dark, uncompromising eyes.
Her gaze moved down, over strong cheekbones and a well-shaped nose. Along a square jaw and a chin possessed of an absolutely perfect masculine cleft. His clothing—a chocolate-brown sport coat, dark slacks and tooled boots—spoke quietly of money. Lynn knew who he was. Ross Garrison. Whitehorn’s new lawyer. Lynn had never actually met him, but she’d seen him around town. And her younger stepsister, Trish, was his secretary. Since Trish lived with Lynn, Lynn had heard all about him, in gushing, adoring detail.
Another gust of wind blew in. Lynn shivered. And found her voice. “Mr. Garrison, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Well, please. Come in. And let Sara close the door.”
He stepped into the classroom. Sara pulled the door shut. Lynn took her hand off the stack of papers and stood. Resisting the urge to smooth out her plain wool skirt, she moved around from behind the desk.
“I’m looking for Lynn Taylor,” the lawyer announced. “The woman at the office said—”
“You have the right room. I’m Lynn.”
He extended a large, tanned, beautifully shaped hand. At first she thought he wanted to shake. But no. He was holding a business card. She took it.
As the card changed hands, his gaze ran over her in a cursory fashion—and then went straight on by.
Lynn glanced down at the card. It was cream colored, of thick, linenlike stock, rich and rough textured under the pad of her thumb. His name was in gold ink: Ross Garrison, Attorney-at-Law. In smaller black print, in the lower left-hand corner, she saw the address and phone number of his law office on Center Street.
She looked up at him once more. He was still gazing past her—and scanning her classroom, as if inspecting it for flaws. Those dark, knowing eyes took in the chalkboards and the wall displays of alphabets and brightly colored numbers.
“An attractive setup,” he said.
“Thank you.” She waited for him to say why he’d come.
But he didn’t. Instead, he began prowling her room, scrutinizing the October calendar, with its border of black cats, witches’ hats and autumn leaves. He paused at the student storyboard, where the little booklets her students had made with such care and bound with bright yarn dangled from pushpins. Finally he stopped by the far wall, opposite her, and stared out over the study-group arrangement of the desks.
“Yes,” he said, rather officiously. “This is very good.”
Lynn turned to Sara, who was standing—silent for once, and rather wide-eyed—by the door. “Go on into the coat nook, honey, and put on that jacket. Get your pack, too. Make sure you’ve got your snack box and your art supplies. Your mom should be here any minute.”
Obediently, Sara trotted off toward the small anteroom, where the children hung up their coats and stored their personal belongings in individual cubbies.
Once Sara was gone, Lynn asked cautiously, “Is this…something about Trish?”
The lawyer left off examining her room and deigned to look at her again. There was nothing in his eyes. Not even a glimmer of interest at the mention of her sister’s name. This was somewhat bothersome to Lynn, as she knew that Trish had big plans for the man. Plans that included a white gown, a veil with a long train and a walk down the aisle of the Whitehorn Community Church.
“No,” he said. “This has nothing to do with my secretary. She’s your stepsister, isn’t she?”
Lynn gave him a tight, careful smile. “I can see you’ve done your homework.”
He shrugged. “Your sister likes to talk. I’ve heard all about you.” More, she guessed from his tone, than he’d wanted to know. “I’ve also heard a lot about your other stepsister, Arlene, and Arlene’s husband and their children. And about your stepmother. I believe her name is Jewel.” He looked weary. Trish’s prospects for marriage with this man looked dimmer by the second.
In fact, judging by his tone and his expression, Lynn couldn’t help wondering how long her sister would have her job. Trish wasn’t much of a typist. And if she talked about her personal life when she should have been working, her future with Ross Garrison, Attorney-at-Law, did not look especially secure.
Lynn suppressed a sigh. “Well, if you’re not here about my sister, then why are you here?”
He moved a few steps, until he was standing beside her desk. He looked down at the desk blotter, at the stack of In boxes in the corner, at the pen stand, which was shaped like a shiny red apple.
Feeling a need to protect her own space from his prying eyes, Lynn moved to the other side of the desk and confronted him across it. “Mr. Garrison?”
He looked up again. “Hmm? Oh.” And the corners of his mouth lifted. It was a stunning smile. Easy and casual. Charming and a little rueful. “Sorry. Lawyer’s habit. Observation.”
Lynn did not smile back. She considered herself a patient, forgiving soul as a rule, but she’d had about enough of this man looking over her room as if he owned it, and not answering her when she asked what he wanted. “Why are you here?”
He cleared his throat. “I’ve come about Jennifer McCallum.”
Jenny, Lynn thought, feeling more wary—and more protective—by the second. Jenny had been through more trouble and tragedy in her five short years than some endured in a lifetime. Lynn had a definite soft spot for the child, as did almost everyone in Whitehorn.
“I’m the new attorney for the girl’s estate,” Ross Garrison said. “And I’ve also been named a trustee.”
“You’re taking Wendell Hargrove’s place?” She allowed her disapproval to come through in her tone.
One dark eyebrow inched upward. “I intend to do a better job than Hargrove did, I promise you.”
“I should hope so.” Wendell Hargrove had once been greatly respected in Whitehorn. For a number of years he’d represented the Kincaid estate, to which little Jenny was now the primary heir. In the end, though, he’d stolen from the clients he was supposed to be representing, including Jenny. He was serving time in prison now.
Ross Garrison glanced down. The stack of In boxes was right by his hand. Idly, he ran a finger along the rim of the top box. His watch caught the overhead light and gleamed dully. Silver? No. Platinum. The man actually owned a platinum watch.
Whitehorn, Montana, wasn’t exactly the sleepy cow town it had once been. But platinum watches were still few and far between in those parts.
The lawyer looked up again and into Lynn’s eyes. “I’m just doing my job, Miss Taylor. Working up Jennifer McCallum’s file. With an estate of this size, it’s important that I cover all the bases, get a firm grip on what I’m dealing with here, for the good of my client. In future, decisions will have to be made concerning investments. And also concerning possible changes in the terms of the trust. I want to be sure I approach those decisions with my eyes open. I want, sincerely, to do the best I can by Jennifer. I’ve interviewed her doctor and her adoptive parents in depth and—”
“Now
