“How long do you plan to stay today, Murdock?”

“Another hour or so. Then I have to get to work. I have a town to protect.”

“I know I feel better knowing you’ve left my house and are out in the community securing our safety.”

Wade chuckled and turned back to fixing the window.

Meg smiled as she went into the house. The words she’d just spoken were actually the exact opposite of the way she was beginning to feel about Wade. She’d missed seeing his patrol car in the drive yesterday. And she’d been relieved to find the car by the barn today. As much as she might try to fight it, she was starting to like the man, a dangerous and unwise reaction to a person who was trying to sabotage her dreams for the future. But, darn it, he was just easy to like.

“Keep your mind on your goal, Meggie,” she said to herself. “Find the deed and protect your rightful ownership of this house. Remember, Wade Murdock has a good job and a secure future. He'll survive the disappointment.”

Dear Reader,

This book is about special places. We all have at least one. It could be a place we’ve visited all our lives or one we’ve yet to discover, but it’s out there waiting for us to stumble upon its magic. My special place is a rambling old farmhouse in western Kentucky where my aunt and uncle lived and where I spent some of the happiest moments of my life.

It’s gone now, this house, passed to other hands, to hearts that I hope will hold it as closely as I still do. In my mind I will always remember the plank wood floors, the old wooden rockers, the upright piano and every Christmas decoration that turned this home into a wonderland each December.

In these pages you will read about such a house and two very different, wounded people who both long to cherish it forever. But only one of them can have it. I hope you enjoy this journey of a man and woman who find their heart's desire, and perhaps a miracle or two, within the walls of a very special place.

I love to hear from readers. Please visit my Web site, www.cynthiathomason.com, or e-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com. My address is P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, Florida 33355.

Sincerely,

Cynthia Thomason

Your House or Mine?
Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my best “Buddy,”

my husband and cherished traveling companion

for the past twenty-six years. Thanks, Walter, for paying

my admission to all those tours of old houses

and never once complaining.

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

MEG HAMILTON REACHED for the telephone with one hand and grabbed a pen and paper with the other. She flinched at the recurring pain in her neck as she once again held the receiver to her ear with her shoulder and said, “Colonial Auction House. Meg speaking.”

She tried to be patient with the caller. “Mrs. Winkler, as I told you yesterday, you don’t have to call every afternoon to confirm. You have an appointment for tomorrow. Our buyer will be at your home just as I explained to you a week ago when you first contacted us.”

She nodded her head several times in tempo with the nervous woman’s plaintive voice. “Yes, I promise. My brother Jerry will be coming with a truck and a helper. They’ll pick up anything you want to consign to the auction.” She blew out a long breath as the caller once again repeated what Meg had just said. “Yes, that’s right. Until tomorrow then. Goodbye, Mrs. Winkler.”

Meg leaned forward to settle the phone into its cradle. Then she put her elbows on the desk and massaged her temples. It was four o’clock, the end of an especially grueling day. Time to pick up her son at the neighbor’s house and go home, if only Jerry would get back from his last call of the day. She was imagining a tall glass of iced tea and her favorite chair when she heard the repetitious beep of the auction house truck as it backed up to the loading door. “Thank goodness.”

Moments later Jerry poked his smiling face inside the entrance of their building. “Hi, sis, has it been busy around here?”

Meg could only stare at him. It really was a rhetorical question because he darned well knew the answer. She often thought Jerry got the best of the deal in their business partnership, just as he’d gotten off easy growing up as her kid brother. He drove around in the truck all day making house calls and picking up merchandise for their weekly auctions. She was stuck in the building for eight hours answering the phone, handling drop-in customers, and inputting auction debits and credits on a computer spreadsheet, not to mention acting as the auctioneer.

She didn’t even try to hide her fatigue and frustration when she said, “If I have to answer that phone one more time…”

Of course it rang.

“Get that, will you, Meggie?” Jerry said. “I want to bring something from the truck to show you.”

She groaned once, picked up the phone, and immediately switched to her professional voice. She politely explained to the caller that a ten-year-old sofa which had coexisted with eight cats probably would not sell at Colonial Auction. She’d just ended the call when Jerry clanked and rattled back into the building.

Meg gaped at the rough-hewn piece of lumber in his right hand. It was about ten inches in diameter and nearly as long as he was tall. In his left hand he held an assortment of chains and hooks and other metal fittings she couldn’t identify.

Jerry dragged the contraption to the desk and stood grinning down at her. “Isn’t it great?”

“It might have been once,” she admitted. “But now, maybe a hundred years later, I haven’t the faintest idea what it is.”

“You’re wrong about the age. It’s more than a hundred years old.” Jerry stood the end of his worn log on the office carpet and gave the antique a look of reverence. “This probably went west with the pioneers a hundred and fifty years ago.”

Jerry imagined potential heirlooms in every cast-off piece of flotsam sticking out of a garbage can. And he was usually wrong. Meg liked old things too, pretty ones whose value could be verified in a collector’s catalogue.

She scrunched up her nose at the worm-eaten log. “You still haven’t told me its use,” she said. “If, indeed it has, or had one.”

“It’s a doubletree,” he announced, draping the chains over his shoulder and running his palm halfway down the length of the lumber. “See how it’s arched in two places…” He jerked his hand away and pulled a splinter out of his little finger with his teeth.

Meg automatically opened a drawer to get the antiseptic ointment and tin of bandages she always kept handy.

“That’s so the farmer or wagon driver could fit it over the necks of his team of oxen,” Jerry explained. “Then, of course the chains and hooks enabled him to attach the yoke to the tongue of the wagon.” He rattled the chains still dangling from his shoulder. “Amazing, isn’t it? This thing’s as good as new.”

Meg handed him a bandage and pointed to the nearest window. “Truly amazing, Jerry. Just this afternoon I was wondering how we were going to bring in our oxen from the south forty along Colonial Boulevard in downtown Orlando. Looks like that problem’s solved.”

He scowled at her. “Go ahead and make fun, but this is a real antique. And the guy I bought it from…”

The hackles stood up on Meg’s neck. “You actually paid money for this?”

“For something this rare? Of course. A hundred and twenty-five bucks—a bargain.”

Somehow Meg managed to keep the scream in her head from erupting into what her brother would call another hissy fit. She’d long ago accepted that she was the sensible, mature one, and Jerry, five years her junior, was the charming, unpredictable one—the one she’d helped out of too many jams to remember. Now he was the one who was adored by everybody who came to the auction while she was the one they mostly tolerated. But never was this personality difference more difficult to accept than when money was concerned.

She drummed her fingers on the desktop and spoke calmly. “Jerry, do you remember me telling you this morning that I didn’t know how we were going to pay next month’s rent? Much less the Yellow Pages ad, workman’s comp insurance and a host of other bills.”

“Sure I remember, but I think the doubletree will bring at least three hundred at the next auction.”

Suddenly Meg had a splitting headache. She could practically feel the veins tightening behind her eyes. And worse, the phone rang for the hundredth time. She tried but couldn’t find her professional voice. “Colonial Auction,” she half barked into the phone.

The voice that responded was competent and controlled. “Is this Margaret Hamilton?”

“Yes.”

“This is Nadine Harkwell, administrator of the Shady Grove Convalescent Center in Mount Esther, Florida.”

“Convalescent Center?” Meg repeated. “Is this about my aunt?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

Meg’s stomach plummeted. Her great-aunt Amelia was elderly, ninety-two on her last birthday. And while her mortality was something everyone in the family would have to face, Meg had never wanted to think about it. Aunt Amelia was a treasure. And she’d seemed in good health and great spirits when she’d traveled by bus to Orlando to spend Christmas with the family. That had only been six months ago.

“What’s wrong with my aunt?” she asked. “She’s not…?”

“No, Ms. Hamilton,” Nadine Harkwell said. “Amelia hasn’t passed away. But she fell in her home on Sunday. Broke her hip and bruised some ribs.”

She fell four days ago? “Why didn’t anyone call me before this?” Meg asked.

“Amelia didn’t want us to call until now. I should tell you, though, that she’s confused and disoriented. It’s no secret to those of us in town,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Mrs. Ashford has been suffering from dementia that has worsened considerably in the last few months. I’m afraid that because of this fall, she’ll never be herself again.”

Meg talked to her aunt at least every other week. She hadn’t noticed the woman’s mental capacity slipping. But maybe she should have been listening more closely. “What can I do?” she asked. “Can I talk to her?”

“That wouldn’t be practical. Amelia probably wouldn’t even recognize your voice. But in one of her lucid moments today she asked for you. She wants you to come to Mount Esther. Something about settling her affairs. I can give you more details when you arrive assuming you are able to come.”

“Of course I’ll come. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Something near panic was etched on Jerry’s features. Tomorrow? he mouthed, having heard only her part of the conversation. You can’t go tomorrow.

Meg silenced him with a warning look. Leaving the auction in Jerry’s hands was just one of the problems she would have to address before leaving for Mount Esther. A minor one really when compared to the welfare of her ten-year-old son who still had a week left in the school year before he’d be out for the summer. What was she going to do about Spencer? Still, she reconfirmed the plans with Nadine. “Tell Aunt Amelia I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. And tell her I love her.”

Meg hadn’t even hung up the phone when Jerry asked in a voice high-pitched with tension, “You’re leaving? How long will you be gone? A day? Two?”

The last thing Meg needed right now was her brother’s attempt to make her feel guilty. He would just have to manage the auction without her.

“How nice of you to ask about our aunt, Jerry,” she said, using sarcasm to switch the burden of guilt to him. “She fell in her house, suffered a broken hip and other injuries, and isn’t coping well mentally.” She stood up and removed her purse from the desk drawer. “I’ll be sure and tell her you send your regards.”

“Oh, fine. I guess it makes you feel better to make me look like the bad guy. I’m not the one leaving town. And of course I care about the old girl, but it’s no secret that you were always her favorite.”

Meg couldn’t argue. Her unflagging sense of responsibility had earned her the title of “favorite” with most of their extended family. Jerry was the one who made everybody laugh. Meg was the one they depended upon.

She walked out of the office and into the section of the auction house where the customers sat. “I have to go home and pack. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Hopefully I’ll just miss the Saturday auction, but I’ll call tomorrow and give you an update. Aunt Amelia wants me to handle her affairs, but at this point I don’t know exactly what that means or if I can accomplish anything with the weekend coming up.”

“You can’t stay away too long,” Jerry pointed out. “Spencer’s got school, doesn’t he?”

Meg had already come up with a plan for her son. “I’m not taking him. I’ll leave him with Mom.”

Jerry shook his head. “Not unless you think your ten-year-old kid wants to jump on board a geriatric Greyhound bound for Biloxi for a week of playing the slots.” He smiled. “Mom’s Golden-Agers are on the move again, this time with pockets full of quarters.”

Meg dropped into the nearest chair. “Darn. I forgot.”

“No problem. I’ll keep the sprout.”

Meg gasped. “You?”

Jerry pretended to be offended, maybe actually was a little. “Meg, we’re talking about my favorite nephew here. You know I’ll take good care of him. Besides, I am an adult.”

“I’m not sure twenty-seven going on fourteen qualifies.” Meg regretted her words the moment they’d slipped out of her mouth. How could Jerry ever live up to her expectations if she didn’t expect more from him? “Anyway,” she said, trying to cover her blunder, “I’m counting on you to run the business.”

His previous doubts about taking charge seemed to have faded, and he gave her a smug look. “You manage the whiz kid and the auction, so why shouldn’t I? I’ll get a couple of my friends to help out temporarily. Look, sis, do you have any other ideas?” Jerry added when she hesitated to trust him with her son. “I’ve got one big advantage over anyone else you might think of to babysit. I’m here, and I’m offering.”

It was a convincing argument. And on short notice, Meg had no other choice. She sighed. “Okay, but you’ll stay at my house, so Spence has all his stuff and he’s near the school. And you’ll drive him there every morning by 7:45 and pick him up at the neighbor’s every afternoon?”

Jerry nodded. “Yes, yes, and yes. I’ll be there in the morning. Don’t worry. My nephew is a chip off the old Hamilton block. He idolizes me.”

“That’s what worries me. But thanks, Jerry. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem.”

She headed for the door but stopped before going outside. “One more thing. No parties. And no poker games or gambling of any kind in the house.”

Jerry saluted. “Right. I’ll make sure the kid knows he’d better not negatively influence me.”

Despite the rough day and the bad news from Mount Esther, Meg was smiling when she got in her car.

AT 7:30 THE NEXT MORNING Meg double checked Spencer’s backpack to make certain he had the supplies he would need for the day. Once satisfied that the pack was in order, she took a frozen juice box from the refrigerator and tried to stuff it into his nylon lunch sack.

Her son gave her a look that combined exasperation with sympathy. “Mom, will you relax? You already put juice in there.”

She looked down and frowned. A brightly colored box was nestled between a baloney sandwich and a bag of chips. “So I did.” She took the extra one out and tossed it back into the case of twenty-three others she’d bought the night before at the wholesale club. Then she hurried to her front window and scanned the street with mounting panic. “Where is Uncle Jerry?”

“Right here,” her brother said two seconds after the back door slammed. He entered the living room and announced, “My car’s in the driveway. I must have missed your radar by coming in fast and low.” He ruffled Spencer’s hair. “Ready to go, kid?”

Spencer slipped his backpack over his shoulders. “Yep, I’m ready.”

Meg wrapped her son in a huge hug. They’d never been apart for more than a day or two since Spence had been born. There hadn’t even been a problem when Meg divorced Spencer’s father two years ago. Dave had walked out without a backward glance and without asking for visitation rights. It was as if Dave Groller had never been married and didn’t have a son.

In the beginning, when Spence was born, Dave seemed to enjoy being a father. At least he’d soaked up the attention he got whenever he took their son to the park or wheeled him in the stroller. But that was when Dave had enjoyed being a husband, too. When Spence had grown older, more demanding perhaps, he’d tried every childish trick he could think of to get his father’s attention. And then Dave left, and Spence had to live with the fact that his father didn’t care about him.

Meg held her son’s face between her hands and studied his features. Unlike Meg, whose complexion was coppery and whose hair had the deep auburn highlights of her mother’s side, Spencer had inherited the handsome Hamilton traits of his grandfather and his Uncle Jerry—fair, lightly freckled skin, emerald-green eyes, and thick, wheat-colored hair. In appearance, he was a Hamilton through and through, which is one of the reasons Meg reverted to her maiden name when the divorce from Dave was final.

But contrary to his genetic makeup, Spencer had become a bookish sort of boy since his father left them. His beautiful eyes peered through the unbreakable lenses of heavy-duty glasses. And he rarely played outside, even in the near-idyllic sunshine of central Florida. He much preferred his room with its ever-expanding shelves of books and computer games.

“I’ll call you every day,” she said, at last prying her hands away from his cheeks. “And I’ll have my cell phone on all the time so you can reach me.”

“Okay.”

“You mind your Uncle Jerry.”

“I will.”

Jerry put his hand on her shoulder in a comforting gesture while glancing at his watch. “It’s seven forty-five, sis. I’m trying to keep to the schedule you set up, but you’re holding us back.”

“I’ll be fine, Mom, don’t worry,” Spencer said.

“I know you will. Go on now.”

Meg stood at the door until Jerry backed his car out of the drive. Then she shook off an uncomfortable feeling of emptiness and tried to concentrate on the day ahead. She knew she could trust Jerry to take care of Spencer. He truly loved her son. But the auction—that was another story. She could only pray she had a business to come back to.

She went into her room to retrieve her suitcase. She had almost a five-hour drive ahead of her, and even though every mile was taking her away from Spence, a familiar feeling of anticipation flowed through her now that she was only minutes away from leaving. After a nearly four-year absence, she was going back to Mount Esther, and in a way, it was like going home.

AT ONE O’CLOCK Friday afternoon, Meg exited Interstate 75 onto a two-lane county road about fifteen miles south of the Georgia border. The road twisted and dipped in a westwardly direction over rolling hills. After twenty minutes she had her first glimpse of the Suwannee River through a thickly wooded area of oak and mulberry trees.

She turned off her car air conditioner and rolled down the window. This far north, the humid June heat of Orlando was gone, replaced by a moist cool breeze that rustled the spring blossoms of purple and white trilliums along the side of the road. The rich, pungent smell of damp earth, and the fragrant scent of wildflowers teased the air outside the window.

She rounded a curve that led into an expanse of flat land between the hills and immediately spotted the sign announcing her arrival in Mount Esther. Population 1412, it read. She smiled when she remembered that a member of the town council was appointed every year to change the figure with each birth and death in the close-knit community.

At the traffic light in the center of Mount Esther’s business district, she turned right onto a narrow road that led across a single-lane wooden bridge spanning one of the tributaries to the Suwannee. After a mile she reached the turnoff to Aunt Amelia’s gracious old Victorian home—the home that Amelia had deeded to Meg several years before.

INTENDING TO DROP off her belongings before heading to Shady Grove, Meg drove up the lane to the house. She frowned as she noticed the large potholes in the sparse gravel. This lack of attention to upkeep wasn’t like Amelia. Each spring she ordered truckloads of gravel for the drive so it was neat and resistant to flooding during the rainy season. It also looked as though the trees hadn’t been trimmed in ages. The magnificent live oaks dripped with spongy gray moss that bristled against Meg’s windshield and cloaked the road in deep shadows.

But soon she cleared the three-hundred-yard drive and had her first look at the house. The green and cream colors she remembered seemed duller now, faded in the harsh Florida sun, but the structure, with its turret and peaks and wraparound porch was still a remarkable example of Queen Anne Victorian. Meg might have simply stopped for a moment and enjoyed the welcome sight had it not been for one detail that was completely out of place.

A police car was parked midway between the house and the barn.

Her heart pounded. Meg considered that she should approach the parked car with caution. After all, if a crime were being committed at this moment, she shouldn’t interfere with police procedures. And she certainly didn’t want to become a victim herself. But concern for her aunt’s home, and basic burning curiosity, got the best of her. She accelerated and pulled alongside the police car.

Mount Esther Sheriff’s Department was printed on the driver’s door panel. Meg shifted her car into park and peered out the windows to scan the backyard and trail to the barn. Seeing no one, she opened her door and stepped onto the path.

And then she spied a tall man pushing a wheelbarrow out of the barn. There was nothing in his appearance or demeanor to indicate that he was a law enforcement officer. He was dressed in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a Yankees baseball cap. He turned the wheelbarrow to guide it around the side of the building.

Realizing that for the moment at least she was the only other person witnessing this activity, Meg hoped she’d catch the attention of the police officer who must be elsewhere on the property. This was her aunt’s home—she wasn’t about to stand by and let someone take something from the barn.

“Hey, you there. Stop!”

Amazingly the man did what she said. He set down the back supports of the wheelbarrow. Then he stared across the open space at her and said, “Okay.”

Still looking around for the police, Meg marched up to him. He truly didn’t look all that threatening up close though he stood over six feet. He appeared strong but with a lean, solid strength defined by hard work rather than the sculpted tone of weight training. He took a kerchief from his back pocket, removed his cap and wiped his brow. After stuffing the cloth back into his jeans, he said, “Do you want something?”

Meg put her hands on her hips and tried to make the most of her five feet five inches. “What are you doing?”

He gave her a look that might have been more appropriate if he were indulging a child’s question. “Pushing this wheelbarrow around to the back of the property.”

She took a step closer. “What’s in there?”

His mouth lifted at one corner in a cocky sort of smile. “You don’t want to know, ma’am.”

“I asked you, didn’t I?” She walked near enough to have a look for herself. A healthy whiff of foul air curled up from clumps of damp straw. She wrinkled her nose and hopped back.

The man snickered. “Satisfied? It’s good old-fashioned horse manure. I figure it’ll be a lot more welcome down by the Suwannee than up here by the house. The wild ferns by the river bank seem to like it.”

“Where did you get it?” she asked.

He merely raised his eyebrows while his smile widened.

“You know what I mean,” she amended. “There hasn’t been a horse here in twenty years.”

“There is now.”

Meg glanced over her shoulder. No one else had appeared, prompting her to assume that she and this man were the only people around. But she was no longer worried. Obviously this man wasn’t stealing from the barn. He was cleaning it. And somehow her Aunt Amelia had neglected to tell her that a horse had taken up residence in Uncle Stewie’s old stable.

She folded her arms over her chest and said, “Who are you?”

He held out his hand, glanced down at the dirt, or whatever, that had stuck to his palm and dropped it to his side. “My name’s Wade Murdock. I’m the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther. Been here five months now.”

That explained the patrol car. “And whose horse is in the barn?” she asked.

“My daughter’s. I promised her a horse when we left Brooklyn.”

And that explained the man’s distinctive northern accent. “Mrs. Ashford allows you to keep the horse in her barn?”

“We worked out a deal,” he said and let his gaze wander over the property from where they stood to the back of the house. “For all practical purposes it’s my barn anyway. I bought this place, lock, stock and barrel from Mrs. Ashford.”

CHAPTER TWO

DEPUTY MURDOCK frowned with concern. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

No, she wasn’t all right. He’d just aimed verbal darts at the reality she’d always depended upon. She wanted him to take them back. I just bought this place lock, stock and barrel, he’d said. That couldn’t be.

He held out his hand, cautiously, as if he might have to grab onto her. Apparently she looked as shaken as she felt. “Stay there,” he ordered. “Don’t move.”

For some reason she obeyed. Maybe she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up if she tried to move. Or maybe she stood still because he was a cop. He stepped inside the barn and returned with a galvanized washtub which he upended next to her. “Sit down.”

She didn’t want to sit, but he obviously thought she should.

He slapped at his pockets, searching for something. “Do you need medical attention? Where’s my damn cell phone?”

As if a 911 call would provide an antidote for what he’d just said. “No, I don’t need medical attention,” she assured him. “I need answers. You can’t have bought this property.”

He seemed to relax once she started talking. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not for sale. Amelia Ashford would never sell this house to anyone.”

He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I’m sorry, but she did. She sold it to me six weeks ago.”

Six weeks ago? Impossible. Meg had spoken to her aunt at least twice during that time frame, and Amelia never mentioned anything about it. She snorted her disbelief and sat on the washtub. This was ridiculous. Ashford House had been promised to her when Amelia prepared a Quit Claim Deed four years ago giving the property to Meg.

She surveyed the house and acres that stretched from the out buildings through groves of stately trees to the river. This land, that beautiful, curious, gingerbread house was her safety net, her last resort, the refuge for her and Spencer if all else failed.

Meg stared at Deputy Wade Murdock, a newcomer to Mount Esther, a man who couldn’t possibly understand what Ashford House meant to her. She wanted to believe he was lying to her. Unfortunately he didn’t look like the sort who would make up this story. He had a strong, proud face, centered by a nose with a subtle crookedness to it, as if he’d defended his principles on more than one occasion. His hair was the deep brown color of a walnut, slightly unkempt and just long enough to be interesting—the outward symbol of a man who avoided fussiness.

And he wasn’t likely a con artist or a crook. After all, he was the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther. Surely the man the town appointed to defend the law wouldn’t be the one to break it. But there had to be a logical explanation for what he believed to be true and what Meg knew to be fact.

Wade leveled a look at her that was every bit as intense as the one she gave him. “Look,” he said, “there’s obviously some mix-up here. Why don’t we try to get to the bottom of this. Tell me your name and your connection to this property.”

Once she told him who she was, he would have to accept that there had been a terrible mistake and they could work to correct it.

“My name is Meg Hamilton,” she said. “I live in Orlando….”

He nodded. “You’re the niece, the one whose husband—”

“Yes, I’m her niece,” she announced, cutting him off. She was acutely aware that while Aunt Amelia may not have told Meg all the details of her life the last few times they’d talked, she’d obviously been confiding personal information to this stranger. Did he also know that Dave had left her and Spence without so much as a forwarding address?

“I was called here yesterday,” she continued, “because my aunt fell in her home a few days ago and is convalescing at Shady Grove.”

“That makes sense,” he said.

“She asked me to come to Mount Esther to help sort out some things.”

“So let me get this straight,” he said. “You didn’t know that your aunt sold her house?”

Meg stood up and faced him squarely. “Frankly, I’m not at all convinced there has been a sale.”

“Do you think I’m imagining the contract that she and I both signed and which is right now sitting in my desk drawer?”

“No, I’m not suggesting that you are making up a contract. Clearly something was signed, something that has you believing you own this house. I would like to see the document for myself. Then maybe I can sort this out.”

“I’d be happy to show you my contract,” he said. “Although your aunt has a copy, and so does Betty Lamb, the real estate agent who handled the transaction. You might feel more comfortable dealing with one of those ladies instead of me.”

“I’ll certainly ask my aunt,” she said. “As soon as I take my suitcase into the house.” She half expected him to contest her right to stay here. To his credit, he didn’t. Once she’d moved her things in, she would go to Shady Grove and evaluate her aunt’s medical condition. And if Amelia were in good spirits, Meg would question her about this supposed contract.

Wade pointed to the rear of the house. “Go in the back way,” he said. “I left the door unlocked.”

“You have a key?” An alarming thought occurred to her. “You’re not living here, are you?”

He smiled. “No, not yet. But I have access to the property. With your aunt’s permission, of course.” He swatted his ball cap against his thigh, settled it back on his head, and took a few steps toward the wheelbarrow as if he were dismissing her. “Oh, by the way, don’t be alarmed by what you see in there. The place may not look exactly as you remember it. Your aunt’s been a busy lady the last few weeks.”

She matched his smug expression with her most skeptical one. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see when you get inside.” He grasped the handles of the wheelbarrow, but before he turned the corner of the barn, he called back over his shoulder. “Make yourself at home, Meg.” And then he smiled. “While you’re here I promise to knock before coming in.”

BEFORE MEG COULD utter an appropriate comeback, Wade had turned the corner with his Suwannee riverbank fertilizer. Consequently he probably didn’t hear when she slammed her car door after retrieving her suitcase and stomped along the old cement patio stones that led to the back door. Maybe Deputy Murdock didn’t appreciate the full effect of her frustration, but it made Meg feel better to release it.

His attitude was unnerving. He almost acted as if this dilemma were a laughing matter and that his claim to Ashford House was real. Of course she supposed he believed it was. Meg lugged her bag up three porch steps and twisted the doorknob which was, indeed, unlocked. She’d set Deputy Murdock straight soon enough. Meg knew Ashford House had been deeded to her. She’d seen a copy of the Quit Claim document before it was filed with the attorney. Her name was on it.

“This house guards our souls, Margaret,” Aunt Amelia had told her one warm, fragrant night many years ago. “We two are the only ones who feel its pulse and hear it breathe. Not even your Uncle Stewie understands these old walls like you and I do. We are the destiny of Ashford House.”

Through the years Meg had explored every nook and cranny of the mansion. She’d daydreamed at the windows of all six bedrooms. She knew about the secret panels in the library, the removable top to the newel post at the base of the front stairway where Uncle Stewie always hid a bag of silver dollars which he passed out to Meg and Jerry when they visited.

She stepped across the threshold into the kitchen and let out a breath. A sense of overwhelming relief washed over her. This was Hattie May’s kitchen, just as Meg remembered it with its six-burner stove, mammoth refrigerator, and ten-foot pine scrub table. She could almost picture Hattie May washing vegetables at one of the giant sinks as she spun tales about her ancestors who had been brought to America as slaves.

Don’t be alarmed, the deputy had said. The place may not look as you remember it. What nonsense, Meg thought. As far as she could tell nothing had changed.

Then she noticed that the pantry door was ajar. Several boxes protruded from the opening, making it impossible to close. Certainly the shelves were not stocked with food as they once used to be. Hattie May passed away a few years after Uncle Stewie’s death, and Aunt Amelia, with hired help only a few hours a day, prepared most of her own simple meals herself.

Meg crossed to the door, pulled it open the rest of the way and stood face-to-face with a solid wall of cardboard cartons. “What is all this?” she said to the empty room. The boxes she could see had been opened and resealed. She read a few of the shipping labels and discovered with a feeling of relief that each carton had been shipped to Amelia Ashford. At least the deputy hadn’t moved his personal possessions into her house! The postmarks were from the past two months. The return addresses were various companies located throughout the United States.

If this collection of cartons was what the deputy meant by alarming, then perhaps he had a point. Determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, Meg went out the back door and stood on the service porch. “Deputy,” she shouted. “Deputy Murdock!”

He came around the barn, pushing the wheelbarrow with ease since it had delivered its cargo. “What is it?” he called to her.

“These boxes. What do you know about them?”

Leaving the cart by the barn door, he came halfway to the house. “They’re all Mrs. Ashford’s,” he said.

“I can see that, but what’s inside them?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Amelia’s been ordering things. I bring her mail up every day, and she gets stacks of catalogues. Since she’s been at Shady Grove I’ve left an accumulation on the wicker table on the front porch. If you look through the mail, I think you might get some answers.”

Meg shook her head. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “She’s filled up the pantry.”

Deputy Murdock laughed. “The pantry? Haven’t you been in the dining room?”

“No.”

He let out a long whistle. “I hope you aren’t planning any dinner parties while you’re here.”

She frowned at him. “Of course not. You’re just full of riddles and surprises, aren’t you, Deputy?”

“No, ma’am. I deal in facts, and you’re about to face some of them right now.”

Meg returned to the kitchen and walked cautiously to the dining room. When she pressed on the hinged door that normally provided easy access between the rooms, she discovered that it allowed only enough room for one person to walk through. And when she did, she couldn’t believe what she saw. Piled on the floor, the table, all ten Chippendale chairs were more boxes. Dozens and dozens of them. All sizes and shapes.

She sidestepped down a narrow path that wound between two columns of cartons until she was in the middle of the room where her aunt had once hosted friends and family and which now resembled a warehouse. She scanned a wall of corrugated cardboard while she ran her hands along the dusty exteriors of the boxes. Then, she absently noted Wade Murdock’s voice coming from the doorway to the kitchen. “It’s a little overwhelming, I guess. I suppose eventually we’ll have to figure out what to do with all this stuff.”

WADE FOLLOWED HER through the dining room to the formal parlor in the front of the house. She hadn’t asked him to. In fact, she probably wasn’t even aware that he was so close. But it was the least he could do, stand guard over her while she faced the evidence of her aunt’s eccentricity. She peered warily around the door frame into the parlor as if she expected to see additional boxes and was steeling herself to deal with even more chaos. She released a long sigh when she saw a mere half-dozen cartons sitting on the desk and an end table. They were the ones he’d carried in today. As long as Meg didn’t look too closely at the details of the parlor that had fallen into disrepair, she would be comforted to find this room at least familiar.

“As far as I know,” he said, “all the boxes are confined to these downstairs rooms. Although I haven’t been on the upper floors since I first saw the house and made an offer on it.”

Startled at the sound of his voice, she spun around and laid her hand across her chest as if she were sending a message to her heart to keep beating. Then she stared at him with wide, vivid blue eyes and shook her head. “How long has it been like this?”

“Roughly since Mrs. Ashford came into some money.”

Her eyes rounded. “What do you mean?”

He had to smile, since he knew the source of the unexpected income. He knew, too, as most everyone in Mount Esther did, that Amelia Ashford had suffered financial difficulties recently. Like many elderly folks, she’d watched her savings dwindle. “It was my money,” he said. “I gave her a deposit on the property when we signed the contract.”

Meg’s eyebrows arched with the unspoken question.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” he told her.

Her gaze darted to the entrance to the dining room and she groaned. “You don’t think…? All that money?” She read the label on a long, narrow box. “This is from a company called Star Search.” She tore the plastic envelope from the top, removed an invoice and read the particulars. As if expecting Wade to validate what she read, she held the paper out to him. “There’s a telescope inside. And it cost five hundred and forty dollars.”

He studied the invoice, adding that Mrs. Ashford had paid with her bank debit card. “For that amount of money, it’s no doubt a fine instrument.”

Meg let out a bark of laughter. “And this one,” she said, reading the label from a box on the end table. “It’s from a toy company called Furry Friends.” She raised the box and shook it, creating a soft, rustling sound. “My aunt bought a stuffed animal?”

Wade shrugged.

“Where did you say you’d put her mail?”

He went out to the porch and returned with the stack of catalogues he’d brought from the mailbox in the last few days. He handed them to Meg, and she sank into the nearest chair and thumbed through them. When she looked up at Wade, her eyes reflected shock and confusion. “Did you know that my aunt was spending all this money?”

“I knew she was receiving deliveries, yes.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the dining room. “It’s a little hard to ignore.”

Meg’s voice rose a notch. “Why didn’t anyone stop her?”

“Stop her? For what reason? There isn’t a law in this state against spending money.”

“But didn’t you find this behavior suspicious?”

“I’ve only known your aunt a few months. I wasn’t qualified to judge her behavior. As I saw it, a ninety-two-year-old woman suddenly had extra cash and she spent it as she wanted to. I knew where the money came from since I gave it to her myself, so there was no need to investigate her windfall and what she did with it. But it might comfort you to know that the bank manager of the Mount Esther Savings and Loan did find your aunt’s habits suspicious. He strongly suggested that she quit using her credit card when the charges became abnormally high. That’s when she resorted to using her debit card.”

Wade hadn’t been inside the house in over two weeks since he’d been doing repairs on the outside and in the barn. When he’d come in today he’d been shocked at the accumulation of deliveries.

Meg stared at the glossy catalogues on her lap as if they were written in a foreign language. And then she tossed them to the floor, stood up, and looked at Wade. “Why wasn’t I called?” she asked. “You obviously know about me, Deputy. My phone number’s in my aunt’s address book. Didn’t you think I should know my aunt was spending her money so foolishly?”

The hairs on his neck bristled. Was this woman actually expecting him to defend himself further? “You think I should have called you? Mrs. Ashford told me that she has two nieces. One of them, the one she talks about a lot…” He jerked his thumb toward a photograph on the wall. It showed Meg in her high school graduation gown. “…is you I assume since I’ve seen your pictures hanging all over this house. And I know you haven’t been to see your aunt in quite a while. The other one…” He picked up a photo from a bookshelf. “…a woman who lives in Chicago, hasn’t been to Mount Esther in years.”

He leveled his sternest gaze on her. “Besides, this really wasn’t my business. I simply observed a sweet old woman spending her own money.”

Meg scowled. “So, you stood by and watched as this sweet old woman’s mind slowly but certainly failed her without doing anything about it.”

“What would you have wanted me to do? As I saw it, Amelia Ashford was having the time of her life.”

What happened next completely unnerved him. Meg’s features slowly changed from righteous anger to a sort of chilling understanding. “Wait a minute,” she said. “Perhaps you had something to gain by ignoring my aunt’s unusual behavior.”

He backed up a step. “What do you mean by that?”

She gestured to the packages. “You’ll excuse me for saying so, Deputy, but I can’t help thinking that this wild spending was a sign of my aunt’s vulnerability and an open invitation for you to con her out of this house.”

Anger flared inside him. “That’s ridiculous. I didn’t even express an interest in buying this place until after I made the deal to board my daughter’s horse. And then I only mentioned it as a sort of remote possibility. But Mrs. Ashford was more than willing to get an offer on this old place. She welcomed my interest, encouraged it. And another thing…your aunt didn’t start her spending spree until after she sold me her house. I didn’t observe her buying so much as a sewing needle before she accepted my offer. So much for your theory about me watching her odd behavior with some sort of sinister intent.”

She didn’t seem to have a reasonable counterargument, so she sank back down in the chair and stared at the cartons around her. Then she looked up at him, some of the fire back in her eyes. “You won’t get this house, Deputy,” she finally said. “You are going to find that the contract you signed with Amelia Ashford is worthless.”

“I hardly think so.”

She leaned forward, fixed him with an unblinking gaze. “You’d better be ready to accept disappointment,” she stated defiantly. “Four years ago, Amelia deeded this house to me.”

Okay, she’d finally presented an argument that could pose a problem. Had Betty Lamb overlooked something? Still, he couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious. “Then why didn’t that little detail show up when my Realtor did a title search?”

“I intend to find out,” she said. “It has always been my aunt’s wish that I would get Ashford House when she dies, and she prepared the deed to insure that would happen.”

For a moment, the cold grip of panic coiled in Wade’s gut. He’d given Amelia Ashford twenty thousand dollars, every penny he’d saved while working fifteen years for the New York City Police Department. There was no way he would stand by and watch the savings he’d scrounged from hauling in thugs and criminals squandered on the contents of boxes in an old woman’s dining room without getting what he’d paid for.

He drew a deep breath to steady his nerves and stared hard at Meg. “It appears we both have documents we need to inspect,” he said.

“That’s fine with me.” Meg stood up and walked around him toward the kitchen. “I’m going to take my suitcase upstairs now, and then I’m going to see my aunt. Perhaps she can explain what’s been going on here.”

She disappeared into the dining room and he could visualize her threading her way back through columns of boxes that reached higher than her head. And, strangely, a bout of conscience, or more accurately, pity, washed over him. Meg Hamilton was obviously going to fight for Ashford House just as vehemently as he was.

There was something about this place. Wade had felt its spirit the first time he came in the door. And his connection to the house had grown once he’d decided to buy it. Now, it was as if he’d been destined to find this old place and make it his. He sensed that after two and a half years of grieving over a senseless tragedy, he could finally put down roots again in this quirky old mansion.

CHAPTER THREE

MEG WAS THINKING about Ashford House as she drove back to Mount Esther, turned at the traffic light, and headed to the Shady Grove Convalescent Center. She also thought about Deputy Wade Murdock. While he’d been adamant about defending his claim to the property, she had to admit that he had treated her decently, especially considering that she’d accused him of taking advantage of her aunt’s confused state. Plus, the announcement that Ashford House had been deeded to her must have been a shock. Twenty thousand dollars was a lot of money to invest in property that was never going to be his.

She chewed on the end of one nail as she scanned the side of the road for a sign that identified the drive to the nursing home. She wondered about what sort of contract the deputy had and if it was truly valid. It couldn’t be. She had legally owned Ashford House for four years. A man can’t just move into town and make a deal on a piece of property that has been given to someone else.

In spite of this controversy, Meg did feel some compassion for the deputy. He was obviously a family man. He’d mentioned his daughter, and Meg supposed he had a wife and perhaps other children who depended on him. And now he would have to disappoint them when he explained about the house. This whole mess really was unfortunate, and certainly not a problem Meg had ever thought she would have to deal with. Just as she never thought she would pull into her aunt’s drive and find a good-looking lawman carting manure from the barn.

She shook her head to dispel the very clear image of Wade Murdock standing so close behind her in the parlor of Ashford House. When she considered Wade’s appearance, which she shouldn’t, since he obviously had a family, she had to admit that Murdock had a certain appealing quality, in what she imagined was a down-to-earth, working man, New York sort of way.

Shady Grove Convalescent Center, five hundred yards ahead.

Meg slowed when she saw the sign and snapped on her blinker, putting Wade Murdock out of her mind. The gracious, solidly constructed two-story structure sat amid leafy mulberry and flowering sweetbay trees. An expansive green lawn displayed a riot of pink-and-white periwinkles clustered around wrought-iron benches. Shady Grove was a picture of pastoral serenity.

Meg parked in front of the entrance and went inside. A pleasant young woman offered assistance and gave Meg directions to Amelia’s room. She walked down a long hallway with doors on either side. Each room had a window with the curtains drawn to let in the sunshine. Some patients appeared to have personal belongings in their rooms, a favorite chair, a painting, something that reminded them of home. Most of the occupants seemed confined to bed, confirming what Meg had thought when she saw a sign identifying her aunt’s wing as “continual care.”

When she neared Amelia’s room, Meg heard a distinctive voice coming from a television. “Come on down. You’re the next contestant on The Price is Right.”

She held a deep breath, stepped inside and looked at the thin, white-haired woman lying in the bed. A smile broke on her face as she recognized the ravaged but still familiar features of her beloved aunt. Amelia seemed to have aged a decade in the last few months.

Meg followed her aunt’s gaze to the TV screen where a young, dark-haired Bob Barker welcomed his latest participant. She recognized the logo of the Game Show Network in the corner of the screen and realized Amelia was watching a repeat of a previous Price is Right broadcast. She came to the side of the bed and spoke softly, “Aunt Amelia?”

Her aunt glanced briefly at her with pale gray eyes that seemed to have lost the spark of enchantment that always twinkled in their depths. She pointed at the television. “Did I order a set of those?”

Meg looked back at the screen where an announcer was describing a set of golf clubs. Taken aback by the ambiguous greeting, she said, “Are you asking me if you ordered golf equipment?” She thought of all the boxes in the dining room and knew some of them were large enough to hold a set.

“If I haven’t, I will. I’ve always wanted some.”

Realizing the futility of asking for further explanation, Meg searched her aunt’s face for some sign that the old woman had recognized her. Her eyes remained cool and remote. Disappointed, Meg gripped the railing of the bed and leaned over the thin form that barely made a ripple beneath the sheets. “Aunt Amelia, it’s me, Margaret.”

Amelia smiled, though not at Meg. “Oh, look. That woman’s got to give the price of an electric blender. I should be on that show. I just bought one, and it cost twenty-nine ninety-five.”

Bob Barker flipped a card over and revealed a price of fourteen dollars for the blender, probably an accurate amount for an appliance that was sold twenty-some years ago when the show was first taped. Amelia clasped her hands under her chin. “See, I told you.”

Meg took Amelia’s hand, thinking the gesture would divert the woman’s attention from the television. “I’m here, Aunt Amelia,” she said. “Remember me? Margaret.”

Her aunt’s attention to the program didn’t waver. “If you’re going to stay, sit down and watch.”

Meg obeyed. She sat in an upholstered armchair by the bed and remained silent through the Showcase Showdown. Once a winner was proclaimed, she asked if she could turn off the television.

“Go ahead. I don’t like The Joker’s Wild.”

Grateful for the silence, Meg tried to reach her aunt again. “It’s so good to see you, Aunt Amelia,” she said.

Amelia’s head swivelled slowly and she finally gave Meg her attention. “It’s good to see you, too. You told me your name, didn’t you? I should have written it down. I tend to forget now and then.” She leaned over and took a notepad and pencil from her nightstand. “That’s why I write things down.” She smiled at Meg. “Now, what is your name again, dear?”

Meg wiped at a tear that slid down her cheek. “My name is Margaret Hamilton. I’m your niece.”

Amelia repeated the words as she wrote Meg’s name down. She stared intensely at the page before narrowing her eyes and squinting at Meg as if she were trying to pull a distant memory from the faulty recesses of her once sharp mind.

Meg swallowed, trying to ease the burning in her throat. Of all the receptions she’d imagined during her drive to Mount Esther, she’d never expected that her aunt would have totally forgotten her existence. After all, hadn’t Nadine Harkwell said that Amelia had asked for her to come?

As she watched her aunt’s face, hoping for a spark of recognition, Meg longed for the chance to go back just a few years, back to when she and Amelia sat on the front porch swing talking for hours about things that mattered to girls, young and old. Back then, they’d been best friends, not distant strangers. But now, the blank look in her aunt’s eyes was almost too much to bear.

Meg patted Amelia’s hand and started to rise. And then a small miracle made her believe that somewhere beneath the muddled thinking, a vibrant, mischievous Amelia Ashford still thrived. Amelia turned her hand over in Meg’s and threaded their fingers together. “Margaret,” she whispered. “My darling Meggie. You’ve come. I knew you would.”

Meg laughed through a choking sob, leaned over and kissed her aunt’s cheek. “That’s right. I’m here. What do you want me to do?”

“We need to talk, Margaret. There is much that needs to be done and I’m afraid there’s too little time.” Amelia’s eyes fluttered and closed. “But I must rest now. Just a wee nap.”

She was sound asleep when the nurse came in to check her. Meg introduced herself. “Did she recognize you?” the nurse asked as she held two fingers against Amelia’s wrist and checked her pulse.

“Yes,” Meg said. “After a while at least.”

“Good. She has lucid moments, and during those times you’re all she talks about.”

“How is she, really?”

The nurse inhaled deeply, indicating her response was not going to be good news. “She’s like many elderly people. They are able to maintain their mental capacity as long as their health is strong. But once they suffer a physical injury, it’s as though their systems shut down.” The nurse jotted something on Amelia’s chart and smiled down at her patient. “But she’s a dear old soul. We’re all quite fond of her.”

“How long will she sleep?” Meg asked.

“Not long. She catnaps all day.”

The nurse was right. After a few minutes, Amelia wakened. She looked around the room and reached for the television remote on a cord dangling from the bed. Before she turned the set on, she regarded Meg with the same distant look she’d had earlier. “Hello. Did you bring my supper?”

Meg smiled. “No, but I’ll see that you get it soon.”

“Thank you.” Amelia turned on the set and tuned Meg out. Meg smoothed her palm along the wisps of snow-white hair on her aunt’s forehead, whispered good-night and left the room. Tomorrow she would try again.

NORMALLY MEG DIDN’T talk on her cell phone while she was operating a car, but when she left Shady Grove, her desire to connect with her son was greater than her code of responsible driving. Besides, she’d only passed two cars in the mile she’d traveled back toward town. She pressed the speed dial to her home phone number.

“Hey, sis,” Jerry said. “How’s it going up there?”

Meg covered her disappointment that Spencer hadn’t answered with a cheerful greeting to her brother. “Hi, Jerry. Truthfully, it’s been quite a day.”

“I’ll bet. How’s Aunt Amelia doing?”

“She’s quite frail. And not thinking all that clearly.” That was an understatement. “How’s Spence? Did you remember to pick him up at the neighbor’s?”

“Nope. Completely forgot. Good thing the kid stole a car and drove himself home.”

Meg sighed, hating herself just a little. Of course Jerry wouldn’t forget to pick up Spence. She was going to have to quit treating her brother as if he were the ten-year-old and show more confidence in him. “I’m sorry, Jerry. I never should have suggested that you might forget.”

“No, probably not, but I know you, so the assumption was expected…and forgiven.”

She heard her son’s voice in the background. “Hey, Uncle Jerry, can I have another hot dog?”

“Hot dogs?” Meg said. “You’re having hot dogs for dinner? I left a turkey meat loaf in the refrigerator.”

“No offense, Meggie, but isn’t that an oxymoron using turkey and meat together in the same sentence?”

Meg could picture her brother’s teasing grin.

“Besides, Spence and I are bonding,” he continued. “You need guy food to do that—good old-fashioned frankfurters.” Before Meg could respond, Jerry said, “Hey, kid, back off on the Easy Cheese.”

She rolled her eyes and decided it was best to adopt the philosophy that a short-term lack of nutrition probably never killed anyone.

“So you had a bad day?” Jerry said.

“Not the best. A few surprises, not the least of which was the presence of a man at the house when I got there.”

Jerry hooted. “Aunt Amelia has a boyfriend?”

“No, you idiot. This was a much younger man, the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther by the way. He’s probably not much older than I am.”

Jerry laughed again. “So you found a boyfriend? Fast work, and it’s about time. Two years is long enough to go dateless.”

“Why do I bother talking to you?”

“Because I’m the only one you know who talks about nothing of any importance, and it’s a nice change of pace.”

“Maybe you’re right. Anyway, the deputy claims Amelia sold Ashford House to him a few weeks ago.”

“Whoa! No way. The house is yours, isn’t it?”

“Yes, at least I think so.” She hated the edge of doubt in her answer and quickly amended her statement. “Of course it is. This is obviously just a big mistake. All I have to do is find the deed, and…”

“Right,” Jerry said. “You’ll straighten it out, I know you will.” Typical of Jerry, he changed the subject before he might actually be called upon to give advice or listen to someone else’s problems. “Speaking of boyfriends…”

“Which we weren’t, really.”

“Well, no, but a girl came in today. Real cute. I’d call her definite girlfriend potential for your baby brother.”

“What did she want?”

“She has a business proposition. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. The brainiac is reaching for the phone.”

The words business proposition immediately translated into harebrained scheme in Meg’s mind. “Jerry, don’t you let a pretty face—”

“Hi, Mom!”

Tension ebbed from Meg’s shoulders at the sound of her son’s voice, and she relegated the solving of another problem to tomorrow’s already crowded list. “Hi, honey, how are you?” she asked. “Tell me all about school today.”

MEG BLEW A KISS into the phone and disconnected the call as she drove up the path to Ashford House. The sun was setting, sculpting the old home in rose-gold shadows that transformed the faded paint with a renewed glow. In contrast, the skeletal shadows cast by the tallest tree branches swayed across the roof peaks and porch eaves. Meg had never spent even one night alone in the house, and suddenly that didn’t seem like the most appealing idea. And then she saw two cars parked in the driveway. One of them belonged to Wade Murdock, and Meg’s apprehension eased.

She pulled to the back and parked. The deputy acknowledged her arrival with a brief wave and returned to tightening the girth on the saddle of a chestnut horse. A young girl walked under the animal’s neck and stared at Meg’s car.

Meg stepped out of the car and watched the exchange between Wade and the girl. He pointed in Meg’s direction and appeared to be explaining her presence. The girl chewed on her bottom lip and nodded a couple of times. Meg wondered if the deputy was describing her to his child as the wicked witch who’d come to ruin their dreams of home ownership.

Sensing movement to her right, Meg’s attention was captured by an elderly man who stood up from the washtub where she had sat earlier. He approached the two by the horse. If this was a delegation of Murdocks intent on challenging her right to be at Ashford House, then Meg was sorely outnumbered.

She walked to the threesome prepared to defend her position. “You still here?” she said unnecessarily to Wade.

“Actually I’m back,” he answered. “I left for a while to check the traffic out on the highway and just returned so my daughter could ride while we still have some daylight.” Noticing that the girl had her foot in the stirrup and was staring at him expectantly, he hoisted her into the saddle. “Jenny, this is Miss Hamilton,” he said once she’d wiggled into position on the horse.

The girl swept her long black hair over one shoulder and peered down at Meg with eyes that Meg now noticed were as dark and haunting as her father’s. “Hi.”

Still uncertain how she’d been portrayed to the Murdock family, Meg said simply, “Nice to meet you.”

“And this is my father, Roone Murdock,” Wade said, indicating the man who stood with his back slightly bent and one elbow on the horse’s rump. The elderly man extended his free hand and she shook it.

“We’ll be out of your hair in a half hour or so,” Wade said. “Just as soon as Jenny has a quick ride and we get Lady Jay put back in her stall for the night.”

Jenny stared hard at Meg and then shot a glance at the house. “How long you planning to stay?” she asked.

Sensing that Jenny was fishing for a response of only a few days, Meg shook her head. “I don’t know. I’m here to take care of my aunt, Mrs. Ashford. She’s…”

“Yeah, I know all about her,” the girl said. “I know that you—”

Wade distracted his daughter by handing her the reins. “Go on now, Jen. Just down to the river and back and into the side yard.” Roone moved aside and Wade patted the horse’s backside sending the animal off at a slow walk. “Nothing too fast or too fancy, you hear me?” When horse and rider had moved away, he said to Meg, “She doesn’t know the whole story, just an abbreviated one.”

Meg frowned. “I guess that makes two of us.”

He smiled, showing a line of mostly even white teeth with a slightly crooked one in front which gave him an air of comfortable imperfection. “Yeah, I suppose there are a few details missing at this point.”

Roone Murdock headed toward the corner of the barn. “I’ll keep my eye on her,” he said to his son.

“Thanks, Pop.” He bent to retrieve a curry brush from the ground and addressed Meg when he stood again. “So, how’s Mrs. Ashford today?”

“Confused about things, but okay, I guess.”

“Did she know you?”

“After a while but only for a minute or two. I wasn’t able to ask her about the house….”

“I wouldn’t expect you to if Mrs. Ashford isn’t in a state to handle a lot of questions. From what I can tell, she has her lucid moments, and you can talk to her then.”

Meg tried to analyze the deputy’s tone. He didn’t seem worried about what she would discover when she was finally able to ask Amelia about the supposed sale of the house. In fact, he was almost confident.

“I was in the kitchen a few minutes ago,” he continued. “There aren’t many supplies in the cupboards. Mrs. Ashford’s maid came in yesterday and took most of the food so it wouldn’t spoil. If I’d known you were coming…”

Was he actually concerned about what she would eat? Funny, she hadn’t thought of food until now, and suddenly she realized that she was starved. “I’ll be fine,” she said without conviction.

He gave her a little smile that said she wasn’t fooling him. “We live in a rental place about a half mile from here. I think we’ve got a pot of spaghetti on the stove. I have to go out on patrol later and I could drop off a plate.”

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Meg said. “You have to feed your family and I’m sure your wife wouldn’t appreciate—”

“I don’t have a wife,” he said, taking a couple of steps toward the barn. As he went through the opening, he called over his shoulder. “It’s just a plate of spaghetti and I’ll be out anyway. I’ll bring it by.”

He disappeared into the barn and Meg stared at the shadows that had swallowed him up. “Well, thanks, then,” she hollered back and headed toward the house and all its uninhabited twelve rooms. Not only did she not have any answers, now she had even more questions.

CHAPTER FOUR

WADE TOOK HIS beige uniform shirt out of the dryer, examined it for wrinkles, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. He was buttoning the front as he came from the garage into the kitchen.

Roone looked up from the sink where he was standing a clean plate in the dish drainer. “How late you gonna be tonight?” he asked.

“Midnight or so I imagine, assuming there are no emergencies. I’ll sweep the businesses along Center Street a couple of times and probably nab a few speeders on the county road.” He caught his daughter’s eye as she dried a plate and stacked it in the cupboard. “If it’s like every other Friday night, the high school boys will try to turn Route 21 into a drag strip.”

Jenny spun around and glared at him. “Oh, great. I can just see my popularity soaring in this podunk town.” Under her breath she added, “Everybody already hates me as it is.”

Wade tucked the shirt into his trousers and buckled his belt. “I don’t think anybody hates you, and besides you’re only thirteen. You’re not even in high school yet.” Quietly, he said, “Thank God.”

She took the next plate from the drainer. “So what am I supposed to do tonight?”

“How about homework?”

She rolled her eyes. “Dad, it’s Friday.”

Having expected that reaction, he chuckled. “Maybe Gramps will take you to the Video Market to rent a movie.” He gave his father a pleading look.

“Sure, why not?” Roone said. “I think there’s a Rambo flick I haven’t seen yet.”

Jenny groaned and Wade winked at his father. “Too bad, Pop. I think you’re stuck with Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise.”

“Puh-leeze,” Jenny moaned. “They’re so old!”

“Sorry, pumpkin. I guess I missed a couple of issues of Teen Idol,” Wade said and then checked the snap on his holster. While he’d never have considered patrolling the streets of Manhattan without a weapon, he hated carrying one in Mount Esther. He thought the image of deadly force was inappropriate in the quiet community, but the sheriff had told him that first day on the job that small towns weren’t exempt from crime. He emphasized his motto that a smart cop was a prepared cop. So Wade sported a Smith and Wesson 40 caliber automatic, though in six months, he’d never had the safety off unless it was to test the weapon at a firing range.

Ready to go, Wade picked up a plate of spaghetti from the table. “Okay you guys, behave yourselves. And Jen, tomorrow we’ll take Lady Jay to the equestrian park. Sound good?”

“Yeah, I guess so…” She never finished her sentence because she burst into a fit of laughter which was obviously aimed at her father. “Are you sure you want to go out like that, Dad?”

“Like what?”

She circled around him and pulled something off the back of his shirt trailing a crackle of static electricity. When he turned around, he saw a tank top in her hands that didn’t look like it would fit a Barbie doll. It was a postage-stamp-sized piece of white jersey with shoulder straps the size of pencils. Across the front was the image of Lady Liberty with sparkling paint on her torch. “Tell me that’s a costume for one of your dolls,” he said.

She gave him one of those looks teenagers use when they are talking to clueless antiquarians. “Geez, Dad. We donated my dolls to that kids’ charity in Brooklyn, remember? I don’t play with dolls anymore.”

“More’s the pity,” he said and then hesitated as he tried to erase an image from his mind that would make any father’s blood flow cold. “Then…you actually wear that thing yourself?”

She stretched the top against her chest where her small breasts barely made an impression in the jersey. Still, the fabric was flimsy enough to interest an adolescent boy’s imagination. “Of course I wear it,” she said. “Just not around you or Gramps.” She sighed dramatically. “I guess I goofed when I put it in the washer with your uniform.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re busted.”

“Dad…”

“Tomorrow, Jen. Make some time for me to take a tour of your closet.”

She put a fist on her hip and gave him a pinched-lip, how-dare-you look of a woman filled with righteous indignation. “You can be so ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told. But heck, you’re stuck with me.” He went to the door. When another disturbing thought occurred to him, he stopped, looked at the spaghetti, and then narrowed his eyes at his father. “You didn’t put any Tabasco in Meg’s sauce, did you?”

Roone hung the dish rag over the sink divider and stared at his son. “No, but I thought about it. I still don’t know why you’re being so neighborly to a woman who’s determined to pull our house out from under us.”

Wade thought they’d put this discussion to bed earlier, but he should have known better. Feisty old Irishmen live to hold a grudge. “For one thing, I’m not jumping to any conclusions about Meg Hamilton’s motives or her plans.” He stared down at the plate in his hand. “For another, I ate your spaghetti myself tonight, and I think serving her up a plateful ought to send enough of a message that she’s in for the fight of her life.”

“You’re a funny man, Murdock,” his father called as Wade made his escape out the door. “But you ask her to show you that deed. Until we see that document in black and white, everything she says is just her blowing smoke.”

Wade waved toward the back door where his dad was silhouetted against the kitchen lights. “Will do, Pop.” He set the plate on the floor of his patrol car, backed out of the drive and headed toward Ashford House. His dad was ornery, but he was also right.

MEG LOOKED DOWN at the mess she’d created in the middle of the parlor and released a long groan of frustration. She’d opened every drawer in every end table, desk, and cabinet and pulled out a mountain of paperwork chronicling her aunt’s life. She’d scrutinized each scrap and found receipts dating back to the 1940s, warranties from companies that had long since gone out of business, and phone numbers that consisted of only four numbers on note paper that had yellowed with age. But she hadn’t found the deed prepared just four years ago.

She stepped carefully among the debris of her aunt’s past, hoping that maybe this time she’d see the legal document she’d missed on first inspection. “There has to be a copy here somewhere.”

Disappointed, she sat heavily in a frayed old wing chair and grimaced at the chaos of paper that marked a fitting end to a demoralizing day. Besides the fruitless result of her investigation, she’d discovered after a brief tour through the rooms, that Ashford House was in need of numerous repairs. The wainscoting was rotted and mildewed. The wallpaper was dry and peeling. And the windows—Meg decided that nothing short of a miracle kept the cracked and scratched panes in the frames.

At least the frantic search for the deed during the last two hours had kept her from reflecting on the fragile state of the home’s security and the fact that she was completely alone in the rambling old house. She tried to push the creaks and moans of the ancient framework to a far corner of her mind, but realized that the eerie sounds would probably translate to a sleepless night.

“Damn. Where is that deed?” she said, “and why didn’t I request a final copy for my own records when it was prepared?” She had a copy of the original document somewhere in her house in Orlando, but it was an unsigned facsimile Amelia had sent to her so she could check the wording for accuracy. Without Amelia’s signature, it was worthless.

In spite of the run-down state of Ashford House, Meg wanted it now more than ever. This place was like a member of her family, one she could count on when others had disappointed her. She couldn’t give up on it or toss it aside just because its hair had turned gray or its old bones were brittle.

She stood up and went to a front window. Beyond the limited sphere of the porch light, the yard and surrounding acreage were fading into the bleakness of a moonless night. The trees already seemed like ghostly specters in the descending darkness. Meg told herself that in time Ashford House would feel like home again.

She started to turn away from the window when she noticed headlights twinkling through the shrubbery lining the driveway. Someone was approaching the house. Moments later, the Mount Esther patrol car pulled in front of the house and Wade Murdock got out. He had a plate in his hand.

Meg’s stomach tightened into a knot as she stared at the litter on the parlor floor. She’d become so involved in the search for the deed that she’d forgotten the deputy had promised to bring her supper. She certainly couldn’t let him see that she’d been rummaging through the house like the desperate woman she was. Absolutely not. She had to show that she had the same strength of conviction as he did. She raced to the front entrance as he rapped lightly. Opening the door just a crack, she said, “Oh, hi.”

He held the plate out to her. “I told you I’d bring some spaghetti.”

She nodded, took the plate, and set it on a foyer table. “Yes, yes, you did.”

“You might want to nuke it a little in the microwave. I think Mrs. Ashford has one.”

“Oh, she has one, all right. The control pad looks like the instrument panel of a 747.”

“I guess that’s one of the things she bought in the last few weeks,” Wade said.

“No doubt. Well, thanks for the spaghetti. I’ll give you the plate back tomorrow.” She started to close the door.

“You’re welcome,” Wade said. Instead of leaving, he raised up on his toes and peered over her shoulder.

“Is something wrong?” Meg asked.

“No. I was just wondering if you’d gone through any of the boxes.”

Meg maintained a narrow opening in the doorway. “Not yet, but I’ve seen evidence of Aunt Amelia’s shopping all over the house. She’s decorated one of the bedrooms upstairs in a jungle motif complete with a fake fur Zebra-striped comforter on the mattress. Somehow it doesn’t seem like her taste, but I suppose there’s a lot about my aunt that I don’t know anymore.”

As if determined to chat, Wade leaned against the jamb preventing Meg from shutting the door. “I suppose you’ve noticed that the house needs a little fixing up,” he said.

Wade Murdock was an expert at understatement.

“I promised to do some of that work for Mrs. Ashford,” he continued. “But lately I’ve been concentrating my efforts on the barn. It needs a lot of attention, too.”

“I haven’t been inside the barn,” Meg admitted. She shifted from one foot to the other. Did Wade intend to chat half the night away? If he did, Meg wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She definitely didn’t want him to see the clutter in the parlor, but it was kind of nice having a lawman on the property to offset some of her fears. Still, Meg couldn’t forget that she and this particular lawman had a huge, three-story Queen Anne obstacle sitting between them.

After a few moments of silence, Wade finally said, “I guess I’ll be going then.”

“Okay. Thanks again.”

He stepped down from the veranda and walked away. Meg was about to close the door at last, but suddenly the subtle creaks of Ashford House were snuffed out by a tremendous crash originating somewhere in an upstairs room.

Meg flung the door wide, ran onto the porch, and screamed, “Deputy Murdock!”

He was already tearing back to the house. He rushed by Meg and burst through the open door. “Stay here,” he ordered as he took the stairs two at a time.

Meg watched him until he disappeared upstairs. Then, her heart pounding, she clutched her arms under her breasts and tried to obey the deputy’s instructions. It was no use. She chose the more appealing protection of Wade’s presence over the blackness of the landscape around the house. She darted inside and followed him up the stairs.

He snapped his attention to her while his back was flattened against the wall outside the bedroom where Meg had slept as a child and where she’d put her suitcase earlier. The room still had a comfortable, cozy appearance, but that was before Wade stood outside the threshold with a weapon in his hand.

Wade waved her back with the barrel of his pistol. She interpreted the look he gave her to mean he wasn’t pleased that she’d ignored his orders. Her breath coming in short gasps, she crouched down in the door frame of an adjoining room and watched as Wade slowly slid along the wall toward the open door. Oddly, a beam of light sliced across the threshold and into the hallway.

Pivoting with one giant step into the open doorway, Wade pointed his weapon with two hands and announced his presence. “Police,” he said with a resounding and authoritative tone. And then he dropped the weapon to his side and expelled a long breath.

Meg scurried up behind him and tried to see over his shoulder. “What is it?”

“The lamp fell from the nightstand,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s shattered.”

That explained the strange spear of light. “It must have been the wind,” Meg said, remembering that she’d opened the window a few hours ago.

Wade secured his weapon in his holster as he moved into the room. “Maybe. But unfortunately the lamp isn’t the only casualty.”

Meg understood what he meant as she followed him inside. She covered her mouth with her hand and whispered, “Oh, no.”

Wade scooped up a lifeless bird from the floor. And then he poked his fist through the corner of the window screen revealing how the bird had gotten inside.

“The poor thing,” Meg said. “I didn’t notice that tear earlier when I opened the window.”

Wade looked around the room and then down at the bird. “Just as I thought,” he said. “This is definitely the work of Mr. Cuddles.”

Meg gaped at him. “The bird has…had…a name?”

“Not the bird. The cat.”

“Cat? What cat?”

Wade pointed over Meg’s bed to the floor on the other side of the room. There, peering up at both of them with piercing golden eyes was a long-haired champagne-colored feline, whose insolent expression clearly indicated that he was not happy about two humans invading his space.

“My aunt never had a cat,” Meg said.

“She does now. I forgot to tell you. She bought Mr. Cuddles from a private breeder over in Lake City a few weeks ago.”

Meg closed her eyes and counted to ten. “Don’t tell me…with your money?”

“I suppose so. He’s a purebred Persian. Anyway, either the maid or I have been feeding Cuddles since Mrs. Ashford’s accident, but with all the commotion earlier, I forgot, so the ingenious fellow went into the trees to do a little grocery shopping.” He regarded the casualty of Mr. Cuddles’s appetite still in his hand. “This poor bird was intended as supper. I guess Cuddles misjudged his entrance into the bedroom and knocked the lamp over which in turn scared the sparrow right out of his jaws.”

Meg had never been a cat lover and was even less so now that she realized she would have Killer Cuddles to take care of until arrangements could be made for his adoption. Her sympathy definitely lay with the poor mangled sparrow. She glared at the cat. “I hope you’ll eat spaghetti, Cuddles, because you’re not getting so much as one bite of this poor bird.”

She caught Wade’s smile out of the corner of her eye. He folded his long fingers over the bird and headed for the door. “I’ll show you where the cat food is,” he said, “and then I’ll do something with the victim.”

“Thanks.” Meg started to follow him out the door but Cuddles strutted in front of her, his head high and the end of his tail twitching with an arrogant indifference to her presence. She trailed the cat down the rear staircase and into the kitchen.

Meg didn’t know what Wade would do with the dead bird once he went out the back door. But she was glad she had the job of feeding Mr. Cuddles to occupy her mind. The cat attacked his bowl of food with relish, including the special cat treats she spread on the floor next to his bowl. If she had to endure days in the house with only this sullen cat for company, she was determined to do her best to make friends with him.

After a few minutes Wade returned. He pulled out a chair for Meg and said, “Now you. Sit. I’ll go get the spaghetti.”

He came back with the plate, set it in the microwave, and deftly pressed a few buttons on the control pad. When he set the food in front of her, Meg realized her mouth was watering. She twirled a few strands around her fork and took a healthy bite. “This is good.”

“I’ll tell Pop you said so.” Wade stood watching her for a few moments as if he was uncertain if he should stay or go. Finally he opened a drawer, withdrew some masking tape and said, “I’ll fix that screen upstairs tomorrow. For tonight you might want to patch up the hole with this.”

She took the roll of tape. “Okay, thanks. But, under the circumstances, if you don’t want to fix the screen, I’ll understand.”

His mouth twitched upward in a strange sort of grin. “What circumstances are you talking about?”

Was he pretending ignorance of their obvious dilemma? She felt her face flush. “Well, I’m sure you’ve been repairing things around here because you thought the house was yours…”

He shrugged a shoulder. “I still do believe it. I bought this house.”

A spark of anger flared inside her. “Look, Deputy Murdock…”

“Wade.”

“Fine, Wade. I told you. My aunt gave the house to me. I plan to live here someday, and any repairs that need to be done are my responsibility. I don’t want you to put any more effort into a property that will one day be mine.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said. “Besides, fixing this old place has sort of become a hobby. A labor of love you might say.”

“But you’re wasting your time…and money.”

“I don’t see it that way.” He leaned back against the counter and appraised her with cool, confident eyes. “And if you don’t mind an honest observation, I don’t think you’re that sure of your claim.”

She dropped her spaghetti-laden fork. “What? I’ve been sure of my claim to Ashford House for years, Deputy.”

“Wade.”

“Whatever. Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because I just went through the parlor to pick up the plate of spaghetti.”

“And?”

“And I saw that mess on the floor. You’ve been looking for something, Meg. Rather frantically, it seems to me.”

“What I’ve been doing is none of your business.”

“You didn’t find it, did you?”

“Find what?”

“The deed.”

She picked up her fork and began twirling spaghetti as if her life depended on curling the strands into a concise, compact roll. “I don’t want to talk about this with you. I don’t think we should talk about it.”

“That’s funny. When I’ve got twenty thousand dollars invested in something, I don’t consider it a taboo subject.”

She raised the fork and peered at him over the top of the pasta that had immediately begun to unravel. “Don’t you have some crimes to solve? Aren’t there cats to get out of trees?”

“That’s the fire department. Besides, I’ve already had one cat caper tonight. But, yeah, I’ve got to go.” He crossed the kitchen and pressed one hand on the swinging door to the dining room. “Just one more thing…”

She whirled around in her chair. “What now?”

“When I went through the parlor, I noticed you did find the contract of sale.”

Right. The contract had been in the lap drawer of Amelia’s desk. “You’re quite a snoop, aren’t you?”

“Training. When you’re part of a two-man law enforcement team in a hotbed of crime like Mount Esther, you don’t leave any stone unturned.” He smiled as he pushed the door as far as it would go. “And it helped that you left the contract on top of everything else on the desk…like maybe you’d been reading it.”

She crossed her legs and began pumping the right one up and down. “Okay, I may have looked it over, and I’m glad I did…”

“Me, too.”

“…because it’s only a lease-option agreement. You haven’t actually bought the house.”

He took a step back into the kitchen and let the door close. “It’s a binding contract, Meg. I’ve paid Mrs. Ashford a down payment and I’ve been giving her rent on the barn. It’s a done deal.”

Meg didn’t know enough about real estate contracts to rebut his argument, but she did know that four years ago, Amelia had prepared a clear deed with her name on it—if only she could find it. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Deputy,” she blustered.

“We’ll see,” he said. “Anyway, you’ve seen mine. Now it’s time for me to see yours. Then maybe we’ll figure out what to do about this mess.”

She listened to his footsteps recede through the house. “I’ll find the deed, Deputy,” she called out. “And I’ll be only too happy to show it to you.”

His voice carried from the parlor. “It’s Wade, Meg, for the third time. And you know where to find me.”

CHAPTER FIVE

A RINGING TELEPHONE jolted Wade from a dream of an auburn-haired woman, her full lips tugging down into a frown, sitting in Mrs. Ashford’s parlor in the middle of a pile of papers. He turned over in bed and opened one eye to see the digital clock on his nightstand. 6:36. Great. He’d had a whopping five hours sleep and lost the end to a fantasy whose possibilities were far more exciting than his reality.

In the darkness, he fumbled for the portable, grabbed it off its cradle, and croaked, “Deputy Murdock. If this is anything short of murder, call back in two hours.”

The voice that answered was familiar, and irritating. “Wade, this is Harvey Crockett at the Quick Mart. You’d better get over here right away. Newton Bonner just ran out on his gas bill and left me holding a twenty-dollar tab.”

“Oh, geez, Harvey,” Wade grumbled. “Can’t it wait till the sun’s up? Newton isn’t going anywhere.”

“How do you know that? He peeled away from the pump like a bat outta hell. He could be halfway to the county line by now—on my tank of gas.”

Wade pictured eighty-eight-year-old Newton Bonner and doubted the man could peel a banana, but it didn’t pay to argue with a citizen he was hired to protect. He swung his feet to the floor and arched his back to stretch his muscles into service. “I’ll drive on over to Newton’s place and check it out, Harvey. Call you when I know something.”

“I’m gonna have to make folks pay before they pump from now on, Wade. I don’t give credit here, and I can’t cover the cash drawer myself…”

Wade held the phone away from his ear and stood up. “Harvey, do you want to keep me on the phone listening to you, or do you want me to go after Newton?”

“You get that old buzzard, Wade. He can’t get away with this.”

Wade pressed the disconnect button and returned the phone to his nightstand. He was thankful tomorrow was Sheriff Hollinger’s day to answer the calls.

A DOZEN PEACOCKS and three times that many chickens scattered in advance of the patrol car as Wade pulled onto Newton Bonner’s property. Wade didn’t know much about peacocks, but he’d heard that old Newton had made a living for more than fifty years selling their colorful quills to novelty shops and the birds to petting zoos. Now that he was retired, Newton still kept a few birds around his place because he claimed they were good company. Since the old guy had never married, Wade supposed that a family of fowl would be preferable at this point in the man’s life to living, breathing, arguing people. The birds appeared content as well, Wade observed. The property wasn’t even fenced, and Wade had never been called out on a rampaging peacock emergency.

Newton emerged from a shed and began scattering pellets of feed on the ground. The birds forgot about Wade and, with their colorful tail feathers spread, beat an awkward path to the goodies. When he saw Wade, Newton and his entourage crossed the yard to meet him.

“Morning, Deputy,” Newton said. “What brings you out here?”

Mindful of his clean uniform, Wade swatted a couple of curious hens away from his pants leg. “You know why I’m here, Newton,” he said. “You’re not so old that you forgot what you did not more than half an hour ago.”

Newton ground the stub of an unfiltered cigarette into the dirt. “That damn Harvey Crockett. Did he call you out this early in the morning to run me down?”

“Yes, he did, and he had a right to. You stole twenty dollars’ worth of gasoline.”

Newton removed a wide-brimmed felt hat and ran long, gnarled fingers through white hair that hadn’t seen a barber in quite a long time. “I woulda’ gone back there in a day or two to pay up,” he said.

“That’s not the way it works, Newton, and you know it.”

“I left my wallet at home. I remembered it when I was already halfway to the feed store. What was I supposed to do? If I’d a’ passed on by the Quick Mart, I’d a’ run out of gas before I hit the county road.”

“You forgot your wallet?” Wade repeated.

Obviously thinking he’d brought Wade over to his way of thinking, Newton nodded his head vigorously. “That’s right. Left it on the kitchen table.”

Wade scowled at the old man. “Then you were driving without your license, too?”

A spiderweb of veins turned pink under Newton’s thin skin. “Hell, no, Wade,” the man lied. He patted his shirt pocket. “I always put my license right here, and I had it with me.”

“So where do you keep your twenty-dollar bills?” Wade asked him. “You bring me one now and maybe I’ll overlook a charge of petty larceny this time.”

Newton grinned with the half dozen teeth still in his mouth and trotted off to his house. He returned a minute later with a crisp twenty-dollar bill, one of the newly minted ones. Wade bet that the sly old fella had a trunk full of them hidden away somewhere.

“You’re a fair man, Deputy,” Newton said.

Wade tucked the bill into his pocket. “Maybe, but I’m also a man who’s running out of patience. The next time you do this, I’m writing you up.”

Newton bent over and scooped a fat hen from the ground at his feet. “Here, take this home for dinner. It’s my treat.”

Imagining Jenny’s reaction at witnessing the decapitation of what would later appear on her plate, Wade politely refused. “Some other time, Newton.”

The old man walked Wade back to his patrol car. “So how’s everything going with the Ashford place?” he asked. “Are you thinking that you bit off more than you can chew?”

Wade shook his head. “Nope. Not yet. I’m pleased as I can be with that house. Working on it has brought me and my dad closer than we’ve been in years.” He scanned the clear blue sky above him. “And this climate has done wonders for his pleurisy. I think another winter in New York might have killed him. Now I believe he’ll go on forever.”

“You started working up in the attic yet?”

“No. That’ll be the last job I tackle,” Wade said.

“You been up there, though, haven’t you?”

“Sure. When I bought the place from Mrs. Ashford I took a quick look around the third floor. All I saw was some worn-out furniture, a mess of cobwebs and a couple of critters. It’s a small space, so…”

Newton cackled. “A small space, you say?”

“Yeah. Besides the turret which opens onto all three floors, the actual attic can’t be more than twelve feet square.”

They’d reached the patrol car, but Newton was obviously not done talking. “Guess you didn’t see the mural then.”

Wade thought back to that day several weeks ago. He’d seen some ratty old picture frames leaning against a wall, but nothing the size of a mural. “I didn’t see anything as big as that.”

“You missed the best part then. I remember when Stewie Ashford built that place and hired a guy to paint a picture the size of a church door in the attic. There were some high times up there once that mural was finished. Why, a fella could stand in the turret and see a car pull into the drive all the way from the county road. I was there once when I was just a youngster, not more than seventeen, I’d say. Stewie let me come up there anyways. He didn’t pay any mind to county laws.”

Wade crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the hood of his car. “What are you talking about, Newton?”

A wide grin creased the old man’s face. “Guess I’ve said too much already. You go on back up there, Wade, and look for the mural. That’s all I’m saying. I won’t be the one to blacken a dead man’s memory, or for that matter, start up rumors that’d vex his sweet widow.”

Wade had heard other such vague references to Stewart Ashford’s reputation, all from the few old-timers who still remembered the town’s most famous patriarch. He didn’t know exactly what shenanigans Stewart participated in way back when, but he’d surmised that maybe the guy stood a little to the left of the law. Well, more power to him. The old days were long gone. The house would soon belong to Wade, if Meg Hamilton didn’t pose a stumbling block. What did Wade care if Stewart Ashford operated a shell game more than half a century ago.

He walked around to the driver’s side door and raised a finger at Newton before getting inside the car. “You pay your bills from now on, Newton. I mean it.”

The old fella stroked the back of the hen whose life had been spared. “You betcha’, Deputy.”

Wade headed back toward the Quick Mart to pay Newton’s debt. But he wasn’t thinking a whole lot about what he would say to appease Harvey Crockett. Mostly he was thinking about the idea of a mural existing in that tiny little attic room of Ashford House.

AT EIGHT O’CLOCK Saturday morning, Meg was already on her way to Shady Grove. She was determined to meet with her aunt when Amelia might be most alert. Besides, the antics of Mr. Cuddles and the heart-thumping police work of Wade Murdock had kept her tossing and turning most of the night. She wasn’t sorry to be leaving last night’s escapades behind her to deal with today’s problems.

Giving herself time for a second cup of coffee, Meg pulled into the parking lot of the Quick Mart and headed straight for the brewing machine. She’d just stirred sugar and cream into her cup when the door to the convenience store opened. “Oh, great,” she said under her breath when she realized who had entered. “Just who I need to see this morning.”

Wade stopped at the counter and slid a sum of money toward the clerk. The two men maintained an animated conversation until Wade finally threw his hands in the air and accused the clerk of being unreasonable. “He’s an old man, Harvey,” Wade said.

“He’s slippery as an eel,” the clerk responded, “and I’m holding you responsible if there’s any more trouble.”

Wade strode away from the counter. “Fine. How’s the coffee this morning? Still taste like motor oil?” When he saw Meg, he tossed a final comment over his shoulder. “Don’t answer that, Harvey. There’s someone here who’ll give me an honest opinion.” He set a paper cup under the dispenser. “So, Miss Meg Hamilton, what do you think?”

She leaned against the condiment counter and nodded toward a case with clear plastic doors. “The coffee’s fine, but since you’re a policeman, I figure you won’t be satisfied until you grab one of those donuts.”

“Ah…another misconception that you civilians have about us cops.” He dumped three envelopes of sugar into his coffee and stirred vigorously. Then, despite his statement, he opened a door, took out a chocolate-covered Bavarian Cream and took a huge bite which he followed with a smug grin. “But, heck, who am I to destroy a legend?”

Meg shook her head.

“So how’s Mr. Cuddles this morning?” Wade asked after sucking a dab of filling from his index finger. It was a gesture Meg found oddly disturbing.

“He’s like all males, I guess,” she said. “He left the house early to find a poor creature in the yard that he could lord his authority over.”

Wade raised that finger to make a point. “Yeah, but he made you notice him, and that’s what counts.” He wiped his hands with a napkin and tossed the paper into the trash bin. “By the way, I’ll be at the house later after I do rounds. I’ll fix the window screen before I get started in the barn.”

“If you want to,” Meg said with an aloofness that disguised her very strong desire to have the window secure.

“Oh, I do,” Wade said. “If for no other reason than I need to establish my superiority over Mr. Cuddles.”

Meg headed for the cash register to pay for her coffee. “I guess I’ll see you later then.”

Wade tossed a couple of bills on the counter and followed her outside. “Say, Meg, before you go, can you answer a question for me?”

“Depends on the question.”

“It’s about your Uncle Stewart.”

Meg’s interest was immediately piqued. Even though he’d died when she was only twelve, she remembered her Uncle Stewie vividly. He was so handsome sitting astride his prized Arabian mare and cantering gracefully around the property. And he was completely unpredictable in his antics. Like her brother Jerry, he made everyone laugh. “What about him?” she said.

“What did he do for a living?”

“He was an entrepreneur.”

Wade’s lips twitched as if he were trying to hide a smile. “That’s a little vague, isn’t it?”

Meg had never thought so. Even when she hadn’t understood what the word meant, she’d always believed that it described her uncle perfectly. “Maybe, but that’s what Aunt Amelia always called him.”

“So that’s how he made all his money, as an entrepreneur?”

“I suppose so. Plus his parents had a little money. His father was a cattleman on Florida’s west coast. Stewie dabbled in land development in this area, and I heard that he got in on the ground floor of a couple of profitable local businesses.” She shrugged. “I think my uncle was lucky to be in the right places at the right times.”

“Lucky, eh? I wonder if any of that Ashford luck rubbed off on you.”

“What do you mean?”

He lowered his sunglasses and peered at her with those interesting dark brown eyes. “Did you find the deed?”

We’re back to that again. “You seem awfully worried about that document, Wade, and you should be. I’ll definitely find it because it definitely exists.” She got in her car. “And when I do, you’ll be the first to know.” She shut the door but rolled down her window. “But since you brought up our little predicament, I’ll tell you about an idea I had.”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m going to go through the boxes this afternoon with the idea of returning everything to the catalogue companies. My intention is to give you back the twenty thousand dollars.”

He twirled the sunglasses while giving her a bland stare. “I don’t want it back.”

“But that’s the perfect solution.”

“Not to me it isn’t.”

As if there weren’t a hundred houses to buy within a thirty-mile radius of hers! And to think Wade had called the store clerk unreasonable. “Look, Wade, I read the entire lease-option contract last night.”

“Good.”

“You only promised to pay a pittance of what the house and property are worth.”

“You call ninety-eight thousand dollars a ‘pittance’?”

“I certainly do. In Orlando…”

He tapped the insignia on his shirt sleeve. “This is Mount Esther. That’s what I like about this little town. The cost of living is quite reasonable, especially to a transplant who’s used to New York prices.”

“But even in Mount Esther a twelve-room house, a six-stall barn, and all that land—”

“—in good condition would be worth about one hundred and fifty thousand,” he interrupted. He put on his glasses and folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve already put a couple of thousand into the house, borrowed from the Mount Esther Savings and Loan, and you can see that a complete renovation will cost much more.”

He’d borrowed money against her house? Meg gripped the steering wheel to control her temper. “If Ashford House is costing you so dearly, why not cut your losses, take the twenty thousand and go buy something that’s livable right now?”

“Don’t want to. Ashford House is perfect for my family. It’s a dream we can work on together.”

It’s my dream, too, damn it, Meg thought. My dream first.

“And besides,” he continued, “I don’t think you’ll get more than a small percentage of the twenty thousand back. Most of the items have been unpacked and put to use in the house. And I’ve read some of the labels on the boxes. They say a full refund is available within seven days. That time limit has elapsed. And since most of the purchases were made without the security of a credit card…”

“Enough.” Meg rolled her window up and jerked the gearshift into reverse.

Wade waved at her as she backed out of the parking space. “See you later, Meg,” he hollered.

She veered onto the road but resisted the urge to stomp on the gas pedal. With her luck, Murdock would race after her, lights flashing and siren blaring, just for the pleasure of giving her a ticket.

AS SHE APPROACHED the door to Amelia’s room in Shady Grove, Meg was immediately aware of a change in the environment. It was quiet. Yesterday she’d heard her aunt’s television well in advance of reaching her door. Today she heard nothing. At the threshold she looked down upon an empty bed, stripped of sheets.

Meg stood rooted in the doorway. “Oh, my God, no…”

A worker came up behind her, touched her lightly on her shoulder. “Can I help you, ma’am?”

Meg whirled around and stared into the young woman’s face. “My aunt. She’s gone. What happened?”

The woman held up a stack of linens. “It’s not what you think. I’m just changing the sheets. Miz Ashford’s down the hall in the gathering room.”

Meg felt limp with relief. She held on to the arm of a chair until she caught her breath. “Of course. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.”

The woman set the sheets on a dresser, took the top one and flipped it open over the bed. The scent of bleach trailed in the wake of the fluttering cotton. “Five doors down,” she said. “You’ll find Miz Ashford.”

“Thank you.” As she walked down the hall, Meg was able to think logically again. Of course Amelia wouldn’t spend every waking hour in bed. The staff would encourage her to mingle with other patients, at the same time giving the employees opportunity to keep the rooms maintained.

At the door to the gathering room, Meg recognized the voice of Gene Rayburn coming from a big-screen television. Amelia was seated in a wheelchair several feet from the set. She was propped up with pillows and a thick floral throw covered her knees. She was, as yesterday, enraptured by the television show.

Meg looked at the screen and watched celebrities give answers on Match Game. She pulled a chair close to her aunt and sat down. “Good morning, Aunt Amelia,” she said.

Amelia glanced over and smiled. “Margaret, you’ve come back. I told them you would.”

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