Her Sister's Children

She hid her surprise. “All that for a struggling resort?”

“Not everyone has life handed to them on a silver platter,” he said softly. “This place means something to me. But I don’t expect you to understand.”

“You think—” He was the one who didn’t understand. Claire cleared her throat and started over. “If you only knew.”

His smile turned cold and cynical. “Choke on that silver spoon, did you?”

Startled, she stared up at him, caught between irritation and hysterical laughter at his assumptions. “We were discussing the property. It won’t happen, but I’m curious. If you did have all of Pine Cliff, what then?”

“The buildings will be bulldozed.”

He spoke as if it were going to happen. Claire looked at him in disgust. “High-priced condos?”

“Just wildlife and trees.”

“Lovely idea, Matthews. But I’m not selling. This place provides my income. I left New York under rather hostile circumstances and I’m not going back.”

“You could apologize—to your father, right?”

He had changed. One easy smile and he could still turn her knees to aspic, but his youthful determination and charm had darkened to an unfortunate blend of stubborn and aggravating. “That’s not even a remote possibility.”

He glared at her. She met his dark, cold gaze without flinching, and suddenly she saw beyond his anger. She saw old pain, coupled with remnants of grief. The emotions were gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined them.

The world seemed to shift under her feet as she began to see the past in a different light. What really happened between Brooke and Logan all those years ago—could he have been as cruel as her sister had claimed?

Endless boxes of Brooke’s possessions filled the attic of the Pine Cliff house. Perhaps they held clues to a truth far different than the version of the past she’d always heard. As soon as she could find the time, Claire would start looking for answers.

Annie tugged at a belt loop on Claire’s jeans. “Gotta go,” she mouthed urgently. “Now.”

“Come on, girls.” Claire gave them each a reassuring smile and turned to leave.

“I’ll be back,” Logan said, his voice soft and low.

From the corner of her eye, she watched his truck vanish down the road, leaving a faint haze of dust in the air. Leaving an odd sense of emptiness in her heart.

The woods fell silent. Shadowy pines now loomed above like dark and dangerous creatures of the night.

“Let’s get home and see if your brother has done his homework.” Claire gave each child’s hand a squeeze, keeping her stride calm and steady.

All the way back, she wondered if she’d really seen that hint of pain in Logan Matthews’s eyes.

JASON SCRAMBLED UP onto the rough shelf of granite jutting out into Lake Superior, and turned his face into the cold breeze coming across the water. Aunt Claire and the girls would soon be back from their walk. The smell of buttery popcorn might fill the kitchen. Gilbert would be at the door, begging for a walk. But Jason couldn’t go back. Not yet.

Waves spanked the rock face beneath his feet, then were sucked back out into the lake with a squelching sound, like wet sneakers. Above, a dozen or more seagulls drew lazy circles in the evening sky.

They were waiting for handouts—a piece of bread, a chunk of hot dog—but he hadn’t had time to raid the kitchen. He’d been in too much of a hurry. Escaping the house had been more important than bringing something for his birds. He’d simply had to get away; he couldn’t stand the feeling of being watched. The whole house seemed like a creature with a thousand eyes, watching. Waiting.

With his whole heart, he wanted to believe that they hadn’t followed him up here and that he was safe. But it wasn’t true.

He’d seen a familiar gray car cruising slowly through town, and the same car had pulled into the resort yesterday. It had stayed at the far end of the lane for a few minutes, then slowly drove away. Was that them?

He’d heard strangers’ voices arguing that awful night last spring, but hadn’t seen the men’s faces. Ever since, he’d held his breath whenever he saw strangers.

The sight of that car at Pine Cliff had made his heart stop.

If you go to the police, these guys will come after you and your sisters. His father’s last words played through Jason’s thoughts once again, an endless litany of warning that still stole hours of sleep and kept Jason’s nerves on edge.

If he’d been brave, he could have stopped what happened that night long ago. If he’d been stronger, he and the girls wouldn’t have lost everything that mattered.

He stared out across the water to where the sky and lake melted together in shades of gray. He wished he could ride the breeze like one of the seagulls overhead. He’d fly away from this place, away from the pain and sadness that sat on his chest like a two-hundred-pound bully.

The weight made every breath an effort, made his feet feel like lead. Worst of all, he knew the feeling would never, ever go away. Not until it was too late for all of them.

Sinking to his knees, he welcomed the sharp edges of rock that bit into his skin. At least this pain was something real—something he could control.

Alone, far from Pine Cliff, he lowered his head and on a soul-deep, shuddering sigh, his hot tears began to fall.

CHAPTER THREE

LOGAN STOOD at the glass wall of his new house and stared out at the whitecaps crowning Superior’s gunmetal-gray waves. The windows stretched twenty feet skyward, providing a spectacular view of the most scenic length of shoreline between Duluth and the Canadian border.

But it wasn’t enough. The Worths’ greed and anger had divided Pine Cliff years ago. He wanted it all—the only real home he’d ever had, the land his grandmother and great-grandparents had cherished.

He wanted to get on with his life.

It should have been easy, stopping by Pine Cliff today for the executor’s address. He’d figured the Worth family wouldn’t care about Brooke’s property in northern Minnesota. A handful of quaint cabins and an old Victorian house were hardly their style.

Finding Brooke’s little sister there had been a complete surprise. She was grown-up now, well educated in her family’s unique brand of arrogance and temper. Except she didn’t quite fit the Worth mold. He’d seen the way she kept a loving hand on each of her daughters. Beneath the superior tone and air of control, she apparently had a gentle heart—a distinct aberration in the Worth family gene pool.

Meeting her again had set off warning bells. Maybe it was the contradiction of her tousled, touch-me mass of blond hair and her steel-cold stay-away voice.

Logan sank into the beige leather couch facing the fireplace and reached for the Wickham Towers file. He’d brought the new project—a proposed shopping center and office complex—to work on while up north. Back in Saint Paul, his partner, Harold, was managing the office and the regular accounts. For a few moments he stared at the hypnotic dance of flames curling through the stack of pine logs, then began to flip through the file.

But he was unable to focus on work. An image of Claire answering her door jumped into his mind. At the time his heart had hit his ribs with a thump, his skin had warmed and tingled. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his reaction. Feelings like that had no place in a business transaction. Especially not with a Worth.

Claire might be a loving mother, but a woman related to Brooke couldn’t have much more depth than a mud puddle in August. Hell, after the first good nor’easter sent waves crashing into the cabins, she and her kids would be heading south. She’d be gone by mid-November, easy.

Satisfaction radiated through him like a swallow of hot coffee. So why did he feel this odd twinge of regret?

With a soft curse he launched himself to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, resolutely studying the features of his new house. Redirecting his thoughts.

The design was free and open, the exposed pine beams of the ceiling above as rugged and solid as the surrounding forest. But the place felt even less like a home than his austere office back in Saint Paul. Damp smells of plaster and paint, and the sharp chemical scent of new bedroom carpeting upstairs filled the air. The stark white walls were sterile and cold.

He needed a decorator to hang bright prints on the walls, to do whatever it took to make the place seem like home.

Home. Closing his eyes, he remembered the beloved Victorian at Pine Cliff and the glowing warmth of fine old oak and well-worn comfort. Its gables and turrets and fanciful cornice draperies had fascinated him as a child. Very different from this new place with its space and light and freedom from memories, both good and bad. Here he’d find the solitude he needed.

But right now, he needed fresh air.