Chapter One

      “Sounds like Ol’ Lady Warrington let that hairy rat she calls a dog crawl up into this engine.”

      Dylan Minster listened intently to the rough idle of the sweet, old Cadillac, his eyes riveted to the running engine.

      “The first thing we need to do,” he said over the engine noise, “is pop off the distributor cap. Make sure it’s clean. No cracks.”

      His daughter knew this already, he was sure. She was nearly ten years old now, and she’d been working on cars with him since she was a babe in diapers. But it never hurt to reiterate.

      “Hand me a flathead screwdriver, Erin.”

      The tool that was slapped into his palm didn’t have a flat, smooth head, but the crisscrossed one of a Phillips. He grinned. He had Erin now. This mistake was downright silly and deserved at least an hour’s worth of teasing. And he’d gladly oblige.

      “You’re in for it now,” he said. But when he swung around expecting to see Erin, he came face-to-face with his stem-eyed mother.

      When she offered him no greeting, he said, “Hi, Ma. How are you?”

      “First of all,” she told him, “I take offense for poor Edith Warrington. She is not an old lady...”

      “Aww, now.” He grinned, hoping to soften her obvious disapproval. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

      “And Corky is a lovely little long-haired terrier,” she went on. “Not ‘a hairy rat.’ Edith is a wonderful friend. And she loves that dog like a baby. If she ever heard you talk like that—”

      “She’s not going to hear me talk like that, Ma,” Dylan assured his mother.

      “The only reason Edith patronizes your shop—” her gaze skirted loathsomely around the cluttered bay “—is because you are my son, and—”

      “I know, Ma.” Dylan’s smile dissolved. His mother had a way of making that happen quite often. “And I appreciate the business your name brings me.”

      “It’s your name, too.”

      If only you’d do something with it. Her blatant motherly advice echoed unspoken in the air. He chose to ignore it.

      Helen Minster tipped up her chin. And Dylan got the distinct impression that, now that she’d had her say, the subject was closed. He sighed.

      “So what brings you out this afternoon?” he asked.

      He watched his mother glance over her shoulder at her granddaughter who sat behind the steering wheel of Edith Warrington’s old Caddy.

      She turned back to face him. “Why isn’t missy there in school?”

      “Her name’s Erin, Ma,” he said quietly.

      “Look at her,” Helen continued. “She’s filthy. Her hair’s a mess. Her fingernails are greasy. And she’s—”

      “Ma.” His voice was clipped just enough to make her stop. “Let’s talk about this in my office.” Giving his daughter a quick glance, he said, “Cut the engine, hon. I’ll be right back.”

      He stalked off toward the side door leading to his office, making every effort to dampen the burning embers of his anger.

      Dylan was well aware of the fact that he was his mother’s worst and only disappointment. That he was no comparison to his brother and sister, both shining examples of the education, polish and success that Minster money could buy. And because he knew all these things, took full responsibility for them, he tried hard to be patient with her.

      Flipping on the light in his small office, Dylan felt a self-conscious tweak as he looked around at the shabby furniture. The sorry excuse he called a desk was beat-up, the heavy gray metal dented and scratched. The couch was propped up on one corner by a red brick. And the leather seat of his desk chair was cracked in several places.

      Funny how he never seemed to notice how neglected his surroundings were until his mother came to visit. Which, thankfully, was only on rare occasions.

      “Have a seat,” he told her, rounding his desk and easing himself down onto his chair.

      She eyed the couch distastefully. “I don’t mind standing, thank you.”

      “Suit yourself.” He snatched up a pen from the desktop, squeezing it between his thumb and index finger. “Erin had a headache this morning,” he explained. “She came to work with me and took a nap in my office. She woke up feeling better, so she was helping me out in the shop.”

      “Well, when she woke up feeling better,” his mother stated, “you should have taken her to school.”

      “Ma—” Dylan’s shoulder sagged with the effort of this justification, but he was so used to this kind of interrogation that he barely noticed. “It’s after two o’clock. She’d have been in school an hour.” Then a thought occurred to him. “How did you know Erin wasn’t in school today?”

      Helen Minster’s lips pursed for an instant. Then she said, “If you must know, I asked the school secretary to call me if Erin was absent.”

      Patience, Dylan reminded himself. He asked softly, “Why would you do a thing like that?”

      “Dylan, this is a new school year. Erin must start off on the right foot.” She shifted the position of the purse handle that hung on her forearm. “I don’t know why you won’t allow me to send the child to boarding school. I sent you to boarding school.” She paused, as if she had second thoughts about the statement, eyeing him pointedly.

      And just look what you did with the education I provided for you.

      His mother’s accusation couldn’t have been clearer if she’d said it out loud.

      Then she added, “As well as your brother and sister.”

      “Public school is fine for Erin, Ma,” he told her. “All Erin’s friends attend the school here in Pine Meadow. She’d be miserable if she had to go to a new school. She’s getting a fine education right where she is.”

      He didn’t want his daughter feeling as lonely and out of place as he had felt as a youngster being shipped off to boarding school. He hated every moment he’d been away from Pine Meadow and his friends and family. However, he’d bent to his mother’s will because as a child he’d had no other choice. Until high school, anyway, when he’d discovered that a threatened expulsion due to fistfighting with his classmates was the perfect way to force her to let him attend school in his hometown.

      “Yes,” his mother said, “and she’s getting that education along with every piece of riffraff Pine Meadow has to offer.”

      “You know my views on that subject,” Dylan said wearily. “Erin’s going to be dealing with all kinds of people as an adult. Black, white, yellow, brown, rich and poor. It’ll do her good to learn to get along with everyone while she’s a kid.”

      “Humph, maybe.” Helen Minster was obviously unconvinced. Then her eyes lit with a new attack. “But boarding school would get her away from this place. And it’s this grease pit I most want to get her away from. She should be taking piano lessons, or ballet lessons. She should be reading Black Beauty and Little Women. That child should be wearing lacy dresses and patent leather shoes.”

      She stopped suddenly, hesitating long enough to take a deep breath, get herself under control

      “Dylan, that child is soon going to be ten years