Your House or Mine?. Cynthia Thomason

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      INTENDING TO DROP off her belongings before heading to Shady Grove, Meg drove up the lane to the house. She frowned as she noticed the large potholes in the sparse gravel. This lack of attention to upkeep wasn’t like Amelia. Each spring she ordered truckloads of gravel for the drive so it was neat and resistant to flooding during the rainy season. It also looked as though the trees hadn’t been trimmed in ages. The magnificent live oaks dripped with spongy gray moss that bristled against Meg’s windshield and cloaked the road in deep shadows.

      But soon she cleared the three-hundred-yard drive and had her first look at the house. The green and cream colors she remembered seemed duller now, faded in the harsh Florida sun, but the structure, with its turret and peaks and wraparound porch was still a remarkable example of Queen Anne Victorian. Meg might have simply stopped for a moment and enjoyed the welcome sight had it not been for one detail that was completely out of place.

      A police car was parked midway between the house and the barn.

      Her heart pounded. Meg considered that she should approach the parked car with caution. After all, if a crime were being committed at this moment, she shouldn’t interfere with police procedures. And she certainly didn’t want to become a victim herself. But concern for her aunt’s home, and basic burning curiosity, got the best of her. She accelerated and pulled alongside the police car.

      Mount Esther Sheriff’s Department was printed on the driver’s door panel. Meg shifted her car into park and peered out the windows to scan the backyard and trail to the barn. Seeing no one, she opened her door and stepped onto the path.

      And then she spied a tall man pushing a wheelbarrow out of the barn. There was nothing in his appearance or demeanor to indicate that he was a law enforcement officer. He was dressed in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and a Yankees baseball cap. He turned the wheelbarrow to guide it around the side of the building.

      Realizing that for the moment at least she was the only other person witnessing this activity, Meg hoped she’d catch the attention of the police officer who must be elsewhere on the property. This was her aunt’s home—she wasn’t about to stand by and let someone take something from the barn.

      “Hey, you there. Stop!”

      Amazingly the man did what she said. He set down the back supports of the wheelbarrow. Then he stared across the open space at her and said, “Okay.”

      Still looking around for the police, Meg marched up to him. He truly didn’t look all that threatening up close though he stood over six feet. He appeared strong but with a lean, solid strength defined by hard work rather than the sculpted tone of weight training. He took a kerchief from his back pocket, removed his cap and wiped his brow. After stuffing the cloth back into his jeans, he said, “Do you want something?”

      Meg put her hands on her hips and tried to make the most of her five feet five inches. “What are you doing?”

      He gave her a look that might have been more appropriate if he were indulging a child’s question. “Pushing this wheelbarrow around to the back of the property.”

      She took a step closer. “What’s in there?”

      His mouth lifted at one corner in a cocky sort of smile. “You don’t want to know, ma’am.”

      “I asked you, didn’t I?” She walked near enough to have a look for herself. A healthy whiff of foul air curled up from clumps of damp straw. She wrinkled her nose and hopped back.

      The man snickered. “Satisfied? It’s good old-fashioned horse manure. I figure it’ll be a lot more welcome down by the Suwannee than up here by the house. The wild ferns by the river bank seem to like it.”

      “Where did you get it?” she asked.

      He merely raised his eyebrows while his smile widened.

      “You know what I mean,” she amended. “There hasn’t been a horse here in twenty years.”

      “There is now.”

      Meg glanced over her shoulder. No one else had appeared, prompting her to assume that she and this man were the only people around. But she was no longer worried. Obviously this man wasn’t stealing from the barn. He was cleaning it. And somehow her Aunt Amelia had neglected to tell her that a horse had taken up residence in Uncle Stewie’s old stable.

      She folded her arms over her chest and said, “Who are you?”

      He held out his hand, glanced down at the dirt, or whatever, that had stuck to his palm and dropped it to his side. “My name’s Wade Murdock. I’m the deputy sheriff of Mount Esther. Been here five months now.”

      That explained the patrol car. “And whose horse is in the barn?” she asked.

      “My daughter’s. I promised her a horse when we left Brooklyn.”

      And that explained the man’s distinctive northern accent. “Mrs. Ashford allows you to keep the horse in her barn?”

      “We worked out a deal,” he said and let his gaze wander over the property from where they stood to the back of the house. “For all practical purposes it’s my barn anyway. I bought this place, lock, stock and barrel from Mrs. Ashford.”

      CHAPTER TWO

      DEPUTY MURDOCK frowned with concern. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

      No, she wasn’t all right. He’d just aimed verbal darts at the reality she’d always depended upon. She wanted him to take them back. I just bought this place lock, stock and barrel, he’d said. That couldn’t be.

      He held out his hand, cautiously, as if he might have to grab onto her. Apparently she looked as shaken as she felt. “Stay there,” he ordered. “Don’t move.”

      For some reason she obeyed. Maybe she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up if she tried to move. Or maybe she stood still because he was a cop. He stepped inside the barn and returned with a galvanized washtub which he upended next to her. “Sit down.”

      She didn’t want to sit, but he obviously thought she should.

      He slapped at his pockets, searching for something. “Do you need medical attention? Where’s my damn cell phone?”

      As if a 911 call would provide an antidote for what he’d just said. “No, I don’t need medical attention,” she assured him. “I need answers. You can’t have bought this property.”

      He seemed to relax once she started talking. “Why not?”

      “Because it’s not for sale. Amelia Ashford would never sell this house to anyone.”

      He scrubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Well, I’m sorry, but she did. She sold it to me six weeks ago.”

      Six weeks ago? Impossible. Meg had spoken to her aunt at least twice during that time frame, and Amelia never mentioned anything about it. She snorted her disbelief and sat on the washtub. This was ridiculous. Ashford House had been promised to her when Amelia prepared a Quit Claim Deed four years ago giving the property to Meg.

      She surveyed the house and acres that stretched from the СКАЧАТЬ