Legacy of Secrets. Sara Mitchell

He paused. “But turns out you’re not lost. Or hurt. You’re only supposed to blow that whistle if you’re in danger, or dire straits. Ever read the fable about the boy who cried wolf?”

      The chit searched his face with nothing but relief showing on hers. “If you know Liam and Mr. Pepperell, you couldn’t be the irresponsible hunter, even though you are wearing a gun.” She heaved a long, unladylike breath. “Are you one of the sheriff’s new deputies?” With a quick flick of her wrist, she tossed aside the stick, then absently tucked wayward curls behind her ears. Her expression remained as bright and friendly as a puppy’s.

      “No!” Gray ground out, his back teeth snapping together in an effort to keep his temper from exploding full force. “I happen to be Isabella Chilton’s nephew. I just arrived for a visit—a much-needed, peaceful visit. But my aunt wasn’t there. So I didn’t have anything better to do than chase through the woods to rescue an idiot girl who doesn’t have enough sense to steer clear of an angry male.”

      “Well, what on earth are you angry for? You’re not the one who could have been killed by a trigger-happy hunter.”

      A late-afternoon breeze dislodged more of her hair. Sighing again, she plucked out some hairpins and haphazardly stuffed the loose curls back into a slipping topknot. Despite his extensive travels, Gray had never encountered a woman so indifferent to her appearance. “Since you’re not the hunter,” she finished, “would you mind scouting the area before we leave? I doubt he’s around, since I finally remembered to blow the whistle, but it wouldn’t hurt to check.”

      “Are you seriously suggesting that someone was, ah, shooting at you?” He swept her disheveled form with another raking glance while the memory of Mr. Pepperell’s worried eyes and trembling fingers filled his mind. “How about telling me what you’re really up to, and save us both from a scene I’ll probably regret. I despise liars, especially female ones who never consider the consequences to anyone but themselves.”

      She blinked, the self-assurance squaring her shoulders and tilting her chin fading. As rapidly as the sun disappeared behind the mountains, she transformed into an uncertain young girl whose aura of wounded dignity pricked Gray’s conscience. “It’s probably safe enough now,” she murmured. “I’m going back this way.” She gestured with her hand. “It’s longer, but less strenuous.” Without another word she headed off, her every step away from Gray a silent reproach.

      He fought a losing battle with the nettles pricking his conscience. “Wait,” he called, reaching her in half a dozen strides. It was a half-dozen more before he gathered the courage to speak again. “Listen. I apologize. I had no right to speak to you the way I did.”

      He yanked at his shirt collar, feeling stupid, petty—and a complete churl. Impossible to explain how her innocent query about his being a sheriff’s deputy had ripped wide open a wound so painful to his soul he wasn’t sure he’d ever heal. But he owed her something. “Will you stop a second, so I can at least offer a proper apology?” he growled.

      She hesitated, then glanced up, her expression solemn. “All right.”

      “I’m sorry.” He bit the inside of his cheek, then shrugged. “It’s been a long day. I lost my temper. I’m usually not this boorish.”

      A shy smile flirted at the corner of her mouth. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have accused you of being a careless hunter.”

      Gray still didn’t believe her story, but finally had enough presence of mind to keep the thought to himself. “Well, we’d best make haste. By the time we return, Aunt Bella should be back.”

      “With my ‘husky Irishman’ driving the coach,” the young woman added dryly. “Not to mention all the others, who aren’t going to be happy at all with my latest snarlie.”

      Latest…snarlie? Where had Aunt Bella unearthed this creature?

      “Well, it’s over now,” Gray said, and managed what he hoped was a comforting smile. “All is well, hmm?” Ha. His need for peace was unlikely to be satisfied now, and the talk he’d yearned to enjoy with his aunt unfortunately would revolve around someone other than himself.

      He started down the path, but the woman didn’t budge. “What is it?” Regrettably, he was unable to erase the edge in the words.

      For a few seconds more she stood there, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then she shrugged. “Yes. You’re right. All is well. Thank you for…coming to rescue me.” There was a pause, then she added in a wistful tone, “You’re nothing at all like your aunt, are you?”

      They didn’t speak again. Thirty long minutes later, grateful for the excuse, Gray left her at the edge of the woods to return and fetch his jacket. Slanting sunbeams poured across the lawn, bathing Miss Shaw with a golden aura that contrarily enhanced her aloneness. Gray stomped back into the woods, and considered seriously the temptation to find a very large oak tree so he could bang his head against its trunk.

      Chapter Four

      Rutter, Virginia

      Shoulders slumped, Will Crocker trudged down the dirt lane that led to his home. It was dusk, when light and shadow blurred surroundings into indefinable shapes. A man could be invisible at dusk, if he were careful. Will shrugged, vaguely uncomfortable with the thought, and hurried toward the four-room unpainted frame house where he and his mother had lived for the last fifteen years.

      The hardscrabble community of Rutter, population 973, boasted few amenities, though one or two families made persistent efforts to achieve a level of civilized comfort—whitewashing the clapboard, planting a flower garden; one family had ordered an entire parlor set of golden oak out of the Sears catalog.

      Momma always had a good word to say about their neighbors; she tried as much as she could to thank Will for his efforts to improve their own home, despite the disconsolation that plagued most of her waking moments. Life’s unfairness had crushed her spirit; by the time Will reached his twelfth year her hair was completely gray, her eyes sunken in the once pretty face.

      When Grandmother died, they had lost everything. Many a night when Will came home, the sound of his mother’s bitter weeping seeped like cold fog through the thin bedroom wall. She seldom wept in front of him, and he allowed her to cling to the illusion that he didn’t know how often she cried herself to sleep.

      Mood bleak, he drew aimless patterns in the dirt with the toe of his shoe. No matter how bitter he might feel during these isolated moments, his mother loved him as much as she was able. Will was her only remaining relative. If he abandoned her, he knew she would die. Twice, in his late twenties, he’d gone so far as to move out. The first time his mother quit eating and almost starved herself to death; the second time she’d almost burned the house down. Will never tried living on his own again.

      A vague shiver danced along his spine, one of fear and the longing he never quite knew what to do with because he couldn’t remember a time when both emotions hadn’t been part of his life, all forty-one years of it. When the Zuckermans’ snug little house appeared at the bend in the lane, light glowing through the windows, he gave in to the longing instead of the fear. Silently, imagining himself invisible as a gray field mouse, he slipped up to a side window and peeked through the narrow gap in the curtains. Mrs. Zuckerman had died the previous year, but their oldest daughter, a horse-faced but congenial spinster everyone called Miss Leila, moved in to take care of her father. At the moment they were sitting at a small table, playing some kind of board game. A fire danced merrily in the parlor stove. Pretty crocheted doilies were scattered about on tables and the backs of chairs. Their old hound dog slept beneath the table, and as Will watched, Mr. Zuckerman reached down to give the fellow an absentminded scratch behind his ears.

      The ache in his belly grew and spread. As silently as he’d slipped up to the window, Will backed away, then turned a resolute face toward his own home. Whatever he found when he stepped over the threshold, he would deal with it. He was no longer the mewling whelp of a boy prone to nightmares, or the scarecrow young man forced to work repugnant jobs for degrading wages