Making His Way Home. Kathryn Springer

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СКАЧАТЬ dress is adorable, Grace! I knew that shade of yellow would look perfect on you.”

      Grace Eversea summoned a smile, trying to match Kate Nichols’s enthusiasm while she maneuvered her ankle-length skirt—and six inches of petticoat—through the narrow gap between the sofa and the coffee table.

      Add a bonnet and a pair of button-up shoes, and people just might think she’d stepped down from one of the sepia-toned portraits hanging on the wall of the historical museum.

      But then again, Grace acknowledged ruefully, that was kind of the point.

      It had been Kate’s idea that everyone who volunteered to help with Mirror Lake’s 125th birthday celebration should dress for the part in clothing authentic to that time period.

      Something Grace hadn’t found out until after she’d agreed to act as the official tour guide for the event, transporting people to unique historical landmarks and other points of interest scattered throughout the area. In a horse-drawn wagon.

      Which posed a problem that apparently only Grace could see.

      “I’m still not sure how I’m supposed to sit down while I’m wearing this...bustle.” And breathe in this corset. “I think every article of clothing they wore in 1887 was designed to pinch, itch or constrict.”

      At the same time.

      “That could explain why none of the women in those old photographs we found were smiling.” Kate chuckled as she reached for the garment bag draped over the back of a rocking chair. “I better get back to the café. Mayor Dodd wants to go over some last-minute details before the opening ceremony tomorrow. You’re welcome to join us.”

      “Thanks, but I think I’ll—” change clothes! “—take B.C. for a dry run. I’m not sure how long it will take to complete the whole circle. We have to make five stops—”

      “Six,” her friend interrupted cheerfully.

      Grace blinked. “Six?”

      “That’s the other reason I stopped by.” Kate’s clover-green eyes sparkled with excitement. “I sent the letter over a month ago but didn’t mention it because I didn’t want to get your hopes up. But then he called yesterday, out of the blue, and gave us permission to add the property to the tour....”

      “You lost me.” Grace jumped in when her friend paused to take a breath. “Who called? What are we adding to the tour?”

      “Sloan Merrick’s place.”

      Grace’s breath snagged in her lungs, and this time she couldn’t blame it on the corset. “I didn’t think that property was still in the family.”

      “I wasn’t sure, either. That’s why I went to the courthouse and did a little investigating.” Kate grinned. “Apparently Sloan left the house and land to his oldest grandson when he died.”

      An image rose in Grace’s mind, swift and clear, almost as if it had been lingering just below the surface of her memories, waiting for permission to appear.

      Shaggy hair the color of a midnight sky. Crooked smile. Eyes the rich, deep green of a fresh cedar bough.

      Cole.

      “Right.” Kate’s eyes widened and Grace realized she’d said the name out loud. “Anyway, he apologized for not getting back to me sooner. His only stipulation for letting people tour the property is that we check the cabin first to make sure it’s safe. Isn’t that great?”

      “Great,” Grace echoed.

      “I’m surprised you remember Cole,” Kate went on. “I don’t think he lived in Mirror Lake very long.”

      “A summer,” Grace murmured.

      And yes, she remembered.

      A girl didn’t forget the first time she’d fallen in love.

      Or the first time her heart had been broken.

      But she didn’t tell Kate that Cole Merrick had been responsible for both.

      * * *

      “One hour and twenty-six minutes, B.C.”

      The old draft horse stomped a platter-size hoof and tossed an aggravated look at Grace.

      Okay, so maybe she hadn’t added in the ten minutes the wagon had been parked in front of the gravel road leading up to Sloan Merrick’s house.

      Grace closed her eyes.

      What was wrong with her?

      Her yard bordered the Merrick property. She’d driven past this exact spot hundreds—no, thousands—of times on her way to work and hadn’t thought about Cole.

      But over the past few hours, memories had begun to pop up like dandelions. Grace no sooner yanked one out than another one immediately took its place.

      She couldn’t blame Kate. No one, not her parents or even her closest friends, knew that she and Cole had formed an unexpected bond when his family had moved in with Sloan the summer before her senior year of high school. At seventeen, Grace had been shy and bookish; Cole grieving his father’s death and angry at the world in general.

      They’d come face-to-face one afternoon in Grace’s favorite spot—a boulder roughly the size and shape of a hammock that jutted out over the lake. Anxious to finish the book tucked under her arm, Grace had stumbled upon a boy trying to light one on fire. An English text, which made it even worse because that happened to be Grace’s favorite subject.

      She’d rescued the book and ordered him to leave. Not only had Cole refused, but he’d also returned the next day. And the next. After several days of ignoring each other, a tentative friendship had begun to take root. And as the weeks went by, it had blossomed into something more.

      They’d talked about their families. Their fears.

      Their future.

      That’s why Cole’s abrupt departure had come as such a shock. In the days and weeks that followed, Grace waited for the phone to ring. Checked the mailbox every day. Twice. In time, she’d come to the realization that he hadn’t felt the same way about her.

      By the time her senior year of high school ended, Grace had stopped waiting for him. Not thinking about Cole had been a little more challenging, but she had managed it.

      Most of the time.

      “Come on, B.C. Let’s get this over with and go home.” Grace clicked her tongue and the mare obediently plodded forward, right between two rusty No Trespassing signs hammered to the oak trees that flanked the gravel driveway.

      The two-story brick house wasn’t visible from the road, so she hadn’t realized how neglected the property had become since Sloan’s death four and a half years ago. The man had been meticulous in maintaining the spacious grounds, but weeds had taken over the raised vegetable gardens and branches from a recent storm littered the yard.

      The original homestead, a rustic cabin with a crumbling layer of white СКАЧАТЬ