LITMIR.BIZ

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did have an artistic eye.

      “I’m lucky I know how to match a pair of socks,” Samantha said aloud, turning on the water in the shower as hot as she could stand. A bath was tempting but out of the question. As tired as she was, she would go straight down the drain.

      The private bathroom, off her pretty room at the top of the stairs, was small and perfect, with a sparkling white tub, pedestal sink and fluffy towels. Framed prints of herbs decorated the walls, and an oval mirror reflected her soot-smudged face back at her. All she could think was that she looked like hell. In Justin’s place, she would have suggested a night at Carriage Hill, too. Still, she couldn’t help but think she should have curled up with a blanket in the woods.

      She peeled off her smoky clothes and noticed her right knee was slightly bruised. She figured she must have hit the deck in the midst of the fire with more force than she realized at the time. Her muscles ached all over, undoubtedly from tension. Justin hadn’t hurt her when he’d carried her out of the mill. He’d known what he was doing and had been efficient but also very gentle, even if it had been his property on fire.

      She stepped into the tub, welcoming the hot water and steam. The goat’s milk soap was mild but worked well on her accumulation of dirt, mud, soot and sweat. A pleasant-smelling shampoo cut through the grime in her hair, and a dab of conditioner got rid of any remaining tangles in her short curls. She’d never been any good at fussing with her hair.

      Clean and calmer, she wrapped up in a soft white towel and went back into the bedroom. She gathered up her smoky clothes and stuffed them into a garbage bag that she kept in her backpack for various purposes. It could even be used as an emergency shelter, but not a comfortable one, certainly not compared to The Farm at Carriage Hill. Her room was decorated in an attractive, soothing combination of vintage and contemporary furnishings and eclectic odds and ends. The queen-size bed was covered in soft white linens, throw pillows embroidered with herbs and wildflowers and a down comforter. A dresser, mirror and side chair were painted in shades of green that she wouldn’t have thought went together but somehow did.

      She resisted the temptation to collapse onto the bed. She’d told Olivia she’d meet her downstairs for a light dinner. She had no idea if Dylan would be back from the house he and Olivia were building up the road. Olivia had explained that he was staying late, making a few calls and doing a bit of work at the construction trailer.

      Samantha stood at one of the two windows that looked out toward Quabbin, no lights visible in the seemingly endless dark woods. She would have loved to have followed Cider Brook into the reservoir, but she suspected she would have ended up camping at the cider mill, even without the storm.

      A hike, a wild thunderstorm, a fire.

      Rescued by a taciturn, good-looking firefighter.

      Secrets.

      No wonder she was struggling to get her bearings.

      Her phone vibrated with a text message. She sat on the edge of the bed and saw the text was from Caleb. Cider mill fire? Was that you?

      Of course he’d found out. Samantha texted him back. Yes. Lightning.

      You okay?

      Yep. How’d you know?

      Internet. Need me to fetch you?

      All she needed now was to have Caleb Bennett burst into town. He wouldn’t be discreet. He never was—it wasn’t in his nature. He was larger-than-life, impossible to ignore and not the least bit subtle. He would do anything for her, but he wasn’t in New England because of her. He was here to visit colleges with his son.

      Besides, she still had work to do.

      No, thanks, she texted.

      Where are you staying?

      She debated, then decided on a vague answer. Knights Bridge.

      Don’t get arrested.

      Samantha didn’t respond. She dug through her backpack and pulled out a change of clothes that didn’t smell too much of smoke.

      A fresh sweater, fresh jeans—she felt more like herself again.

      She hung her safari jacket on the back of a painted wooden chair and felt the weight of its contents. She withdrew the documents pouch and set it on the bedside table, thinking of plucky Lady Elizabeth as she adjusted to life aboard her pirate ship.

      Lady Elizabeth dreamed of castle gardens and the sweet scents of lavender and roses, but she woke to the smells of whiskey, rum and men. It wasn’t a nightmare. She was trapped in a claustrophobic berth on a pirate ship. Home was far, far away.

      For poor Lady Elizabeth, it had been out of the frying pan of being kidnapped by her father’s enemy and into the fire of being rescued by a notorious pirate. After today, Samantha supposed she could identify with the eighteenth-century British aristocrat and her plight more than she had the first time she’d gone through the rousing handwritten pages.

      Of course, she hadn’t been kidnapped and rescued on the high seas. If things didn’t work out for her at Carriage Hill, she could just call a cab or a car service and be back in Boston in a couple hours.

      * * *

      Steep, narrow stairs landed Samantha in an entry hall with the same wide pine-board floor that extended into the adjoining living room and dining room, each with painted wainscoting and fireplaces off the same center chimney. The living room was quiet and inviting with its casual sofa and chairs and end tables stacked with books on decorating, herbs and soap making. In her room at her grandfather’s house in Boston, she had dozens of books on pirates, privateers, eighteenth-century sailing ships and Colonial New England. She didn’t own a single book on anything remotely crafty or design-oriented, but she appreciated Olivia’s obvious talents.

      She continued into the cozy kitchen. A big pot of soup was simmering on the gas stove. She’d enjoyed her helping of applesauce earlier and hadn’t thought she would want anything else tonight, except maybe a sip of Scotch, but now she realized she was starving.

      The big dog burst through the back door into the mudroom, Olivia right behind him with his leash in hand. She’d introduced him as Buster when she’d shown Samantha to her room. He ran to her, wagging his tail. “He’s obviously taken to you,” Olivia said, hanging the leash on a hook. “We’ve been working on his socialization skills. He showed up here this past spring, about the same time I did. He was rambunctious at first.”

      Samantha patted him. “He seems very friendly.”

      “He does have his moments. We took a good walk down the road, but he would have stayed out longer if I’d let him.” Olivia shivered as she entered the kitchen. “It’s chilly out there. I wonder if today was the last gasp of summer. Buster’s going to love fall, I think. He likes to chase every leaf he sees.”

      “That could get to be a challenge when the leaves really start falling.” Samantha stood back as Buster abandoned her and flopped down by the mudroom door. “I’ve never owned a dog. Too many moves.”

      Olivia peered into the bubbling soup pot. “Where do you live now?”

      Nowhere. “I’m on the road a lot. I’ve been in Boston lately.” Samantha stifled an unexpected yawn. “I’m more worn-out than I thought I’d be. Adrenaline as much as anything.”

      “I imagine so.” Olivia grabbed a long-handled spoon from a pottery crock. “Most women in Knights Bridge would tell you that one consolation of being caught in a fire would be getting rescued by a Sloan.”

      “It happened so fast, I’m not sure it would have made any difference who hauled me out of there.”

      “Trust me. Better a Sloan than my father. He’s been a volunteer firefighter for thirty years. He’d have managed, but it wouldn’t have been the same as having Justin rescue you.”

      Samantha eased onto a chair at the white-painted table in front of a double window, its curtains shut against the dark night.

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