. But she quickly reprimanded herself, and putting on a blank expression, said, “But your mother persuaded you to come in anyway.”

He nodded, a wry grin slicing his angular face. “You know the woman well.”

Isabel wanted to remind him that she knew all the Murdocks very well. Well enough to be wary of any association with them. Instead she asked, “How is your mother?”

Dillon hesitated, then decided to keep his family problems to himself, not that it mattered. The whole town would probably soon be talking about his renewed feud with his brother, and the fact that he’d moved into the run-down plantation house.

He shrugged. “You know Mama. She’s tough. And she’s okay, I reckon. Stressed about this wedding.”

And probably about having him back home, no doubt, Isabel decided.

Just then a nervous female clerk came forward. “Mr. Murdock, I’m Stacey Whitfield. If you’ll just follow me, we can have you fitted in no time.”

“Thanks, Stacey,” Dillon said with a winning smile. “Give me a minute, all right?”

The fascinated woman bobbed her head, then hurried to stand behind the counter, her eyes glued to Dillon and Isabel.

Dillon fingered a bit of lace on a nearby sleeve while the teenaged shopper Isabel had noticed earlier now had her wide eyes centered on him rather than a new frock. Isabel watched in detached amusement as the young girl’s mother shooed her out the door, the woman’s look of disapproval apparent for all to see.

“My reputation precedes me,” Dillon observed on a flat note. “Mothers, lock up your daughters. He’s back in town.”

“Should they be worried?” Isabel asked, all amusement gone now.

“No,” he replied as he came closer, his hand moving from the trailing lace to a strand of curling hair at her temple. “But maybe you should be.”

Her breath caught in her throat, but she stared him down anyway, challenging him with a lift of her chin. “Why me?”

He leaned closer. “Because if I chase after anybody while I’m here, it’ll be you, Isabel. We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”

Snatching his hand away, Isabel busied herself with checking her camera. “I don’t have time for catching up, Dillon. I’m only here as a favor to Susan and my grandmother.”

“Right.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Angry at herself more than him, she snapped, “You can stop playing games with me, Dillon. I’m not the naive young girl I used to be. And I won’t be taunted and teased by a Murdock, ever again.”

Clearly shocked at the venom in her words, Dillon backed away. “I guess I didn’t realize you could hold such a grudge. But you’re right. And wise to stay away from the likes of me.” Turning to stalk toward the door, he called to the confused clerk waiting to take his measurements, “I’ll be back later, Stacey. It’s a little too confining in here right now.”

With that, he slammed the front door, leaving a stunned silence to follow him, and all eyes clearly on Isabel.

Chapter Three

She refused to feel guilty about what she’d said to Dillon. The man needed to know right off the bat that she wasn’t interested.

But, she reluctantly told herself, Dillon had looked so dejected, so hurt when she’d accused him of taunting her. She’d seen it in his stormy eyes just before he’d shut down on her. Then, he’d warned her away, as surely as he’d tried to draw her near. Now the whole town would probably be talking about the little scene in the bridal shop.

When Isabel went into the back with Stacey to tell Susan that Dillon had left, the bride-to-be was clearly flustered.

“What do you mean, he left?” a frazzled Susan asked poor embarrassed Stacey. “We have to fit him for that tuxedo!”

Stacey shuffled her loafered feet and looked over to Isabel for support. “He…he was talking to Isabel and he—”

“Dillon couldn’t wait,” Isabel explained, shooing Stacey away with the wave of her hand. Turning Susan back around to view herself in the three-way mirror, she commented on the exquisite bridal dress. “This is incredible, Susi.”

Looking over her silk-and-lace reflection, Susan soon forgot all about Dillon’s leaving. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” Isabel said, although she herself would have chosen a more understated wedding gown. All that pearl beading and lace seemed a bit overwhelming. But then, she reminded herself, she wasn’t the one getting married. “I knew you’d make a lovely bride. Now, let me just get a few candid shots of you here, and then we can talk about the formal portrait for the newspaper. You know, I thought about the wildflowers. How would you feel about setting up a shoot there?”

Susan’s excitement changed to worry in the blink of her blue eyes. Looking over at her mother for support, she said, “Oh, I don’t know—Eli hates those flowers. He calls them weeds.”

Mrs. Webster fussed with Susan’s veil, then nodded. “It’s true, Isabel. Eli doesn’t like the wildflower patch. It’s been a bone of contention between him and his mother for some time now.”

Susan lowered her voice to a whisper. “Something about it being Dillon’s favorite spot—”

“What?” Isabel raked a hand through her long hair to keep from saying something she’d regret.

“Couldn’t we do it somewhere else?” Susan questioned, her blue eyes big and round. “How about in the garden behind Eli’s house? He had it especially landscaped—that big nursery from Albany did it. They did such a good job, too.”

The image Isabel had of Susan in her wedding gown amid the wildflowers died on the vine. Eli certainly wouldn’t want his bride centered in a field that only reminded him of his unwelcome brother. Remembering how lonely Dillon had looked the night before, she couldn’t help the little tug of regret in her heart. Maybe she shouldn’t have been so nasty to Dillon earlier.

Reminding herself she was being paid to please the bride and the groom, and that she had to stand firm regarding Dillon Murdock, she nodded. “If that’s what you want, of course, we can do the shoot there. But Eli can’t see you in your dress, remember?”

“Oh, no.” Susan’s big eyes widened. “That’d be bad luck and we don’t need any more of that.”

Curious, Isabel asked, “Have you had some problems?”

Beatrice Webster pursed her lips, then started to speak.

Susan hastily shook her head to stop her mother, then gazed at her reflection in the mirror, her eyes glistening. “No, everything’s fine. It’s just that Eli has this cotton crop to worry about, and well, he works so hard. And now, Dillon’s already started showing himself. I won’t have him ruining my wedding, Isabel, I just won’t. We only invited him back because his poor mama wanted him here for his brother’s wedding, and he doesn’t even have the common decency to try on his tuxedo.”

Isabel stopped snapping pictures to stare up at her friend. “Susan, Dillon left the shop because of me. We…we kind of got into a little argument and I’m afraid I was rude to him. I’ll try to smooth things over with him, I promise.”

Clearly relieved, Susan clapped her hands together, her number one concern right now her wedding. “Would you please try to get him back in here, tomorrow morning if possible? We’ve only got a few days left before the rehearsal supper, then the wedding.”

“I promise,” Isabel said, dreading the whole affair all over again. She must have been crazy to even accept this assignment.

An hour later, she found herself in the wildflower field, amid the honeybees and the butterflies, dreading having to see Dillon again. But she had to apologize and persuade him to do his duty. A promise was a promise, and she had caused him to leave the shop.

Only she didn’t run into Dillon in the field. Instead, she saw his petite mother hurrying across the path, a huge plate covered with a white linen napkin balanced on her wrinkled hands.

“Miss Cynthia,” Isabel called, rushing to help the woman with the heavily laden plate. “My goodness, you’ve got enough food here to feed an army!”

“Isabel! I heard you made it in. Susan’s mother—that woman calls me at least three times a day.” Cynthia stopped to take a long, much needed breath. “How are you, dear?”

Isabel dutifully leaned down to kiss the woman’s rosy powdered cheek, noting that Miss Cynthia was dressed impeccably just to cross the road and tramp through a field. She wore a pink cotton shell, pearls, and dressy gray slacks with matching pumps.

“I’m all right, Miss Cynthia. Do you want me to carry that for you?”

Cynthia shifted the platter, then laughed nervously. “Heavens, no. I’m just in a hurry. Eli will be home soon, and I’ll have to answer to him. He doesn’t want me carting food over here to his brother.”

Isabel hurried along with Miss Cynthia. “Just like you used to do—sneaking Dillon food after he got sent to bed with no supper.”

“I’m just an old softy, aren’t I?” Cynthia said, her sharp eyes moving over Isabel. “My, you’ve changed. You’ve turned out to be quite a lovely young lady, Isabel.”

“Still a little tomboy left, though,” Isabel said, remembering how Cynthia Murdock used to encourage her to wash her face and put on some makeup. Isabel had resented the woman’s heavy-handed suggestions at the time, but now she only smiled. Apparently, Beatrice Webster hadn’t wasted any time updating the whole town on Isabel’s improved grooming habits. Straightening the flowing skirt of her soft linen dress, she told Miss Cynthia, “I did remember some of your fashion tips.”

“I can tell,” Cynthia agreed as they reached the back porch of the old mansion. “That red sundress is mighty fetching with your blond hair.”

Fetching. Only Cynthia Murdock could use an old-fashioned word like that and make it sound classy and completely perfect. But the woman could also cut people into ribbons with a few well-chosen words, Isabel remembered.

“Let me get the door,” Isabel said now without thinking.

The two women were busy laughing and talking as they entered the long central hallway of the cool, shuttered house. Which is why they didn’t see the man standing at the end of the long kitchen, splashing water from an aluminum bucket sitting on the wash drain all over his face and bare chest, until it was too late to back out of the room.

Dillon heard the commotion, then looked up to find his mother and Isabel standing there in the doorway, looking at him as if he were doing something scandalous.

“I didn’t hear a knock,” he said, his lazy gaze moving from his shocked mother’s face to the stunning woman standing beside her. “And I don’t recall inviting two pretty ladies to dinner.”

Cynthia quickly got over her shock and set the heavy platter on the cracked counter. “I found Isabel walking through the wildflowers. And…there’s plenty enough here for two.”

Dillon didn’t bother to hide his bare chest, or the surprise his mother’s bold suggestion brought to his face. “Mama, are you trying to fix me up with our Isabel?”

Cynthia snorted. “I was trying to cover up for your lack of manners, son. Where is your shirt, anyway?”

“Over there.” He pointed to a suitcase tossed carelessly up on one of the many long counters. “Throw me one, will you, Isabel?”

Gritting her teeth, and pulling her eyes back inside her head, Isabel chose a plain white T-shirt to hurl at him, her small grunt of pleasure indicating that she wished it had been something that could do a little more damage.

Dillon caught the shirt, his eyes still on Isabel. With lazy disregard, he pulled it over his damp hair, then tucked it into the equally damp waistband of his jeans. “Sorry, Mama, but I didn’t know I’d have an audience for my bath. Guess it’s a good thing I kept my breeches on.”

Cynthia threw up her hands. “He’s still a charmer, isn’t he, Isabel?”

“Oh, he is indeed.” Isabel turned to leave. “And I really can’t stay. I just wanted to say hello, Miss Cynthia.”

Dillon leaned across the old, planked table standing in the middle of the kitchen. “What’s your hurry?”

Isabel turned to see him reclining there, bathed in a golden shaft of afternoon sunlight, his gray eyes almost black with a teasing, challenging light.

She wanted to take his picture again. But she wouldn’t, because she wasn’t going to stay in this hot room any longer. She’d just have to figure out some other way of getting him to cooperate with Susan about that tuxedo. If she stayed here right now, she couldn’t be sure she’d be in control of her wayward feelings.

Tossing back a long strand of hair, she said, “Actually, I was taking pictures and I ran into your mother. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Cynthia cleared her throat and shooed Isabel back into the room. “Stay and talk to my son, please. Maybe you can convince him to come over to Eli’s house, where there’s plenty of fresh water and air-conditioning.”

Isabel hesitated, her gaze locking with Dillon’s. “I don’t think it’s my place to argue with your son, Miss Cynthia.”

“And why?” Cynthia questioned with a diamond bejeweled hand on her hip. “You two used to argue all the time. That boy used to send you running, nearly in tears. But only after you’d given him a good piece of your mind.”

Isabel lowered her head to stare at a crack in the pine flooring. “Well, that was then—”

“And this is now,” Dillon finished. “Mama’s right. I’m not minding my manners. Stay and talk to me a while, Isabel. I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise.”

“That’s more like it,” Miss Cynthia said, nodding her approval. “You two can keep each other company until we all get through this wedding.”

Dillon lifted up off the table then to come around and kiss his mother. “Thanks, Mama. Now, you’d better get back. I suspect Eli doesn’t know you’ve been feeding me.”

“I’ll take care of Eli, son.”

“Yep, you always have, haven’t you?”

Cynthia stopped at the wide doorway. “I’d be more than happy to take care of you, if you’d stay here long enough to let me.”

Dillon’s smile was bittersweet. “I’m fine, Mama. Really. Now, scoot.”

Cynthia gave an eloquent shrug, then waved to Isabel. “Bye, now. Tell your grandmama hello for me, honey. Oh, and I might have some alterations to bring down to her next week. A couple of dresses that need taking in. I don’t trust anybody else to do the job.”

“I’ll tell her,” Isabel promised, thinking that as always, Miss Cynthia had reminded her of her place. Her grandmother was still the hired help, no matter how fond Miss Cynthia was of Martha Landry. She waited until she heard the click of Miss Cynthia’s heels on the back steps, then looked up at Dillon. “I’m not staying for supper, and I can see myself out.”

He reached out a long tanned arm, catching her by the hand to hold her in her spot. “Was it something I said?”

She glanced back up to find his eyes centered on her with that questioning, brooding intensity. “No, Dillon. Actually, it was something I said. Susan is upset that you didn’t get your fitting this morning. Will you just go back in tomorrow and get it over with?”

He dropped her arm to move to the red ice chest he had propped in one corner of the room. “Want a soda?”

“Okay,” she said without giving it much thought. Just like she’d come bursting in here without much thought, to find him half-clothed. How she wished she’d knocked, but then, he probably would have come to the door bare-chested anyway. When he came back to hand her the icy cold can, she told herself she’d take a couple of sips then leave gracefully.

Then he pulled the white linen cover off the fried chicken. “Mmm, Mama does know how to fry up a chicken. Doesn’t that smell so good?”

Her stomach growled like the traitor it was. Taking a bit of meat that Dillon tore from a crispy breast, she nibbled it, then tried to put the fat and calorie content out of her mind.

Unrolling the silverware his mother had thoughtfully provided, Dillon dipped a spoon into the white mound beside the chicken, then held it out to Isabel. “Want some mashed potatoes?”

“Stop it!” Isabel said, taking out her frustrations on the pop top on her drink. The sound hissed and sizzled almost as loudly as the tension between them. “Just tell me you’ll go back in and get your tux.”

“I might,” he said after shoveling the potatoes into his own mouth. Then he picked up a drumstick and bit into it. Chewing thoughtfully before he dropped it back on the plate, his eyes on her, he said, “Then again, I might just show up like this.” He shrugged and waved the white napkin over his jeans. “Or, I might not show up at all.”

That comment caused her to set her drink can down with a thud. “Oh, that would be just perfect. Show everyone around here that they’re right about you after all. Make Susan feel even worse and cause your mother even more heartache. Yeah, Dillon, I’d say just blow the whole thing off. Why should you try to do something for someone else, anyway?”

In a blur of motion, he dropped his napkin and stood before her, one hand on her shoulder and one braced on the panelled wall behind her. “Don’t, Isabel. Don’t make me feel any worse than I already do.”

She took a shuddering breath, her face inches from his. “Why do you fight so hard against everything?”

His gaze traveled over her face, then back to her eyes. “Why are you standing in my kitchen telling me what I should or shouldn’t be doing?”

She stared him down, though she knew she’d be a nervous wreck later because of it. “Good question. So, let me go.”

“No.”

Glaring up at him, she said on a breath hot with rage, “You haven’t changed a bit. Still the macho tough guy, still trying to make me feel small and insignificant.”

He moved an inch closer. “Is that what I’m doing? Is that how you feel right now?”

She backed farther into the wall. “Yes, to both questions. I’m right up there on your list along with Eli and all the other people in this town you’re still holding a grudge against, aren’t I?”

“I thought you were the one with the grudge,” he said, his hand lifting off her shoulder to come up and cup her chin. “You told me I’d never get to you again. Did I get to you before?”

“No,” she said, hoping she’d be forgiven for lying. “No.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

Then he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her with a tenderness that contradicted everything she believed about him. No man this tough could kiss with such a whispered gentleness that it left a woman’s soul dancing.

No man except Dillon, of course.

When he lifted his head, the kitchen was still and warm, the house silent and waiting. And his eyes were alive with a fire of surprise, of awe, of longing. “I wasn’t teasing just now, Isabel.”

Isabel swallowed hard, then tried to find what little sense of reason she had left. She shouldn’t be here with him. She should run away as fast as she could. Instead, she reached up a hand to stroke away that irresistible spike of hair centered on his forehead. “Are you sure, Dillon? Are you sure that kiss wasn’t just a way to inflict pain on me?”

He ran a hand down the length of her hair, then gave her a wry smile. “Right now, darling, I’m not sure about anything, except that maybe I have a champion in you.”

Surprised, she asked, “Why do you think that?”

He backed away then, letting her hair trail through his fingers to fall in cascading waves back around her shoulders. “Because, you didn’t run away. You came here to fight me, and maybe, to fight for me. And you stayed even after I insulted you.” Tipping his head to one side, his hands on his hips, he added, “And you stayed even after I kissed you.”

Isabel moved away from the wall, and on shaking knees, tried to walk to the counter where she’d put her drink. Taking a long, cool swallow of the amber liquid, she turned to face him again. “I didn’t have much choice. You had me against the wall.”

A smug indifference replaced the gentleness she’d seen in his face. “That’s how I court all of my women.”

Tired and frightened of her own soaring feelings, she snapped at him. “We’re not courting each other.”

He came back strong. “Then what are we doing?”

Sighing, she threw her wavy hair back off her face, holding it tightly against her head with her hand. “I came here to ask you to behave, to show Susan some respect. But since it was my fault you left the shop this morning, I just wanted to make amends.”

“Well, you did,” he said, his voice going soft again. “You did that and a whole lot more.”

Isabel dropped her hair over her shoulder, then crossed her arms over her chest in a defensive manner, still holding her soda with a loose hand. “Will you go back and get yourself a tux for the wedding?”

“Will you sit by me during the ceremony and dance with me at the reception?”

“I asked first.”

“I’m asking now.”

She smiled, then set her nearly empty can down. “You haven’t changed a bit, Dillon.”

He tipped a hand to his head in an acknowledging salute, then leaned back against the creaky table. “Ah, but you have. And for that, dear Isabel, I might be willing to behave—for my brother’s wedding, that is.”

“And wear the tux?” she said, tossing him the challenge.

“And wear the infernal tux,” he added. Then he grabbed her to pull her back into his arms. “Just remember, save the last dance for me, okay?”

“Okay,” she said as she allowed him to hold her close. Battling with Dillon Murdock had always left her drained.

Dillon didn’t try to kiss her again. Instead, he just closed his eyes and held her. Isabel couldn’t help feeling as if she’d come home. But she knew in her heart, that Dillon couldn’t give her a home. Neither of them would linger here at Wildwood for very long. They were both still searching for something, some elusive something to ease the ache in their souls.

And all around them, the waning sun cascaded through the tall kitchen windows in rays of gold, white and muted yellow, revealing dancing fragments of dust that had long lain as dormant and still as the pain buried deep in both their hearts.

Chapter Four

“Don’t open the door!”

Isabel stood in the dark bathroom at the back of the house, watching through the red glow of the safelight as the picture she’d taken of Dillon developed in a chemical bath. If her grandmother opened the door now, the picture would be ruined. “I’ll be out in a minute, Grammy.”

“It’s not your grandma,” a deep masculine voice said through the closed door.

Dillon.

Isabel almost knocked over her whole tray of developer. “Just a minute!” Taking a deep breath, she checked the timer, then stood back to see the emerging picture of the man who’d kissed her not two days ago, and who’d kept her awake thinking about him since then. With quick efficiency in spite of the flutter in her heart, she lifted the picture out of the developer, then dropped it in the stop bath for thirty seconds. Another minute in the fixer, then a good wash for a couple of minutes, and the picture was done.

But the knocking at the door wasn’t.

“Hey, you getting all dolled up or something?”

“Or something,” Isabel retorted as she clipped the finished picture up on the clothesline she had extended across the cracked tub. “I’m working.”

“Sorry, but that excuse won’t wash. It’s a pretty summer day and I have a hankering to take a walk down to the branch—with a pretty woman by my side.”

Isabel stared at the picture of Dillon, her smile bittersweet. She’d captured his spirit as he stood there looking up at Wildwood. And somehow, since then, he was coming very close to capturing her heart. She’d have to be very careful about that. She wasn’t ready to admit that Dillon had always held her heart.

Blinking, she called out, “Couldn’t talk anyone else into it, huh?”

“Right. You seem to be the only woman around these parts willing to put up with me.”

Opening the door just a fraction—she surely didn’t want him to see that picture of himself—Isabel pasted an indulgent smile on her face. “You have such a unique way of asking a woman for a date, Dillon.”

Dillon stood back in the small hallway, his eyes sweeping over her face, his half grin teasing and tempting. “And you, dear Isabel, sure have a way of looking as refreshing as a tall glass of lemonade. How do you do that?”

Ruffled, she lowered her head and crossed her arms around her chest, sure that she looked raggedy and drained from working in her makeshift darkroom all afternoon. Conscious of her faded cotton T-shirt and old shorts, she asked, “Do what?”

“You look different now, you know,” he said instead of explaining himself. “I think it’s the hair. You never wore it long before.”

She left the bathroom and moved up the hall to the front of the rickety old house, running her hands through the swirls of loose curls falling away from her haphazard ponytail. “No, I didn’t. Mama made me keep it cut. Said it was too much of a handful, what with all these waves and curls. I hated wearing it short.”

He caught up with her in the kitchen. “So you let it grow.”

“And grow,” she said as she turned to hand him a glass of iced tea. “I guess it’s silly, wearing it so long—”

“No, it suits you.”

“Thank you,” she said, acutely aware of his eyes on her. “I think it’s probably more of a personal statement than a fashion decision.”

“The rebellious daughter doing what her parents didn’t approve of?”

She nodded, then lifted a brow. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“I am one,” he agreed. He set his now empty glass in the wide single sink and held out his hand. “C’mon, Issy, let’s go for a long walk.”

Stopping, Isabel stared across at him. “You called me Issy.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell me you don’t allow people to do that anymore.”

“No, it’s just that…no one besides you and my immediate family even knows about that horrid nickname.”

“Issy, Issy, Issy,” he teased, his grin widening.

Isabel’s breath lifted right out of her body. She had forgotten what a lethal smile Dillon had. Maybe because she remembered his smiles being so rare. Coming up for air, she said, “Dilly, Dilly, Dilly,” as a retort.

“Oh, boy. I should have never reminded you.”

She took his hand in spite of all the name calling, very conscious of the rough calluses on his fingers. “I really need to finish developing that roll of film.”

He gripped her fingers against his. “It’ll keep.”

He led her out the back door. The late afternoon air was ripe with the scents of early summer. Peaches growing fat on nearby trees, lilies blooming in her grandmother’s carefully tended flower beds, roses drifting like rich cotton candy in the warm summer breeze. How could a woman resist such a day? Isabel believed God saved such days for special times, when people needed them the most.

She sure needed one. But with Dillon? How was she supposed to resist him and the sweet summer air, too?

“Who let you in, anyway?” she asked, looking around the yard for her grandmother.

He let go of her hand to turn and walk backward in front of her, much in the same way he used to do when they’d walk home after getting off the school bus. “I saw Martha on the road. She was headed to the Wedding War Room to help Mama with her dress. Told me to come and keep you company.”

“How very thoughtful of my dear old grandmother.”

He gave her a sideways glance. “I thought so. Took her right up on her suggestion.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“I’ve made a few calls, done my work for the day.”

Catching up to him, she asked, “And just what is your line of work these days?”

He turned serious then. “I run my own company, so I can set my own hours.”

“Really?” Surprised at this revelation, she asked, “What sort of company?”

As smooth as the flattened red clay underneath their feet, he changed the subject. “I don’t want to talk about work. I want to enjoy what’s left of the day.”

Isabel sensed his withdrawal, remembered it all too well from their years of growing up together. “Okay. You want to be irresponsible and play, right?”

He gave her that classic Dillon salute. “Right. It’s what I do best, or so they tell me.”

She didn’t miss the sarcasm or the tinge of pain in his words. But she wouldn’t press him to talk. That had been one of the things between them way back when, that is, when he hadn’t been ribbing her or pestering her. Sometimes, they’d just sit quietly, staring off into nowhere together.

“Race you to the branch,” she said, her long legs already taking off, her baggy walking shorts flying out around her knees.

Dillon was right on her heels. Just like always.

The branch was a shallow stream of clear, cool water that ran through a pine-shaded forest toward the back of the estate. The path to get there took them through the rows and rows of cotton just beginning to bud white on ruffly green vines.

“Eli and his cotton,” Dillon said, the note of resentment in his voice echoing through the trees. “Our ancestors raised cotton on this land, but we quit growing it years ago. They say cotton’s making a comeback, though. A good moneymaker, I reckon. And Eli sure likes his money.”

“Is that so wrong?” Isabel questioned as she settled down on the same moss-covered bank she’d sat on as a child. “I mean, do you resent your family’s wealth?”

Dillon snorted, then picked up a rock. With a gentle thud, he skipped it across the water, then plopped down beside her. “No, I don’t resent my family’s wealth. Thanks to my mother, I certainly spent my share of it before I settled down. It’s just that Eli puts money and prominence before anything else.”

“And you don’t?”

“Not anymore.”

Isabel glanced down at him, her heart skipping like the rock he’d thrown earlier. He looked so at home, lying there on a soft bed of pine straw in his faded jeans and Atlanta Braves T-shirt. She hadn’t realized until this very moment how much she’d missed Dillon.

And he chose that very moment to look over at her, his eyes meeting hers in a knowing gaze that only reminded her of his kiss, his touch, his gentleness.

“You’re pretty, Issy,” he said, his voice as low and gravelly as the streambed.

To hide her discomfort, she said, “Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I am surprised,” he admitted, his gaze moving over her face. “I don’t remember you being so attractive.”

No, he didn’t remember much about her, Isabel thought. Even though he’d seen her every day of their growing up years, Dillon had taken her existence for granted. To him, she’d always be the poor kid next door. A fixture in his mind, just like his precious wildflower patch. Well, the wildflowers were the same. But she wasn’t.

She looked away, out over the flowing water. “I don’t remember me being so attractive, either. I was all legs and teeth.”

“Not anymore,” he said as he lifted up on his elbows. “I mean, you’ve still got legs, that’s for sure, and when you smile—well, you have a pretty smile.”

“Thank you, I think,” she replied, her words lifting out over the breeze. “I guess the braces paid off after all.” She took a long breath to retain some of her dignity. If she looked at him again—

“I like your lips, too.”

That did it. “Dillon,” she said, jumping up to move away, “are you deliberately flirting with me?”

He rolled over on his stomach, a lazy grin stretching across his swarthy face. “Well, of course. And if you come back over here, I intend to kiss you again.”

She moved farther away. “No. We can’t do this, Dillon.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not.”

He sat up then, brushing his hands together to scatter the pine needles he’d collected. “No, I honestly don’t know why not. We’re adults now, Issy. And no one can tell us what we can and can’t do.”

Isabel walked to the water’s edge, then looked down at the sparkling stream where a school of tiny minnows danced in perfect symmetry. “But…we’re still us, Dillon. I’m still the poor farm girl, and you’re still the rich second son.”

He came up in one fluid movement, then pulled her around to face him. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t still feel that way.”

She looked up at him, wanting to touch him. But she didn’t. “I do. Because it will never change. I wasn’t ever good enough for you. And I never will be good enough for you.”

Dillon’s expression changed from perplexed to resolved. “I’m sorry, Issy. I never realized you wanted to be good enough for me. You see, I always thought it was the other way around.”

“What do you mean?”

He came closer then, his eyes boring into her. “I always figured you didn’t think I was worth your trouble. I never thought I was worthy of anybody’s consideration around here.”

Touched by his admission, Isabel reached a hand up to his face. “You never bothered to find out about me, Dillon. You never took the time to consider me.”

Dillon stared down at her, seeing the hurt mixed with pride in her misty green eyes. If she only knew….

He placed his hand over hers, then brought their joined hands down between them. “Is that why you’re fighting me now? You think I’m just playing with you, the same way I played with you when we were kids?”

“Well, aren’t you?”

Dillon dropped her hand, then turned to stalk a few feet away, the honesty of touching her too much to bear just yet. Playing it cool, he chuckled. “Yeah, maybe I am, at that. Maybe I’m just bored and restless and, maybe I don’t really want to be here.” Shrugging, he said over his shoulder, “Yep, you sure got me all figured out.”

Hearing the resentment, the anger, in his words only made her more determined to keep things clear between them. “I’m just being honest, Dillon. I didn’t want to come back here, either. But I promised Grammy and Susan.”

“That was noble of you.”

Stomping over to him, her hands jammed into the deep pockets of her shorts, she said, “Look, I’m here for the same reasons you are. We’re both here out of a sense of duty and obligation.”

“Speak for yourself. As for me, I just wanted to come home—just for a little while.”

Something, maybe that slight inflection in his voice that made him seem so vulnerable and lonely, brought her head up and made her want to understand him. “Because your mother asked you to, right?”

“Right. But, hey, everybody knows Dillon Murdock doesn’t have a sense of obligation or honor. And I certainly don’t know what duty means, now do I? I’m just bad ol’ Dillon, enticing a pretty girl to the woods like the big bad wolf.”

She’d wounded him. Somehow, she’d cracked that uncaring, cynical veneer. And what she saw there in the shimmering depths of his eyes tore her heart apart. “Dillon?”

He looked up just in time to see the sorrow in her eyes. “Don’t, Isabel. Don’t feel sorry for me. I don’t want your pity.”

“Dillon.”

He lifted a hand to stop her from coming to him. “No, you’re right, Isabel. This is a bad idea—you and me. You’re right to have doubts about me.” With that, he shrugged again, then gave her a bitter smile. “I guess I was just lonesome. I guess I just thought we could talk.”

Completely confused, she said, “Then why did you tell me you wanted to kiss me again?”

“Just flirting,” he said, his face blank, his tone indifferent. “Won’t happen again.”

“Okay,” she said as she hurried to catch up with him. Behind them, the sun was snuggling up against the tree line. Another beautiful summer sunset. Isabel wished she had her camera. She also wished Dillon didn’t walk so fast. “Listen, if you want to talk, that’s fine—”

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