Her Sister's Secret Son. Lisette Belisle
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sawmill, she’d refused several offers of dates. Since Drew arranged her job, people assumed she belonged to him.
They couldn’t be more wrong.
The only connection was through Dylan. For years, he’d paid child support but never taken a personal interest in Dylan. Hoping to change that, Rachel had accepted his recent job offer and moved to Henderson, when the closing of the Stillwater Inn and the loss of her job forced her to make the difficult decision. Since the explosion was an accident, she’d felt sure that Drew would be found innocent. But nothing had worked out. While deeply immersed in the trial, Drew and his family had been kind, but understandably preoccupied, which left Rachel frustrated. Now, here she was in a strange town, and Drew was gone. The entire situation was on hold until he came home in five years—assuming he did.
Earlier that day, Rachel had felt the animosity in the courtroom. To add to her discomfort, there had been that awful man who kept staring at her. Well, maybe not so awful, she thought with a whimsical smile. He was tall, fair-haired with tanned even features. When he smiled, his gray eyes twinkled. From the fan lines around his eyes, she suspected he smiled a lot. She shook off the tantalizing memory.
In any case, his confusing her for Laurel explained his preoccupation. Laurel had had that effect on men—not Rachel, which was fine with her. She didn’t need complications in her life. She had Dylan. As sole guardian, she’d quickly learned that men weren’t interested in instant families.
Chapter Two
The trial of the century—Henderson style—was over. Life settled down to normal—whatever that was, Rachel thought a few days later. A morning breeze ruffled her hair, loosening a strand. She brushed it back from her face, glad that she’d gotten to work in her garden early in the morning before the day’s heat intensified.
She heard a dog’s frantic bark, then, “Mom, Mom!”
Hearing the note of panic in Dylan’s voice, Rachel dropped the tray of tulip bulbs, and ran. She didn’t stop to question her response. At first, she’d been Auntie, then Auntie Mom, and finally just plain Mom, which suited both her and Dylan. Although she tried to keep Laurel’s memory alive, Dylan’s childish memories of his mother were vague, colored by her long, frequent absences.
Sometimes, it seemed as if Laurel had never existed—except in Rachel’s memory. Sadly, Laurel had never been able to love her son, or at least she’d rarely shown it. A little boy needed a mom, and Rachel was it in every way that counted—short of giving birth to him. From the moment she set eyes on the squalling red-faced infant, Rachel adored him. A nurse had placed him in her arms. He was hers to love.
“Mom, Mom, come quick.” Dylan’s voice sounded confident that she would come because—well, because she always did.
Rachel arrived breathless. “What’s up?”
“It’s Sunny!” Dylan pulled on the dog’s collar but the yellow Labrador dragged him across the treed yard into the blackberry bushes.
Rachel caught Sunny’s collar. “Stay!”
At the sharp command, the dog stopped abruptly. Tail wagging, Sunny rested back on her heels. She inched forward.
Then, a rustling sound came from the bushes.
“Uh-oh!” Dylan groaned.
With one ferocious bark, Sunny tore loose, landing Dylan and Rachel in the dirt. They looked at each other and laughed as the dog disappeared into the thick bushes.
Dylan’s laughter warmed Rachel’s heart. Forgetting the dog for a moment, she leaned back on her hands. A faint breeze caught in the pine trees and whispered softly. Today was Saturday, the sawmill at this end of town was closed, and blessedly silent.
The dog let out a long series of high-pitched yelps. Rachel could hear her crashing around, but couldn’t see much.
Apparently Dylan could. “Sunny’s got something big!” He clearly hoped it was something huge. He’d been moping around for days—ever since the end of the trial.
Rachel felt the same. A restlessness still gripped her. She felt unsettled and wondered why the memory of a handsome face and a crooked smile should linger more than all the other images. She sighed. They could use a distraction—something pleasant for a change.
She whistled for the dog. “Here, Sunny.”
Dylan tried to whistle, then said, “I think it’s an alligator!” He sounded thrilled at the idea.
“Dylan, this is Maine. Alligators don’t live here.”
“But they could. I heard about people buying them at pet stores, and letting them loose, or flushing them down the toilet. It could be an alligator. Or a crocodile.”
“Mmm,” Rachel murmured with a straight face. She never laughed at his stories—his dreams—no matter how wild. She knew how important dreams were. Hers were so simple, but elusive. She wanted a place where she and Dylan could stay and put down roots—probably a first for a Hale, she thought with a smile as she recalled her parents’ wanderlust.
Tail wagging, Sunny came crashing out of the shrubs with a black plastic trash bag clamped in her mouth. She dragged it across the yard and dumped it at Rachel’s feet.
Obviously expecting praise, the dog sat back on her haunches and grinned. Oh well, at least it wasn’t a dead skunk this time. “All right, girl.”
The plastic bag moved.
Dylan stared at it. “That looks too small for an alligator.” He grinned at Rachel. “Maybe it’s a snake.”
Rachel hated snakes. With a shudder, she gingerly reached for the bag, then opened it. The inside was black, except for a couple of spots of white. Opening the bag wider, she exposed the contents.
Dylan looked over her shoulder.
“Puppies!” he breathed in shocked delight.
Rachel shared his shock. Someone had discarded an unwanted litter. She resisted the urge to cry at the careless cruelty. Weak and half-starved, the puppies were tiny, about the size of tennis balls, matted into smooth balls of fur. Their tiny claws had poked holes in the plastic bag to breathe.
When one shivered, she said, “Let’s get them inside.”
Dylan followed her into the house and watched as she fetched a wicker basket. “Are they going to be okay?”
Rachel lined the basket with a towel. “I hope so.” She hoped this wouldn’t lead to another disappointment for him. When she transferred the puppies to the basket, she noted how frail they were. One just lay there, its breathing shallow. If it didn’t survive, Dylan would be heartbroken.
Dylan still looked expectant. “Can we keep them?”
“Honey, they’re very young. We need to take them to the animal shelter. They’re going to need special care.”
The telephone book failed to yield an animal shelter, but there was an animal clinic. Rachel needed directions.
“We’re located about five miles out of town,” she was told by the woman who answered the phone. “Take a left at the end of Main Street, then a right, another left.” This was getting more complicated by the minute.
Although confusing on paper, the directions were easy to follow. Getting lost in Henderson was probably impossible, Rachel thought as she negotiated the one thoroughfare.
Until recently, she’d lived in Stillwater fifty miles away, not far in terms of miles, but each town had its own character. Henderson was isolated and rural, a farming and logging town. Stillwater catered to tourists; the population swelled each summer when families occupied the lakeside cottages. Sportsmen came the remainder of the year.
While Rachel drove, Dylan kept up a running commentary about the puppies. “They sure are small. What if no one else wants to take them?”
Rachel