Chapter One

      She never expected to find a man in the house. Vanessa Welling stood on the wet sidewalk between two low banks of melting snow and looked at the house she owned but didn’t want. The hatred and pain that rose in her had been planted nearly twenty years ago by the man who had lived in that house, the man who had destroyed her family, and she’d like to set a match to the whole place.

      She’d tried to get out of it, had argued with the lawyer who had called her to tell her it belonged to her. Unfortunately, Bob Higgins had deeded it over to her before he died in prison, and the really odd thing—to her, at least—was that he was free to do that even if she didn’t want it. She couldn’t refuse it. She couldn’t give it back, and right now she was responsible for the taxes on the place. She would remain responsible for them and any code violations or fines until she managed to dump it.

      Her stomach burned, her eyes felt hot in her head and everything she had tried to bury was rising sickeningly inside her.

      Had that man thought this was some kind of atonement? Because it wasn’t. No house could give her back her father or the years lost to his alcoholism. No house could give her back everything else that had been ripped from her at a tender age, wounding her in ways that remained with her.

      She had never wanted to see this town again. She remembered how her father felt the people here must be judging him, thinking him a fool for having lost his ranch and every bit of savings to Bob Higgins. His bitterness had branded itself in Vanessa’s heart, and her mother hadn’t done much to erase it. Belinda Welling had been quieter in her response, but despair had filled her days. Her husband’s alcoholism had overwhelmed her, and Vanessa felt that in many ways she had had to raise herself.

      Now here she was, owner of the house that had belonged to the beast who had destroyed everything, and she had to at least see to fixing it up enough that she could sell it. Get rid of it. Remove any demand that she ever return here.

      The street was quiet, but it was early on a Monday afternoon. Kids in school, parents at work and weather less than hospitable.

      The key in her hand felt acidic, hot, as if it would eat a hole in her palm. She wanted to fling it into the snow.

      Just get it done, she told herself. Just walk in there, face the memories that lurked and would probably pounce to remind her that this had once been a favorite place of hers to visit. She’d arrange whatever needed to be done, then get the hell out of this town before the whispers started, before people began to ask each other if that was Milt