Keeping Her Safe

She pivoted and strode up to her bedroom.

Hot, restorative coffee bubbled and dripped, the soothing sounds and scents dancing up the stairs when she emerged from her bedroom a few minutes later. She found Hunter setting cream and sugar on the table beside the triangle sandwiches and sweet squares she’d brought home from the church hall. A pot on the stove told her he was warming the chicken soup a neighbor had dropped off yesterday.

“Did you have anything to eat after the funeral?”

“Yes,” she lied.

He slanted her a look, taking in her jeans and cotton shirt. “The first thing a person learns in prison is that everyone lies. You get a lot of practice recognizing it.”

This was ridiculous. There was nothing shameful in being hungry. She sank into a chair. Feeling like a starving animal lured out of its hole by food, she reached over to snatch a sandwich.

Hunter poured the coffee and then slid the cream and sugar her way. He took his black and hot, she noticed. Well, if he could, she could.

But after one sip of the strong, scalding brew, she reached for the cream. Then the sugar.

“The woodworking business is still good?” he asked.

“Good enough.” She bit her lip at yet another lie.

His eyebrows shot up. Her grip on her mug tightened. “Why is that a surprise? Dad wasn’t the only person who worked here. I liked carpentry before you…”

Then, seeing his tight jaw, she questioned the wisdom of letting him into her house. He was, after all, a felon.

“You did a good job,” he said mildly. “Your father—”

Anger rose, unbidden. “What about my father? What could you possibly say about him?”

“Nothing. That’s why I shut up.”

She couldn’t stop, not after the day she’d had. “You have no right to say anything. I let you come in for a coffee and a bite to eat because you have nowhere to go.”

She shut her eyes, wanting to grieve alone. Hunter’s appearance had forced to the surface a deathbed promise she hadn’t expected to fulfil, and wasn’t sure she could.

“Being angry all the time will eat away at you, Rae. It’s like violence. It solves nothing.”

She peered at him. “And you with the broken nose should know this?”

“Along with the dislocated shoulder, twisted knee and a nasty scar from my chest to my neck. Yes, I know. Benton told me plenty of times I wouldn’t get anywhere with violence or anger.”

Rae felt her jaw sag slightly. Abruptly, Hunter stood. He helped himself to some soup. She twisted around. “When did my father tell you that?”

He didn’t look at her. At least not right away. When he did, his expression was hooded. “From the moment he met me in Moncton, until the day…” Hunter drew in a long breath “…the day I set fire to the workshop. Your father told me violence doesn’t solve problems. It creates them.”

Rae frowned. Hadn’t he just told her everyone lies in prison? Surely that included him? Had Dad really said that to him, or was Hunter fabricating a story to prove she was wrong to accuse him?

Her heart tightened. She was wrong. Scriptural words echoed in her head. Vengeance is mine. I will repay. With as much dignity as she could muster, she took the mugs and dumped the lukewarm coffee down the sink. Then dared another glimpse at him. Hunter seemed unusually awkward.

She did not want to analyze why, especially when the phone on the wall beside her rang.

Five minutes later and quite bewildered, Rae hung up. Her father’s lawyer, Mr. LeBlanc, wanted to see her now, if possible.

Not just her. Mr. LeBlanc had requested Hunter come, too. Her stomach tightened with concern. Why? Because of Dad’s will?

This was making for a long day. She’d seen Mr. LeBlanc briefly at the funeral, but he’d only had a chance to offer his condolences. While she could have begged off, she also knew she wouldn’t be working today. She may as well get this necessary reading of the will over and done with.

She turned to Hunter. “That was Dad’s lawyer. He wants to see us as soon as possible.”

Hunter’s brows shot up. “Me, too?”

“Yes, you, too.”

Rising, he covered the food. She tried to swallow to soothe her dry throat, but an uneasy feeling persisted. Something wasn’t right.

“Rae! Come in!”

Rae looked up to see Mr. LeBlanc standing by an inner office in his house. She crossed the low-pile carpet toward him. Over her head, she heard the lawyer address Hunter.

“Mr. Gordon, I presume. It’s good to get a hold of you two so quickly. Come in and sit down.”

They followed him in. Hunter’s expression turned wary as he accepted one of the leather chairs tucked around a table. A heavy man with more hair on his face than his head, the lawyer took a seat across from them and slipped on his reading glasses.

Rae fidgeted. Her father had mentioned briefly his will once, years ago. She’d heard nothing more. So why was Hunter needed? To be the executor?

“I appreciate you seeing me on short notice. Your father wanted his estate tidied up as quickly as possible after his death. Though I’m sure he wasn’t expecting it so soon.” The lawyer wore a look of shared sorrow. She nodded, and the lawyer continued. “Your father came to see me about seven years ago, and we made up a rough draft of a will. He didn’t sign it until a month ago.”

A month ago? Around the time of the alleged gas-soaked rags? Rae frowned.

“Your father asked me to be the executor of his will. It’s quite unusual, but I agreed, given the circumstances.”

“Which were?” Rae asked.

Mr. LeBlanc looked uncomfortable. “My conversation with your father was private, Rae. I’m sorry.” With that, he began to read a series of preliminary paragraphs, legal jargon about certificates and debts and the Family Law Act.

“Mr. LeBlanc,” she interrupted, touching the table between them. “This legal stuff is over my head. Just read the part that affects us, please.”

He set the papers down and peered at her over his reading glasses. “Basically, your father has left you all his personal belongings, listed here.” He freed a sheet from the portfolio and turned it around to face them. “But the real estate, that being the house, workshop and all the land around it, is to be shared jointly between you two.”

You two? Had she heard right? Rae’s mouth fell open as she blinked. “Shared? That’s impossible! Hunter hasn’t seen my father in years. It doesn’t make any sense!”

Mr. LeBlanc lifted his brows and shifted his cool stare to Hunter. Their gazes locked for a tense moment, until the lawyer turned to Rae again. “Your father wanted this, Rae. I know it’s hard to believe, but these are his last wishes. If you like, you can contest this will. But it could take years to resolve, and the court could order you to sell the land and split the money.”

Gripping the edge of the table, she pushed back her chair and stood. “Sell? Benton Woodworking has been in my family for a hundred years. Dad wanted it to stay in the family, no matter what.” To sell off Dad’s pride and joy would be heartless, as if she was…well, somehow killing him herself.

She sagged back in her seat. The very fact that her father had willed half of all he owned to Hunter Gordon proved he couldn’t have cared that much for Benton Woodworking. Should she contest it? Could she even afford to?

Mr. LeBlanc spoke. “Rae, do you want to contest this will?”

Finally, she shook her head. With the stroke of a pen, her father had condemned her to share everything she valued with the man who’d destroyed her life.