Blue Ridge Hideaway. Cynthia Thomason

      He removed a stained Florida Marlins ball cap, pushed strands of hair off his forehead and resettled the hat low on his brow. “Let’s all calm down a minute.” He held his calloused, long-fingered hand out toward Dorie a second time. “Look, Miss...”

      “My name’s Howe,” she said, keeping her hand on the trigger. “Dorinda Howe. Dorie.”

      He lowered his hand again. “Dorie, I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d put away that can of pepper spray.”

      She’d thought she’d concealed the canister from view. “How did you know...?”

      “It’s an old habit from a previous profession. Back in those days, I never approached anyone without looking at what might be in their hands. That applies especially to unannounced visitors who seem to have a serious ax to grind about something.” He cocked his head to the side and managed a small grin. “But here’s a tip. If you want to be really sneaky with that thing, you should choose a color other than hot pink.”

      Very funny. She didn’t bother explaining to him that she came from a worse-for-wear seaside village with a rowdy population and a high crime rate—a far cry from the typical Outer Banks tourist spot. Canisters of mace went fast, black being the popular seller. Maybe it was just as well he knew about her weapon. Neither of these men would try anything, knowing she could temporarily send them into fits of coughing with a couple of well-aimed bursts.

      “I think I’ll hold on to it, junior,” she said. “If it’s all the same to you.”

      He scowled but didn’t press her to give up her protection. “Fine, but at least put it in your pocket. I don’t want it going off accidentally.”

      There was something rational and calming about the level tone of his voice, and Dorie decided to trust him that far. Besides, a damp, bitter wind had suddenly swept down from the mountaintop, and she needed both hands to zip up her parka.

      Bret turned to his father. “Pop, I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

      She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at Clancy. “Go ahead, tell him, Pop. And while you’re filling your son in with all the details about our recent history, I’m going to be right here listening to every word just so you don’t forget to mention the exact amount of money you owe me.”

      * * *

      BRET HAD A bad feeling about this. In the forty-eight hours since his father had arrived without notice, nothing suspicious or sinister or even questionable had happened. Bret had allowed himself to ease into a sort of complacent acceptance of Clancy’s appearance even though gut instinct told him to keep his guard up—what he usually did when his dad was in his life. And now this—a woman about as mad as a hen in a hatbox threatening the peace and tranquility he’d come to the mountains to find. Past experience had taught him that this woman’s desperate situation, whatever the details, was probably Clancy’s fault.

      He did a quick appraisal of Dorinda Howe. She had guts even if she didn’t have the stature to back them up. At a little over five feet tall, with slim legs encased in a pair of straight jeans and most of the rest of her concealed under a hood and a light parka, she didn’t look capable of tangling with a dragonfly. But looks could be deceiving. And she did come packing mace.

      He glanced up at the craggy summit of Hickory Mountain. The sun had slipped toward the valley behind them. In another ten minutes nighttime would descend on the mountainside, and this little patch of land would be about as dark as any place on earth. Bret ought to be putting his tools away and securing the property from bears and raccoons while he still had some daylight. But the normally relaxed ending of his day was obviously not going to happen.

      Dorie rubbed one hand up and down her arm while keeping a tense fist near the pocket where she’d put the canister.

      “You’re freezing,” Bret said. “And it’s only going to get colder. We’re supposed to dip into the upper twenties tonight.”

      “Doesn’t this mountain know it’s the end of March?”

      He smiled.

      “Whatever. I don’t plan to be here to watch the thermometer drop,” she said through chattering teeth. She glared at Clancy. “My business shouldn’t take long.”

      Bret swept his arm toward the building. “Let’s go inside. I turned the furnace off this morning since I knew I’d be outside most of the day, but I can at least start a fire while we wait for the heat to kick on again.”

      She studied his face a moment before eyeing the lodge with definite longing, but she didn’t take a step. “I don’t know...”

      “Look, you’ll be fine. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of her pocket. “If anything, we’re scared of you.”

      She remained still, apparently considering his promise.

      “We’ll just get out of the wind while we talk this over. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of coffee.”

      She looked one more time at both men before nodding. “Yeah, coffee sounds good. And there’s another thing...”

      “Oh?”

      She pointed to the lodge he’d been working on all day. “I’m hoping you have modern facilities in there.”

      Understanding her concern, he said, “All the comforts of home. Plumbing included.”

      She stepped back, clearing a path for Clancy. “You go first. I don’t want you behind me.”

      He frowned but moved ahead of her. “And I don’t want that can of pepper spray to come out of your pocket,” he said. He stopped at the door Bret held open and looked over his shoulder. “Don’t try using that stuff on me. My son here used to be a cop.”

      As Dorie followed him inside she spared a quick glance at Bret. “A cop, eh? And while you were protecting and serving your community, how many times did you arrest your own father?”

      Bret let the door shut behind him. “Never had to.” His lips curled up in a grin. “We always lived in different cities.” He started to recite directions to the bathroom, but stopped when his cell phone rang. “I’ve got to take this. It’s my son, and I don’t always get clear cell service on this mountain.”

      “Sure, go ahead.”

      Anxious as always to hear Luke’s voice, Bret waved Dorie to the hallway bathroom. “Hey, buddy, how’s everything going?”

      In a hyper, enthusiastic voice, Luke regaled his father with the latest escapades he’d enjoyed with his cousins.

      “Can’t wait for you to get home tomorrow,” Bret said. He hoped his son felt even a small percentage of the longing he himself was experiencing at seeing the boy again. They had been apart almost a week now, and to Bret, that was far too long.

      “Me, too, Dad,” Luke said. “But I was wondering why Aunt Julie has to bring me home tomorrow. Why not Sunday? School doesn’t start until the next day.”

      Bret hid his disappointment behind parental prerogative, stopping just short of saying, “Because I said so.”

      “We talked about this already, Luke. Saturday is the day Aunt Julie can come up here, and Saturday is the day you’re coming home. Okay?”

      “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      Bret disconnected and stacked logs in the fireplace. He struck a match and blew on the kindling, creating a nice start to a fire. Aware that his father was fiddling with the coffeemaker, he waited to see if Clancy would offer an explanation for Dorie’s accusation. But the only sounds in the room were the crackle of the flames and the hiss of the brewing machine.

      Crouched in front of the hearth, Bret turned to his father and said, “I’d really appreciate it if, before she comes out of the bathroom, you’d