here in the Stillaguamish River Valley. Farms were too small to compete with agribusiness and, as crop prices continued to drop, local farmers were selling their land to developers. The Russells were more stubborn than most. Their farm, with the big old barn, several outbuildings and a traditional farmhouse, was advantageously placed on the swoop of highway that led from Interstate 5 into the town of West Fork, Washington. These last couple of years, Don Russell and his daughter Faith had begun a conversion from real farming to a seasonal corn maze, pumpkin farm, antique shop, plant nursery and who the hell knew what else.
Gray suspected that the initiative had come from Faith. Don Russell was a taciturn man who, rumor had it, had changed after the death of his wife four years ago. No one thought he would have done battle against the inevitable had one of his two daughters not been so determined to hang on to the family farm.
Gray didn’t know the truth of any of this; he couldn’t claim to have exchanged more than half a dozen words with Russell. Faith was another matter. He’d taken her out to dinner twice a few months back—once because they were both single and she was pretty, the second time to verify the absence of any spark between them. As far as he was concerned, Faith Russell was a nice woman. He wasn’t opposed to nice, but she carried it a little too far. He didn’t want to have to be on his best manners for the rest of his life.
Her SUV was parked by the house, her father’s pickup by the barn. The newcomer pulled in beside it, and a man in tight jeans and cowboy boots got out and swaggered inside without even turning his head to see who was following him.
Gray parked and went into the barn, too, then waited for his eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight.
The cavernous interior had been carved into aisles and rooms by rough-hewn wood shelving units. Overhead, huge beams and crosspieces held up the roof. A swallow flitted from one beam to another. Perhaps she’d raised a spring brood up there. The doors on the far side of the barn were wide open, letting sunlight stream in and leading to the outside nursery. To Gray’s right, half of the barn was devoted to gardening implements, seeds, bagged manure and garden art. To his left, the other half held an organic produce section, and beyond that the antiques. In the center of it all stood a broad counter where homemade jams and jellies were displayed, as well as an old-fashioned cash register.
The only two people in here, besides Gray, were the woman behind the counter and the guy who’d planted himself in front of it, legs apart and his thumbs hooked in his jeans’ pockets.
“What in the hell have you done with yourself?” he asked explosively.
The woman—Faith … no, not Faith, Gray realized in surprise—gave the guy a look, a flash of vivid blue eyes.
“Had a makeover,” she said, not smiling.
“You look like a whore,” the jackass sneered. “What’re you trying to prove, punchin’ holes in yourself?”
“My reasons had nothing to do with you.” She leaned forward, her voice low, almost a hiss. “Rory, wife beaters aren’t welcome on our land. Consider this a warning. I’ll call the cops if you trespass again. Clear?”
From the shadows near the entrance, Gray saw the shoulders bunch and heard a string of obscenities, followed by single name, spat out with venom. “Char.” A shrug. “Figures. You’ll be gone soon enough. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” He leaned forward. “This is between Faith and me. Stay out of it.”
“Nope.” She reached for the telephone that lay on the counter. “Get out of here, Rory. I mean it.”
The jackass started forward, not back. Gray cleared his throat. Aware he was imposing enough to give the SOB pause, he strolled farther into the barn. Rory spun around, glared at him, snarled, “I’ll be back,” and strode toward the open door, his shoulder, not so accidentally, bumping Gray’s on the way.
“Last warning,” she called after him.
He flipped her off without looking back, then disappeared. The angry roar of the big engine was followed by a swirl of dust that wafted even inside the barn.
“Nice guy,” Gray remarked.
She gave a short, sharp laugh and took her hand away from the phone. “Oh, yeah. And getting nicer all the time.”
He raised his brows. Wife beater? Had Faith been married to that bastard?
She ignored his open curiosity and said conventionally, “May I help you?”
“Faith mentioned she had a sister.”
She hadn’t said how startlingly similar that sister looked. Both women were taller than average—perhaps five foot seven or eight—and willowy. This sister was thinner yet, though, as if she lived on coffee and nerves but very little food. Her skin was very white, her cheekbones prominent, her nose long and her eyes the blue of a Siamese cat’s. Bluer than Faith’s, he thought, but perhaps the color was more vivid because of the fire in these eyes. Faith’s were the blue of a placid pond rather than the startling blue of the twilight sky above the pyrotechnics of the setting sun.
“Should she have mentioned you?” Faith’s sister asked.
He smiled. “Nothing to mention. We’re acquainted.” He held out his hand. “Gray Van Dusen.”
She shook, even as she seemed to be sampling his name. “Gray … Not Graham?”
“Graham,” he conceded, letting her hand go with some reluctance, “although I answer to Gray.” Did she have any idea how much tension and vitality she’d conveyed, just with that simple grip of her hand?
“The new mayor of West Fork.”
“That would be me. Also a partner in Van Dusen and Cullen, Architects.”
“Part-time mayor, part-time architect.” She sounded amused.
“More like full-time mayor, full-time architect,” Gray admitted ruefully. “There’s not enough of me to go around.”
“And yet you’re here to shop for a new shrub or a hundred-year-old dining-room table or, hmm, some blackberry jam?” With the same slender, pale hand he’d enfolded earlier in his own, she lifted a jar from the display and held it out in offering.
Faith’s hands did not look like that. They were just as slender and graceful, but also tanned, calloused and nicked.
“Thank you, but no. I actually stopped by to tell Faith that I’m sorry to hear about the accident. And, ah, to talk about traffic.”
Her eyes widened. “Traffic? In West Fork?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Maybe not. Faith did say that West Fork is becoming a bedroom community for the east side.” She set down the jam jar. “I’m Charlotte. As you can tell, Faith’s sister.”
He wondered at the wryness in her tone. Had she, once upon a time, played second fiddle to Faith? He simply couldn’t imagine, even if Charlotte was the younger.
“He called you Char. Do you go by that?”
“Mostly with family. Rory is Faith’s ex, in case you hadn’t gathered as much.”
“Seems
