Her Sister's Children

“You don’t know the doorman.” Claire rolled her eyes. “He must have been a secret agent in a past life.”

“Minneapolis, then.”

Darting apprehensive glances at Jason, the twins edged closer to her. Claire could guess what they were thinking. Until Brooke and Randall’s will was located and their tangled estate settled, the children had stayed at their maternal grandmother’s gated property in Wayzata. They were probably remembering endless hours of proper behavior and dutiful silence in that cold and lonely place.

“We’ll have more fun living up here, don’t you think?” Claire asked. Conflicting emotions raced across Jason’s face. Fear? Surely not. She gave all three children a dazzling smile. “So, shall we go for that hike?”

With a snort of disgust, Jason turned on his heel and stalked to the house. After a moment of indecision, the girls each took one of Claire’s hands and they started down the lane.

There was a sharp nip in the September air, hinting at the change of season that was coming. Claire breathed deeply to inhale the crisp, sweet fragrance of pine. To the left, early-evening sunlight sparkled across the gentle waves of Lake Superior.

She laughed aloud with sheer delight. The twins looked up in surprise.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” She smiled down at them. “I’ve never seen a northern Minnesota fall. The Herald says we’ll be seeing the best autumn colors in years.”

Both girls nodded silently and walked beside her, kicking up puffs of dust with their matching pink Nikes. When they passed the last cabin, Claire dropped to one knee and gave them both a hug. They instinctively stiffened at her touch, but she held them close for a moment before rising to her feet.

“Well, girls, where should we go next—down the shoreline? Or toward the highway?” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “We might see some deer in the woods.”

Annie dug her toe into the gravel. “I never saw a deer, ’cept in a zoo.”

“Then let’s look, okay?” Claire reached down to take little hands once more.

They turned up the mile-long lane toward the highway. Ancient pines towered high above them at either side, leaving scant space for grasses and wildflowers at the edge of the road. Beneath the dense, dark skirts of the trees stretched an endless carpet of bronze and amber pine needles. The muted sunlight and heavy incense of evergreen reminded Claire of her favorite European cathedral, its vaulted expanses hushed into reverent silence.

“This is lovely. Do you like it here?” Claire asked.

The little girls tightened their hands on her own, but they didn’t reply. In their entire month with her, they’d never said a word about their parents’ deaths, or about the many changes in their lives since that awful night. She’d yet to see them display the grief they must be feeling.

Should she bring up painful topics? Wait until they did? She wanted nothing more than to help them in any way she could.

They spied a meadow, just beyond a line of pines standing like sentinels along the road, and moved quietly to its edge.

“This looks like a perfect place for fairies, doesn’t it?” Claire whispered.

Annie nodded, her eyes wide and solemn. “I bet they dance here at night.”

They stood in silence for a while. The earthy scents of cold, damp moss and fallen leaves reminded Claire of her college years away from home—of hayrides and fire-roasted hot dogs and homecoming games of the past. She wondered if the somber girls were even aware of their surroundings.

“You can talk to me about anything,” Claire said softly, giving their hands a gentle squeeze. “Are you feeling sad? Will it help to tell me?”

Lissa dropped her head lower, but Annie looked up with eyes filled with such haunting pain that Claire drew a sharp breath.

“T-telling makes you cry. If we m-make you—”

Lissa jerked her hand away and spun around to face Annie. “No! Don’t say!”

Dear God. What did I do wrong? Claire cursed her own inadequacy. She dropped to her knees, drawing the little girls into a snug embrace. “Lissa. Annie. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Lissa glared at Annie, clearly issuing a silent warning. Annie stared at the silver ballerina appliqué on her sweatshirt, then sniffled and rubbed her nose against her sleeve. “If we talk about M-Mommy, you cry. If we make you s-sad you might—you might—” Small hiccuppy sobs shook her fragile shoulders.

Claire pulled the girls even closer. Her heart shattered. “I love you so much,” she murmured, her damnable, betraying tears welling hot and heavy against her eyelashes.

“See, see what you did?” Lissa’s voice rose to a shriek. She Hung a small fist at Annie, but Claire gently caught the blow in midnight.

Annie, like a stoic saint awaiting execution, had remained deathly still within the curve of Claire’s arm, ready to accept her sister’s punishment. Her voice, whispery soft, came indistinctly at first, then a bit louder. Complete resignation framed every word.

“You might send us back to Grandmother and Great-grandmother if we make you sad.”

Curse those women. Claire’s coldly aristocratic grandmother and mother were cut from the same cloth. No wonder her father had escaped to New York years ago. She could imagine them telling the girls, “Crying does not help. Sit up and eat your dinner” without so much as a pat on the shoulder. Heaven only knew how many times her own childhood emotions had been ignored. It had been a bad mistake to let the children spend any time—let alone five months—in that house.

The twins searched Claire’s face, as if sure their only refuge would now collapse in ruins.

Claire stroked their corn-silk hair and gave each a gentle kiss on the cheek. “If I cry, it’s because I’m sad for you. I’m sad for me, too. Your mother was my sister. It’s okay to cry.”

Annie snuggled closer, her tear-damp face pressed against Claire’s neck. Lissa wavered, her big blue eyes probing Claire’s expression.

“You’ll always have a home with me,” Claire added softly. “Cross my heart.” She considered for a moment, then added with a smile, “At least until you’re grown-up and ready to fly. Deal?”

“D-deal,” they said in unison.

Annie and Lissa snuggled deeper into her embrace, like two starving waifs finding unexpected salvation. A primal rush of tenderness surged through Claire. There was nothing she wouldn’t do to keep these children safe.

From just ahead came the unexpected clank of metal against metal. The rusty screech of a gate hinge. Claire lunged to her feet and scanned the surrounding forest, which suddenly seemed dark. Menacing. There were several other properties along the lane leading to the resort, but none of them included homes, and she had yet to encounter any of the owners. A feeling of vulnerability washed through her. She’d been foolish, walking so far with the girls this evening.

“Let’s turn around,” she murmured. “It’s getting late.”

They had walked just a few feet when Claire heard another unexpected noise—the soft rumble of an engine. She whirled around. A dozen yards away, a black Explorer slipped out of the trees and onto the road, angled toward the highway.

She stopped dead and stared. Logan Matthews. The vehicle also came to a stop, backed up a few feet, changed direction. Headed their way. Her pulse speeding up, Claire reached for Annie’s and Lissa’s hands.

The truck pulled up a few yards away. Its smoked-glass passenger-side window slid down a few inches. “I don’t mean to be unpleasant, but I don’t allow resort guests on my land,” he said.

Claire couldn’t see Logan clearly in the shadowed depths of the vehicle. Its darkened windows and the deepening twilight apparently prevented a clear view of her. The window began to glide upward.

Motioning the girls to stay behind, she crossed the road in two long strides, then braced one hand against the door and rapped sharply on the glass. Her career had taught her how to deal with men—and cowering before this one would be a major mistake. Bullies never expected strength.

“We’re not guests. And I believe you’re on my land, Matthews.”

“Claire?” His door opened, then he slowly unfolded himself from the front seat. Facing her from the other side of the truck he stared at her for a long moment. “I didn’t recognize you in this light—” he looked down at the girls, who had followed her across the road like ducklings “—and with children.”

His eyes were shadowed with old anger and dark secrets, but pure male interest glimmered there as well. Another man, another time...and her shivery inner response might have pushed her into the next step of a tentative relationship. But this was Logan Matthews.

“Three kids, actually,” she pointed out, sure his interest would wither. “The teenager is at home.”

He gave her a knowing look, as if he understood exactly why she’d elaborated, then grinned at Annie and Lissa. They hid behind her.

He gestured toward the path she and the girls had followed from the meadow. “The surveyor’s stake is hidden in those weeds.”

Claire stiffened. “I—I’m sorry. My original tour of the property was brief and in the rain. I thought the line was another twenty-five yards down.” A sudden thought chilled her. “Do you live out here?”

“Yes. I designed my house years ago, but didn’t get around to building it until this summer. By next spring, I’ll run my business from up here.”

As an architect he could do his work almost anywhere, she supposed. Which meant he would be practically underfoot every day of the year—a constant reminder of Brooke and her family’s deep bitterness over the past. Her heart sinking, she scrambled for an appropriate response. “You and your wife must have a lovely home.”

“No wife,” he said. “I try not to repeat past mistakes.”

She couldn’t let him get away with that dig at her sister. “Women throughout the world can sigh with relief.”

Logan threw back his head and laughed, his teeth gleaming white in the faint light. “Touché, Guin-evere.”

The sound of his laughter and the ring of his old nickname for her sent memories cascading through her thoughts. She studied him once more. He’d aged well—his eyes crinkled with laugh lines when he smiled, while a surprising hint of early gray at his temples added a touch of dignity.

“Look,” he continued. “It’s just the tourists I discourage. I don’t mind if you three wander on my land while you’re still up here.”

“Still up here?” Claire’s mellow thoughts turned to dry ice. “I certainly was naive years ago. I always thought you were a more perceptive man.”

A corner of his mouth tipped upward. “I am.”

“Then you realize the kids and I aren’t going anywhere. We’ll be happy at Pine Cliff. It’s a perfect place to raise a family.”

“You’ll get bored. Or scared, surrounded by these deep dark woods. Trust me.”

Claire didn’t try to hide her look of astonishment. “Interesting choice of words there, Matthews. Trust. Brooke certainly discovered the value of trust, didn’t she?”

“I’d say that lesson was mine. And it isn’t one I care to remember.” He pensively stared toward the meadow, a muscle working along his jaw. His gaze shifted back to Claire. “I do have a few good memories, though—of a sweet young girl in pigtails who told me her secrets, who said I was her Prince Charming. She said she would mar—”

“I was barely a teenager.” Claire felt warmth rise in her cheeks. “A young girl’s imagination takes wild flights.”

“I can imagine.” He winked at the twins, then looked up at Claire, his eyes grave. “I’ll give you a deal. Twenty-five percent above the market value for your half of Pine Cliff. You and your children can even stay in that house until spring, if you like.”

She hid her surprise. “All that for a struggling resort?”

“Not everyone has life handed to them on a silver platter,” he said softly. “This place means something to me. But I don’t expect you to understand.”

“You think—” He was the one who didn’t understand. Claire cleared her throat and started over. “If you only knew.”

His smile turned cold and cynical. “Choke on that silver spoon, did you?”

Startled, she stared up at him, caught between irritation and hysterical laughter at his assumptions. “We were discussing the property. It won’t happen, but I’m curious. If you did have all of Pine Cliff, what then?”

“The buildings will be bulldozed.”

He spoke as if it were going to happen. Claire looked at him in disgust. “High-priced condos?”

“Just wildlife and trees.”

“Lovely idea, Matthews. But I’m not selling. This place provides my income. I left New York under rather hostile circumstances and I’m not going back.”

“You could apologize—to your father, right?”

He had changed. One easy smile and he could still turn her knees to aspic, but his youthful determination and charm had darkened to an unfortunate blend of stubborn and aggravating. “That’s not even a remote possibility.”

He glared at her. She met his dark, cold gaze without flinching, and suddenly she saw beyond his anger. She saw old pain, coupled with remnants of grief. The emotions were gone so quickly she thought she might have imagined them.

The world seemed to shift under her feet as she began to see the past in a different light. What really happened between Brooke and Logan all those years ago—could he have been as cruel as her sister had claimed?

Endless boxes of Brooke’s possessions filled the attic of the Pine Cliff house. Perhaps they held clues to a truth far different than the version of the past she’d always heard. As soon as she could find the time, Claire would start looking for answers.

Annie tugged at a belt loop on Claire’s jeans. “Gotta go,” she mouthed urgently. “Now.”

“Come on, girls.” Claire gave them each a reassuring smile and turned to leave.

“I’ll be back,” Logan said, his voice soft and low.

From the corner of her eye, she watched his truck vanish down the road, leaving a faint haze of dust in the air. Leaving an odd sense of emptiness in her heart.

The woods fell silent. Shadowy pines now loomed above like dark and dangerous creatures of the night.

“Let’s get home and see if your brother has done his homework.” Claire gave each child’s hand a squeeze, keeping her stride calm and steady.

All the way back, she wondered if she’d really seen that hint of pain in Logan Matthews’s eyes.

JASON SCRAMBLED UP onto the rough shelf of granite jutting out into Lake Superior, and turned his face into the cold breeze coming across the water. Aunt Claire and the girls would soon be back from their walk. The smell of buttery popcorn might fill the kitchen. Gilbert would be at the door, begging for a walk. But Jason couldn’t go back. Not yet.

Waves spanked the rock face beneath his feet, then were sucked back out into the lake with a squelching sound, like wet sneakers. Above, a dozen or more seagulls drew lazy circles in the evening sky.

They were waiting for handouts—a piece of bread, a chunk of hot dog—but he hadn’t had time to raid the kitchen. He’d been in too much of a hurry. Escaping the house had been more important than bringing something for his birds. He’d simply had to get away; he couldn’t stand the feeling of being watched. The whole house seemed like a creature with a thousand eyes, watching. Waiting.

With his whole heart, he wanted to believe that they hadn’t followed him up here and that he was safe. But it wasn’t true.

He’d seen a familiar gray car cruising slowly through town, and the same car had pulled into the resort yesterday. It had stayed at the far end of the lane for a few minutes, then slowly drove away. Was that them?

He’d heard strangers’ voices arguing that awful night last spring, but hadn’t seen the men’s faces. Ever since, he’d held his breath whenever he saw strangers.

The sight of that car at Pine Cliff had made his heart stop.

If you go to the police, these guys will come after you and your sisters. His father’s last words played through Jason’s thoughts once again, an endless litany of warning that still stole hours of sleep and kept Jason’s nerves on edge.

If he’d been brave, he could have stopped what happened that night long ago. If he’d been stronger, he and the girls wouldn’t have lost everything that mattered.

He stared out across the water to where the sky and lake melted together in shades of gray. He wished he could ride the breeze like one of the seagulls overhead. He’d fly away from this place, away from the pain and sadness that sat on his chest like a two-hundred-pound bully.

The weight made every breath an effort, made his feet feel like lead. Worst of all, he knew the feeling would never, ever go away. Not until it was too late for all of them.

Sinking to his knees, he welcomed the sharp edges of rock that bit into his skin. At least this pain was something real—something he could control.

Alone, far from Pine Cliff, he lowered his head and on a soul-deep, shuddering sigh, his hot tears began to fall.

CHAPTER THREE

LOGAN STOOD at the glass wall of his new house and stared out at the whitecaps crowning Superior’s gunmetal-gray waves. The windows stretched twenty feet skyward, providing a spectacular view of the most scenic length of shoreline between Duluth and the Canadian border.

But it wasn’t enough. The Worths’ greed and anger had divided Pine Cliff years ago. He wanted it all—the only real home he’d ever had, the land his grandmother and great-grandparents had cherished.

He wanted to get on with his life.

It should have been easy, stopping by Pine Cliff today for the executor’s address. He’d figured the Worth family wouldn’t care about Brooke’s property in northern Minnesota. A handful of quaint cabins and an old Victorian house were hardly their style.

Finding Brooke’s little sister there had been a complete surprise. She was grown-up now, well educated in her family’s unique brand of arrogance and temper. Except she didn’t quite fit the Worth mold. He’d seen the way she kept a loving hand on each of her daughters. Beneath the superior tone and air of control, she apparently had a gentle heart—a distinct aberration in the Worth family gene pool.

Meeting her again had set off warning bells. Maybe it was the contradiction of her tousled, touch-me mass of blond hair and her steel-cold stay-away voice.

Logan sank into the beige leather couch facing the fireplace and reached for the Wickham Towers file. He’d brought the new project—a proposed shopping center and office complex—to work on while up north. Back in Saint Paul, his partner, Harold, was managing the office and the regular accounts. For a few moments he stared at the hypnotic dance of flames curling through the stack of pine logs, then began to flip through the file.

But he was unable to focus on work. An image of Claire answering her door jumped into his mind. At the time his heart had hit his ribs with a thump, his skin had warmed and tingled. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his reaction. Feelings like that had no place in a business transaction. Especially not with a Worth.

Claire might be a loving mother, but a woman related to Brooke couldn’t have much more depth than a mud puddle in August. Hell, after the first good nor’easter sent waves crashing into the cabins, she and her kids would be heading south. She’d be gone by mid-November, easy.

Satisfaction radiated through him like a swallow of hot coffee. So why did he feel this odd twinge of regret?

With a soft curse he launched himself to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, resolutely studying the features of his new house. Redirecting his thoughts.

The design was free and open, the exposed pine beams of the ceiling above as rugged and solid as the surrounding forest. But the place felt even less like a home than his austere office back in Saint Paul. Damp smells of plaster and paint, and the sharp chemical scent of new bedroom carpeting upstairs filled the air. The stark white walls were sterile and cold.

He needed a decorator to hang bright prints on the walls, to do whatever it took to make the place seem like home.

Home. Closing his eyes, he remembered the beloved Victorian at Pine Cliff and the glowing warmth of fine old oak and well-worn comfort. Its gables and turrets and fanciful cornice draperies had fascinated him as a child. Very different from this new place with its space and light and freedom from memories, both good and bad. Here he’d find the solitude he needed.

But right now, he needed fresh air.

After sliding open a patio door, Logan stepped out into the brisk evening air, sauntered across the deck, then descended a circular sweep of redwood stairs leading to the granite shelf below. It felt so good, so right, to be back at the lake, at the place he’d longed for these past fourteen years.

A brisk wind, raw with the threat of rain, ruffled through his hair, beckoning him to the edge of the cliff. The past filtered back in scents and in sepia-toned images. The sweet fragrance of long-past campfires and melting marshmallows, fragile wildflowers and warm chocolate-chip cookies. His grandmother’s vein-knotted hands, knobby with arthritis. Gentle, loving.

His mother and the raw stench of cheap booze.

The past no longer mattered. He’d grown up, worked hard, established a successful business. But sometimes, in the dark of night, he remembered that frightening evening long ago when his mother had thrown his clothes in a grocery sack, grabbed his hand, and hauled him out to a car where yet another one of her “boyfriends” waited. “Your grandma will take care of you,” she’d said, reeling closer for a sloppy kiss. “I’ll come after you in a while.”

He’d been left like yesterday’s trash on the steps of Pine Cliff that night, and his grandmother had raised him from that point on.

He never saw his mother again.

A squadron of fat white seagulls swooped low overhead. Their piercing cries were as evocative of his childhood as the scent of lilacs, his grandmother’s favorite perfume.

With keen eyes, constant hunger and an abiding love of handouts, the gulls were like feathered watchdogs, loudly announcing the arrival of any potential food source—any prowler—along the shore.

They swung lower, disappearing behind the sheer granite face, then shot upward, screeching with obvious disappointment.

Someone was on the shore below.

Irritation surged through Logan. The drive and shoreline were posted No Trespassing. Courteous hikers were fine, but some built bonfires, toasted marshmallows, then left behind crumpled food packages, grocery sacks, beer cans.

Moving to the other side of the cliff, Logan looked over the edge. Saw nothing.

He stalked along a narrow ledge, brushing aside the tangle of wild raspberry vines curling over the old trail. Ahead, aeons of winter ice and battering waves had pried away small chunks of granite, leaving irregular steps. With a growl of impatience, he caught the familiar handholds and descended to the rocky shore below. An avalanche of pebbles skittered underfoot, ringing against the rocks like a handful of marbles.

A small figure crouched at water’s edge, half hidden under an outcropping of rock. A young boy with a damp Minnesota Twins T-shirt clinging to his bony frame, his thin arms curled tightly around his knees. He didn’t move when the frigid waves licked at his sodden tennis shoes. Even at a distance, with the sound muffled by the slap of waves and raucous seagulls above, Logan knew the boy was crying. The scene was an eerie vision of his own past.

“Hi there,” Logan called out as he approached.

The boy stiffened. He rose slowly, but didn’t turn around. Hiding the tears, no doubt.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded silently.

“Is your family along here somewhere?” Logan continued, keeping his tone friendly. “This area isn’t very safe.”

The boy nodded again. His face averted, he started across the water-slick apron of granite at the base of the cliff. Two steps later his feet shot out from beneath him. With a small cry he fell, then gripped an ankle with both hands and threw his head back in a silent expression of pain. Surely he would begin crying in earnest now. Instead, he was oddly quiet.