New York Times bestselling author Carla Neggers returns to charming Swift River Valley, where spring is the time for fresh starts and new beginnings...

Kylie Shaw has found a home and a quiet place to work as an illustrator of children’s books in little Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. No one seems to know her here—and she likes it that way. She carefully guards her privacy in the refurbished nineteenth-century hat factory where she has a loft. And then California private investigator Russ Colton moves in.

Russ is in Knights Bridge to keep his client and friend, eccentric Hollywood costume designer Daphne Stewart, out of trouble. Keeping tabs on Daphne while she considers starting a small children’s theater in town doesn’t seem like a tough job until he runs into Kylie. Her opposition to converting part of the old hat factory into a theater is a challenge. But his bigger challenge is getting Kylie to let loose a little...like the adventurous characters she depicts in her work.

Kylie and Russ have more in common than they or anyone else would ever expect. They’re both looking for a place to belong, and if they’re able to let go of past mistakes and learn to trust again, they might just find what they need in Knights Bridge...and each other.

Praise for Carla Neggers’ New York Times bestselling Swift River Valley novels

“Appealing protagonists, good neighbors, small-town Christmas traditions, and Neggers’s own recipes make for a fine romance.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Knights Bridge Christmas

“A heady mix of romance, mystery and genuine Quabbin history packaged in an enchanting holiday tale.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Knights Bridge Christmas

“Neggers does the near impossible: she brings a small-town, family-loving heroine and a footloose hero together in an engaging romance that has its fair share of surprises.”

—Library Journal on Echo Lake

“Her people, places and things are colorfully and expertly rendered in this compelling work of fiction.”

—RT Book Reviews on Cider Brook

“Neggers captures readers’ attention with her usual flair and brilliance and gives us a romance, a mystery and a lesson in history.”

—RT Book Reviews, Top Pick, on

Secrets of the Lost Summer

“Only a writer as gifted as Carla Neggers could use so few words to convey so much action and emotional depth.”

—Sandra Brown

“[Neggers] forces her characters to confront issues of humanity, integrity and the multifaceted aspects of love without slowing the ever-quickening pace.”

—Publishers Weekly

The Spring at Moss Hill

Carla Neggers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For my mother,

who taught me and so many others how to sew

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Author’s Note

Extract

Copyright

One

“What do you think a private investigator would want me to stock in his fridge and pantry?”

The provocative question came from Ruby O’Dunn, up front by the cash register at the Swift River Country Store, a fixture in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, for at least a century. Ruby was speaking to Christopher Sloan, a local firefighter. Kylie Shaw, out of sight in the wine section, had spotted them coming into the store. Now she wished she’d been paying closer attention to their conversation. Private investigator? What private investigator?

“He’s from Beverly Hills,” Chris said. “I’d start with that.”

“He works for a Beverly Hills law firm. I don’t know if he’s actually from Beverly Hills.”

“Close enough.”

“It’d almost be easier if we were having him stay with my mother. She’s got a fully stocked kitchen.”

“She also has goats.”

“Don’t get me started. I cleaned out their stalls this morning. It’s bedlam at her place. Even staying there a few days would be a lot to ask. Moss Hill is a much better choice.”

Kylie held tight to a bottle of expensive champagne.

Moss Hill?

Moss Hill was a former nineteenth-century hat factory that had undergone extensive renovations and opened in March, with offices, meeting space and residences. She’d moved into one of its four loft-style apartments five weeks ago. So far, she was the only tenant. She accepted that the other three apartments wouldn’t stay empty, but she hadn’t ever—not once—imagined a private investigator moving in, even temporarily.

She missed what Chris said in response to Ruby. Ruby went on about wild mushrooms, artisan cheese and artichokes, but Chris finally told her to focus on basics. “Put a six-pack in the fridge,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

Ruby muttered something Kylie couldn’t make out, and Chris left, apparently with a six-pack of his own.

Kylie placed the champagne in her basket. She’d promised herself she would take time to celebrate once the daffodils were in bloom, and they were definitely in bloom. The last time she’d come up for air and tried to celebrate had been in August. She’d ended up at a Red Sox game with a negative, burned-out carpenter who complained for seven innings. She’d been relieved when the game didn’t go into extra innings and had told him she’d had a call from her sister, a veterinary student at Tufts, to get out of going back to Knights Bridge with him. Before that, she’d split a bottle of wine with a condescending sculptor in Paris, celebrating her first children’s book as both author and illustrator. These little children’s drawings you do are sweet, Kylie, but... He’d shrugged, leaving her to imagine the rest of what he was pretending to be too polite to say. She couldn’t make a living as an illustrator, they weren’t real art, they weren’t any good, anyone could do it. It had been that kind of but.

She headed to the cash register with her basket. She could always have her champagne alone on her balcony and toast the stars and the moon, with gratitude.

Maybe invite the Beverly Hills PI.

That’d be the day. She didn’t plan to do anything to invite his scrutiny.

Ruby was lifting a basket off a stack by the register. Kylie had met all four O’Dunn sisters around town—the country store, the library, the town offices where their mother worked—but didn’t know any of them well. She’d moved to Knights Bridge last summer and kept telling herself she wanted to get to know people there, but so far, they remained acquaintances, not friends. Ruby and Ava, fraternal twins and the youngest O’Dunns, were theater graduate students, Ava in New York, Ruby in Boston. A natural redhead like her three sisters, Ruby had dyed her hair plum-black and tied it back with a bright pink scarf. She wore a long black skirt, a white T-shirt and a denim jacket, with black boots and no jewelry.

“Oh, Kylie, hi,” Ruby said. “I didn’t see you back there.”

“I couldn’t resist the wine sale.”

“Ah. Champagne, I see. Excellent. Did you hear Chris Sloan and me talking just now? A private investigator will be here from California tomorrow. He’ll be staying in the apartment across the hall from you.”

“What’s he investigating?”

“One of his clients is giving a master class at Moss Hill next Saturday,” Ruby said. “Daphne Stewart—she has roots in town.”

“She was here last September for the vintage fashion show at the library,” Kylie said. “Hollywood costume designer. I remember.”

“Did you go?”

“No, I didn’t.” She’d been fiddling with a project ahead of hitting the Send button. Work was always her excuse for not being more social. “I heard it was a great success.”

“The fashion show raised a lot of money for the library and the historical society.” Ruby hooked her basket on one arm. “Daphne’s a character. Russ Colton—the private investigator arriving tomorrow—is making sure everything’s set for her arrival. It’ll be Moss Hill’s first public event. You should come, Kylie. You’ll be right there.”

“Thanks. I’ll give it some thought.”

Ruby held up her basket. “I need to fill this up. I should get moving. Good to see you.”

“You, too,” Kylie said, but Ruby had spotted someone she knew and taken off down the canned-goods aisle.

Kylie set her basket on the counter.

A private investigator and a respected, longtime Hollywood costume designer on their way to town—to Moss Hill.

Just what I need.

She held back a groan. If she couldn’t fake excitement, best to be neutral.

She unloaded her groceries. In addition to the champagne, she’d picked up plain yogurt, cheddar cheese, flax-seed bread, coffee and mixed spring greens, all local to her quiet part of New England, west of Boston.

After paying for her groceries, she stepped outside. The beautiful April afternoon greeted her like a warm smile from a friend. She took in the quaint, picturesque village center. She was standing on Main Street, opposite the common, an oval-shaped green surrounded by classic houses, the library, churches, the town hall and a handful of small businesses. The long winter had released its grip. The grass was green, the trees were leafing out, and daffodils were in bloom. She had been working nonstop for weeks—months—and getting out into the warm spring air felt remarkably good, almost as if she’d come to life herself.

She noticed dark-haired, broad-shouldered Christopher Sloan farther down Main Street. He was the fifth of the six Sloan siblings, with four older brothers. She couldn’t imagine having five brothers. She didn’t have any brothers. The O’Dunns and the Sloans and other families had lived in Knights Bridge for decades, even for generations. Ruby and Chris had grown up together. That created bonds and a familiarity that Kylie couldn’t pretend to have in her adopted town.

Or want.

Not now at least.

She arranged her groceries in her bike bags, aware of a vague uneasiness about the arrival of a private investigator at Moss Hill. It wasn’t just that she wasn’t thrilled about it. She’d worked hard not to draw attention to herself during her months in Knights Bridge.

But it would all work out, she told herself as she climbed on to her bike. She had champagne, food and coffee. If she so much as sensed this Russ Colton was going to cause trouble for her, she could hide out in her apartment for days, content in her world of evil villains, handsome princes and daring princesses.

* * *

Moss Hill was quiet even for a Saturday afternoon. Kylie’s mud-spattered Mini was the only vehicle in the parking lot, so new it didn’t have a single pit or pothole. She could feel the ten-mile round-trip ride in her thighs as she jumped off her bike. She’d relished the slight breeze and the fresh scents of spring in the air on this warmest day of the year so far.

She grabbed her groceries out of her bike bags and gave them a quick check. Somehow she’d managed not to break or spill anything. She started to slip her phone into her jacket pocket but saw she had a voice mail.

Her sister, Lila, three years younger, still hard at work as a veterinary student in Boston. Also still a chronic worrier who was convinced her only sibling was turning into a recluse.

Kylie listened to the message, smiling at its predictability. “I hope you’re not answering because you’re off having a great time with friends. Call back whenever. Just saying hi.”

Lila had known at four that she wanted to be a veterinarian like their father. She’d never wavered. Kylie had always been more interested in drawing pictures of the animals that came in and out of the Shaw clinic than in operating on them.

She hadn’t been out with friends. She’d missed her sister’s call because she’d turned off her phone while she was on her bike.

She’d call Lila back later.

Kylie left her bike on the rack by the front entrance and followed a breezeway to the residential building, the smaller of the two brick-faced structures that formed the mill, or at least what remained of its original complex. Built in 1860 to capitalize on the burgeoning market for palm-leaf straw hats, the renovated mill was situated on a small river on the outskirts of town. Its namesake rose up across the road.

Moss Hill was one of the many knobs and hills that formed the uplands that had helped make the region attractive as a source of drinking water for metropolitan Boston. The bowl-shaped Swift River Valley had caught the eye of engineers and politicians, and the massive Quabbin Reservoir was created in the decades prior to World War II. Four small towns were disincorporated, their populations relocated, their homes and businesses razed, their graves and monuments moved, and Windsor Dam and Goodnough Dike were built, blocking the flow of three branches of the Swift River and Beaver Brook and, through the 1940s, allowing the valley to flood.

Even before Quabbin, the mill had been in decline, little realistic hope for its future. Straw hats had been going out of fashion, and by 1930, the mill stopped producing them. Subsequent owners hadn’t succeeded with alternative businesses. Eventually, the old buildings were boarded up and abandoned. A few years ago, a local architect and his business partners had bought the property and begun the painstaking process of demolition, renovation and refurbishment.

Kylie took the industrial-style stairs to the second floor. In addition to its four apartments, the building included a well-equipped exercise room, lounge and lower-level parking and storage. Although she’d grown up in the western exurbs of Boston, she’d never heard of Knights Bridge until a friend, an art professor recently hired by the University of Iowa, had told her about her country house. You need a place to work for a few months, and I need a renter until I figure out what to do.

Kylie had only meant to stay in Knights Bridge three months—long enough to catch up on work and clear her head. But three months had turned into six, then eight, and when her friend decided to sell the house because Iowa was just too far away, she had taken a look at Moss Hill.

She’d been captivated by the transformation of the old mill and had surprised herself when she fell in love with her second-floor loft-style apartment. She’d loved the house she’d been renting, too. Charming, quiet and romantic, it had cried out for kids, dogs, chickens—a family.

She unlocked her door and went inside, relaxing now that she was back in her space. She set her groceries on the counter in the kitchen area. She was only a little more than a month into living here, but the open layout suited her. Tall ceilings, arched floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, brick and white-painted walls and gleaming wood floors combined old and new, the specialty, she’d come to learn, of the owner and architect, Mark Flanagan. He’d thought of everything to make the space comfortable, contemporary and efficient. His wife, who worked at a local sawmill owned by her family, had helped with the finishing touches.

Since her previous rental had come furnished, Kylie had been scrambling to get things pulled together for this place. A buttery-leather sectional had been delivered a week ago, and she’d finally given up a ratty futon she’d dragged out of her parents’ basement and bought a decent bed, queen-size with washed-linen sheets. She hated scratchy sheets.

She’d brought her worktable with her. She’d made it herself in college out of a finished birch-wood door on trestles, and it had gone with her almost everywhere since then. Not Paris or London; she’d left it in storage then.

She put the champagne in the refrigerator. She needed something concrete to celebrate before she opened it. It didn’t have to be big, but it had to be more than daffodils being in bloom. That felt forced.

Because it is forced, she thought.

She put away the rest of her groceries and flopped on the couch, tugging the clip out of her hair, which, despite being pulled back, was tangled from her bike ride. It was pale blond and past her shoulders, and she kept promising herself she would get to a hair salon. She was okay with a pair of scissors and could manage a quick trim, but she wasn’t a pro.

Too restless to sit for long, she got to her feet, yanking off the lightweight jacket she’d worn into town. She kicked off her shoes and walked in her stocking feet to her worktable. She’d been working on Little Red Riding Hood for only a few days. It was the third in a series of fairy tales she was illustrating. She’d finished Hansel and Gretel and Sleeping Beauty.

She knew it would take some effort to get her into the world of a clever wolf, a dark forest and an adventurous girl with a picnic basket.

Kylie sank onto her chair, feeling unsettled, strangely out of her element. Had she made a mistake moving here?

But she knew she hadn’t. As fantastic as it was, the house she’d rented had made her think about what she didn’t have. This place worked fine, given her solitary ways and her bad luck with men.

* * *

She lasted twenty minutes at her worktable.

She was working on the perfect tree to go in front of the grandmother’s house in Little Red Riding Hood. She was doing sketches by hand, on paper. She stared at the last one. Not good. It looked more appropriate for a story about zombies than a classic fairy tale.

She balled it up and tossed it into the recycling bin under her table, on top of the other discarded sketches. She debated switching to her computer and drawing on her art board, but she knew from experience that wouldn’t work, either.

Her tree needed more time. It wasn’t there, and working harder and longer wasn’t going to make it be there.

Also, she was distracted.

She noticed Sherlock Badger tucked at the base of her task lamp and smiled. She’d put him together with bits of fabric, dryer lint, a few notions she raided from discarded clothes, a needle and thread and glue.

Now here was a guy, Kylie thought.

Never mind that he was only four inches tall.

He was a law enforcement officer in a series of picture books for young readers she’d created. He wasn’t in all the books. He didn’t live in Middle Branch, the fictional town where his Badger cousins had a house and a veterinary clinic on a river.

Kylie pointed her finger at him. “Not a word about my Little Red Riding Hood tree. Not. A. Word.” She tossed her sketching pencils in their basket, one she’d picked up in Paris, before that ill-fated bottle of wine with the sculptor. “I’m not stuck. I’m just thinking.”

She picked a piece of lint off Sherlock. He had a square jaw and a tough look about him, but he was solid, trustworthy and brave.

What would Sherlock do if a private investigator came to Middle Branch?

It would depend on what people had to hide, wouldn’t it?

Kylie felt her throat tighten. She sprang to her feet, restless, uncertain. Three years ago, when she’d had the idea for The Badgers of Middle Branch, the first book she would write as well as illustrate, she’d decided to work under a pseudonym and keep Kylie Shaw separate.

She’d chosen Morwenna Mills as her alter ego.

A year later, when the Badgers had debuted, they had been an instant hit with young readers. More Badger books followed. Instead of telling everyone she was Morwenna, Kylie had kept it to herself. Even her family didn’t know. Lila didn’t know.

Would Russ Colton, PI, want to know?

He didn’t have to want to know. All he had to do was start asking questions about the only resident at Moss Hill, and he could complicate her life.

Two

Russ Colton had considered all the ways he could get out of this trip to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts, but he was stuck. He had to go. Right now, he was on the deck of the hillside Hollywood Hills home owned by his friend Julius Hartley, also an investigator with Sawyer & Sawyer. Russ was trying to savor the last of his coffee, but he had Daphne Stewart eyeing him from across the hexagon-shaped table.

Finally she sniffed and sat up straight. “I know what you’re thinking.”

Russ looked at Julius for help. When Julius had heard Daphne coming up the stairs from the street, he’d suddenly developed a driving need to pick dead leaves off his multiple potted plants. He didn’t meet Russ’s eye now. Thrown to the wolves, Russ thought. More accurately, wolf, in the form of petite, copper-haired Daphne Stewart, a diva in her early sixties.

“What am I thinking, Daphne?” Russ asked her.

“This trip is a waste of time.”

“It is a waste of time. You don’t have to read my mind. I told you.”

“You gave me your professional opinion. I get that, but I have a bad vibe about my return to Knights Bridge. I’ve learned to trust my vibes. They’re not always right, I admit that, but they’re not always wrong, either.” She sniffed. “I’m willing to pay for my peace of mind.”

She settled back in her chair, eyeing Russ as if daring him to argue with her. She wore a close-fitting top with a deep V-neck and slim pants, both in the same shade as her dark green eyes. Even early on a Saturday afternoon, she had on gold earrings, a bunch of rings and gobs of makeup. But she pulled it off. She looked good. She always did. As a costume designer, she’d told Russ, she felt she should make an effort with her attire whether she was running out for a quart of milk or attending the Academy Awards.

Julius piled more plant debris onto the deck rail. He was in his fifties—twenty years older than Russ—and newly married to a San Diego attorney. He had on expensive golf clothes, his usual attire these days. He had two grown daughters by his first marriage, both Los Angeles attorneys. The younger one was buying his house, now that he was moving into his wife’s La Jolla home. Russ figured he could afford a Harry Potter cupboard in either La Jolla or Hollywood Hills.

“Why is this place called Moss Hill?” Julius asked Daphne.

She shuddered. “I hate that I know the answer. It’s at the base of an actual hill of that name.”

“Is there moss?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, Julius.”

He tackled a fernlike plant, grabbing a handful of brown matter. “Was it always called Moss Hill?”

“Yes. Sort of. It was called Moss Hill to distinguish it from the other Sanderson mills in the area. They’re all gone now, most of them demolished when the reservoir was built.”

Russ tried to control his impatience. He didn’t care what the damn place was called. It was in this nowhere-town, and he had to get on a plane tonight, fly to Boston and drive there in the morning.

“My great-great-grandfather, George Sanderson, built the mill in the nineteenth century,” Daphne said. “It produced straw hats until sometime after World War I.”

“Like the straw hat Dick Van Dyke wears in Mary Poppins?” Russ asked.

Julius and Daphne both raised their eyebrows. Julius held his clippers in midair. “You’ve watched Mary Poppins? Seriously?”

“Marty and I watched it on a snow day back when our father was stationed in upstate New York,” Russ said. “I was six. Marty was eight. I’d sing the chimney-sweep song to taunt him.”

Julius snorted. “He didn’t throw your ass in the snow?”

“No, he did. It had no effect.”

Daphne shook her head. “I have a hard time envisioning you and Marty as little boys. You shouldn’t run into snow in Knights Bridge this late in April.”

“If it snows on me,” Russ said, “I’m quitting.”

“Oh, no, you’re not,” Julius said. “You can’t quit this week. I can’t fill in for you. I’ll be in La Jolla planning my new office in the poolside guest room.”

“I can’t believe you’re moving down there.” Daphne snorted with displeasure. “Do you have a clause in your sales contract with your daughter that you can get your house back if you hate La Jolla?”

“There is nothing to hate about La Jolla, Daphne,” Julius said.

Russ admired Julius’s patience. After ten years working with her, Julius was used to Daphne, and he considered her a friend. Russ did, too, although he’d only known her a few months, and today she was testing him.

“I’m not quitting Sawyer & Sawyer,” Julius added. “I’m not going to abandon you.”

“Will your daughter invite me to coffee on your deck?”

“When have I ever invited you? You just show up.”

Daphnee pursed her lips, clearly fighting back a smile. “You’re the devil himself, Julius Hartley. But now I have my young PI, Colt Russell. How do you like Los Angeles compared to San Diego, Colt?”

Julius gathered up his pile of debris and threw it over the deck into his backyard without a word. Russ picked up his coffee mug. He didn’t correct Daphne. She knew his name. She was trying to get a reaction from him. He wasn’t irritated, amused or concerned. This was just part of his new life.

“You’re so serious,” she said. “You remind me of Liam Neeson in Taken.”

Julius joined them at the table. “You told me the other day he reminds you of Mark Harmon as Gibbs in NCIS.”

“Gibbs was a marine,” Russ said. “Neeson was CIA.”

“And you were navy,” Julius said.

Daphne waved a hand. “Whatever. Liam Neeson and Mark Harmon are both older than you, Russ, I mean Colt, but you have that same kick-ass look. I like it. I’ll bet you can kill people with your left thumb.”

“Easier with my right thumb.”

Russ could tell Daphne didn’t know if he was serious. She got to her feet. “Well, I like knowing you’re in my corner as I prepare for this class. You know I’ve never taught a class, right? I don’t even like to speak in public. Ava and Ruby O’Dunn were very persuasive in getting me to say yes. They appealed to my ego and my desire to help and encourage young designers. I fell for every bit of it.”

“You’ll be great,” Julius said.

Daphne kept her green eyes on Russ. Finally, she sighed. “Well? Aren’t you going to agree?”

“Agree with what?” Russ asked, mystified.

“That I’ll be great.”

He wasn’t as good at client care and reading the cues as Julius was. “Sure,” he said. “You’ll be great.”

“You’re both awful men and total liars,” she said with a cheeky smile. “I could stink up the room on Saturday, and you’d tell me I had the crowd in the palm of my hand.”

“I never lie to you,” Julius said. “Sometimes you choose not to hear what I’m saying, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lied.”

“Well, I give you permission to lie on Saturday, because it won’t matter. Whether I stink or I’m terrific makes no difference. Either way, I am never, ever, ever doing this again.”

“That’s nerves talking. See how you feel after you get through this thing.” Julius rubbed the back of his neck, looking awkward. “I’ve been meaning to tell you... I can’t be in Knights Bridge on Saturday, Daphne. I’m sorry.”

“Your wife again. La Jolla. This move. Next, you’ll be telling me you’re volunteering at the San Diego Zoo.” Before Julius could respond, Daphne swung around to Russ. “I suggest packing bug spray. It might be black-fly season in Massachusetts.”

With that, she bid them goodbye and trotted down the stairs, back to the peppy little car she drove. She lived in Hollywood Hills herself, but she operated in a different social circle from Julius—a different world altogether from Russ.

The slider into the kitchen opened, and Loretta Wrentham, Julius’s bride of one month, stuck her head out. “Is the coast clear?”

Julius grinned. “You want me to go downstairs and make sure?”

“It’s all right. I have nerves of steel.” Loretta came out on to the deck. She was in her fifties, slim and fit, with short, graying dark hair. She wore tight-fitting jeans, a white shirt and sandals with three-inch heels that didn’t seem to bother her. She set her ever-present glass of sparkling water with lime on the table and sat next to her husband. “That woman gives me hives.”

“I thought you liked her,” Julius said.

“I do, in small doses. She’s fun, generous, interesting and a little nuts. She loves having you two at her beck and call.”

“No one has Russ at their beck and call. Me, yes. Russ, no.”

“You just play along better than I do,” Russ told him.

“My point is,” Loretta added, “Daphne will run you ragged if you let her.”

Russ smiled. “It takes a lot to run me ragged.”

“No doubt.” Loretta grimaced as if the entire conversation about Daphne Stewart pained her. “She loves the idea of having a rugged, good-looking investigator show up in Knights Bridge as her advance team.”

“Hey,” Julius said, “Russ is going east, not me.”

She rolled her eyes, but Russ thought she looked less tense. She and Julius had only met last summer, but now it seemed as if they’d known each other forever. “Daphne knows her stuff, I’ll say that for her.” Loretta swept up her water glass and took a big drink. “She warned me the first dress I picked out for our wedding wouldn’t work. Although this was my first—and only—wedding, I didn’t want to do the whole white-dress thing. I found a cute cocktail dress I liked. I thought it was cute, anyway. Daphne told me I would hate my wedding photos if I wore it. I’d look sallow and sad. Her words. Sallow and sad.”

“And you were neither that day,” Julius said.

“She’s also responsible for the two of us meeting. Now I really do feel like a heel for avoiding her.” Loretta nodded toward the plants Julius had trimmed. “They look great. This is such a nice spot. I’m glad it’s staying in the family. We can come for brunch. Your daughter makes a great frittata.”

Russ was out of there if they were going to talk frittatas.

But Loretta had narrowed her dark eyes on him. “Julius has told you about my connection to Knights Bridge, hasn’t he?”

“Dylan McCaffrey and Noah Kendrick.”

She gave the smallest of smiles. “That cuts to the chase. Dylan and Noah are best friends. They grew up together in LA and got rich together. Dylan in particular is involved in several new ventures based in Knights Bridge. Adventure travel, an entrepreneurial boot camp and an inn of sorts.”

“Not to mention goat’s milk soaps,” Julius added.

Loretta kept her gaze on Russ. “The soaps and the inn are Olivia McCaffrey’s ventures, but, of course, Dylan is involved. Olivia is the local woman he married on Christmas Eve. Noah is engaged to Phoebe O’Dunn, the former Knights Bridge librarian and the eldest sister of Ava and Ruby, the twins who put together Daphne’s master class. NAK, the company Noah founded and Dylan helped launch, is based in San Diego. They both have homes there, but Knights Bridge—” she sighed “—it’s home for Phoebe and Olivia.”

“Are they involved in Daphne’s class?” Russ asked.

“She’ll be staying at the Farm at Carriage Hill, Olivia’s inn. I don’t know if either Olivia or Dylan will be at the class. Olivia’s a graphic designer, so she might be interested. Noah and Phoebe are at his winery at the moment.”

Russ downed the last of his coffee. “Two friends from California fall for two women from Knights Bridge. Great, but I’m not seeing a role for me here.”

“Loretta worries about Dylan and Noah,” Julius said. “They’re like surrogate sons to her.”

“Dylan’s a longtime client,” she said. “I started working with him when he was a defenseman in the National Hockey League. That he’s now worth at least a hundred million and Noah over a billion...well, yes, I do worry about them. Knights Bridge is a small, idyllic New England town. It’s easy to be lulled into thinking it won’t attract people who might not wish Dylan and Noah and the people they care about well.”

Russ got to his feet. “What are you asking me to do?”

“Have a look at their lives in Knights Bridge from your point of view,” Loretta said. “Talk to Dylan. See what you think. You have more experience with security than either Julius or I.”

“Is Dylan expecting me to talk to him?”

“He will be by the time your flight lands tomorrow. I’ll call him myself. Noah, too. He won’t be there, but Dylan won’t make a move on anything that concerns Noah without talking to him first.”

“All right. I’ll let you know. I’m not sneaking around, just so we’re clear.”

“No problem,” Loretta said.

“And my first priority on this trip is Daphne.”

“Of course.”

“Even if it’s a waste of time,” Russ added, half to himself.

Julius brushed a bit of plant matter off his polo shirt. “Be glad the O’Dunn twins are putting you up at Moss Hill instead of their mother’s place. She has dogs, cats, chickens and over a dozen goats. That’s where Olivia gets the milk for her goat’s milk soap.”

Russ stared at his friend and colleague. “Goats, Julius?”

“Nigerian Dwarf goats.”

“I have to admit they’re adorable,” Loretta said.

“Have you ever seen a goat, Russ?” Julius asked.

“I have.”

Loretta inhaled sharply. Her husband winced. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Both. I doubt I’ve seen a Nigerian Dwarf goat, though. Nothing wrong with raising goats, but if I have to stay in this town for more than a few days, I’m going to want hazard pay.”

Russ left Loretta and Julius smiling—and looking relieved—and took his coffee mug into the house. The sliders opened into the kitchen, which the daughter who’d bought the house was already planning on renovating. Russ put the mug in the dishwasher. He took spiral stairs in the adjoining hall to one of two upstairs bedrooms. The main living area was located on the middle level of the hillside house, and a master bedroom and bath were on the ground floor. Russ had moved into the smaller of the two upstairs bedrooms in March while he figured out what came next for him.

He’d never, not once in his thirty-three years on the planet, imagined working investigations for a Beverly Hills law firm.

Julius had refused to take rent money from him, saying he liked having someone there while he was in transition between Hollywood Hills and La Jolla.

Russ got out his worn duffel bag.

How the hell had he ended up here?

But he knew the answer. He didn’t like it, but he knew.

* * *

Russ eased onto a cushioned stool at Marty’s Bar off Hollywood Boulevard. Opened in 1972, it had survived the changes in the area because of its best and its worst qualities. Best, it served good drinks and good tacos, chili and burgers. Worst, it was a notch above seedy with its dark wood paneling, chipped tile floor and cracked vinyl cushions. Cheaply framed Hollywood photos hung crookedly here and there, featuring everything from black-and-whites of the Three Stooges to color shots of Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. It wasn’t a spot to see and be seen, but since neither interested Russ, he didn’t mind.

His older brother greeted him with a big grin. Marty had chosen to put in an application there when he came to Hollywood eighteen months ago because they had the same name. To him, it was amusing, as good a place to tend bar as any before he got rich and famous. “What’re you having, little brother?” he asked.

“Heineken, thanks.”

It was one of a dozen beers the place offered on tap. Marty grabbed a pint glass—scratched but clean—and drew the beer. He was dressed head-to-toe in black. With his chiseled features, clear blue eyes and straight, medium-brown hair, Marty was classically good-looking. He had no visible scars, although plenty were hidden under his black attire. Russ had never been as good-looking. He was beefier, and more of his scars were visible, if from minor injuries. His eyes were a darker blue. A scary blue, a former girlfriend had told him. He didn’t know what that meant, but she’d insisted it wasn’t bad.

Marty slid the beer across the worn bar. “All set to head east?”

“As ready as I’m going to get. You still okay with driving me to the airport?”

“Yep. No worries.”

Russ didn’t see any sign of worry in his brother’s face, but Marty had been taking acting lessons. He didn’t like airports and anything that flew except birds and bugs, and not all of them. But it wasn’t something the two of them talked about. Ever.

“Daphne offered to drive me,” Russ said. “I declined.”

“She told me. Smart move on your part. She’d throw her back out driving your Rover. We’d never hear the end of it. I suppose she could take her car and leave the Rover with me, but I don’t see how that would get you to LAX alive. She tootles around here in that sporty little thing she drives, but I doubt she’s driven on a big highway in years.”

“It’s hard to tell with her.”

“I bet she’d have her own driver all the time if she could afford it. She must do all right, but no way does she have that kind of money.” Marty paused to take an order from another customer, then grabbed a pint glass and poured another beer. “It’s cool she likes this place.”

And because she did, Russ thought, he was working with Sawyer & Sawyer as an investigator, living in Julius’s guest room and on his way to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. Russ had met Daphne when he’d come up from San Diego in February to check on Marty, make sure he wasn’t living under a bridge. She’d been sitting two stools down from where he was now, drinking a French martini and bitching about some nonexistent problem. She’d found out Russ was just out of the navy, doing security and investigative work on his own in San Diego, and put him in touch with Julius.

“This place suits Daphne’s contrary nature,” Russ said.

“She likes to surprise people. Also I make a damn fine French martini, if I do say so myself.”

Three young women came in and ordered margaritas, laughing and chatting about their plans for the evening as they sat on stools down from Russ. He left his brother to his work and took his beer to a small booth. He ordered fish tacos and settled in for the next hour, until Marty was free to take him to LAX. In exchange, he could use Russ’s Rover while he was back East.

After Russ finished his tacos, Marty delivered a fresh beer and set a squishy, tissue-wrapped package on the table. “A present for you. Don’t get taco grease on it.”

Russ unwrapped the tissue to reveal a well-made Hawaiian shirt. “It has palm trees on it, Marty.”

“Damn right. I figured now that you’re a real PI, you need your own Magnum, PI shirt, just like Tom Selleck in the ’80s—except you’re not as tall as he is and you don’t have his sense of humor.”

“I don’t live in Hawaii, either.”

Marty grinned. “A little devil-may-care attitude wouldn’t hurt you, Russ. Selleck was about your age when he was playing Magnum.”

“Thanks, Marty. A Hawaiian shirt with palm trees on it won’t stick out at all in Knights Bridge, Massachusetts.”

“Go ahead, little brother. Put it on while I finish up.”

Russ held up the shirt after Marty disappeared behind the bar. The palm trees were relatively muted. What the hell. It would make Marty happy for him to wear it, and it would be comfortable on the long overnight flight across the continent.

He changed in the men’s room. When he got back to his booth, Marty was ready. “Looks great. You want to finish your beer or head out now?”

“Now’s fine. Thanks for the shirt, Marty. I feel cool.”

His brother laughed. “You are the definition of cool. Come on. Let’s get you to the airport.”

* * *

Marty drove. He hadn’t had any alcohol, and he wasn’t distracted by the prospect of spending the next few days in a little New England town to make sure Daphne Stewart could do her master class without incident. Not that anyone—Daphne included—was concerned or had any reason to believe there would be an incident.

Russ grimaced at the prospect of wasting the next few days of his life, but he said nothing.

“I’m buying a car,” Marty said. “A friend is giving me a good deal on a clunker. All I need.”

“You’ve managed to get where you need to go without a car.”

“Friends, Uber and public transportation. It’ll be good to have wheels for a few days. I won’t take off up the Pacific Coast Highway, though. Promise.”

“I recorded the mileage.”

“Of course you did.”

Russ hadn’t, which Marty knew, but it was the game they played with each other. Marty, the irresponsible dreamer. Russ, the feet-flat-on-the-ground military type.

Wasn’t that far off from the truth.

“Have you decided to take a permanent position with Sawyer & Sawyer?” Marty asked.

“I’m there now. That’s all I know.”

“You can’t camp out at Julius Hartley’s place forever. Unless the daughter who’s buying it is available?”

Russ wasn’t going there. He had no interest in either of Julius’s daughters. “Right now I’m focused on this trip.”

“I thought you’d worm your way out of this one. Daphne’s got you by the short hairs, doesn’t she?”

“She’s a valued client and a good friend.”

Marty sputtered into laughter. “You just did the civilian version of saluting smartly. Daphne’s great, but she knows how to get what she wants. Think she’ll go through with this class in this little town? We have a pool going at the bar. Most of us think she’ll twist an ankle or get a sinus infection to find some way out of it.”

“I resist any urge to predict her behavior. She’s talking about helping to start a children’s theater in Knights Bridge.”

“With the theater-major twins? Seriously? Where’s the start-up money coming from? Don’t let Daphne fool you. I’ve seen her calculate a tip. She’s careful with a buck.”

“I’m not getting mixed up in what happens with this theater.”

“You always were the smart brother.”

When Marty pulled up to the appropriate terminal, he had a death grip on the wheel but otherwise seemed okay being this close to aircraft. He cleared his throat and turned to Russ. “I’m doing fine, Russ. I mean it. Don’t insult me by worrying about me.”

“What makes you think I’m worrying about you?”

“Because you’re here, working in Beverly Hills. It’s not what you want. You’re here because of me.”

“Tell you what, Marty. You don’t worry about me and I won’t worry about you.”

“Never. You’re my baby brother. I always worry. The reverse doesn’t work.” Marty pointed at him. “Shirt really does look great.”

“I figure I can change when I get to Boston.”

“Ha-ha.”

“I’ll see you soon.” Russ climbed out and grabbed his bag from the back. “Thanks for the ride, Marty.”

“No problem. Safe travels. I promise not to wreck your Rover while you’re gone.” Marty still held tight to the wheel as he leaned across the seat. “You have directions to this town?”

“Head west. Look for the goat signs.”

Three

Daphne Stewart arrived at Marty’s Bar as Marty Colton returned from dropping Russ off at the airport. “This is an awful little place,” she said, hopping onto a bar stool. “But that’s part of its charm.”

“That’s what we all think. French martini?”

“As only you can make one, my dear Marty. Did Russ bitch and moan about heading east?”

“You know us Coltons. We’re stoic.” Marty reached for a glass. “His flight hasn’t taken off yet. You still have time to call him and cancel this trip to this little town.”

“Then you’d lose your chance to drive his Rover.”

“The sacrifices we make for our siblings.”

“I don’t have any siblings. I’m an only child. Thank heavens. I’d hate for anyone else to have had to endure my SOB of a father. What was your father like, Marty?”

“Solid.”

She frowned at him. She’d heard something in his voice. A certain raggedness, or unease. Maybe it was just driving to and from LAX. Her idea of hell. She was relieved Russ hadn’t taken her up on her offer to drive him, not that she’d ever doubted he would. “Is he still with us? Your father, I mean?”

“Nah. Died ten years ago. You didn’t drive over here, did you?” Marty held up the martini glass. “I don’t have to worry about you getting behind a wheel after having one or two of these babies?”

“I did not drive, no, and you never have to worry about me. I’m a responsible drinker.”

“Does that mean you want me to go heavy on the pineapple juice?”

“It does not.”

Daphne noted how he’d changed the subject from talk of his father, deliberately. Fathers could be a tricky topic. It had occurred to her, more than once, that the Colton brothers knew far more about her than she did them. Russ, because he worked with Sawyer & Sawyer and she was a client. Marty, because he made a hell of a French martini and she was a customer. She considered them friends, and she thought they considered her a friend, if along the lines of an eccentric aunt.

An aunt would know more about her nephews than Daphne did about Marty and Russ Colton.

She leaned forward. “Marty, darling, are you dawdling?”

“No, ma’am. I have your drink right here.”

“You’re such a brat. You know I hate being called ma’am.”

He set her drink in front of her. “That will take the sting off the insult.”

Chambord liqueur, vodka and pineapple juice, with a twist of lemon. It was Daphne’s favorite drink these days. She took a sip. “Ah. Perfect, as always. Have you ever sampled one, Marty?”

“No. Never will, either.”

“Russ tried mine a few weeks ago. I think you were busy and missed it. I could tell he wanted to spit it out, but he’s a tough guy. He resisted. He said it tastes like spiked punch.”

“To each his own.”

“That’s what I told him.”

Marty grabbed a white cloth and mopped up where he’d prepared her drink. “Are you seriously worried you’ll run into problems next week in this little town?”

“They’re expecting fifty people at my master class.”

“You can handle it. That’s nothing in your world.”

“What if one of them is fixated on me in an unhealthy way?”

“You’d have forty-nine people there to help you.”

Daphne didn’t want to explain her mix of emotions about returning to Knights Bridge. Paranoia, excitement, dread, dedication. Affection. She’d come to adore Ruby and Ava O’Dunn. She’d known their father when she’d lived in Knights Bridge, briefly, as a young woman. He’d died tragically ten years ago in a tree-trimming accident. Ruby, in particular, reminded Daphne of handsome, poetic Patrick O’Dunn.

“You okay?” Marty asked as he poured a beer for another customer.

She made herself smile and adopt her practiced air of not having a care in the world. “Did Russ tell you he caught a stalker targeting a young actor? He didn’t tell me. The actor did. No charges were filed. Our stalker volunteered to return home to Portland and go back into therapy. All it took was seeing Russ on his doorstep. Russ didn’t have to say a word.” Daphne drank more of her martini. “He says it was his sunglasses.”

“He does look like a badass in those sunglasses.”

“But it wasn’t just the sunglasses,” Daphne said.

Marty shrugged. “Russ is very good at what he does. He’s a natural at his job, but he’s also worked hard at it. He had a lot of experience in the navy.”

Marty delivered the beer down the bar. He had the ability to carry on multiple conversations. He was a dabbler, bartending, acting, screenwriting, grabbing whatever work he could to live his Hollywood dreams. Daphne understood and tried to help, to get him to focus on the work and not just the dream. But he was focused, Daphne thought. It was easy to underestimate Marty Colton.

She nursed her martini. She didn’t want to have two drinks, but she also didn’t want to gulp down this one and end up going home too early. She supposed she could switch to sparkling water, but she knew she wouldn’t. When Marty returned, he tilted his head back, studying her. She wasn’t fooled by his good looks and easygoing ways. He could be as incisive and critical as Russ. Worse, even, since he didn’t have a client relationship with her. She was just a customer who liked the occasional French martini at the hole-in-the-wall bar where he worked.

“Do you wish you felt guilty for sending Russ to your hometown?” Marty asked.

“Knights Bridge isn’t my hometown. I moved there when I was eighteen to get away from my father. I found solace and hope there, and I honed my sewing and design skills. I left at twenty to come out here.”

“That took guts.”

“I think we say that when things work out. When they don’t, we say it was reckless, stupid, irresponsible.”

“This class isn’t a prison sentence, Daphne. You can bow out at the last minute.”

“Imagine how that would look.”

“Imagine how it would look to drive yourself crazy or drink yourself into oblivion because you keep trying to talk yourself into believing you want to do this thing.”

“I do want to do it.”

He raised his palms in front of him. “I rest my case.”

Daphne finished her martini. She was being ridiculous, second-guessing herself. She’d made her decision. She’d made a commitment to Ruby and Ava. Of course she had to go to Knights Bridge next week. With the day drawing closer, jitters were normal.

She thanked Marty and let him put her drink on her tab. It was a late night for her. Usually she was in bed by ten o’clock.

* * *

When she arrived at her bungalow in Hollywood Hills, Daphne was glad she’d opted to take a cab. Her one martini had gone to her head. She was careful not to stagger, because who knew if the cab driver was taking a video, texting his friends—anything was possible these days. Once she was inside, with the door locked, she felt tears on her cheeks. Oh, good heavens, she thought, was she crying? It had to be the martini.

“You need food.”

She went into her kitchen, hoping she could find something to eat. Her house was only fifteen-hundred square feet, but she loved it. She’d bought it after her last divorce and had it painted a warm sunshine yellow in celebration of her new freedom. She’d decorated the interior in creamy neutrals, with the idea that a man would never live here again. So far, so good on that one.

Hard to believe it had been twenty years.

She discovered hummus and cut-up vegetables in the fridge. She arranged them on a plate, poured herself a glass of water and headed out to the patio, turning on the lights since it was darker than the pits of hell. She checked her chair cushion for spiders before she sat down. She hadn’t become a fan of western spiders in the forty years she’d lived in Southern California.

As she ate her dinner, she watched the turquoise pool water ripple in the light and smelled the roses off to the side of the patio. They were pink and peach, and she could see them from her studio window while she worked. Everything was on one floor—she could grow old here.

Her house wasn’t anything special by Hollywood standards, but it was what she’d imagined when she’d boarded her first bus west all those years ago. Her life wasn’t perfect, and she’d made plenty of mistakes, but she’d done all right. She had nothing to prove to anyone, including herself. That wasn’t what this master class next Saturday was all about.

“Yes, my dear,” she said as she dipped a carrot stick into the hummus. “If only you believed it.”

Did she want Russ to come upon something that would force him to recommend she cancel her Knights Bridge appearance?

She remembered the first time she met him at Marty’s Bar. Rugged, focused, task-oriented and so obviously very worried about his big brother. She had no one to worry about her. Some of that was by her own design. Even now, she could hear her father telling her he was smacking her because he was worried about her.

Damn. She wished she had another French martini instead of carrots, celery, broccoli and hummus.

Her great-great-grandfather’s old mill as a theater...a place for children to come and learn about acting, costume design, lighting...ultimately about themselves.

Can I do this, tie myself to Knights Bridge?

Do I want to?

She inhaled deeply. The ghosts of the past were grabbing her from behind. She tried to shake them off, but they clawed at her, refusing to let go, forcing her back to those early days when she’d first arrived in Knights Bridge as a teenager. She hadn’t lived there long, but her life there—working in the library, living in a cottage on Thistle Lane—had transformed her.

She remembered walking to the mill at Moss Hill one fine spring morning with the full intention of flinging herself off the dam. It was early on after her arrival in Knights Bridge. She figured people would think she’d slipped amid the tall grass, broken glass and debris.

An unfortunate accident befalling the last descendant of the mill’s original owner.

A fitting end to the Sandersons.

She hadn’t jumped. She’d decided the dam wasn’t high enough, and it was too damn risky. What if she just got banged up and lay there alone, no one to find her?

She really hadn’t wanted to die a slow death.

She’d walked back to town. She vividly remembered her annoyance at getting blisters.

It wasn’t long after that little brush with oblivion that she’d started sewing, copying dresses she saw in movies and magazines and dreaming of a different life.

She didn’t want to go back to who she’d been forty years ago. She was Daphne Stewart now, not Debbie Sanderson, the abused, insecure teenager with no money and no prospects.

Four

Russ collected his rental car in Boston. He’d reserved an all-wheel-drive car because he didn’t know the terrain in Knights Bridge, and potholes and rutted dirt roads were a distinct possibility. And because Loretta had warned him. Get a good car. I’m always in fear of wrapping myself around a tree when I’m out there.

He had a text waiting for him when he got behind the wheel; it was from Marty. You there?

He typed an answer. Yep. Why are you up?

Working on a screenplay. On a roll. Stay in touch.

Will do. Get some sleep for me.

Russ tossed his phone on the seat next to him and started the car. Marty might be working on a screenplay, but he’d be up anyway, waiting for his brother to land safely in Boston. Russ felt like a heel for not texting him sooner, but Marty would never say anything. His fears, he’d told Russ more than once, without getting specific, were his burden. He would deal with them in his own way.

Gritting his teeth, Russ drove out of the airport and made his way through a tunnel and onto Storrow Drive. With Boston’s notoriously poor signage and the unfamiliar roads, he regretted not using GPS to get him to Knights Bridge. He’d slept little on his flight. Nothing new there. At wheels up, he inevitably saw Marty in his hospital bed ten years ago, with morphine keeping the pain at bay.

Your brother sustained severe injuries but we think he’ll survive.

Think? You’re not sure?

Russ had turned then, seeing his mother in the doorway. She’d had no color except for her own bruises and lacerations. But she was on her feet, not on morphine, not fighting for her life—not her physical life, anyway.

Russ... I can’t do this. I can’t.

He’d thought she was talking about her older son. He’ll make it, Mom. Marty’s strong.

Your dad was strong and he’s dead.

I know. I’m sorry.

Marty’s an adult. We’re not obligated in any way. It’ll be months...months and months...

Mom?

Her dark blue eyes had fastened on Russ, and he’d realized she was talking about Marty and his recovery, and how she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be there for him. She had sustained relatively minor injuries in the helicopter crash that had killed her husband, the father of her two sons, and at that moment, realizing the loss she’d suffered, the months of rehab ahead of Marty, she wished the crash had killed him, too.

Maybe not all of her had wished it. Maybe only a part of her, traumatized and grief-stricken, had wished it. Maybe she’d believed she couldn’t get through it—couldn’t cope with seeing her son in pain, the ups and downs of a long, uncertain recovery, and her shortcomings would hurt his chances of getting back to a hundred percent.

Not that a hundred percent had ever been an option.

She’d rallied, if only because of the expectations of the people around her. Russ tried to tell himself what he’d seen that day at the hospital was the fight-or-flight reflex at work. His mother had wanted to flee from her suffering son, and who was Russ to blame her? He’d taken as much emergency leave from his naval duties as he was allowed to bury his father and see to his mother and brother.

In the end, he’d abandoned his brother, too.

An insane roundabout brought Russ back to the present. He was on the road to Knights Bridge, Massachusetts. Marty was hanging out in Hollywood. Their mother had three miniature poodles at her home in Scottsdale and liked to joke she had full charge of the television remote now that she lived alone. Russ called her once a week. She never called him. He didn’t know when he’d visit again now that Marty had moved away from Phoenix.

Traffic thinned as he drove west into the countryside, and he rolled down the windows, letting in the cool morning air as the sun climbed into a blue sky and chased away the memories. He could be in Knights Bridge in time for breakfast, but he’d grabbed coffee and a protein bar at the airport. They’d suffice. He planned to keep things simple in this little town. In, out, head down, do his job, then he’d be back on his way west.

* * *

Kylie poked a stick at the wet, browned leaves that clogged a spring, tucked amid moss-covered rocks in the woods above the mill, about a third of the way up Moss Hill. She liked to think of the spring as her secret discovery, but a nearby stone wall indicated the land had once been cleared. Others had been here long before she had ventured off a trail last summer and come upon the spring, a precious spot where fresh groundwater had broken through to the surface.

She didn’t want to take the time to push the leaves aside and wait for the water to clear in the small pool created by the spring’s trickle. Normally she would. She loved this spot. She would come up here on breaks from her work. She would sit on a rock by the spring and allow the landscape to envelop her, cradle her, as all her distractions and intrusive thoughts fell away.

Not this morning.

She breathed in the smells of a gnarled hemlock, the early spring greenery, the mud and the cold water of the spring. She shut her eyes, listening to the narrow stream below the spring flow downhill over rocks. She could hear birds twittering in the trees. She breathed deeply, feeling her heart rate calming after her trip to town yesterday and her bad night last night. She’d awakened at dawn and gone out to her balcony to watch the sunrise.

After a hearty breakfast of Scottish pinhead oatmeal, yogurt and coffee, she’d tried to work, but her head hadn’t been into Little Red Riding Hood.

She gave up after ten minutes, got dressed, put on trail shoes and headed up Moss Hill.

She’d brought her phone and a bottle of water, but she hadn’t left a note on her kitchen counter, as she usually did, describing her route and the time and date of her departure.

Sometimes the spring wasn’t easy to find. Everything looked so similar up here. She’d go too far and end up in a field or atop Moss Hill, or just miss it when it was right under her nose. This morning she’d had no trouble, following a narrow, seldom-used trail partway up the hill, then veering off through a gap in a stone wall to the stream and up to the spring.

She set her stick in the sodden leaves and mud next to the spring and stood straight. She could feel the air warming, the pinks and lavenders of the sunrise long melted into a blue sky. Rain was in the forecast for tomorrow, but it was pleasant now.

Russ Colton would be arriving sometime today. Once she got that out of the way—knew he was on the premises, doing his thing—she could concentrate.

At least she could picture him, had a good idea of what he looked like. Last night, tossing and turning, she’d remembered that an investigator had come to town ahead of Daphne Stewart’s visit in September—in his fifties, supposedly a decent guy. Kylie hadn’t met him, but she’d seen him in town. Gray-haired, casual, not the least bit intimidating. There’d been some confusion between him and Phoebe O’Dunn over Daphne Stewart and Noah Kendrick, now Phoebe’s fiancé, but everything had worked out, apparently a case of multiple misunderstandings.

That California investigator had to be the one on his way now. This Russ Colton.

Kylie started back through the woods to the stone wall and the trail. Her left side was wet and muddy, but she didn’t care. She might be restless, but the spring was one of her favorite spots. She wished she’d thought to ask what time this California PI was getting here, but she wasn’t sure that would have helped with her distractibility. But she felt better, and if she couldn’t get a lot done today, she could at least draw a few trees for Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house.

When she got back to her apartment, she lasted ten minutes at her worktable.

She sighed at Sherlock Badger. “I know. It’s crazy.”

He stared back at her. He looked unsympathetic. Just start, he would say.

Most days it would be good advice. Not right now.

Kylie grabbed her phone and keys and headed back out. She’d seen ducks on the river from her balcony.

Yes.

She’d check on the ducks.

* * *

Kylie took the stairs to the lower-level garage. Each apartment had its own parking spaces and storage compartment. She’d left her Mini in the parking lot, so her two spaces were empty. She didn’t have anything to store yet. She’d put her bike in the compartment once winter returned. In the meantime, she wanted to buy a kayak or a canoe and the requisite gear. They could go in storage. Maybe a tent? No. She hated camping.

She could easily lose an hour wondering about what could go in her storage compartment.

Refocusing on her mission to see the ducks, she went out through the back and crossed the driveway that wound into the garage from the parking lot. She stepped onto a strip of soft, newly planted grass level with the river. The landscapers had added a few shade trees, now just saplings supported with ropes and stakes. The river was down from its early-spring runoff peaks, but still running high. Two ducks swam peacefully in the quiet millpond, with no apparent concern for the nearby dam and rushing waterfall. Above the dam and pond, the river widened and turned shallow, flowing over rocks and boulders toward the mill its waters had once powered.

The sounds of the water didn’t soothe Kylie’s agitated mind.

She had the keys to the heavy back door to the main building and unlocked it, heading inside. The ground level held a kitchen, storage rooms, the mechanical room and a large health club she was welcome to use in addition to the exercise room in her building.

She switched on a light and went upstairs to the main entry. She didn’t have keys to any of the interior rooms except the health club. No one would be around on a Sunday morning, but she wanted to have a look at where Ava and Ruby O’Dunn were hosting the master class with Daphne Stewart. Moss Hill’s sole meeting room was located on the other side of glass doors and a glass partition. More glass doors opened onto a balcony that jutted out over the river, a perfect spot for a romantic photo. The space was ideal for weddings and parties of all kinds. It was empty now, its gleaming wood floor obviously original to the building given the unevenness and glossed-over nicks and discolorations.

Kylie peered into a glass case in the entry. It had been empty on her last visit here but was now filled with a display of antique straw hats that had been made at the mill in the nineteenth century, a nod to the building’s origins. Moss Hill had character, one of its chief draws for her. She noticed the display also held museum-mounted, blown-up photos that depicted the mill’s history, from when it had been a thriving business employing scores of workers to a century later, when it had been abandoned, left to decay and a wrecking ball, and, finally, to the present, with its comfortable blend of old and new setting it up for another century of use.

She heard footsteps echoing behind her and turned just as a man she didn’t recognize appeared behind the glass doors in the meeting room. He was tall, broad-shouldered and frowning right at her.

She decided not to take any chances.

Pretending she hadn’t seen him, she retraced her steps, running down the stairs to the lower level and out the back door. She didn’t breathe until she was outside. She shivered in the cool morning air. She’d encountered all sorts as construction on Moss Hill had wound down—engineers, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, landscapers—as well as Mark Flanagan’s employees and clients now that he had moved his offices here. She hadn’t gotten a good look at the man who’d interrupted her snooping, but he wasn’t anyone she’d met before. She’d remember. He hadn’t been wearing a coat and tie. A denim jacket, khakis. That didn’t tell her much.

If he decided to come after her, she needed to get moving, because he’d be fast.

She pulled off her running jacket and crossed the grassy strip to the driveway that led to the garage under her building. When she reached the pedestrian entrance, she stopped, keys in hand, and groaned.

She had the wrong man. Russ Colton wasn’t the investigator she’d seen last summer. He was the man up in the meeting room.

Had to be.

“How to draw attention to yourself when you don’t want attention,” Kylie muttered to herself. “Run like a lunatic.”

What now? Go up to her apartment, lock herself in and hope for the best? Buck up and introduce herself to her new neighbor, act as if she hadn’t seen him and bolted?

Take a long bike ride?

Fly to Paris?

The bike ride won.

She went inside and took the stairs up to the main level and headed out to the breezeway and the bike rack. She wore a thigh-length dark purple sweater, black leggings and sneakers with highly visible bright orange laces.

The man from the meeting room was standing by a blue sedan in the parking lot.

No avoiding him now.

“You must be Russ Colton,” Kylie said, leaning against her bike. “Ruby O’Dunn mentioned you’d be arriving today from California. Kylie Shaw. I live here.”

“You’re my new neighbor, then. Sorry if I startled you.”

He walked toward her. He’d put on sunglasses, which had a way of making him look even more humorless.

She decided not to deny he’d startled her. He probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway. “No problem.” She grabbed her bike helmet off the handlebars where she’d left it yesterday. “Did you just get here?”

“Here to Moss Hill. I arrived in Boston a few hours ago.”

“Ah. You took the red-eye. It has an appropriate name, doesn’t it”

He smiled. “It does, but it’s not the reason I’m wearing sunglasses.” He pointed a thick finger at the blue sky. “The sun is.”

A sense of humor. Kylie was encouraged. “I work at home. Feel free to knock on my door if you need anything.”

“I will, thank you. What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m a freelance illustrator.”

“You’re not registered for Daphne Stewart’s class next Saturday.”

“I only just learned about it. I’ve been busy with work the past few months and haven’t paid attention.”

“Do you know Ava and Ruby O’Dunn well?”

Kylie shook her head. “Not well. Do you?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet. I’m here on behalf of Daphne Stewart.”

“So Ruby said. Fantastic she’s taking the time to give a lecture in little Knights Bridge. It’s very generous of her.” Kylie tried to look nonchalant. She wanted to keep the focus away from herself. “When I saw you—”

“Deer in the headlights.” He gave her an easy smile. “You froze for a split second, and then you bolted. I sometimes have that effect on people. Again, sorry.”

She returned his smile. “I didn’t freeze. I just bolted. Do people tend to run when they see you?”

“Not always. Sometimes I wish they’d run, and they don’t.”

“Comes with the job, I imagine. I had a different Russ Colton in mind. I thought you’d be the man who accompanied Miss Stewart last time she was in town. I didn’t meet either of them, but I saw him.”

“You were expecting Julius Hartley?” Russ grinned. “That’s awesome. I can’t wait to tell him.”

“Sounds as if that one will keep you two laughing over your beers for a while.” Kylie couldn’t wait to get out of there. “Well, it’s a beautiful day. I love springtime in New England. I’ll be off on my bike ride now. Good to meet you, Mr. Colton. Enjoy your stay.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your bike ride.”

He returned to his car as she climbed onto her bike. As she rode across the parking lot to the exit, she was positive he was watching her, but she didn’t look back to make sure.

She turned up the road, away from the village, welcoming the cool air and the sounds of the river tumbling toward the dam.

Russ Colton wasn’t what she expected on a Sunday morning at Moss Hill.

Any morning at Moss Hill.

As she rounded a curve, she felt her phone vibrate in her pocket and remembered she hadn’t called her sister back. She stopped next to the guardrail and checked her messages. A text, but not from Lila.

It’s Ruby. Join us for lunch at Smith’s at 12:30.

Kylie blinked at the text. Lunch? In the ten months she’d lived in Knights Bridge, no one in town had ever invited her to lunch, nor had she invited anyone to lunch. She hadn’t even realized Ruby had her phone number.

Something was up.

Thanks but...

Kylie hesitated, then deleted the but.

Thanks I’d love to join you.

Great.

And that was that. She was joining Ruby O’Dunn for lunch.

Five

Russ got his bag out of the back of his rented car. He’d watched Kylie Shaw until she disappeared around a bend on the winding country road in cute little Nowhere, Massachusetts. She was blonde, pretty and quick. He hadn’t expected her to get the jump on him outside the meeting room.

And she was cagey.

“Now, why is that, I wonder?”

An interesting development, his Moss Hill neighbor.

He took the covered breezeway to the residential entrance. Ruby O’Dunn had left keys to the two buildings in a flowerpot. First place Russ would look without instructions. Basic security at the renovated hat factory—his home for the next few days—was rudimentary but could easily be improved should the need or desire arise.

He’d had no trouble finding Knights Bridge or Moss Hill, even without GPS. When he’d pulled into the mill’s parking lot, he’d noticed the mud-encrusted bike, unlocked, leaning crookedly on a stand. Now it was occupied by his neighbor.

She obviously wasn’t thrilled to have him bunking across the hall, but she’d been expecting Julius Hartley. Probably would take a while to sort that one out in her mind. Russ had that effect sometimes. Maybe it was his scary eyes.

He could always unzip his jacket and show more of the palm-tree shirt Marty had given him.

Russ located his apartment and went inside, dropping his bag on the floor by the front door. He liked the industrial loft feel and modern furnishings of the place. Late morning sunlight streamed through the huge arched windows overlooking the dam and river. The design allowed residents privacy and solitude while also not being too isolated, at least by Knights Bridge standards.

Nice.

It’d do for his short stay. He’d done worse in his day. Much worse.

Did Kylie Shaw like being isolated? Was that what he was sensing with her caginess—it had more to do with his intrusion into her space? Moss Hill had only been open a matter of weeks. Where had she lived before here?

Lots of questions, likely none of which had anything to do with Daphne’s upcoming visit.

He checked the kitchen. As promised, Ruby O’Dunn had stocked the pantry and refrigerator with essentials. The place was mopped, vacuumed and dusted, and there were clean sheets on the bed and fresh towels in the bathroom.

“All good,” Russ said, fetching his duffel bag. He set it on the queen-size bed. He hadn’t expected to feel at home the first second he walked into the place, but he did.

He returned to the main room and stood at the windows. It was a good drop to the river. He could see two ducks cruising in the reeds on the riverbank. He wondered if there’d be ducklings soon. Across the river, fields, turning green with the arrival of spring, rose up to a white farmhouse with a dark-wood barn.

Russ fought a yawn. This was a beautiful spot—better than he’d expected—but he was here to do a job, not to admire the view. Julius and Daphne—and to a degree, Loretta—had supplied him with the basics about Knights Bridge, but he didn’t need to know anything that didn’t involve his reasons for being here. He did not need to know town gossip. Who was sleeping with whom, who was looking for work, who was in rehab. Not his concern.

Was finding out more about his neighbor across the hall part of his job or a diversion?

Could be both. Kylie Shaw was on the premises where Daphne would be speaking in a few days, and she had pretty blue eyes. Not scary at all.

A quick shower, a change of clothes and more coffee, and he was back out the door. He decided to check out the riverside—where Kylie had run when she’d spotted him—and descended the stairs to the ground-level garage, then headed outside. He followed a walk to an overlook a few feet above the dam.

He leaned over the black-metal rail and watched the water rush over the solid, old dam, creating a misting spray as it tumbled onto the giant boulders. He got a bit wet but didn’t mind. The temperature probably felt warm to the locals after the long New England winter, but to him it was refreshingly cool, not cold but not warm, either.

He was in no hurry as he returned to his apartment. He had nothing planned for the day. He’d figured he’d see what was what when he got here and go from there. He could have taken a later flight or spent the day in Boston, but this was fine.

As he started to unpack his duffel bag, Ruby O’Dunn texted him. He’d emailed her his number before he’d boarded his flight but hadn’t followed up when he’d landed in Boston, given the early hour. He glanced at her text. Welcome! Settled at Moss Hill?

He typed his answer. All set.

A bunch of us are getting together for lunch. Join us?

Where?

Smith’s off the common in 30 minutes.

Will do.

I’ve invited Kylie Shaw across the hall from you. She’ll know the way.

Ruby typed faster than he did. Ok.

See you soon.

Russ slid his phone back in his jacket pocket. Were Ruby and Kylie friends? Had to be. Otherwise why invite her to lunch?

Maybe his instincts were off, and Kylie Shaw wasn’t trying to keep to herself.

Might as well check with her. He walked across the hall and knocked on her door.

She looked thunderstruck when she opened up. She only cracked the door, as if she didn’t want him to see the place was a mess. “I’m...um... You’re here about lunch.” She gave a vague wave with a slender hand. “Ruby texted me.”

“I didn’t realize you two were friends.”

“We’re not. I mean...” Kylie bit her lower lip. “I don’t know anyone in town that well.”

“But you’re going to lunch?” Russ tried to make it sound like a genuine question and not an order. But he wanted her to go to lunch. Her behavior was borderline unusual. “I was on a plane all night. It’d be great to have someone else drive.”

“You don’t look jet-lagged.”

“Trust me. I am.” True, maybe, but he’d be fine to drive. “Yours is the Mini, I gather. Clever private eye that I am, I figure it has to be since it’s the only other car in the parking lot.”

Kylie nodded without enthusiasm. No smile at his humor. “I’ll meet you downstairs. Give me five minutes.”

To what? Gulp? Do yoga breaths? Russ shrugged. “Okay.”

“Five minutes.”

She shut the door.

Russ went back to his apartment and got his car key in case Kylie changed her mind, and he had to drive into town. But he would bet she wouldn’t change her mind. Something about lunch both intrigued and rattled her.

It was early but not too early in California. He texted Julius: I’m about to have lunch at Smith’s.

Order the turkey club. Don’t go near the salads.

No update?

Quiet here. Why?

Later.

* * *

Russ headed downstairs and out to the Mini, a cream color underneath the dried mud and dust. Of course it was unlocked. He opened the door to let in some spring air while he waited.

Kylie joined him. She was in the same outfit she’d had on earlier, but she’d changed out of her orange-laced shoes into black ankle boots. It wasn’t the sort of thing he normally noticed, but the laces had been tough to miss. She gave him a tight smile. “All set.”

She might have been going on a secret mission behind enemy lines.

“I noticed your car is as muddy as your bike.”

“There’s a thing here called mud season. It just ended. I haven’t had a chance to clean my bike and car since then.” She pushed a palm through her pale hair, then gave him a forced smile.

Russ slid into the passenger seat while she went around the hood to the driver’s side. It was a little car. His left thigh almost touched her right thigh. He thought she noticed. It wasn’t an obvious giveaway, just a slight shift toward her door as she started the engine. “I’m not used to having anyone in the car with me,” she said. “Last one in the passenger seat was a dog.”

“A big dog?”

“Not as big as you.”

“That would be a hell of a big dog.”

“It was a chocolate Lab that had run off from the Sloan farmhouse about a mile away. I found him rolling in the mud on the riverbank.”

“Mud seems to be a theme in your life. I’m glad I don’t scare you anymore.”

“You wouldn’t have scared me to begin with if I’d seen the palm trees on your shirt.”

“You noticed them? The observant artist. My palm trees aren’t intimidating?”

She smiled. “Not by themselves.”

“Need the rest of me, huh?” He thought he saw color in her face, but the light shifted as they continued down the road. “The shirt’s new. A gift from my brother.”

“To remind you that you’re an outsider here?”

“Trust me, I don’t need reminding.” He pointed out his window. “Was that Moss Hill back there, across from the mill? Are there hiking trails?”

“Yes, and yes. I was on one of the trails this morning.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“No dog?”

“No dog.”

“If I lived way the hell out here all by myself, I’d have a dog. In fact, I’d have two dogs. Maybe a couple of goldfish, too, although they aren’t much good in a fight.”

“Do you have a dog in Beverly Hills?”

He shook his head. “No dog, and I don’t live in Beverly Hills,” he said, leaving it at that. “How long have you lived at Moss Hill?”

“Since mid-March.”

“Before that?”

“I rented a house up the road.”

“But you’re not from Knights Bridge.”

“I moved to town last summer.” There was a slight testiness to her voice, as if she’d told him only because she knew he’d ask. “Are you from Beverly Hills?”

“Nope. Army brat. I joined the navy. I’ve been out two years.”

“Thank you for your service,” Kylie said quietly.

Russ hadn’t expected that from her. He didn’t know why. “It’s a privilege to serve,” he said. “Where did you live before Knights Bridge?”

“All over.”

Vague answer. He watched her drive, one hand on the wheel, the other on the shifter. She wasn’t tentative so much as tense. Not used to men? Not used to lunch? Didn’t like Ruby O’Dunn? He wanted answers, but he didn’t want to pepper her with too many questions. He was at her mercy. Imagine if she dumped him on the side of the road.

“Are there bears here?” he asked.

“Black bears.”

He settled back in his seat. “I’m not big on bears.”

She glanced at him as if she were trying to figure out if he was serious. But she turned, eyes on the road. “Do you know who all will be at lunch?”

“You, me, Ruby. I don’t know who else, if anyone. Why? Do you have enemies in town?”

“Just curious,” she said, and pointed to more ducks in the river.

Russ figured he had ten minutes, tops, to pull himself together before he got sucked into some small-town nonsense that had nothing to do with Daphne—or Noah Kendrick and Dylan McCaffrey. It was jet lag. Boredom. Curiosity.

His neighbor’s pretty blue eyes, her slender hands, the curve of her breasts under her purple sweater.

He hadn’t had a woman in his life in far too long.

The jet lag, boredom and curiosity made him vulnerable to doing something really stupid.

And he wasn’t paid to be stupid.

“Did I lose you?” he asked.

“Sorry. My mind wandered off.”

“You know you’re driving, right?”

“It didn’t wander off like that. I’m paying attention to the road.” She smiled at him. “No worries.”

He begged to differ, but he said nothing. If Kylie and Ruby weren’t friends, why lunch? Could be a simple question of politeness. He fought back a yawn, debating whether to watch the picturesque scenery or the attractive, intriguing driver. Finally he decided he could do both.

Six

Smith’s was located in a 1920s house that had been converted into a restaurant, around the corner from the country store. Kylie had dined there a number of times, alone, tucked in a booth with her sketch pad. At first, she hadn’t thought much about socializing with the people of her adopted town. She was here temporarily, as an artistic retreat—to work, not to hang out with the locals. She liked people. She liked being around people. But that wasn’t why she was in Knights Bridge. When she’d moved into Moss Hill and started to consider making the town home, she’d figured friends and socializing would come in due time—when she had more head space for them and allowed herself out of the retreat mind-set.

And there was Morwenna.

Would Russ Colton want to know about Morwenna Mills? Why would he care?

Because he’s the type who cares about every detail.

Morwenna was a big detail, if not one that had any bearing on Daphne Stewart’s master class on Saturday.

Russ followed Kylie into the restaurant. Ruby O’Dunn jumped up from a long table in the back of the eatery, greeting Russ as if they were old friends. She introduced him to Mark Flanagan and his wife, Jessica, who were also at the table, joining them for lunch.

Mark smiled at Kylie. He was a tall, lean man in his thirties, an architect who specialized in older buildings. He wore a black windbreaker, a dark gray flannel shirt and jeans, his usual outfit. “Glad you could make it,” he said.

She had the distinct impression he hadn’t expected her to accept Ruby’s invitation. There’d been something imperious about the text, and Kylie had suspected declining would cause her more problems than accepting. The faint feeling she’d done something wrong lingered, even with the warm greetings. Had Russ told Ruby about their meeting at Moss Hill—how Kylie had run from him? She gave herself a mental shake. She was overthinking.

She was hungry—maybe she just needed food. Regardless, she had to settle down.

Mark returned to his seat next to his wife. Dark-haired and green-eyed, Jessica was a Frost, one of the longtime families in town. She wore jeans and a flannel shirt but also a silver Celtic-knot necklace that Kylie suspected Mark had given her. Mark and Jess had known each other forever, but they were newlyweds, married last fall at her sister’s inn in town.

“Moss Hill is great,” Russ said, sitting next to Kylie and across from Ruby. “Thanks for putting me up there.”

“I keep thinking we need to come up with a name for the meeting space,” Jess said. “‘Meeting space’ is too bland. I’m looking forward to Daphne’s class. I know zip about costume design, so I won’t be one of the students and experts in attendance.”

“We want to make sure we have at least fifty people,” Ruby said. “Ava thinks we’ll get closer to seventy.”

Mark shook his head. “It won’t be that many.”

He was a cut-to-the-chase type, Kylie knew from previous encounters with him. From what she’d seen of Russ Colton so far, she suspected the two of them would get along well. She’d always had the feeling that Mark and Jess looked out for her, alone up the road in her rented house and now at Moss Hill.

The waitress arrived at their table, and they put in their orders—turkey clubs for Mark and Russ, the tuna melt for Ruby and the house-made broccoli-cheddar soup for both Jess and Kylie. Kylie didn’t trust herself to dive into a club sandwich, given how self-conscious and keyed up she was. It wasn’t just having a private investigator at Moss Hill or the unusual lunch. It was being around this many people at all. She was out of practice.

“Ava will be here on Friday,” Ruby said. “She’s as excited as I am, but she couldn’t get away from school. A bunch of her theater friends are coming up from New York to see Daphne. Same with my friends in Boston.”

“Are they staying in the area?” Russ asked.

“Some. Not many options here in town, but plenty within an easy drive. But we timed the class so people could make it a day trip from New York or Boston. A longer one from New York, obviously, but doable.” Ruby seemed unable to sit still, a bundle of raw energy and nerves. “We are thrilled to have Daphne here. We loved getting to know her better over the winter. I’m dying to see Hollywood and where she lives. She says Ava and I have a standing invitation to visit, but I don’t know if she’s just being polite.”

“If she said it, she meant it,” Russ said, nothing casual about him as he watched Ruby fidget and squirm.

Ruby turned to Mark. “How’s everything at Moss Hill?”

“Fine. Why?”

But she swung around to Russ. “No problems with your apartment?”

His eyes narrowed on her. “None.”

“That’s good,” Ruby said half under her breath. “Good, good.”

Jess, seated at the far end of the table, leaned forward. “Is something on your mind, Ruby?”

She didn’t respond at once. She took a breath and fixed her gaze on Russ. “We could have a situation brewing with Saturday.”

Kylie went still. Was this why she was invited to lunch? She felt a subtle change in Russ as he studied Ruby. “What kind of situation?” he asked.

“Problems with codes, permits, fire extinguishers. I don’t know. Not my area of expertise.”

“Problems at Moss Hill, you mean?” Jess asked, clearly shocked.

Ruby nodded. “My mother says someone is spreading rumors around town about possible safety violations and cut corners.”

Mark bristled visibly. “There are no problems at Moss Hill.”

Jess gasped. “Who is spreading these rumors? Has anyone said anything directly to your mother?”

“You know Mom,” Ruby said. “If a blade of grass has a complaint about a lawn mower, she’ll hear about it. She’s tuned in to town gossip. This will be the first event at the mill. All we need is some crank causing trouble. Ava and I aren’t professional meeting planners, but we’ve done everything possible to dot every i and cross every t. Mark, are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” he said stiffly. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“What if a contractor cut a corner you don’t know about?”

Jess touched Ruby’s shoulder. “You’re getting spooled up.”

“I know. I am. I’ve been stewing since Mom told me about the rumors last night. I’m worried someone’s trying to sabotage us.”

“Why would anyone want to do that?” Jess asked.

“Because people can be jerks,” Ruby snapped.

Kylie said nothing. Russ Colton hadn’t said a word since his initial question to Ruby, either. The meals arrived. Ruby looked as if she regretted ordering a sandwich. Jess snatched two fries off Mark’s plate before trying her soup. Kylie hadn’t expected the conversation to turn to news of unpleasant rumors. Was that why Ruby had invited her to lunch? But Kylie couldn’t see how she could help unravel what, if anything, was going on.

Ruby stared at her sandwich. “What if someone doesn’t want Daphne here—or just doesn’t want Moss Hill to host events?”

Mark lifted a triangle of his club sandwich. “A mixed-purpose space was always in the plans for Moss Hill. It’s no surprise to anyone we’ll be hosting a variety of events there. As far as I can see, people are excited about having that kind of space in town. There have been no problems or complaints.”

“Not everyone is excited, obviously,” Ruby said. “My mother says she has no idea who is behind the rumors.”

“Is this sort of talk unusual around here?” Russ asked.

“Knights Bridge is a small town,” Mark said. “People talk. They have their grudges. But nasty rumors like this? I’d say it’s unusual.”

Ruby seemed to make an effort to try a small bite of her sandwich. “I haven’t lived here full-time since I started college, but I can’t think of anyone who would want to sabotage a class by a Hollywood icon who’s donating her time...” She put down her sandwich and sank against the back of her chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m steamed, obviously, but I’m also this close to totally freaking out.”

“Just because something is annoying doesn’t mean it’s problematic,” Jess said.

Mark nodded. “I promise you, Ruby. These rumors are completely unfounded.”

Kylie tried her soup. It was thick, creamy and cheesy, with chunks of fresh broccoli. She understood now why Ruby’s text had struck her as off. Ruby had arranged lunch to reassure herself nothing was wrong at Moss Hill that could jeopardize Daphne Stewart’s appearance in Knights Bridge. Kylie lived there. It made sense to invite her to lunch in case she’d heard or seen anything that might indicate trouble for Saturday.

Russ finished a triangle of his sandwich and wiped his fingers on a napkin as he studied Ruby. “Do the rumors include Daphne or just Moss Hill?”

“Concern about Daphne and the people attending the master class.”

“What kind of concern?” Russ asked.

Ruby sniffled, calmer. “That there’ll be an accident, and people will get hurt because of the cut corners or bought-off contractors or inspectors. Whatever.”

Mark sucked in a breath. He seemed to take her high emotions in stride but clearly wasn’t pleased with this development. His wife of less than a year was pensive. “Who’s on your short list of possible jerks who could spread such a stupid rumor?” Jess asked.

“No one,” Ruby said. “I haven’t heard anything negative about Daphne’s class. I don’t want these rumors to take on a life of their own. I hope I’m not making things worse by mentioning them.”

“I’d rather have you speak up than keep this to yourself,” Mark said.

“Christopher Sloan said he’d stop by Moss Hill and talk to you.”

“Anytime.” Mark turned to Russ. “Feel free to join us.”

Russ gave a curt nod. “Thanks.”

“I just need reassurance,” Ruby said. “I know ten-to-one this is small-town grumping and griping, creating drama where there is none—someone looking for attention. You know, the arsonist who sets a fire and then sits back and watches the flames.”

Jess dipped her spoon into her soup. “In this case, the fire won’t catch and spread because there’s nothing to feed it. There are no problems at Moss Hill.”

Kylie glanced at Russ, but his expression hadn’t changed. His deep blue eyes settled on her. “What about you, Kylie? Have you heard any rumors?”

She ignored his undertone of suspicion, assuming it came with the territory of being an investigator. She shook her head. “No, but I doubt I would. I didn’t know about this class until yesterday.”

“Kylie keeps to herself,” Ruby said, the slightest edge to her voice, if only because she was so agitated. “The artist at work. Deadlines. Am I right, Kylie?”

“Fortunately, yes,” she said, forcing a smile and seeing no need to explain further.

Ruby clearly wasn’t satisfied. “If you like your solitude and need it for your work, why move into Moss Hill? You had to know you wouldn’t have the place to yourself. The apartments and offices would get rented, the meeting space would get booked and you’d run into Mark’s staff, groundskeepers, cleaners, security guards—all sorts.”

Kylie decided she’d had enough of her soup. “In a way, the activity at Moss Hill is one of its attractions after my months on my own up the road. My apartment is quiet. I can be removed from the activity around me whenever I need to be.”

“I’m sorry,” Ruby blurted. “I didn’t mean to put you on the defensive. I sound like such a bitch. I’m really on edge, I guess. I want everything to be perfect on Saturday. I’m sure there’s nothing to these rumors. Kylie, you’re welcome to come to the class. You and Daphne probably have a lot in common.”

“Thanks,” Kylie said. “I’d like that.”

“Are you on a tight deadline?” Jess asked.

“Not at the moment.” Kylie didn’t explain further. She appreciated the change in subject, but not to that particular subject. “It’s supposed to rain tomorrow. April showers bring May flowers, though, right?”

Russ picked up his coffee. “So they say.”

Kylie sensed he was aware she’d been borderline desperate to keep the subject from shifting to her work. Fortunately, the weather was ever a source of interest in New England, and everyone else at the table seemed relieved to move on from talk of Moss Hill and Daphne Stewart. Jess mentioned that it didn’t rain much in Southern California, and the rest of the lunch passed amicably and innocuously. By the time they considered dessert, Ruby was calmer, if still bothered by the rumors. Kylie was under no illusions that Mark Flanagan had dismissed them, either—and she knew Russ Colton hadn’t. Not a chance.

* * *

Russ Colton was riding back to Moss Hill with her. Kylie adjusted to this fact as she got in her car with him. She’d thought Mark or Ruby might give him a ride, or he’d want to take a walk in the village and check it out, stretch his legs after his long overnight flight, then find his own way back—but none of that had happened.

He strapped his seat belt on next to her in the little car. He oozed masculine confidence, but it didn’t strike Kylie as deliberate. It was natural. A part of who he was. Over lunch, she’d tried to assess him as an objective observer. He wouldn’t do for Cinderella’s or Snow White’s prince. Maybe a Badger. She could take part of his last name. Colt Badger, PI.

Now that could be fun.

She pulled onto the side street where Smith’s was located and came to the intersection with Main Street, aware of her passenger’s dark blue eyes on her. “You don’t seem peeved at Ruby O’Dunn for implying you could be the one spreading rumors about Moss Hill,” he said.

“I didn’t take her comments that way. She’s just nervous about Saturday.”

Russ didn’t respond right away. “I get the impression people around here have you pegged as a reclusive, eccentric artist. Are you?”

She eased the car onto Main Street. “I just had lunch with four people. I didn’t tell you to find your own way to town. That’s not being reclusive.”

“We are here in your little car together, that’s true. Self-interest at work? Did you suck it up and go to lunch so you could find out more information about what’s going on at Moss Hill this week, with Daphne arriving and me here?”

Kylie could feel her tension rising but tried not to show it. Russ Colton was a pro. He knew what he was doing. He knew how to elicit information from people. She drove past the common, sunny and green on the perfect spring day. “It would be a simple solution if I were the reclusive, eccentric artist who doesn’t like the idea of dozens of people showing up in her creative space.” She kept her tone as neutral as she could manage. “If I’m the one spreading these rumors, you talk to me, reassure me, threaten to take away my crayons, and all is well. An unknown rumor-monger and potential saboteur is more worrisome. I’m not a threat to anyone.”

“You weren’t messing with the fire extinguishers or something like that when I caught you at the mill this morning?”

“You didn’t ‘catch’ me. I just happened to be there the same time you were.”

“You ran when you saw me.”

She glanced at him. “Wouldn’t you?”

He grinned. “I’d buy me a beer.”

“It was too early for beer,” she said, taking the turn onto the back road to Moss Hill.

“Are you being straightforward or combative with me?”

“Maybe both.” She tightened her grip on the wheel. “This is becoming one of those days I wish I could start over.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t badger you when you’re kind enough to drive me to lunch and back.”

His tone didn’t hold a single note of contrition. He wasn’t sorry. He was doing his job. The apology was merely a tactical maneuver. “Why don’t you just tell me how I got on your radar? Was it running when I saw you, being in the lobby in the first place—or was it lunch and these rumors?”

“Now, that’s combative,” he said.

“I consider it straightforward.”

He settled back in his seat. “Here’s my take. You were blindsided by the news of Daphne’s class on Saturday and an investigator about to show up on your turf. You calmed down when you remembered Julius Hartley. Then you saw me, and I’m not Julius—not by a long shot—and Ruby O’Dunn invited you to lunch out of the blue. You guessed something was up and decided to find out what.” He paused. “Am I right?”

“I don’t consider Moss Hill my turf.”

“I’m staying across the hall from you. I’d consider that my turf.”

Meaning she was on his turf. His bottom line, maybe. “I’m coming up for air after a series of tight deadlines. I only expected to stay in Knights Bridge for a few months when I moved here. Now it’s been ten months, and I’m trying to be more social and meet people in town.”

“That’s it, huh?”

Obviously he didn’t believe her. “Maybe I knew you were jet-lagged, and I thought I’d be a good neighbor and accompany you to lunch. Welcome you to town. Make up for our bad start.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” He shifted his long legs, clearly having difficulty getting comfortable. “I’ve been in little seats too many of the past twenty-four hours.”

“You didn’t demand a first-class seat?”

“Coach is fine with me.”

Kylie glanced at the river, quiet and shallow, without any steep drops away from the dam. “I haven’t seen anyone sneaking around Moss Hill, in case that was your next question,” she said. “I don’t keep track of all the comings and goings. Probably not even most of them.”

“Does Mark Flanagan have enemies?” Russ asked.

She’d expected the question. “Not that I’m aware of. It’s my understanding that Mark grew up in Knights Bridge. People in town know him and like him, from what I can tell. But I’m not the best one to ask, since I’m new here.”

“Where did you grow up?”

“East of here. Near Mt. Wachusetts.”

“Any enemies?”

“Me?”

“You. Yes.”

She attempted a smile despite his probing questions. “I don’t get out enough to have enemies.”

“It could be an ex-boyfriend, ex-husband, ex-friend, ex-colleague.”

“I can’t think of anyone in my life who would spread rumors about Moss Hill, for any reason.”

“I’m not asking you to draw a conclusion. I’m asking if you have enemies.” Russ’s tone had softened, as if he’d realized he’d gotten intense. “You’re the only resident at Moss Hill, and you’re new in town. You seem to know more about the people here than they do about you. Why is that?”

“A natural consequence of being new here. I want to get to know people now that I have more free time. Everyone is busy with their lives and the people they already know.”

“And you’re reclusive,” he said.

“Busy, not reclusive.”

“Hair-splitting.”

Fair point, she thought. “Focusing on me is a waste of your time, but feel free. I’m sure Ruby’s taking idle talk to an extreme conclusion.”

“Could be,” Russ said. “Who is Christopher Sloan?”

The abrupt shift in subject caught her by surprise, but she welcomed it, could feel her grip on the steering wheel ease. “He’s one of two full-time, professional firefighters in town,” she said. “The Sloans are another local family. They own a construction company. There are a bunch of them. Christopher’s older brother Brandon is married to Ruby’s sister Maggie.”

“The Sloans worked on Moss Hill?”

“Some. I don’t know details. Christopher and Ruby...” Kylie didn’t finish.

“He and Ruby what? They’re an item?”

“I don’t know for sure. You know what it’s like when you’re the newcomer in a small town.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“People sometimes say things in your earshot they might not say if they knew you from when you were in kindergarten.”

“So, you’ve heard talk about Ruby and this firefighter.”

“There are sparks between them.”

“Sparks, Kylie?”

She heard the amusement in his voice and instantly felt heat rise in her cheeks. She resisted glancing over at him, but was aware of how close he was in the tight quarters of her small car. “You know what I mean,” she said finally.

“I’m not much on noticing sparks, I guess. Let’s just say my friends don’t come to me for romantic advice, at least not more than once. I ask them if they want to stay in or get out of the relationship. Only two options.”

“You’re a black-and-white thinker.”

“When things are black-and-white. What about you? Do your friends come to you for romantic advice?”

He’d set her up, she saw now. “It depends on the friend. And I don’t tend to be a black-and-white thinker. I was up for the sunrise this morning. Did you see it on your flight? So many colors. Then they all melted into the blue sky...” She slowed for a curve. “Let’s say that’s the kind of thinker I am.”

“Is that what we call a blue-sky thinker?”

“Or the sunrise thinker, maybe.”

He looked out his window. “I didn’t see the sunrise. I don’t sleep much on planes, but I was reading. Julius Hartley gave me a copy of The Three Musketeers. He said I would understand Knights Bridge better if I read it.”

“One for all and all for one, or a lot of sword fights?”

“I was hoping for a scantily clad damsel in distress.”

Kylie laughed as she turned into the Moss Hill parking lot. “No luck there. Still too cold. Your Hawaiian shirt with the palm trees suggests you like your warm weather.”

“As I said, my brother gave me the shirt. He binge-watched Magnum, PI over the winter.”

“He lives in Los Angeles?”

“He does.”

“Does he know Daphne Stewart?”

“They’re friends. I met Daphne and Julius through Marty. That’s how I ended up at Sawyer & Sawyer.”

Without trying, Kylie thought of a dozen questions she wanted to ask him about his life in California, his work, his past, his brother—where they’d grown up, what he’d done in the navy, why he’d become an investigator, what Daphne Stewart was like. But she didn’t ask any of them and instead turned off the engine and got out of the car.

Russ met her on the breezeway, stretching his lower back. “Thanks for the ride into town.”

“You’re welcome. Thanks for lunch. There’s a parking garage under the residential building, in case no one mentioned it. If you need anything while you’re here, feel free to knock on my door again.”

“I won’t disturb you?”

She smiled. “Oh, you’ll disturb me, but I won’t mind.”

“I’m going to take a look around the place.”

“I won’t call 911 if I see you, then. If you see anything suspicious, by the way, there’s decent cell service here. You should be able to call 911.”

He stared at her a moment, then broke into a slow, thoroughly sexy grin. “I’ll keep that in mind, Kylie. Working the rest of the day? Should I worry if I see the lights on at 3:00 a.m.?”

“If you do, it’ll be because I got up early, not because I stayed up late.”

His gaze held her for longer than she found comfortable. “I might take a walk later, or settle in and have a beer on the balcony—assuming it’s warm enough.”

“Evenings still can get cool this time of year, but that can be nice, too. I had wine on my balcony during a snowstorm after I first moved in here in March. It was magical.”

Russ raised his eyebrows. “We need to work on your idea of magical.”

Kylie felt heat rise in her face. “Well, enjoy the rest of the day.”

“I will, thanks. Knock on my door if you think of anything else that could help unravel what’s going on with these rumors.” He reached into his jacket and withdrew a card, handing it to her. “Or call or text.”

“Sure thing.”

Kylie took the card and slipped it into her pocket, eager to get back to her worktable.

Time to disappear.

She waited for Russ to go into the main building before she headed inside, her pace picking up the closer she got to her apartment and a locked door between her and her temporary neighbor. She wasn’t afraid of him. She just didn’t want him prying into her life.

And it was tough to be neutral about him. He was physical, intelligent and always on alert. No question about that.

Also, sexy.

No question about that, either.

Kylie dove into her apartment, breathing deeply as the door shut behind her. Her reaction to him wasn’t going to get her anywhere but into deep trouble.

Time to calm down and get to work.

* * *

She made tea. She sharpened pencils. She cleaned erasers. She sorted crayons, dusted her scanner, changed the batteries in her wireless keyboard and checked three times to see if the ducks had returned to the river, but they hadn’t.

Finally, Kylie approached her worktable as if it held classified information.

Imagine the field day Russ Colton would have if he knew about Morwenna Mills.

She frowned at Sherlock Badger. “Where were you today at lunch when I needed you?”

A little stuffed badger wouldn’t have helped her case with a real investigator.

She didn’t sit. She stared out at the river, concentrating on the shadows and the green of the fields rising up across from Moss Hill. But her mind didn’t clear. It was cluttered with images of lunch, Ruby’s fears, Mark’s firm denials of problems at Moss Hill, Jess’s quiet concern and Russ—questioning, suspicious and thoroughly confident.

And so damn sexy. The dark blue eyes, the tawny hair, the broad shoulders, the easy smile.

None of that was helping, either.

Kylie had to adjust her thinking, since she’d expected Julius Hartley, the investigator who’d escorted Daphne Stewart to Knights Bridge last summer. He was a good-looking man, but in his fifties and clearly out of his element in the small, rural town. Russ was closer to her age and struck her as a man who made a point of not being out of his element anywhere.

She picked a random blue crayon out of a basket on her worktable. Some days she thought she should have a studio separate from her home. She could go to work like “normal people,” as her sister would say, then insist she’d been joking. But ever since Kylie had entered art school, friends, family, professors and strangers had cautioned her about the chronic uncertainties of being a freelance illustrator, especially of children’s books. Even working illustrators with longtime careers had cautioned her.

By and large, people meant well. They didn’t want to see her broke or hurt by rejection and the unpredictable nature of her chosen profession.

That was fine. She didn’t want to see herself broke or hurt either.

From the time she was a little girl scribbling on her bedroom walls, she’d envisioned herself taking a pseudonym, but she’d started her career working under her own name. Now Morwenna Mills was her public face—the author and illustrator who had created the Badger family, newcomers to a little town not unlike Knights Bridge.

Kylie had never written her own children’s book. She’d recognized that being both writer and illustrator might not work out and hadn’t shown her project to anyone until it was finished. It could have gone right into the trash heap, but it hadn’t. Her agent had loved the writing and the illustrations, and so had publishers.

Taking a pseudonym hadn’t been required, but it had made sense. At first, she’d continued to take on work as Kylie Shaw. Now she only worked as Morwenna.

For better or worse, she thought, picturing the California investigator across the hall. Had he already guessed she was hiding something?

She could swear him to secrecy and tell him about Morwenna.

But why tell him if she hadn’t told her parents and sister and her closest friends? Why open that can of worms? Why take the chance? She was deep into her series of fairy tales. It didn’t have the same pressures as her recent Badger deadlines, but she was absorbed in the work.

Always her excuses for keeping Morwenna to herself.

She didn’t intend to keep her secret forever, but right now Ava and Ruby O’Dunn, two popular young local women, were excited about having a Hollywood costume designer come to town. They didn’t need the distraction of her alter ego this week.

Kylie sat at her worktable and opened her sketch pad to her maple tree.

Right tree. Wrong location.

It was progress, enough to get her back to work.

Seven

“Ruby shouldn’t have said anything,” Christopher Sloan said as he, Mark Flanagan and Russ stood on the balcony outside the meeting room, above the Moss Hill dam. “Her mother hears all the town gossip. It’s the nature of her job, and she likes it—likes being in the know. Ruby should be used to it by now. It’s easy for idle talk to get turned into something it shouldn’t.”

Mark didn’t look convinced. He and Christopher had finished their look at the renovated mill and hadn’t found anything amiss. It was midafternoon, cooler by the river. Russ had settled into his apartment after he’d had his own look around the property. Not a peep from Kylie Shaw. She was hiding something, no question, but he doubted whatever it was had anything to do with fire codes or corners cut during the refurbishment of the old hat factory.

Russ sensed that he and the two local men were on the same wavelength. He hadn’t expected to feel comfortable with the two New Englanders right from the start, but he could see they, too, weren’t concerned about actual problems with the mill but instead with the potential effect of the nebulous rumors.

“Why would there be idle talk about this place?” Mark asked. “And why now?”

“Because a Hollywood type is on her way to town. Doesn’t matter that she lived here forty years ago. She’s dressed movie stars.” Christopher nodded to Russ. “And there’s our PI here. Ruby told everyone you were on the way, Russ. That had to stoke the fires.”

“Drama,” Mark said tightly, clearly disgusted.

Christopher shrugged. “Sometimes people talk out of their hats and don’t realize they’re stirring up trouble.”

“They should be more careful.” Mark stared down at the water flowing steadily over the dam, as it had since the mid-nineteenth century. “I don’t need rumors going around that I did anything but a damn good job on this place. If I find out who said anything...”

“You’ll tell Eric or me,” Christopher Sloan said, then turned to Russ. “Eric is my oldest brother. He’s a police officer in town.”

Russ said nothing. He could see how frustrated and disturbed Mark was by this development.

“This will die down once Saturday’s event passes without a hitch,” Christopher added.

Mark continued to stare at the water. “I hope so.”

Russ leaned against the rail. If the two men were lying and the place was riddled with safety issues, then the rail could give way and land him in the river. But he didn’t believe the rail was anything but solid. “Mark, is there anyone with a grudge against you—anyone who’d want to make your life miserable?”

“I’ve fired people, if that’s what you’re asking. So have the Sloans and other contractors who worked on renovating this place. I can’t think of anyone who’s been a real problem.”

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