The Black Sheep Heir. Crystal Green
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still hadn’t forgiven himself.
As he perched by a pine, he held the binoculars to his sight, training the lenses toward the Spencer estate. He needed to be disciplined in his efforts, needed to clear his mind of the cute-as-snowflakes Lacey Vedae. The stakes of his stay in the woods were too high to fool with.
He couldn’t let his mother down, and the point had been driven home yet again after talking to her on the phone this morning. He’d traveled over county lines to the next town, just to stay away from the Kane’s Crossing scene, using a random pay phone to check in on her. During their short conversation, she hadn’t been able to hide a cough, had merrily scolded him for worrying about this minor cold.
But every sniff, every sigh worried Connor. A relapse. Death. He wouldn’t let either one of them happen to his mom.
He glanced at a mild sky still cloudy enough to preserve some snow then shrugged into his coat a little more, coveting its warmth.
This damned spying was tedious, barely better than his research trips to libraries in the neighboring counties, trips that allowed him access to old newspaper files. He was determined to find out all he could about the Spencers.
The name caused the bile to rise in his throat. All these years, living a lie. All this time, thinking that he was…
Wait. A black Lexus had pulled onto the circular driveway in front of the Spencers’ colonial mansion. The structure resided on a hill, as regal as a ruler on a throne, its front facade guarded by pine trees. Siggy Woods, where Conn now sat, offered a side view of the estate, allowing him to see the front and back of the house. Luckily, the trees were sparse from this point, giving Conn his first glimpse of the man he thought might be Johann Spencer, the family’s new leader.
From gossip columns, Connor knew that Johann was a distant European cousin of Horatio, Edwina, Chad and Ashlyn. He’d purchased all their remaining properties after Horatio had run into legal troubles and fled to Europe.
Through the binoculars, the new token of power seemed like a giant, towering over his wife and two children. His pale blond hair clashed with the black of his expensive overcoat, offering Conn the chance to scoff at the juxtaposition of lightness and darkness contained in the same space.
But as far as Conn was concerned, the Spencers were all about darkness.
A chauffeur drove the car away as Johann led his family toward the mansion. The front door seemed to open on its own, but Conn knew it was probably a butler who had done the menial work, ushering the Spencers into the house.
A slight shudder scampered up and down his spine, an unpleasant reminder of time running out. It was all well and good to sit here spying on Johann, but Conn needed to take the next step.
To figure out what he was going to do now that Johann was home.
As he stood, he let the binoculars drop to his chest, the item hanging there by its strap. He wasn’t the kind of guy who played intrigue games. Hell, only a few weeks ago, he’d been Raintree, Montana’s resident fix-it man, the one you called when you needed a roof patched or fence mended.
Conn was out of his element here.
He started to walk back to the cabin, not knowing what to do next. That’s when he heard it. The sound of laughter, of children, floating through the woods with pixielike gaiety.
Kids. He and Emily had planned on them. After all, that’s what you did in Raintree. You got married, had children, then called it a life. But after Conn had found out the truth about himself, had come to doubt who he even was, Emily had decided that he’d changed in some indefinable way. She’d called him a stranger and broken off the engagement.
Oddly enough, it hadn’t hurt very much. By the time she’d given back the modest gold band she’d chosen from a jeweler to symbolize their union, Conn had already been numb. He hadn’t had time for more bad news.
He’d actually wondered whether or not he could ever feel again.
As Conn kept walking, he realized that he was gravitating toward the young laughter.
He saw the house first, in the near distance. Lacey’s place. A two-leveled stone-and-log home with green trim highlighting the arched roofs. A porch circled what had to be five-thousand square feet of space, and Conn could feel the workman in him catch fire.
He’d dreamed of homes like this, but had never come close to living in one. The fact that a lone woman wandered all those rooms by herself almost cut his heart to shreds.
As he came nearer, he saw two kids—a boy and a girl—running around Lacey, who was covering her eyes with gloved hands. The children squealed with delight and, when Lacey uncovered her gaze, their laughter intensified, squeezing Conn’s throat with an unidentifiable longing.
She chased them in circles until they all ended up in a heap on the flake-blanketed ground. Then, as if in silent agreement, the three of them started waving their arms and legs, creating snow angels.
The boy finished first, hopping to his feet to inspect his creation. But that’s not all he peered at.
He pointed at Conn and began to run toward him.
“Taggert!” yelled Lacey.
But it was too late. The kid had already discovered him.
“Taggert, you get back here!” Lacey yelled.
But it was fruitless. The adopted son of her childhood friend, Ashlyn Spencer Reno, and Ashlyn’s husband, Sheriff Sam Reno, sprinted toward the woods with a firm mission in mind, no doubt. Tag was always letting his energy get him into more trouble than naught.
She heard the nine-year-old wailing, “The Man in the Woods!” as he faded into the trees.
Her heart froze as she squinted her eyes, barely catching sight of—indeed—a man standing on the fringe of the pines, watching them.
The Siggy Woods Monster, also known as the Man in the Woods, was one of those Kane’s Crossing myths, like the Locksley Castle, that colored their town with flavor. She’d lived on the edge of these pines for a couple of years now and had never seen, nor been afraid, of any legend.
But, just the same…
“Taggert Reno!” she yelled again, walking toward the woods. “Your mom’s going to hear about this!”
“It’s no use,” said seven-year-old Tamela Shane.
Lacey stopped and peeked down at her niece, the daughter of her stepbrother Matt and his wife, Rachel. The little curly-headed moppet had withstood a lot this past year—the return of her amnesia-afflicted father, his memory recovery and the reunion of their family—but Tamela was a trouper. Lacey took inspiration from the girl every day, admiring the child’s strength.
Strength. Lacey needed every ounce of it when it came to dealing with the citizens of Kane’s Crossing. They’d been poking fun at her glass castle scheme since day one, ribbing her about going back to the clinic because she was still “crazy,” still had “mental afflictions.”
Tamela grabbed her hand. “Tag’s stubborn, Aunt Lacey. He won’t come back unless the Monster eats him up and spits him right back out at us.”
A thought slapped her. Man in the woods. Connor was in the woods.
Elation filled her up for a moment, then deflated. He’d touched her last night, trailing a finger down her skin as if appreciating the fine grain of a wooden beam. He’d pulled away just as unfeelingly, too, as if deciding that the material wasn’t suitable.
But why did his opinion matter to her? Men like Connor, ones who seemed so strong and together, didn’t want women with her flawed baggage anyway. Better to have him pull away from her now rather than having him reject her when he found out she’d enjoyed a restful mental vacation at HazyLawn.
By this time, Tag had managed to drag the man out of the woods and, as expected, it was Connor.
If