Forever Wife And Mother. Grace Green
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She nodded.
He turned his attention to the road again. They approached the farm gate. “Well, don’t. You’ll never see her again, and anyway, worrying never did any good. It only burns up energy.”
“It’s a pity she doesn’t have a dog.”
Gabe felt a flash of amusement. “You think?”
“Oh, yes. Dogs make people happy.”
“Dogs are a lot of work.” He saw Mark running from the rambling old farmhouse to the gate. “They have to be fed and watered and walked and cleaned up after.”
“I’m not talking about the work part of it.” He felt her earnest gaze on him. “I’m talking about the feel-good part. When a person hugs a dog and strokes it and looks into its eyes, and the dog looks back and licks your hand and just be’s a friend…that’s what makes people happy.” He noticed she was so caught up in what she was saying, for once she didn’t wave to Mark. “I saw a program on TV one time and it said that having a dog around makes old people feel better, so I figured if it makes old people feel better it should work on sad people, too. And know what? It does.”
Gabe had been listening with only half a mind, but something in the intensity of her tone snapped him to full attention.
Pulling the vehicle to a halt by the gate, he turned in his seat and looked at her. She was staring into space.
“Will?”
She didn’t seem to hear.
He waved a hand in front of her face. “Honey, how do you know?”
Blinking, she looked at him. “Know what?”
“That dogs make sad people happy?”
“Oh, that.” She swallowed. “No reason. I just—”
Mark wrenched open the Range Rover’s back door and clambered in. With a cheery greeting— “Hi, Will, hi, Mr. Ryland, thanks for picking me up”—he set his lunch bucket at his feet and fastened his seat belt.
Gabe put the vehicle in motion. “Hi, kid.”
Mark immediately launched into a tale about one of his father’s cows that had calved the previous evening, and Gabe knew his opportunity to question his daughter was lost.
But he couldn’t dismiss the feeling that something was going on, something he knew nothing about…and she obviously meant to keep it that way.
And Mrs. Kincaid’s sadness—which he himself had noticed—was what had brought it to the surface.
Well, neither he nor his daughter would be seeing the woman again, so they could both forget about her.
He dropped the kids off at school and drove home. Once there, he fetched Fang from the kitchen and took him out for a run. The day was polished to a bright sheen, the sky as blue as sapphire, with not one cloud to mar it.
He strolled down the grassy slope in front of the lodge, over the crest and down the hill. Fang romped ahead, making for the barbed wire fence that formed the boundary between Ryland property and Lockhart land. Gabe shook his head irritably as, just like every other morning, the dog made to wriggle under the lowest wire of the fence.
“Fang!” he yelled. “No!”
The dog paused halfway through. Then, just as he did every morning on their walk, he wriggled back and took off along the perimeter.
Damn dog! Gabe mused. You’d think he’d know by now that he wasn’t supposed to go in there.
His lips compressed to a thin line as he gazed over the forest, the only evidence of Holly Cottage being the three chimney tops—
But no. Not this morning.
This morning, marring the clear blue of the sky, a wisp of smoke rose from one of the chimneys; rose, and swayed in a gust of wind off the river, and rose again.
Gabe rammed his hands into his pockets and glowered at the smoke. As a child, he’d been ordered never to trespass on Lockhart land, but once, when he was seven, he’d dared to sneak down there, and he’d peeked in the kitchen window. He’d seen an old wood stove in the shadowy room, and he’d always remembered it because it had been so old-fashioned compared to the modern appliances they had at the lodge.
He imagined someone in that kitchen, a young woman from the city who would be lighting that stove every day.
And though he knew he was sending hostile vibes to the wrong person, he couldn’t help wishing that whoever had set that fire would vanish off the face of the earth, because any sign of life from the old log house was a reminder of something—and someone—he dearly wished to forget.
CHAPTER THREE
CAPRICE felt a sudden shiver ice her skin.
Which was odd, she mused, since the kitchen was so toasty warm with the wood fire roaring in the stove. What was it people said about those involuntary shudders? Someone stepping over your grave…
But she didn’t want to think about graves. It was only a week since she’d stood at her father’s, and losing him was almost more than she could bear. At least having the Angela mystery to solve would keep her busy—give her a goal.
But where to start?
It was too bad she’d rubbed Gabe Ryland the wrong way before she’d asked any questions about her father. She’d have to put out feelers elsewhere. Perhaps the best place to start would be the village she’d passed through last night. It was only ten minutes away.
She wouldn’t go till later, though; she was bushed. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in the cushioned walnut rocking chair and let her thoughts roam to her arrival at Holly Cottage that morning.
She’d been relieved to find her overnight bag on the porch where she’d abandoned it, but her relief had soon turned to frustration when she’d gone into the cottage and found the mess wrought by the panic-stricken bird.
It had taken her all morning to clean up. The only godsend had been that the caretaker had set the wood stove, so all she’d had to do was put a match to it. By the time she’d finished her scrubbing and mopping and was ready for lunch, the kitchen had been warm as pie.
Now, after a second cup of milky tea, she was not only bushed, she was sleepy. She’d doze for half an hour, she decided with a yawn, then she’d drive to the village and get her investigation under way.
“Thanks, Janet.” Gabe took his mail from the postmistress and started to turn away. “See you tomorrow.”
“Hang on, Angel.”
Gabe rolled his eyes. As a child, everyone had called him by his given name, Gabriel, but everyone called him Gabe now…except for Janet Black, who still referred to him by the nickname she’d given him when he was a toddler. And the words “Hang on, Angel!” usually indicated that she had a choice piece of gossip to pass on. “I’m in a bit of a rush today, Janet—”
“You’ll want to hear this.” The woman planted her sharp elbows on the counter and leaned forward confidentially. “We have a stranger in our midst!”
“The first of many, Janet. The tourist season’s getting under way and—”
“This one—” Janet threw a furtive glance toward the farthest aisle “—has been asking questions.”
Casually, Gabe looked around but could see no one. “About what?”
“About Malcolm Lockhart.”
Gabe turned slowly to the postmistress. “What kind of questions?”
The postmistress’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “I knew that’d get your attention.” Keeping her voice low, she said, “She asked how long I’d