Kiss the Moon

“It’ll freeze overnight. Of course, it’ll be all mud again by noon.”

“What happens if you have to get out of here in a hurry?”

“I use my four-wheel drive.”

Wyatt paused, studying her. She wondered if she was pale, if she had a wild look in her eyes. He said, “May I come in?”

Just what she needed. “Sure. I’m a little out of breath from filling my wood box.”

He glanced past her into her front room. “Looks as if it’s plenty full.”

She raked a hand through her hair, ignoring the snarls, the bark chips. “I kind of just dropped the last two loads. I’m more tired than I thought.” Changing the subject was her only hope. “Have you eaten yet? I was just about to heat up some chili.”

Wyatt didn’t move. “Penelope, are you all right?”

“Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I be? Here, come inside before we let the cold air in.”

He came in without comment, and she shut the door behind him. The quiet thud made her heart skip. What if he’d sent her that instant message and now he’d come to see the results of his handiwork? Except he seemed more direct, more the type to tell her straight to her face that she’d lied.

You know what you’ve done wrong.

She didn’t know! Was it telling about the plane in the first place? Or changing her story? What was so wrong about trying to keep the spotlight off an old hermit and her crazy cousin? They were alive. Colt and Frannie weren’t.

But Colt’s family was, she reminded herself. She shook off the thought. The message was from a nut, someone intent on upsetting her after she’d dashed expectations of ending the mystery of what happened to Colt Sinclair and Frannie Beaudine. Well, mission accomplished. She was upset.

“I’ll fix your wood box,” Wyatt said, his gaze on her, narrowed, wary. “You can heat the chili.”

“Don’t feel obligated to stay.”

He smiled. “Already regretting your invitation?”

She didn’t know if his steadiness was a tactic to throw her off guard or if he was simply trying to be nice. Either way, she found his presence reassuring. Suddenly she could feel the warmth of the fire, and her breathing was less shallow. Wyatt got to work arranging the overflow logs still in the wood box. Penelope caught herself watching him, then quickly pulled open the refrigerator for the quart of chili her mother had given her yesterday. She scooped it into a bowl and heated it in the microwave while Wyatt continued his work.

“Did Harriet give you directions?” Penelope asked.

“Don’t skewer her, but, yes, she did.”

Her cousin would never give such directions to a guest she didn’t know, but if most people in Cold Spring demonized the Sinclairs, Harriet romanticized them. Penelope couldn’t blame her for telling Wyatt where she lived. She chopped onion and grated cheese, got out bowls and spoons, and when the microwave dinged, she put everything out on the table.

Wyatt had the wood box straightened, the extra logs neatly stacked in front of it. He joined her at the table. The hissing and crackling of the fire, the sudden darkness outside, the scratch of her chair on the floor all made her aware of how isolated she was, how far from any help if Wyatt Sinclair was a nastier son of a bitch than she thought he was. She was on her own with him.

“Was there something I could do for you?” she asked, keeping her tone formal and distant.

A darkness came into his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and she took a quick breath, realizing the multiple ways he could interpret her question. But he, too, maintained an outward level of formality. “I’d like you to tell me about your cousin and why she thinks she’s Colt and Frannie’s daughter. It’s not something she made up out of thin air, is it?”

Penelope shook her head. She sprinkled cheese on her steaming chili. She would have to tell him something. If she didn’t, he’d find another source, perhaps not one as devoted to Harriet as she was. “Not out of thin air. Out of a coincidence.”

“Tell me,” he said softly, not making it an order.

“My great-uncle and great-aunt adopted Harriet around the time Colt and Frannie disappeared. Uncle George was a minister here in town forever. He’s my grandfather’s younger brother—he’s almost eighty now. He and Aunt Rachel have retired to Florida.”

“Aren’t there adoption records, some way to disabuse your cousin of this notion?”

“It’s not that simple.” She tried the chili, which was spicy and packed with vegetables. Her mother did like her hot peppers. “Look, this is none of my business or yours. Harriet didn’t ask for any trouble.”

“I’ll be discreet.”

A Sinclair discreet. Penelope almost smiled. “What about your father’s investigator? Are you going to tell him?”

“Jack doesn’t report to me, I don’t report to him.”

“I suppose you’ll find out anyway. Everyone in town knows the story.” She paused, added chopped onion to her chili, saw that none of what she’d said so far had affected Wyatt’s appetite. She forced herself to think, examine her options. They weren’t good. “Okay. Uncle George found Harriet on the church doorstep about forty-eight hours into the search for Colt and Frannie’s plane. The doctors figure she was between six and eight weeks old. She was wearing a diaper and a sleeper, and she was wrapped in a blanket. She’d been placed in an apple basket.”

Wyatt straightened. “Good Lord.”

“I know. It’s right out of a Dickens novel.”

“There must have been an investigation—”

“A thorough one. The authorities didn’t find a thing, not a single clue as to who her biological parents were, who’d left her there. My aunt and uncle stepped in and adopted her. They were thrilled—they have an older son, but Aunt Rachel couldn’t have any more children after him.”

“They treated Harriet well?”

“They’re a wonderful family. They love her, and she loves them. That didn’t stop her, though, from creating this kooky fantasy.”

“I don’t know,” Wyatt said, “maybe it’s not so kooky.”

“It’s much more likely someone took advantage of the hoopla over the missing plane. Chances are she’s the result of some incestuous or otherwise illicit relationship. But it’s a lot more fun to be Colt Sinclair and Frannie Beaudine’s long-lost daughter.”

“The timing—”

“There’s a narrow window of opportunity. Say Harriet was six weeks old. The Piper Cub disappeared in mid-April. That would mean Frannie would have given birth around the first of March. Right?”