The Missing Heir

“Stan sure enough thinks she was your mother. For all any of us know, she could’ve been.”

“My mother could have been anybody!” Mari cried, blinking back tears. “I loved Aunt Blanche. Why didn’t she ever tell me the truth—that my mother was some stranger she’d befriended?”

“I expect ’cause she got to fearing she might lose the baby she loved. Might be she and Stan couldn’t’ve adopted you if it got around there was no blood relationship. They weren’t exactly spring chickens at the time. As for your uncle, he did what he thought best for you.”

“I suppose. But this may turn out to be a wild-goose chase. Maybe I ought to wait and see….” Her words trailed off. Wait for what? Mr. Haskell’s phone call to Uncle Stan had made it clear his present health was too poor for him to travel to Nevada, and that he was sending his private jet so Mari could fly to Mackinac Island to his summer cottage. This evening.

“If you don’t go, you’ll never know whether your mother was Isabel Haskell or not, will you?” Wilma pointed out. “Best you get to packing. And never mind that young man. If he’s interested he’ll show up again, and then you can decide if he’s worth troubling yourself over.”

Show up again? Mari wondered as she headed for her bedroom. She wouldn’t be here if he did, so a lot of good that’d do. Time to forget Russ Simon and concentrate on what else to toss in her suitcase. Although most of her clothes were for riding or casual wear, she figured she’d better take at least one dress and a pair of dressy sandals. She had to admit—she was scared to be going alone to a place she’d never been to meet a stranger who might be her grandfather.

Uncle Stan could hardly come with her, since he had to take care of the horses and other ranch animals. Willa might be spry for her age, but it was too much to ask her to do ranch work, and they couldn’t afford to hire anyone else for the task. In fact, they were already one mortgage payment behind. The money Russ had paid for Lucy would help, but it was touch and go.

As for asking Willa to come with Mari, that wasn’t possible, either. Willa couldn’t take much time away from her own ranch because she supported herself by raising rattlesnakes, milking their venom and selling it to labs that made antivenin. No one wanted to snake-sit for her.

By the time the limo arrived to pick up Mari and take her to the Carson City Airport, she was ajangle with nerves. Twenty-seven-years old and she’d never ridden in a limo, much less a private jet. Maybe she ought to be feeling like Cinderella going to the ball, but she felt more like the untransformed cinder girl. If she’d been traveling as Mari Crowley, it wouldn’t be this way. She’d always been confident in her ability to handle almost any situation. But she might no longer be a Crowley, she might be a Haskell, and that thought was unsettling.

Never mind, you’re still Mari, she told herself as she hugged Uncle Stan and Willa in farewell. You can cope. Once the chauffeur settled her inside the limo and they drove away from the ranch, though, the tears she’d fought gathered in her eyes.

When they reached the airport, Mari still wasn’t sure she was doing the right thing. But her tears had dried by then and she allowed herself to be led by the chauffeur to where Mr. Haskell’s jet waited on the tarmac. He helped her aboard. Inside, a uniformed man showed her how to fasten her seat belt, telling her he was George, the co-pilot, and introducing the pilot as Tom. George pointed out where she could find soft drinks and sandwiches once they were underway. It took her a minute to realize she was alone in the jet except for these two men.

As the plane took off, climbing quickly up and up, circling to the northeast, she closed her eyes, not wanting to see Carson City fade from sight below her. To distract herself from the disturbing realization that she was leaving everything familiar behind, she picked up a magazine from among several in a rack, but didn’t open it. The cinder girl was heading for the castle without the benefit of a fairy godmother or a waiting prince.

Without Mari willing it, Russ Simon’s face flashed into her mind’s eye. Her prince? The thought made her smile. Far-fetched as it seemed right now, maybe they’d meet again someday, as he’d said he hoped they would. She opened the magazine, Joseph Haskell’s name popped out at her and she began to read the article about him. By the time the jet landed on Mackinac Island, Mari knew a lot more about her possible grandfather than she had before.

Since the article had stressed how wealthy he was, when she arrived by horse and buggy at the “summer cottage” he’d mentioned to Uncle Stan, Mari shouldn’t have been surprised to find herself looking at what must be at least a fourteen-room Victorian mansion. But she was. Her jitters returned full force.

A trim, fortyish woman opened the door. “I’m Pauline Goodwin, the housekeeper, Ms. Crowley,” she said.

Mari nodded as she was ushered in. “Please call me Mari. Is Mr. Haskell—?”

“An hour before you arrived, he was airlifted to Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. My orders are to make sure you settle in comfortably while he’s gone.”

“Oh, my, is he seriously ill?”

“We don’t know when he’ll be returning,” Pauline said stiffly. “This way, please.”

What kind of an answer was that? Mari wondered as she followed the housekeeper up a winding staircase. It must be his heart. He’d told Uncle Stan he had a “bum ticker.” Whether he was her grandfather or not, she truly hoped he’d be all right.

The room she’d been given was decorated with white-painted wicker furniture, and paintings and photos of horses hung on the walls. Mari was looking at the paintings when Pauline said, “Frank will bring up your suitcases. Will there be anything else you need?”

As Mari thanked her and shook her head, she wished for something Pauline wouldn’t have been able to provide. What she needed was a friend. Someone to talk to who she knew and trusted, someone who’d assure her she’d been right to come here. She worried how it might affect Mr. Haskell’s health if it turned out they weren’t related. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt him.

On TV he’d claimed he was a lonely and ill old man who regretted alienating his only child, Isabel. Mari had felt sorry for him, even though, at the time, she hadn’t the slightest idea Stan was even then speculating that Isabel might have been her mother. Had she been?

I’d like to have a grandfather, Mari thought as she got ready for bed. I have no family at all except for Stan.

That was really why she’d come here—to find out if Mr. Haskell was family, a blood relation. It’d been a terrible shock when her uncle had confessed that Aunt Blanche had never told her the truth about her birth.

Though Mari had wondered if sleep would elude her, Mr. Sandman, as Willa would say, found her immediately, and she didn’t wake until midmorning. The first thing she saw when her eyes opened was a photo on the wall of a dapple-gray pony with a small child on its back. She rose hurriedly to examine the photo at closer range, and saw the child was a boy. Not Isabel then.

By the time she’d dressed and was descending the stairs, Mari had begun wondering if dapple-gray ponies were ever called Blues. She shook her head. Probably not, since Russ had said his were descended from the huge chargers ridden by knights of old. If only she’d had more time to spend with Russ. How was it possible to miss a man you scarcely knew?

After a breakfast that made her feel she was imposing on Mr. Haskell’s staff, even though Pauline and Diana, the cook, were courteous enough, Mari escaped outside. Her uneasiness undoubtedly came from her own uncertainty—did she belong here or not?—rather than from the staff. But she began to relax a little once she set off to walk down toward the village.

May was definitely cool here on this island near the Straits of Mackinac, where the waters of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan met, and she was glad she’d worn a jacket. With only the clop of horses’ hooves instead of the rush of motor traffic, Mackinac Island seemed not only peaceful, but somehow set back in time. In the gardens she passed, tulips were still in flower, though their season was long over in northern Nevada. Lilac blooms were tightly budded rather than scattering their sweetness into the air.

A passing bicyclist waved as he passed, and she waved back. What a marvelous vacation spot. She wished she could think of it as a vacation. It worried her that Mr. Haskell had decided to send for her instead of first making sure they were related by having blood and DNA tests done right there in Nevada. Why he hadn’t was a question she couldn’t answer.

She passed the Grand Hotel, staring in awe at its unbelievably long and magnificent porch, and came into the downtown area of the village. Water gleamed ahead from what appeared to be a lakeside park. As she started across the street, someone took her arm, holding her back. She turned, startled, and gazed into Russ Simon’s green eyes. Her pulse leaped.

“Mari, is it really you?” he asked.

“Russ!” she cried. “What are you doing here?”

He released her arm. “Checking my Blues. I lease twenty of them to carriage companies on the island. Didn’t I tell you?”

Mari shook her head. “I mean, I knew you leased draft horses, but I didn’t know where.”

One of the numerous passersby jostled Mari, muttering an apology when Russ scowled at him. “Come on, let’s find someplace less crowded. Place is already full of tourists and it’s only May.”

After they were seated at a harborside café, with mugs of coffee in front of them, he raised a questioning eyebrow. “Now you know why I’m here. Your turn.”

Mari told herself to stop staring at him and start thinking. “I’m visiting the island,” she equivocated, not wanting to lie and yet definitely not wanting to tell the whole truth.

Russ offered her his heart-melting smile. “My good luck.”

No, mine, she thought. I wished for a friend and maybe, just maybe, here he is. On this strange island that seemed like another world, Russ was the known, the familiar. She might not decide to confide in him, but at least she now had someone she felt she could talk to if needed.

Russ took another swallow of coffee, trying not to watch Mari. Which was difficult because he enjoyed looking at her so much. Why the devil did her hair have to be molten gold and her eyes like fine sherry? Spying was bad enough, and it was ten times worse because he liked the way she smiled, the way she talked with her hands, the way she moved. Hell, even the way she sipped her coffee. No man in his right mind could avoid being attracted to her.

He couldn’t afford to be, yet at the same time he needed to learn more about her in order to protect Joe Haskell. Since the old man was tough, he’d probably pull through this latest cardiac setback, but he didn’t need any extra stress—such as an impostor on his doorstep.

“Like to go riding around the island?” Russ asked. “I’ll return the favor and find you a mount this time.”

“Oh, yes!”

Damn, how could she seem so open and straightforward? The likelihood of a greedy, scheming heart beating under that attractive exterior was almost a sure bet, no matter how cleverly she concealed it. He knew all about pretty women and how they could fool a man—his ex-wife had taught him well.

Mari didn’t have Denise’s sophistication, nor did she wear designer originals. No doubt because she couldn’t afford them. It’d been obvious that the Crowley ranch house could use some updating. Money was at the bottom of every scheme. He hadn’t met her uncle, the man who’d contacted Joe in the first place, but it stood to reason that Mari had to be in on anything her uncle might be trying to promote.

Russ wished he didn’t feel this odd bond between Mari and himself. It must be because of the horses. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough. They might be kindred spirits where horses were concerned, but just because she loved them didn’t make her honest—and one Denise in a lifetime was more than enough.

Get to know Mari, yes, but hands off, Simon.

No romancing, no matter how appealing you find her.

“We’ll ride first thing tomorrow morning,” he said. “Right now I’m on my way to take a look at one of my Blues who’s off his feed.”

“Mind if I tag along? I know you told me Lucy is a Blue, but I’d like to see another.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Don’t trust my judgment?”

She slanted him a look. “When diagnosing horse ailments or in telling a Blue from a dapple-gray?”

“I can tell vet-visit-serious from layman-treatable. As for Blues—hey, lady, I’m the local expert, as you’re about to find out. Be careful or you’ll hear more about the breed than you care to know.”

Damn, she was easy to be with. This was only the second time they’d met and he felt as if they’d known each other for years. Had to be the horse connection.

“What’s his name?”

It took him a beat to realize she meant the ailing Blue. “Lancelot—the drivers call him Lance.”

“Do you name them all after King Arthur’s knights?”

“Used every one of them.”

“I suppose you’ll rename Lucy something like Elaine the Fair.”

He shook his head. “Not when she already knows the name you gave her.”

Her smile of approval warmed him.

After they’d been to the stable and found Lance already improving, Russ said, “I’ll walk you back to—where you’re staying.” He’d nearly said Haskell’s and hoped she hadn’t picked up on the hesitation. But why should she suspect Russ Simon was a spy?

He knew some considered spying to be exciting and glamorous. Not him. He hated anything that wasn’t aboveboard.

Mari looked away from him. “I’m not ready to go there just yet. I think I’ll wander around and look at the shops for a while.”

It was his cue to tell her he’d see her tomorrow and bow out, but instead he found himself saying, “Why not let an insider help you avoid the worst of the tourist traps?”

She hesitated a moment before replying, “Well, if you insist.”

As they started back toward the main street, he said, “I’ll buy you the very finest of Mackinac Island’s famous fudge. This way.”

“Why is it famous?”

“Ms. Crowley, you mean to tell me you never heard of Mackinac Island fudge?”

“Mr. Simon, this is a long way from Nevada.”

Yes, he thought, just as a Crowley is a long way from being a Haskell.

Without letting her have a taste in the shop, he carried the white bag of fudge down to the park next to Lake Huron and steered her toward a bench, saying, “Your first bite needs to be savored while at rest so you can concentrate on the remarkable flavor.” Only after they sat side by side did he open the bag, break off a piece and raise it to her lips.

When she opened her mouth, his fingers brushed her lower lip as he slid the chocolate inside. He drew his hand back quickly, disturbed by the tingle that ran through him from the brief contact.

Mari did her best to ignore the frisson his touch sent zinging along her nerves. She concentrated instead on the candy. “Umm, yes, it certainly does taste like fudge,” she said.

He laughed. “One for your side.”

She grinned, enjoying how relaxed she felt with him. “We’re counting? I’ll have to remember that. Actually, it’s excellent fudge.”

He dropped the bag onto her lap, saying, “Souvenir T-shirts next?”

Mari shook her head. Even if she’d wanted one, she couldn’t afford to spend the money she had with her unnecessarily. Though she’d recently gotten a credit card strictly for emergencies, Stan didn’t have any. When Mari was ten, Aunt Blanche had cut up the one she shared with Uncle Stan. Her words echoed down the years: Gamblers got no business with that plastic. You go getting us any more in debt and we’ll lose the ranch.

Her uncle was no longer a high roller. Unless—and the thought chilled Mari—unless this entire Haskell business was no more than a scheme of his. A gamble. She shivered.

“Cold?” Russ asked.

“No.” And, no, too, to that disquieting notion about Stan. Her uncle loved her; he wouldn’t do anything like that to her. He might have been a gambler at one time, but he’d never been under-handed.

“The lake breeze isn’t exactly warm,” Russ said.

“I should be getting back,” she told him. There might be word by now about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She ought return to the cottage and find out.

“I’ll walk you—” he began.

“No!” Realizing she’d blurted the word, she added, “I mean, I’d like to be by myself for a while. Thanks for the fudge. I’ll meet you in the morning—where? Here in the park?”

His gaze was frankly assessing, but he didn’t comment other than to say, “Remember where the stable was? I’ll have our horses ready there. Nine?”

“Okay. See you then.” The bag of fudge clutched in her hand, Mari strode away from the park, aware she was all but running, which was foolish. Still, she couldn’t seem to slow down.

Running away from Russ when what she really wanted was to be with him? Yes, but did she want to share her story with him? She could hardly go on meeting him without admitting she was staying at the Haskell cottage. And why would she be doing that when the owner was in a New York hospital? If she was a family friend, wouldn’t Russ expect her to be in New York at Mr. Haskell’s bedside?

She hated to lie. In any case, she’d never been any good at making up believable ones. And, somehow, she didn’t want to lie to Russ at all. Despite their short acquaintance he already felt like a friend.

And maybe a tad more?

Chapter Three

W alking down to the stables the next morning, Mari tried to feel optimistic about what Pauline had told her at breakfast. Mr. Haskell, it seemed, was “holding his own”—whatever that meant. At least he wasn’t worse.

On such a fine morning, brisk, but with the promise of later warmth, it was difficult to feel anything but upbeat. Or was it actually because she was going riding with Russ? A bit of both, Mari told herself. It had been silly not to tell him where she was staying. Maybe he didn’t even know Mr. Haskell. Still, after Mr. Haskell’s dramatic appearance on TV, probably everyone did. Would Russ connect her with the missing Haskell daughter if she told him she was at the cottage?

Mari grimaced, disliking having to be secretive with a man she felt was a friend. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about Russ knowing where she was staying. Besides, the island was so small he’d find out sooner or later, anyway. She might as well tell him herself if the chance came to bring it up casually.

Russ was waiting at the stables with two handsome chestnuts that looked like a matched pair. She tried to tell herself her heart wasn’t racing at the sight of him, and gave him an offhand greeting. “Good-looking pair,” she said, forcing her attention to the horses rather than on him.

“Same sire and dam,” he told her. “My friend Nellis told me they were slated for one of the fancier two-horse surreys, but then Jill balked at having anything with wheels behind her, and Jack refused to be hitched unless Jill was beside him. Since they come from a long line of buggy horses, Nellis was surprised but happy when they turned out to be good riding horses. Genes don’t always run true.”

Mari blinked, unsure if the last few words might not somehow be directed at her. Almost immediately she decided she was way off the mark. He couldn’t possibly know who she was or who she might be. He’s talking about horses and nothing else, you worrier, you, she told herself.

To calm herself, she rubbed Jill’s nose. “You’re a smart mare,” she said. “I wouldn’t like one of those wheeled things rumbling at my heels, either.”

“Just like women to stick together,” Russ observed as he gave her a hand up onto Jill’s back.

“I suppose men don’t?” she countered.

“Independent to the core, all of us.”

She rolled her eyes.

He mounted Jack, saying, “We’ll ride around the island’s perimeter this morning to give you an idea of its size. I’ll save the historical spots and unusual rock formations for later trips. That is, if you’ll be staying around for a few weeks.”

“Uh, maybe.” She hadn’t a clue how long she’d be here. It depended on Mr. Haskell’s health and how soon he might be able to return to the island. After that, who knew?

“Maybe you’ll be here for a couple weeks, or maybe you’ll put up with my company after today?” he asked.

Though very aware of how much she enjoyed being with him, she wasn’t about to tell him that. Slanting him a look, she said, “Both. How far is it around the island?”

“Eight and a half miles.” Letting Jack set an easy pace, Russ led the way from the stables to the lake road that followed the island’s perimeter.

Mari was charmed anew by the lack of motorized vehicles. “It’s like living before they invented the automobile,” she said as she pulled up even with him. “I can’t get over how different it is here.”

He gestured to the left, toward the arched span of the Mackinac Bridge, visible in the distance, connecting Michigan’s Lower and Upper Peninsulas. “That’s as close as cars get to the island. Except for a couple of emergency vehicles, there are none here.”

Mari, watching a sailboat scud along Lake Huron and wishing again she was just a tourist, sighed.

Russ glanced at her. “Something wrong?”

She shook her head, not daring to dare tell him how troubled she felt over why she’d come here. Her birth mother had listed her name as Ida Grant on Mari’s birth certificate. On TV, Mr. Haskell had given his daughter’s name as Isabel and said she might be using Morrison as her last name. Why had Uncle Stan been so sure Ida Grant was Isabel Haskell Morrison? As far as Mari knew, he had no real proof.

As the horses clopped along, Russ pointed out a limestone formation called Devil’s Kitchen. “Not one of the more spectacular. We’ll give it a miss.” Farther on he gestured to a bluff on the right. “Lover’s Leap.”

“We have a few of those in the Sierras,” she said. “I’ve always thought it strange anyone would want to die for love.”

“You ever been in love?”

Had she? With Danny Boy? She’d been infatuated enough at the time, but after the breakup she’d certainly never considered leaping off a cliff because he was gone. Willa insisted her pride had suffered more than her heart. Whatever it was, Mari wouldn’t make the same mistake again. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “How about you?”

He shrugged.

“So you don’t know, either,” she said. “I wonder how anyone can ever be sure about being in love?”

“Could be there’s no such thing.” Pointing again to the right, he said, “There’s where the ill-fated Stonecliff ski hill fiasco was. Lost their shirts. The Island’s not a popular winter resort.”

In other words, enough talk about love. Which was fine with her. Chemistry, now, that was different. How could she not believe in chemistry when just being with Russ gave her a high? But chemistry was definitely not love.

“Up a ways is where the British landed in the War of 1812 and took the island from the U.S. We’ll stop for coffee at the snack shop there.”

“You mean they captured that big fort on the hill overlooking the town?”

He glanced at her. “No matter how well fortified you think you are, remember there’s always the sneak attack that comes from the direction you least expect.”

Remember? Was he simply talking about the British landing or something else? His half smile made her think he might be warning her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him.

At the coffee shop, Russ studied her when she wasn’t watching, acutely aware of her next to him sipping her latte. Sooner or later he was going to have to come to terms with his attraction to her.

“So in 1812 the British flag flew over the island,” she said.

“Actually, the battle was in 1814, near the end of the war. After the peace treaty was signed they had to give the fort back to the U.S.”