Twenty-one

W yatt was in the kitchen, clinking dishes and pans. As she approached, he studied her, his eyes hooded.

She bristled beneath his intense gaze. She wasn't an adversary in a business deal.

"Hey, there."

When she only murmured a response, he put down the tray and walked toward her, so she took a step back, unnerved by him in her space—so close she could smell sandalwood and spice, so close she could feel his pull as her heart began to beat faster.

"Anna, what's wrong?" He gripped her arm, and her senses reacted to his touch.

Why was she confused about him? "Don't analyze me, Wyatt. I'm already on edge."

He let out a boisterous laugh. "Well, I'm sorry—a force of habit."

It wasn't an apology, but she believed him. She had to believe someone. The list was getting too short.

He moved even closer, the magnetic force pulling her in. Then he hesitated, picked up his tray, and headed to the grill.

She tried to clear her thoughts, staring as he disappeared onto the deck.

The glass doors were opened wide, creating an amazing effect as she sprinkled nuts atop the strawberry salad, eager to join him. She closed her eyes, savoring the murmur of the creek and the whisper of a crisp breeze.

"What if there is no pot of gold, Anna ?" Her mother's voice joined the breeze. "You need to find your own treasure in moments because life is short and passing as we speak. Don't waste it."

With happiness warming her, Anna followed the tunes on the patio to Wyatt. He grinned at her, busy making magic at the grill. The smoke and spices created an amazing blend. Even the smell of fish didn't spoil the balance, but every note seemed to belong as the breeze mixed it all together.

"Want some help?" she asked as she inhaled it all.

"Nope." He pointed the tongs toward the table. "Enjoy yourself. Everything will be done in about ten minutes."

"Then I'll take a short walk."

"Be careful. This'll be ready soon." His attention on the grill, he didn't look back.

She moved toward a flower, inspecting it with her fingers, and then made her way up the path. When she glanced over her shoulder, Wyatt was watching her, one foot pointed toward the grill, the other turned in her direction.

What was up with that? She kicked the dirt, creating dust puffs. She hadn't climbed far uphill before the breeze carried a familiar scent, a floral sweetness and pine dancing as friends. "What is that scent?"

Then it came into view. Syringa, the flower of a new beginning. The aroma overwhelmed her, making her happy and sad. She followed the clusters down the hillside, bushes close enough together to form a flowery wall. A hummingbird fluttered in delight. Its iridescent throat shimmered as it turned its head to sing. The white flowers looked like white paint on the side of an old shack.

Anna froze, unable to will her feet to move another step, her body numb. Faint, she was gasping for air and struggling to breathe. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Then he was there, Wyatt. Standing beside her. He didn't touch her or move too close. He was just there, letting her process.

Mixed in with those wonderful flowers was the old house of her youth. A house representing love and struggle. Memories didn't flow back, only feelings in an avalanche trying to crush and smother her.

She couldn't take everything in at once.

"Anna, the food is done. Let's go back to my cabin now. Maybe we can come back here." He pointed to the old house. "If you want—when you're ready. But right now, let's eat and allow you some time to process all this."

He waited and didn't ask, but stated. "You're going to be okay. You're strong, Anna." Then he wrapped his fingers around her trembling hand.

They didn't speak, walking hand in hand down the path toward the cabin. She glanced back just once.

The old house was close by. They were neighbors. Close neighbors. How could someone live this close and not remember? How could someone live this close in the mountains, where there is always space? Was this part of the original property?

Then it hit her. Was this the land her grandfather lost? The land her orphaned, teenaged mother was forced to leave when she moved to a shack?

Anna ground her teeth. She couldn't think of this now. She glanced at the sky, at the cabin, and at Wyatt and ambled down the hill. The gate creaked as it slammed open. Food scented the air again. She could breathe, relieved.

The food was scattered in the middle of the table, a cup tipped over, and the grill was wide open. He watched her climb the mountain and dropped everything when he saw her falter. She looked at him with her heart, not her eyes. He knew she'd need him. How did he know her that well?

He touched her shoulder. "Let's sit by the waterfall."

They carried full plates to the other side of the pool, the creek providing magical white noise and the water splashing and diving down into the glistening pool. They didn't discuss the old house or the land. They looked at everything and nothing. Wyatt sat close, his knee brushing against hers, and they let time pass.

After they straightened the kitchen, Wyatt swiveled on the barstool. He focused on a spot on his shirt, wet his finger in his mouth, and rubbed it.

"Should we continue with the list or play a little hooky?" he asked with a flirty wink. His heel thumped against the floor.

She pretended the wink didn't affect her. "I vote for hooky. But too much has happened to ignore."

He pulled at his shirtsleeve with his forefinger and thumb. "My grandparents purchased the land from the bank after your grandfather lost it," he blurted out while eyeing her reaction. "The land your house and the tree house were on wasn't part of the sale."

Well, there it was. Now they had to discuss it and deal with the past. Would that never go away?

She remained still, only allowing a subtle rock to provide comfort.. Her arms inched to slide around her middle, but she wouldn't look that vulnerable. So she picked at a cuticle. "Someone had to buy the property, right? Is the cabin the house my mother lived in?"

"My grandparents didn't keep the original house—I'm sorry to say. Unfortunately, everything had deteriorated, leaving it in pretty bad shape."

"Your family must have loved the land. I mean we're here." She waved toward the land beyond the kitchen window. "So either you or your family still own it. At least my mother was able to keep a piece somehow."

Could Anna hold anything against him for that? Was it his fault her family had issues and her grandfather lost the property?

He braced against the kitchen island and crossed his arms over his broad chest. "It's become a part of us. I hope to keep it in the family for generations." He shifted on the stool, a slight bead of sweat glistening on his brow. "Greta Alan bought the land you and your mother lived on from the bank around the same time my grandparents purchased their land. After you were born, she conveyed the property to your mother until you moved. No financial documentation to explain it. I don't know anything else."

She nodded and reached for a drink of water. She'd give this consideration later when she had time alone. After all, she was an expert at blocking things from her mind, and it was already swirling. Wyatt worked for Greta and Devlin. He lived on the property taken from her mother. Greta owned, then transferred the property. He was in Grandville. No. She willed her mind to ignore this now. But she'd have to return to it later.

"Would it help you to go over and look at the property?" He pushed his hip away from the cabinet, one hand still braced on its live-edge oak countertop. "I could walk you part of the way or all the way. It might be good for you. Somewhere, there's a connection between that place and the letter."

"I'm not prepared to go over there now. Let's circle back to the discussion about our childhood and the property someday. Now, we'd better focus on Atticus and the letter."

His fingers drummed on the countertop, his stance taut. "You can tell me when you're ready. I'll try to support you however I can."

"Wyatt, let's see if we can sort through our list of suspects and what to ask when I meet Atticus. The old broken house could be a part of that, but we'd better stay with current events first and then move backward."

His gaze softened. Was that admiration? Either way, the tension seemed to drain from his shoulders, giving her the encouragement she needed. "Shall we go out by the pool again?"

She shrugged. Could she handle that? The pool was magical in the evening, with the waterfall spilling and the lights glimmering. Keeping her heart from attaching itself to Wyatt was hard enough without a romantic backdrop enticing her.

Back in their spot , she shared her new information. "I think Martha put the envelope in my purse."

"Envelope, meaning the letter?"

No reason to hide anything. Whatever was going to happen, she'd tell Wyatt everything. Either she trusted him or she didn't. She had the same risk either way.

"Several things were in the envelope. The letter, a locket with a woman's picture, and thirty-five hundred in cash."

His brows lifted. Was he more affected by her response or how his subtle questions resulted in more information than he anticipated? "Who was the woman?"

That was his response?

"I don't know. I tried to see a family resemblance. At the house, I saw a portrait of my grandmother as a young girl. She was wearing the locket. I didn't mention it to Martha, although I'm sure she knew."

"I can only imagine what a shock that was." He rubbed the brown scruff on his chin. "You suspect Martha put the envelope in your purse?"

"I recently learned someone stole a nurse's uniform and was in my hospital room." She tried to hold her hands still on her lap, but they kept twisting. "I do remember the person, and she could fit Martha's appearance, although I was struggling with the concussion's effects. Sometimes I wonder if I still am." She grinned but also meant it.

"That sounds kinda crazy." His eyes narrowed. "Why would Martha do that? I mean instead of mailing it?"

"I don't know. But she developed an irrational obsession about getting me the letter and getting me to Idaho. Another check on the column next to Martha's name."

He obliged. "What came next, after the hospital?"

"So much has happened in the last few days. It's more than a little surreal." She waved a hand. "I didn't even have a way to get home from the hospital. But Garrett, Dr. Clarke." Oops. Her face flash-heated. Her slip of calling Dr. Clarke by his first name wouldn't get past Wyatt. "The hospital arranged for one of the interns who lived close to me to give me a ride. I don't think she had anything to do with it."

She didn't look up, afraid to. Of course, he'd be studying her and dissecting her.

Seconds ticked by with no response.

Well, this wouldn't do. Get some gumption, girl .

She forced herself to look up. Seriously? He was smirking ?

If he thought he'd make her squirm, she wouldn't have it. Grinding her teeth, she moved on.

"At home, I tried to take it easy, but as I mentioned in the park, someone broke into my house."

He closed his eyes, his lips clenched. "Anna, I did hear you earlier, but we were discussing so much. Could you go over this in further detail?"

Great. This next bit would complicate things. "Well, I was, um, shall we just say ‘scared'?"

Wyatt moved his chair over next to her, clearly shaken. His arm brushed hers.

She wasn't going to stop. She had to be honest. Feeling him close strengthened her. There'd be no turning back. She was with Team Wyatt now. He'd been the kindest person she had ever met—well, except for Dr. Clarke—and he'd given her the courage to find answers.

"What happened? Did you call the police?"

"Well, Dr. Clarke came to check on me and scared the intruder away. I was so relieved."

His brows winged up, golden-brown arches over blue pools.

"Dr. Clarke, your doctor from the hospital? Does a doctor do that?" There it was again—attorney mode.

"He came to check on me. He probably felt sorry for me because I didn't have anyone to take me home. He probably saved my life."

"Could Dr. Clarke be involved?"

"No."

Was that hurt in his eyes? "Okay, moving on. We suspect Martha committed a criminal act, stole a uniform, and broke into your hospital room." He held up a finger for each charge. "All to put the letter in your purse."

He leaned back and waved as if turning the case over to her. "Why? What's in it for her to take that much risk? Why not just have the letter couriered?" His analytical mind seemed unconvinced that passion could lead to such erratic behavior.

"I don't know. I have no family, no money, only debt. Why would anyone want something from me?" She cringed at the words used to explain her confusion. Her mother was right. It was time for her to stop being afraid of her own shadow. Her tone grew bolder. "I keep asking myself ‘why me?' Not in a pity-party way, but trying to solve all this. Why me and why now?"

"Martha put herself out there. She'd only do that for Atticus, but why?" He tapped his thumb on the surface, pressing back into the stool. His lips tightened. His head tilted as he pondered. "There has to be more to this—something below the surface. Why would he go to all that trouble? Why not just name you in his will or call you?"

"Martha has a real concern for Devlin receiving an inheritance from Atticus. She was irritated about the sale of some land along the Boise River for a subdivision."

"It clearly matters to her to have you here in person, but it's odd she'd show an interest in the inheritance." He made more notes on his pad. Then he raised his pen and pointed it at her. "So then, after you received the envelope and Dr. Clarke scared off the intruder, you decided to come?"

Okay, that sounded sarcastic, but she'd move past it. After all, it was a lot to take in, no matter how skilled or experienced you were.

"Then Martha called and insisted I come. ‘Come to the mountains, Anna, the mountains of your mother's youth.' She could have just been repeating the letter. I don't know."

"Can I see the letter?"

"Obviously, I no longer have the printed copies that were in the safe." She found the picture on her phone and handed it over. While he read it—a couple times, it seemed—she tried to occupy her mind with the waterfall and her surroundings.

"Anna, I had no idea." He set her phone face down on the glass-topped table. "This is a lot. Do you need to take a break?"

She shook her head.

"If someone wronged my mother, didn't I owe it to her to come?" Anna shrugged and scrubbed rising goose bumps from her bare arms. "I had nothing to lose, so I came."

"You left Texas after the last call?"

Anna rubbed her fingers along the side of her neck, slapping at a mosquito. "Almost immediately." She sat up straight. "And someone was shot. Shot right next to me in Houston, at the airport. Right as I was boarding the plane. I can't believe I didn't mention it sooner."

"Someone was shot?" He jumped up from his chair, wrought-iron legs clanking against the patio stones. "This is getting real and crosses over into being serious. I'll need to double-check everything. What's going on?"

What? He acted like he'd half imagined she'd been exaggerating. She eyed him anew. Why had Martha called him to get her?

"Someone was shot." He paced, checking something on his phone. Ah, the footage for every security camera he had.

While she recounted the incident, he just looked at her. She imagined he was seldom speechless. But there was a first time for everything, and this must be it. He returned to her side, his body tense.

Again, she chased the shivers from her arms. "On the plane, I tried to sleep. When we landed, the man next to me dropped his bag from the overhead cabinet. It almost fell on me. I picked up something from it. Martha was watching him, the items that fell, and me. As soon as I saw him at Atticus's house, I panicked and called you. I never looked in the bag I picked up. I forgot about it until now."

"You should go look for it. Maybe it's a clue or even the key to everything."

She slapped the table. "Maybe it is."

She sprang to her feet and dashed inside and up the stairs to her room. Her suitcase had been ransacked at the hotel. She hadn't checked to see if the bag was still in it.

She searched her carry-on's outside compartment, sliding her fingers into every pouch. Empty.

Her racing heart made it harder to think. Where had she put it? She dumped everything onto the bed. Clothes, laptop, and earphones. Shirts, pants, and socks. No bag.

She searched every pocket and pouch, then stepped back, hands on her hips, weight on her chest. A groan slid loose. "He must've taken it from the hotel."

She took her time on the way to the pool. Wyatt was still sitting there, staring at nothing, muscled arms crossed.

"It's gone. It might have been the only thing he came for, and what he took from the safe was just a bonus. Who knows?" She slumped into her chair. "I should have looked at it sooner. I didn't know he had any connection until I saw him at Atticus's house. After that, well, it was too late."

His fingers rubbed his nape. "Should we continue or take a break?"

"Well, we are almost done. We ought to finish and see where that takes us."

"Okay, let's do this then." His dreamy eyes were baggy, his pep gone. His gaze kept drifting to her and away.

She shared her arrival at the hotel and meeting Martha and the events of the next day.

Wyatt's shoulders straightened. "You truly believe Devlin Alan put something in your drink?"

"Martha is erratic, and I don't trust her. But on this, it rings true. Nothing makes sense, but there's something between him and Martha."

"Oh? As in what?"

"I don't know, but they exchanged some type of combative glances before you arrived at the house. I was trying to watch them. Then you arrived, and I was… distracted."

Distracted was a good way to put it. Dazed would have been better. Bewitched, even. She smiled. But why not? At this point, shouldn't they try to find something to enjoy or be happy about?

But he kept frowning. "What do you mean glances?"

"Well, some kind of stare down—no, not exactly that either. They acknowledged each other in a unique way. And I hate to say this about your boss, but he made me uncomfortable. I don't think Martha likes him, and I know she's worried about Devlin being in Atticus's will."

Wyatt seemed unconvinced. "I wouldn't believe this possible a few months ago. But since Greta's death, I've seen a negative change in Devlin. He's been arrogant and distrustful. Why would Martha think he'd be in Atticus's will?"

Anna shrugged. Wyatt worked for Greta and Devlin. Wyatt lived on the property taken from her mother. He was in Grandville, and Martha called him.

He didn't speak for a couple minutes. "Martha will be vital in getting any answers. As would identifying the man on the plane. Could he have broken into your house as well? And what about the man who was shot at the airport?"

"I suppose we should add Greta to the maybe column."

His head jerked up, and he gave her a surprised look. "Why? Let's not forget she's, um, deceased—has been for months."

"Why would she go to that much effort with the diner? Now you've mentioned the ownership of the land. It's nagging at me."

"Okay. I'm not inclined to put dead people on the list, but you're the primary player in this whole thing." He scribbled down the name, not writing it clearly like he had everyone else's as if making it legible were an affront to a woman he admired. Then he pushed back his chair. "What do you say? Is this a good stopping point?"

He mustn't want to hear anything more, so she nodded. "For today, we're done with puzzle-solving. Let's relax for the night."

He tucked the notepads into his back pocket and reached for her hand. "It's getting late, and I could do with a snack. Come inside with me while I double-check the security features on the property?"

"Sure." She stood as well but didn't take his hand as they traversed the stone path to the well-lit "cabin."

He slid open the back door. "How about a drive tomorrow before we head back?"

"That would be nice," she answered, still distracted.

He scooped bowls of vanilla ice cream and topped it with the strawberries left over from her salad and set them on the kitchen island. She pulled out a barstool beside him, and he cocked his hip against the island as they lingered, enjoying each other's company.

"Let's call it a night." He clattered his spoon back into his empty bowl, pushed it aside, and folded his arms on the live-edge countertop. "It's been an emotional day, and you've been amazing. Few people could weather this. With a new day, we may see something new."

"Sounds good, and… thank you, Wyatt."

His stunning eyes hooded, he regarded her. What was he thinking? Seeing? A friend from childhood, a woman in distress, or something more?

With his gaze almost too intense, she ducked her head and traced a shaky finger along the wood's burled edge as she whispered, "Good night."

He started to say something, then stopped himself, almost looking angry. "Good night, Anna. I'll check all the security and monitor the alarms. Sleep well and know you're safe with me."

She believed him. Was she a fool?