Three
Her rescuer’s name was Justin Sloan.
Or so he told Samantha right before he demanded she produce his padlock.
He put out a callused hand. “Where is it?”
The fire was out, the mill intact if damaged. The firefighters had loaded up their gear and left, and the two uniformed police officers had followed them along the rutted driveway to the road. One of the officers had interviewed her. She’d told him the truth about how she’d ended up in the cider mill—that she’d ducked inside to get out of the thunderstorm. He’d asked if she’d noticed the Do Not Enter and Danger signs. She’d said she had. He’d scowled and hadn’t requested further details.
He was a Sloan, too. Eric Sloan.
One of the firefighters was also a Sloan. Christopher.
Small towns, she thought.
Justin, she now realized, was a volunteer firefighter. After helping put out the fire, he’d returned his gear to his truck and then joined her by her boulder. Samantha had dipped a hand into the cold brook water and done what she could to wipe the soot off her face, but she doubted she’d gotten it all. The acrid fire smells wouldn’t be easy to eliminate from her skin or her clothes. She had travel wipes and fresh clothes in her backpack, assuming it had survived the fire and wasn’t too contaminated by smoke.
Telling Justin Sloan that his missing padlock was in her jacket pocket didn’t seem like a particularly wise course of action at the moment. Although he gave no indication, he had to be in high-adrenaline mode after coming upon the old mill in flames, discovering a woman was more or less trapped inside, carrying her to safety and then helping to put out the fire.
Samantha realized she was in high-adrenaline mode herself. She stood, the seat of her pants wet, and flicked an ant off her knee. Casual. As if she hadn’t picked the padlock to get into the mill and didn’t have it in her jacket.
The banter she’d overheard between the firefighters had confirmed her suspicion that her rescuer owned the old cider mill.
“Hell, Justin, this place is even more of a dump than I thought.”
“I can’t believe you spent real money on it.”
“Firetrap, Justin. Told you.”
That last had come from Christopher Sloan. Apparently he was one of two full-time firefighters in Knights Bridge. Everyone else was a volunteer.
“They’re your brothers?” Samantha asked. “Eric and Christopher?”
“My brothers. Yes.” Justin snapped two fingers of his outstretched hand. “My padlock.”
Not a man easily distracted. She tried to look as if she didn’t quite understand him. “Padlock?”
“The one you picked or broke to get into the mill.”
He lowered his hand to his side, but she could tell from his set jaw that he wasn’t giving up. She didn’t feel guilty at what she’d done, but she didn’t want to explain herself to a man who’d just carted her out of a burning building and had helped put out the fire. He didn’t look as if he’d be a willing listener on a good day. Since one of his brothers was a police officer and another was a professional firefighter—and he himself was a volunteer firefighter—she wasn’t afraid of him. He wasn’t a thug. He was just not in a great mood.
“It was a dangerous storm. Downright scary, and I’ve been in some scary storms.” She decided to change the subject. “My name’s Samantha, by the way.”
His deep blue eyes narrowed on her. “What’s your last name, Samantha?”
“Bennett,” she said, sounding more tight-lipped and reluctant than she would have liked. She hadn’t volunteered her last name on purpose. She’d told Eric Sloan, the police-officer brother, but he’d asked, leaving her no choice. She doubted the Bennett name meant anything to him, Justin or the other firefighters who’d rushed to the old cider mill, but she’d intended to get in and out of Knights Bridge without the knowledge of any of its residents.
“Are you a Sam or a Samantha?”
“Either works.”
“Mostly Sam?”
“Mostly Samantha, actually.”
“Well, Samantha, you’re damn lucky you got out of there in time.”
“No argument from me. I noticed the smoke about fifteen minutes after the storm ended. Lightning caused the fire?”
He gave a curt nod. “Looks as if it struck the roof and traveled down the side wall to the cellar. The fire started there and worked its way up the wall. We’ve had a string of severe storms this past month.” He looked at her as if she might have caused the recent bad luck with the weather. “A microburst hit the center of town a few weeks ago. It uprooted a bunch of trees and damaged some homes and businesses. No serious injuries.”
“That’s good. About the injuries, I mean.”
Samantha glanced up at the sky, graying now with dusk. It would be the kind of cool, beautiful night she’d anticipated. She’d checked the forecast on her phone on the drive from Boston, but she’d missed any reference to the force and speed with which the cold front would move into this part of New England.
Of course, it was just like a Bennett to be struck by lightning.
“What were you doing out here?” Justin asked her.
“Hiking.”
“Most people hike in Quabbin or one of the state forests. Why’d you pick here?”
“I wanted to follow Cider Brook to where it empties into Quabbin.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It seemed like a good idea this morning.” She smiled, feeling less jittery now that the fire was out. “That could be my family’s motto. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’”
Justin didn’t appear amused.
She added, truthfully, “I like the name Cider Brook. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Never thought about it. Where’s your car?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Someone picking you up?”
“Not today.” She gestured vaguely toward the mill and surrounding woods. “I planned to camp out here.”
He shook his head. “Not happening. Most of your gear’s wrecked, and I can’t let you inside the mill until I’m satisfied it’s safe.”
Well, that was inconvenient. Samantha considered her options. Amherst, where her uncle and cousin were spending the night, wasn’t that far—but she would have to figure out how to get herself there. If they had to make a detour to pick her up early, she would never hear the end of it. Uncle Caleb would carry on about why she hadn’t known about the storm before it hit, the odds against a lightning strike setting the mill on fire and what she was going to do now that she’d come to the attention of the locals. She could just hear him: “You never should have gone to Knights Bridge in the first place.”
But she had, and now she needed to figure out what to do. Send Justin Sloan on his way and then...what? Buy a new tent and sleeping bag? Where? What about dinner? Water? Clothes? If her things were trampled, soaked, burned up in the fire or just out of reach, she would have to start from scratch. She didn’t even have a toothbrush.
“There’s an inn down the road,” Justin said, interrupting her thoughts. “You can stay there tonight. I’ll drop you off.”
The Farm at Carriage Hill. Had to be.
It was owned by the woman who was engaged to Dylan McCaffrey, Duncan McCaffrey’s son.
Samantha carefully arranged her features so she wouldn’t look as if her rescuer had just invited her into the lion’s den. She could be hard to read herself. It just wasn’t her natural state. Her natural state was to be open, honest and straightforward, but she had to be circumspect now that a fire had put an end to her low-profile presence in Knights Bridge.
“Thank you, Justin.” She even managed a smile. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”
“Not a problem.”
“I’m glad the damage to your mill wasn’t any worse. It’s a good thing you got here when you did, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” He took a half step closer to her and pointed at her jacket. “My padlock is in the inside pocket on the right. I felt it when I rescued you.”
“I didn’t need you to ‘rescue’ me.”
“Yeah. You did.” He tapped the lower left pocket where she’d tucked her grandfather’s flask. “Booze?”
“Scotch. Lagavulin. I was going to sip it under the stars.”
He gave just a hint of a smile. “I’ll bet you were.”
He went back up to the cider mill and disappeared inside.
Samantha exhaled but didn’t relax. She’d had a close call with the fierce storm and then the fire—closer than she wanted to acknowledge. It wasn’t easy to admit that if Justin Sloan hadn’t come along when he had and swept her out of the burning mill, she could have been overcome by smoke and gone up in flames.
She would return his padlock to him. Just not right now. Better to wait until they’d both had a chance to deal with the adrenaline dump of the fire.
Justin emerged from the mill with her backpack. He opened the passenger door to his truck and tossed the pack inside. “Hop in,” he said. He left the door open as he circled around to the driver’s side. “Carriage Hill is a ten-minute drive.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
He got into his truck, shut the door and started the engine, clearly in no mood to wait. Samantha suspected his terse manner was the way he was, although the events of the day might have exacerbated his natural tendency. She reminded herself she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to make friends, or even because of Captain Farraday, as intriguing and as entangled with her true reasons as her colorful eighteenth-century pirate and his illicit treasure were.
She looked up at the old mill, bits of barn-red paint visible in its worn exterior. The fire smells were strong in the cool late-afternoon air. She wanted to know about the painting she’d found in her grandfather’s closet. She wanted to know how the author of The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth had ended up writing a fictional story about a real pirate, and why Harry Bennett had put her—his eldest grandchild—onto the trail of the mysterious New England pirate.
All of that was interesting, but Samantha knew it was only a small part of the reason for coming to Knights Bridge. The main reason—the real reason—was to make peace with Duncan McCaffrey, a man who’d hired her and mentored her.
Who’d trusted her.
“Damn, Samantha. It never occurred to me not to trust you.”
She tightened her jacket and headed for Justin Sloan’s dusty-gray truck.
* * *
The combination of adrenaline, an enclosed space and an intense man behind the wheel turned the ten-minute drive to The Farm at Carriage Hill into something that felt a notch short of an eternity. Samantha was accustomed to being around rugged men, but this was different. Even if she could have gotten out of the mill on her own—and she remained convinced she could have—Justin Sloan had, in fact, rushed into a burning building and carried her out. A courageous deed by any standard. As the beneficiary, she felt a mix of gratitude and guilt but also a physical awareness that had taken her completely by surprise.
Justin had rolled up the sleeves of his canvas shirt to just below his elbows, revealing taut, well-developed forearms. Samantha guessed that his volunteer firefighting plus whatever he did for a living kept him in shape. She wasn’t going to ask for details. Personal questions on her part risked personal questions on his part.
He pulled in front of a cream-colored center-chimney house, the last home on a narrow road that once had been a main route from Knights Bridge into the Swift River valley towns—long before major highways and interstates. Now it dead-ended at a Quabbin gate. Not only had she studied her map and the history of the area but she’d been out here before, if only that one time on a snowy March day.
She shook off that thought. Couldn’t go there. Later, maybe. Not now.
Justin turned off the engine. He’d parked next to a sign for The Farm at Carriage Hill painted with its signature blossoming chives. Although Samantha hadn’t done nearly enough planning for her trip to Knights Bridge, she knew that Olivia Frost, the owner, was a graphic designer, as well as Dylan McCaffrey’s fiancée.
Samantha unlatched her seat belt and pushed back a surge of regret that she hadn’t stayed in Boston and walked the Freedom Trail with her aunt and young cousins. No point second-guessing herself now. Dylan had only ventured to Knights Bridge earlier that year, meeting Olivia in the process. After his career in the National Hockey League had ended, he’d teamed up with his childhood friend, Noah Kendrick, an MIT genius. Together they had transformed Noah’s fledgling NAK, Inc. into a profitable high-tech entertainment company that had gone public last fall. Samantha had never met Dylan during her weeks working with his father, and she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to intrude on his and Olivia’s lives.
But here you are, on their doorstep.
Justin pushed open his door. “Carriage Hill’s just opened. It’s not a regular inn.” He glanced sideways at her. “Your hands are trembling. A little wobbly? It’s normal after a fire.”
“I’m okay. Hungry. What about you? Are you wobbly?”
“Me?” He grinned. “No. Not wobbly.”
“You’ve had experience with fires, but this one was on your land.”
“Doesn’t change anything.”
A dark-haired woman was arranging pots of yellow-and-white mums on the steps to a one-story ell off the main part of the house. Olivia Frost, presumably. Samantha turned to Justin. “Am I expected?”
“I didn’t have a chance to call ahead. It’ll be fine.”
She didn’t move as he headed to the stone walk. He’d left the door open. She could hear Olivia as she approached Justin, dusting off her palms on her baggy cargo pants. “Dad just called about the fire. He says it was a lightning strike. Yikes, Justin. You’re all right?”
“Yep. Fine.”
“The storm must have gone right over the mill. It wasn’t that bad here. Dad says a woman was camping there—”
“Samantha Bennett,” Justin said. “She needs a place to stay tonight.”
“Of course. We have loads of room.”
He motioned to the truck. “Hop out, Sam. Come meet Olivia.”
Samantha could think of a hundred other places she would rather be. She wished she’d at least found refuge somewhere else besides Justin Sloan’s cider mill. The chicken coop at the farmhouse upstream would have done nicely.
She stepped out of the truck, misjudged the distance and felt her knees buckle under her. Even as she steadied herself, Justin was there, one hand on her elbow. “I guess you’re wobbly after all. No shame in it.”
“I’m not that used to trucks is all.”
He lowered his hand. “I’m not surprised.”
Olivia stepped forward with a smile and introduced herself. “My father was at the fire. He’s a volunteer firefighter. I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”
“Thanks,” Samantha said. “It’s been quite an afternoon.”
“You must be beat. We’d love to have you stay with us.”
“If you’re sure it’s not too short notice—”
“I’m positive,” Olivia said graciously. “Did Justin explain that Carriage Hill isn’t a regular inn? We’re just getting started with destination events. Showers, weddings, meetings—that sort of thing, mostly on weekends. My friend Maggie and I are having a blast so far.”
Samantha stood back. “You mean you don’t take in overnight guests? I can find a place to pitch my tent. Really. I don’t mind.”
“Your tent didn’t make it out of the fire,” Justin said.
She frowned at him. “It burned?”
“I told you most of your gear was wrecked.”
Olivia shot him a disapproving look, apparently not appreciating his bluntness.
He shrugged. “Your tent and sleeping bag were trampled and soaked. They’re easily replaced.”
“Is there some place in town I could buy new ones?” Samantha asked.
“The Swift River Country Store on the town common,” Olivia said. “We call it Hazelton’s—they were the original owners. It’s got everything. They must have tents.”
“Then I could pop over there,” Samantha said.
Justin shook his head. “They’re closed.” When Olivia glared at him again, he softened his expression and added, “You’ll like Carriage Hill. Maggie and Olivia are even making their own goat’s milk soap these days.” He glanced at Olivia as if to say “Better?”
She ignored him and shifted back to Samantha with an encouraging smile. “We do take in overnight guests, of course, and we’d be happy to have you stay with us. Welcome.”
“I love goat’s milk soap,” Samantha said. “I appreciate this very much. Thank you, Olivia. I’m still a bit rattled, but a quiet night will help.”
With a slightly muddy hand, Olivia pointed at the door to the ell. “The kitchen’s through there. I’ll be right in. Help yourself to whatever strikes your fancy. Maggie and I made applesauce this afternoon. No sugar added. The apples are perfect on their own.”
“Sounds wonderful,” Samantha said, feeling less tense. “Thank you again.”
Justin headed to his truck, grabbed her backpack and brought it to her. “I can bring it up to your room if you’d like.”
“Got it, thanks.” She took the pack from him and slung it over one shoulder. Picturing him in her guest room at Carriage Hill wasn’t helping her heart rate at all. She could feel heat rushing to her cheeks. Ah, hell. She wasn’t the blushing type. She forced a quick smile. “Thank you for all your help today. I hope the fire won’t set back your plans for the mill.”
“It won’t.” He glanced at Olivia as if expecting her to scowl at him for being so abrupt, then shifted back to Samantha and added, less bluntly, “I have more dreams than actual plans. I’ll adjust. Glad you weren’t hurt today.”
“Same here. That you weren’t hurt, I mean.”
He grinned. “I appreciate that.”
She couldn’t get inside fast enough but turned to Olivia. “I look forward to that applesauce,” she said, then headed up the steps past the mums and through a blue-painted door into a cozy kitchen.
A white mixing bowl of applesauce was in the middle of a butcher-block island. She set her backpack on the floor by the door and went over to the island, felt the sides of the bowl and realized the applesauce was still warm. As she found a small bowl and spoon, a big dog wandered out from the adjoining mudroom and yawned at her. He was mostly German shepherd, she guessed.
She heaped applesauce into her bowl and sat with it at a white-painted table. The dog flopped down at her feet. She patted him, wondering at how her day had started in the cluttered office of Harry Bennett and now was ending in a warm, inviting kitchen on the edge of the Quabbin Reservoir, in a little town that time seemed to have forgotten.
She still smelled like the fire at the cider mill, though.
Maybe a bath with the goat’s milk soap would help.