time just felt different. He was not a burden. Not a way to get a check from the state. He was their son.
Which is why he wished he was visiting them for another reason. In his own mind, disappointing his parents would be the greatest sin he could commit. Even worse than the one he’d committed fifteen years ago that got him into this mess.
Wade turned the SUV into the driveway, then bypassed the parking lot and took the small road behind their large Federal-style house to where the family kept their cars. It was nearing the middle of the afternoon on a Friday, but even so, there were at least ten customer cars in the lot. It was December 21—only a few days until Christmas. His mother, Molly, would be in the gift shop, pushing sugar cookies, cider and hot chocolate on folks while they waited for Ken or one of the employees to haul and bag their new tree.
Wade felt the sudden, familiar urge to start trimming trees and hauling them out to people’s cars. He’d done it for all of his teenage years and every Christmas break from Yale. It came naturally to want to jump back into the work. But first things first. He had to take care of the business that had brought him here instead of the warm beaches of Jamaica.
Julianne’s call had been unexpected. None of the kids were very good about calling or visiting their parents or each other like they should. They were all busy, all successful, the way the Edens had wanted them to be. But their success also made it easy to forget to make time for the important people in their lives.
When Julianne had shown up at the farm for Thanksgiving with little warning, she’d been in for quite the surprise. Their father, Ken, was recovering from a heart attack. They hadn’t called any of the kids because they didn’t want them worrying about it or the crippling hospital bills.
Wade, Heath, Xander, Brody—any of the boys could’ve written a check and taken care of their problems, but Ken and Molly insisted they had it under control. Unfortunately, their solution was to sell a few plots of land they couldn’t use for growing trees. They couldn’t understand why the kids were so upset. And of course, the kids couldn’t tell their parents the truth. That secret needed to remain buried in the past. And Wade was here to make sure it stayed that way.
If he was lucky, he could take one of the four-wheelers out to the property, buy the land back from the new owner and return before Molly could start wondering what he was up to. He wouldn’t keep the purchase a secret from his parents, but he’d certainly rather they not fret over the whole situation until it was done.
Wade found the house empty, as expected. He left a note on the worn kitchen table, slipped into his heavy coat and boots and went out to grab one of the four-wheelers. He could’ve driven his SUV, but he didn’t want to pull up in an expensive car and start waving money around at people.
Heath and Brody had both made visits to the farm since Julianne broke the news. Digging up as much information as they could, they found out that the person who had bought the smallest parcel of land was already living out there in some kind of camper. That sounded positive to him. They might need the money more than the land. But if they thought some rich guy was bullying them to sell it, they’d clamp down. Or jack up the price.
Wade took the four-wheeler down the well-worn path that went through the center of the farm. After selling eighty-five acres, the Edens still had two hundred acres left. Almost all of it was populated with balsam and Fraser fir trees. The northeastern portion of the property was sloped and rocky. They’d never had much success planting trees out there, so he’d understood why Ken had opted to sell it. He just wished his father hadn’t.
By the time he rounded a corner on the trail and neared the border of the Edens’ property, it was a little after two-thirty. The sky was clear and blue and the sun’s rays pounded down on the snow, making it nearly blinding despite his sunglasses. He slowed and pulled out the new surveyor’s map Brody had downloaded. The eighty-five acres that his parents had sold were split into two large tracts and one small one. Comparing the map to the GPS location on his phone, he could tell that just over the rise was the smallest, a ten-acre residential property. He was fairly certain this was the one he was after.
Wade refolded the map and looked around for any familiar landmarks. He’d deliberately chosen a spot he would remember. There had been a crooked maple tree and a rock that looked like a giant turtle. He scanned the landscape, but it appeared to him as though all the trees were crooked, and all the rocks were buried under a foot of snow. It was impossible to know for sure if this chunk of the property was the right one.
Damn. He’d thought for certain that he would know the spot when he saw it. That night fifteen years ago remained etched in his memory no matter how hard he tried to forget it. It was one of those moments that changes your whole life. Where you make a decision, right or wrong, and have to live with it forever.
Still, Wade was certain this was the right area. He didn’t remember traveling far enough to reach the other plots. He’d been in too big a hurry to roam around the property all night trying to find the perfect spot. He eyed another maple tree, this one more crooked than the others. That had to be the one. He’d just have to buy the land back and hope that once spring came around, he would find the turtle rock at its base and know he’d bought the right plot.
Surging forward through the snow, he continued up to the rise and then started descending into the clearing toward what looked like some sort of shimmering silver mirage.
He pulled closer and realized it was the midafternoon sun reflecting off the superbly polished aluminum siding of an old Airstream trailer. You could have got a suntan from the rays coming off that thing. Parked beside it was an old Ford pickup truck with dually tires to haul the twenty-foot monster of a camper.
Wade stopped and killed the engine on the four-wheeler. There was no sign of life from inside the camper yet. Brody had searched online for the property sale records and found the new owner was V. A. Sullivan. Cornwall was a fairly small town, and he didn’t remember any Sullivans when he went to school, so they must be new to the area. That was just as well. He didn’t need to deal with anyone who remembered his troublesome days before the Edens and might give him grief.
His boots crunched through the snow until he reached the rounded doorway. It had a small window in it that he watched for movement when he knocked. Nothing. No sound of people inside, either.
Just great. He’d come all the way out here for nothing.
Wade was about to turn and head back home when he heard the telltale click of a shotgun safety. His head spun to the left, following the sound, and he found himself in the sights. The woman was standing about twenty feet away, bundled just as heavily as he was in a winter coat with a knit cap and sunglasses hiding most of her features. Long strands of fiery red hair peeked out from her hat and blew in the chilly wind. The distinctive color immediately caught his eye. He’d known a woman with hair that color a long time ago. It had been beautiful, like liquid flames. Appropriate, since he was playing with fire now.
On reflex, his hands went up. Getting shot by some overprotective, rural militia type was not on his agenda for the day. “Hey, there,” he called out, trying to sound as friendly and nonthreatening as he could.
The woman hesitated, and then the shotgun dropped slightly. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Mrs. Sullivan?” Hopefully Mr. Sullivan wasn’t out in the woods with a shotgun of his own.
“Miss Sullivan,” she corrected. “What’s it to you?”
A single female. Even better. Wade had a certain charm about him that served him well with the fairer sex. He smiled widely. “My name is Wade Mitchell. I wanted to talk to you about
