LITMIR.BIZ

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had paired Grandma with Charles Wayne. And then his sister Rebecca had called, concerned about their mother’s infatuation for a man she’d just met, and he’d known it was time to come home.

      The customer produced a credit card. Apparently the transaction had been successful. Ellie smiled as she folded the quilt, her hands lingering as if she hated to part with it. A neat salesperson’s gimmick, he decided. She probably hoped to sell them something else.

      He assessed the woman, trying to look at her without preconceptions. Slim, tall, probably about thirty or so. A wealth of dark brown hair escaped from a woven headband to curl around her face. There was nothing conventional about Ellie’s looks. Her face was too strong, her coloring too vivid, with those dark expressive eyes and the natural bloom in her cheeks.

      Nothing conventional about her clothing choices, either. Today she wore a long skirt and an embroidered blouse that would look more at home in an artists’ colony than in Bedford Creek. He shouldn’t let that quick impression prejudice him against her, but he couldn’t deny the feeling. She looked as if she didn’t belong here.

      The bell jangled as the customers went out, and he tensed. Ellie Wayne was an unknown quantity as far as he was concerned. He didn’t want to do battle with her, but he would if he had to.

      She came toward him with the quick, light step of a dancer. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting. May I help you with something? I have those with different colors of reed woven in.”

      He glanced down at the basket he’d nearly forgotten was in his hands. “I’m not shopping.”

      Her eyes widened as if he’d insulted her wares, and he reminded himself he’d intended to be diplomatic. “It’s very nice,” he added, putting it down.

      Faint wariness showed in those expressive dark eyes. Maybe it was her eyes, maybe it was the ethnic flavor of her clothing, but a thread of song wound through his thoughts, its lyrics warm and yearning, something about a brown-eyed girl. He shoved the distraction away.

      “Then what can I do for you?” she asked.

      “I’m here about my mother.” She still looked at him blankly, of course. She didn’t know him from Adam. “I’m Quinn Forrester. Gwen’s son.”

      “Quinn?” Her voice lilted with surprise. If he expected guilt, he didn’t get it. “Gwen didn’t tell me you were coming home.”

      It was almost as if she should have been informed, and irritation flickered through him. “Does she tell you everything?”

      “I didn’t mean that.” Warm color rose in her cheeks. “I’m just surprised she didn’t mention it.”

      “Especially since you see so much of each other.” He didn’t intend the words to sound accusing, but they did.

      She stiffened, apparently sensing his attitude. “Your mother and I are cochairing a craft show next month for the church.” She said it carefully, as if weighing each word. “So we have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”

      “It’s a little more than that, isn’t it?” He wasn’t going to dance around the subject any longer. It was time the woman leveled with him. “The way I hear it, your father’s the one who’s spending a lot of time with her.”

      He couldn’t be mistaken about her reaction to that—a flash of fear. She masked it, but not quickly enough.

      Determination hardened inside Quinn. His father would have expected Quinn to protect his mother, not to bury himself in his own grief. But he hadn’t, and now it looked as if Gwen Forrester, with her naive belief in people and her tempting little nest egg, was falling prey to a charming drifter who had no visible means of support and a murky background. Well, not if he could prevent it.

      “I don’t know what you mean.” Her sudden pallor gave the lie to the words.

      He shook his head. “I think you do. I want to know what’s going on between my mother and your father.”

      The unexpected introduction of her father into the conversation sent Ellie’s heart racing. What had Charles Wayne done now? Familiar panic flooded her. She’d known it spelled trouble when he showed up at her door after all these years. She should have told him to go away. She should have…

      She took a grip on her frightened thoughts. This was ridiculous. She was overreacting. Something about Quinn Forrester’s uncompromising expression had panicked her unnecessarily.

      “I don’t understand.” She could only hope it came out calmly enough—that he hadn’t seen that moment of fear.

      Quinn leaned against the display table with what was probably meant to be a casual air. It didn’t succeed. Nothing about his intensity was casual.

      “It’s not that difficult a question.” He concentrated on her face as if he’d look right past her expression and into her mind. “What’s going on between my mother and your father?”

      “Going on?” She stared at him blankly. “Nothing. I mean, they hardly know each other. Why would you think something was going on?”

      He moved toward her, bracing his hand against the worn wooden counter. He was too close, invading her space. She forced herself not to step back, knowing instinctively he’d interpret that as a sign of weakness.

      “From what I’ve heard…” he began, when a yellow blur soared to the countertop next to him. Quinn snatched his hand back with a startled exclamation.

      “Sorry.” She took a steadying breath, trying to calm her stampeding pulse. “That’s Hannibal. You’re encroaching on his favorite place.”

      As this man was with her. This was her shop, she reminded herself. Her town, her place in the world. She belonged here now. She stroked the tomcat. Hannibal pushed his head firmly against her hand and then sat, folding front paws majestically under his white bib.

      “I saw him in the window. I thought he was a stuffed toy.” Quinn held out his hand. Hannibal sniffed cautiously, then deigned to let himself be scratched behind the ear.

      She took another deep breath. Calm down. Don’t overreact. Whatever Quinn wanted, it didn’t necessarily have to be bad. She watched as he stroked the cat, giving it the same concentration he had her.

      Quinn’s daughter must have gotten her red hair and freckles from some other part of the family tree. His hair was a dark, rich shade of brown, the color of ripe chestnuts. Straight dark brows contrasted with surprisingly light eyes—not quite blue, closer to slate. His tanned skin and the feathering of sun lines around his eyes suggested years of outdoor work in a place far from this green Pennsylvania valley. He had a firm mouth and an even firmer chin that argued an uncompromising disposition.

      He switched his gaze from the cat to her, and a little quiver of awareness touched her. That intent gaze was unnerving. It was much the same as the gaze with which Hannibal watched a bird before he pounced.

      “As I was saying, about my mother and your father.”

      “Gwen is my friend.” She hurried into speech, hoping to deflect whatever accusation was coming. “And my father is here for a visit. A brief visit,” she added. “Naturally they’ve met each other.”

      “Because you and my mother are friends.” His tone made it sound sinister.

      She held her gaze steady with an effort. “Yes.”

      “It’s a little more than that, I think.” His concentration pinned her to the spot. “Each time I talk to Kristie on the phone, his name comes up. ‘Charles and Grandma did this. Charles and Grandma did that.’ He seems to have become almost part of the family in the last few weeks.”

      Her mind raced. When had all this been going on? She’d been busy, of course, but she should have known what her father was doing. Maybe she’d just felt relieved he’d found something to occupy himself in Bedford Creek. That way she didn’t have to see him and constantly be reminded

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