Charlotte's Homecoming

He was at least Gray’s height, perhaps an inch or two taller, and equally broad-shouldered. Charlotte guessed him to be a little older than Gray, perhaps pushing forty. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed and saturnine, and all the sexier for a face that looked … lived in. No, more than that: battered, with a long-since-healed scar that stretched from one cheek to his temple.

He had been staring at Faith. Charlotte saw the moment when color delicately tinted her sister’s face and her eyes shied from his. Apparently recognizing that he’d made her uncomfortable, he inclined his head at her before looking at Charlotte.

He blinked, glanced again at Faith, then back at her.

“Yes, we’re twins,” she said.

He cleared his throat. “So I see. Sorry if I gaped. Ah … I’m Chief Wheeler. Ben Wheeler. I wanted to talk to you about last night’s fire.”

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte agreed. “Do you mind if we take a quick look inside the barn first?”

“Of course not.”

Gray accompanied the police chief and the two women inside, although Charlotte saw him steal a look at his watch first. She remembered him saying that he felt as if he was trying to hold down two full-time jobs, and this visit didn’t fall under the definition of either. City officials concerned themselves with zoning and taxes, streets and traffic, not minor instances of crime.

This was the third time he’d stopped by in four days. His persistence caused a flutter of panic in her chest. She had been trying to convince herself that he wasn’t coming back because of her, but now she couldn’t.

Ah, but there’s something about you, Charlotte Russell.

Determined to ignore him, she stuck with Faith as they walked into the barn. But—damn it—all the determination in the world didn’t seem to do any good. With every cell in her body, she felt him right behind her.

They could see immediately how lucky they’d been. The fire had been set in the nursery area, and just inside had been garden art and wrought-iron trellises that were designed to withstand water, at least. A rack of gardening gloves had burned and melted, and the herbal wreaths hung on the batten-board walls had been consumed, but that was the extent of the loss.

Faith turned to Charlotte with a glowing smile and gave her a big hug. “Not that much water got in! Oh, thank goodness! I was so afraid to find out.”

Charlotte hugged her back. Her own relief surprised her. “It could have been way worse,” she agreed. “Though we’ll have to find someone to replace that stretch of barn wall, unless you’re a better carpenter than I am.”

Backing away, Faith grimaced. “I can do some things, but probably not that. I’ll have to think about who to call.” She stopped and turned to the police chief. “Gosh, you probably have to ask us questions, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid so,” he said apologetically.

“I need to run,” Gray said. “Uh … were you insured, Faith?”

The strain showed on her face for the first time this morning. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to talk to Dad and dig out the paperwork. I know we haven’t insured the retail inventory, but Dad must have had some coverage on the structure as a working farm.”

“Very likely,” he said. “Give me a call. I might know someone who can do the work.”

“Okay.” She smiled at him. “Thanks, Gray.”

His gaze flicked to Charlotte. “Will you walk me out?”

She hesitated, even though a part of her was glad that he’d asked. “Uh … sure,” she finally said. Perhaps he wanted to tell her something out of Faith’s hearing.

“Wheeler,” he said with a nod. “Faith.”

As they stepped out into the sunlight, he asked, “This place paying its way?”

Surprised at his choice of topic, Charlotte admitted, “I don’t think so.” She offered a twisted smile. “I have a suspicion you won’t have to keep fussing about the traffic issue.”

“Are you going to be able to make a difference?”

“With the farm? Heck, no! I can help take care of Dad, and maybe defend Faith from Rory, but the closest thing to retail experience I have was my part-time job at Tastee’s. Is there something we can do to draw more people, bring in more money? I can’t think of anything.”

His nod was unsurprised. “I suppose you’re wishing you were back in front of a computer.”

She opened her mouth to agree and realized it would be a lie. She did like her work, but she hadn’t missed it since arriving home. “Well, I’m not cut out to be a farmer or run a country store,” she said instead, which wasn’t a lie.

“Charlotte—” Gray stopped and looked past her, and she turned to see the police chief and her sister walking out of the barn to join them.

“Still here?” Wheeler said, faintly mocking.

Gray made a sound in his throat that Charlotte couldn’t interpret and said, “I’m going.” His eyes meeting hers again, he said quietly, “Take care, okay?”

“I will,” she agreed, her own voice low, as if this promise was private. The idea quickened her pulse, but he was turning away, getting into his car.

A moment later, he’d backed out and driven off.

She was pathetic enough to want to watch until his Prius was out of sight. Instead, she faced the police chief and, somewhat hastily, suggested, “Why don’t we talk in the kitchen? We could at least sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

“I’d appreciate that,” he agreed, in a deep, quiet voice.

She was less sure inviting him in had been a good idea when she realized how he seemed to shrink the farmhouse kitchen by his mere presence. Faith lost all animation once the three of them sat down and he began to ask questions.

He concentrated on Charlotte, once Faith told him she hadn’t heard or seen a thing until her sister yelled up the stairs to her.

“Did it cross your mind as you ran over to the barn that the arsonist might still be there watching?” he asked, those dark eyes steady on her face.

A chill crept up her spine, raising goose bumps as it went. “I … didn’t even think about it being arson,” she said. “Not until the firefighter told us. I did notice the smell of gasoline, but not until the fire truck had already pulled in, so I thought …” She trailed off with the unpleasant realization that someone could have been watching. There had been moonlight, yes, but he could have stood in the shadow of the garage or one of the smaller outbuildings and smiled at the sight of his fire leaping toward the barn roof. Had he been angry when he saw her and then Faith, or had he enjoyed their desperate fight to save the old barn?

Faith looked horrified, too.

“Oh, Char,” she whispered.

Charlotte reached out a hand to her. “It might not have been Rory.”

She couldn’t remember the last time they’d clasped hands like this. Of course their hands were identical, with long, slender fingers. A few days ago, hers would have been paler, her nails manicured and polished. But now, she was already starting to tan, and a bandage wrapped one finger burned when she stirred the jam. Both of them had acquired scratches thanks to the berry vines.

Charlotte gave her sister’s hand a squeeze and then let it go.

The police chief was waiting politely, his dark eyes taking in more, she suspected, than she or her sister would have liked.

“Rory?” he inquired.

Faith bit her lip and gazed at the tabletop as if the pattern of the blue gingham cloth fascinated her. “My ex-husband. Um … Rory Hardesty.”

He had taken out a small notebook when he first sat down, and now carefully wrote down the name. “I take it the divorce wasn’t amicable?”

Faith’s hair swung when she shook her head.