Carla Neggers - Cider Brook

She would return his padlock to him. Just not right now. Better to wait until they’d both had a chance to deal with the adrenaline dump of the fire.

Justin emerged from the mill with her backpack. He opened the passenger door to his truck and tossed the pack inside. “Hop in,” he said. He left the door open as he circled around to the driver’s side. “Carriage Hill is a ten-minute drive.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind?”

He got into his truck, shut the door and started the engine, clearly in no mood to wait. Samantha suspected his terse manner was the way he was, although the events of the day might have exacerbated his natural tendency. She reminded herself she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to make friends, or even because of Captain Farraday, as intriguing and as entangled with her true reasons as her colorful eighteenth-century pirate and his illicit treasure were.

She looked up at the old mill, bits of barn-red paint visible in its worn exterior. The fire smells were strong in the cool late-afternoon air. She wanted to know about the painting she’d found in her grandfather’s closet. She wanted to know how the author of The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth had ended up writing a fictional story about a real pirate, and why Harry Bennett had put her—his eldest grandchild—onto the trail of the mysterious New England pirate.

All of that was interesting, but Samantha knew it was only a small part of the reason for coming to Knights Bridge. The main reason—the real reason—was to make peace with Duncan McCaffrey, a man who’d hired her and mentored her.

Who’d trusted her.

“Damn, Samantha. It never occurred to me not to trust you.”

She tightened her jacket and headed for Justin Sloan’s dusty-gray truck.

* * *

The combination of adrenaline, an enclosed space and an intense man behind the wheel turned the ten-minute drive to The Farm at Carriage Hill into something that felt a notch short of an eternity. Samantha was accustomed to being around rugged men, but this was different. Even if she could have gotten out of the mill on her own—and she remained convinced she could have—Justin Sloan had, in fact, rushed into a burning building and carried her out. A courageous deed by any standard. As the beneficiary, she felt a mix of gratitude and guilt but also a physical awareness that had taken her completely by surprise.

Justin had rolled up the sleeves of his canvas shirt to just below his elbows, revealing taut, well-developed forearms. Samantha guessed that his volunteer firefighting plus whatever he did for a living kept him in shape. She wasn’t going to ask for details. Personal questions on her part risked personal questions on his part.

He pulled in front of a cream-colored center-chimney house, the last home on a narrow road that once had been a main route from Knights Bridge into the Swift River valley towns—long before major highways and interstates. Now it dead-ended at a Quabbin gate. Not only had she studied her map and the history of the area but she’d been out here before, if only that one time on a snowy March day.

She shook off that thought. Couldn’t go there. Later, maybe. Not now.

Justin turned off the engine. He’d parked next to a sign for The Farm at Carriage Hill painted with its signature blossoming chives. Although Samantha hadn’t done nearly enough planning for her trip to Knights Bridge, she knew that Olivia Frost, the owner, was a graphic designer, as well as Dylan McCaffrey’s fiancée.

Samantha unlatched her seat belt and pushed back a surge of regret that she hadn’t stayed in Boston and walked the Freedom Trail with her aunt and young cousins. No point second-guessing herself now. Dylan had only ventured to Knights Bridge earlier that year, meeting Olivia in the process. After his career in the National Hockey League had ended, he’d teamed up with his childhood friend, Noah Kendrick, an MIT genius. Together they had transformed Noah’s fledgling NAK, Inc. into a profitable high-tech entertainment company that had gone public last fall. Samantha had never met Dylan during her weeks working with his father, and she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to intrude on his and Olivia’s lives.

But here you are, on their doorstep.

Justin pushed open his door. “Carriage Hill’s just opened. It’s not a regular inn.” He glanced sideways at her. “Your hands are trembling. A little wobbly? It’s normal after a fire.”

“I’m okay. Hungry. What about you? Are you wobbly?”

“Me?” He grinned. “No. Not wobbly.”

“You’ve had experience with fires, but this one was on your land.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

A dark-haired woman was arranging pots of yellow-and-white mums on the steps to a one-story ell off the main part of the house. Olivia Frost, presumably. Samantha turned to Justin. “Am I expected?”

“I didn’t have a chance to call ahead. It’ll be fine.”

She didn’t move as he headed to the stone walk. He’d left the door open. She could hear Olivia as she approached Justin, dusting off her palms on her baggy cargo pants. “Dad just called about the fire. He says it was a lightning strike. Yikes, Justin. You’re all right?”

“Yep. Fine.”

“The storm must have gone right over the mill. It wasn’t that bad here. Dad says a woman was camping there—”

“Samantha Bennett,” Justin said. “She needs a place to stay tonight.”

“Of course. We have loads of room.”

He motioned to the truck. “Hop out, Sam. Come meet Olivia.”

Samantha could think of a hundred other places she would rather be. She wished she’d at least found refuge somewhere else besides Justin Sloan’s cider mill. The chicken coop at the farmhouse upstream would have done nicely.

She stepped out of the truck, misjudged the distance and felt her knees buckle under her. Even as she steadied herself, Justin was there, one hand on her elbow. “I guess you’re wobbly after all. No shame in it.”

“I’m not that used to trucks is all.”

He lowered his hand. “I’m not surprised.”

Olivia stepped forward with a smile and introduced herself. “My father was at the fire. He’s a volunteer firefighter. I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Thanks,” Samantha said. “It’s been quite an afternoon.”

“You must be beat. We’d love to have you stay with us.”

“If you’re sure it’s not too short notice—”

“I’m positive,” Olivia said graciously. “Did Justin explain that Carriage Hill isn’t a regular inn? We’re just getting started with destination events. Showers, weddings, meetings—that sort of thing, mostly on weekends. My friend Maggie and I are having a blast so far.”

Samantha stood back. “You mean you don’t take in overnight guests? I can find a place to pitch my tent. Really. I don’t mind.”

“Your tent didn’t make it out of the fire,” Justin said.

She frowned at him. “It burned?”

“I told you most of your gear was wrecked.”

Olivia shot him a disapproving look, apparently not appreciating his bluntness.

He shrugged. “Your tent and sleeping bag were trampled and soaked. They’re easily replaced.”

“Is there some place in town I could buy new ones?” Samantha asked.

“The Swift River Country Store on the town common,” Olivia said. “We call it Hazelton’s—they were the original owners. It’s got everything. They must have tents.”

“Then I could pop over there,” Samantha said.

Justin shook his head. “They’re closed.” When Olivia glared at him again, he softened his expression and added, “You’ll like Carriage Hill. Maggie and Olivia are even making their own goat’s milk soap these days.” He glanced at Olivia as if to say “Better?”