“Charlotte, I’m going to have to kiss you.”

Alarm kicked in at Gray’s words, and she backed up, feeling the rustle of leaves. “What?”

His laugh was gone, his eyes intent on her face as one long step brought him close enough to crowd her. “You’re gutsy about everything but me.”

“Maybe I’m just not interested.” She was dismayed to hear her voice emerge too high, betraying panic or desperation. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Hmm.” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Why don’t we find out?”

She was dizzy, from the heat, from the thick air, from the frantic pace of her pulse. Would it be so terrible to find out what it felt like to be kissed by Gray?

Yes. She was terribly afraid that the answer was yes. But she’d never yet backed away from an accusation of cowardice, and she wouldn’t do it now.

Be honest. You don’t want to back away.

About the Author

The author of more than sixty books for children and adults, JANICE KAY JOHNSON writes novels about love and family—about the way generations connect and the power our earliest experiences have on us throughout life. A former librarian, Janice raised two daughters in a small rural town north of Seattle, Washington. She loves to read and is an active volunteer and board member for Purrfect Pals, a no-kill cat shelter.

Dear Reader,

Here’s one of those subjects fun to debate: are we the products of our childhood, or are we biologically driven to become who we are? Hmm. After raising two daughters of my own and countless litters of kittens (I’m an active volunteer with a no-kill cat shelter), I’ve come firmly down smack dab in the middle on the nature vs. nurture debate. Of course our childhoods influence us profoundly! And yet, there’s simply no question that children—and kittens—are born already predisposed to be timid or adventurous, thoughtful or impetuous, ready to be happy or suspicious of every new face. Twins, now … Especially identical twins … Shouldn’t they not only have the next best thing to an identical upraising while also being predisposed to have the same nature? But does it ever work like that?

Charlotte and Faith are not much alike at all. They share a powerful bond, and yet have spent years estranged because Faith desperately needs to be close while Charlotte, equally desperately, needs to know that she is unique. Only Charlotte’s homecoming will save Faith’s life … and free Charlotte to love.

Just like the lives of any twins, their stories are entangled and neither could be told entirely alone. So look for Faith’s book, Through the Sheriff’s Eyes, next month. Having two whole books to explore the characters and the men they love was great fun, too!

Happy reading,

Janice Kay Johnson

Charlotte’s

Homecoming

Janice Kay Johnson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my daughters, Sarah and Katie,

both smart, creative, caring young women

who make me proud every day.

CHAPTER ONE

FAITH WAS WAITING IN THE gas station parking lot when the Airporter pulled in. Charlotte saw her right away, leaning against her Blazer, almost as battered as Dad’s pickup, and for the same reason—it was a working vehicle. The fact that Faith—slender, graceful and feminine—would drive something like that suggested to Charlotte that she no longer knew her sister.

And why would she? It had been ten years since they’d graduated from high school and went off to college in different parts of the country, and they’d barely seen each other in all that time.

They both knew it wasn’t home Charlotte had been running from for so long. It was her sister.

For reasons she still didn’t understand, from the moment she was old enough to recognize that she was not unique, she had hated having an identical twin.

She’d rather not be here now, but she hadn’t been able to say no when her sister had called the day before. Faith had sounded … ragged. This was a woman who’d managed to look and sound serene to everyone, including her father and sister, during the two years her husband was emotionally and physically abusing her. It made Charlotte angry to this day that Faith had put up with so much for so long, and that she hadn’t told anyone.

When Charlotte had asked what was wrong, her sister gave a funny, choked laugh. “What isn’t? No, I shouldn’t say that. Dad and I are alive and … not well, but not dying, either.”

“You’re not exactly reassuring me,” she’d said.

“No. Char, the tractor overturned on Dad.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered.

“He’s … pretty badly hurt. Just bones and. I mean, he’ll be okay, he doesn’t have a head injury or major internal damage, but he’s in traction because one leg and his pelvis were just, um, crushed….” Faith’s breath hitched, and she fell silent. Charlotte could hear her breathing. “You know he hasn’t been himself since Mom died.”

Charlotte closed her eyes. “Yes.”

“I’m trying to keep the farm going, but with us in the middle of switching over to the nursery and gift shop and what have you, the only crop we’re raising for sale is corn.”

Charlotte knew that, too, but only because she’d been told. She’d last been home at Christmas, when the fields would have been mere stubble no matter what crop her dad had sowed the spring before. What Faith was telling her, Charlotte understood, was that the gift shop and nursery, both works in progress, were all that brought in any income—except, of course, for Faith’s salary as a kindergarten teacher.

“So I’m off for the summer, but …” Faith’s soft voice stumbled again. “I’m having a really hard time keeping up. And, well, I don’t know if I told you that Rory started coming around a few months ago.”

Rory Hardesty was Faith’s bastard of an ex-husband, a local boy who’d seemed to be the solid young man Faith sought until just after she married him. After the marriage was over, she’d confessed that his temper had begun to simmer within the first few months.

Charlotte tensed. “No. You didn’t tell me.”

“It’s not a big deal, mostly. He didn’t like the divorce.”

Faith was supposed to stay under his thumb and let herself be terrorized into submission.

“But it was final over a year ago.”

“I heard he dated a lot the first few months. I guess he figured he’d make me jealous. Lately, I think he’s drinking pretty heavily.”

“He comes over when he’s drunk?”

“Not most of the time. Mostly he stops by pretending to be friendly. He says he’s sorry for losing his temper a couple of times. He’s expecting … hoping, I guess, that I’ll take him back.”

Faith had been reluctant to tell her the details, but Charlotte knew damn well that Rory had lost his temper a hell of a lot more often than a “couple” of times.

“But lately, I think he has been drinking sometimes when he comes by. He hasn’t exactly threatened me, but …”

Charlotte was gripping the phone so hard her fingers ached. “But …?”

Her sister said, very softly, “I’m scared, Char. Especially with Dad still in the hospital.”

And Faith alone at the farm, with no near neighbors.

“I don’t like to ask … I mean, getting time off work probably isn’t easy, and coming home isn’t exactly what you want to do with your vacation time, but …”

“I was laid off.”

This silence was startled. “You lost your job?”

“Last week. Big surprise, with the state of the economy. OpTech laid off a third of their work force. Including me.” She’d spent the past week brooding. Sleeping in. Gorging on premium chocolate-mint ice cream. Trying not to wonder how long her savings would pay the mortgage on her San Francisco condominium, never mind buy groceries. Software designers made good money, but she hadn’t set as much aside as she should have. Living in the Bay Area was expensive.

More silence. Her sister didn’t have to ask why she hadn’t called to tell her dearly beloved family. Charlotte had been keeping her distance for too many years now.

No—she’d had no choice at all but to come home.

Seeing Faith now, leaning nonchalantly there in jeans and a T-shirt, her blond hair in a loose braid that fell over her breast, caused an uncomfortable ripple in Charlotte’s sense of self. Visits home always did, which was one reason she didn’t make more of them.

When she stepped off the Airporter, Faith’s eyes widened. “Look at you,” she murmured, then smiled shakily and stepped forward. The next moment, the two women were holding each other tight. “I’ve missed you,” Faith said, and Charlotte said, “You should have called sooner,” although truthfully she didn’t know how she would have responded, had she still held a job.

They parted and studied each other. Charlotte knew what her sister saw: short, sleek, dark hair, two earrings in one lobe and three climbing the other, and a face that was too thin and yet still looked disquietingly like her sister’s despite all her effort to make sure it didn’t.

Except for that first “Look at you,” Faith didn’t comment on Charlotte’s appearance. Instead, she helped load her luggage into the truck and then said, “Do you want to stop by the hospital before we go home?”

Charlotte nodded. “Yes, please.”

Her father was asleep when they walked into his hospital room. He was in the first bed, separated by a curtain from the other bed and the window and any hope of sunshine. Her immediate thought was that he had shrunk. Except for the cast and leg slung up in traction, he didn’t seem to have enough bulk underneath the covers. Seeing that, she had a terrible spasm of guilt. He’d aged so much since Mom had died, and she’d hardly noticed.

His eyes opened and she waited while he focused slowly. The dyed hair, new since Christmas, didn’t seem to throw him off. “Char.” He had to clear a scratchy throat. “I’m sorry you had to come home because of this.” He waved toward his leg.

Her eyes blurred, but she smiled for his sake. “I’m sorry you were hurt, but glad to be needed. Did Faith tell you I lost my job?”

He nodded.

“I was feeling sorry for myself. I’m happy to be home.”

“Good,” he said. His hand groped for hers and squeezed hard, still strong. “Good.”

He had to push a button to call the nurse then for his pain meds, and afterward they talked a little but his eyes kept drifting shut. Finally, Charlotte kissed his stubbly cheek and she and Faith left.

Not until they were walking across the parking lot did she say, “He looks … old. And he’s only, what, fifty-seven?”

“Fifty-nine,” her sister corrected her.

Ashamed that she couldn’t even remember how old her own father was, Charlotte said, “Fifty-nine isn’t old.”

“No.” Expression unhappy, Faith unlocked the Blazer. “Since Mom died … I swear Dad has aged four or five years for every one. Maybe, if keeping the farm going hadn’t been such a struggle, too …” She stopped; didn’t have to finish. If he’d had anything to be glad about, instead of having to deal with his wife’s tragic, unnecessary death, his daughter’s ugly divorce, his other daughter’s increasing distance and the prospect of losing the family farm—if, if, if—he might not look so old.

While some of the fault was hers, Charlotte knew, most of it wasn’t. Losing Mom, that was at the heart of her father’s grief, as was the prospect of losing … not just his livelihood, the farm was more than that—it was his heritage, too.

Well, that’s what she’d come home for: to help Faith try to salvage that heritage and livelihood both. She had no idea whether it was possible. She’d start by helping keep her sister safe.

Let that son-of-a-bitch Rory stop by when I’m around, she thought fiercely. Just let him.

IT WAS IMPULSE THAT MADE Gray Van Dusen flick on his signal and make the turn onto the bumpy, hard-packed ground in front of the main barn on the Russell farm. The property held several smaller outbuildings, including a detached garage and a traditional two-story farmhouse painted a pale yellow with white trim. The farm wasn’t riverfront—the Stillaguamish looped lazily through the flat valley on the other side of the highway—but it was good land, enriched by centuries of flooding. A man standing here could see the Cascade Mountain foothills to the east and the forested bluff to the north.

A shiny, red monster pickup had pulled in not far ahead of him, raising a cloud of dust that settled on his Prius.

Damn it, he’d washed his car yesterday with his own two hands.

Agriculture was a dying business here in the Stillaguamish River Valley. Farms were too small to compete with agribusiness and, as crop prices continued to drop, local farmers were selling their land to developers. The Russells were more stubborn than most. Their farm, with the big old barn, several outbuildings and a traditional farmhouse, was advantageously placed on the swoop of highway that led from Interstate 5 into the town of West Fork, Washington. These last couple of years, Don Russell and his daughter Faith had begun a conversion from real farming to a seasonal corn maze, pumpkin farm, antique shop, plant nursery and who the hell knew what else.

Gray suspected that the initiative had come from Faith. Don Russell was a taciturn man who, rumor had it, had changed after the death of his wife four years ago. No one thought he would have done battle against the inevitable had one of his two daughters not been so determined to hang on to the family farm.

Gray didn’t know the truth of any of this; he couldn’t claim to have exchanged more than half a dozen words with Russell. Faith was another matter. He’d taken her out to dinner twice a few months back—once because they were both single and she was pretty, the second time to verify the absence of any spark between them. As far as he was concerned, Faith Russell was a nice woman. He wasn’t opposed to nice, but she carried it a little too far. He didn’t want to have to be on his best manners for the rest of his life.

Her SUV was parked by the house, her father’s pickup by the barn. The newcomer pulled in beside it, and a man in tight jeans and cowboy boots got out and swaggered inside without even turning his head to see who was following him.

Gray parked and went into the barn, too, then waited for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight.

The cavernous interior had been carved into aisles and rooms by rough-hewn wood shelving units. Overhead, huge beams and crosspieces held up the roof. A swallow flitted from one beam to another. Perhaps she’d raised a spring brood up there. The doors on the far side of the barn were wide open, letting sunlight stream in and leading to the outside nursery. To Gray’s right, half of the barn was devoted to gardening implements, seeds, bagged manure and garden art. To his left, the other half held an organic produce section, and beyond that the antiques. In the center of it all stood a broad counter where homemade jams and jellies were displayed, as well as an old-fashioned cash register.

The only two people in here, besides Gray, were the woman behind the counter and the guy who’d planted himself in front of it, legs apart and his thumbs hooked in his jeans’ pockets.

“What in the hell have you done with yourself?” he asked explosively.

The woman—Faith … no, not Faith, Gray realized in surprise—gave the guy a look, a flash of vivid blue eyes.

“Had a makeover,” she said, not smiling.

“You look like a whore,” the jackass sneered. “What’re you trying to prove, punchin’ holes in yourself?”

“My reasons had nothing to do with you.” She leaned forward, her voice low, almost a hiss. “Rory, wife beaters aren’t welcome on our land. Consider this a warning. I’ll call the cops if you trespass again. Clear?”

From the shadows near the entrance, Gray saw the shoulders bunch and heard a string of obscenities, followed by single name, spat out with venom. “Char.” A shrug. “Figures. You’ll be gone soon enough. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” He leaned forward. “This is between Faith and me. Stay out of it.”

“Nope.” She reached for the telephone that lay on the counter. “Get out of here, Rory. I mean it.”

The jackass started forward, not back. Gray cleared his throat. Aware he was imposing enough to give the SOB pause, he strolled farther into the barn. Rory spun around, glared at him, snarled, “I’ll be back,” and strode toward the open door, his shoulder, not so accidentally, bumping Gray’s on the way.

“Last warning,” she called after him.

He flipped her off without looking back, then disappeared. The angry roar of the big engine was followed by a swirl of dust that wafted even inside the barn.

“Nice guy,” Gray remarked.

She gave a short, sharp laugh and took her hand away from the phone. “Oh, yeah. And getting nicer all the time.”

He raised his brows. Wife beater? Had Faith been married to that bastard?

She ignored his open curiosity and said conventionally, “May I help you?”

“Faith mentioned she had a sister.”

She hadn’t said how startlingly similar that sister looked. Both women were taller than average—perhaps five foot seven or eight—and willowy. This sister was thinner yet, though, as if she lived on coffee and nerves but very little food. Her skin was very white, her cheekbones prominent, her nose long and her eyes the blue of a Siamese cat’s. Bluer than Faith’s, he thought, but perhaps the color was more vivid because of the fire in these eyes. Faith’s were the blue of a placid pond rather than the startling blue of the twilight sky above the pyrotechnics of the setting sun.

“Should she have mentioned you?” Faith’s sister asked.

He smiled. “Nothing to mention. We’re acquainted.” He held out his hand. “Gray Van Dusen.”

She shook, even as she seemed to be sampling his name. “Gray … Not Graham?”

“Graham,” he conceded, letting her hand go with some reluctance, “although I answer to Gray.” Did she have any idea how much tension and vitality she’d conveyed, just with that simple grip of her hand?

“The new mayor of West Fork.”

“That would be me. Also a partner in Van Dusen and Cullen, Architects.”

“Part-time mayor, part-time architect.” She sounded amused.

“More like full-time mayor, full-time architect,” Gray admitted ruefully. “There’s not enough of me to go around.”

“And yet you’re here to shop for a new shrub or a hundred-year-old dining-room table or, hmm, some blackberry jam?” With the same slender, pale hand he’d enfolded earlier in his own, she lifted a jar from the display and held it out in offering.

Faith’s hands did not look like that. They were just as slender and graceful, but also tanned, calloused and nicked.

“Thank you, but no. I actually stopped by to tell Faith that I’m sorry to hear about the accident. And, ah, to talk about traffic.”

Her eyes widened. “Traffic? In West Fork?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Maybe not. Faith did say that West Fork is becoming a bedroom community for the east side.” She set down the jam jar. “I’m Charlotte. As you can tell, Faith’s sister.”

He wondered at the wryness in her tone. Had she, once upon a time, played second fiddle to Faith? He simply couldn’t imagine, even if Charlotte was the younger.

“He called you Char. Do you go by that?”

“Mostly with family. Rory is Faith’s ex, in case you hadn’t gathered as much.”

“Seems like a real son of a bitch,” Gray murmured.

Her voice hardened. “That’s how I think of him. Um … this conversation about traffic. Faith’s up at the house. Shall I call her?”

He shook his head. “We can have it another time. I stopped on impulse.” Following another impulse, he grabbed a different jar of jam. “I prefer blueberry.”

Charlotte Russell smiled at him, and he was jolted down to the soles of his feet. “My first chance to use the cash register.”

This woman was a mass of contradictions. That smile, a little sassy but essentially sweet, didn’t go with the ice-cold anger she’d used to deal with Rory, the wife beater. If he hadn’t been intrigued before, she had him now.

Almost at random, Gray asked, “Do you know how?”

“I’m an expert. I worked at Tastee’s while I was in high school.”

Like everyone in West Fork, he drove up to the outside window of Tastee’s for a burger and fries now and again, or went in for an ice-cream cone. Now amused, he said, “You wore that striped top and the stupid little white hat?”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t tell you how much I hated that hat. Still, it was a job. Faith,” she told him, “picked strawberries summers. I wouldn’t have been caught dead doing that.”

He took out his wallet and paid for the jam, then nodded toward the bright outline of the door. “Walk me out?”

“Why not.” She came around the counter, and he saw that below a filmy white, short-sleeved blouse, she wore an aqua-colored, airy, linen skirt that flowed over her hips and thighs and stopped midcalf. Below that, flip-flops bared red-painted toenails. Seeing his gaze, she waved vaguely at her clothes and said, “I flew up here this morning. Haven’t had time to change into jeans.”

“From where?”

“San Francisco.”

“Are you younger, or older?”

The blue eyes flared. “You can’t tell?”

He stopped just outside and faced her. “Tell what?”

“We’re twins.” She was trying to wipe all expression out of her voice but didn’t quite succeed. “Identical twins.”

“Are you?” Assessing her again, Gray automatically put aside the pang he felt whenever he heard the word twin. “I knew right away that you weren’t Faith.”

“Gee. Black hair? Earrings?” She tugged mockingly at one lobe.

He shrugged. “Rory couldn’t.”

“That’s because he’s too self-centered to look very hard at anyone but himself.”

Gray suppressed a smile. “You’re thinner.”

She glanced down at herself. “I guess so. Faith has some muscle tone—she works hard here. I’m just bony. Despite the chocolate-mint ice cream.”

He let that pass. “What’s inside affects how we look. You and Faith aren’t that much alike, are you?”

Charlotte stared at him, her eyes curiously vulnerable. He had the sense that he’d stunned her.

“No. We could … pass for each other, when we were younger, but inside …” She sighed. “Faith has a gift for serenity that I don’t.”

“You seem … stronger,” he chose to say, instead of telling her she had a fire her sister lacked.

But she was shaking her head before he finished. “No. She was here for Mom and Dad, she withstood an awful marriage, she’s fighting to save the farm—and, so far, winning. Me, I had a job and a condo and no one else to worry about. In comparison to me, Faith is an Amazon.”

He picked the most important three words out of this speech. “No one else?”

She flushed, and he smiled. Good, he thought.

Then he wondered at her choice of verb tense. Had implied that she no longer had a job, or perhaps the condo. Or both.

“How long do you plan to be here?” he asked.

“I don’t know. Depends how quick Dad recovers, how much of a nuisance Rory turns out to be.”

Gray frowned. “Has Faith called the police or tried to get a protection order?”

Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t think so. We’ll talk about it.” She eyed him. “Is this traffic thing something I should know about?”

“Depends how involved you get with the farm. I’m just worrying about your customers pulling out right onto the highway, especially on this curve here. Somebody misjudges distance or speed, and we’ll have multiple fatalities.”

“What do you suggest?” she shot back. “We sell the farm? You know a housing development will replace it. Then you’ll have that traffic to contend with.”

“Developers,” he pointed out, “are required to mitigate traffic problems. Maybe pay for a left-turn lane, and to add one to give cars pulling out room to accelerate.”

“We can’t afford anything like that.” She stared him down. “Why don’t you go to the state and ask for a lower speed limit, or a center lane?”

“Because that would take years, expensive studies and bureaucratic obstacles beyond either of our imaginations. Meantime, people are going to die.”

“You don’t want us running a retail business right off the highway.”

“I’m not happy about it.” Or about alienating her before he’d even had a chance to ask her to dinner. “I’ve got a couple of ideas, though.”

She gave her head a quick shake. “You’ll want to talk to Faith, then. With Dad so woozy, she’s the decision-maker. I’m here to be a minion.”

His mouth quirked. “A minion?”

“Yeah, you know. A helper. A floor-mopper, cashier. I suspect she’ll have me making jam and driving the tractor before I know it. A nurse, too, I suppose, when Dad comes home.” She made a face at that. “Although Faith would be much better at nursing than I would.”

“Because of her gift for serenity.”

“And my impatience with my fellow human beings.”

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

“Design software.” She pressed her lips together, opened them as if to say something else, then decided not to.

A solitary occupation. He wondered what kind of software she designed. Word processing? Financial? Something arcane that made computers run faster or repelled viruses? Games?

Probably not games.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw that a van was pulling in. A family would shortly be spilling out of it.

“Nice to meet you, Charlotte Russell,” he said with a nod. “I’ll see you again soon.”

For the first time, her expression seemed to turn shy. Her tone, in contrast, was flip. “Like I told you, Faith’s the one you want to talk to.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I think I’d enjoy talking to you.”

She gave him a look that, if he wasn’t mistaken, held alarm.

The van came to a stop. When the side door slid open, at least four kids scrambled out, as well as two women from the front seats.

She said only, “I’ll tell Faith you were here,” and greeted the customers, leading the way into the barn.

Not until Gray was alone did he say softly, “Faith’s not the one I want.”

Want, he thought, was a mild word for what he felt for a woman he’d barely met. One who was prickly in personality and too skinny. He’d liked how fierce she had been in her sister’s defense, but her smile was what had really gotten to him. Her smile, and the vulnerability he’d seen in her eyes.

But he’d seen plenty of beautiful smiles, and had met his share of women who looked as if they needed somebody to take care of them. So why, this time, did he feel as if he’d been sucker punched?

Frowning, he got in his car. By the time he backed out, he was already thinking about how soon he could stop by the Russell farm again.

CHAPTER TWO

FAITH SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE cutting circles out of calico fabric, each of which would dress up a jar of jam or jelly. Her scissors followed the lines she’d traced on the fabric with a quilter’s marker, using a saucer as the pattern. The fabric would be held taut across the top of the jar, then flare into a ruffle below the ring. The work to make the Russell Family Farm jams and jellies look fancier—more worthy of gift-giving—was worth it, she thought.

Out of the corner of her eye she watched Char use tongs to lift sterilized jars from a large pot of boiling water. Raspberry jam bubbled on the other larger burner. She’d looked aghast when Faith tried to give her the job of cutting fabric.

“Don’t you remember what a disaster I made out of every sewing project I ever tried?”

“Um … yes.” Faith actually had forgotten. Although how, she couldn’t imagine. The apron Char had once made Mom for Christmas had been … Well. She cleared her throat. “This is just tracing and cutting.”

Backing away from the proffered fabric yardage Faith had held in outstretched hands, Char said firmly, “I’d a thousand times rather make jam.”

The Russells had hardly ever bought fruit or vegetables; they grew and preserved their own. By the time the girls were ten years old, they could can green beans or whip up a batch of apple jelly or blackberry jam without supervision. Faith had always been more eager to learn chores like that—she’d liked just about everything to do with farm life better than her sister had. But, obviously, the lessons had stuck even for Char, who’d been able to jump in without hesitation this morning, leaving her sister to water potted plants in the nursery and then start the finicky work of tracing circles.

It was wretchedly hot today, and even with windows standing open and a rotating fan running nonstop, it was at least ninety degrees in the kitchen. Poor Char, who had gotten sunburned yesterday helping pick the berries, had lost all resemblance to the chic urban woman who had arrived two days ago. Despite the fact that she wore only shorts and a tank top, she was sweating and kept having to reach for a kitchen towel to wipe her face. Her hair poked up in damp tufts and stuck to her forehead and temples. Forget makeup. She hadn’t bothered with earrings this morning, either.

She was trying; Faith had to give her that. No, the fact that she was here at all was amazing enough.

Be grateful for that.

Faith was trying, too—to be grateful, that is. She was trying not to hate the fact that Char could hardly stand to look at her.

Char was handling this stay she’d felt obliged to make by sticking to business. They talked about Dad and how they’d take care of him once he came home, about the corn grown almost tall enough to open the maze to the public, about how much jam would sell and about whether they could afford to increase the hours of the teenage girl Faith had recently hired to help out part-time.

And Rory. Char wanted to talk about him, too. Faith was the one sliding away from that conversation because she knew perfectly well that Char would want to take action that Faith didn’t believe was justified. It wasn’t as though she still loved him; he’d killed anything she’d once felt for him a long time ago, but she did have memories of the Rory she once had loved. And he’d give up eventually on his own, wouldn’t he? When he couldn’t get a rise out of her either way?

But that was one of the many ways she and Charlotte differed. Char’s instinct was always to come up swinging. Literally, when they were kids—Char was the only girl at their elementary school who was called in to the principal’s office not just once, but twice for brawling. Both times she was defending Faith, who hadn’t seen any need for defense.

Char, she knew, would have booted Rory out on his butt the first time he questioned why she was late and who she’d been talking to. She wouldn’t have waited until he hit her, and she’d never have given him second and third and fourth and fifth chances. In Rory’s case, Char would have been right. As it turned out, he hadn’t deserved any of those chances. But people often did, in Faith’s experience, so was it really so awful that she’d wanted to believe in the man she had loved?

She should try to articulate how she felt to her sister. After all, she was the one who had begged Char to come and who had admitted that Rory scared her. But Charlotte-at-a-distance and Charlotte-actually-here were not at all the same sister. It was a little like the way Faith saw Rory, as if he were a layer of transparencies on the overhead projector in her classroom, and she could peel a few off and there would be the Rory she’d first known.

The Charlotte she’d first known was her twin. Her other half. They’d curled in the womb together, slept side by side in the same crib, shared toys and clothes and their mother’s arms. They’d never needed words to understand each other.

Which made it all the sadder that now they needed words and couldn’t bring themselves to speak them.

She had never understood why Char had hated having an identical twin. Faith only felt whole when Charlotte was near. They reflected each other, yes, but they each had their own strengths and weaknesses. They complemented each other.

That’s not how Char felt about it. It was as if … as if Faith’s very existence lessened her. One of Faith’s earliest memories was of Charlotte screaming and struggling because Mom was trying to make her wear the pretty pink parka that was just like Faith’s. They couldn’t have been more than three years old. Charlotte had howled, over and over again, “I won’t! It’s hers! I won’t!” The scene was colored, in Faith’s memory, by her own bewilderment.

Somehow, Faith always forgot. Each time her sister came home, she expected that they would read each others’ minds from the first glance, not be unable to meet each other’s eyes.

Wouldn’t you think that after all these years, she would have gotten over it? Faith thought. Moved on? It was her own fault that it hurt so much every time Char came home and Faith saw again how much her sister wished they weren’t twins. Maybe even that the egg had remained undivided and only one of them had been born in the first place.

What was, was.

She stared blindly down at the scissors she held in her hand.

Why have I spent a lifetime feeling as if she’s a necessary part of who I am, while all she’s ever wanted is to amputate the part of her that’s me?

The great, unanswerable question.

She jumped up. “Why did I ever think decorating jars of jam was a good idea? Ugh. Let me help you.”

Her twin actually grinned at her. “Yeah, why did you? And pretty please—I’m losing control here.”

Ridiculously warmed by the flash of camaraderie, Faith took the tongs from her hand and said, “Do something about the jam. It looks like lava about ready to head for the sea.”

“Boy, this is fun,” Charlotte muttered—but not as if she really minded spending the day in the hot kitchen with her sister.

She’d be foolish to hope for too much, Faith cautioned herself. Every time Charlotte came home, Faith let herself imagine that this time they might rediscover the bond that had tied them together as children despite Char’s discomfiture. This time, Char might open herself to her sister, decide they could be friends at least.

But Faith had been hoping for a long time, and it hurt to be disappointed. Char was here out of a sense of obligation, that was all, and expecting more was asking to be hurt once again.

Faith had sworn, when she left Rory, that she’d never invite that kind of pain again.

So don’t.

THE TEMPERATURE NEVER USED TO get up into the nineties, not when she’d lived here. Summers had just plain gotten hotter. As humid as it was in the Puget Sound area, today had been close to unendurable. Thank God for indoor plumbing—Charlotte had taken three showers today—and for nightfall. It didn’t stay hot at night here summers the way it did in, say, Chicago where Charlotte had landed her first postgrad job.

It was now past midnight, and she’d tried turning out the light and going to bed, but sleep was eluding her.

Why she hadn’t tumbled onto her bed at 8:00 p.m. and conked out, she had no idea. Well, not at eight—in August, the sun didn’t set until nine-thirty or so and she’d never been able to sleep with daylight outside the window. On the other hand, she hadn’t worked this hard physically in ten years or more, and she should be exhausted.

She was, in one way—she hurt. Having made a habit out of hitting the gym at least four days a week, she’d kidded herself that she was in decent shape. Ha! Not. The damn sunburn wasn’t helping, and it was her own fault. Charlotte had forgotten how white her skin was. Sunburn wasn’t much of a problem in the foggy Bay Area, especially since a half-hour jog was about the longest she was ever outside.

But aside from the physical aches and pains, she felt weirdly energized by the past couple of days. It seemed hard work suited her, or at least that she’d needed some to pull her out of the funk she’d been in when Faith called. Picking berries, weeding the perennial beds that wrapped the barn and making jam had seemed so … real, compared to what she did normally with her life. She’d been ridiculously proud of what she had wrought, when she admired the rows and rows of jars sitting on the kitchen countertop. She was going to enjoy selling her jam.

Too bad she hadn’t made any blueberry.

She was too smart to waste a thought on Gray Van Dusen, part-time mayor, part-time architect. But she kept doing it anyway.

He was a good architect, according to Faith, and probably a good mayor, although he hadn’t been on the job long enough yet to have gotten far with West Fork’s many problems. He was also an incredibly sexy man, which was why she kept having to nudge him out of her head.

He wasn’t her usual type, which was a thin, intense geek. Funny, because even in high school that was her type. Jocks so didn’t interest her.

Gray would have been a jock. Although, in fairness, she suspected he was exceptionally smart, too. He was … not huge, but probably six feet tall or so, broad-shouldered and lean in the way of a man who probably ran for exercise, maybe still played fast-pitch or basketball but wasn’t interested in the tedium of weight lifting. His hair was just a little longer than she suspected some of his constituents would like, a brown that was streaked bronze and gold by the sun. Calm, gray eyes—what else, considering his name? A face that should have been ordinary-handsome, but was somehow more than that, maybe because his nose looked like it had been broken at some point, maybe because of those hooded eyes that were thoughtful but also tinged with humor. She didn’t see Mayor Van Dusen as being volatile. He’d be the kind to mull over his options for a good long while before he made decisions.

And stubborn. She just knew he’d be stubborn. The traffic thing, according to Faith, was an example. He’d made three visits now to discuss it, including one yesterday. Charlotte had seen him walking into the barn and had slipped out the back. Instinct had told her to evade him, jolting her into motion before she even knew what or whom she was running from.

It was just common sense, she told herself. Letting herself be attracted to a man in West Fork wasn’t logical, considering how short her stay was likely to be.

She probably hadn’t had to bother slipping out today. If he’d had traffic on his mind, it was Faith he wanted anyway, not her. But somehow, she didn’t quite believe he’d been motivated to stop by the Russell farm a second day in a row because he was determined to talk about cars merging onto Highway 519. No, he’d been interested in her. The way he’d gently suggested she walk him out to his car, and she’d obliged without a second thought … If she gave him any toehold at all, he’d be as relentless as a tiny, ceaseless drip of water that eventually hollowed out granite.

Which was why she was not going to think about him, and would continue to slip out one door when he came in the other. He’d get the message, and she wouldn’t have to bother for long.

Without turning on her bedroom light, Charlotte got out of bed, slipped on the shorts she’d worn that evening and groped with her toes for her flip-flops. Because of the heat, she’d worn panties and a tank top to bed, so she was now decent. She had a sudden craving to step outside, savor the cool night air, maybe walk away from the house, listen to the silence, and tip her head back to see the stars in a way she never could in a city.

Home smelled different, too. So, okay, part of what she’d smell was manure, but that beat automobile exhaust, didn’t it?

Faith’s bedroom was right across the hall, where it had been ever since they’d turned ten and Charlotte had insisted on having her own room. Faith, she’d known, was unhappy when she moved out and started shutting her bedroom door, but she had needed that space and privacy with a desperation she couldn’t explain, that felt like a fever reaching dangerous heights. She hadn’t wanted to hurt Faith, but she would if that was the only way she could separate herself. She’d been as miserable as if they were conjoined, condemned to share a life unless they chose the huge risk of surgical sunderance. Charlotte had read up on identical twins when she was eight or nine, and she remembered staring with fascination and horror at pictures of conjoined twins.

I could not bear it, she’d thought, and meant it.

She would have chosen in a heartbeat to have the surgery to divide them, even if she didn’t survive it. Her need had been that great, and that irrational.

Today was the first time in years that she could remember talking to Faith and laughing and forgetting, for moments at a time, that they were more than just sisters. She’d looked at Faith’s face without seeing a reflection of her own.

Maybe, at last, her efforts to define herself were working. Or maybe she had just put aside her discomfiture because Faith—and Dad—needed her.

And maybe, she thought with a twinge, it had something to do with Gray Van Dusen, who had been surprised when she told him she and Faith were identical twins.

You and Faith aren’t that much alike, are you?

No, she had thought sadly; Faith’s the strong one, and I’m the coward. Running, always running.

What she didn’t know was where she thought she was going. Just lately, it was a question she’d begun to ask herself. A need for the answer just might be one reason she hadn’t started job hunting more aggressively.

From long habit, she skipped the third step from the bottom, which always squeaked. Not that she was sneaking out, exactly, but she was in a solitary mood.

She’d put her questions out of her mind, too. Right now, she didn’t want to think about why she felt something was missing from the life she’d carved for herself. She just wanted to be.

Rather than go out the front door, which looked toward the highway, Charlotte went through the kitchen. Rows and rows of jars still sat along the countertop, the glass reflecting glints of moonlight falling through the kitchen windows. Without turning on the overhead or porch light, she stepped out the back door, the screen door creaking as she let it snap shut behind her.

The night air was as cool as she’d hoped, but with her first breath, she smelled smoke. Her head turned sharply. What was burning? Even as she hurried toward the corner of the house, her mind tried to find a good reason for a midnight fire. A woodstove? Not on a hot August day. Slash burning on cleared land, even just a neighbor who’d cut out blackberry vines. No, she’d seen the sign announcing a burn ban out in front of the fire station. And besides, she hadn’t smelled a fire when she’d gone to bed at ten or so. She rounded the house and stopped dead.

Flames crawled up the side of the barn.

Charlotte gasped, whirled around and ran back the way she’d come, stumbling once and barely noticing the pain. She flung herself up the couple of steps and through the kitchen.

At the bottom of the stairs, she bellowed, “Faith! Wake up! The barn’s on fire!” She wheeled again and raced for the kitchen, grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1. “Barn’s on fire,” she gasped and gave the address before dropping the telephone and bolting back outside. Heart pounding, she ran.

The fire had already leaped higher, toward the roof, but it wasn’t huge yet. Oh, God—as old as this barn was, the wood was the perfect tinder. She’d done the watering tonight, and knew exactly where she’d dropped the nozzle and where the faucet was. She turned it on full blast and aimed the nozzle toward the barn wall. Even when she pulled the hose out taut, the stream barely reached the fire, and she could see that it wouldn’t be enough, but she kept spraying, above, around, below.

The house lights had sprung on behind her, and Faith wasn’t a minute behind her, running in some kind of thin nightgown and flip-flops like Charlotte’s.

“You called 9-1-1?” she yelled as she ran past, and Charlotte yelled back, “Yes!”

There was another faucet round back, Charlotte remembered, but a minute, two minutes, passed before a second stream of water joined hers. Faith had probably had to hook up a hose.

The scream of the siren wasn’t far behind. They were lucky, so lucky, that the volunteer fire station was less than half a mile away. The first truck roared in, the headlights spotlighting Charlotte but not her sister, who was behind the barn. She kept the stream of water aimed at the barn even as the firemen ran toward her pulling a hose that made hers look like a child’s toy.

“Get back, ma’am, please get back!” she was told, and she let the nozzle fall from her shaking hand.

Adrenaline roaring through her, she backed away and kept backing until she felt mown grass under her feet again. She was hugging herself when Faith reached her and they grabbed each other and held on, neither of them looking away from the fiery scene and the eerie sight of water soaring in great arcs to cascade down over their 100-year-old barn and the licking flames.

“Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no,” Faith moaned.

“Everything inside will be wet,” Charlotte whispered.

Faith whimpered and buried her face briefly against her sister’s neck, then lifted her head again as if she couldn’t stand not to watch her dreams burn.

The smell now was stomach-turning: smoke and the wet, charred odor of a campfire doused in water. Something else, too, Charlotte thought in one corner of her mind. Gasoline, maybe from the fire trucks?

The fire sank back quickly, not big enough to defy a drowning. Faith and Charlotte clung to each other and kept watching as firemen prowled outside and stepped through the hole burned in the side of the barn to check, presumably, for hidden embers.

Eventually, one of the firemen, bulky in a cumbersome yellow suit, crossed the yard.

“Faith, is that you?”

“Yes, and Charlotte, too. Char, you remember Tim Crawford?”

She nodded. “Of course I do. I’m … um, really glad you got here so quick, Tim.”

He’d been one—two?—years ahead of them, and best friends with Jay Bridges, quarterback, whom Faith had gone with her freshman year. Charlotte had liked Tim better than Jay, not that either of them were her type.

“We’re confident we’ve got the fire out,” Tim was saying. “It’s real lucky one of you noticed it before the whole barn was engaged.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Charlotte said. “I was just going to come out and sit on the back steps and admire the stars. But I smelled smoke the moment I got outside.”

“Lucky,” he said again, nodding. “Five, ten more minutes, you’d have lost the barn.”

A shudder ran through Faith. Charlotte tightened her arms around her sister.

“How do you think it started?” Charlotte asked.

“It’s arson,” he said bluntly. “Can’t you smell the gasoline? And I know it’s hard to see the smoke at night like this, but it was black. I’m going to make sure someone is out here in the morning to talk to you about it.”

“Can we, um, look inside?” Faith asked shakily.

Sounding kind, he said, “Why don’t you wait until daylight? Get a good night’s sleep. Didn’t look like that much damage to me.”

“Oh.” Faith nodded, and kept nodding. “Oh, okay.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Charlotte said, and steered her sister toward the house. Behind them, the volunteer firemen were reeling in their hoses and climbing aboard the two trucks. Engines started before the two women reached the house.

In the kitchen, Charlotte said, “I don’t know about you, but I want a drink. Do you have anything?”

“Daddy keeps some bourbon up top of the refrigerator, but I’d settle for tea.” Faith sank into a kitchen chair as if her legs had just failed her. “In a minute. When I can stand up again.”

Charlotte shook her head. “I’ll make it.” She thought wistfully about a slug of the bourbon but instead got down two mugs, plopped in tea bags, filled them with water and stuck them in the microwave. One minute later, and the water was hot. Without asking Faith, she added more sugar than she liked to one of the mugs, then carried them both to the table.

“Thank you.” Faith smiled wanly at her. Soot streaked her face, which was paler than it ought to be considering she had a good tan. Her thin nightgown had gotten a blast of water at some point and clung revealingly to her. Below the hem, her feet were filthy.

Charlotte looked down and realized she looked just as awful. Her feet were not only filthy, but one of her toes was also bloody. She had a vague memory of stubbing it. “You know I had three showers today?” she said. “And now I’m going to have to have a fourth?”

“It’s tomorrow now,” her sister pointed out. She stirred her tea, then lifted out the bag. “So this won’t be your fourth shower of today, it’ll be your first shower of tomorrow. No, today.”

Suddenly they were both giggling.

“Oh, Lord,” Faith finally said on a sigh, her hand pressed to her stomach. “I was sound asleep. I never would have woken up. It really is a miracle you happened to go outside.”

Charlotte met her sister’s eyes. “Rory was awfully mad the other day.”

“It could’ve just been a teenager. Why would Rory do something like this? He wants me back. He’d have to know that would blow any chance….”

Charlotte set down her mug hard. “Does he have a chance?”

“No!” Faith glared at her. “How can you even ask me that?”

“You’re the one who just implied …”

“I did not! I was trying to explain how he thinks!”

Charlotte let out a frustrated breath. “When you called, you sounded like he’d been angry lately when he came around. And he was nasty from the minute he walked into the barn day before yesterday.”

“There’s a big difference between …”

God give her patience. “Yes, there is. But if he’s getting angry, it’s because he’s realized he doesn’t have another chance. You thought he’d just go away once he realized that, didn’t you?”

Stricken, Faith finally closed her mouth and nodded, just once.

“But when you were married, he got violent every time he thought he was losing control of you.”

“Yes,” her sister whispered.

“Maybe after he put you in the hospital he was ashamed of himself for a little while. Maybe he thought if he gave you time you’d forgive him eventually. But if he’s finally realized you aren’t going to, do you really think he’s not going to make some … I don’t know, some parting gesture?”

Head bowed, gaze fixed on her tea, Faith looked … broken. “I don’t know. I guess I was more afraid he’d get mad and hit me. This seems so … sneaky.”

“He must know how badly you want to keep the farm going, for Dad’s sake, and because it’s ours.”

She heard herself and thought, Ours? Where had that come from?

Faith looked up, eyes red-rimmed and cheeks dirty. “This would have been one of the worst things he could do to me.”

Charlotte didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

After a moment of silence, Faith said, “There are other possibilities. It could have just been random vandalism. Or … You know how Angie just started a couple of weeks ago?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do …?”

Faith interrupted. “I had a boy who worked for me before Angie. I caught him stealing money from the till and had to fire him.”

Charlotte blinked. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“He claimed it was the first time he stole anything, but I didn’t believe him.”

“Really? You didn’t think he’d learned his lesson and would be grateful and loyal if you kept him on?”

Faith sprang to her feet. “That’s enough! You don’t know me at all anymore. I will not let you treat me as if there’s anything wrong with believing my husband loved me enough to change.”

Shame flooded Charlotte. She rose, too, facing her sister across the small kitchen table. “You’re right. I’m … really sorry.”

Faith just looked at her, then turned and walked out of the kitchen. A moment later, footsteps went up the stairs and then Charlotte heard a door shut.

“Why did I say that?” she asked the silent room. The awful thing was, she knew the answer, which made her feel even worse.

CHAPTER THREE

GRAY VAN DUSEN WAS THE first visitor come morning, which somehow did not surprise Charlotte. He was probably kept well informed about any exciting events in West Fork. She imagined him sipping his morning coffee while he perused an e-mail list of every fire and police call made in the previous twenty-four hours.

Faith had slept later than Charlotte. She was standing in the kitchen sipping her coffee and gazing out the window toward the barn when she heard the shower start upstairs. It surprised her, making her realize that she hadn’t heard Faith take a shower last night, either before or after her own. Had her twin really crawled into bed still grubby and covered in soot? Charlotte felt a pang of renewed guilt. If Faith had done something as alien to her nature as that, guess whose fault it was?

It would have been worse if I weren’t here at all, she reminded herself. Then the barn would have burned down.

After recognizing the distinctive shape of Gray’s black Prius, Charlotte decided it wouldn’t be fair to hide out until Faith came downstairs. She’d need coffee and breakfast. Charlotte had already had both.

Resigned but wary, she went out the back door as she had last night and walked toward the barn. Gray had circled it and was staring at the burned portion when she reached him.

He was dressed up today, perhaps for meetings, but had left his suitcoat in the car. He wore gray slacks with a narrow black belt, a white shirt and black dress shoes that weren’t benefiting from the dust. The white shirt emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, and from behind she admired the fit of the slacks.

Yeah, right. She’d have been looking at his butt even if he’d worn wrinkled khaki.

“You must have heard about our fire,” she said.

His head turned, his thoughtful gray eyes taking in her cropped chinos and snug-fitting, royal blue T-shirt. She wondered whether he was inventorying her clothing, or admiring the fit. So to speak. His appraisal made warmth rise in her cheeks, which annoyed her.

“Yes.” His expression was grave. “I’m told you were awake, or the barn would have been a goner.”

“It’s August,” she said.

He grunted. “We haven’t had any rain in almost two months. And this barn is an old-timer, isn’t it? Imagine how dry that wood must be.”

They both flicked involuntary glances at the charred side and the gaping hole the fire had burned.

“I hear it was arson,” Gray said.

“So Tim Crawford told us. Do you know Tim?”

He nodded. “Crawford is my informant. How is Faith?”

“Upset.” And I made her more upset. Charlotte sighed. “I don’t know any more to tell you at this point. We haven’t even gone in yet to see how much damage there is. I’m waiting for Faith. We were both tired and slept in.”

“Are you insured?”

“I don’t know. We were still worrying about who set the fire when we went to bed. I thought talking about finances could wait for morning.” She added quickly, “We haven’t told Dad yet, either, needless to say. I hope no one else does.”

He gave her a dry look. “I won’t dash off to the hospital before I go to city hall.”

“I didn’t mean …” She closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. It just struck me how Dad will fuss if he hears.”

“Can’t say I blame him.” Gray was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m going to worry about you two now.”

“If anybody’s the target, it’s Faith. Not me.”

“But you’re in the middle of things, and I don’t see you as a woman to step aside from a threat.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Am I wrong?” he asked quietly.

Of course he wasn’t. She’d gotten in trouble more than once in her life because of her refusal to back down. But how did he know that about her? It bothered Charlotte that he’d read her so accurately on such short acquaintance.

“There must be other citizens of West Fork you need to worry about.”

His eyes rested warmly on her face. “Ah, but there’s something about you, Charlotte Russell. If I’m thinking about you anyway, I might as well worry a little bit.”

Then don’t think about me, she wanted to say. Please, please don’t.

It was bad enough that she had already caught herself thinking about him more than she should. Gray stirred something in her that wasn’t simple attraction, which she could handle. No, this was more like … what she felt every time she looked at her sister, Charlotte realized in dismay. A kind of fear, as if, like Faith, he could breach her inner guard.

Which was ridiculous. She was making too much of this. She couldn’t afford to get involved with a guy locally, that’s all. She’d steer clear of Gray for that reason, not let herself imagine … something more significant.

He’d been watching her closely, his expression grave. Now he said, in a low voice that felt like a caress, “Charlotte …”

They both heard another car pulling in, and the slam of the house screen door at nearly the same moment. Gray didn’t finish whatever he’d intended to say and Charlotte, her pulse having leapt, told herself she was glad. Their gazes touched one more time; he’d wiped all the intensity from his expression, leaving his face impassive.

“Faith,” he said, nodding, as Charlotte’s sister neared. And then, “Wheeler.”

Charlotte looked to see a man coming toward them. Recognizing the traditional blue uniform of the West Fork department she realized he was a police officer, not a fire marshal.

Faith looked better than Charlotte felt; she’d resumed her usual mask of serenity, though it couldn’t possibly be genuine this morning. Her still damp hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she seemed to have taken the time to apply some makeup. She greeted the mayor with a friendly smile and murmured, “Sorry I slept in, Char,” before also facing the policeman.

He was at least Gray’s height, perhaps an inch or two taller, and equally broad-shouldered. Charlotte guessed him to be a little older than Gray, perhaps pushing forty. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed and saturnine, and all the sexier for a face that looked … lived in. No, more than that: battered, with a long-since-healed scar that stretched from one cheek to his temple.

He had been staring at Faith. Charlotte saw the moment when color delicately tinted her sister’s face and her eyes shied from his. Apparently recognizing that he’d made her uncomfortable, he inclined his head at her before looking at Charlotte.

He blinked, glanced again at Faith, then back at her.

“Yes, we’re twins,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “So I see. Sorry if I gaped. Ah … I’m Chief Wheeler. Ben Wheeler. I wanted to talk to you about last night’s fire.”

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte agreed. “Do you mind if we take a quick look inside the barn first?”

“Of course not.”

Gray accompanied the police chief and the two women inside, although Charlotte saw him steal a look at his watch first. She remembered him saying that he felt as if he was trying to hold down two full-time jobs, and this visit didn’t fall under the definition of either. City officials concerned themselves with zoning and taxes, streets and traffic, not minor instances of crime.

This was the third time he’d stopped by in four days. His persistence caused a flutter of panic in her chest. She had been trying to convince herself that he wasn’t coming back because of her, but now she couldn’t.

Ah, but there’s something about you, Charlotte Russell.

Determined to ignore him, she stuck with Faith as they walked into the barn. But—damn it—all the determination in the world didn’t seem to do any good. With every cell in her body, she felt him right behind her.

They could see immediately how lucky they’d been. The fire had been set in the nursery area, and just inside had been garden art and wrought-iron trellises that were designed to withstand water, at least. A rack of gardening gloves had burned and melted, and the herbal wreaths hung on the batten-board walls had been consumed, but that was the extent of the loss.

Faith turned to Charlotte with a glowing smile and gave her a big hug. “Not that much water got in! Oh, thank goodness! I was so afraid to find out.”

Charlotte hugged her back. Her own relief surprised her. “It could have been way worse,” she agreed. “Though we’ll have to find someone to replace that stretch of barn wall, unless you’re a better carpenter than I am.”

Backing away, Faith grimaced. “I can do some things, but probably not that. I’ll have to think about who to call.” She stopped and turned to the police chief. “Gosh, you probably have to ask us questions, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said apologetically.

“I need to run,” Gray said. “Uh … were you insured, Faith?”

The strain showed on her face for the first time this morning. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to talk to Dad and dig out the paperwork. I know we haven’t insured the retail inventory, but Dad must have had some coverage on the structure as a working farm.”

“Very likely,” he said. “Give me a call. I might know someone who can do the work.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him. “Thanks, Gray.”

His gaze flicked to Charlotte. “Will you walk me out?”

She hesitated, even though a part of her was glad that he’d asked. “Uh … sure,” she finally said. Perhaps he wanted to tell her something out of Faith’s hearing.

“Wheeler,” he said with a nod. “Faith.”

As they stepped out into the sunlight, he asked, “This place paying its way?”

Surprised at his choice of topic, Charlotte admitted, “I don’t think so.” She offered a twisted smile. “I have a suspicion you won’t have to keep fussing about the traffic issue.”

“Are you going to be able to make a difference?”

“With the farm? Heck, no! I can help take care of Dad, and maybe defend Faith from Rory, but the closest thing to retail experience I have was my part-time job at Tastee’s. Is there something we can do to draw more people, bring in more money? I can’t think of anything.”

His nod was unsurprised. “I suppose you’re wishing you were back in front of a computer.”

She opened her mouth to agree and realized it would be a lie. She did like her work, but she hadn’t missed it since arriving home. “Well, I’m not cut out to be a farmer or run a country store,” she said instead, which wasn’t a lie.

“Charlotte—” Gray stopped and looked past her, and she turned to see the police chief and her sister walking out of the barn to join them.

“Still here?” Wheeler said, faintly mocking.

Gray made a sound in his throat that Charlotte couldn’t interpret and said, “I’m going.” His eyes meeting hers again, he said quietly, “Take care, okay?”

“I will,” she agreed, her own voice low, as if this promise was private. The idea quickened her pulse, but he was turning away, getting into his car.

A moment later, he’d backed out and driven off.

She was pathetic enough to want to watch until his Prius was out of sight. Instead, she faced the police chief and, somewhat hastily, suggested, “Why don’t we talk in the kitchen? We could at least sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he agreed, in a deep, quiet voice.

She was less sure inviting him in had been a good idea when she realized how he seemed to shrink the farmhouse kitchen by his mere presence. Faith lost all animation once the three of them sat down and he began to ask questions.

He concentrated on Charlotte, once Faith told him she hadn’t heard or seen a thing until her sister yelled up the stairs to her.

“Did it cross your mind as you ran over to the barn that the arsonist might still be there watching?” he asked, those dark eyes steady on her face.

A chill crept up her spine, raising goose bumps as it went. “I … didn’t even think about it being arson,” she said. “Not until the firefighter told us. I did notice the smell of gasoline, but not until the fire truck had already pulled in, so I thought …” She trailed off with the unpleasant realization that someone could have been watching. There had been moonlight, yes, but he could have stood in the shadow of the garage or one of the smaller outbuildings and smiled at the sight of his fire leaping toward the barn roof. Had he been angry when he saw her and then Faith, or had he enjoyed their desperate fight to save the old barn?

Faith looked horrified, too.

“Oh, Char,” she whispered.

Charlotte reached out a hand to her. “It might not have been Rory.”

She couldn’t remember the last time they’d clasped hands like this. Of course their hands were identical, with long, slender fingers. A few days ago, hers would have been paler, her nails manicured and polished. But now, she was already starting to tan, and a bandage wrapped one finger burned when she stirred the jam. Both of them had acquired scratches thanks to the berry vines.

Charlotte gave her sister’s hand a squeeze and then let it go.

The police chief was waiting politely, his dark eyes taking in more, she suspected, than she or her sister would have liked.

“Rory?” he inquired.

Faith bit her lip and gazed at the tabletop as if the pattern of the blue gingham cloth fascinated her. “My ex-husband. Um … Rory Hardesty.”

He had taken out a small notebook when he first sat down, and now carefully wrote down the name. “I take it the divorce wasn’t amicable?”

Faith’s hair swung when she shook her head.

He watched her for a moment, then raised his brows at Char.

“The divorce was final a year ago,” she explained. “He was … abusive.” Faith didn’t react in any way, so she continued, “He’s been coming around lately.”

“How often?”

“Once or twice a week,” Faith said softly.

The intense, dark gaze turned back to Charlotte.

“Faith thinks he has been drunk a few of the times. He clearly wants her back. Sometimes he’s cajoling, sometimes he’s angry. Rory was angry a lot.”

She might have imagined the way his expression hardened, but she didn’t think so.

“Our dad was injured recently when the tractor overturned. He’s still in the hospital. I’m just here for a visit, to help out until he’s on his feet again. My first day home, Tuesday, Rory came by and mistook me for Faith. He harangued me for looking like a slut. Apparently he doesn’t appreciate multiple piercings.” She fingered one of her ears. “Perhaps fortunately, Gray walked in right then and Rory stormed out. I’m afraid this fire is exactly the kind of thing he’d do.” She paused. “Faith doesn’t agree.”

Her sister raised her head. “Rory’s never done anything criminal.”

“Putting you in the hospital wasn’t a crime?” Charlotte asked.

“Well … not in the same way.” She turned a look of appeal on Chief Wheeler. “It’s just that I think there are likelier possibilities. Gosh, this could have just been garden-variety vandalism, couldn’t it?”

His voice sounded gentle, considering its deep, rough tenor. “Yes. That’s a good possibility. Especially if you’ve annoyed any teenagers lately.”

Almost eagerly, Faith explained about the boy she’d fired just a few weeks back. When she got to the point of giving his name, though, the eagerness had dwindled. “Sean. Sean Coffey. The thing is, I really think he’s basically a nice kid. He’s on the football team, and his dad is a teacher. Not at my school, at Roosevelt Elementary. And I did catch Sean red-handed. He couldn’t complain that I was being unfair.”

“You didn’t report him to the police.”

She shook her head. “It was only twenty dollars. And yes, I know it probably wasn’t the first time he’d taken money, but it might have been, mightn’t it? I hated the idea of being responsible for him having a juvenile record.”

“Did you tell his parents?” This wasn’t quite a question—tinged as it was with resignation, the police chief already knew the answer.

“No.”

His mouth twisted. “Well, just because he got lucky doesn’t mean this kid isn’t resentful. This strikes me as something a teenager would do. Impulsive and mean-spirited.”

Rory, Charlotte thought, was also impulsive and mean-spirited. She had a suspicion his emotional maturity had stuck somewhere in the midteenage years. But she’d said enough last night and didn’t want to further upset Faith.

Wheeler glanced at Charlotte. “This Hardesty. Does he live in West Fork?”

Faith had gone back to examining the tablecloth. “Yes.”

“Anyone else you can think of?”

Both sisters shook their heads. Charlotte wasn’t entirely sure Faith would have noticed if someone hated her with a passion.

“All right.” Chief Wheeler closed the notebook and pocketed it, swallowed the last of his coffee and pushed back the chair. “I’ll be talking to neighbors in case anyone saw anything, and to Hardesty and Coffey both. I’ll let you know what I learn.”

Faith and Charlotte both rose to their feet, too. There was something rather intimidating about Ben Wheeler when he towered over them.

Faith looked flustered, and Charlotte remembered her sister hadn’t yet had breakfast. “It’s almost ten,” she said. “I’ll walk Chief Wheeler out and open up shop. You need something to eat.”

“Thank you.” Faith sounded genuinely grateful. “I’ll hurry.”

After assuring her sister that she could manage for half an hour, Charlotte allowed Chief Wheeler to open the back door for her.

The day was already too hot, as far as she was concerned. She had begun to miss the fogs that rolled in from the Pacific Ocean on hot San Francisco days.

As they walked toward the barn, Charlotte said, “So what did we do to deserve the police chief’s personal attention?”

He appeared to be amused. “Gray called me. He considered your fire a priority.”

Oh.

After a moment, Charlotte said, “Faith doesn’t want to think Rory is a danger, but he gave me the serious creeps.”

“So I gathered.” He glanced down at her. “Will you call the next time he shows up?”

“I will. I told him he wasn’t welcome on our land. I doubt Faith would call 9-1-1, though, just because he stopped by. She’s delusional where he’s concerned.” Blunt, she thought, but true.

They were nearly to the barn before Wheeler spoke again. “Does she still feel some attachment for him?”

Charlotte frowned. “No, I don’t think so. It’s just her nature to expect the best of anyone.” She made a face. “We may look alike, but that’s as far as our resemblance goes.”

Some emotion flickered across his face, too quickly for her to read. They had reached the front of the barn and the hard-packed dirt parking lot, where his squad car waited. Charlotte dug the barn key out of her front pocket, since they had locked up earlier when they returned to the kitchen.

Why lock the barn door once the horses have gotten out? she thought irreverently, but of course Faith had been right; they didn’t want customers to wander around unattended.

A car was hesitating on the highway right now, the driver apparently drawn by the large hand-painted signs promising, Antiques! Fresh Produce! Plant Nursery! Local Arts & Crafts! Corn Maze! No, she reminded herself, the sign for the corn maze was covered for now.

Wheeler cleared his throat. “This is a little bit unprofessional … Hell, probably a whole lot unprofessional. But I’m wondering if you’d consider having dinner with me.”

Charlotte blinked in surprise and faced him again. She’d have sworn his gaze had lingered more on her sister’s face than hers, but who knew? Maybe Faith’s obvious shyness or unease or whatever it had been had scared him off. And, hey, they did look alike.

He was a really sexy man.

In a flash, she thought, If I start dating Ben Wheeler, I’ll be safe from Gray. And Ben was attractive; she could enjoy spending time with him, maybe even kissing him. Couldn’t she?

“Sure.” She smiled at him. “That sounds like fun. When and where?”

“Why not tonight? There’s a pretty good new restaurant right here in town. Not too fancy, but good food, if you like steaks.”

“I like steaks.”

They agreed on a time, and he left in the usual cloud of dust as the first customers of the day pulled in. Charlotte unlocked the barn, turned on the lights and welcomed the older couple, who advanced uncertainly into the cavernous interior of the barn.

“Plants are outside,” she told them. “Let me just open those doors.” Seeing them both staring toward the burned side of the barn, she added, “Uh … we had a bit of excitement last night. I apologize for the mess. Probably local teenagers, but we’re mad as all get out.”

Throwing open the side doors and letting in the sunshine, she mused, A date. Imagine that, and refused to let herself wonder what Gray Van Dusen had been about to say to her, right before Faith and Ben Wheeler had interrupted them.

“DAD THINKS THEY’LL LET HIM come home on onday, but he’s still going to be bedridden for a couple of weeks,” Charlotte said, while she used the steak knife to cut a bite of filet mignon.

“Are you two going to be able to take care of him and run the business, too?” Ben Wheeler asked.

They were in a booth at the River Fork Steakhouse, their dinners in front of them. They had already gotten the getting-to-know-each-other stuff out of the way. She’d learned that he had grown up in Los Angeles and been a lieutenant with the LAPD when he decided he’d like a different lifestyle and had looked around for a small town that needed an experienced cop to head its police department.

“It’s a change,” he said, not sounding so sure the change was a good one. “I didn’t expect the politics.”

“Politics?” she asked, surprised.

“The city council. Some days, our esteemed councilors make me wish for a good old-fashioned liquor-store holdup.”

Charlotte had laughed, but he’d looked as if he almost meant it. Small town policing must be considerably more aggravating than it had looked from afar.

After hearing about what she did for a living and sympathizing about the layoff, he’d asked about her father and their plans for the farm.

“Faith has thrown herself into this heart and soul,” she said. “But she’s a teacher, too. Kindergarten. In just a few weeks, she’ll be getting her classroom ready. I haven’t started looking for a job yet, but I can’t imagine staying past September, say. I don’t want to run an antique store slash produce market slash corn maze.”

It was a cry from her heart. Helping out for a few weeks, sure, but she couldn’t imagine what made Faith want to do this long-term. And Dad, laconic at the best of times, was not a man made for retail work. But if they hired too much help, they’d pare their small profit down to nothing.

Faith, Charlotte was very much afraid, had her finger in a dike that was going to crumble no matter what.

“Well, we’ll see,” she said with a sigh.

“Could be your sister didn’t want to spend too much time thinking after the divorce,” the man across the table from her observed. “This was one way of keeping busy.”

“I suppose that’s possible.” Reluctantly she examined the idea. Faith had always clung to the familiar. She’d never considered going far away to college. To her, it had seemed completely natural, after graduating, to apply for a teaching job in her hometown, and marry a boy she’d known since high school. That was the life she’d always wanted. But then Mom died, Faith had to give up on her marriage, and Dad started talking about selling the farm. Too much change.

She couldn’t save Mom or her marriage, but the farm was different. So she’d focused all her desperate need for a predictable life on this long shot. God knows, Charlotte admitted to herself, Faith had melded creativity and hard work to succeed to an astonishing extent. Just … not enough. Especially given that business was sure to become something between slow and nonexistent come winter.

She reminded herself that somehow, Dad and Faith had eked through the last year.

Uh-huh. On Faith’s paychecks from the school district.

“You haven’t mentioned the fire,” Charlotte said, changing the subject. “Did you learn anything today?”

“None of the neighbors saw a thing.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“No,” he agreed, and took a bite before adding, “I talked to Hardesty. He gave me an earful about you. Said of course you’d blame him.”

“Jerk,” she muttered.

“Insisted he loves Faith and knows how important the farm is to her.”

Charlotte scoffed under her breath.

“Yeah, that could be taken one of two ways, couldn’t it?” Ben remarked. “I’ll tell you, though, my gut feeling was that he didn’t do it.”

Every instinct Charlotte had disagreed, but it was true that she was biased. “So now what?” she asked.

“I couldn’t track Coffey down today. His mom says he’ll be home tomorrow.”

Charlotte nodded.

“Your sister ever considered getting a big dog?”

“We had a dog when I was growing up, but the highway is a worry, and what good would a dog do if he was kenneled or in the house at night?”

“Dogs bark. You’d have an early warning system.”

“That’s true.” She thought about it for a moment before agreeing, “I’ll suggest it to Faith. She’s always loved animals.”

“Just don’t let her bring home a cute puppy. You need a dog with some teeth right now.”

He must share some of her unease, Charlotte thought, or they’d be talking about something else. Like their favorite music or how they felt about people who used the express checkout in the grocery store even though they had too many items. Whether they were morning people or night owls. The little stuff that mattered, when a man and woman were drawn enough to each other.

“Was it Gray who hired you?” she heard herself ask, and cringed inwardly.

Ben didn’t look surprised at her question. “I guess you could say so, although I had the impression the city council had a pretty strong voice.”

“So you must be doing okay at politicking,” she pointed out.

He sawed at his steak with unnecessary force. “They didn’t hate me then. You’re right about that. Their enthusiasm for me started to wane when I told them know how grossly understaffed and underequipped their police department was. Asking them to open the checkbook was the equivalent of giving a woman a poison ivy bouquet on the first date.”

Charlotte laughed. The smile was still lingering on her mouth when her gaze was drawn to a man walking into the restaurant. Gray, wearing the suit from earlier, although he’d now added the coat.

He was scanning the restaurant as he walked in, just as she’d noticed Ben doing. Ben was probably assessing diners for their likelihood of turning violent, though, while Gray presumably had voters on his mind. No matter what he was thinking, what it meant was that he saw her as quickly as she saw him. His stride checked as he looked at her, then at Ben, who was turning his head to see what had caught her attention.

Charlotte’s stomach knotted at the expression on Gray’s face. Shock, followed by … She wasn’t sure. Anger? Hurt? Something that darkened his eyes and made a muscle jump on his jaw.

Someone called his name, and he very deliberately turned away to greet a couple at one of the tables with an easy smile. Charlotte looked away from him to find that Ben was contemplating her. He didn’t say anything, though, for which she was grateful.

She asked him about juvenile crime in West Fork and whether drugs were getting to be a problem here, but didn’t hear his answer. She was too conscious of Gray, making his way around the restaurant, pausing at almost every table to shake hands and exchange a few words with people. She couldn’t seem to make herself take a bite. She felt sick and guilty, and mad because there wasn’t any reason in the world for her to feel either. She didn’t want to know what her face gave away when he reached their booth.

“Ben. Charlotte.” He didn’t seem interested in shaking either of their hands.

Humor in his voice, Ben said, “You stop by every Friday and Saturday night just to glad-hand?”

“Actually, I’ve usually had enough of the good citizens of West Fork by dinner time. No offense,” he said politely to Charlotte. “I’m having dinner with Ed Tolman and Don Scheff.”

Ben nodded, looking unsurprised.

“City council members?” Charlotte ventured. She’d gone to school with a couple of the Tolman kids. Ed owned the hardware store in town.

“Yeah.” Ben smiled at her. “Didn’t you see me sink down in the booth when they came in?”

Why didn’t a smile that wicked make her heart go pitty-pat? Because I’m an idiot, she mourned.

Gray’s eyes rested on her face, but she didn’t have the courage to meet them. After a moment he lightly rapped his knuckles on the table, said, “Have a good dinner,” and left them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him join two older men in a booth that was close enough for her to hear the murmur of their voices but not what they said.

Charlotte tried for all she was worth not to be lousy company, but despite her best efforts she kept catching herself straining to hear Gray’s voice, picturing his face, wondering what he was thinking.

She hated responding so strongly to a man. She never had before. Faith used to tease her about being commitment phobic, which might have been true back then. No guy, she had always told herself fiercely, was keeping her in West Fork. But even later … Maybe she shied away whenever a man got too serious, or maybe she just hadn’t met the right one.

All she knew was, she’d been desperate to escape her hometown, while Gray Van Dusen had chosen to make West Fork his life. She wasn’t going to be idiot enough to let herself be tempted by him.

Which meant it was a good thing he’d seen her tonight having dinner with Ben Wheeler. That had been her plan, hadn’t it? She bet he wouldn’t be stopping by the Russell farm again anytime soon.

She just wished she could forget the look of hurt on his face that he hadn’t been able to hide quite fast enough when he first saw her with Ben.

CHAPTER FOUR

FAITH WAS ASHAMED OF HERSELF to be so glad when Charlotte offered to grocery shop and departed, list in hand. In all the years of conflicted emotions toward her twin, she’d never been jealous before. Last night, she was.

There wasn’t any good reason for it. Ben Wheeler had asked Charlotte out, not her; it was Charlotte who drew him, not her. And Char had no idea Faith had wished it was otherwise.

And wasn’t that pathetic? She was twenty-nine years old, and she’d never in her life felt that twist of desire when setting her eyes on a man. The sight of a smile had never had her heart flopping in her chest like a trout hooked and tossed to shore. Faith had had boyfriends in high school, and then Rory, but her relationship with Rory had been a gradual settling into a contented belief that he was a man she could be happy with, a man who wanted the same kind of life she did. It hadn’t been like walking into a glass door, leaving her dazed but still able to see through to where she’d meant to go.

Last night, she’d sat in the living room pretending to read while Char and Ben stayed outside in his SUV and talked or made out for a good fifteen minutes. By the time Char came in the kitchen door and the SUV turned in a circle and left, Faith had stiffly stood in one position so long her body felt locked. She’d thought she might crack when she had to turn her head to greet her sister.

It hurt, damn it. She knew it wasn’t Char’s fault that Ben wanted her instead, but Faith figured she was entitled to a sulk anyway, and that’s what she was indulging in.

Her brooding made this a lousy time for her to look out of the barn and see a squad car pull in and West Fork Police Chief Ben Wheeler get out. If Char had been here, Faith knew damn well she would have bolted for the house.

Instead, as she watched him saunter toward the counter, his narrowed gaze first scanning the barn and finally settling on her, she summoned an unruffled smile and said, “Chief Wheeler. I didn’t expect to see you today.”

He raised his brows. “I told you I’d let you know what Coffey and Hardesty had to say.”

“Char told me you don’t think Rory set the fire.”

He leaned against the counter. “If he did, he’s a good liar.”

“He can be,” she said with more restraint than she felt. She didn’t like remembering how, after hitting her, Rory would take her to the hospital and hover with such love and worry on his face, not a single doctor or nurse had ever questioned her broken bones or vicious purple bruises.

“I’m a little less satisfied today,” the chief said. “I sat down with Sean Coffey an hour ago, and I’d have to say I agree with your assessment of him. He flushed a little when he insisted that the time you caught him was the first time he tried to steal from you, which tells me it wasn’t. But temptation overcame him because he wanted something real bad, and I think he was telling the truth when he said he was grateful you hadn’t called the police or his parents.”

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