Kathryn Springer - Hidden Treasures

And then he’d lost the dog.

And accidentally found the wedding photographer.

He hadn’t even known his sister had hired one. The last he’d heard, Parker had decided against a professional photographer and wanted disposable cameras available for the guests. Cade had a hunch Aunt Judith had had something to do with the latest reversal in plans.

His lips twisted. Aunt Judith had something to do with most of the changes made in the past few weeks. When she hadn’t been able to change Parker’s mind about her choice of a groom, she’d retaliated by attempting to take over everything else instead.

Not that Cade blamed her. It was a Halloway family trait they all shared to some degree.

A polite cough yanked his attention back to the moment. And to the woman sprawled in the wicker chair.

Staring down at Meghan McBride, Cade pushed aside the unwelcome thought that she looked like a pre-Raphaelite model come to life. Oval face. Wide-spaced, gray-green eyes. Damp copper curls spilling over her shoulders. The only thing that didn’t fit was the wide, engaging smile on her face.

Cade suddenly realized she’d extended her hand. Time to play nice. He reached out and closed his fingers around hers, but instead of immediately releasing his grip, he drew her to her feet.

It was getting late and he still had to find the dog.

Something hit the floor and Meghan McBride gave a startled yelp. Cade pointed the flashlight down and watched sandwich cookies roll away in every direction.

Meghan’s sigh echoed around the room. “Did you ever have one of those days?”

Cade turned toward the door, surprised by a sudden urge to smile. “Never.”

“Right.” The undercurrent of laughter in her voice sent Cade off balance. And he wasn’t sure he liked the feeling.

There’d been more than enough upheaval in his life over the past few weeks. The only reason he’d returned to the island was to tour the estate before meeting with the Realtor. He hadn’t voluntarily signed up for his sister’s unexpected waltz down memory lane, but when Parker had gotten wind of his plan to sell Blue Key Island, she’d insisted on getting married there.

At least one of them had fond memories of the place.

“I guess I must have dozed off for a few minutes.” Meghan McBride’s voice had the kind of lilting cadence that sounded as if she were reciting poetry. It should have been annoying. But it wasn’t. It was…soothing.

Cade circled the flashlight on the wall until he spotted the switch, hidden beneath a stained baseball cap on a hook just above it. He’d avoided the boathouse since his arrival, but suddenly a hat brought back a whole lot of memories he didn’t have the energy or desire to sort through at the moment. Maybe never.

He flipped the light on and turned his attention back to Meghan. Her lips moved as she silently counted the number of edible cookies left in the package.

“Care to explain why you’re in the boathouse?” And why I didn’t have a clue you were arriving today?

“It started to rain the minute we docked. This was closer than the house.”

“Who brought you over?” Cade took a quick inventory of Meghan’s belongings—a small suitcase, a duffel bag and a camera case—and wondered where she’d stowed the rest of her things.

“Mr. Thatcher,” she murmured distractedly.

“Verne Thatcher?”

The incredulous note in the caretaker’s voice made Meghan lose count. She glanced up at him and felt the same jolt of stunned surprise when she’d caught her first glimpse of the house.

The man scowling at her didn’t look like a caretaker. Or a Bert.

When Bliss had mentioned the estate’s caretaker, Meghan’s imagination had immediately conjured up a middle-aged, scruffy-looking hermit in practical coveralls who puttered around the lonely estate, making sure the pipes didn’t freeze in the winter.

So much for her imagination.

This caretaker wasn’t middle-aged…or scruffy-looking. Unless a person considered the faint shadow that outlined his angular jaw scruffy. And Meghan decided, charitably, not to. Hair as dark and sleek as an otter’s pelt lay flat against his head, a testimony to the fact she hadn’t been the only one caught in the downpour earlier.

The pristine-white polo shirt and tan cargo pants he wore looked more suitable for an afternoon of sailing than for physical labor, but it was Friday. Maybe he had the weekends off.

“You said Thatcher brought you over?”

Meghan had been so distracted by the man’s looks she’d forgotten he’d asked her a question. And then their eyes met and she found herself distracted all over again. Given his coloring, his eyes should have been chocolate-brown. Or hazel. Not a startling shade of dark blue that reminded her of a summer sky right after sunset.

He arched a brow and Meghan’s face heated. “We met Mr. Thatcher at the café in Willoughby,” she said quickly.

“We?”

“My dad and I.” Meghan watched the cobalt eyes narrow and guessed the reason. He probably thought his peaceful island had come under siege. “We didn’t know where to leave my car, so Dad dropped me off until after the wedding.”

“Is the wedding ever going to be over?” he muttered, plowing his fingers through his hair as he stalked toward the door. Meghan assumed it was a hypothetical question. “You can go up to the house until I figure out where to put you. There’s a fire in the library.”

“What are you going to do?”

He threw an impatient look over his shoulder. “I lost…something. And I have to find it before it gets any later.”

Meghan scrambled to collect her belongings and managed to squeeze through the door just before it closed. She hurried to catch up with him. “I’ll help you.”

There wasn’t a hitch in his long-legged stride. “Not necessary, Miss McBride.”

“Two are better than one, for they have a good return for their work.” It was a verse from Ecclesiastes Meghan liked to use to encourage Caitlin when she went into control-freak mode. He shot Meghan a look that should have sent her scurrying for cover. If she was the scurrying kind. Which she wasn’t.

“We’re…I’m…looking for a dog. A spoiled-rotten, annoying, undisciplined dog.”

Meghan would have laughed except it looked as if he meant every word. “Does this, um, spoiled, annoying, undisciplined dog have a name?”

“Of course it has a name,” he replied irritably.

Someone had definitely skipped the Mister Rogers’ episode about good manners. “Dogs have been known to respond when their owner calls their name.”

“That might work. If I were the ungrateful rodent’s owner.”

The animal lover in Meghan rose up in immediate protest. Points for good looks, major demerits for the rodent comment.

“What kind of dog is it?” Meghan followed him onto a footpath that disappeared into the woods. Only the flashlight beam Bert swept back and forth kept her from tripping over the roots that had erupted through the hard-packed soil.

“I told you.”

“You told me it was annoying and spoiled—”

“And undisciplined.”

“Right.” Meghan cleared her throat. “That may or may not describe its temperament. But what breed of dog is it?”

“Some kind of powder-puff thing.” The words came out grudgingly.

“I don’t think the American Kennel Club officially registers those.” Meghan heard a snort from the shadow moving ahead of her.

She stumbled over another root and dropped the duffel bag she now wished she’d left at the boathouse. Pressing a hand to the stitch in her side, she made an executive decision. She put her fingers between her lips and let loose a piercing whistle.

The flashlight beam pooled on the path and then swung in her direction. “If you wanted to get my attention, all you had to do was tap me on the shoulder.”