LITMIR.BIZ

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that earlier.

      But she was familiar. Although he didn’t know where or when, he’d seen her before.

      Kyle Merrick never forgot a face.

       Chapter Three

      The founding fathers of Orchard Hill were an unlikely trio of entrepreneurs from upstate New York. One was said to have been a charming shyster who convinced his business associates back home that wealth awaited them “in the green hills of a promised land.”

      According to local historians, among the first arrivals were a prominent banker and his wife, who took one look at the crudely built clapboard houses in the village and the surrounding mosquito-infested ramshackle farms and fainted dead away. The second founding father was a botanist who, through much trial and error, developed three species of apples still widely grown in the local orchards today. The third was considered to be a simpleton by his aristocratic parents. This so-called dunce proved to be a man of great wisdom and ambition who eventually established The Orchard Hill Academy, now the University of Orchard Hill.

      Historical tidbits were strange things for Summer to be thinking about as she waited at the traffic light at the corner of Jefferson and Elm, but it took her mind off worrying about Madeline or wondering if she’d really glimpsed a momentary recognition in Kyle Merrick’s gaze as she was leaving the inn. She gripped the steering wheel and told herself not to jump to conclusions.

      He couldn’t have recognized her.

      It was possible he’d seen her photograph in the newspapers six years ago. But she’d been younger then, and blond, and had been wearing a frothy veil and a wedding gown made of acres of silk.

      He hadn’t recognized her.

      How could he? She barely recognized the girl she’d been then.

      More than likely, what she’d thought was a fleeting recognition in Kyle’s green eyes had simply been a conscious effort to coax the blood back into his brain after that kiss. She pried the fingers of her right hand from the steering wheel and gently touched her lips. He wasn’t the only one still recovering.

      Enough. They’d enjoyed a brief flirtation. Not mild, mind you, but brief. That was all it was. She had nothing to worry about. He was most likely on his way to the airport this very minute to pursue more pressing stories than a rehash of old news, even if that old news was Baltimore’s most notorious runaway bride.

      She and Kyle had said their good-byes. Or at least she had. She tried to remember how he’d replied.

      “Good luck,” he’d said as they’d parted ways. And everybody knew good luck was as good as goodbye.

      She jumped when a horn blasted. People in Orchard Hill didn’t generally honk their horn, which meant she’d probably been sitting at the green light longer than she should. Smiling apologetically in her rearview mirror at the poor driver behind her, she quickly took her foot off the brake and continued on toward the hospital across town.

      Roughly seven square miles, Orchard Hill was a city of nearly twenty-five thousand residents. The streets curved and intersected in undulating juxtaposition to the bends in the river. A state highway bisected the city from east to west, but even that was riddled with stoplights. She’d learned to drive in congested city traffic. She’d learned patience here.

      She had to wait a few minutes while a crew wearing hard hats moved a newly fallen tree limb out of the intersection. A few blocks farther down the street a delivery man threw his flashing lights on and left his truck idling in the middle of Division Street. Hosanna chimed from the bell tower as it did every day at half past eleven.

      It really was just an ordinary May morning in Orchard Hill. The normalcy of it was like a cool drink of lemonade, refreshing and calming at the same time.

      While she waited at another red light she found herself staring at the ten foot tall statue on her left. Nobody could agree where the bronzed figure came from, or how long it had stood on the courthouse lawn.

      Summer remembered vividly the first time she’d seen it more than six years ago. She’d been lost and nearly out of gas that day when she’d coasted to a stop at the curb. So exhausted that the lines and words on the road map in her hand swam before her eyes, she’d found herself gazing out the window at a whimsical figure at the head of a town square.

      Most cities reserved a place of such importance for cannons and monuments and statues of decorated war heroes on mighty steeds, but that day she was drawn from her car by a larger-than-life replica of a fellow with holes in his shoes, bowed legs, patched trousers, and a dented kettle on his head. Johnny Appleseed was her first acquaintance in Orchard Hill.

      She’d stood beside the statue and taken a deep breath of air scented with ripe apples and autumn leaves. Above the golden treetops in the distance she saw a smoke stack from a small factory, a water tower and several church spires. Somewhere, a marching band was practicing, and there were dog walkers on the sidewalks of what appeared to be a busy downtown.

      It had been too early for streetlights, but lamps had glowed in the windows of some of the shops lining the street. Fixing her gaze straight ahead, she’d walked away from her unlocked car, leaving her ATM and credit cards in plain view on the seat inside. A thief wouldn’t get far with any of them, for all her cards had been cancelled.

      Nobody duped Winston Emerson Matthews the Third without consequences, not even his daughter. Especially not his daughter.

      She’d entered the first restaurant she came to and sat at a small table. A blond waitress a few years younger than Summer had appeared with a menu and a smile. Nearly overtaken with the enormity and finality of her recent actions, Summer stared into the girl’s friendly blue eyes and blurted, “Ten days ago I left a rich and powerful man at the altar. My father has disinherited me and all I have left in my purse is ten dollars and some change.”

      After a moment of quiet deliberation, the waitress had replied, “I’d recommend Roxy’s Superman Special.” In a whisper, she added, “It’s a savory chicken potpie. Roxy makes it from scratch. Her crusts alone could win awards.”

      Something had passed between their gazes. Summer’s eyes filled up, and all she could do was nod.

      “I’ll be right back.” The angelic waitress had soon returned, a plate in each hand. She sat down across from Summer and shook out her napkin. “I’m Madeline Sullivan,” she said, handing Summer a fork and napkin and picking up another set for herself. “Welcome to Orchard Hill.”

      Before the meal was finished, Summer’s second acquaintance in Orchard Hill had become the best friend she’d ever known. Madeline had taken Summer home with her, as if normal people took in disinherited young women with secret pasts every day.

      She was the only person in Orchard Hill Summer had confided in, the only person who knew her given name.

      Madeline had been working her way through college then. Today she was a nurse, and right now she lay in a hospital, possibly losing a baby she desperately wanted.

      “I’m coming, Madeline,” Summer whispered into the celestial sovereignty reserved for promises and prayers.

      Buchanan Street curved one last time before the three-story brick hospital came into view. She followed the arrows and parked near the lighted E.R. sign around back. Grabbing her shoulder bag, she locked her car then ran through the automatic doors and down a short corridor. She rounded a corner.

      And came face-to-face with two Merrick brothers, not one.

      Years of practice with schooling her features very nearly deserted her as she looked from Riley to Kyle. She wanted to ask Kyle what he was doing here. Why wasn’t he checking his bag at the airport?

      And how had he beaten her here?

      Instead she focused on a pair of brown eyes, not green, and said, “Riley, how is she?”

      Riley Merrick was as tall as his brother and had a similar build. There was a depth

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