The Black Sheep Heir. Crystal Green
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winter-stained cheeks.
She was damned adorable in her little snow bunny outfit, with earmuffs hanging from the fingers of one dainty, pink-gloved hand, while the other held the andiron like it was a sword gone limp. The metal thumped against her tight ski pants, which were tucked into snowboots. Her perky image was further emphasized by wide gray-blue eyes fringed by spiked lashes, a slightly tilted nose and those prim-and-plump lips.
She was cuter than any woman had a right to be, sweet as powder puffs and sugar cookies.
But Connor wasn’t in the mood for the heat that stole through his body every time he looked at her. He had much heavier issues weighing him down.
Issues like the necessity of staying in this cabin, a place that offered the best vantage point of the Spencer estate.
Trying to keep any sign of urgency out of his voice, he said, “Is it a deal then?”
The woman lowered her gaze and tucked a chin-length strand of dark brown hair behind an ear. The ends flipped up, reminding him of jukebox nights and sock-hops where the girls wore poodle skirts with scarves around their necks.
“This is crazy,” she said. “I don’t even know your name.”
“That’s easy.” He stuck out his palm, as if every day he encountered ticked-off women who wanted to emasculate him. “Connor Langley.”
She tilted her head, seemingly testing the sound of his name in her mind. Then, she inched out her gloved hand. “Lacey Vedae.”
As their fingers connected, Conn felt the electric jolt of her firm grip, even if she was wearing a protective layer of wool over her skin. Her touch was steady, no nonsense, sending shock waves up his arm, down to his lower belly, stirring into something he couldn’t afford to focus on.
He let go of her before he could get burned, then took a step back toward the fire.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Langley?”
Miss—it was Miss, wasn’t it?—Vedae didn’t mince words. He could tell she had a core of steel the minute she’d stood up to him when he’d entered the cabin.
He shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. “I’m getting away from it all. I don’t want anyone to know where I am.”
“So you settled on Kane’s Crossing? You must be desperate for some boredom.”
Actually, he’d give his life for boredom, for the way it used to be, back in the small Montana town where he’d lived all his years. Back where he’d been engaged to Emily Webster because that’s what had been expected of him. Back where his mother hadn’t shriveled from cancer to almost nothing. Back where he’d been Connor Langley and nothing more.
“That sounds nice to me,” he said, meaning it.
Her eyes took on a wary narrowness. “You’re lying. Why should I let you stay here if you can’t tell me some semblance of the truth?”
Damn. “Because I’m a hell of a handyman. That was my job back in Raintree, Montana.”
She crossed her arms over her down jacket, clearly not buying his guff.
“That’s the honest slant on it, Miss Vedae.” He paused. “I just need to be alone.”
“Hmmm.” She quirked her lips, considering him. “I still don’t trust you.”
“Trust isn’t a requirement.” He almost added the dreaded “ma’am,” but remembered right in time how she’d reacted to the title earlier.
Too bad his mom had bred “ma’am” into him for the length of his life. You couldn’t break a thirty-three-year-old habit.
Mom. The word, the image stung because, in Montana, she was waiting for him to help her, to heal her.
Well, he wouldn’t do it standing here making nice with his prospective landlord. Conn needed to take his binoculars and get back to work.
“What about it?” he asked, unthinkingly taking a step forward. He itched to run a hand along her jaw, comforting her, convincing her that he wasn’t such a bad guy.
At least, that’s what he’d thought up until a month ago, when he’d learned the truth about himself.
Lacey Vedae sighed and tossed up her hands. “Heck. It’s not like you’re living in my house.”
“Right.”
“And you’re going to do work on this hunk of junk.”
“Your obviously beloved hunk of junk.”
She sighed. “I’ll think about it.”
“If you adhere to my condition, we won’t even know each other exists.”
She stared at him for a second, her gaze going as soft as the gray-blue clouds of a rainstorm. Something like emptiness filled her eyes for the briefest moment, then flashed away.
She walked toward the door, hesitating before opening it. “I’ve got plenty of supplies in my toolshed, off the main house. Help yourself.”
“Does that mean you’ll keep quiet about my being here?”
Her hand rested on the doorknob, then she nodded. “For the moment.”
Without another glance back, she opened the door and walked outside into the newly revealed sunshine with its glare of snow on the ground.
What had that meant? Was he staying? Going?
Questions and more questions. He was sick of asking himself, testing himself every day.
All he knew for certain was that he needed Ms. Vedae to keep his secret, to keep him hidden in this cabin in the woods.
By evening, Lacey had already thought of twenty-six ways to break Connor Langley’s one condition.
She settled on the temptation of a gourmet dinner.
As her boots crunched through the light layer of snow leading to the cabin, she tried to tell herself that this was a good idea. Maybe it was the biggest mistake of her life, allowing him to stay on her property, but the businesswoman in her had pretty good instincts about people. Connor Langley didn’t strike her as a terrible man—not with the way in which he’d taken off his hat to greet her, or turned his back when she’d been ready to skewer him.
Maybe he’d even be happy to see her when she told him she’d decided he could stay on her property. It could happen.
She approached the trees, leaving footprints as she went. “He did make it clear that he didn’t want company though,” she said out loud. “But what kind of neighbor would I be if I didn’t give him a welcome basket along with the good news?”
She hefted the loaded wicker carrier from one hand to the other. “Leaving him alone would make you a good neighbor,” she answered, hardly minding that she was talking to herself. “Because he did ask you to stay away.”
As she entered Siggy Woods—the dark forest that had inspired more than one town legend—she pressed her mouth into a silent line. Way back when she was fourteen, her doctor at the HazyLawn Home for Girls had warned her about talking to herself but, like most advice she’d culled from her short stay in the institution, she’d pretended to embrace the suggestion while ignoring it completely.
Her problem hadn’t been too much self-conversation, anyway. It’d had more to do with wanting to cry all the time, wanting to stop herself from sinking into the slow-spinning black hole of her thoughts. Sometimes, long ago, she’d ached so badly that she couldn’t get out of bed come morning.
At times the darkness still lapped at the edges of her mind. But she fought it—tooth and nail. Weekly therapy sessions with her Louisville doctor as well as the steady lift of Prozac helped her, healed her.
For the most part, she was happy and settled, successful and normal—and