At Wild Rose Cottage (11 page)

Alaina drove away, controlling the trembling in her hands with an effort. She needed to focus. Her firm in New York had sent a stack of work and needed it back by Monday morning. That was okay; at least it would keep her from thinking what an idiot she was to hang around Schuyler, hoping to catch Mike's attention.

Emily had pointed out a couple of times that Mike wasn't necessarily indifferent, no matter how he behaved. That was some comfort, but it didn't mean he was in love with her, either.

Yeah, she was an idiot, working on moron status.

* * *

E
MILY
HUMMED
AS
she drove home. The harmonica and banjo players had put together an impromptu band, getting her to beat some bongo drums that Jackson McGregor had unearthed from his childhood. She'd played drums in the high school marching band and had forgotten how much fun it was to help make music.

Most of the partygoers had joined in the singing. Not Trent, but she hadn't expected him to relax his stiff exterior.

It was interesting. Sarah and Parker McGregor clearly loved their niece and nephew just as much as their biological children, but while Alaina returned the affection, it was harder to tell about Trent. There wasn't anything contentious or negative in how he interacted with his family. He just didn't seem comfortable with them.

Emily sighed with exasperation. She was spending too much time thinking about the guy. Of course, he was in her house almost every day, so naturally he was part of her mental landscape.

Unfortunately, she was used to guys seeing her as ordinary. And maybe she was supersensitive because of her ex-fiancé, who'd thought she should have been grateful he wanted to marry her, despite his cheating. At least she'd dented his monumental ego when telling him where to go...and giving him directions.

Back at Wild Rose Cottage, Emily reminded herself that she'd had a wonderful time at the barbecue, despite Trent. And in a month or two the house would be remade and he'd be out of her hair.

That was a cheerful thought.

But an odd sensation hit her as she opened the front door. Nervous chills ran down her spine and she was certain that the house felt nervous, as well. Walking from room to room, she found nothing had been disturbed, but she couldn't shake the conviction that somebody had been inside while she'd been gone. Could they still be there? Upstairs, perhaps?

She reached for the phone, drew back, then grabbed the receiver and called the sheriff's office. While waiting she parked herself next to the front door, ready to open it and run like hell if necessary.

Five minutes later there was a firm knock. Emily peeked out and saw a tall man in a sheriff's uniform.

“Good evening,” he said as she opened the door. “I'm Carl Stanfield.”

Emily heaved a sigh. “I'm Emily George. It probably sounds silly, but I can't help feeling someone has been in the house. It's ridiculous because there's nothing worth stealing. Big Sky Construction is remodeling, so there's hardly anything here.”

“Don't worry, I'll check everything. Wait on the porch.”

Twenty minutes later he came back. “I've gone over the entire house, basement to attic, including the closets and showers. No one is here, now at least.”

Her tension eased. “You must think I'm a terrible goose,” she told him.

“Nope. I've known men and women both who can imagine an intruder out of a stray piece of lint. But you don't seem the type. In any case, here's my card. Promise you'll call if something doesn't feel right.”

She smiled. “Okay,” she agreed and tucked the business card into her smartphone sleeve.

Jeez, the people in Schuyler were nice.

* * *

T
RENT
PREPARED
TO
leave the family barbecue, grateful the ordeal was concluded.

“Thank you for the lovely paperweight,” Sarah said as she hugged him good-night. “Where did you find it?”

“Over the internet,” he explained. “It's made with a little ash from Mount St. Helens.”

They'd visited the national monument in Washington State a month before the formal adoption had been finalized. He still remembered standing at Windy Ridge, looking out at the devastated mountain as they asked if he minded...with a quick assurance his last name would remain Hawkins. He could have told them that he wasn't proud to be a Hawkins, but his mouth had remained stubbornly shut.

Aunt Sarah plainly recalled the same moment, because her face became even more emotional. “That makes it extra special, but you didn't need to get me anything.”

“I wanted to. Happy birthday, Mom,” he managed to say, in almost natural tones. The glow in her eyes made him feel guilty—calling her Mom was what meant the most to her. She rose on her toes and kissed him on the cheek.

“Good night, dear.”

He drove home and dialed into the message center when he saw he had voice mail.

“Trent, this is Carl Stanfield,” said the voice. “Emily George mentioned that you're remodeling her house. She called this evening, concerned about a possible intruder. I checked it out and made sure the doors and windows were locked, but wanted you to know. The place isn't that secure and she's there on her own.”

Trent cursed silently.

If Emily had moved into an apartment while the work was being done, there wouldn't be any questions about her safety. Even better, if she'd let him have the property, there wouldn't have been any concerns at all.

* * *

T
RENT
STOPPED
AT
Big Sky Construction the next morning to pick up the locks he'd ordered for Emily's house. He quietly circled the property when he arrived. There was more than one sign of forced entry, but he couldn't tell if any were fresh. Aside from that, there was no way to know how many people had a key. It was unlikely Bob Webber had changed the locks for new tenants, and Emily might not have considered it worth the trouble with the planned remodeling.

All at once Trent frowned, recalling Webber's eagerness to get inside, supposedly to see the renovations. Was he anxious enough to break in? A vision of Bob Webber going to prison was immensely appealing, but Trent promptly dismissed the possibility; he was prejudiced against the guy. Besides, why would Bob care so much?

Eduardo was the first member of the crew to arrive and Trent took him aside. “Change the locks on the doors and fix the windows so they can't be jimmied easily. Don't make a big deal out of it.” The windows he'd already reframed shouldn't be an issue—so far the ones he'd finished were all decorative, rather than functional.

“Has there been a problem?”

“Possible intruder.”

“We'll get it done. Can't leave our Em unprotected.”

Fortunately, Emily was so busy trying to remove layers of wallpaper, she didn't seem to notice the crew working to secure her windows and doors.

At noon Trent handed her a new set of keys. “The hardware has been sticking,” he explained. “Replacing the locks is in the contract, so I decided to take care of it now, rather than waiting.”

Her head cocked and her eyes narrowed.

“Liar,” she accused. “The sheriff called you, didn't he?”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but it isn't a big deal.” Trent didn't know which way she would jump—anger that he'd done something to help, or anxiety because he'd felt it safer to fix the locks.

A grin lit up Emily's face and she laughed. “I'm not used to such wonderful small-town unity. It's amazing.”

Her enthusiasm was confusing and Trent could only chalk it up to her previous life in an impersonal city. He might cultivate his reputation as an ornery polecat, but he believed in taking care of his neighbors. Most folks in Schuyler felt the same, so it didn't mean he was behaving like the hapless prince in a fairy tale, rescuing maidens right and left.

Doing the right thing was important—he just didn't want to be a chump.

“Thanks,” Emily said.

It was hard to evaluate what was in her mind. One minute she told him off for trying to help her against Bob Webber, the next she was celebrating small-town unity in looking after neighbors. Perhaps it was just another example of her flakiness.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“E
MILY
?” T
RENT
SAID
. She was so deep into reading a letter that she hadn't heard him the first time he'd said her name.

She looked up and set the letter aside. “Is something wrong?”

“Vince wants me to tell you that the mantelpiece in the living room can't be saved. He's done his best, but the wood is too far gone.”

Her face fell and Trent understood why Vince had bailed on the task of breaking the news. The crew had become absurdly fond of Emily in the weeks they'd been working on her house and hated disappointing her about anything. Not that Trent was surprised she'd wanted to save the fireplace mantel. It was intricately carved, with inlaid pillars on each side, but it had suffered too many years of neglect.

“Can it be reproduced?” she asked finally. “I've taken pictures.”

“Possibly, but the cost would be sky-high since it's mostly an art piece. Finding an artist skilled enough would be difficult, and then they'd have to be willing to accept the commission. I doubt you'd be happy with anything that wasn't made by a master craftsman.”

Visibly dejected, Emily stared out the window.

He put a sketchpad on the card table and sat on the chair across from her. “There are several options. The first is creating something out of brick.” Quickly he sketched how it would appear.

She nodded without enthusiasm.

“A broad wood mantel could be added.” He applied that to the sketch.

“I'm sure it will be very nice,” she said politely.

Trent continued adding various embellishments, but it was clear that a modern substitute couldn't match what she'd envisioned for the living room.

“I'm sorry,” Emily apologized. “It's just that I've been seeing it a certain way and now I have to adjust.”

“Pine boughs at Christmas, right?” he asked, recalling what she'd said to Vince on the day they'd started work.

A hint of a smile tugged at her mouth. “Yes, and maybe Victorian-style bows or something. I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up since I knew it was chancy.”

The wistfulness in her eyes got to Trent, and he uneasily recalled an email he'd recently received from a real estate office near Helena. A 1890s-era farmhouse was being torn down in September and the broker had offered to let Big Sky salvage items from it.

They had done this sort of thing often, but his company was so busy that summer Trent hadn't expected to take advantage of the offer. However, the list from the broker had indicated three fireplace mantelpieces were in the house. If he kept his mouth shut, Emily would never know. It was good business to make his clients happy, but it was irritating at the same time, because he wondered if she was trying to manipulate him with her visible disappointment.

“There's one other possibility,” he said. “I've been told about a Victorian farmhouse near Helena that's being torn down. It has three fireplaces with vintage mantelpieces. I don't know what they look like, only what was on the broker's inventory.”

Her eyes lit up. “Could one of them be used here?”

“There's no way to know for sure without going there,” he replied quickly. “And remember the house is Victorian, not Arts and Crafts, so the style would be different.”

“Uh... I don't think the damaged fireplace mantel is true Arts and Crafts anyway.”

Trent didn't have an answer to the obvious, so he chose another tactic. “It would still be expensive. On top of that, even if a suitable one is available, it would mean more delays while it's being salvaged. I shouldn't have brought it up. The whole idea is impractical.”

Now that he'd introduced the idea, Trent decided he'd been a sap. Satisfying a client didn't mean going this far, did it?

* * *

E
MILY
LEANED
FORWARD
. “Haven't you realized by now that practical isn't my strong suit? At least when it comes to Wild Rose Cottage,” she added hastily.

“No kidding,” he said. “Look, it would take a full day, maybe even two, just to go see if one of the mantels could be used, and then to pull it out. I've checked out enough places like this to know people can be unrealistic about the value of anything on the inventory, or else they're handing me a line. This particular broker has exaggerated before, so I'm not optimistic.”

Emily's feet danced at the vision of visiting another old house, particularly one that might contain material useful for restoring Wild Rose Cottage.

“I still want to see it,” she said.

“You want to go?” he asked. Clearly the possibility hadn't occurred to him.

“Of course. That way it wouldn't take time from the crew. Just tell me what to look for and what measurements to use. Who knows, there might be other neat stuff, too.”

Trent appeared torn, but he finally sighed. “I'll drive over myself and check it out for you.”

“No way. You might be able to tell if something is useable, but I'm the only one who'd know if it's something I want.”

“I can email pictures,” he offered.

“That wouldn't be the same.”

Frustration filled his face. “Fine. I was going to pass on salvaging this particular house, but since you're determined to have the place checked, we'll go together and I'll see if there are a few items I can use for Big Sky's inventory.”

He didn't seem particularly happy over having made the offer, but she decided not to worry about that. After all, this way he could add items to his company's inventory.

“Okay,” she said, “tell me when to meet you there.”

“Er...your car is pretty old to travel that far.”

He was plainly trying to be diplomatic—something that was out of character for him—but Emily knew exactly how many miles were on the odometer.

When she'd decided to move to Montana, she had parked her Jaguar in the garage of her house in Southern California and would likely sell both the house and Jag before long. The Jag didn't seem to fit Schuyler, so she'd brought the sedan she'd owned since high school. However aged, she took good care of it and trusted her little baby to get her places.

“My car is reliable and I want to make double use of the trip,” she insisted. “This way I can meet with my Helena-based suppliers for the Emporium and straighten out a few things.”

Another odd expression flashed across his face, but as usual, Emily couldn't decipher it. The guy was a puzzle. Her sister could probably wrap Trent around her little finger, except Nicole was dating an Italian businessman and probably wouldn't be caught dead in a town without a Neiman Marcus store.

The thought sent a flash of guilty gratitude through Emily. Nothing was going to happen between her and Trent, but it would have been miserable to see yet
another
guy she found attractive go loopy over her sister. That was one of the nice things about Schuyler—nobody had met Nicole, so there weren't any comparisons, conscious or otherwise, between them.

“All right,” he agreed. “I'll contact the broker to find out when we can get inside the house.”

“Great. Let's go eat.”

Relieved, Emily jumped up and headed for the patio, glad to get away from him. Trent was overwhelming, even when he wasn't being a pain in the ass. The other day he'd practically exploded when she stopped the crew from tearing up the damaged floor in the old parlor. It was beautiful, with an intricate design created from ribbons of bent wood. Unfortunately, several sections had buckled from a water leak.

“It can't be repaired,” he'd snarled after sending Eduardo and Caveman to do something else.

“I read about a similar floor being repaired at the Pittock Mansion in Portland,” Emily had insisted. “They soaked it again, then laid out planks and weighed them down with barrels of water to gradually ease them back in place.”

“This isn't the Pittock Mansion.”

“I don't care.”

“It isn't in—”

“I know, it isn't in the contract,” she'd interrupted. Loudly. “Or at least, I wasn't
specific
enough about the repairs I wanted. Just give me a new estimate.”

They'd glared at each other a couple of minutes before he'd stomped out and told the others to leave the floor alone...for the time being.

Sometimes it was exhausting to deal with Trent, which was why she hadn't wanted to drive with him to Helena.

“Emily, come have some pizza,” Caveman called, distracting her from the memory.

Emily fixed a smile on her face. The crew had asked her to join them for lunch and she didn't want them to think anything was wrong.

On the days she provided lunch, Emily always invited Alaina, who still wasn't making any headway with Mike. The guy was a stone wall. He continued making noises to Emily about taking her out and she'd needed to do some quick thinking to head him off. She didn't want to say anything outright—not wanting to spoil the camaraderie that was making the construction project so enjoyable—but when was he going to get the message? He'd even hinted about them going out in front of Alaina.

Emily winced at the memory.

Afterward, to keep her friend from feeling worse, she'd privately revealed her conviction that Mike was only interested because he saw her as a sensible choice to date. She didn't have any proof, but the little things he'd let drop made her sure it was the reason.

“Really? I can't understand why I'm hung up on him,” Alaina had grumbled. “He can be such a jerk and he's blind if he doesn't see how terrific you are.”

Alaina's staunch support had soothed Emily's ego, bruised from confessing something so embarrassing. That was the great thing about a genuine friend—she could support you, even when her heart was breaking over some man.

“That's nice of you to say, but I'm used to guys seeing me a certain way,” Emily had admitted. “My ex-fiancé wanted a practical kind of woman as a wife, yet expected to sleep around with women as glamorous as my sister. Unlike Dennis, however, I'm sure Mike doesn't have visions of cheating with someone before he goes home to his nice, sensible choice.”

Alaina had stared at her in amazement. “If that's what your ex-fiancé expected, you're better off without him. I hope you drop-kicked him into the Pacific Ocean.”

“Almost.”

Right then Eduardo had come around the corner of the house to get a cup of coffee, so they'd changed the subject.

* * *

T
HE
FOLLOWING
M
ONDAY
Trent assigned the Meadowlark Lane crew to work on the roof and storm cellar while he and Emily were out of town. Eduardo endorsed the plan, saying, “It's best to leave the interior work for when Emily is home. We have more fun when she's here.”

Huh. It might be the first time one of his crews had thought a restoration job was this much fun. They were having a grand time working with Emily and treated her like a favorite kid sister. They happily asked her to help with tasks they considered safe and gave lessons in anything requiring specific knowledge, though she was so flighty, Trent couldn't imagine her truly mastering any of the skills. It still amazed him that she managed two successful businesses—luck maybe?

The most vexing part about the situation was that he could have scheduled someone else to go to Helena in his place. With Emily out of town, it would have been a great opportunity to retrieve everything he'd hidden in the walls as a boy. She'd even suggested again that she could go on her own, but sending her to explore a deserted house in the country hadn't seemed right.

So he was stuck. Really bad planning. He didn't need to spend more time with Emily. At the thought, an image flashed through his head of what one of her lacy bras must look like while cupping her round curves.

He cursed.

Despite his best efforts he hadn't been able to suppress the desire he felt around her. At first he'd refused to acknowledge his reaction. Now he was just doing his best to master it.

Emily had said she could meet him whenever he suggested; she was spending the night in Helena after a late-afternoon meeting with her suppliers. He'd told her to arrive at the farmhouse midmorning, figuring that if he left Schuyler early enough, he would have time to check the building first. That way he could determine if any of the fireplace mantels were suitable before she saw them and got her hopes raised...another action he didn't care to examine too closely. Not that it meant anything. He was just getting sucked into his crew's devotion to their client, which irritated him all over again.

Shortly before 8:00 a.m. he pulled into the farmhouse drive and found Emily's ancient sedan already parked nearby. She wasn't anywhere in sight and alarm shot through him.

Deserted houses could attract vagrants; it wasn't safe for a woman to head into the place by herself, particularly since the broker had planned to unlock it the night before. Trent hadn't thought to warn Emily since he'd expected to be there a couple of hours in advance. He slid from the truck and sprinted to the front porch.

“Emily,” he called, taking the front steps two at a time.

The door opened and she stepped outside, a paper cup in her right hand. “Wow, you're early, too. I've been exploring. It's a shame they're tearing this place down. I wish I had a billion bucks to fix up old houses that no one cares about any longer.”

Trent's alarm vanished, leaving him annoyed.

“You shouldn't go into deserted buildings by yourself,” he told her sharply. “It isn't safe.”

Considering her previous anger at him for trying to be protective, he half expected a royal scolding. Once again she surprised him as she cocked her head and studied him for a moment.

“You haven't had your morning coffee, have you?” she asked. “And you probably skipped breakfast. That's why you're such a grump. Not that you're a spoonful of sunshine any day, but it's more pronounced this morning.”