Her Sister's Children

The deep, rasping laugh of an inveterate smoker echoed through the small building. “Most people dilute their cleaning chemicals, dear. Check the directions on those bottles.”

Watching Mrs. Rogers trot toward her cabin, Claire groaned. A business career had not prepared her for this. Cleaning. Laundry. Book work. And most important of all, the children. Without help, she would have endless days and very short nights.

A quick survey of the room revealed no extra-large, heavy-duty mopping equipment. The dainty pink sponge mop and bucket waiting for her in cabin five would be as effective as using a teaspoon to shovel a Minnesota snowdrift Worse, the pile of laundry was now slowly floating piece by piece toward the perimeter of the room.

Moving here had been a mistake. One huge, impossible mistake. Claire closed her eyes and prayed for a miracle. Why had she ever thought she could handle all of this—?

A footstep sounded against the slab of pavement at the door. Claire turned to speak, expecting a cabin guest, but her words died in her throat.

In the doorway stood a grizzled old man, worn and bent, wearing grease-stained overalls loose as clown pants. Claire thought she detected the smell of alcohol, but there was no denying the distinctive smell of unwashed male.

“Name’s Fred Lundegaard. I worked at Pine Cliff most all my life. Tried the sunshine down south, but missed the pines and this ol’ lake too much, so now I’m back.” He grinned and lifted a hand, his broad gesture encompassing the laundry-room mess and the resort grounds beyond. “And it looks like I’m the answer to your prayers.” With that, he walked toward the washing machine, a determined look on his face.

AN HOUR LATER Claire stood at her desk in the kitchen, handed a receipt to the middle-aged couple checking out and prayed they couldn’t hear the string of oaths coming from the laundry building where the old guy was tackling the washing machine.

“I’m so glad you enjoyed your stay,” Claire said brightly.

The woman smiled as she glanced around the entryway and into the kitchen beyond. “Lovely place. Have you thought of turning the house into a B&B?”

“It would be perfect,” Claire agreed. “But with three kids and their pets we’re a bit too noisy.”

Stepping back through the door held open by her husband, the woman nodded. “Probably true. Actually, I did hear footsteps outside our cabin last night. Probably games of hide-and-seek in the dark?” She reached up and touched her cheek, looking apologetic. “Not that it bothered us, of course.”

“I’m sorry, I’ll certainly check into it right away,” Claire murmured, waving goodbye.

The children had all been in bed and asleep by nine-thirty last night. Hungry raccoons had to be the culprits, she decided, slipping the last of the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher. They’d already shimmied through the windows of the boathouse and pried open the door to the laundry building. Luckily those buildings held little that could be damaged.

Pensively tapping the edge of the counter with a forefinger, she considered her next move. Finish cleaning cabin five...run into town for groceries... finish mopping up the laundry building...

A sharp clang, followed by another string of oaths, came from the building at the far edge of the lawn.

Fred. Allowing the old fellow to “show what he could do” with the washing machine had been a mistake. If he got hurt...or made the situation worse...

Claire dashed down the porch steps and across the front lawn, shading her eyes against the laser intensity of the sun. Sunglasses. She needed to find her extra pair of sunglasses packed somewhere in the mountain of boxes, furniture and whatnot piled in the attic of the house.

For the hundredth time, she cursed the delay in New York that kept her from being present when the movers arrived. So far she’d uncovered three half-filled wastebaskets from her high-rise in New York, but she had yet to find all of her possessions. To make things worse, the large number of boxes that had come out of Brooke and Randall’s condo was now mixed up with her own.

Lost in thought, Claire rounded the closest corner of the laundry building. Her face hit a solid wall of fur.

The impact sent her staggering against the building. An iron-hard appendage grasped her arm. Pulling back with every ounce of her strength, she screamed.

Bears! Annie and Lissa were right.

The grip on her arm gentled, released. Even as she spun away, the furry object took shape.

It was Gilbert, the kids’ poodle. Held securely in Logan’s arms. Neither dog nor man looked pleased.

“Oh, dear. Excuse me!”

One hand over her heart to quiet its mad gallop, Claire stared in disbelief. It took a moment to catch her breath. “Uh...like our dog, do you?”

Logan bared his teeth, but didn’t smile. Gilbert bared his, as well, but from his sheepish canine grin to his drooping tail, he was the picture of embarrassment. His captor simply looked aggravated.

“He moved over to my place,” Logan said in a low, dangerous tone. “You were going to make sure none of your kids—or your pets—strayed.”

Claire wondered if anyone had ever laughed at him—and if so, whether they’d lived to tell about it. The sight of him—a towering, glowering man gripping an amorphous mass of dog hair—tested her ability to maintain a straight face.

“He was here just a few hours ago. What makes you think he’s moved in?” Her momentary alarm fading into giddy relief, she sagged against the broad white planks of the building and lifted one eyebrow for effect. “Brought his suitcase, did he?”

Logan snorted. “He likes garbage. He chases seagulls.” Glaring at the dog’s damp, unclipped coat bristling with twigs, leaves and pine needles, he added, “He belongs at your house.”

“He would have come home eventually.”

“Have you ever spent an hour listening to irate seagulls?”

“You could have told him no.”

“He thinks it means bark louder. Keep him at home, Ms. Worth. I don’t like this dog. He doesn’t like me.”

Logan put the dog on the ground and crossed his arms. Gilbert obediently sat. His innocent gaze fastened on a distant object, he began sidling back toward Logan’s legs, his front paws moving inch by inch.

The most spunk the old poodle ever displayed was at dinnertime, when he escalated to a faster shuffle to reach his food. And now, like an oversize gray mop, he was lying upside down across Logan’s shoes. A limp, pink dishrag of a tongue hung out one side of his mouth. “I can see he’s quite a fireball.”

Logan cleared his throat and gave Gilbert a pained look. “He was a lot more...energetic at my place.”

Claire nodded gravely. “I’m sure. How did you get him back here?”

“I tried to lead him. He planted his rear on the ground and wouldn’t move. I tried to bring him back in my car. He wouldn’t get in.”

She remembered all too well the battle Gilbert waged over getting into her van in Minneapolis. She’d had to make a fast trip to a discount store to buy a portable pet carrier. “So you—”

“I carried him.”

Claire grinned. Laughter bubbled up her throat. Jason had told her about the tortuous path leading to Logan’s house—over a quarter mile of boulders, brambles, steep climbs and narrow ledges. The man was nothing if not determined. He might deserve every sore muscle he’d have tomorrow, but for some inexplicable reason she wanted to give him a hug.

“Look,” Logan continued, giving her a narrowed look. “I’ve been thinking about the conversation we had a few days ago.” He reached down to pry several prickly strands of bramble vine from his faded jeans. “We don’t need to be adversaries. All I want is a chance to buy back my family land.”

Claire’s smile faded. “I’m sorry, but—”

“Wait. Just listen.” Logan reached out and touched her arm, but withdrew his hand as if he’d touched something hot. “I’ve talked to a couple of Realtors up here. I’ll give you fifty percent over the appraised value of the land. You could stay in the house until spring, rent-free. And you can let the cabins go empty.”

“What?” Claire stared at him. He was offering more than the land was worth, being too reasonable. He must want it really badly.

“Fifty percent above the value,” Logan repeated. “For that you could buy another resort in better condition, if you’re set on this kind of life.”

Claire’s thoughts raced. Her recent frustrations were almost enough to make her agree. The money would be good. She could begin an easier life for her new family in another place far from New York. But trusting Logan Matthews would be as foolish as trying to swim across Lake Superior in November. And, as she swept her gaze across the sapphire and diamond waves on the lake and the cozy cabins lining the shore, she realized she couldn’t walk away from Pine Cliff. “This land was Brooke’s.”

“She got half of the property that had been in my family for generations,” Logan countered. “Yet she hated being up here, and she never set foot on the place after our divorce. She hired a manager and left before the ink was dry on our settlement.”

“You make it sound like she came out like a bandit.”

“Didn’t she?”

We all paid dearly. A sense of loss flooded through her as Claire remembered their father’s shock over Brooke’s impetuous marriage after dating Logan less than six months, and his anger when Brooke came to him for help in ending it six months later. After a sudden rebound marriage, she completely broke off all contact with the family. Without that first ill-starred marriage, perhaps everything would have been very different.

Claire gave him a determined smile. “Like I told you, this is a great place to raise the kids. It’s also now my sole source of income.”

Logan’s expression darkened. A telltale muscle in his cheek jerked. “Okay, how about you manage this place until next spring? Keep it open—earn a salary. Not that there’s much business over the winter. And you’d still have the money from selling. How could you do better?”

By owning it myself. If the stories were true, this man had married her late sister to get at the family money, yet hadn’t honored his wedding vows. Even if Claire were broke and desperate, loyalty to Brooke precluded the possibility of selling the property back to him.

“I won’t uproot the children again. Not now, not next year.” She drew herself up to her full height. “They need a permanent home, and this place is safe and secure. Losing their—”

“Hey, Miz Worth?” the grizzled handyman called out as he rounded the far corner with a piece of black hose in his hand. “Thought I heard someone back here.”

“Did you find the problem?”

“You got any enemies?”

Logan studied her with intense interest. “Well, do you, Claire?” he murmured.

His voice vibrated across her skin. She felt the hairs rise at the back of her neck, sensed the sudden tension and heat of Logan’s body, just inches from her own. His long, tanned fingers flexed at his sides. Enemies? Only you, Logan.

“None I can think of,” she shouted to Fred. “Why?”

As the old man got closer, he held up the length of hose. “This was cut clean in two. And this wasn’t no accident, Miz Worth.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE VOICE SOUNDED familiar. Logan turned around and stared in disbelief. Fred Lundegaard, in all likelihood wearing the same set of tattered overalls he’d worn fourteen years before, stared back at him with equal surprise.

The moment of stunned silence broke when Fred’s face lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning. “I heard you were back, boy!”

Fred dropped the length of hose and strode forward, his arthritic gait less steady than in years past. His craggy features had blurred a little, as if he’d softened with age.

Logan met him halfway and extended his hand. Brushing aside the offer, Fred gave Logan a bear hug followed by a couple of bone-jarring slaps on the back.

“I knew you’d be back someday. I knew it,” Fred chortled, stepped back to give Logan a once-over. “About time.”

“Too long,” Logan agreed, feeling his face shift into the unfamiliar contortions of a real smile.

Claire joined them and looked from one to the other, clearly mystified. “Old friends?” she asked, tucking a blond curl behind her ear.

In jeans and a soft pink sweater that molded to every curve and plane from neck to ankles, she could be mistaken for a college student. But her cool voice was that of a person accustomed to being in charge. A surprising and all-too-interesting combination, Logan decided.

“This boy tagged along behind me when he could hardly reach my knees.” Smiling broadly, Fred looked at Claire over the top of his wire-rims. “His grandma owned this place, you know.”

“So he says. You worked here?”

“Twenty-three years for Sadie, and after she passed on, six months for Logan and Brooke when they took over. Clear up through their divorce—” Fred shot a quick glance at Logan and cleared his throat, then suddenly became absorbed in an all-out search through his grease-darkened pockets. Finally withdrawing a round metal tin, he turned away to slip a wad of tobacco inside his cheek.

Old Fred had seen and heard it all, Logan thought wryly. Every step of the biggest mistake Logan had ever made. Hopefully, Fred had forgotten the details—or had sense enough to pretend he had.

“Yep, that Brooke was one crazy woman,” Fred continued. “She—”

With a sharp, dismissive wave of her hand and a look that could have melted granite, Claire broke in. “What were you saying about enemies?”

Logan had no doubt that the Worth family had collected its share over the years. He walked over to where Fred had dropped the hose and picked it up. Running a finger along each edge, he walked back and handed it to her. “Sharp knife, I’d guess. Doesn’t look like the act of a friendly person to me.”

Staring at the stiff black plastic in her hands, her eyes widened. “But, why? I don’t even know anyone up here.”

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