brain until they filled up every nook and cranny. And for the first time in a very long time, Hannah felt a spark of...something come to life in her. Excitement? Joy? She couldn’t say. But what Hannah did know was that she had to get out of her mother’s office before she began spouting more detailed orders where Tammy was concerned.
“I’ll go to Little Haven,” Hannah suddenly blurted, taking a backward step toward the door leading out of the room. “I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry.”
“well...”
Not waiting for Hillary to finish, Hannah turned away.
“...if you get into trouble, call me.”
Hillary’s words caused Hannah’s jaw to tense, her eyes to roll heavenward, and she was relieved that her unwitting reaction would go unobserved. Her mother’s concern always came with the precursor if you get into trouble. What Hannah heard in her mother’s words was, Don’t bother me unless it’s absolutely necessary.
However, Hannah actually felt grateful for her mother’s standoffish parental technique. It was that very same aloof child-rearing method that had forced Hannah to become the independent, self-sufficient woman she was.
“And, Hannah, I don’t want you—”
“I said I’ll take care of everything,” Hannah called over her shoulder, and knowing full well what her mother had been about to say, she let the door whisper shut between them with a firm click.
As Hannah headed down the hall toward the bank of elevators, she felt the spark of excitement flicker and grow into a full-fledged flame. Tammy. She was going to Little Haven to find out about Tammy. And if it was at all possible, Hannah planned to stop in for a nice, long visit.
Hillary would be mortified when she found out. Hannah was certain her mother had been about to order her not to see Tammy. However, she knew her recent assessment of the situation was correct—turning a blind eye was no longer the answer. Now that Tammy no longer had Bobby Ray, she would need someone.
Come hell or high water, Hannah intended to reacquaint herself with Tammy. And if possible, she was going to become the someone on whom her sister could depend.
Chapter One
Her car jostled and bumped as Hannah drove along the rutted dirt lane that led to her childhood home. Lush vegetation blocked the sunlight and cooled the dusty summer air. The jittering in the pit of her stomach wasn’t strong enough to be described as a full-fledged case of butterflies; however, anxiety tweaked at her enough to let her know it could easily get to that point.
She couldn’t put a name to the myriad emotions she was feeling. The memories she had of this wooded place, of the big, rambling house sitting at the end of the lane were fuzzy, like out-of-focus snapshots.
When she thought of Bobby Ray—her father, she silently reminded herself—shadowy images flashed before her mind’s eye. A tall, gentle figure. A wide and loving smile. A laugh that was as warm and lazy as a sunny Sunday afternoon. Well ... she thought she recalled a rich and warm laugh, but for the life of her she couldn’t seem to summon the sound of it at the moment. And she couldn’t recall what he looked like, either.
The love she had felt for him as a child had been overwhelming, absolutely heart-wrenching in intensity. However, she knew the memory of the love she’d felt for Bobby Ray ... for her father ... was twisted and knotted up in the pain and anguish she’d felt when she’d been whisked away from Little Haven, whisked away from her beloved daddy.
Stop it, Hannah! a sensible voice inside her head demanded. Just shut the door on all that. If you don’t, you’ll get swallowed up in self-pity, lost in the painful past, and you don’t have time for that. There are too many things that need to be taken care of.
“Think about the house.” She whispered the words aloud, as her wheels bounced over yet another rut in the dirt lane.
Shoving aside the confusing chaos of emotions conjured by memories of her father, she envisioned the house and smiled. Her childhood home was remembered as a huge dollhouse complete with a wraparound porch and fancy gingerbread trim. Over the years she hadn’t allowed herself to think about it often, but when she had, her heart never failed to swell with joyful warmth. Memories of being home with Daddy in the rambling house were her refuge during the lonely times of growing up without him, the times when nothing seemed to dull the ache of missing her father. The house in her head was glowing and beautiful and just waiting to envelope her in—
Just then she drove into a clearing, and the house came into view.
Hannah gasped, her eyes widening in shock as she brought the car to a halt.
Blinking several times, she just stared. The glowing, beautiful house in her memory was in reality a shabby, dilapidated building, its paint peeling, the shrubbery overgrown to the point that the first-floor, windows were obscured from view. One corner of the wraparound porch drooped noticeably. The Victorian house looked tired, just plain worn-out.
She sagged against the back of the seat. It looked as if her father hadn’t lifted a fingers over the years to keep the house in good repair. How could he allow his home to fall into such a state? Hannah sighed, knowing she’d probably never discover the answer to that question.
Tufts of tall grass snagged the heels of her shoes as she exited the car. She shut the door and was immediately greeted by the fattest cat she’d ever seen.
“Hello, there,” she crooned as it brushed its orange fur against her calf. But when she bent to pet it, the cat raced off toward the thick trees. Hannah straightened and lifted her gaze to the house.
All at once, she became aware of just how odd the scene looked. A big Victorian house sitting in the middle of the woods. One would think a better choice would have been a log cabin or a sensible A-frame. However—
Hannah paused, her head cocking at the sound of hammering coming from nearby. She frowned, wondering where it was coming from. She hadn’t seen a house for at least a mile as she drove up the main road. But then, she guessed there could be other houses hidden among the trees, just like her father’s was.
There was a pause in the hammering. Then it started again. The sound was closer than she first realized. Very close.
The tall grass made walking across the yard difficult in her high heels, but she eventually made her way around to the back. By the time she got there, however, the hammering had once again stopped. She looked around, even scanned the line of thick trees at the edge of the woods.
When her gaze swung back to the house, a movement caught her attention. She looked up toward the roof.
Sunlight glinted golden off tanned skin stretched taut across a broad expanse of muscular back—bare, male muscular back. The man’s weight rested on one knee, the other leg bent, his foot planted on the roof for balance. He dipped his hand into his carpenter’s apron, where, Hannah guessed, he reached for more nails. In a flash he leaned over, positioned the nail on the roof shingle and raised the hammer in a short arc. His arm, shoulder and back muscles bunched tight, then stretched, bunched and stretched with every swing of the hammer. His movements were precise, strong and forceful, yet at the same time graceful. Almost beautiful. And his one-knee, bent-over stance was the perfect posture to show off his taut, jean-clad gluteus. The professional in Hannah refused to think of those tight muscles as anything other than what they were: the gluteus maximus.
