Half Moon Hill (6 page)

Still, she felt she’d come too far to turn back, especially when the old cabin suddenly appeared in the distance. Like before, the ivy and other vines covering it served as camouflage, making it so she didn’t quite see it until it was right before her eyes, like something materializing out of nowhere.
Poof!

Was he in there? Well, regardless, maybe she should just leave the casserole outside and be on her way, the same as he had with the berries. Yes, that sounded like
another
good plan.

Fortunately, a small window next to the door stood open, creating a wide enough sill on which to set it safely. She’d covered it with a gingham cloth—another gift from Amy, who seemed almost as fond of gingham as she was of cats—so it would be less likely to draw bugs or animals before Duke found it.

Stepping slowly up to the window, she paused, listening for any movement inside, and when she heard nothing but the faint tweet of a bird somewhere, she edged closer to the old dilapidated sill and carefully lowered the cobbler dish. For good measure, she straightened the blue and white cloth, making sure it covered all four corners.

There, a nice treat for Duke when he came back from wherever he was.

That was when a fist clamped down on her wrist.

The shock of it shot up her arm and into her heart as she let out a yelp. Her gaze locked on the masculine hand that held her, and a second later, Duke Dawson’s hairy face and gray eyes appeared above it through the open window. “If you’re gonna go sneaking around, Daisy,” he said, “you gotta be a little quieter.”

She blinked, flinched. “I was
perfectly
quiet.” She was trying to get used to being touched by him again. And wondering why he hadn’t yet let go.

He chose that exact moment to release her arm from his grasp, leaving her in a weird state between relief and slight disappointment. A few seconds later, the door opened a few feet away and her wolfman stepped out. “About as quiet as a freight train. Heard you tromping through the weeds twenty yards away.”

She knew he was exaggerating, but thought he looked more amused than he had during their first encounter, like he was actually teasing her this time.

Not quite sure how to respond to teasing from Duke, she went barreling full steam ahead with “Thank you for picking the berries.”

He gave a short, simple nod in reply. “Thank you for . . .” He looked toward the windowsill. “Whatever that is.”

“A cobbler. Made from the blackberries. I . . . didn’t know what you were eating out here, so . . .”

“Don’t worry about me, Daisy, I’m getting along just fine,” he informed her, and she was just about to regret trying to do something nice for him when he added, “But thanks. Haven’t had anything like that in a while and it’ll be a nice change.”

“You’re welcome. I . . . hope it’s edible.” She hadn’t exactly planned the last part—she’d just been thinking aloud.

Still seeming more lighthearted than she could have anticipated, now he even let out a quick laugh. “Should I be scared?”

For some reason, she moved right past the irony of the question and found herself feeling unusually sheepish. Maybe even a little vulnerable. In the past, she’d mostly stuck to doing things she was naturally good at—maybe life had held enough challenges without her having to challenge
herself
on top of it. So she wasn’t used to being in the position of having no idea if her efforts were a success or not, and she’d only remembered a minute ago that she didn’t actually have a clue how the cobbler would taste. Plus—hell—something about him just kept her feeling a lot more tense than usual, whether or not there was a cobbler involved.

“It’s . . . the first thing I’ve really baked,” she admitted. “Sort of an experiment. I’m planning to open my house as an inn once I finish all the repairs, and . . . I thought it would be nice if I could serve homemade baked goods. I also got a cat. For the inn. Because it seemed like something people would like.”
Oh God, shut up. He’s a motorcycle gang member with a jagged scar on his face living in the woods—he doesn’t care about your Mary Poppins aspirations as an innkeeper. Or your cat. Unless maybe he needs something to focus on during target practice.
She cringed slightly, suddenly worried for Erik, no matter how irritating she found the four-legged meowing machine.

“Makes sense,” he said simply.

“It does?” Her eyebrows shot up.

“Wondered what you needed that great big house for. Now I know.”

“You don’t have to worry, though,” she heard herself adding, even if she wasn’t sure why she cared about reassuring him. “I have a lot of work to do on the outside, so I won’t be opening for a while yet. So, I mean, there won’t suddenly be guests around—you’ll still have . . . privacy. For now.”

He narrowed those dark eyes on her, and his pointed stare pinned her in place. She was generally good with men—confident, comfortable—so why did she find it hard to make eye contact with this one?
Maybe it’s the scar and scraggly hair. Maybe it’s because there are so many question marks surrounding him, some of them pretty ominous.
“Does this mean you’re willing to keep my secret?” he asked.

“I told you I would.”

“Figured you might’ve changed your mind by now.”

She just shook her head. “Nope. I can be a good neighbor if you can.”

One corner of his mouth quirked into not-quite-a-smile. “Yep, I can be a good neighbor, Daisy Duke.”

Her spine stiffened slightly. “I might think you were a
better
neighbor if you’d quit calling me that.”

“Why? I like the shorts. They suit you.” And when he glanced down at her hips, she did, too. Today’s particular jean shorts were cutoff Levi’s she’d torn badly while installing a new bathroom sink a few months back. She tended to wear a lot of denim these days because it was both comfortable and sturdy. And she wasn’t about to ask exactly how they suited her, God forbid—but her cheeks heated slightly anyway, and she only hoped the shadiness of the woods hid her reaction.

“Ankle’s all better, looks like,” he said then, dropping his gaze lower and saving her from coming up with a reply.

She nodded. “Yes. Good as new, thanks.”

“Use the crutches?”

“I did,” she assured him.

“Good girl.”

Her eyes darted up to his and their gazes locked. The small liberties he took with her unnerved her a little—how did a guy in his position have the guts to be so bold?—and yet somehow she was beginning, bit by bit, to grow less wary of him.

This time her lack of reply created one more slightly awkward moment until she pointed vaguely in the direction of her house. “Well, I should go.”

He offered a quick nod. “Thanks again for the dessert.”

“No problem,” she said softly as she started backing away, suddenly eager for escape. But this wasn’t about fear—not this time. It was about the way he kept her on edge and was so full of mystery. And that the angry scar on his face provided a constant reminder of some darkness inside him, dark enough to send him here, retreating into the woods as if maybe he was hoping to just fade away.

“Be careful walking back, Daisy,” he told her, still not quite smiling.

“Sure,” she said easily, now putting still more distance between them—and then she stumbled backward over a tree root and lost her balance. Oh Lord.

Reaching out a hand—maybe it was more like flailing, actually—she made contact with a tree trunk and steadied herself before falling. Thank God. Then she lifted her gaze to find Duke watching. “I’m fine,” she assured him.

He spoke low, under his breath, but she still heard it when he murmured in a deep, provocative tone, “Yes, you are.”

And then, finally, for the first time, Duke Dawson cracked a grin—just before she turned around and rushed away through the trees.

“You are afraid of me! And yet I am not really wicked.”

Gaston Leroux,
The Phantom of the Opera

Four

S
am Cooke’s smooth voice echoed out the window as Anna toted a heavy ladder from the garage. Although she could have turned on the radio or listened to her iPod, she’d felt the urge to play some of the albums she’d found upstairs last night in Cathy’s trunk. When she’d come across an old record player in the attic, too, it had seemed like kismet.

She had a plan. Or at least the start of a plan. And that was definitely better than no plan at all. First, she would remove the rusted old falling-down gutters that weren’t even serving a purpose anymore. Then she’d replace a few loose boards and take off the shutters. Then she would paint the house. Not that she’d ever done any of those things before. But she’d bought books covering all phases of home repair—from Under the Covers, of course—and she figured it was just a matter of diving in and following instructions.

That would still leave a lot—the porch and trim repairs, adding new gutters, painting and reattaching the shutters, and the roof. And who knew what else she’d come across by that time—or how long any of this would take. But at least she was getting started. And that was why she now found herself climbing the ladder she’d just leaned against one side of the house, wearing a tool belt she’d found in the garage. Whether or not she knew what she was doing, at least she looked the part. And something about the old music motivated her—maybe she liked the idea of restoring the house to what it might have looked like when the records had originally been played here. Maybe they reminded her that real lives had taken place here, real people had lived here. Which she’d known all along, of course, but the things in the trunk had made the house begin to come alive for her in a whole new way. And if that gave her the oomph she needed to get going, she’d take it.

As she hooked the pronged end of a hammer around the first rusty nail she came to in the decrepit gutter, her mind drifted to what she’d brought down from the attic yesterday evening—the two old diaries she’d spotted when investigating the trunk, complete with worn spines and yellowing pages.

To her delight, she’d quickly figured out that both had belonged to Cathy, and they’d been written in 1959 when Cathy had been sixteen years old. The first page of the earliest diary began:

Today is my sixteenth birthday. My cousins came, and the rest of the family, and we had a grand party. Mother thinks I have an aptitude for expressing myself, so she bought me this diary. I’m not sure what I’ll write about—so far nothing has happened to me that feels worth writing down—but I’ll give it a try. The weather has been unseasonably warm for March, so we held my party on the summer porch.

Anna was pretty sure the summer porch Cathy referred to was the large screened porch on the back of the house, and she’d found it fun to imagine a young girl blowing out candles on a cake there, and opening gifts, party streamers wafting in the breeze.

Though as Anna had read on, she’d found that not every page was captivating—some days Cathy had nothing more on her mind than the list of chores she’d finished that afternoon or the school assignments she’d completed. Yet even when skimming those entries, Anna had felt she was holding history in her hands. And it fascinated her to hear what life was like in her house that long ago, in a time when Destiny was a much younger, more isolated little town and Half Moon Hill must have seemed even farther away from civilization.

Since, while remodeling inside, she’d seen hints that her home had once been a much fancier place, she wasn’t surprised to learn from the diary that Cathy’s family had been well-off. They’d owned more than one car—which Anna could tell had been a big deal—and Cathy had often felt ostracized at school since most of the kids were poor. Cathy’s dad, Otto Worth, had been the president of the Bank of Destiny from its inception—the bank still operated on the town square today, and Anna had noticed the year 1944 carved into the building’s cornerstone.

And then, finally, after over an hour of reading, she reached the part she’d been waiting for. The part about Robert, who’d given Cathy the novel.

The boy’s name is Robert and he’s living in the cabin in the woods that Daddy says was here before our house. He’s eighteen and has a dangerous look about him, and Daddy says I should stay clear and not talk to him when he’s working in the yard or inside. Daddy doesn’t know where his parents are but thinks he ran away from an orphanage.

When Mother asked why we should have someone around who he doesn’t even want me talking to, he said that’s why the boy is living in the cabin and not in the house with us—that it was far enough away not to be a worry—but he never really answered her. If you ask me, Daddy wants somebody who will work cheap because even though we have plenty, he doesn’t like giving any of it away. He says too many folks have too little and will rob us blind if we let them, so we need to hold on tight to what we’ve got.

After that, the diary had resumed talking about things like the mean girls at school, a shopping trip that resulted in a new blue dress, and the butterflies Cathy watched in the yard and was attempting to sketch with colored pencils. And she’d also mentioned sitting in the swing that hung from the big maple tree in the front yard, leaving Anna to wonder if it could possibly be the same swing she’d seen in the attic.

She’d been just about to turn in for the night, her eyes drooping shut, when she’d come across the shortest but perhaps most alluring entry in the diary she’d seen by far:

Robert is planting a garden in the little field beyond the backyard. Daddy still forbids me to go near him, but I watch him from the summer porch sometimes. You’d think that would be boring, but it’s not. I’m not sure why.

And something about that—those very simple words from a young girl over fifty years ago—had helped Anna fall asleep feeling strangely happier than she had in a very long time.