Duplicate Daughter. Alice Sharpe

      “You own all this?”

      “Yes.”

      “It’s huge.”

      “It was built by a painter back in 1950. He used to open it up in the summer for aspiring artists with enough cash to fly in and spend several weeks under his tutelage. I bought it from him four or five years ago.”

      “Are you an artist too?” she asked.

      He replied immediately. “No. My wife was.”

      “Your wife—”

      He stilled her with a swift, intense green glance. “She died two years ago,” he said, his voice as bleak as his expression.

      “I’m sorry.”

      “So am I.” He pressed a button on the visor above his head and the door to a large garage rolled up and out of the way. Nick pulled inside, his headlights illuminating a couple of snowmobiles and a blue van. A door opposite suggested covered passage to the house. The door was closing and Nick was out of the truck before Katie could untangle her hands from her scarf. He flipped on an overhead light and the details of winter equipment like snowblowers, boots, sleds and snowshoes came into sharp focus.

      He opened her door and once again she faced the long step down from the truck. Her leg ached at the prospect. “Are there other people here now?” Katie asked hopefully as she slid from her seat. Nick seemed to be prepared for her ungainly exit and caught her in a grip as solid as granite.

      “Not in the winter. This time of year it’s just me and Helen, my housekeeper. And Lily, of course.”

      “Nick, please talk to me about your father,” she said, gazing up into his eyes, imploring him to stop evading her questions. “Time is passing and my mother is missing.”

      “I know,” he said. “But there’s a storm coming and no one will be going anywhere for a while. We almost always lose phone service in weather like this. In short, your problem will keep. I want to see if Lily is still awake.”

      “Who’s Lily?”

      “My daughter.” He reached past her and retrieved her suitcase, then opened the connecting door to what appeared to be an enclosed porch. A row of hooks held outerwear, a tray underneath caught the drips as snow melted. Baskets lined up on a shelf were filled with mittens, gloves and stocking caps. Nick pulled off his hat and tossed it into a basket; his gloves followed a second later. He unzipped his coat and took it off, carefully hanging it on an empty hook next to a pale yellow coat with a fur collar that was so tiny it had to belong to a child.

      Katie took off her own coat and immediately missed its warm, cozy lining even though she wore a thick sweater underneath. Nick took it from her and hung it on a hook before parking himself on a bench and unlacing his boots.

      “Are your feet wet?” he asked Katie. He pointed at her suitcase. “Do you have something dry and warm in there or do you need to borrow slippers?”

      He was wearing a green flannel shirt that stretched across his shoulders as he moved. He was built splendidly, Katie saw, broad at the shoulder, narrow through the hips, tall and straight, sent from central casting to play the role of handsome, defensive, sexy recluse.

      But he was real. Those eyes, that tenderness in his voice when his daughter’s name passed his lips, his single-minded straight-as-an-arrow determination to do things his own way in his own time—all man, all real and, probably, all obstacle.

      “My feet are fine,” she said, looking down at her own boots. She’d been traveling the better part of two days to get here. Flights from Oregon to Washington, then on to Anchorage, Alaska. Then the bush-pilot flight to Frostbite. Now she was out here in the middle of nowhere, trying to get a man to talk, a man who obviously didn’t want to talk, and just how was she supposed to ever get home again?

      And what about her mother?

      As she folded her head scarf and straightened the gray wool sweater she wore over a light blue turtleneck shirt, she admitted that her head pounded, her leg ached, she was cold and hungry and frustrated. “Nick—” she said impatiently.

      Once again he cut her off, this time by standing abruptly. He’d slipped on a pair of dry loafers. As he opened the door leading into the house, she picked up her suitcase and followed. What choice did she have?

      Aromas of roasting meat and vegetables perfumed the room they entered, a kitchen full of rough wood beams and rich dark tiles. Some kind of fruit pie—apple?—sat cooling on a wooden board. Katie’s stomach growled.

      “Mr. Nick,” a woman said, looking up from the sink where she peeled potatoes. She appeared to be in her late fifties, Katie guessed, with long black hair gathered into a low-riding ponytail, silver threads running throughout. She was short and comfortable looking, her skin winter-white, her dark eyes liquid in the subdued light.

      “I thought maybe you got stuck at the airport…” the woman began, her voice trailing off as Katie stepped from behind Nick.

      The friendly smile wavered.

      Katie was blasted with a fresh wave of alarm. Was everyone in Frostbite suspicious of outsiders?

      Nick said, “Helen, this is Katie Fields, the woman I went to meet today. Katie, Helen Delaney, the woman who runs things around here.”

      Helen raked Katie over with narrowed eyes but addressed her comments to Nick. “I thought you were meeting your father’s stepdaughter. The one who called here. Theresa Mays.”

      “Katie is apparently my…father’s…other stepdaughter,” Nick said.

      “I’m the one who called you the last time,” Katie explained, sticking out her free hand. “I’m sorry for the confusion.”

      Helen dried her hand on her apron and took Katie’s hand, her gaze averted as she mumbled a polite greeting. Katie said the first thing that popped to her mind. “That pie looks delicious.”

      “Apple rhubarb,” Helen said. “Mr. Nick’s favorite.” She turned her attention back to Nick and added, “I didn’t know you were bringing anyone back to the house. I didn’t expect company.”

      Nick said, “The weather turned. Toby had to get some medicine to Skie.” He ran a hand through his dark blond hair before looking at Katie. “Well, you’re here now and, by the looks of the weather, you aren’t going anywhere for a couple of days. I’ll show you to a guest room in a few moments, but first I need to look in on my daughter.”

      “I gave her an early dinner and put her to bed,” Helen said, darting Katie a surreptitious glance. Katie felt distinctly uncomfortable. Helen had seemed cordial enough on the phone, so why the cool welcome? And did Nick have to talk to her as it she was an intruder?

      Whoa, reality check. You forced yourself on both of them, an inner voice whispered. No one asked you to come, you just refused to leave.

      She rubbed her forehead. She’d packed doctor-prescribed painkillers in her suitcase and the temptation to down half a bottle and sleep the storm out was amazingly strong but she knew she’d settle for a couple of aspirin instead. She needed to stay clear-headed and focused.

      “I’ll be right back,” Nick said, glancing down at her.

      She grabbed his arm as he turned and felt his muscles tense beneath her grasp. “You have to tell me about your father,” she said vehemently. “I need to understand what’s going on. I have to find my mother. I know you think I’m overreacting—”

      He stared at her hand. For a second, she expected him to bat it away, but then he did something even worse. Laying his hand gently over the top of hers he said, “No, I don’t think you’re overreacting.”

      “So you do think she’s in danger.”

      “If she married my father, I’d be willing to bet on it,” he told her, his eyes intense and serious. “I’m sorry.”