wasn’t giving an inch. Instinctively suspicious, he was probably wondering why she didn’t want him staying at the inn. “Do you have a room?” he asked Harriet gently.
She nodded, clutching her shirt. She favored cotton button-down shirts and skirts or jumpers, sensible shoes. She didn’t dye her graying, mousy brown hair, just kept it parted in the middle and pulled back, occasionally pinned up. “Yes, yes, of course. I’ll freshen it up myself. We’ve had reporters here the past two nights…” She took a breath, steadying herself. “But they’ve all left now that Penelope changed her story.”
“Well,” Wyatt said, “I won’t be leaving for a while.”
Penelope thumped down the jar. “What do you mean, a while? A while could be a week. There’s no reason—”
“I came all this way, I might as well check out the land my family owns.” He glanced at Penelope, his dark eyes unreadable, his mouth neutral, neither smiling nor unsmiling. She had no doubt—not one—that he knew he was getting under her skin. “I’ve never seen it.”
She was beside herself. “It looks like all the other land around here. Steep hills. Trees. Rocks. Brooks. Stone walls.”
“Turn-of-the-century dumps,” he added without detectable sarcasm. Unmoved by her protest, he turned to Harriet. “I’d like to reserve a room for three nights, perhaps longer.”
“As long as you wish, Mr. Sinclair. This is our slow time.”
“I rode with your cousin from the airport. I’ll check in after I’ve picked up my car.”
“You can check in whenever you want.”
He smiled, laying on the charm. “Thank you, Miss Chestnut.”
“My pleasure. Penelope—”
“I’ll talk to you later, Harriet. The scones were spectacular today, as usual.”
Penelope had no intention of chitchatting with her cousin. Couldn’t she tell she wanted Wyatt Sinclair out of town? Not Harriet. There was a simple reason she could deal with the public with such genuine good cheer—Harriet was oblivious to the undercurrents between people. She took them at face value, and that was that. Which was why she’d missed Penelope’s frustration with Sinclair, the phoniness of his charm and how much he was enjoying thwarting her. If she was going to stick to her story, he could at least do something she didn’t want him to do. Jerk her chain. Rattle her.
As if the black leather jacket and the strong, lean build weren’t enough, Penelope thought grimly.
She started for the door, assuming Sinclair would follow. To her relief, he did. She glanced at Harriet. “Oh, and if Mother calls, I’d like to tell her myself I’ve been grounded, not that she won’t have heard it from half the town by now.”
“Your father already told her. She’s staying out of it.”
Just as Penelope had expected. If Robby Chestnut was anything, it was laissez faire when it came to her husband’s relationship with their daughter, especially if flying was involved.
Penelope charged through the door and into the chilly, damp air. She never should have picked the Sunrise Inn, except that during the crisis, thinking about Harriet’s scones had helped her stop berating herself for not properly preflighting her plane.
Her father’s plane, she amended, suddenly feeling quite grouchy.
When she finally had Wyatt Sinclair in her truck, she gripped the wheel and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day. And it showed no signs of improving.
“What’s the matter?” he asked mildly, knowing damned well he’d struck a nerve. “Is Harriet the crazy cousin who snuck out of the attic?”
“No, she’s the crazy cousin we should lock in the attic.” Penelope shook her head, debating how much she should tell Sinclair about her cousin before he spent the night under her roof. Tears rushed to her eyes. Damn. That was all she needed, to start crying. Harriet, Harriet. What am I going to do with you? She took one last look at the Sunrise Inn, shook her head and started the engine. “You knew I don’t want you staying there.”
“Why not?”
“Harriet’s—she’s—” This wasn’t going to be easy. “You’re the first Sinclair she’s ever met.”
“I’m the first Sinclair you’ve ever met. It hasn’t seemed to affect you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
She thrust her truck into gear and let out the clutch. “It’s not my place, but if you’re intent on sticking around town for a few days, you’ll find out anyway. If no one else tells you, Harriet will herself.” She exhaled slowly, refusing to imagine the results if that happened. Would Sinclair laugh hysterically? Threaten her? Call in the men in white jackets? “Look, she’s a sweet soul.”
“And?”
“Well, she thinks she’s one of you.”
Wyatt frowned. “You’re right. I don’t understand.”
Penelope bit her lower lip. “Harriet is convinced she’s Colt and Frannie’s long-lost daughter.”
Four
That was all Wyatt could get out of her. The plain, sweet-souled woman at the inn thought she was Colt and Frannie’s daughter. It was a harmless fantasy, no one believed it, end of story. Just like the turn-of-the-century dump was the end of that story.
He was beginning to think Cold Spring was one weird little town.
He headed for his car. The temperature had dropped noticeably, the sun long gone. Penelope had driven him to the airport, given him a tight-lipped smile and charged off in her truck.
“Sinclair—wait a second.”
It was Lyman Chestnut. He crossed the rutted lot at an unhurried pace, wiping his thick fingers with a black rag. Wyatt waited for him. His patience was at a low ebb. Tea, scones, lies—and those green eyes and flushed cheeks, sexy, challenging.
“Harriet called,” Lyman said. “Says you’re staying a night or two.”
“I might.”
“Penelope tell you her story?”
Wyatt noticed the careful wording. He nodded.
“She was in rough shape when she came out of the woods Sunday night. She was lost most of the afternoon. It was dark—we’d organized a search party and were just about to get started after her. She has a way of losing track of what she’s doing and getting herself in trouble. She’s been doing it since she was a little kid.”
He wiped his fingers on the rag, pretending to concentrate on the task. Wyatt could see he was frustrated, preoccupied, awkward. Having the daughter he had would have its ups and downs. “Mr. Chestnut—”
“Lyman.
