“Ah.” Gabe straightened. “You made friends quickly. Willow’s usually much more cautious in her dealings with strangers.”

“She’s a sweetie. You’ve done a great job of bringing her up. It can’t have been easy for either of you—I mean, for a man to bring up a little girl, and for a little girl to grow up without her mother. Willow told me…” Caprice’s voice trailed away as she saw Gabe stiffen.

His eyes had become hard, his lips tightly compressed. Caprice felt the air positively vibrate with tension. She had apparently said the wrong thing, but before she could even open her mouth to murmur sorry, he very pointedly—very rudely—tilted up his forearm and stared at his watch….

Grace Green grew up in Scotland, but later immigrated to Canada with her husband and children. They settled in “Beautiful Super Natural B.C.” and Grace now lives in a house just minutes from ocean, beaches, mountains and rain forest. She makes no secret of her favorite occupation—her bumper sticker reads, I’d Rather Be Writing Romance! Grace also enjoys walking the seawall, gardening, getting together with other authors…and watching her characters come to life, because she knows that once they do, they will take over and write her stories for her.

Grace Green loves to write deeply emotional stories with compelling characters. She’s also a great believer in creating happy-ever-after endings that are certain to bring a tear to your eye!

Forever Wife and Mother

Grace Green

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Carolyn and Jan Willem

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

WHY had he lied to her?

Caprice Kincaid stood at the study window, tears misting her eyes as she watched three black limos sweep the last lingering mourners from Lockhart House. Never had she felt so lost, so alone…so bewildered. She had trusted her father all her life; it pained her heart now to know he had deceived her.

She desperately wanted to ask him why…but it was too late. He was gone. Forever gone. And she was left to wonder what deep dark secret he had been hiding—

“Excuse me, Mrs. Kincaid.”

Blinking back her tears, she turned to see her father’s lawyer, Michael Duggan, in the doorway.

“Michael.” With a pale smile, she waved the bearded, heavyset man forward. “Thanks for waiting.” The heels of her black pumps spiked into the plush bronze carpet as she crossed to her father’s rosewood desk.

“You said you had something to show me.”

Caprice slid open the desk’s top drawer—the drawer she’d unlocked for the first time last night, with the tiny key she’d found in her father’s wallet. Her fingers shook as she withdrew the sheet of age-yellowed paper—but she steadied them and quickly closed the drawer as the lawyer walked over to join her.

“As I told you the other day,” he offered in a reassuring tone, “your father’s will is straightforward. He has left all his assets to you, as his only surviving relative. You are now one very wealthy young lady….”

Caprice handed him the paper. “This is my father’s birth certificate.” A swath of her long ash-blond hair slid over her cheek; abstractedly she looped it behind her ear. “Dad always led me to believe he’d been born in New York. Why would he have lied to me?”

The lawyer frowned. “According to this, he was born in Washington State. That is a surprise!”

“To you, too?”

“Well, yeah…I had the impression he was born in New York. I know that’s where he met your mother—and I know they moved here to Chicago before you were born. But this place in Washington State…Hidden Valley. Your father owns some riverside property there—yours now, of course.”

“What kind of property?”

“A log house. Modest place, with a bit of acreage.”

“But his investments were all in apartment buildings, weren’t they?”

“Except for this house. Holly Cottage.”

“Is it rented out?”

“Not at the moment, but over the past more than twenty years your father donated it for the summer months to a Seattle charity group called Break Away. They used it as a retreat for women who for one reason or another badly needed a holiday—a break—from problems in their lives.”

“I had no idea….”

“After his second heart attack last fall, your father indicated to Break Away that Holly Cottage would no longer be available to them. He was planning to sell all his holdings—and he did divest himself of all the apartment buildings—but he never got around to putting the log house up for sale. Something seemed to be holding him back.” He returned the birth certificate to Caprice. “I don’t know what it was.”

“I should like to find out.”

“I’ll make inquiries—”

“Thank you, Michael, but this is something I want to do myself. I’ll come into the office on Monday to attend to the paperwork we discussed, and next day I’ll fly out to Seattle. I’ve looked up Hidden Valley on the map—it’s a couple of hours’ drive from the city. I’ll rent a car at the airport.”

“You’ll stay at Holly Cottage?”

“It’ll be habitable?”

“Oh, sure, a caretaker looks after it.”

“Then yes, I’ll stay there.”

“For how long?”

“For as long as it takes.” Caprice’s ebony silk blouse clung to her ribs as she drew in a deep breath. “Can you get me a key?”

“No problem. Come to think of it,” the lawyer added as he prepared to leave, “it may not be a bad idea for you to take off for a while, have a vacation in the country. You’ve been under a lot of pressure over the past couple of years with your dad’s failing health….”

Caprice waited till after Michael Duggan had gone before she opened the drawer again and withdrew the only other item she had found there: a photograph.

The snap was of a modest two-story log house, with a very lovely brunette posed at the front door.

On the back of the snap was written, in her father’s strong familiar hand, just one word. Angela.

Caprice felt her heart twist as she looked at it. Her mother’s name had been Kristin.

Who was she, this dark stranger who had been part of her father’s past? And why had he never talked about her?

It was a mystery.

And one she was determined to solve.

‘Will! Will! Dammit, where is that girl?”

Willow Ryland woke with a start. Her father’s voice, faint though it was, had penetrated her dreams. Oh, cripes, she thought frantically as she scrambled off the rocking chair where she’d dozed off, I’m in big trouble if he finds me up here!

She whipped off all the jewelry she’d bedecked herself with earlier—the silver charm bracelet, the ropes of pink pearls, the blue earrings, the gold brooch that spelled out Angela—and tucked them away swiftly in the bottom of the old trunk, under the silk dresses and scarves and straw hats and wonderfully shiny high-heeled sandals, before lowering the lid carefully so as not to make any noise.

“Will! Where are you and that damned dog?”

At the word dog, Fang stirred and gave a protesting growl. He’d been dozing, too, his squat little body stretched out on the planked floor in a beam of April sunshine that slanted through the attic skylight.

“Hush!” Willow hissed as she clambered onto the rickety table that sat below the skylight. Raising herself on her toes, she peered out. And—oh, cripes!—there he was, striding around the car park, looking every which way. For her. Then all at once he turned on his heel and strode toward the lodge. His face, she noticed, was set in a dark scowl.

“Oh, hell!” The bad word popped out before she could stop it. She’d have to say an extra prayer that night. “Fang, let’s get out of here!”

The black and white mongrel’s claws clicked as he scurried across the floor and then lolloped down the narrow winding stairs that led to the third floor. Willow climbed down after him backward, rolling her eyes as the dog lost his footing and his roly-poly body landed with a fat thud against the door at the bottom of the steps.

Cautiously, she opened the door a crack. She heard nothing. She crept out, with Fang rudely pushing ahead, and closed the door again. She turned the key in the lock, and biting her lip, planted the key where she’d first found it a year ago, in the shadowy cranny of a glass-doored bookcase, across from one of the guest bedrooms.

Then—heart thumping like mad—she sped to the passage and the landing.

Fang was already halfway down to the second floor. And when she caught up with him, she gulped at the sight of her father in the foyer. He was scratching a hand through his wavy black hair and muttering to himself.

“Dad!” she called. “Hi!”

He raised his head sharply, and she saw relief flood his eyes before sparks of irritation sent it flying.

“Where the hell have you been?” he asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere for—”

“Dad.” She used the same tone Miss Atkinson had used last week when the teacher had sent her to the principal’s office for wrestling with her best friend Mark at recess. “You’re not allowed to say hell. Remember?”

She saw his lips twitch. “Right. Sorry, Will. I’ll try to do better.”

Willow grabbed the banister, swung her leg over and swooped down with her back to him. He caught her—as she’d known he would—just as she shot off the end.

“So…where were you?” he said gruffly as he set her down. “You and that stupid mutt of yours?”

“Oh, just busy,” she said, cocking her head at him. And just loving him, like she always did. “Were you calling me? I didn’t hear you. What did you want?”

“Dinner’s ready,” he said. “Bacon burgers.”

Her very favorite dinner!

Happily, she skipped alongside him as they made their way along the passage leading to their private quarters, to the cozy little kitchen—which was her favorite room in the lodge, second only to the attic.

And this was her favorite time of year. The ski season was over, the summer season hadn’t started, the staff were on holiday, so she had her dad all to herself. Things would be different in two weeks when the lodge would be jam-packed with guests…and then he’d be off into the wilderness with a bunch of rich folks who wanted to do all that neat stuff like rock climbing and white-water rafting.

For now, she wanted to enjoy being alone with her dad. Who was the best dad in the world.

She’d eaten two bacon burgers, washed down with milk, before she noticed something that turned her blood cold.

She’d forgotten to take off the wedding ring.

It glowed like a firefly on her middle finger—the only finger it fit. And it was a miracle, truly a miracle, that he hadn’t noticed it yet.

Palms sweating, she snuck her hands under the table, slid off the gold band and poked it down deep into the side pocket of her overalls. Only when it was safely tucked away did she dare glance at him again.

But he was lost in thought. She could tell by the lonesome look in his eyes, the look that told her he was aching for something. She had never figured out what. It reminded her, though, of the way she looked when she chanced to see herself in a mirror when she was thinking that it was the saddest thing in the whole world not to have a mom and how she longed with all her heart to have one.

At any rate, her dad hadn’t noticed the ring. And for that, she was truly grateful. He had no idea that she spent time in the attic—she knew for a fact that he never went up there himself. First time she went up, the floor and every other thing had been inches deep in dust, and it had taken her two full weeks to get everything cleaned off.

And of course he had no idea she had found the trunk of pretty things. He had no idea that she loved jewelry and silk dresses and shiny shoes and straw hats with pink flowers. He didn’t. He didn’t like pretty things.

And he didn’t like pretty ladies.

She knew that for a fact!

And it was why, from the very moment she’d overheard him say it—when she was four years old, which was three years ago now—she’d known that if he was gonna love her she had to make herself look as ugly as a mud road.

And actually, she reflected as she considered her raggedy straw-yellow hair, her turned-up nose and her too-big eyes that weren’t even the same color as each other—that wasn’t a very hard thing to do!

Heck, no, she thought with a grin, it wasn’t hard at all.

In fact, it was a downright cinch!

‘Hidden Valley?” Peering into the murky night, the gas jockey indicated a road across the highway from the rural Shell station. “Go straight down there for a couple of miles and you’ll come to a village, go through it and on up the valley for another ten miles. The Lockhart place ain’t signposted but look for the Ryland’s Resort sign—you can’t miss it, it’s well lit up. Your turnoff’s right after.”

Caprice had no problem following the directions, but the drive from Seattle had taken longer than she’d expected, so it was almost midnight before she finally saw the illuminated Ryland’s Resort sign.

Slowing down, she passed the entrance to the private road, and sixty yards farther on came to her turnoff.

As she swung onto the track, the headlights of her rented Honda danced among the pine trees lining the trail. She drove cautiously and in a minute rounded a bend and entered a clearing. The log house lay straight ahead.

She drew the Honda to a halt by the gate of a picket fence that enclosed a good-size garden and sat there a while, rubbing her neck to iron out the knots. Then she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, hauled her overnight bag from the seat beside her, flicked the lights off and eased her travel-weary body out of the car.

Momentarily blinded by the dark, she paused to let her eyes adjust and felt the night enfold her.

The air was rich with the scent of evergreens and musky with the odor of damp earth. Deep in the forest, a creature howled, and as the sound echoed eerily from the hills, Caprice shivered. She became suddenly aware of how alone she was here, alone and unprotected.

Stirring herself, she picked her way along the path to the door and dropped her overnight bag at the side of the porch before taking the key from her purse. It turned easily in the lock, and she pushed the door forward.

The entryway was tar dark. Leaving the door open, she ran a hand over the wall in search of a light switch, but as she groped for it something brushed past her from inside with a cry so harsh and high it chilled her blood.

She froze for one long, terrified moment. And then, with panic racing at her heels, she ran helter-skelter to the car and flung herself breathlessly inside.

Fang heard it first.

Gabe was waiting at the top of the lodge steps for the mutt to do his bedtime business and emerge from the forest when the animal gave a sharp warning bark.

As the sound faded, Gabe heard the throb of a fast-approaching engine. Seconds later, he saw the glare of headlights, and a car roared into the clearing.

Tensing, he drew his hands from the pockets of his jeans. Strangers in the night. Nowadays, one couldn’t be too careful.

As the car slammed to a skidding halt a few yards from the lodge steps, Fang rocketed over to the vehicle, barking wildly while dancing around it in a frenzy of excitement.

“Fang!” Gabe yelled. “Come here!”

Still yelping shrilly, the dog obeyed, hopping up the steps to take his stance beside his master.

Gabe snapped his fingers. “Quiet!”

After a low protesting growl, Fang became silent.

The powerful light above the lodge’s entrance beamed onto the car. It was a Honda Civic, and only one person was in it. Warily, Gabe watched the driver climb out and felt his tension ease when he saw the intruder was a female—a slight, petite figure in jeans and a dark shirt. The woman paused, her hands cupped at her brow to shield her eyes from the light, and then walked hesitantly forward.

She stopped at the foot of the stairs, and with her face shadowed by her hands, she looked at him.

“I know it’s late,” she said. “But can you give me a room for the night?”

“Sorry.” Her hair, he saw, was fair—and wildly disheveled, which struck him as odd, because there wasn’t even the slightest breeze. But maybe the storm-swept look was in…along with the black feathers adorning her tousled coiffure. As far as he was concerned, whichever designer had decreed feathers-in-the-hair this season had to be cuckoo himself. “Didn’t you read the sign on the highway? We’re not open for another couple of weeks.”

“Oh, dear.” She gave a shaky sigh. “Where’s the nearest motel?”

“Your best bet’s Cedarville. That’s about an hour’s drive—”

He broke off as she swayed.

He frowned. “You okay?”

No response. She stood there, looking dazed and boneless as a puppet. And then she crumpled.

Good grief! He lunged down the steps and caught her just before she hit the gravel.

Sweeping her up in his arms, he glowered at her—at her feather-strewn hair, her closed eyelids, her face—which was deathly pale except for a few dirty smears.

“Hey,” he growled, giving her a brisk shake. “Wake up. You can’t sleep here. We’re closed!”

No response.

He hesitated and dithered and swithered and then finally wheeled around and carted the stranger up the steps, all the while muttering words under his breath that he’d never have used in front of Will.

As he went inside, Fang took off for their private quarters to sleep in Will’s room, as he always did.

Kicking the door shut with his heel, Gabe walked across the foyer and into the public lounge. He flicked on a light, crossed to the nearest sofa and deposited the woman on it.

Then he crossed to the bar and poured a tot of brandy into a glass before returning to the sofa. He tilted the stranger’s head, poured a little brandy into her mouth. She swallowed, coughed, choked and then with a sputter shook her head and slowly raised her eyelids.

She looked at him. Her eyes were wide-spaced, long-lashed and smoky gray. They had a blank expression.

“What happened?” she asked, her voice husky.

“You passed out.”

She blinked. “I did? Where?”

“At the lodge’s front entrance.”

She looked blank for a few seconds longer, and then she said, “Ah, I remember now.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I guess I don’t react well to rejection!”

“It’s to be hoped you aren’t faced with it too often,” he said dryly. “Falling down can be hazardous to your health.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But I’m fine now.”

She didn’t look fine. She looked all in. And not merely tired. There was a bone-deep weariness about her and an aching sadness in her eyes that—if she had been a part of his life—would have worried him. Well, she wasn’t a part of his life, so he needn’t spend one second fretting about her. In fact, the sooner he got rid of her the better.

She struggled to a sitting position. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.” Dragging a hand through her hair, she dislodged one of the black feathers, and it clung to her knuckles. When she saw it, she flicked it off with a shocked sound. Horrified, she said, “Where did that come from?” It fluttered to the carpet.

Gabe plucked it up and got to his feet. “From your hair. Don’t worry, the others are still there.”

“The others?” Lurching off the sofa, she flicked her fingers frantically through her hair. He noticed the gleam of a gold wedding band on her ring finger. “Where?”

“Stand still.” So the feathers weren’t a fashion statement. Then where the dickens had they come from? He picked out the remaining few feathers. “There.” He held them in his palm. “All present and accounted for.”

She made a grimace of distaste.

He strolled to the hearth and let the feathers drift into a trash can. As he brushed his fingers together, he heard her murmur something that sounded like, “Must have been a bird.”

“Mmm?” He turned, eyebrows raised.

“Oh, nothing. Thank you for the brandy, but I’d better be getting along now. Could you give me directions to Cedarville? And if you know the name of a motel there, perhaps you could let me use your phone so I can call ahead.”

He opened his mouth to say, sure, she could use his phone. And then he shut it again. This woman was in no condition to drive. It would be on his head if he let her go and she passed out again and ended up in the river.

He heaved out an I can’t believe I’m doing this sigh and said, “You can stay here tonight.”

Her gray eyes widened, and she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe it, either. Then she smiled, a smile that lit up her grimy face and made her look like an apprentice chimney sweep who’d been given the day off. “Really? Oh, I do appreciate your kindness.” She offered her right hand and said, somewhat shyly, “I’m Caprice Kincaid.”

“Gabe Ryland.” Her fingers were fine-boned, the skin incredibly smooth. “At your service. So, Mrs. Kincaid, do you have an overnight bag?”

“Yes, it’s in the—oh!” She stopped short, looking embarrassed. “I, um, no, I have a case—it’s in the trunk. I’ll go out for it—”

“I’ll get it.”

“Oh. Thanks. You’ll find my key in the ignition. Could you bring in my purse, too, please? I left it on the passenger seat.”

“Will do.”

When he came back, she was looking at his wall of framed photos adjacent to the bar—photographs he’d taken over the years, candid shots of his well-heeled guests on the mountains, on the river, in the wilderness.

She turned to him. “What kind of resort do you run? It’s obviously not geared to couch potatoes!”

“I run a ski school in winter, and in summer I take parties white-water rafting, rock climbing, that sort of thing. Outward Bound,” he added with a sardonic smile, “meets ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”’

“So you’re in-between times at present?”

“Yeah. We open again in May.” He led her out of the lounge and to the stairs, where he paused. Indicating a passage to his left, he said, “Our private quarters are through there, but I’ll put you on the first floor. All the guest rooms have en suite bathrooms. You should find everything you need. If you don’t—” he shrugged and looked at her over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs ahead of her “—you’ll have to make do.” He yawned. “I’m going to bed myself now.”

At the top of the stairs he turned right and opened the door to the first room he came to. It was Spartan, as all the guests’ rooms were, except for the bed, which was luxuriously comfortable.

He laid her case on the luggage rack. And then crossed to the window. He paused, his long fingers curled around the edge of the heavy cotton drapes, and looked over the valley. The night was dark, but he could see dots of light marking the houses and farms farther up the river.

His gaze hardened as he fixed it on the spot where he knew the Lockhart place to be. There he could see nothing. No pinpoint, no spark of light. But any day now, as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow morning, the first of Malcolm Lockhart’s charity cases would be turning up at Holly Cottage. Some woman from the city, who would spend a couple of weeks recuperating from whatever trauma had brought her there. As soon as she left, another would arrive. And so it would go on, till after the autumn leaves had turned and winter came again to the valley.

If his gaze was hard, his heart was even harder. The Lockhart place should, by rights, belong to him. Just as it should have belonged to his father, and his father’s father before him. His father’s hatred of Malcolm Lockhart was matched only by his own. And it was a hatred that would stay with him till his dying day.

“Mr. Ryland?”

He closed the drapes brusquely before turning. Mrs. Kincaid was looking at him with a concerned expression.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “I said your name several times and you…didn’t seem to hear.”

“My mind drifted for a moment.” He strode to the bathroom door and swung it open. Everything was as it should be—spick-and-span, with fresh white towels, a basket of basic toiletries, clean glasses, a bottle of Evian.

“Breakfast’s at seven. Sharp!” He started toward the bedroom door. “I hope you’ll find the room comfortable.”

“It’s lovely,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Oh, one thing before you go…”

He turned at the door, his eyebrows raised.

“Will it disturb anyone if I have a shower? I’ve been traveling since dawn…. I’d really like to get cleaned up.”

“No problem. You won’t disturb me, I sleep like a log. And as for Will—you could drop a bomb next to the bed and you wouldn’t wake her.”

As he walked to the landing, he felt a pang of guilt. Seven o’clock was an early start for somebody as utterly exhausted as this young woman obviously was.

But he staved off the guilty twinges by reminding himself that if he hadn’t taken her in, she’d still be on the road.

And if she couldn’t manage to haul her skinny little body out of bed by seven, then she’d just have to go hungry!

CHAPTER TWO

CAPRICE woke next morning to the sound of a dog’s bark.

The bedroom was in darkness. She reached for her watch, peered at the luminous hands and saw that it was six-thirty. Lying back, she let her mind drift over the events of last night and grimaced as she recalled her panicky flight from Holly Cottage, scared out of her wits by nothing more than a bird—a crow?—that had tumbled down the sitting-room chimney!

She’d been appalled when she’d seen her reflection in the mirror. With her tangled hair and soot-smudged face, she’d looked like a street urchin. It was a wonder Gabe Ryland had let her through his doorway.

Gabe Ryland.

How different he was from the men in her social circle with their city suits and their GQ coiffures—men with pale smooth hands and smoother moves. Gabe Ryland was rugged and weather-beaten, with a hard, craggy face and black hair that hadn’t been cut in months. And in his sturdy jeans, hiking boots and no-nonsense plaid shirt, he’d been a walking ad for his Outward Bound business.

His hands, she remembered, were rough.

And his manners, she remembered, were rougher.

“You should find everything you need,” he’d said, and added bluntly, “if you don’t…you’ll have to make do.” Talk about uncompromising! And then, “Breakfast’s at seven sharp,” the implication being that if she turned up at one minute past, she’d have to go hungry.

And, she mused over a wide yawn, she was hungry.

She got up and padded to the window.

When she pulled back the drapes, she saw that dawn was just breaking. The eastern sky was bloodshot, and rosy light was creeping along the green valley and painting the unruffled surface of the river a glorious shade of pink.

It was going to be a perfect day.

And she just had time, she decided with a lilt of anticipation, to squeeze in a quick walk before breakfast.

“Fang, come here!”

Fang scrambled through a clump of ferns, and as he bumped against Will’s legs, she caught him by the collar. “Hush!” she whispered urgently. “Someone’s coming!”

She held her breath as she peeked out from behind the trunk of the oak tree, which was just a few yards from the fence. Cripes, if it was her dad she’d be in deep trouble. She wasn’t supposed to be on Lockhart land; he’d kill her if he knew she’d set foot on it.

He’d warned her never to cross the fence, warned her when she first became old enough to play outside alone.

“Why, Dad?” she’d asked, as they stood on their grassy slope and looked over the fence at the strip of forest that lay between the fence and the river.

“You don’t need to know why,” he’d told her. “Just remember, no trespassing on Lockhart land.”

And she’d obeyed him. For a whole month she’d done as he’d told her. But then one June evening Fang had taken off under the barbed wire fence chasing after a rabbit…and he hadn’t come back. There was a wooden stile close to the spot where he’d wriggled under. She’d perched on the top slat and waited. And waited. And waited. Not knowing what to do. And worried sick about him.

In the end, she’d gone in.

Just across the fence was a path into the forest, and she’d followed it, calling for Fang as she went. The path had soon led her to a log house, and in the garden she’d found Fang. But he wasn’t alone. He was with a lady. And the lady was petting him and cuddling him…and crying.

Will was happy to see Fang safe and sound but sad to see the lady cry. She went into the garden and told the lady who she was. She and the lady talked, and the lady—whose name was Emily—told her some secrets. When the sun went down, Emily walked through the trees with her as far as the wooden stile.

After that, Will took Fang to Holly Cottage as often as she could, but only between May and October and only when her dad was away. This was the first time ever that she’d risked going onto Lockhart land while he was home, and she really didn’t know what had brought her there today.

She hadn’t gone as far as the log house, though, because the Lockhart summer ladies didn’t start coming till the first of May, but she’d climbed over the stile and skipped down the forest path a bit with Fang.

And was on her way back for breakfast—was close enough to the stile to see it through the trees—when she’d heard someone up ahead.

Holding her breath, she peeked around the trunk of the oak tree. And her heart almost stopped when she saw a stranger on the other side of the fence, standing with one hand atop a fence post.

Fang barked.

Will got such a start she lost her grip on his collar, and he lurched from their hiding place and bounded to the fence.

Tail whisking like mad, he yelped ferociously at the stranger. She stepped back. Which made him bark even louder. On and on and on…

There was nothing for it, Will thought, frustrated, but to come out. If she didn’t, her dad might hear Fang and come to investigate.

So she put on her scowliest face and marched out of the shadows. Grabbing Fang’s collar, she ordered him to hush. Which he did. Then she held up the bottom wire and pushed him under the fence before climbing over the stile to the other side.

By the time she’d clambered over, the stranger had crouched down and was making friends with Fang, whose tail might well drop off, Will thought disapprovingly, if he kept wagging it that fast!

She frowned at the stranger, who wasn’t very big. And she was real skinny. She had blond hair that was scooped up in a high ponytail but would probably reach halfway down her back if it wasn’t. Her white T-shirt was tucked into her blue jeans, and she was wearing white Reeboks. Will had just finished giving her a good once-over when the woman stood up and fixed smiley gray eyes on her.

“Hi,” she said. “What a dear little dog.”

Will folded her arms over her chest and said, in a growly voice, “You’re trespassing. This is Ryland property. You’d best get off it real fast, before my dad catches you.”

The stranger looked past Will, across the fence. “I was just wondering,” she said, “where that path leads.”

“You can’t go down there, either. That property belongs to old man Lockhart—” Will stopped abruptly as her watch beeped an alarm. “Cripes,” she muttered. “It’s seven. If I want breakfast I’d better—” Dodging around the stranger and saying, “C’mon, Fang!” she hurtled away up the hill, not breaking her stride as she called over her shoulder, “Like I said, lady, you’d best get going real fast or you’ll be staring up the barrel of my dad’s shotgun!”

Caprice chuckled.

And started up the slope.

A tomboy, she mused as the child disappeared over the crest of the hill, but an adorable one, with that raggedy yellow hair, delightfully tip-tilted nose and lovely eyes. Mismatched eyes, one green, one hazel, and densely fringed with lashes the color of toffee.

Caprice paused and looked back when she reached the top of the slope. Over the tips of the trees, she could see three chimney pots. If that was Lockhart land, then that would be the log house. Holly Cottage.

What secrets might she uncover there? Would she find some clue as to why her father had deceived her? If not, she’d have to become acquainted with the locals in the hopes of finding someone who’d known him and would talk about him. Under the circumstances, it would be unwise to ask anyone outright if Malcolm Lockhart had been involved with a woman called Angela. Who knew what can of worms that might open up! No, better to play it safe, be discreet.

Heaving a restless sigh, she turned and walked on. At the lodge, she went in by the main entrance. She was hesitating in the foyer, unsure where to go, when the little girl shot out from the passage leading to the Rylands’ private quarters.

She skidded to a halt when she saw Caprice.

“Are you Mrs. Kincaid?” Her whisper was panicky.

“Yes.”

The child gulped. “Mrs. Kincaid, please don’t tell my dad you saw me on the other side of the fence. That’s Lockhart property and…” Her cheeks took on a guilty flush. “I was the one who was trespassing. Not you.” Taking a deep breath, she added in a rush, “I’m not supposed to go in there. If my dad found out, he’d be as mad as—”

“It’s okay,” Caprice assured her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Oh, thank you—”

“Will!” Gabe Ryland’s voice thundered from somewhere in the depths of the lodge. “Did you find her?”

Caprice raised her eyebrows. “You’re Will?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, I thought when your father spoke of Will last night he was referring to…your mother.”

The child’s eyes became shuttered. “My mother’s dead,” she said. “It’s been just me and my dad since I was four.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry—”

“Will!”

At the sound of her father’s bellow, the little girl said, “Uh-oh! We’d better get into the kitchen if we want to eat. C’mon!”

She darted off, and Caprice followed her to the kitchen, which turned out to be small and cozy and bright, with windows facing east. The sun beamed in and cast its pink glow over a jade-green slate floor, granite countertops, maple cupboards and a maple island.

Fang was in a corner of the room, digging his nose greedily into a bowl of dog food, and Gabe Ryland was standing with his back to her at a round maple table set in a windowed alcove. He was wearing khaki shorts and a khaki shirt, and she found her gaze flicking in awe over his wide shoulders, his lean hips, his long, brawny legs. Talk about rugged! Talk about tough! Talk about powerful! She could well imagine this man leaping mountains in a single bound or overpowering a cougar with one twist of his bare hands.

He said to Will as she clambered onto her chair, “Did you find Mrs. Kincaid?”

“She did,” Caprice said.

He turned around, a coffee carafe in his hand. “Oh, hi, there.”

“Good morning,” Caprice murmured, adding with an edge of humour in her voice, “I hope I’m not late?”

“Rules,” he said, “are meant to be kept.” Amusement gleamed in his eyes—hunter green eyes that were so intense Caprice could almost feel them lasering into her soul. He glanced at his daughter. “Right, Will?”

The child wriggled uncomfortably in her chair, and to save her from being put on the spot, Caprice interjected lightly, “Some say that rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of idiots.”

“Without rules,” he returned as he poured coffee into two mugs, “the world would be an even crazier place than it already is.”

Caprice took the seat he indicated. “But surely there are times when we must break the rules—”

“It may be more difficult, at those times, to keep to them, but in the long run it works out for the best. As long as the rule is a good one to start with.” He returned the carafe to the coffeemaker and brought a rack of toast to the table. “Take mealtimes. If the rule is that we always sit down at a certain time and we all adhere to that rule, it makes the cook’s work easier.” His eyes teased her. “Don’t you think so?”

“What I think—” Caprice added milk to her coffee “—is that it’s far too early in the day for such a discussion.”

“Mrs. Kincaid’s right, Dad.” Will looked up from her bowl of cereal. “It’s far too early.”

“Outnumbered.” He held up his palms in surrender, and smiled.

He had a devastating smile. Wide, warm, sincere. A generous flash of blindingly white teeth, a merry twinkle of laughing green eyes, an irresistibly seductive charisma.

Caprice felt her pulse scatter in wild disarray and she struggled to get it back to its regular rhythm. Wherever this man went, she decided dazedly, he must surely leave a trail of broken hearts behind.

He rested his hands on his hips. “Mrs. Kincaid—”

She forced herself to pay attention. “It’s Caprice.”

“Caprice. What can I offer you? Bacon and eggs? Sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, hash browns?”

“Thanks, but I don’t eat a cooked breakfast.”

“Lucky for you!” Will sputtered over a mouthful of her cereal. “’Cause Dad can’t cook worth a—well, he just can’t cook! Coffee and bacon burgers are his specialties—and toast—but he even sometimes burns the toast!” She giggled as her father put on a highly indignant expression.

“Young lady!” He waved a teaspoon at her. “You’d better remember which side your bread is buttered on or you’ll be sent off to boarding school—”

He broke off as the phone rang. Excusing himself, he crossed the room to answer it.

As he talked to someone, Will said confidently, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Kincaid, my dad would never send me away. He’d miss me too much. Also,” she whispered confidingly, “he couldn’t possibly send me to boarding school. We couldn’t afford it. He’s been saving every spare penny for years to buy a piece of riverfront property…if one should ever come up for sale. Which it doesn’t look like it’s ever gonna,” she finished in a rush as her father put down the phone. She looked up, all wide-eyed and innocent, as he returned to the table.

He sat across from Caprice. “That was Mark’s mother, Will. She can’t drive you and Mark to school today. I told her I’ll do it.” He shifted his attention to Caprice. “So once you’ve had breakfast and got your things organized, I’ll see you on your way. I’ll have to lock up here before I take off to pick up Mark. He lives quite a way from here.”

“Of course.”

Caprice was surprised to find herself reluctant to leave. Half an hour ago, she’d been feeling restless, impatient to get to Holly Cottage. But Gabe Ryland was a very intriguing man, and his daughter was delightful, and she was drawn to stay longer. Drawn to get to know them better.

But that would be foolish, she mused as she nibbled a corner of her toast. She had come to the valley to get some answers, and as soon as she got them she’d be gone. There was no point in getting emotionally involved with any of the inhabitants. No point at all.

“Tell me, Mr. Ryland,” she said, “how many staff do you employ here?”

“It’s Gabe. Staff? Half a dozen, give or take. The same people have been coming for the past several years. The housekeeper—”

“That’s Mrs. Malone!” Will said.

“—and a cook—”

“That’s Mrs. Carter, who also looks after me when Dad’s away.”

“—a housemaid and a waitress—”

“Jane and Patsy.” Will finished her glass of milk.

Gabe grinned at her. “An odd job man—”

“Sandy McIntosh.” Will set down the glass and swiped a paper serviette over her mouth. “He drives me to school when Dad’s away—well, he takes turns with Mark’s mom.”

“—and Alex Tremaine—”

“He’s my dad’s best guide and instructor, Mrs. Kincaid. He teaches people how to do rock climbing and mountaineering and canoeing and backpacking, and most of all, how to do white water, and like my dad he teaches people who go on the white-water expeditions. They learn how to read the river and how to paddle and how to be safe. I just can’t wait,” she added eagerly, “for next summer. My dad’s going to take me hiking in the wilderness for the first time. I’ll be nine by then. How old are you, Mrs. Kincaid?”

“Will,” her father chided her gently, “you know better than to ask a lady her age!”

Will grimaced. “Sorry, Mrs. Kincaid, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No problem.” Caprice smiled as she gathered her dishes. “I’m going to be twenty-seven in June.”

“Dad’s eight years older than you are. And his birthday’s on the fourth of July. He always makes sure he’s home that day, and we have a gi-normous party, with fireworks.”

“Will.” Her father rose from the table. “If you’re finished, you should go to the guest lounge and—”

“Practice my piano.” Rolling her eyes, the child got up and carted her dishes to the counter. “I know, Dad.” She turned to Caprice. “Goodbye, Mrs. Kincaid, it’s been truly nice meeting you. And thanks for…you know.”

“My pleasure,” Caprice said.

As the child left, Caprice rose and carried her dishes to the counter.

“What was that all about?” Gabe bent over and slotted the dishes into the dishwasher.

“Oh, just girl stuff.”

“Ah.” He straightened. “You made friends quickly. Will’s usually much more cautious in her dealings with strangers.”

“She’s a sweetie. You’ve done a great job of bringing her up. It can’t have been easy for either of you—I mean, for a man to bring up a little girl, and for a little girl to grow up without her mother. Will told me….” Her voice trailed away as she saw him stiffen.

His eyes had become hard, his lips tightly compressed. She felt the air vibrate with tension. She had apparently said the wrong thing, but before she could even open her mouth to murmur sorry, he very pointedly—very rudely!—tilted his forearm and stared at his watch.

Caprice felt her cheeks grow scarlet, partly from embarrassment but more from indignation. “I’ll go now,” she said stiltedly, “and gather my things together. Then I’ll settle my bill and be off.”

“There’s no charge.”

“But—”

“It’ll only screw up my bookkeeping.”

His curt, dismissive tone riled her. She wasn’t used to being spoken to like that, and she didn’t like it. And now she didn’t like him, either!

But she was still a guest at his lodge.

Biting back a stinging retort, she spun on her heel and stalked from the kitchen.

She felt his cold gaze follow her but she’d gone only a few yards along the passage when she heard a frustrated, “Damn!” followed by the loud thump of a clenched fist being smashed against the wall or the countertop.

She raised her eyebrows. Temper, temper!

She was still wondering whether he was angry with her or himself when she reached the foot of the stairs and heard the sound of piano music coming from the lounge. Her mouth twisted in an ironic smile. Will was practicing.

And the piece the child had chosen was “Home Sweet Home.”

“Dad, where was Mrs. Kincaid going after she left the lodge?”

“I didn’t ask.” Gabe turned his Range Rover off the highway and up the Hoopers’ farm road.

“Where did she come from?”

“I don’t know. Why the interest?”

Will hugged her lunch bucket to her chest. “I’m worried about her. She looked sad.”

“Honey, the world is full of sad people. You can’t worry about all of them.”

“I don’t.”

He turned his head briefly and found she was looking at him with a grave expression. “But you’re worried about Mrs. Kincaid?”

She nodded.

He turned his attention to the road again. They approached the farm gate. “Well, don’t. You’ll never see her again, and anyway, worrying never did any good. It only burns up energy.”

“It’s a pity she doesn’t have a dog.”

Gabe felt a flash of amusement. “You think?”

“Oh, yes. Dogs make people happy.”

“Dogs are a lot of work.” He saw Mark running from the rambling old farmhouse to the gate. “They have to be fed and watered and walked and cleaned up after.”

“I’m not talking about the work part of it.” He felt her earnest gaze on him. “I’m talking about the feel-good part. When a person hugs a dog and strokes it and looks into its eyes, and the dog looks back and licks your hand and just be’s a friend…that’s what makes people happy.” He noticed she was so caught up in what she was saying, for once she didn’t wave to Mark. “I saw a program on TV one time and it said that having a dog around makes old people feel better, so I figured if it makes old people feel better it should work on sad people, too. And know what? It does.”

Gabe had been listening with only half a mind, but something in the intensity of her tone snapped him to full attention.

Pulling the vehicle to a halt by the gate, he turned in his seat and looked at her. She was staring into space.

“Will?”

She didn’t seem to hear.

He waved a hand in front of her face. “Honey, how do you know?”

Blinking, she looked at him. “Know what?”

“That dogs make sad people happy?”

“Oh, that.” She swallowed. “No reason. I just—”

Mark wrenched open the Range Rover’s back door and clambered in. With a cheery greeting— “Hi, Will, hi, Mr. Ryland, thanks for picking me up”—he set his lunch bucket at his feet and fastened his seat belt.

Gabe put the vehicle in motion. “Hi, kid.”

Mark immediately launched into a tale about one of his father’s cows that had calved the previous evening, and Gabe knew his opportunity to question his daughter was lost.

But he couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something was going on, something he knew nothing about…and she obviously meant to keep it that way.

And Mrs. Kincaid’s sadness—which he himself had noticed—was what had brought it to the surface.

Well, neither he nor his daughter would be seeing the woman again, so they could both forget about her.

He dropped the kids off at school and drove home. Once there, he fetched Fang from the kitchen and took him out for a run. The day was polished to a bright sheen, the sky as blue as sapphire, with not one cloud to mar it.

He strolled down the grassy slope in front of the lodge, over the crest and down the hill. Fang romped ahead, making for the barbed wire fence that formed the boundary between Ryland property and Lockhart land. Gabe shook his head irritably as, just like every other morning, the dog made to wriggle under the lowest wire of the fence.

“Fang!” he yelled. “No!”

The dog paused halfway through. Then, just as he did every morning on their walk, he wriggled back and took off along the perimeter.

Damn dog! Gabe mused. You’d think he’d know by now that he wasn’t supposed to go in there.

His lips compressed to a thin line as he gazed over the forest, the only evidence of Holly Cottage being the three chimney tops—

But no. Not this morning.

This morning, marring the clear blue of the sky, a wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys; rose, and swayed in a gust of wind off the river, and rose again.

Gabe rammed his hands into his pockets and glowered at the smoke. As a child, he’d been ordered never to trespass on Lockhart land, but once, when he was seven, he’d dared to sneak down there, and he’d peeked in the kitchen window. He’d seen an old wood stove in the shadowy room, and he’d always remembered it because it had been so old-fashioned compared to the modern appliances they had at the lodge.

He imagined someone in that kitchen, a young woman from the city who would be lighting that stove every day.

And though he knew he was sending hostile vibes to the wrong person, he couldn’t help wishing that whoever had set that fire would vanish off the face of the earth, because any sign of life from the old log house was a reminder of something—and someone—he dearly wished to forget.

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