A Home of Her Own. Brenda Novak

as chills rolled down her spine. “You took everything except the Sheetrock and the two-by-fours.”

      Silence settled on the house like a fresh layer of dust as Lucky leaned over the banister and shone her flashlight into the corners below. She saw bird droppings, an old rug that looked as if it had been chewed on one end, a broken chair. Lucky’s brothers, who’d stayed in Dundee a little longer than she had, once told her that Morris had never returned to the place or fixed it up after Red moved out—and they were obviously right.

      Finding nothing of particular concern, Lucky walked slowly on, still apprehensive as the plastic flapped noisily behind her.

      She discovered bed rails in two of the bedrooms, an old mattress with no bed rails in a third. The master had a large sitting area, which had been lovely. But the mirrored doors on the closets and the mirror over the vanity were now cracked. Graffiti covered the walls. Bitch! Whore! Killer! May you rot in hell!

      A searing pain in Lucky’s stomach—her ulcer acting up—made her feel as though she’d swallowed acid. She forced herself to turn away from those nasty words and concentrate on practical matters. That was the trick, wasn’t it? To grow a thick skin like her brothers and not let her mother’s legacy of shame and embarrassment bother her?

      There was so much else to think about, so much work to be done.

      She glared over her shoulder at the graffiti. Maybe she’d start by painting. After a few months, when she had the place fixed up, she’d finally sell out and put Dundee behind her forever.

      Just as soon as she found what she was looking for.

      MIKE HILL BROUGHT his Cadillac Escalade to an abrupt stop in the center of the road and squinted at the property next to his ranch. He couldn’t tell for sure, but a light seemed to be burning in the big Victorian. From the dim glow, he guessed it might be candles. Kids in these parts loved to visit his grandfather’s old mansion. Occasionally, they broke in to make out or to vandalize it. On Halloween, he’d caught a group of teenagers trying to spook themselves by holding a séance, although they were too drunk to take anything seriously. He knew this because he’d done his best to scare the hell out of them so they’d think twice about coming back, and they’d simply laughed and fallen over each other as they piled out.

      He grinned at the memory. Mike didn’t mind a bit of fun and games; he’d never been a saint himself. But he was afraid some poor kid would accidentally burn the place down, possibly injuring someone in the process. And he couldn’t bear the thought of losing the house. Mike had grown up spending his weekends there, with Grandpa Caldwell. He loved the old Victorian, had always been told he’d inherit it one day.

      That hadn’t happened. Instead, his grandfather had left all his grandchildren equal shares in a large ranch located in eastern Utah, which they’d since sold. But whether the house belonged to him or not, Mike couldn’t stand by and allow it to be destroyed.

      Shoving the transmission into Reverse, he made a quick, three-point turn and started bouncing down the long, rutted drive to the house. A set of car tracks cut through the crusty, week-old snow, confirming that at least one other vehicle had recently passed this way.

      The tracks led to a vintage Mustang parked behind the silly fountain Red had bought and placed in the front yard. Mike didn’t recognize the car as belonging to any of the young people he knew—and in a town of only 1,400 people, most folks knew each other. But it could easily belong to someone from a neighboring town.

      Grabbing the cowboy hat sitting on the passenger seat and jamming it on his head, he parked behind the Mustang and stomped the snow off his boots as he approached the door. He listened but didn’t hear any noise coming from inside—no music or voices—so he doubted anyone was tearing up the place. More likely it was a pair of young lovers borrowing the old mattress he’d seen in one of the upstairs bedrooms.

      He scratched under his jaw. He really didn’t want to walk in on something like that. But there was the issue of the candles. And he felt fairly confident that if a couple had to drive all the way out here for privacy, there was a mother somewhere who’d thank him for rousting them out.

      “Damn kids.” He tried the door and found it unlocked. Probably the boy had climbed through a window around back and let his girlfriend in the front door. That was how they usually did it.

      Rusty hinges protested as he poked his head inside, but a rich vanilla scent greeted him immediately. The light came from the kitchen. Heat seemed to emanate from that part of the house, as well. Evidently someone was trying to make things cozy….

      “Hello?” Mike banged on the door as he entered. “If you’re undressed, cover up. I’m comin’ in.”

      He heard rustling at the back of the house. Then a flashlight snapped on and the beam hit him right in the face, blinding him before he could take another step.

      “Stop right there!”

      He put up a hand to block the light. “Or?”

      “Or…I’ll shoot.”

      He could tell by the voice that it was a woman. He had no idea where her boyfriend might be, but she seemed to be alone for the moment. “You have a gun?” he said incredulously.

      “What do you think?”

      Mike couldn’t remember anyone ever being shot in Dundee—unless it was in some kind of hunting accident. But he supposed anything was possible. “What kind of gun?”

      “Does it matter?”

      “Just curious.” He was still trying to protect his eyes.

      “One that’ll put a hole in you,” she said. “Happy?”

      “Not particularly.” The quaver in her voice told him she was probably lying about the gun, which he’d suspected from the beginning. He could understand why she’d feel a bit intimidated with a six-foot-two, two-hundred-and-ten-pound stranger barging in on her. What bothered him was the light—that and the question of why she was there. “Who are you?”

      “I could ask the same of you,” she said warily.

      “Mike Hill. I own the ranch next door.”

      Mike had grown up in these parts. Most everyone knew his family. But if she recognized his name, she didn’t say so.

      “What are you doing here, Mr. Hill?”

      “Do you mind?” He scowled at the light as she stepped closer.

      “You’re the one who walked in uninvited.”

      She had to be alone, or he would’ve heard someone else by now. “I came to tell you that you’d better put out those candles and hightail it out of here before I call the police. You’re trespassing on private property.”

      “Is it your property?” she asked.

      “It should be.”

      “But it’s not, is it?”

      He didn’t like her tone. The fact that he’d lost the house, of which he had so many fond childhood memories, to a gold digger and her children still bothered him. The fact that he’d been robbed of the time he could’ve spent with his grandfather in the last ten years of Morris Caldwell’s life rankled even more.

      “What happens here is none of your business,” she went on briskly. “Please go.”

      Mike had no intention of leaving. No one was going to chase him out of his grandfather’s house—especially with nothing more threatening than a flashlight. “Get that damn light out of my eyes.”

      “Or?” she said, coming back at him with his own line.

      Mike welcomed the challenge. “Or I’ll take it away from you.”

      “Then I’ll—”

      “Shoot? You don’t even have a gun. If you did, you wouldn’t need to blind me.”

      She