“I’m sorry about the barn, okay?” the little girl said. “I didn’t do anything bad. I didn’t start the fire. I was just reading in there.”
“I don’t think the fire was your fault, Jessie,” Mia told her. “It must have been an accident. Maybe electrical.”
“Uh-uh. A man started it.”
“What?”
The little girl trembled. “A really big man drove a truck into the barn. He got out and poured something stinky on the hay. Then he threw matches on it. He said, ‘This ought to scare her.’ Then he laughed and left. Do you think he meant me? To scare me?”
He didn’t mean Jessie. He meant Mia. This was what the letter had warned her about. But who was this man?
“Jessie,” Ryan called from the open doors. “Are you sure that’s what you saw?”
“Uncle Ryan.” Jessie’s voice held relief. She charged into his arms.
Mia sat up, and her eyes connected with Ryan’s troubled gaze. He pulled Jessie tighter and stared at Mia with the implication of Jessie’s words stamped on his face.
The fire was no accident.
SUSAN SLEEMAN
grew up in a small Wisconsin town where she spent her summers reading Nancy Drew and developing a love of mystery and suspense books. Today she channels this enthusiasm into hosting the popular Internet Web site TheSuspenseZone.com and writing romantic suspense and mystery novels.
Much to her husband’s chagrin, Susan loves to look at everyday situations and turn them into murder and mayhem scenarios for future novels. If you’ve met Susan, she has probably figured out a plausible way to kill you and get away with it.
Susan currently lives in Florida, but has had the pleasure of living in nine states. Her husband is a church music director and they have two beautiful daughters, a very special son-in-law and an adorable grandson. To learn more about Susan, please visit SusanSleeman.com.
High-Stakes Inheritance
Susan Sleeman
Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding.
—Proverbs 3:5
For my husband, Mark, who always believes in and encourages me to write, for Emma whose grasp of proper grammar has helped me more times than I can count, and for Erin, whose graphic design skills are priceless.
Acknowledgments
This book couldn’t have been written without the help of others.
Thank you to fellow writers and all-around terrific friends, Sandra Robbins, Janelle Mowery, Elizabeth Ludwig and Marcia Gruver for sharing their writing expertise, thoughtful critiques and wise advice.
To Tina James, editor extraordinaire, thank you for selecting this manuscript and giving me a chance to tell this story. I am thrilled to be working with and learning from you.
For technical details, I give credit to the professionals who shared their time, patiently answering all my questions. Any errors in or liberties taken with the details are solely my doing.
Thank you to Taylor Woods, Program Supervisor/Recruiter for SUWS of the Carolinas, for sharing his expertise in wilderness counseling programs.
To Lieutenant Shaun McNally, Richlandtown Fire Co. #1, who gave of his time to help me understand the complexity of fighting fires, I say a special thanks.
And most importantly, thank You, God, for my faith and for putting seemingly insurmountable challenges in my life to allow me to know without a doubt who is in charge of my life.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
LETTER TO READER
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
ONE
Pinetree will never be yours. Leave Logan Lake now or you will pay.
Mia Blackburn stared at the cutout magazine letters glued to stark white paper.
Was this some kind of a joke? Did someone really plan to hurt her for honoring her late uncle’s wishes? To meet the terms of his will, she had agreed to live at Pinetree for the next year in order to inherit the resort. Yet nothing about the idyllic Oregon setting and worn cabins would garner this kind of threat.
With trembling hands, she flipped the envelope and searched for clues. The hate mail held a postmark from three days ago right here in the Logan Lake Post Office.
She rubbed a finger over the neat rows of shiny magazine letters. Anger seemed to leap from the page.
Her mouth went dry, and her throat tightened, nearly cutting off her air.
Only one person harbored such bitter feelings for her. Her father. And knowing him, he’d lurk in the shadows to see her reaction to his threat.
The space seemed to darken with her thoughts.
Was he here, in the room watching her? Or would he be outside on Main Street, sitting in his Cadillac, drumming his fingers on the wheel as he did whenever he grew impatient?
The
