The Mighty Quinns: Tristan

“I’m not very good at bird calls,” she said.

“Give it a try. I’m curious.”

“Actually, it sounds just like sex.”

“Sex?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of a soft, grunting sound. Uh, uh, uh.”

“I thought owls said ‘who,’” Tristan joked.

“That’s only in cartoons,” she murmured. “I once saw a red-necked grebe. That’s very rare for this area. Indigo buntings are my favorite, but hard to spot. They’re the most beautiful shade of blue, but not really indigo at all.” She met his gaze. “Closer to lapis. Or azure. Are you lost?” she asked. “Can I help you?”

A little dazed by her quick change in subject matter, Tristan tried to refocus on the task at hand. “I’m looking for this old artists’ colony. I read about it and wanted to check it out.”

“An artists’ colony? I’ve never heard of anything like that,” she said. “Are you sure you’re in the right place? There’s nothing but cottages at the end of this road.”

“I’m certain,” he said. “Fence Lake Artists’ Colony. It was founded in the fifties. By three sisters?” He met her gaze. “None of this sounds familiar?”

She shook her head. “Nope.”

Tristan knew she was lying. He’d never met a beautiful woman who was a decent liar. Hell, he could read any woman, gorgeous or Plain Jane, in half the time he could read a man. It was one of the talents that made him a great litigator.

Well, if she was going to lie, then he’d be forced to counter her deception with one of his own. “Hmm. That’s too bad. I was really hoping I could spend a week or so there.”

“You’re an artist?”

He nodded. “Writer. I’m not published, but I have a publisher interested in my book. I need to rewrite part of it and I’m blocked. I was hoping a new environment would help.” He glanced over his shoulder at his car. “I should probably get going. I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere.”

She stared at him for a long moment. Yes, she definitely knew much more than she was willing to reveal. But how much? “I suppose I could help you out,” she murmured.

“You have a map?”

“I can take you to the colony,” she said. “I’m staying there myself.”

“Are you a writer?”

“Artist,” she said. “Painter. Sculptor. Whatever medium and subject catches my attention. Lately, it’s been owls.”

“I don’t want to take you away from your bird-watching,” he said.

She shrugged. ‘“In every walk with nature, one receives far more than he seeks.”’ She smiled. “John Muir. Do you mind if I drive? The road is a bit tricky.”

Tristan shook his head. “I don’t even know your name. Why would I let you drive my car?”

“Because the road is very curvy and narrow. I wouldn’t want you to wreck your car.” She held out her hand. “Lily Harrison.”

Tristan held his breath as he tried to hide his surprise. He’d been warned about this woman. But he’d never expected her to be so young—or beautiful.

Lily Alicia Hopkins Harrison. Her mother was heir to the Pigglestone fortune and her father heir to the Harrison fortune. But instead of following in her parents’ footsteps, Lily had become an artist, activist and protector of the three Pigglestone sisters. Meanwhile her family had hired his law firm to convince the elderly sisters to vacate the land.

Last summer, Lily and the aunts had chained themselves to the porches of their cottages when the bulldozers had arrived to demolish the colony. She’d appeared in the news media and marshalled her forces on social media to make the rest of the family look like greedy Scrooges trying to toss three old women out of their homes.

“Have you ever had an accident?” he asked. “Any speeding tickets?”

“No to both,” she said.

“May I see your license?”

“I don’t have one,” she said. “Never got one. But I drive really well.”

“How do you get around?”

“I make do,” she said with a shrug.

Right. Her first car had probably been a limousine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, taking her hand. “I’m—I’m Quinn. Quinn James.” His brother’s name was the first that came to mind. It would have been too easy for her to Google his name and find out he worked for the very law firm that had been causing her trouble. With an alias, he could hopefully maintain his anonymity long enough to get to the three aunts and make his proposal. After that, it wouldn’t matter.

“That’s a good name for a writer,” she said. “What kind of book are you writing?”

Since that was another lie, he decided to change the subject. “I’d love to see some of your work. You said you painted owls?”

“No,” she said. “Owls have just been on my mind lately. They visit me in my dreams. I think it’s a sign but I’m not sure what it means. Do you know what it might mean?”

He slowly shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t.” Tristan walked to the car and opened the driver’s-side door, waiting for her to slip behind the wheel.

So far, things had gone much easier than he’d imagined they might. However, his problems were mounting. Now, if he managed to wrangle an invitation to stay at the colony, he’d have to produce a novel—or at least a few pages. But his biggest test was still the three sisters.

He circled the car and jumped into the passenger seat. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now he was determined to get to know this strange yet beautiful woman. He sensed that Lily might be the key to everything he wanted—both professionally and personally.

* * *

“HE’S A LAWYER. I’d be willing to bet my life on it.”

Lily paced the length of her aunt Violet’s front parlor. Violet, dressed in her usual dance attire of black unitard and chiffon skirt, casually sipped at her tea. Her gray curls were covered by an elaborately tied scarf and her eyes were ringed with dark makeup. “Do sit down, Lily. I think your imagination has run away with you again.”

“I’m right, I’m sure of it. He says he’s a writer, but no writer I’ve met would drive a car like that. A Mercedes convertible? In Minnesota? Do you know what that car says?”

“I wasn’t aware automobiles had acquired the power of speech.”

Lily rolled her eyes. “You understand what I meant.”

“Please, Lily, be more precise in your speech. If you don’t stop this tendency of yours to wander off topic, you’re going to start sounding like Daisy. Trying to follow her train of thought is like chasing a hummingbird through the woods.”

“I’m not going off topic. That expensive convertible says that he’s a lawyer. It tells anyone who bothers to notice that he’s wealthy enough to have a summer and a winter car. And then there are his shoes. And his watch.”

“Perhaps he’s a lawyer who is attempting to be a writer,” her aunt suggested. “Must you always be so suspicious? Not everyone is out to get us.”