had to admire them for that.
Megan actually owned the house due to some convoluted inheritance from her grandmother—the woman Patrick Windom had married three months after Mary Sloan ran away from him and married Sonny Herriot, thus becoming his grandmother.
Now there was a tangled web, indeed. As far as he knew, no one had ever really known what had caused her flight.
“Are you all packed?” he asked his mother, trying to change the direction of his own thoughts.
“Yes,” she said in a happier tone. “I’m not sure whether I’m growing more excited as the trip draws closer or more apprehensive. I keep thinking of a million things I should do here before I leave in the morning.”
He laughed. “You’ve left a list of to-do’s that will keep me busy for the next two years. Enjoy your vacation. You’ve earned it.”
She finished her nightcap and stood. “I can’t wait to see all the plays I’ve read about. I need to get to bed if I’m going to be fresh in the morning for the trip.”
After she kissed him on the cheek and left, Kyle turned back to the house across the lake, his mood dark and thoughtful. Perhaps while his mother was on the month-long New York trip with a friend he would unravel some of the mystery surrounding his father’s death.
With old man Windom’s death back in March, there’d be no one to object if he nosed around on their side of the lake. Since he would have some time to himself, without having to worry about his mother’s feelings, this would be the perfect opportunity to check out the sailing yacht that had never been brought to the surface.
Hmm, how hard would it be to bring it up?
That was something he could look into. Going to his office, he flipped on the computer, then went on the Net with instructions for the search engine to find information on boat salvaging.
Three hours later, he had most of the salient facts. Now all he needed was a bit of luck. And no interference from the ranch across the way.
Why should Megan object? The sailboat was abandoned. The insurance company had paid off and left the yacht on the bottom of the lake. According to what he’d read, it belonged to anyone who could bring it up. That’s exactly what he wanted to do.
Climbing into bed in the wee hours of the morning, he heard the wind pick up, blowing down the mountain into the long valley of ranches and summer homes to the tiny town tucked into the far end. From across the lake came the sound of the ravens, crying out harshly from the cottonwoods by the creek.
There was a legend about the cawing of the ravens, something about true love going awry. But then, legends were always about lost loves or lost treasures or both.
He idly wondered if his grandmother had regretted her rash marriage to his grandfather and had wished she’d made up with Megan’s grandfather. He knew his mother had never gotten over the hurt and humiliation of his father’s being with another woman when he died, the two of them alone when the sailboat went down.
Or was scuttled.
He considered the possibility. Would an examination reveal what had really happened that day in June fifteen years ago? Or would it increase the mystery?
Tongues would wag if word got out about what he was doing, or attempting to do. While the site was at the other end of the lake, his neighbor across the way might get suspicious if she saw him going that way regularly, especially since he’d need to bring a compressor and a hundred feet of hose with him if he decided there was a chance of raising the yacht.
One comforting thought—it wouldn’t be as difficult as raising the Titanic. He gave a cynical snort of laughter.
In his room, stripped and ready to climb between the sheets, he paused at the window, drawn again to the lake and the house on the hill beyond. Bathed in moonlight, the scene looked eerie and surreal, the house a gothic mansion of mystery and danger.
His body stirred as it had while he held Megan in his arms during the one dance they had shared. A horse trainer and breeder, she was slender, strong and lithe as a willow twig. The small calluses on her palms at the base of each finger said she was no stranger to work. He liked that in a person, man or woman.
Her hair was light auburn with lots of sun streaks, all acquired naturally. She had a few freckles on her nose. Her eyes were a mossy green outlined with charcoal gray, as inviting to a man as a patch of shade in a hidden glen.
Hunger pinged through him, reminding him of the feel of her in his arms—all bright warmth and feminine delight, enough to tempt a man into foolishness. He’d been surprised at the strength of the hunger she’d aroused. With an effort, he brought his thoughts and libido under control.
The expression in the verdant depths of her eyes had bothered him. Her smile had been forced. Something was definitely bothering the last single Windom cousin.
Perhaps she was jealous that Shannon had snagged Rory Daniels instead of her. After all, the vet was her business partner in the breeding program. And Rory was “drop-dead gorgeous,” according to all the women in the county.
Kyle was suddenly glad his old friend was safely married and out of the way. With a curse, he turned his back on the night scene and hurried to bed. He had no designs on Megan Windom. After all, they were mortal enemies.
That was a bit over-dramatic, but their grandfathers had definitely been enemies. He wasn’t sure what had happened between their parents; however, he was positive his father hadn’t been carrying on with another woman. It just wasn’t in the man’s makeup to be deceptive.
Or was he viewing the world through the rose-colored lens of youth? His own life had been happy and confident before the accident and underscored with bitterness and questions afterward.
What had happened that day on the lake? It was something he’d like to find out.
Megan woke to a chorus of chirrups just as the sun came over the far eastern peak. Snuggled under the comforter, she stayed in the warm bed and let her mind drift aimlessly.
No matter how warm the day, when night fell in the mountains, the temperature dropped into the chilly zone, sometimes near freezing. She’d always loved that early-morning crispness.
But today she was tired. Five hours of sleep hadn’t been enough to restore her body. Or her spirits, she admitted as a fresh wave of melancholy rolled over her.
However, Monday was a busy day. She had riding classes late that afternoon, plus the usual chores of feeding the stock and checking them over for parasites and pinkeye.
She threw the covers back. Only one way to deal with low spirits, she’d found. Get up and get busy!
After a breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, cherry tomatoes and cantaloupe, she took an insulated mug of coffee to the barn with her. She was just in time.
The mare lay in the straw, her sides heaving in and out like a bellows in a blacksmith shop. Her water burst and spewed a geyser of salty fluid over the straw. The tiny hooves of the forefeet appeared.
Good. No breech birth to worry about. She wouldn’t have to call out her partner and the local vet, Rory, who was now on the first day of his honeymoon. Although he and Shannon had decided not to travel, Megan would have felt
