Secrets of the Lost Summer. Carla Neggers

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СКАЧАТЬ and nodded to the refrigerator in the muck. “Then you’ll be cleaning up this mess. Excellent. It’s turned into quite a junkyard, hasn’t it?”

       “No argument from me.”

       He glanced at the mess behind him. The cast-off washing machine was farther up the slope, in more prickly vines. Between it and the fridge were tires, hubcaps, a rotting rake with missing tines, bottles, beer cans and—oddly—what was left of a disintegrating twin mattress.

       “There was never a report of a break-in,” Olivia said. “We suspect kids partied out here and got carried away.”

       “Hell of a place to party.”

       She seemed to take no offense at his comment. “As I explained in my note, I live just down the road.”

       “The Farm at Carriage Hill,” Dylan said with a smile.

       “More like The Soon-to-be Farm at Carriage Hill.” She brushed raindrops off the end of her nose, then motioned vaguely up the tree-lined road, toward the village. “My family lives in town. They’ll be checking on me with this nasty weather. It’s not as remote out here as you might think. People come by at all hours.”

       Dylan realized her comment was a warning—a self-protective measure, given that the two of them were the only ones out on the isolated road. He didn’t want to unnerve her, but he didn’t think he looked particularly threatening standing there in the mud, mist and freezing rain, especially when she was the one with the big dog.

       Nonetheless, he made an effort to give her an innocuous smile. “You’re lucky to have family close by in this weather.”

       She returned his smile. “Spring can’t come soon enough, can it? As I mentioned in my note, I can help with the yard if you need it.” She glanced at his rented Audi parked on the partially washed-out driveway, then shifted back to him. “I also have access to a truck.”

       “Good to know.”

       “I should get Buster back to the house. You’re not…” Olivia grabbed her dog’s collar. “I thought you’d be older.”

       “You were expecting my father, Duncan McCaffrey,” Dylan said, figuring it was a good guess. “He died a few months after he bought this place. I didn’t know about the property and didn’t realize he’d left it to me until I received your note.”

       “Really? How could you not know?”

       “Long story. You’re not wearing a coat. Why don’t you take mine? You don’t want to get hypothermia—”

       “I’ll be fine. Thanks, though.”

       “Are you sure you don’t want to come inside and dry off? Looks as if I won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

       “That’s nice of you to offer, but Buster and I will be on our way. He’s not good with strangers.”

       Another warning, Dylan decided as he watched Olivia turn with her badass dog and head through the ice-covered patches of grass, snow, dead leaves, mud and muck. He noticed she was wearing close-fitting jeans and had mud splattered on her butt and the backs of her thighs. She must have tripped or stumbled in the freezing conditions while chasing Buster up the road.

       It was sunny and seventy-five degrees when Dylan had left Coronado yesterday.

       He hadn’t been kidding; he wasn’t going anywhere until the weather cleared, and he certainly wasn’t hauling junk. He didn’t entirely understand Olivia Frost’s fuss over her neighbor’s makeshift dump and overgrown yard. Her place wasn’t visible through the trees. It wasn’t as if she were right next door. Managing not to slip, he made his way to his nondescript little New England house. Loretta had given him the keys. He’d done a quick walk-through already. The front door was on the left side of a roofed porch and opened into an entry with green-carpeted stairs leading up to three small bedrooms and one bathroom on the second floor. To the right of the front door on the first floor was a living room with tall windows and a double doorway to an adjoining dining room with a bay window overlooking the side yard opposite the spot with the junk.

       Off the dining room was the kitchen, with doors to the cellar and backyard.

       That was it.

       The house was modestly furnished with a couch, a cupboard, a dining room table and chairs, and old player piano. Bookcases upstairs and in the dining room were filled, but otherwise, there were no personal belongings. It was as if Grace Webster had left behind whatever she couldn’t find room for in her new residence or just didn’t want or need.

       Dylan flipped a switch on a dusty overhead in the living room.

       The power was out.

       He sighed. “Great.”

       Naturally the house didn’t have a landline, and he couldn’t pick up a signal on his cell phone. He glanced out the front window and saw the power lines were drooping with the ice that had formed on them.

       What about his neighbor? The power had to be out at her place, too.

       Dylan wondered if he should check on her. Small towns looked after their own, didn’t they?

       Olivia Frost’s family and friends wouldn’t be able to get out here. No one and nothing would be moving in these conditions.

       Dylan buttoned his jacket and stepped back out to the porch. As far as he could tell, the precipitation was still freezing rain—it fell as rain and landed as ice, creating treacherous “black ice” conditions.

       “Miserable,” he said, pulling up the collar to his jacket as he ventured down the slippery porch steps.

       Slipping and sliding, Dylan made his way down the road to The Farm at Carriage Hill. Clear ice and a film of rainwater covered everything, including the sand that was supposed to help with traction.

       He heard a branch snap somewhere in the woods, then nothing.

       The silence was downright eerie.

       He reminded himself he liked ice. He had been a natural on skates. These weren’t rink conditions, but he was good at keeping his balance, or so he told himself as he considered that if he fell, he was on his own. No one would find him.

       Unless Buster sneaked out again, he thought with a grim smile, pressing on.

       Smoke was curling out of the chimney of his only neighbor’s cream-colored house. An ice-and-rain-coated walk took him to a wide stone landing, and he knocked on the front door, painted a rich blue. There was another door to his right, to a newer addition. This was obviously the oldest part of the house.

       “Miss Frost?” he called. “It’s Dylan McCaffrey.”

       She opened the door. Her hair was still damp, and her cheeks were pink from the cold—or warmth, Dylan realized suddenly. Even from his position on the landing, he could tell that her house was toasty. She obviously had a fireplace or woodstove going. Hence, the smoke coming out of the chimney.

       With his dripping coat and wet, muddy pants and shoes, he felt marginally ridiculous coming to her aid. It probably should have been the other way around. He was the СКАЧАТЬ