Patricia Thayer - Wedding Bells at Wandering Creek

Molly smiled brightly. “Close, but why not put him to work while he’s hanging around waiting for Dean? I mean, you can use some help, right, Trevor?”

Willow blinked. “Sure, but Sullivan doesn’t look the type who knows much about the workings of a ranch.”

“He looked pretty buff to me.” Molly grinned mischievously. “He can lift and tote.”

Willow blinked. “Mother, surely you can’t be thinking of hiring him? Of bringing him onto the property?”

“It’s a lot better than having him parked out there drawing attention.”

“What makes you think he’ll agree to do it?” Willow asked.

“Because he wants to find Dean,” Molly said. “And I want to learn more about what kind of trouble my son is in.”

Willow didn’t want any stranger hanging around, but she liked it even less that this particular man was literally camped on their doorstep. “First, I’ll have Jack Sullivan checked out. Then, and only then, will I consider going along with this crazy idea.”

“It isn’t crazy if it protects our family,” her mother said.

Willow had grown up in the spotlight. She wasn’t sure anything could protect them.

“IT NEVER RAINS in Southern California,” Jack murmured as he squinted through the water-sheeted windshield. “Not in the summertime, anyway. Yeah, right.” It had been drizzling most of the night and half the day.

As a Seattle native, he should be used to wet weather, but he hated the rain. He leaned back in the seat, wishing this job was over. What he’d hoped would be a quick trip was now dragging out. Maybe he should just cut his losses and try another lead.

Problem was, there were no other leads. He also knew he needed to be less conspicuous. Parking on the edge of the ranch property wasn’t going to surprise the suspect.

Jack rubbed his hand over his face. Last night he’d gotten a room at a motel along the highway, showered and ate some dinner, then made the call to Stan Walsh.

The CEO was impatient. He wanted Kingsley in the worst way. To top it off, it turned out that Dean was romantically involved with the boss’s daughter, Heather. It seemed he’d left her high and dry, too, when he took off. The only thing Kingsley had in his favor was that Walsh didn’t want the stockholders to learn of the…situation, yet. That gave Jack a few weeks to find the man so they could handle the problem quietly…and privately.

Jack tensed. Dean Kingsley couldn’t go unpunished for what he’d done. But in real life guilty men often were set free, especially when they had affluent families to pay for high-powered lawyers to get them off.

Jack knew all too well how that played out, and how the legal system didn’t always work for the average person. It hadn’t for Mike…. His best friend didn’t get justice. His killer walked away a free man.

Jack’s cell phone rang and pulled him out of his reverie. He flipped it open. “Sullivan, here.”

“Mr. Sullivan. It’s Willow Kingsley.”

He sat up straighter. “Hello, Ms. Kingsley. Have you heard from your brother?”

“No, we haven’t, but my mother and I would like to talk with you. Could you come up to the house…for dinner? We have a business proposition for you.”

Her husky voice sent a heated tremor through his body. Business. Remember, she said business. “What time?”

“Six o’clock.”

“I’ll see you then.” He slapped the phone closed. Things were starting to look up.

After a quick trip back to the motel to shave and change into a fresh shirt, Jack managed to make it to the house in the allotted time.

Willow answered the door. Tonight she wore a long blue skirt made out of a gauzy material and a cream-colored peasant-style blouse. She looked soft and feminine. Made him glad he’d managed to freshen up.

Silently she motioned him inside. He stepped across the threshold and into the great room. A stone fireplace took up most of the far wall. Below an open-beamed ceiling was a winding staircase and carved wood railing that exposed the entire length of the second floor. Hardwood planks ran throughout the large area, partly covered by braided rugs and overstuffed, well-used leather furniture.

He glanced at Willow in time to catch a knowing look in those incredible eyes.

“Surprised, Mr. Sullivan?”

“At what?”

“That my family doesn’t live in a Louis the Fourteenth style mansion.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You had a home in Beverly Hills.”

“When my father worked in the business,” she said. “But this was where he wanted to be. Away from all the attention, luxury and the press.” Her stare dared him to comment.

He didn’t.

“Our one consolation was that Dad got to spend his last days here,” she told him. “In the home that he loved.” Tears laced her voice and he hated that it affected him.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss. I’m sure your father found comfort here with his loved ones around.” It was obvious Willow was close to her family. “Was Dean here then?”

She sighed. “Mr. Sullivan…”

“Don’t you think this would be easier if we were on a first name basis? I’m Jack. May I call you Willow?”

Willow hated that the man could be so rude one minute, then the next, flash a smile and expect her to just melt. Well, she’d made that mistake before. Never again.

But she nodded. “All right then, Jack.”

“Okay, Willow, why don’t you tell me about this proposition you have.”

“It was my mother’s idea,” she said. “I’ll let her explain.” She led him through the dining room, past a long table that could seat a dozen people and into a big country kitchen.

The room had honey maple cabinets and shiny black granite countertops. He caught a whiff of something spicy cooking. His stomach growled, reminding him he’d had a packet of peanut butter crackers for lunch.

Off in a corner in front of French doors, Molly Reynolds and the foreman stood at the table. Another young woman in jeans and white blouse was setting the table.

“You’ve met my mother.”

“Hello, Mrs. Kingsley.”

She smiled. “Mr. Sullivan.”

“Please call me, Jack.”

The pretty woman returned his smile. “And everyone calls me Molly.”

The expression on Willow’s face told him she didn’t like the familiarity. He turned his attention to the foreman.

The man eyed him closely. “Sullivan. I’m Trevor Adams, foreman.”

So, Trevor Adams wasn’t going to be his friend. He saw Jack as too much of a threat. “Adams,” Jack said.

“And this is Gina Vargas,” Willow added as the young Hispanic woman looked up from her task. “She keeps the house in order and she’s the best cook around.”

“Gina, I’m looking forward to the meal. It smells great.”

“Thank you,” she said shyly. “Here’s your place.”

“I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen,” Molly said.

He grinned. “I’m a kitchen kind of guy. And being a bachelor I’m looking forward to a home-cooked meal.” He waited until the women took their places, then he sat down.

Gina set a tall glass of iced tea at his place. Then she returned with a large casserole filled with bubbling chicken enchiladas. She added bowls of beans, rice and a stack of tortillas.

It began to rain again, and as it sheeted down on the brick patio outside, Molly dished out generous portions of food and handed the first to Jack, then did the same for the others. He added his own beans and rice, then dug in.

There was some polite conversation about the weather and then came the questions.

“How long have you been in business for yourself, Jack?” Molly asked.

“About five years.” He took a drink of sweet tea. “But you already know that…and probably a lot more.” All they’d had to do was read his ad in the Seattle area Yellow Pages, or check his Web site.