Eight

      Samantha awoke to sun streaming through her windows. She hadn’t pulled the curtains, but she’d overslept, anyway. She bolted upright, knowing it was after eight before she checked the time on the bedside clock.

      Eight thirty-four.

      She had planned to be on her way by now. On her way where she didn’t exactly know, but out of The Farm at Carriage Hill, away from the herbs and the big slobbery dog and the happy engaged couple.

      Late last night, exhausted but unable to sleep, she’d decided she would get an early start. She didn’t need to meet Dylan over coffee and eggs. She could stick to her plan and accomplish what she’d come to Knights Bridge to do without a face-to-face with her ex-boss’s son.

      With a groan, she sank against the padded headboard. She’d ended up deep under the comforter, finally and totally dead to the world after days of digging through her grandfather’s office and then her uncle and cousin’s arrival in Boston and then yesterday. The drive west, her hike, the thunderstorm, the fire, the rescue, the irritable volunteer firefighter. Then the gracious hostess, the warm applesauce, the soup, the cake. The big dog. The goat’s milk soap.

      No wonder she’d had a hard time winding down and hadn’t fallen asleep until well after midnight. Hearing what she took to be Dylan McCaffrey’s voice out in the hall hadn’t helped.

      Justin Sloan had to have known she would be more like a house guest at The Farm at Carriage Hill than an inn guest. She supposed he and Olivia both had tried to warn her, and she’d just been too shaken and rattled for it to sink in that her hosts lived here.

      She stood up, the braided rug warm under her bare feet. Without warning, her mind flashed to the hiss and near-roar of the fire in the dark, claustrophobic cider mill.

      She could feel Justin lifting her as she’d gasped for air. She could smell his shirt, his skin....

      “Gad,” she said under her breath.

      She’d dreamed about him, and now that she was awake she was going to keep thinking about him?

      She shook her head. “I need coffee.”

      Despite traipsing through the woods, her tense escape from the fire and her dreams, the stiffness and achiness she’d felt last night had eased and she wasn’t particularly sore this morning. She ducked into the pretty bathroom, her reflection in the mirror not as deadly as yesterday when she’d arrived.

      She took another shower, getting any residual smoke smell off her, and quickly got dressed. She unloaded her backpack on the floor and went through every item for smoke damage. She would figure out what she needed to replace and stop at the country store in town. She wanted to go back to the cider mill this morning. It and the village were both within relatively easy walking distance of Carriage Hill.

      She stared at the contents of her backpack on the floor with a feeling of dread.

      She got down on her knees and went through every item again.

      No journal.

      She hadn’t thought about it until now. It was always with her. It must have been displaced in the mad dash from the fire.

      She stood straight, her heartbeat quickening as she considered the possibilities. Had it burned up in the fire? Had it fallen out of her pack after Justin had rescued her?

      Had one of the other firefighters found it? His cop brother?

      Was it still in the mill? Would someone stop there this morning and find it?

      She had no memory of the small cloth-bound journal beyond slipping it into her backpack yesterday morning before she left Boston. She was positive she’d had it with her when she’d shoved her pack into the backseat with Isaac.

      Maybe she’d dropped it in her grandfather’s Mercedes.

      She texted her uncle and asked.

      He responded immediately. No journal.

      Check under the seats. Please.

      She paced, waiting for his next text. Not in the car. Burned?

      I don’t know.

      Uh-oh.

      Yeah, no kidding. How’s Amherst?

      The ghost of Harry Bennett haunts the ivy-covered buildings.

      Only her uncle would take the time to type such a text. Samantha typed a quick response. No doubt. Good luck.

      You, too, Sam.

      Marginally calmer, she headed downstairs, arriving to an empty kitchen. A cool draft drew her into the mudroom and out to the stone terrace, where Olivia sat at a round wood table having coffee and toast. She smiled cheerfully. “Well, good morning. Did you sleep well?”

      “Great, thanks.” Samantha pushed aside her panic over her missing journal and pulled out a chair in the sun, taking a seat. “It’s a lovely day.”

      “It is, isn’t it? I’m not letting a single reasonably warm, sunny morning go to waste. It’ll be snowing before we know it. Dylan played ice hockey for years, but he’s never done a real New England winter. Should be interesting.” Olivia rose, grabbing her breakfast plate but leaving her coffee mug. She wore jeans and an oversize, paint-spattered white shirt, her dark hair pulled back loosely, her casual attire a reminder that Carriage Hill was also her home. “We’re having our wedding here on Christmas Eve.”

      “Do you hope it snows?”

      “I hope there’s snow on the ground. I wouldn’t want a blizzard to keep people from traveling. What can I get you for breakfast? We have almost anything you can think of, including wild blueberries for pancakes.”

      “I’d be happy to make my own breakfast—”

      Olivia held up a hand, silencing her. “I wouldn’t dream of it. We’re still getting up to speed, but the larder is full, so to speak. So, what do you think? Cereal, muffins, toast, yogurt, fresh fruit, eggs—”

      “Yogurt with fruit and toast would be fabulous. Thank you.”

      “Done. I’ll bring it out to you.” Olivia grinned, heading to the mudroom door. “This is so much fun.”

      When Olivia disappeared into the kitchen, Samantha breathed in the crisp air, hoping it would help settle her down. She wanted to enjoy her surroundings. If her journal was in the cider mill, she would find it before anyone else did. If it had burned up...well, then, it had burned up. If Justin or any of the other firefighters had found it, surely they would return it unread. They were professionals.

      Who was she kidding? They would read at least enough to realize she was in their little town because of a long-dead pirate.

      Buster rolled onto his back in front of a bench at the edge of the terrace. The yard was a mix of lawn and raised beds of herbs and flowers, with mulched paths that led to a garden shed and a stone wall and shade trees along the edge of a rolling field. A small hill rose across the field. Carriage Hill, presumably.

      Samantha