Carla Neggers - Cider Brook

“She’ll be fine, but it’ll help that she only worked for you a short time,” Loretta had told him. She remembered how much she’d enjoyed their long calls and occasional video chats. They’d shared an intense intimacy that she’d never expected would last—but she hadn’t expected he’d die, either. “Did you ask her why she looked you up in Knights Bridge?”

“Not specifically, no. Maybe she would tell me, but it doesn’t matter. She needs to get on with her life, and I have work to do.”

Loretta sank onto a lounge chair, letting her feet dry in the fading sun. She had a damn good life here. She couldn’t relate to Dylan’s life in Knights Bridge. Maybe if she had some reason to be there—like he did.

She’d felt all crazily warm and fuzzy and maternal when he’d called to ask her what she knew about Samantha Bennett.

She groaned. “I’ve gone off the edge.”

Her phone vibrated on the table next to her lounge chair. She grabbed it and saw Julius had texted her. You’re angsting, aren’t you?

The man did have a sixth sense about people. She typed her answer. Obsessing. There’s a difference. Where are you?

Almost home. Stopped for gas.

She debated asking him to turn around and come back to La Jolla, but there was nothing to keep her at home except work that could wait. He’d been asking her to come up there. If he understood she wasn’t ready to meet his family...

She texted him back. Do you have wine?

I collect wine. Noah would approve.

Noah Kendrick, Dylan’s best friend and the billionaire founder of NAK, Inc., owned a winery on the central coast of California. He was there now with Phoebe O’Dunn, the Knights Bridge librarian. They would be returning to Massachusetts soon.

Loretta felt abandoned, alone—she didn’t know what the hell was wrong with her.

She responded to Julius. I’m on my way.

His answer came within seconds. I’ll be waiting with the Chardonnay.

Eight

Samantha awoke to sun streaming through her windows. She hadn’t pulled the curtains, but she’d overslept, anyway. She bolted upright, knowing it was after eight before she checked the time on the bedside clock.

Eight thirty-four.

She had planned to be on her way by now. On her way where she didn’t exactly know, but out of The Farm at Carriage Hill, away from the herbs and the big slobbery dog and the happy engaged couple.

Late last night, exhausted but unable to sleep, she’d decided she would get an early start. She didn’t need to meet Dylan over coffee and eggs. She could stick to her plan and accomplish what she’d come to Knights Bridge to do without a face-to-face with her ex-boss’s son.

With a groan, she sank against the padded headboard. She’d ended up deep under the comforter, finally and totally dead to the world after days of digging through her grandfather’s office and then her uncle and cousin’s arrival in Boston and then yesterday. The drive west, her hike, the thunderstorm, the fire, the rescue, the irritable volunteer firefighter. Then the gracious hostess, the warm applesauce, the soup, the cake. The big dog. The goat’s milk soap.

No wonder she’d had a hard time winding down and hadn’t fallen asleep until well after midnight. Hearing what she took to be Dylan McCaffrey’s voice out in the hall hadn’t helped.

Justin Sloan had to have known she would be more like a house guest at The Farm at Carriage Hill than an inn guest. She supposed he and Olivia both had tried to warn her, and she’d just been too shaken and rattled for it to sink in that her hosts lived here.

She stood up, the braided rug warm under her bare feet. Without warning, her mind flashed to the hiss and near-roar of the fire in the dark, claustrophobic cider mill.

She could feel Justin lifting her as she’d gasped for air. She could smell his shirt, his skin....

“Gad,” she said under her breath.

She’d dreamed about him, and now that she was awake she was going to keep thinking about him?

She shook her head. “I need coffee.”

Despite traipsing through the woods, her tense escape from the fire and her dreams, the stiffness and achiness she’d felt last night had eased and she wasn’t particularly sore this morning. She ducked into the pretty bathroom, her reflection in the mirror not as deadly as yesterday when she’d arrived.

She took another shower, getting any residual smoke smell off her, and quickly got dressed. She unloaded her backpack on the floor and went through every item for smoke damage. She would figure out what she needed to replace and stop at the country store in town. She wanted to go back to the cider mill this morning. It and the village were both within relatively easy walking distance of Carriage Hill.

She stared at the contents of her backpack on the floor with a feeling of dread.

She got down on her knees and went through every item again.

No journal.

She hadn’t thought about it until now. It was always with her. It must have been displaced in the mad dash from the fire.

She stood straight, her heartbeat quickening as she considered the possibilities. Had it burned up in the fire? Had it fallen out of her pack after Justin had rescued her?

Had one of the other firefighters found it? His cop brother?

Was it still in the mill? Would someone stop there this morning and find it?

She had no memory of the small cloth-bound journal beyond slipping it into her backpack yesterday morning before she left Boston. She was positive she’d had it with her when she’d shoved her pack into the backseat with Isaac.

Maybe she’d dropped it in her grandfather’s Mercedes.

She texted her uncle and asked.

He responded immediately. No journal.

Check under the seats. Please.

She paced, waiting for his next text. Not in the car. Burned?

I don’t know.

Uh-oh.

Yeah, no kidding. How’s Amherst?

The ghost of Harry Bennett haunts the ivy-covered buildings.

Only her uncle would take the time to type such a text. Samantha typed a quick response. No doubt. Good luck.

You, too, Sam.

Marginally calmer, she headed downstairs, arriving to an empty kitchen. A cool draft drew her into the mudroom and out to the stone terrace, where Olivia sat at a round wood table having coffee and toast. She smiled cheerfully. “Well, good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“Great, thanks.” Samantha pushed aside her panic over her missing journal and pulled out a chair in the sun, taking a seat. “It’s a lovely day.”

“It is, isn’t it? I’m not letting a single reasonably warm, sunny morning go to waste. It’ll be snowing before we know it. Dylan played ice hockey for years, but he’s never done a real New England winter. Should be interesting.” Olivia rose, grabbing her breakfast plate but leaving her coffee mug. She wore jeans and an oversize, paint-spattered white shirt, her dark hair pulled back loosely, her casual attire a reminder that Carriage Hill was also her home. “We’re having our wedding here on Christmas Eve.”

“Do you hope it snows?”

“I hope there’s snow on the ground. I wouldn’t want a blizzard to keep people from traveling. What can I get you for breakfast? We have almost anything you can think of, including wild blueberries for pancakes.”

“I’d be happy to make my own breakfast—”

Olivia held up a hand, silencing her. “I wouldn’t dream of it. We’re still getting up to speed, but the larder is full, so to speak. So, what do you think? Cereal, muffins, toast, yogurt, fresh fruit, eggs—”

“Yogurt with fruit and toast would be fabulous. Thank you.”

“Done. I’ll bring it out to you.” Olivia grinned, heading to the mudroom door. “This is so much fun.”