Your House or Mine?. Cynthia Thomason

all that threatening up close though he stood over six feet. He appeared strong but with a lean, solid strength defined by hard work rather than the sculpted tone of weight training. He took a kerchief from his back pocket, removed his cap and wiped his brow. After stuffing the cloth back into his jeans, he said, “Do you want something?”

      Meg put her hands on her hips and tried to make the most of her five feet five inches. “What are you doing?”

      He gave her a look that might have been more appropriate if he were indulging a child’s question. “Pushing this wheelbarrow around to the back of the property.”

      She took a step closer. “What’s in there?”

      His mouth lifted at one corner in a cocky sort of smile. “You don’t want to know, ma’am.”

      “I asked you, didn’t I?” She walked near enough to have a look for herself. A healthy whiff of foul air curled up from clumps of damp straw. She wrinkled her nose and hopped back.

      The man snickered. “Satisfied? It’s good old-fashioned horse manure. I figure it’ll be a lot more welcome down by the Suwannee than up here by the house. The wild ferns by the river bank seem to like it.”

      “Where did you get it?” she asked.

      He merely raised his eyebrows while his smile widened.

      “You know what I mean,” she amended. “There hasn’t been a horse here in twenty years.”

      “There is now.”

      Meg glanced over her shoulder. No one else had appeared, prompting her to assume that she and this man were the only people around. But she was no longer worried. Obviously this man wasn’t stealing from the barn. He was cleaning it. And somehow her Aunt Amelia had neglected to tell her that a horse had taken up residence in Uncle Stewie’s old stable.

      She folded her arms over her chest and said, “Who are you?”

      He held out his hand, glanced down at the dirt, or whatever, that had stuck to his palm and dropped it to his side. “My name’s Wade Murdock. I’m the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther. Been here five months now.”

      That explained the patrol car. “And whose horse is in the barn?” she asked.

      “My daughter’s. I promised her a horse when we left Brooklyn.”

      And that explained the man’s distinctive northern accent. “Mrs. Ashford allows you to keep the horse in her barn?”

      “We worked out a deal,” he said and let his gaze wander over the property from where they stood to the back of the house. “For all practical purposes it’s my barn anyway. I bought this place, lock, stock and barrel from Mrs. Ashford.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      DEPUTY MURDOCK frowned with concern. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

      No, she wasn’t all right. He’d just aimed verbal darts at the reality she’d always depended upon. She wanted him to take them back. I just bought this place lock, stock and barrel, he’d said. That couldn’t be.

      He held out his hand, cautiously, as if he might have to grab onto her. Apparently she looked as shaken as she felt. “Stay there,” he ordered. “Don’t move.”

      For some reason she obeyed. Maybe she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up if she tried to move. Or maybe she stood still because he was a cop. He stepped inside the barn and returned with a galvanized washtub which he upended next to her. “Sit down.”

      She didn’t want to sit, but he obviously thought she should.

      He slapped at his pockets, searching for something. “Do you need medical attention? Where’s my damn cell phone?”

      As if a 911 call would provide an antidote for what he’d just said. “No, I don’t need medical attention,” she assured him. “I need answers. You can’t have bought this property.”

      He seemed to relax once she started talking. “Why not?”

      “Because it’s not for sale. Amelia Ashford would never sell this house to anyone.”

      He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I’m sorry, but she did. She sold it to me six weeks ago.”

      Six weeks ago? Impossible. Meg had spoken to her aunt at least twice during that time frame, and Amelia never mentioned anything about it. She snorted her disbelief and sat on the washtub. This was ridiculous. Ashford House had been promised to her when Amelia prepared a Quit Claim Deed four years ago giving the property to Meg.

      She surveyed the house and acres that stretched from the out buildings through groves of stately trees to the river. This land, that beautiful, curious, gingerbread house was her safety net, her last resort, the refuge for her and Spencer if all else failed.

      Meg stared at Deputy Wade Murdock, a newcomer to Mount Esther, a man who couldn’t possibly understand what Ashford House meant to her. She wanted to believe he was lying to her. Unfortunately he didn’t look like the sort who would make up this story. He had a strong, proud face, centered by a nose with a subtle crookedness to it, as if he’d defended his principles on more than one occasion. His hair was the deep brown color of a walnut, slightly unkempt and just long enough to be interesting—the outward symbol of a man who avoided fussiness.

      And he wasn’t likely a con artist or a crook. After all, he was the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther. Surely the man the town appointed to defend the law wouldn’t be the one to break it. But there had to be a logical explanation for what he believed to be true and what Meg knew to be fact.

      Wade leveled a look at her that was every bit as intense as the one she gave him. “Look,” he said, “there’s obviously some mix-up here. Why don’t we try to get to the bottom of this. Tell me your name and your connection to this property.”

      Once she told him who she was, he would have to accept that there had been a terrible mistake and they could work to correct it.

      “My name is Meg Hamilton,” she said. “I live in Orlando….”

      He nodded. “You’re the niece, the one whose husband—”

      “Yes, I’m her niece,” she announced, cutting him off. She was acutely aware that while Aunt Amelia may not have told Meg all the details of her life the last few times they’d talked, she’d obviously been confiding personal information to this stranger. Did he also know that Dave had left her and Spence without so much as a forwarding address?

      “I was called here yesterday,” she continued, “because my aunt fell in her home a few days ago and is convalescing at Shady Grove.”

      “That makes sense,” he said.

      “She asked me to come to Mount Esther to help sort out some things.”

      “So let me get this straight,” he said. “You didn’t know that your aunt sold her house?”

      Meg stood up and faced him squarely. “Frankly, I’m not at all convinced there has been a sale.”

      “Do you think I’m imagining the contract that she and I both signed and which is right now sitting in my desk drawer?”

      “No, I’m not suggesting that you are making up a contract. Clearly something was signed, something that has you believing you own this house. I would like to see the document for myself. Then maybe I can sort this out.”

      “I’d be happy to show you my contract,” he said. “Although your aunt has a copy, and so does Betty Lamb, the real estate agent who handled the transaction. You might feel more comfortable dealing with one of those ladies instead of me.”

      “I’ll certainly ask my aunt,” she said. “As soon as I take my suitcase into the house.” She half expected him to contest her right to stay here. To his credit, he didn’t. Once she’d moved her things in, she would go to Shady Grove