Mari smiled at him so trustingly that Russ’s heart turned over.

If she was an impostor, she wasn’t the only one. After all, he was pretending to be something he wasn’t.

Russ wasn’t what she thought he was—just a cowboy who was interested in her. Interested was putting it mildly, but the undercurrent of is-she-or-isn’t-she-the-missing-heiress flowed continuously beneath the surface.

Gathering Mari to him, Russ impulsively covered her mouth with his, doing his best to put all he felt into the kiss.

Doing his best to bury his suspicions…

Dear Reader,

Around this time of year, everyone reflects on what it is that they’re thankful for. For reader favorite Susan Mallery, the friendships she’s made since becoming a writer have made a difference in her life. Bestselling author Sherryl Woods is thankful for the letters from readers—“It means so much to know that a particular story has touched someone’s soul.” And popular author Janis Reams Hudson is thankful “for the readers who spend their hard-earned money to buy my books.”

I’m thankful to have such a talented group of writers in the Silhouette Special Edition line, and the authors appearing this month are no exception! In Wrangling the Redhead by Sherryl Woods, find out if the heroine’s celebrity status gets in the way of true love…. Also don’t miss The Sheik and the Runaway Princess by Susan Mallery, in which the Prince of Thieves kidnaps a princess…and simultaneously steals her heart!

When the heroine claims her late sister’s child, she finds the child’s guardian—and possibly the perfect man—in Baby Be Mine by Victoria Pade. And when a handsome horse breeder turns out to be a spy enlisted to expose the next heiress to the Haskell fortune, will he find an impostor or the real McCoy in The Missing Heir by Jane Toombs? In Ann Roth’s Father of the Year, should this single dad keep his new nanny…or make her his wife? And the sparks fly when a man discovers his secret baby daughter left on his doorstep…which leads to a marriage of convenience in Janis Reams Hudson’s Daughter on His Doorstep.

I hope you enjoy all these wonderful novels by some of the most talented authors in the genre. Best wishes to you and your family for a very happy and healthy Thanksgiving!

Best,

Karen Taylor Richman

Senior Editor

The Missing Heir
Jane Toombs

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Vickie Slavik, Milissa Anderson and Christine Scheel—who love and work with horses.

JANE TOOMBS

was born in California, raised in the upper peninsula of Michigan and has moved from New York to Nevada as a result of falling in love with the state and a Nevadan. Jane has five children, two stepchildren and seven grandchildren. Her interests include gardening, reading and knitting.

Dear Reader,

What ifs? are a writer’s constant companion. One of mine was: What if a woman suddenly discovered those who’d raised her from a newborn hadn’t told her the truth about her birth? This is how Marigold Crowley was born in my mind. I knew Mari had to be strong and resilient to handle such an unsettling surprise. I decided a loving but do-your-share ranch upbringing would give her the backbone to deal with the shock and, also, when the time came, to help her try to discover who she really was.

Because Mari never lost sight of her own integrity, she was a delight to write about as she not only navigated the chancy waters of legality, but at the same time had to sail carefully through the dangerous straits of learning about love.

Jane Toombs

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

Epilogue

Chapter One

R uss Simon hated what he was doing, but he knew he had no choice. None at all. As he turned the rental car off U.S. 395 onto a secondary blacktop road, he thought again that it’d been a stroke of luck to spot that ad in the Big Nickel newspaper someone left at the Reno café where he’d had breakfast. “Draft mare for sale, fifteen hands high, all offers considered.” After all, horses were his business. He fervently wished they were all that concerned him at the moment.

The May afternoon was warm, and the familiar scent of lilacs drifted in his open window, reminding him of his farm back east. So far he liked what he’d seen of northern Nevada. Good horse country. If things were different he just might consider buying some land around here.

When he rounded the next corner, the first mailbox he saw had Crowley Ranch lettered on the side, so he turned into the gravel driveway, heading for the blue-roofed house and stables set back among a clump of old cottonwood trees. As he neared the buildings, he looked around for the draft horse, but was distracted by a young rider who was winding an Arabian horse in and out among a series of barrels set up in the field next to the stables.

He was even more distracted when a young woman sitting on the top rail of the fence shouted, “Way to go, Yasmin!” She raised her broad-brimmed hat in a salute to the girl, revealing bright golden hair. Marigold Crowley, beyond a doubt. His quarry.

Russ pulled up beside the stable and left the car, sauntering over to the fence. “Am I speaking to the owner of the draft mare?” he asked.

Glancing at him, the woman nodded. “Be with you in a minute or two. Yasmin and I are almost finished with this session.”

Her husky voice seemed to settle somewhere in his bones as his gaze took in her delightfully trim figure. Watch it, Simon, he warned himself. This damn situation is complicated enough without you lusting after the woman.

Settling himself on the rail beside her, he forced his attention to the girl, who was riding what he realized was a truly magnificent Arabian gelding. Yasmin, who looked to be no older than six, handled the horse as though born in the saddle. If Ms. Crowley had trained the girl—her daughter?—then she was to be complimented on her teaching ability.

“You were almost perfect today,” Marigold told Yasmin when she dismounted and started to lead the Arabian toward the stables. “Stan’ll help you take care of Sheik. Then there’s milk and cookies in the kitchen while you wait for your mother to pick you up.”

Not her child, then, Russ thought. He jumped down from the rail and held a hand toward Marigold, but she smiled and slid off without his assistance. Were her eyes really the color of sherry or was he imagining it?

“So you came about the ad,” she said.

“I did.”

“Lucy’s in the far paddock. This way.”

Russ followed her, trying not to notice the enticing sway of her jean-clad butt. What the hell was wrong with him today? He could take or leave any woman, and this one was certainly off-limits. He lengthened his stride until he walked even with her.

“Lucy’s sort of stubborn, but a real sweetie,” Marigold said. “And smart. She learned the name I gave her in no time.”

“You changed her name?”

Marigold favored him with another smile. “She was an estray, as we call them in Nevada, so I didn’t know her name. I don’t think she ever ran with a wild mustang herd, but she sure isn’t from around here, because I placed an ad last year after she wandered by, and no one ever claimed her. I’d like to keep her.” She sighed. “Unfortunately, she’s expensive to feed and I really have no use for a draft horse.”

He liked her friendliness and the candid way she spoke. Plus that sexy voice… Enough! He needed to remember why he was here.

“I’m Russ Simon,” he said, “and I breed and raise draft horses for leasing.”

“My name’s Mari,” she told him. “Mari— Crowley.”

Had she hesitated briefly before saying her last name or had he imagined it?

“And there,” she added, stopping to point, “is Lucy.”

Russ wrenched his gaze from her and looked at the big mare in the field they’d come to.

“She’s a dapple-gray, as you can see,” Mari said, opening the gate.

Russ stared at the mare. It wasn’t possible. He headed for the horse, unable to believe his eyes. After reaching Lucy, he crooned softly to her while he closely examined her color. “She’s a Blue,” he said finally.

Mari blinked. A Blue? What was he talking about? “Lucy looks gray to me.”

He smiled at her and she blinked again. It hadn’t escaped her that Russ was one of the best-looking men she’d ever met, with the most fascinating green eyes. As if that weren’t enough, his smile was devastating. Plus, his jeans and shirt emphasized all the right places.

“I raise Blues,” he told her. “The color distinction is subtle, but it’s there.”

Mari shrugged. “If you say so.”

“I’ve been told the Blues descended from chargers used for jousting in the days of knights and fair maidens.” He sketched a bow. “Were I a knight I’d ask for a token from you to wear.”

Russ Simon was a charmer, and to her sorrow, she’d learned all about his type two years ago. She’d do well to keep that in mind. Trying to deflect the warmth seeping through her from his admiring gaze, she said, “I’ve often wondered where the knights put those tokens, considering they were pretty well encased in armor. Are you interested in Lucy?”

“Definitely. Just let me take a closer look to see if I can figure out her age.”

“From her teeth and the way she kicks up her heels when she feels like it, I’d say she’s no more than five or six, so she’d make a good broodmare for you.”

He nodded, his attention fixed on Lucy. By the time he finished his inspection of the mare, she was obviously entranced with him. No wonder, the way he stroked her in all the places a horse enjoyed, while he crooned softly to her. Mari couldn’t clamp down on her imagination quickly enough to prevent her from wondering if he knew how to caress a woman in the same loving way.

Gritting her teeth, she forced her mind back to viewing him as a possible buyer rather than a possible lover—that she didn’t need. What she did need desperately, was to sell Lucy before she ran out of money to feed her.

“I’ll buy her,” he said. “Name your price.”

“I intended to ask five hundred.”

“Out of the question. Lucy’s worth at least a thousand. I’d consider her a bargain at that. If you’ll keep her here for a while, I’ll throw in three hundred more for board while I arrange to have her shipped to Michigan.”

Mari did her best to conceal her surprised elation. “That seems more than fair. I’ll be glad to board her until you’re ready.”

Russ glanced at the ridge of mountains to the west and took a deep breath. “That’s sage I smell along with the lilacs, right?” At her nod, he added, “Do you happen to know if there’s any land for sale around here? I came to Nevada to look for a place to start a second horse farm.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, staring at the Sierras instead.

“Actually, there’s an old ranch for sale just a few miles down the road from here.”

He swung around to focus on her, those green eyes catching her gaze so that she couldn’t move. Why was she so attracted to this man? Especially since she knew better than to get involved with another charmer.

“I’d ride over to look at that ranch if I had a horse a bit smaller than Lucy,” he told her.

He did have a car, after all. She meant to agree that Lucy certainly wasn’t a riding horse, and leave it at that, but what emerged was, “I’ve got other horses besides Lucy. We could both saddle up. That way I can show you where the ranch is.”

As he took her up on her offer, she told herself her impulsiveness didn’t matter, since nothing would come of this anyway, considering how little time she had left before she had to leave Nevada. Actually, she had a dozen things to do before evening, but somehow she wanted to prolong her time with Lucy’s new owner.

“We’ll settle up first,” he told her, and so she led him into the house.

Yasmin was gone. Mari shook her head; she hadn’t even heard Linnea Zohir, a friend and neighbor, drive in to pick up her daughter. Willa Hawkins, though, was in the kitchen, and she eyed Russ assessingly. Aware that the old woman suspected he might be a boyfriend instead of a horse buyer, Mari straightened her out during the introductions since Willa, who’d moved to Nevada from New York two years ago, tended to be outspoken.

“So you bought Lucy,” Willa said to him.

“’Tis high time someone did. Mari takes in every stray that comes along.”

And can’t afford to. Willa didn’t say the words, but Mari heard them just the same.

“Willa lives between here and the ranch you’ll be looking at,” Mari said to Russ.

“When I ain’t fixing food for the Crowleys,” Willa added. “Mari’s uncle Stan is working on being the worst cook in Nevada, and she’s too dang busy with all the ranch chores. So you’re going to take a gander at the Curwith place, are you? Needs a mite of work, I’d say.”

Later, the settling up done and the horses saddled—Mari had given him a horse named The Captain, while she rode her favorite mare, Tennille—she and Russ rode side by side along the verge of the secondary road in companionable silence for a time. Even though she was acutely aware of him, at the same time she couldn’t remember when she’d felt so comfortable with a man who was a relative stranger. Quite possibly because he, too, was a horse person. Either you were or you weren’t.

“So you live in Michigan,” she said after a time.

“Near Lake Huron,” he confirmed, glancing at her. “Great area, but I can see Nevada has its own charm.”

He meant the mountains and the climate, she told herself firmly. His words had nothing to do with her. Even if they did, she couldn’t afford to be interested. Not just because of where and what she was headed for this evening, but also because she wasn’t ready to trust any man.

As Willa had advised after that fiasco with Danny Boy, “Best you take a recess from men while you sort out what you learned about them from him. Get things straight in your head afore you let another of them make-believe cowboys come snaking around. You gotta be sure you’ve figured out how to separate the poisonous ones from the harmless.” Since she raised rattlers to milk their venom, Willa knew what she was talking about, whether she meant men or snakes.

“That’s where Willa lives,” Mari said, nodding her head toward the left. “She makes a good neighbor.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I look over the place for sale. There’s nothing like good neighbors.” He smiled at her. “Especially ones who understand horses.”

Mari said nothing, and not just because she didn’t want to encourage him. Even had she wanted to, who knew what was going to happen to her life after this evening? Certainly she didn’t. And neither did Uncle Stan, for all he pretended to have no doubts at all. Why, oh why, hadn’t he discussed the matter with her before sending off that letter to Joseph Haskell?

For that matter, why had she offered to show Russ this property? Because she’d wanted to prolong her time with him, obviously. Bad idea. Still, she wasn’t sorry.

“How long have you lived in Nevada?” Russ asked after a time.

“All my life. Both in the state and on the ranch.”

“Ever think of leaving?”

She blinked. “Why, no, not really.” Which was true. “Why do you ask?”

“I’ve never gotten to know a real live Nevadan before.” He hoped his words didn’t sound as lame to her as they did to him. Back off, Simon.

Spotting the For Sale sign, he glanced around and, his gaze centered on a dwelling that had seen better days, said, “A genuine fixer-upper, no doubt about it.”

“The barn’s in fair shape, though.” She pointed.

“Have any idea what they’re asking?”

Mari shook her head. “Though since old Mrs. Curwith died, I did hear her nephew was eager to unload the place.”

After they rode around the property, Russ told her, “I’ll keep it in mind.” It wasn’t a complete lie. If the price was right, he just might look into it, even though buying Nevada land had nothing to do with why he was here. This did look to be a good place to raise horses.

“Get out there and size up this latest claimant before old Joe does something he’ll regret,” Russ’s father had urged. “His ticker’s in bad shape and he doesn’t need another disappointment.”

Russ took a deep breath, moving his shoulders uneasily. Spying was not his vocation. Or his choice. Particularly since he was inclined to like Mari Crowley. But this was the first favor his father had asked since the schism had opened between them. The first contact, as a matter of fact.

“I’ve always liked the Curwith property,” Mari said. “I wish we had that little stream that runs through it.”

“I noticed the stream.” Realizing he sounded abrupt—the result of his distaste for his role—he turned to look into her amber eyes. Never mind how open and honest her gaze appeared, that meant nothing. When he found himself admiring how the tiny flecks of brown accentuated the gold color of her eyes, he shook himself mentally.

“I appreciate you taking the time to show me the ranch,” he said, trying to sound properly grateful.

“It’s the least I could do for someone who paid me double what I was asking for Lucy.”

Waving that aside, he said, “To show my gratitude, I’d like you to have dinner with me tonight.” Only to get to know her better, in order to evaluate how much of a schemer she was, he told himself.

When she smiled, he thought she meant to accept, but then her smile faded. “I’m leaving town this evening, so I can’t.”

His pang of disappointment vanished abruptly when he took in the full import of her words. Leaving town. Because his father hadn’t been able to prevent Joe Haskell from inviting her to the island? Bad news.

“Later, perhaps,” he managed to say.

She looked uncertain. “I don’t think I’ll be back right away. Probably not before you leave Nevada.”

“Oh?” He tried to make the word an invitation to share a confidence with him.

Mari didn’t answer for a moment. If she hadn’t been leaving, it still wouldn’t be a good idea to go to dinner with Russ, even though she wanted to. As Willa would say, “Slow down, you’re going too fast.”

Best to end their acquaintance before she made the mistake of believing every word he said, as she’d done with Danny Boy. Before she had a chance to act on the attraction she felt arcing between them.

“I’ve enjoyed meeting you,” she said. “It’s always good to talk to a fellow horse lover.”

“Yes.”

Did he regret they had to part before they should have? Mari frowned. Where had that weird idea come from? Okay, so she knew. Because she regretted it. Because they ought to have had time to get to know each other. Maybe he wasn’t the poisonous kind. As it was, she’d never find out.

While riding back to her place, Russ began to ask her about her childhood, making, she thought, idle conversation.

“My aunt Blanche died two years ago,” Mari said. “She and Uncle Stan raised me, since my mother died when I was born.”

“Your mother was your aunt’s sister?”

She frowned at him, and he muttered, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to get so personal. I was just curious.”

Mari didn’t explain any further. How could she when up until last week she’d thought her mother had, in fact, been her aunt’s younger sister? She still hadn’t gotten over the shock of what Uncle Stan had told her—that the woman who bore her had been no relation to Aunt Blanche. Mari didn’t know who her parents were, not really. She didn’t even know if this trip she was making to meet Mr. Haskell would give her the answer. Her mind was all jumbled with mixed hope and fear.

Finally pulling herself together, she said, a touch defensively, “I grew up very happily on the ranch.” And she had. But, somehow, her uncle’s news had tainted those years. Not that she blamed him. He believed he was telling her the truth when he said he was sure she was Joseph Haskell’s granddaughter. But was it really the truth?

Taking a deep breath, she turned to Russ. “How about you? Did you grow up on a farm?”

He shook his head. “In a city.”

“But you have a horse farm now?”

“It’s something I always wanted, even as a boy. To raise horses.”

“How wonderful to achieve your heart’s desire.”

His scowl surprised her. Surely what she’d said was harmless enough.

Evidently he’d taken note of her expression, because the scowl vanished and he said, “I’m glad I saw that ad for Lucy. Otherwise we might never have met.”

She was on the verge of saying that if he bought the old ranch, maybe they’d meet again, but she stopped herself. How could she know what her life might be like in the future? “Yes,” she replied simply.

Neither spoke again until they reached the stables and dismounted. Russ insisted on unsaddling and rubbing down his mount, and she didn’t argue, aware she would have done the same had she been the visitor. Horses needed to be taken care of by their riders—it was the first lesson her students learned. Just the same, his caring for the gelding pleased her. Russ was not one of Willa’s would-be cowboys. In her book, he was the real thing.

Eventually all the chores were done and, after washing up at the stable sink, they faced one another. For the last time, she told herself, unable to believe it was just as well. “Time to say goodbye.” She tried to inject cheerfulness into the words.

He took her hands in his. “I’d rather it were till we meet again.”

How warm his hands were. Warm and strong. Hers nestled inside his as though they belonged there. She could think of nothing to say. Certainly, “Don’t go,” didn’t make an iota of sense. Especially since, in a matter of hours, she was really the one who would be leaving.

She drew in her breath when he raised her palms and brushed his lips across one, then the other before releasing her. Without another word he turned and strode to his car. Her hands clasped together as though to hold on to the feel of his lips, she watched him drive away until the car and even the dust plume behind it was no longer visible.

Chapter Two

M ari found Willa inside the ranch house, seated at the kitchen table pouring herself a cup of tea. “Looks like you could use some of this,” Willa commented. “Get yourself a cup and sit you down.”

Mari hesitated. She really should finish packing, but somehow she just didn’t feel like it. Going to the mug tree, she lifted one off and joined Willa.

“Didn’t look too poisonous, that young man,” Willa said. “’Course, men ain’t the same as snakes. None of ’em are completely harmless.”

“He asked me to dinner. Naturally I refused.”

Willa peered over the top of her cup at Mari. “Wanted to go, didn’t you?”

“Whether I did or not, you know I couldn’t.” Mari set down her mug and leaned across the table toward the older woman. “Oh, Willa, am I doing the right thing? I’m so confused about all this.”

“Seems like you got to go and find out, that’s what I say.”

“If only Uncle Stan had talked to me first.”

“Once that man makes up his mind, he’s not much for waiting around.”

Mari sighed. “Or for asking anyone’s opinion, either. It’s just that everything has all happened so fast. I don’t know Joseph Haskell. I never even heard of him until he came on TV to ask his long-lost daughter to come home.”

“Stan sure enough thinks she was your mother. For all any of us know, she could’ve been.”

“My mother could have been anybody!” Mari cried, blinking back tears. “I loved Aunt Blanche. Why didn’t she ever tell me the truth—that my mother was some stranger she’d befriended?”

“I expect ’cause she got to fearing she might lose the baby she loved. Might be she and Stan couldn’t’ve adopted you if it got around there was no blood relationship. They weren’t exactly spring chickens at the time. As for your uncle, he did what he thought best for you.”

“I suppose. But this may turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Maybe I ought to wait and see….” Her words trailed off. Wait for what? Mr. Haskell’s phone call to Uncle Stan had made it clear his present health was too poor for him to travel to Nevada, and that he was sending his private jet so Mari could fly to Mackinac Island to his summer cottage. This evening.

“If you don’t go, you’ll never know whether your mother was Isabel Haskell or not, will you?” Wilma pointed out. “Best you get to packing. And never mind that young man. If he’s interested he’ll show up again, and then you can decide if he’s worth troubling yourself over.”

Show up again? Mari wondered as she headed for her bedroom. She wouldn’t be here if he did, so a lot of good that’d do. Time to forget Russ Simon and concentrate on what else to toss in her suitcase. Although most of her clothes were for riding or casual wear, she figured she’d better take at least one dress and a pair of dressy sandals. She had to admit—she was scared to be going alone to a place she’d never been to meet a stranger who might be her grandfather.

Uncle Stan could hardly come with her, since he had to take care of the horses and other ranch animals. Willa might be spry for her age, but it was too much to ask her to do ranch work, and they couldn’t afford to hire anyone else for the task. In fact, they were already one mortgage payment behind. The money Russ had paid for Lucy would help, but it was touch and go.

As for asking Willa to come with Mari, that wasn’t possible, either. Willa couldn’t take much time away from her own ranch because she supported herself by raising rattlesnakes, milking their venom and selling it to labs that made antivenin. No one wanted to snake-sit for her.

By the time the limo arrived to pick up Mari and take her to the Carson City Airport, she was ajangle with nerves. Twenty-seven-years old and she’d never ridden in a limo, much less a private jet. Maybe she ought to be feeling like Cinderella going to the ball, but she felt more like the untransformed cinder girl. If she’d been traveling as Mari Crowley, it wouldn’t be this way. She’d always been confident in her ability to handle almost any situation. But she might no longer be a Crowley, she might be a Haskell, and that thought was unsettling.

Never mind, you’re still Mari, she told herself as she hugged Uncle Stan and Willa in farewell. You can cope. Once the chauffeur settled her inside the limo and they drove away from the ranch, though, the tears she’d fought gathered in her eyes.

When they reached the airport, Mari still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. But her tears had dried by then and she allowed herself to be led by the chauffeur to where Mr. Haskell’s jet waited on the tarmac. He helped her aboard. Inside, a uniformed man showed her how to fasten her seat belt, telling her he was George, the co-pilot, and introducing the pilot as Tom. George pointed out where she could find soft drinks and sandwiches once they were underway. It took her a minute to realize she was alone in the jet except for these two men.

As the plane took off, climbing quickly up and up, circling to the northeast, she closed her eyes, not wanting to see Carson City fade from sight below her. To distract herself from the disturbing realization that she was leaving everything familiar behind, she picked up a magazine from among several in a rack, but didn’t open it. The cinder girl was heading for the castle without the benefit of a fairy godmother or a waiting prince.

Without Mari willing it, Russ Simon’s face flashed into her mind’s eye. Her prince? The thought made her smile. Far-fetched as it seemed right now, maybe they’d meet again someday, as he’d said he hoped they would. She opened the magazine, Joseph Haskell’s name popped out at her and she began to read the article about him. By the time the jet landed on Mackinac Island, Mari knew a lot more about her possible grandfather than she had before.

Since the article had stressed how wealthy he was, when she arrived by horse and buggy at the “summer cottage” he’d mentioned to Uncle Stan, Mari shouldn’t have been surprised to find herself looking at what must be at least a fourteen-room Victorian mansion. But she was. Her jitters returned full force.

A trim, fortyish woman opened the door. “I’m Pauline Goodwin, the housekeeper, Ms. Crowley,” she said.

Mari nodded as she was ushered in. “Please call me Mari. Is Mr. Haskell—?”

“An hour before you arrived, he was airlifted to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. My orders are to make sure you settle in comfortably while he’s gone.”

“Oh, my, is he seriously ill?”

“We don’t know when he’ll be returning,” Pauline said stiffly. “This way, please.”

What kind of an answer was that? Mari wondered as she followed the housekeeper up a winding staircase. It must be his heart. He’d told Uncle Stan he had a “bum ticker.” Whether he was her grandfather or not, she truly hoped he’d be all right.

The room she’d been given was decorated with white-painted wicker furniture, and paintings and photos of horses hung on the walls. Mari was looking at the paintings when Pauline said, “Frank will bring up your suitcases. Will there be anything else you need?”

As Mari thanked her and shook her head, she wished for something Pauline wouldn’t have been able to provide. What she needed was a friend. Someone to talk to who she knew and trusted, someone who’d assure her she’d been right to come here. She worried how it might affect Mr. Haskell’s health if it turned out they weren’t related. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.

On TV he’d claimed he was a lonely and ill old man who regretted alienating his only child, Isabel. Mari had felt sorry for him, even though, at the time, she hadn’t the slightest idea Stan was even then speculating that Isabel might have been her mother. Had she been?

I’d like to have a grandfather, Mari thought as she got ready for bed. I have no family at all except for Stan.

That was really why she’d come here—to find out if Mr. Haskell was family, a blood relation. It’d been a terrible shock when her uncle had confessed that Aunt Blanche had never told her the truth about her birth.

Though Mari had wondered if sleep would elude her, Mr. Sandman, as Willa would say, found her immediately, and she didn’t wake until midmorning. The first thing she saw when her eyes opened was a photo on the wall of a dapple-gray pony with a small child on its back. She rose hurriedly to examine the photo at closer range, and saw the child was a boy. Not Isabel then.

By the time she’d dressed and was descending the stairs, Mari had begun wondering if dapple-gray ponies were ever called Blues. She shook her head. Probably not, since Russ had said his were descended from the huge chargers ridden by knights of old. If only she’d had more time to spend with Russ. How was it possible to miss a man you scarcely knew?

After a breakfast that made her feel she was imposing on Mr. Haskell’s staff, even though Pauline and Diana, the cook, were courteous enough, Mari escaped outside. Her uneasiness undoubtedly came from her own uncertainty—did she belong here or not?—rather than from the staff. But she began to relax a little once she set off to walk down toward the village.

May was definitely cool here on this island near the Straits of Mackinac, where the waters of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan met, and she was glad she’d worn a jacket. With only the clop of horses’ hooves instead of the rush of motor traffic, Mackinac Island seemed not only peaceful, but somehow set back in time. In the gardens she passed, tulips were still in flower, though their season was long over in northern Nevada. Lilac blooms were tightly budded rather than scattering their sweetness into the air.

A passing bicyclist waved as he passed, and she waved back. What a marvelous vacation spot. She wished she could think of it as a vacation. It worried her that Mr. Haskell had decided to send for her instead of first making sure they were related by having blood and DNA tests done right there in Nevada. Why he hadn’t was a question she couldn’t answer.

She passed the Grand Hotel, staring in awe at its unbelievably long and magnificent porch, and came into the downtown area of the village. Water gleamed ahead from what appeared to be a lakeside park. As she started across the street, someone took her arm, holding her back. She turned, startled, and gazed into Russ Simon’s green eyes. Her pulse leaped.

“Mari, is it really you?” he asked.

“Russ!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

He released her arm. “Checking my Blues. I lease twenty of them to carriage companies on the island. Didn’t I tell you?”

Mari shook her head. “I mean, I knew you leased draft horses, but I didn’t know where.”

One of the numerous passersby jostled Mari, muttering an apology when Russ scowled at him. “Come on, let’s find someplace less crowded. Place is already full of tourists and it’s only May.”

After they were seated at a harborside café, with mugs of coffee in front of them, he raised a questioning eyebrow. “Now you know why I’m here. Your turn.”

Mari told herself to stop staring at him and start thinking. “I’m visiting the island,” she equivocated, not wanting to lie and yet definitely not wanting to tell the whole truth.

Russ offered her his heart-melting smile. “My good luck.”

No, mine, she thought. I wished for a friend and maybe, just maybe, here he is. On this strange island that seemed like another world, Russ was the known, the familiar. She might not decide to confide in him, but at least she now had someone she felt she could talk to if needed.

Russ took another swallow of coffee, trying not to watch Mari. Which was difficult because he enjoyed looking at her so much. Why the devil did her hair have to be molten gold and her eyes like fine sherry? Spying was bad enough, and it was ten times worse because he liked the way she smiled, the way she talked with her hands, the way she moved. Hell, even the way she sipped her coffee. No man in his right mind could avoid being attracted to her.

He couldn’t afford to be, yet at the same time he needed to learn more about her in order to protect Joe Haskell. Since the old man was tough, he’d probably pull through this latest cardiac setback, but he didn’t need any extra stress—such as an impostor on his doorstep.

“Like to go riding around the island?” Russ asked. “I’ll return the favor and find you a mount this time.”

“Oh, yes!”

Damn, how could she seem so open and straightforward? The likelihood of a greedy, scheming heart beating under that attractive exterior was almost a sure bet, no matter how cleverly she concealed it. He knew all about pretty women and how they could fool a man—his ex-wife had taught him well.

Mari didn’t have Denise’s sophistication, nor did she wear designer originals. No doubt because she couldn’t afford them. It’d been obvious that the Crowley ranch house could use some updating. Money was at the bottom of every scheme. He hadn’t met her uncle, the man who’d contacted Joe in the first place, but it stood to reason that Mari had to be in on anything her uncle might be trying to promote.

Russ wished he didn’t feel this odd bond between Mari and himself. It must be because of the horses. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough. They might be kindred spirits where horses were concerned, but just because she loved them didn’t make her honest—and one Denise in a lifetime was more than enough.

Get to know Mari, yes, but hands off, Simon.

No romancing, no matter how appealing you find her.

“We’ll ride first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “Right now I’m on my way to take a look at one of my Blues who’s off his feed.”

“Mind if I tag along? I know you told me Lucy is a Blue, but I’d like to see another.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t trust my judgment?”

She slanted him a look. “When diagnosing horse ailments or in telling a Blue from a dapple-gray?”

“I can tell vet-visit-serious from layman-treatable. As for Blues—hey, lady, I’m the local expert, as you’re about to find out. Be careful or you’ll hear more about the breed than you care to know.”

Damn, she was easy to be with. This was only the second time they’d met and he felt as if they’d known each other for years. Had to be the horse connection.

“What’s his name?”

It took him a beat to realize she meant the ailing Blue. “Lancelot—the drivers call him Lance.”

“Do you name them all after King Arthur’s knights?”

“Used every one of them.”

“I suppose you’ll rename Lucy something like Elaine the Fair.”

He shook his head. “Not when she already knows the name you gave her.”

Her smile of approval warmed him.

After they’d been to the stable and found Lance already improving, Russ said, “I’ll walk you back to—where you’re staying.” He’d nearly said Haskell’s and hoped she hadn’t picked up on the hesitation. But why should she suspect Russ Simon was a spy?

He knew some considered spying to be exciting and glamorous. Not him. He hated anything that wasn’t aboveboard.

Mari looked away from him. “I’m not ready to go there just yet. I think I’ll wander around and look at the shops for a while.”

It was his cue to tell her he’d see her tomorrow and bow out, but instead he found himself saying, “Why not let an insider help you avoid the worst of the tourist traps?”

She hesitated a moment before replying, “Well, if you insist.”

As they started back toward the main street, he said, “I’ll buy you the very finest of Mackinac Island’s famous fudge. This way.”

“Why is it famous?”

“Ms. Crowley, you mean to tell me you never heard of Mackinac Island fudge?”

“Mr. Simon, this is a long way from Nevada.”

Yes, he thought, just as a Crowley is a long way from being a Haskell.

Without letting her have a taste in the shop, he carried the white bag of fudge down to the park next to Lake Huron and steered her toward a bench, saying, “Your first bite needs to be savored while at rest so you can concentrate on the remarkable flavor.” Only after they sat side by side did he open the bag, break off a piece and raise it to her lips.

When she opened her mouth, his fingers brushed her lower lip as he slid the chocolate inside. He drew his hand back quickly, disturbed by the tingle that ran through him from the brief contact.

Mari did her best to ignore the frisson his touch sent zinging along her nerves. She concentrated instead on the candy. “Umm, yes, it certainly does taste like fudge,” she said.

He laughed. “One for your side.”

She grinned, enjoying how relaxed she felt with him. “We’re counting? I’ll have to remember that. Actually, it’s excellent fudge.”

He dropped the bag onto her lap, saying, “Souvenir T-shirts next?”

Mari shook her head. Even if she’d wanted one, she couldn’t afford to spend the money she had with her unnecessarily. Though she’d recently gotten a credit card strictly for emergencies, Stan didn’t have any. When Mari was ten, Aunt Blanche had cut up the one she shared with Uncle Stan. Her words echoed down the years: Gamblers got no business with that plastic. You go getting us any more in debt and we’ll lose the ranch.

Her uncle was no longer a high roller. Unless—and the thought chilled Mari—unless this entire Haskell business was no more than a scheme of his. A gamble. She shivered.

“Cold?” Russ asked.

“No.” And, no, too, to that disquieting notion about Stan. Her uncle loved her; he wouldn’t do anything like that to her. He might have been a gambler at one time, but he’d never been under-handed.

“The lake breeze isn’t exactly warm,” Russ said.

“I should be getting back,” she told him. There might be word by now about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She ought return to the cottage and find out.

“I’ll walk you—” he began.

“No!” Realizing she’d blurted the word, she added, “I mean, I’d like to be by myself for a while. Thanks for the fudge. I’ll meet you in the morning—where? Here in the park?”

His gaze was frankly assessing, but he didn’t comment other than to say, “Remember where the stable was? I’ll have our horses ready there. Nine?”

“Okay. See you then.” The bag of fudge clutched in her hand, Mari strode away from the park, aware she was all but running, which was foolish. Still, she couldn’t seem to slow down.

Running away from Russ when what she really wanted was to be with him? Yes, but did she want to share her story with him? She could hardly go on meeting him without admitting she was staying at the Haskell cottage. And why would she be doing that when the owner was in a New York hospital? If she was a family friend, wouldn’t Russ expect her to be in New York at Mr. Haskell’s bedside?

She hated to lie. In any case, she’d never been any good at making up believable ones. And, somehow, she didn’t want to lie to Russ at all. Despite their short acquaintance he already felt like a friend.

And maybe a tad more?

Chapter Three

W alking down to the stables the next morning, Mari tried to feel optimistic about what Pauline had told her at breakfast. Mr. Haskell, it seemed, was “holding his own”—whatever that meant. At least he wasn’t worse.

On such a fine morning, brisk, but with the promise of later warmth, it was difficult to feel anything but upbeat. Or was it actually because she was going riding with Russ? A bit of both, Mari told herself. It had been silly not to tell him where she was staying. Maybe he didn’t even know Mr. Haskell. Still, after Mr. Haskell’s dramatic appearance on TV, probably everyone did. Would Russ connect her with the missing Haskell daughter if she told him she was at the cottage?

Mari grimaced, disliking having to be secretive with a man she felt was a friend. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about Russ knowing where she was staying. Besides, the island was so small he’d find out sooner or later, anyway. She might as well tell him herself if the chance came to bring it up casually.

Russ was waiting at the stables with two handsome chestnuts that looked like a matched pair. She tried to tell herself her heart wasn’t racing at the sight of him, and gave him an offhand greeting. “Good-looking pair,” she said, forcing her attention to the horses rather than on him.

“Same sire and dam,” he told her. “My friend Nellis told me they were slated for one of the fancier two-horse surreys, but then Jill balked at having anything with wheels behind her, and Jack refused to be hitched unless Jill was beside him. Since they come from a long line of buggy horses, Nellis was surprised but happy when they turned out to be good riding horses. Genes don’t always run true.”

Mari blinked, unsure if the last few words might not somehow be directed at her. Almost immediately she decided she was way off the mark. He couldn’t possibly know who she was or who she might be. He’s talking about horses and nothing else, you worrier, you, she told herself.

To calm herself, she rubbed Jill’s nose. “You’re a smart mare,” she said. “I wouldn’t like one of those wheeled things rumbling at my heels, either.”

“Just like women to stick together,” Russ observed as he gave her a hand up onto Jill’s back.

“I suppose men don’t?” she countered.

“Independent to the core, all of us.”

She rolled her eyes.

He mounted Jack, saying, “We’ll ride around the island’s perimeter this morning to give you an idea of its size. I’ll save the historical spots and unusual rock formations for later trips. That is, if you’ll be staying around for a few weeks.”

“Uh, maybe.” She hadn’t a clue how long she’d be here. It depended on Mr. Haskell’s health and how soon he might be able to return to the island. After that, who knew?

“Maybe you’ll be here for a couple weeks, or maybe you’ll put up with my company after today?” he asked.

Though very aware of how much she enjoyed being with him, she wasn’t about to tell him that. Slanting him a look, she said, “Both. How far is it around the island?”

“Eight and a half miles.” Letting Jack set an easy pace, Russ led the way from the stables to the lake road that followed the island’s perimeter.

Mari was charmed anew by the lack of motorized vehicles. “It’s like living before they invented the automobile,” she said as she pulled up even with him. “I can’t get over how different it is here.”

He gestured to the left, toward the arched span of the Mackinac Bridge, visible in the distance, connecting Michigan’s Lower and Upper Peninsulas. “That’s as close as cars get to the island. Except for a couple of emergency vehicles, there are none here.”

Mari, watching a sailboat scud along Lake Huron and wishing again she was just a tourist, sighed.

Russ glanced at her. “Something wrong?”

She shook her head, not daring to dare tell him how troubled she felt over why she’d come here. Her birth mother had listed her name as Ida Grant on Mari’s birth certificate. On TV, Mr. Haskell had given his daughter’s name as Isabel and said she might be using Morrison as her last name. Why had Uncle Stan been so sure Ida Grant was Isabel Haskell Morrison? As far as Mari knew, he had no real proof.

As the horses clopped along, Russ pointed out a limestone formation called Devil’s Kitchen. “Not one of the more spectacular. We’ll give it a miss.” Farther on he gestured to a bluff on the right. “Lover’s Leap.”

“We have a few of those in the Sierras,” she said. “I’ve always thought it strange anyone would want to die for love.”

“You ever been in love?”

Had she? With Danny Boy? She’d been infatuated enough at the time, but after the breakup she’d certainly never considered leaping off a cliff because he was gone. Willa insisted her pride had suffered more than her heart. Whatever it was, Mari wouldn’t make the same mistake again. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “How about you?”

He shrugged.

“So you don’t know, either,” she said. “I wonder how anyone can ever be sure about being in love?”

“Could be there’s no such thing.” Pointing again to the right, he said, “There’s where the ill-fated Stonecliff ski hill fiasco was. Lost their shirts. The Island’s not a popular winter resort.”

In other words, enough talk about love. Which was fine with her. Chemistry, now, that was different. How could she not believe in chemistry when just being with Russ gave her a high? But chemistry was definitely not love.

“Up a ways is where the British landed in the War of 1812 and took the island from the U.S. We’ll stop for coffee at the snack shop there.”

“You mean they captured that big fort on the hill overlooking the town?”

He glanced at her. “No matter how well fortified you think you are, remember there’s always the sneak attack that comes from the direction you least expect.”

Remember? Was he simply talking about the British landing or something else? His half smile made her think he might be warning her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him.

At the coffee shop, Russ studied her when she wasn’t watching, acutely aware of her next to him sipping her latte. Sooner or later he was going to have to come to terms with his attraction to her.

“So in 1812 the British flag flew over the island,” she said.

“Actually, the battle was in 1814, near the end of the war. After the peace treaty was signed they had to give the fort back to the U.S.”

She stirred her latte. Without looking at him, she said, “In other words, even a sneak attack may be only temporarily successful.”

“Sometimes temporary is enough.” She shot him a quick glance and he grinned at her. “All’s fair, you know.”

In love and war. The words he didn’t say echoed in his mind. This sure wasn’t love. Since spying was a part of war, you might call it that, though. Why not make a play for her instead of trying to deny what he wanted?

What was he, a male Mata Hari? Did he mean to get her in bed and then expect her to confess she was an impostor? Russ took a swallow of coffee as black as his thoughts.

“I don’t think so,” she said

He didn’t have a clue what she meant, and his expression evidently told her so, because she added, “Maybe all’s fair in war, but when it comes to love, it shouldn’t be. Unfairness has no place there.”

“Not everyone agrees with you,” he said, thinking of Denise. Still, his ex-wife might never have loved him. He wasn’t entirely certain she was capable of love. And how the hell had they got back onto the subject of love, anyway?

It was past time to get on with the spy game. “If you’re free for dinner tonight, why not have it with me?”

“Um, well, I’d like to, but—”

“You wouldn’t condemn me to a meal alone, would you?”

Mari raised an eyebrow. “Poor you, all by your lonesome.”

“You got it. Just me and my Blues.”

“You could have worse company than horses.”

“And better, too. Just tell me where to pick you up.” He waited for her to hesitate, to try to wriggle out of telling him, as she had yesterday.

She surprised him. “I’m staying at the Haskell cottage. Do you know where the house is?”

He nodded. “How is Joe? I heard he was in the hospital.”

“He’s holding his own.”

Russ decided not to push further at the moment. The last thing he needed was for her to get suspicious. His dad was going to try to get Joe to order a blood and DNA test on Mari before he came back to the island, but so far the doctors hadn’t let Joe take any calls, even from his attorney, who was also his best friend. Once the tests were done, Russ’s dad had little doubt they’d prove negative, which would mean Mari could be sent packing and not be around to upset Joe once he returned.

Which was fine. Except that Russ wanted her around awhile longer for his own purposes.

“Seven?” he asked.

She nodded, wondering what she was getting herself into. Riding with him was one thing, dinner another. On the other hand, why shouldn’t she accept his invitation? What was wrong with being with a man she liked? She definitely didn’t want to spend her time moping around the Haskell house, wondering if she belonged there. As for Mr. Haskell, whether he was her grandfather or not, there was nothing she could do for him other than hope and pray he recovered.

As they remounted and continued on around the island, she thought about Russ calling Mr. Haskell by his first name. That was more than she felt free to do. If she were certain he was her grandfather, she might be able to manage Grandpa Joe, but that had yet to be proved.

“Do you know Mr. Haskell well?” she asked.

“My father and he are friends. I’ve known Joe all my life.”

Mari tried to think of a way to ask what he was like, but decided it was best not to. The magazine article she’d read on the plane had been a tad intimidating: “Gruff and forceful, Haskell knows his word is law.”

Belatedly, she realized that if Russ knew him that well, he must know all about the search for Isabel. Did he suspect why Mari was staying at Haskell’s place? If so, he didn’t mention it for the remainder of the ride.

When they reached the stables, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses.”

She shook her head. “I rode Jill. She’s my responsibility.” Dismounting, she led the mare inside.

“What do you think of Mackinac so far?” Russ asked as they busied themselves unsaddling the horses.

“I do love Nevada,” she said, “but this island is addictive. Sometimes I feel I’m lost in a time warp.”

“Reality fades, yes. Can be dangerous.”

She looked up to find herself trapped in his green gaze, making her want to reach out and touch him. Her breath caught as he took a step toward her. For a long, anticipatory moment she thought he meant to kiss her, but then Jack snorted and stamped a hoof and the spell was broken.

Dangerous? she asked herself. You bet your sweet patooties.

After they parted company, Mari decided to look into a few more of the shops before she returned to the house. Though she hadn’t brought much money with her, maybe she could find a dress somewhat more casual than the only one she’d packed. Luckily, her sandals would go with anything. The last shop she went into before climbing the hill to the cottage had a sale rack. Though none of the dresses on it suited her, she found an inexpensive white skirt with a red belt that would look great with the multicolored sandals and one of the shirts she’d brought.

Arriving back at the house, Mari learned there’d been no word about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She decided to take that as meaning he wasn’t getting worse—a positive sign. Neither had there been any calls for her. Not that she’d expected Uncle Stan to call, but it would have been be reassuring to hear his voice. She thought about using her calling card and shook her head. There was nothing to report other than her day with Russ and the fact she was having dinner with him tonight. Her uncle wouldn’t consider that news.

Since no one had told her she shouldn’t wander around the house, she decided to take a tour, starting with the ground floor. She intended to visit the kitchen first, but was distracted when she passed what she took to be Mr. Haskell’s study, where floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined two of the walls. In looking over the titles, she found one shelf devoted to old photograph albums, some bound in plush, others in leather. Some held yellowing photos of old Mackinac, which she examined with interest.

Over the fireplace was a portrait of a young woman who, because of the style of clothes she wore, Mari thought might be Mr. Haskell’s wife, Yvonne, Isabel’s mother. She’d learned from the magazine article that Yvonne had died when Isabel was ten. Peering at her own face in the long narrow mirror on the wall by the study door, she could see no resemblance to Yvonne. Mari didn’t find any pictures of Isabel anywhere.

Turning to leave the study, she noticed Diana, the cook, standing in the hall beyond. “I was waiting to ask if you’d be in for dinner,” the woman said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was on my way to the kitchen to tell you I’d be eating out.” Deciding the cook might be a source of information, Mari said, “I wondered if there might be a portrait of Isabel Haskell somewhere, like the one of her mother in here.”

Diana glanced over her shoulder. Looking for the housekeeper? Mari asked herself, aware that Pauline could be intimidating. “I’m not supposed to know anything,” the cook said in a low tone. “But I heard tell Mr. Haskell had her picture stored in the attic after she ran off to marry that rock drummer. They say Mort Morrison was pretty well-known, but you can’t prove it by me. Anyway, Mr. Haskell’s supposed to have burned all the photos of her. They had one in the papers from where she went to school.”

Mari had seen several newspaper photos of Isabel at age eighteen, with Morrison, but in each, her face was half-hidden by her hand, as though she didn’t want to be recognized. In the school photo, taken with five other girls, Isabel looked to be about twelve. Her face wasn’t clear enough in any of the pictures for Mari to decide one way or the other if they looked anything alike.

“After Mrs. Haskell died, they say little Isabel moped about for a long time,” Diana continued. “Her father was away a lot, a busy man, and she badly missed her mother. They were real close, everyone said.”

“How sad,” Mari murmured. Poor Isabel. While Mari’s own mother—could it have been Isabel?—had died when she was born, at least she’d had loving parents in Aunt Blanche and Uncle Stan.

“Yeah, it was that. Mr. Haskell had to raise her all by himself, and they didn’t get on, by all accounts. They say he was kind of strict with her. Well, I got to get back and check on my pies.”

After Diana was gone, Mari started for the stairs to the second floor, planning to see if she could find a way to climb to the attic. Did she belong in this family? Maybe if she could see that portrait of Isabel she might find some feature that had been passed down to her. Besides the hair. Mr. Haskell had said on TV that Isabel’s hair was “an unusual shade of gold.”

Mari fingered her own short curls. Aunt Blanche had always said she’d been named well, since her hair was close to the color of a marigold. Named well? Mari had never picked up on it before, but could Blanche have meant that her birth mother had named her? The thought gave her goose bumps.

Searching for the attic meant she had to open all the closed doors on the second floor. Since she’d already learned that Pauline’s suite of rooms was on the ground floor and that Diana lived on the island, so didn’t spend nights at the house, Mari didn’t worry that she might be intruding.

Behind one door she saw what had to be Mr. Haskell’s suite, surprisingly austere. Most of the other doors led to guest bedrooms except for one that proved to be the entrance to an upstairs sitting room. She ventured inside, toward French doors to a balcony looking out over the lake. Far below, one of the hydrofoils that ferried folks to the island swished past in a spume of spray that glistened in the late afternoon sun.

Behind the next to last door in the hallway, a winding staircase led upward. Mari peered up it and realized she’d found the way to the cupola, not the attic. She closed the door and tried the last one. Locked. It had to be to the attic. She sighed. Stymied, unless she got up the nerve to ask Pauline for a key.

Not today, Mari decided. It was after five and she still had to shower before dressing for dinner.

Later, after trying three different shirts with the skirt, Mari sat at the wicker vanity table, trying to decide if her red earrings were close enough in color to the red belt to be passable. She scowled at herself, annoyed because she’d taken so much time getting ready. What did it matter, when she wasn’t certain she’d be staying on the island or how Russ felt? It was a sure bet he wasn’t spending an hour and a half getting ready just to impress her.

He didn’t need to. Though she’d only seen him in jeans so far, she knew he’d look just as good in anything he had on. Or didn’t have on? She shook her head, warning herself not to get into that. Wasn’t she in a precarious enough situation already?

Chapter Four

M ari remained upstairs until she heard the doorbell. As she started for the stairs, Pauline’s voice floated up to her. “Why, hello there, Russ, how nice to see you.”

He greeted the housekeeper, then asked after Joe Haskell. When Mari was halfway down the steps, he glanced up, saw her and smiled. “Pauline,” he said, “I’m taking Mari to dinner.”

Pauline’s expression gave nothing away as she said, “I had no idea you two were acquainted.”

“We’re both horse people,” Russ told her, as though that explained everything.

Pauline nodded. “Enjoy your dinner.”

After they were outside, Mari said, “She’s always courteous, but somehow she unnerves me.”

“Who, Pauline? She’s harmless.”

“Maybe so, when you’ve known her as long as you must have.” Mari paused to turn and look back at the house. “There must be a great view from the cupola,” she said.

“Old Joe used to have a telescope up in that round room at the top. Is it still there?”

“I don’t know.”

“You mean you’ve never been up there? When I was a kid I spied on everything with that telescope, pretending I was watching for ore boats.”

“I suppose you were actually watching girls.”

“What else?” He handed her up into a one-horse buggy, got in beside her and clicked to the horse.

She’d already noticed he was wearing casual slacks with an olive polo shirt, the color turning his green eyes opaque. Unreadable. Which did nothing to alter his attractiveness. She could almost hear Willa warning her, “Handsome is as handsome does.” But to date everything Russ had done qualified as handsome, as far as Mari was concerned.

“You clean up well,” he told her, his gaze taking in everything from her sandals to her red earrings. “Nothing to spice up an evening like a buggy ride with a pretty girl beside you.”

“This is my first buggy ride.”

“I can guarantee it won’t be your last.”

He meant because she was on the island, she told herself, not anything more personal. She couldn’t expect him to spend all his time with her.

As the horse clip-clopped down the hill toward town, Mari wished she could ask him about the Haskell family. He was too young to have been a contemporary of Isabel’s, but he must have heard about her. But Mari feared to bring up the subject because he then might connect her stay at Joe Haskell’s with the missing Isabel. What if she wasn’t Isabel’s daughter? What would he think of her then?

She’d come here expecting to meet the man who might be her grandfather and go through whatever tests he might wish her to have as proof that they were related. That would take maybe a week, she’d figured. But now everything was up in the air, leaving her in limbo.

“I do hope Mr. Haskell is soon well enough to come home,” she said.

“We all do. Hope you like fish.”

She blinked. “Fish?”

“My choice of restaurant for tonight serves the best Lake Superior whitefish I’ve ever eaten.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever tasted whitefish, but I do like fish in general.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.