The Lost Daughter Of Pigeon Hollow. Inglath Cooper

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      Willa swung around and busied herself folding hand towels from the basket on the floor.

      “Sure we can’t get you anything else?” Judy asked.

      “No,” the man said. “Would you please tell the owner I enjoyed the meal?”

      “You can tell her yourself. Willa?”

      Willa turned then, a blush heating her face.

      “Willa Addison,” Judy said. “She owns the place.”

      “Thank you,” Willa said.

      He nodded, holding her gaze for what felt like a moment too long. “You’re welcome.”

      Judy handed him his change. “If you’re in town for a bit, come back again.”

      “I’ll do that,” he said. He picked up his newspaper and threaded his way back through the diner and out the door.

      Judy had the composure to wait until he was outside before dissolving into a puddle. “Oh, my. Oh, my, oh, my. What are you going to do if he comes back?”

      “Greet him at the door in a garter belt and fishnet stockings?”

      “There’s a thought,” Judy said with a big grin. “Although, he doesn’t seem the fishnet type.”

      “I wouldn’t know what to do with them anyway.”

      “Not like you’ve had a lot of practice.” Judy hesitated, as if considering what she was about to say. “It’s an honorable thing you’ve done, raising Katie. But does that mean you can’t have a life? A man. Your own career choice.”

      “I do have a life. But until Katie is where she needs to be, the last thing I want is another personality in the picture to muddy the waters.”

      Judy hitched a thumb at the front door. “Even if it comes in that package?”

      “Even if.”

      “And the career thing?”

      “I have the diner.”

      “Not a thing wrong with it if that’s what you want.”

      “I’m not complaining.”

      “Maybe you should be.”

      “Judy—”

      “Take it from me, honey, the longer you let a dream go, the less likely it is to find you again.”

      Willa opened the cash register, lifted the drawer and pulled out a stack of checks and receipts, before meeting Judy’s gaze head on. “And what about your dreams, Judy?”

      “It’s a little late for me on that score.”

      The phone on the counter rang. Willa picked it up. “Top Shelf. Sure, Jerry. She’s right here.”

      Judy took the phone, listened for a few moments. Her expression instantly deflated. “We’ll talk about it when I get home, okay?” She punched the off button to the cordless, then handed it back to Willa.

      “Everything all right?” she asked, concern threading the words.

      “Same ole. Gum stuck to my shoe. No matter how much I’d like to get rid of him, I can’t seem to scrape him off.”

      “You’ll scrape him off when you want to.” Willa put a hand on her friend’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “And by the way, if it’s not too late for my dreams, it’s not too late for yours.”

      “Yeah,” Judy said, her expression uncharacteristically somber.

      “I’ve got to run to the bank,” Willa said. “Back in a few minutes.”

      “Oh,” Judy said, her voice perking up, “if that delectable man comes in again while you’re gone, maybe I’ll hit on him. How’s that for dream fulfillment?”

      Willa smiled. “Have at it.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      OWEN MILLER SLID behind the wheel of his dark green Range Rover, shutting the door just as Willa Addison came out of the diner and crossed the street. She never looked his way, so he took advantage of the moment, sat back and watched her.

      Medium height. Fair skin. Slim. Straight blond hair, tucked behind her ears, hung to her shoulders.

      Very attractive. In those few moments at the register, he had seen Charles in her, mostly the eyes, the high cheekbones.

      She stopped to speak to an older woman a half block from the diner. Laughing at something the woman said, she tipped her head back, her hair catching the sunlight.

      They talked for a minute or two, and then Willa Addison disappeared through the doors of the bank at the corner.

      Owen pulled out of the parking lot and followed the street he’d driven down earlier, spotting the bed-and-breakfast where he’d reserved a room. He turned in, parked out front and grabbed his overnight bag from the back seat.

      The owner introduced herself as Mrs. Ross. A round woman, partial to flowers judging by the tulips on her shapeless dress and the magnolia wallpaper lining the foyer and stairwell, she checked him in and directed him upstairs. The room was small, but immaculately clean. The open curtains framed a view of tree-lined Bay Street.

      Owen set his laptop up on the desk by the window. He logged onto the Internet, checked his e-mail, took care of a few business-related matters, then opened an e-mail from his brother.

      Just thought you’d like to know, the debate continues. See attached.

      Cline

      Owen downloaded the file. A few seconds later, an article from the Lexington Daily Record popped up. His photo accompanied the headline Marriage Or The Farm?

      The article below began:

      The single days of well-known bachelor and thoroughbred commercial breeding heir Owen Miller may be numbered.

      Sources say the will left by his father, Harrison Miller, provides that if he is not engaged by his thirty-third birthday—some ten days from now—Winding Creek Farm and all its subsequent holdings will revert to his younger brother, Cline Miller.

      Owen clicked out of the file, disgust hitting him in the gut. He moved the cursor to Instant Messaging and typed in:

      You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?

      Cline answered a couple of seconds later:

      The entertainment value is huge, you have to admit.

      Owen pictured his brother, seated in front of the laptop, and a wave of affection flooded through him.

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