Willa could live if she ever had to leave Fair Winds.
She sniffed. Mark’s grandmother had left the family home, all right. After the funeral, she’d gone to Raleigh with her and Clary to stay with Mark’s mother. A month later she’d gone to sleep and never woken up.
She never would have stayed in the guesthouse anyway. Except for Brent a few times, no one ever had.
Movement at one of the windows caught her eye, and abruptly she blinked. It must be a reflection from the setting sun, she told herself, or the shadow of a bird flying overhead. But the sun was too low to cast reflections or shadows at that angle. She leaned closer, until her nose was pressed against a wooden slat, and stared harder through the narrow slit.
It was still there, pale and sort of oblong in shape, like a hand parting the blinds at the right height for a person to peek out just the way—
She swallowed hard. Just the way she was doing.
Dread washing over her, she jumped back as if the slats had burned, then kept moving backward until the tile floor changed to carpet. There she spun around and raced down the hall and the stairs to escape.
The aromas of a thin-crust pizza with heaps of onions and cheese scattered with the best of Luigi’s toppings filled Stephen’s car as he turned into Woodhaven Villas. The only thing keeping him from grabbing a piece already was the fact that he was driving, and the only thing protecting the pie from Scooter was the doggy seat belt securing him in the backseat. He was voicing his mournful disapproval when Macy Howard came running out of her house.
Running, Stephen mused. In heels. Not very gracefully, granted; he wouldn’t have imagined her body could move so ungracefully. It just didn’t fit with the image of a Southern belle. But still, running.
She came to a stop in the driveway near the minivan, though not actually stopping. Her hands patted her sides, the way a person did when feeling for keys or a cell phone in pockets, but her dress didn’t appear to have pockets. She looked from the van to the closed garage door, then back in the direction she’d come from, and her face, he saw, was ghostly pale.
Already knowing what his choice would be, he debated it anyway: Luigi’s pizza hot from the oven or damsel in distress? Before he even completed the question, he’d brought the car to a stop at the end of Macy’s driveway.
Scooter whined as Stephen unbuckled his belt. “I know, buddy,” he agreed. “But this’ll just take a minute, okay?”
He got out of the car and had closed half the distance between him and Macy before she became aware of him. For an instant, the blood drained from her face so completely that he was surprised she didn’t fall unconscious at his feet. Then recognition came, and she took a great heaving breath. “You.”
Was it a greeting or accusation? “Yeah, it’s me.” Again. He gestured awkwardly. “Is everything okay?”
Her cheeks pinked, and she ran a nervous hand through her hair. “Yes, of course. Well, maybe…” She stared at her trembling hand when she lowered it—her entire body was trembling—then grimaced. “Maybe not. I—I thought I saw somebody. Out back. Well, not out back. Actually, in—in the guesthouse.”
So she’d startled and run out of the house without either keys or cell phone. He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call the police—”
“No.” Her color drained again and she reached out, though not far enough to make actual contact. “Um, no. No, no, no. Please.”
“If someone’s broken in—”
“No.” She breathed deeply. “If you could—could just…take a look with me?”
Stephen could say he’d never wanted to be a hero, but he’d be lying. He wrote fantasy, after all, which was all about heroics. But it would be truthful to admit he’d never been hero material. He was a bit of a geek, the total opposite of a jock, and believed in his heart that everything could be resolved without resorting to violence. Hell, the only fight he’d ever been in had ended when the other kid threw the first punch—the only punch—and bloodied his nose. He’d learned his strengths and limitations that day, and confronting a possible burglar definitely fell under limitations.
“Look, the Copper Lake P.D. is good. My sister works for them. They can have an officer here in no time, and I’ll wait until…” He let his words trail off when her head-shaking became emphatic enough to send her hair swinging.
“No police. It’s—it’s okay. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ll just…” She looked as if she didn’t have a clue what she would do.
Stephen sighed silently. “All right. No problem. Just let me get Scooter. I don’t want to leave him alone in the car.”
Her distress eased a little but didn’t go away completely. He didn’t know why she was so adamant about not calling the police—though there was his earlier theory that she wasn’t really Macy Howard—but he was pretty sure she wished one of her braver, brawnier neighbors had come along. Instead, she was stuck with the king of let’s-talk-this-out and a mutt who didn’t know the meaning of confrontation.
He opened the rear door of the car and set Scooter free, then turned back to find Macy already halfway to the door.
“My keys are inside,” she explained.
On many of his trips through the neighborhood, he’d wondered how the Lord Gentry of Woodhaven Villas lived. The inside of Macy’s house definitely lived up to his imagination. With her hustling ahead and Scooter trotting along beside him, he didn’t get a chance to see much—though he definitely recognized Macy in the giant wedding portrait in the living room; so much for the jewel thief or intruder theory—but what he saw was impressive. It was too big, too showy and seriously unwelcoming, but he was impressed.
She walked quickly, sweeping keys and cell off the kitchen island, marching to the patio door. There she hesitated, and he was about to suggest a call to 911 again when, as if she’d made a decision, she unlocked the door and strode toward the guesthouse.
The entrance faced north and the gardens instead of the main house. They climbed the brick-edged steps to the porch, then it took a while to unlock the door. She probably needed both hands to guide the shaking key into the little hole. Finally the tumblers fell into place, and she stepped back to allow him to enter first.
In his practice, he’d faced vicious pigs, aggressive dogs, recalcitrant horses and a huge number of cats that had tried to rip his skin off. He’d been bitten, scratched and stepped on, but that was okay. The animals had mostly been scared. They hadn’t intended to hurt him. Except maybe the cats. But an intruder who’d broken into an unoccupied house, who, as far as they knew, could have been hiding there since Macy had moved out…
Fortunately for Stephen when he opened the door, Scooter didn’t overthink situations. He sniffed the air, then trotted right past Stephen and Macy and into the living room, his nails clicking on the wood floor. He didn’t seem fearful, his hair wasn’t standing on end, he wasn’t on alert. If anyone had been here, they were likely gone.
The living room, dining room and kitchen ran from front to back, occupying the middle third of the house. Doorways on each side led off, presumably, to bedrooms. There was a whole different vibe to the little house compared with the big one. The colors were warmer and lighter, the furniture more about comfort. Even with the blinds closed,
