she couldn’t save them, and that sheriff would have to look elsewhere for help solving the crimes.
She’d come back to Timberline to sell her aunt’s house—nothing more, nothing less. It just so happened that her aunt’s house was the same house where she’d spent many days as a child, the same house from which someone abducted her twin sister and had knocked her out cold.
Raising her head, she zeroed in on the front door. She could picture it all again—the stranger with the ski mask, her sleeping sister thrown over one of his shoulders. Much of what followed had been a blur of hysterical parents, soft-spoken police officers, sleepless nights and bad dreams.
She still had the bad dreams.
Someone knocked on the door, and her muscles tensed as she wedged her fingers against the wood floor like a runner ready to shoot out of the blocks.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s Wyatt, Wyatt Carson.”
Her thundering heartbeat slowed only a fraction when she heard Wyatt’s voice. If she was looking for someone to bring her out of the throes of these unpleasant memories, it wasn’t Wyatt.
Clearing her throat, she lumbered to her feet. “Hold on, Wyatt.”
She brushed the dust from her knees and pushed the hair back from her face. Squaring her shoulders, she pasted on a smile. Then she swung open the door to greet the last man she wanted to see right now.
“Hey, Wyatt. How’d you know I was back?”
“Kendall.” He swooped in for a hug, engulfing her in flannel and the tingly scent of pine. “You know Timberline. Word travels fast.”
“Supersonic.” She mumbled her words into his shoulder since he still held her fast. She stiffened, arching her back, and he got the hint.
When he released her, she shoved her hands in her pockets and smiled up at him. “I just arrived yesterday and took one trip to the grocery store.”
He snapped his fingers. “That must’ve been it. I heard you were back when I was getting coffee at Common Grounds this morning.”
“Come on in.” She stepped back from the door. “How have you been? Still the town’s best plumber?”
“One of the town’s only plumbers.” He puffed up his chest anyway.
“Do you want something to drink?” She held her breath, hoping he’d say no.
“Sure, a can of pop if you have it.”
“I do.” She moved past him to go into the kitchen. She ducked into the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda. “Do you want a glass?”
She cocked her head, waiting for an answer from the other room. “Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
She jumped, the wet can slipping from her hand and bouncing on the linoleum floor. Wyatt moved silently for a big man.
“Sorry.” He pushed off of the doorjamb and crowded into the small kitchen space.
Before she could recover her breath, he crouched down and snagged the can. “Do you have another? I don’t want to spray the kitchen with pop.”
She tugged on the fridge door and swept another can from the shelf.
He exchanged cans with her. “You’re jumpy. Is it this house?”
Her gaze met his dark brown eyes, luminous in the pasty pallor of his face—a sure sign of a Timberline native.
Ducking back into the fridge, she shoved the dented can toward the back of the shelf.
“You just startled me, Wyatt. I’m not reliving any memories.” She waved her arm around the kitchen to deflect attention from her lie. “This is just a house, not a living, breathing entity.”
“I’m surprised you’d have that outlook, Kendall.” He snapped the tab on his can of soda and slurped the fizzy liquid from the rim. “I mean, since you’re a psychiatrist.”
“I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“Whatever. Don’t you dig into people’s memories? Pick their brains? Find out what makes them tick?”
“It doesn’t work that way, Wyatt. You get out of therapy what you put into it. My clients pick their own brains. I’m just there to facilitate.”
“Wish plumbing worked that way.” He slapped the thigh of his denims and took another gulp of his soda. “Seriously, if you ever want to talk about what happened twenty-five years ago, I’m your man.”
“I think we’ve talked it all out by now, don’t you?”
“But you and me—” he wagged his finger back and forth between them “—never really talked about it—not when we were kids right after it happened and not as adults.”
Folding her arms, she leaned against the kitchen counter. “Do you need to talk about it? Have you ever seen a therapist?”
He held up his hands, his callous palms facing her. “I’m not asking for a freebie or anything, Kendall.”
A warm flush invaded her cheeks, and she swiped a damp sponge across the countertop. “I didn’t think you were, but if you’re interested in seeing someone I can do a little research and find a good therapist in the area for you.”
“Nah, I’m good. I just thought...” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, you and me, since we both went through the same thing. You lost your sister and I lost my brother to the same kidnapper. We just never really discussed our feelings with each other.”
Years ago she’d vomited up these feelings to her own therapist until she’d emptied her gut, and she had no intention of dredging them up again with Wyatt Carson...or with anyone.
“It happened. I was sad, and we all moved on.” She brushed her fingertips along the soft flannel of his shirtsleeve. “If you need—if you want more closure, my offer stands. I can vet some therapists in the area for you.”
He downed the rest of his drink and crushed the can in his hand. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what’s going on, Kendall.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “Two children have been kidnapped.”
“I moved on, too.” He toyed with the tab on his can until he twisted it off. “I had it all packed away—until this. I just figured that’s why you came back.”
“N-no. Aunt Cass left this house to me when she passed, and I’m here to settle her things and sell the property.”
“Aunt Cass passed away ten months ago.”
“You know, probate, legal stuff.” She flicked her fingers in the air. “All that had to get sorted out, and I had a few work obligations to handle first.”
“If you say so.”
