the end of the hall was an open staircase, leading to a massive downstairs area. It was a lot to take in, in a single visual gulp. A round fireplace dominated the center of the room. Furnishings splashed around that—couches, giant chairs, an oak table polished to the gleam of glass. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed mountain views on all sides, as if the house had fallen from the sky and had been plunked down in the middle of rugged, wild hills.
The place was breathtaking, yet Carolina wrapped her arms around her chest as she tiptoed downstairs. As luxurious and unique as the lodge was, it was also—for her—bizarre.
She was happy to escape the cage her life had turned into, but that still didn’t remotely make this situation right. She’d been rested, fed, cleaned up, but now she needed serious answers. A frame for this picture that someone had put her in.
She saw no sign of Maguire. But once she reached the last stair, she realized there was another wing of rooms off to the east. He’d mentioned there was an office or library with books somewhere, but she figured she’d explore that direction later.
For now, the open downstairs captured her attention. Her bare feet sank into thick, soft green carpet. Morning sunlight flushed the room with light. A squirrel scampered along a door ledge. A bevy of goofy-looking quail pecked in the yard, making her smile. It wasn’t as if the craziness in her life had disappeared, only that she’d almost forgotten what it was like to have simple moments, enjoying life and sunlight and the easy pleasure of natural things like watching a silly squirrel.
But then a photo snared her attention. Two pictures were framed on the lamp table, but only one of them instantly riveted her attention. She bent down to get a better look.
The small child in the photo was barely a toddler. He was outside—the same yard Carolina could see from the window—running in his pajamas, giggling, joy in his big eyes, his face. Someone was chasing him, causing all the laughter, the fun. The camera had just captured that moment, of a delightfully happy boy with taffy hair and pudgy fingers and unrestrained glee.
Carolina picked up the photograph with trembling fingers.
She knew the child. Tommy. It had to be Tommy.
Her eyes welled with tears. She couldn’t seem to help making a keening sound … and then realized, for the first time in ages, she’d not only made that helpless sound of affection and sorrow.
But she’d heard it. Heard her own voice.
Her hearing had finally returned.
Although Maguire never heard her walking around, some sixth sense triggered an awareness that Carolina had come downstairs. He severed the phone call and crossed the office to the door.
There she was, in the living area. Her hair fluffed around her cheeks, about as tame as gossamer, and the long robe swam on her slim frame. She was barefoot, holding Tommy’s photo in her hand.
He saw the tears in her eyes. The emotion. The vulnerability.
“Hey,” he said with alarm. But then remembered, of course, that she couldn’t hear.
On the other side of the lamp was another photo. He grabbed it, showed her. In the picture, Tommy was a little older, but not so big that Maguire couldn’t easily carry him around on his shoulders. Maybe they didn’t look physically alike, and Maguire was certainly a lot older, but the photo should have showed her their relationship. He loved Tommy. He was as crazy about his half brother as Tommy had always been about him. They may have had different mothers, but they were unmistakably kin.
She saw. “So that’s how you knew about me?” she asked. “Because of Tommy? Because you’re part of Tommy’s family?”
He nodded. Eventually that answer would undoubtedly raise more questions for her than it revealed … but it was still a punch of information that mattered. Her shoulders lost some of that stiff wariness.
It was a beginning.
Rather than grab the netbook and trying to typetalk to her, he figured he’d see how far they could get with sign language for a while. Would she like to go outside? Walk? He brought sweatpants and a sweatshirt for her to wear, boots she could pad up with thick wool socks, a jacket of his.
Initially she seemed to hesitate, but she shot such a longing look at the outside that he knew she was sold on the idea. It only took her a few minutes to take the makeshift clothes into the bathroom and emerge, looking like a homeless waif—but definitely a waif up for an adventure. The doctors had warned him that she needed serious rest and no exertion, but Maguire had to believe a little fresh air and sunshine would do her good.
Their first step outside, and he heard her chuckle, and saw how a natural smile transformed her face. Quail had hung out on the property for years, and this particular community of twenty-five or so looked exactly like what they were. Doofuses. Bobbing doofuses. They followed the leader, even when the leader was clumsy enough to trip on a rock and lead them through puddles.
A sassy wind blushed Carolina’s cheeks, combed wildly through her hair. He grabbed her hand, climbing over a tall rock through the pines. Her eyes shot to his at the physical contact, but she didn’t object.
A quarter-mile hike through pines led to a cliff edge. It wasn’t the best view, just a pretty vista—the mountains were getting a drench of snow in the distance, with a sunlit valley just below, salted with grazing deer.
Abruptly, though, he realized that he was still holding her hand, that they were standing hip-bumping close. His pulse gave an uneasy buck. The view was nice, but the way she looked at him, you’d have thought he’d given her gold.
He wanted—needed—Carolina to believe she could trust him, but those soft eyes conveyed something else. Something more. Something … worrisome.
Swiftly he dropped her hand. “Okay, Cee. That’s enough exercise for today. The more fresh air for you, the better, but I think we’d better build up to it.”
He forgot. She couldn’t hear. But she seemed to respond to his intention, because she turned when he did, headed back down the trail. The last dozen yards, her face seemed to lose that wind-brushed color, and her eyes got that glazed, exhausted look again. He wanted to scoop an arm around her, but stopped himself just in time.
At the back door, he mouthed, “Nap for you,” which provoked an immediate negative response. She shook her head frantically.
“No, Maguire. This is all too crazy. I need to know what’s going on. Especially since I saw the picture of Tommy—”
Yeah, well. He was more than willing to talk with her, but first he had to get things back on the right footing. He got her inside, did the bossy domineering thing, yanking off her boots, settling her on the couch with a pillow and comforter, giving her a pad of paper so she could start working on those lists, then he got out of her way. His excuse for disappearing into the kitchen area was that he was making cocoa.
That turned out to be unnecessary. By the time he returned with a steaming mug of cocoa, brimming with melting marshmallows, she’d fallen asleep again.
He felt his stomach declench, his shoulder muscles loosen up. He’d made too much of that “look.” Everything was fine. She needed to see him as a leader or a benevolent caretaker or someone who’d taken control of their situation. Actually, he didn’t much care what label she gave him, or what she thought of him—as long as she didn’t mistake him
