tight and dead bolted. He let the rusted screen door squeak loudly shut, then moved to the front windows. They were latched, as well.
Damn.
I’ll leave the front door open, his sister, Cara, had told him earlier. If you can work up a rough list of necessary repairs and meet me at the tavern tonight, I’ll make dinner next Sunday, your choice.
Since most of Gabe’s bachelor-pad dinners were takeout, microwaved or sandwiches from his brother Reese’s tavern in town, the idea of a home-cooked meal was entirely too tempting to pass up. His mouth was already watering from the menu he’d picked out: A big, juicy roast, fluffy mashed potatoes smothered in butter and hot gravy, melt-in-your-mouth biscuits like their mom used to make every Sunday. And then Cara’s supreme specialty—apple pie.
Inspired by the image of food, Gabe hurried around to the back of the house, made a mental note to check the overhead door on the detached garage. He didn’t even think that Mildred Witherspoon—the home’s now deceased owner—had a car, so Gabe assumed that the garage door would also be in need of maintenance.
Behind the garage, cornfields leased out and tended by a neighboring farmer rustled in the chilly night breeze, and Gabe paused for a moment to listen to the calming sound. He and his brothers had played in the cornfields by their house when they were kids; hide-and-seek, soldier, cowboys and Indians. When he was twelve, he’d kissed Linda Green in those cornfields. Linda was married with three kids now.
Smiling, Gabe shook his head at the memory, then jumped up the steps of the back porch and tried the door. It was locked, as well. And dead bolted.
So were all the windows on the bottom floor.
Strange.
Gabe frowned. Mildred Witherspoon certainly had believed in sturdy locks. Which was odd, because very few people in Bloomfield County ever locked their doors. Crime was practically nonexistent in the quiet town, unless you counted jaywalking or an occasional speeding ticket on the open highway crime.
Or panty-raids, Gabe thought with a smile.
But Mildred would definitely have been safe from that infraction of the law. She’d been ninety-two when she quietly passed away in her sleep two weeks ago. A stoic, straitlaced woman whose manner was as Victorian as her house. When Mildred’s lawyer had read her will, it had been a surprise to everyone when they learned that the elderly woman had left her farmhouse and all of its contents to the Killian Shawnessy Foundation, an organization to help women in need. Cara was vice president of the foundation, her husband, Killian Shawnessy, was president.
The funds from the sale of the house and its contents would be well-used by the organization. Gabe had already promised a donation of labor from Sinclair Construction, the now five-year-old construction company that he and Callan and Lucian were partners in, but Cara needed some figures ASAP on the cost of materials for repairs.
So here he was, standing in the dark, hands in his pockets, locked out.
He looked up at the second-story windows.
The Sinclairs never gave up without a fight. They thrived on challenges, laughed in the face of adversity. And we’re talking apple pie here, folks, Gabe thought with a fresh burst of determination. Cara’s apple pie was definitely worth a few scrapes and bruises.
Muttering curses, Gabe climbed the front porch railing, held his breath at the crack of wood, then grabbed hold of the edge of the porch roof. With a grunt, he pulled himself up and crawled carefully to a second-story window where he yanked on the weathered screen. It held tight. He yanked harder. When it came loose, it slammed into his face and sliced across his cheek. He swore hotly and tossed the screen aside, then reached for the window.
It was open.
With a shout of male victory, he climbed through the open window into what appeared to be a large bedroom. In the darkness, he could almost make out a four-poster bed and a nightstand with a lamp on it. The room was musty, but Gabe also caught the faint scent of something feminine and floral. Probably sachet or potpourri, he thought, though this scent was much more pleasant than the frilly lace balls that Sheila Harper, his last girlfriend, had tucked into every drawer and closet of her house. When she’d asked him to move in with her, all he could think about was his shirts and socks smelling like a damn perfume counter. Knowing that Sheila was looking for much more than a roommate, Gabe had cooled that relationship faster than she could say “wedding ring.”
Not that he was against marriage. As long as it was someone else who did the marrying. His brother Callan had recently succumbed to the institution of matrimony, and his sister, Cara, had also gotten married a few months before Callan. The family was steadily growing, and he had no doubt that soon they’d be hearing the patter of little feet.
But Gabe was perfectly content with his life just as it was: single, no complications. Free as a bird. Socks and T-shirts that smelled like detergent, not flowers, thank you very much. And he was also content for the patter of little feet to be nieces and nephews. In fact, he looked forward to it.
He was reaching for the lamp’s switch when he heard the squeak of floorboards in the hallway outside the bedroom. He froze, then slowly turned toward the door and listened.
Footsteps?
The house was quiet around him; the only sound was the hoot of an owl from the trees outside. He waited, but there was only silence. Shaking his head, he turned back to the lamp.
And stopped.
There it was again. Not as loud as before, but he heard it clearly—the unmistakable creak of a wood floor. Then another.
The house was supposed to be empty. Mildred Witherspoon had lived alone, she’d had no children and had never been married. Her lawyer had searched for family members following the reading of the will, just in case some long-lost nephew or cousin had suddenly turned up, crying their eyes out over poor old Aunt Mildred, who they were certain wanted to leave them all her earthly possessions.
But the search had turned up nothing, and it seemed that Miss Witherspoon had indeed been completely alone. Which meant that if someone was in the house, they most certainly didn’t belong here.
He moved soundlessly toward the closed bedroom door, opened it carefully.
Squeak. Quiet. Squeak. Quiet.
They moved slowly down the stairs.
“Whoever you are,” Gabe said firmly, and his voice echoed in the house, “stop right where you are.”
The house went absolutely still, as if it had stopped breathing. Then the footsteps resumed, only this time at a run.
Dammit.
Gabe dashed into the dark hallway, made out the dim outline of the stairs to the left and ran toward them. He reached the top of the landing at the same instant his quarry hit the bottom. Gabe barely caught a glimpse of the intruder before he disappeared around the corner.
“Dammit, stop!”
Stumbling and cursing, he took the stairs three at a time, hit the bottom and rounded the corner into the dining room.
And stopped short when a fist slammed into his gut.
The punch lacked power, but the surprise took his breath away. His assailant had already
