1
“ Y ou’re trespassing . You shouldn’t be here.”
Valerie gasped in surprise, startled by the man’s voice. The smooth Southern accent came from behind the crumbling stone cottage. Vines and vegetation had taken over the exterior walls, growing into cracks along the sides, covering what remained of tiny windows. Time caused the stone blocks to lean a little toward the back, but the old home still stood and would most likely endure for another hundred years. Trees lifted around the cottage like a fortress wall, as if the woods stood guard, allowing access only by a narrow worn path that the grass refused to completely overtake.
Something drew her away from unpacking boxes to come and explore the land around her new home. There was much left to do, and she had writing deadlines, so the break was ill advised. Despite her responsibilities, the feeling had overtaken her. It was an impulse she could not control. The cottage called to her, pulling on the strings of curiosity inside her. The realtor had said nothing about outbuildings, and she wanted to explore inside.
The man continued, “Didn’t you see the signs?”
A hand appeared by the bottom edge of the cottage’s corner. The man placed a bottle of whiskey on the ground. His strong fingers slid down the sweaty length of the bottle to land flat on the patch of dirt. His rolled blue flannel sleeve revealed a tanned arm. It was a worker’s hand—calloused fingers and an old scar. Mesmerized, she stared at the fingers. They drew her attention like the cottage had, urging her to move forward. She resisted.
Valerie slowly backed away. When she’d bought the old house in the middle of nowhere, she’d been told that no one would disturb her. This was her sanctuary. Still, here it was, day two after moving in, and she was being accosted while walking her property.
The arm flexed, signifying that he was going to stand up. She quickened her retreat while keeping an eye on the cottage. Her heartbeat sped, and her muscles tensed, readying to run.
Valerie wasn’t sure what she expected when the figure finally emerged, but she didn’t expect him to be handsome. The bottle was only a quarter gone, and the man didn’t appear too drunk as he came before her. He was one of the lucky people who’d been blessed with an ageless face, a face that could have been twenty or forty. The grumpiness of his voice and the seriousness of his eyes made her think he was older.
The sun had kissed the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Old jeans and worn flannel coupled with the longer style of his hair gave the appearance of manual labor, as did the strength of his body and the ease in which he moved. The brown eyes were soulful when they looked at her, but his expression was stiff and restrained. “You shouldn’t be here, lady. It’s not safe.”
“Those are my signs now. I’m not trespassing.” Valerie watched him closely, wondering if the prudent thing would be to run for help. He didn’t advance on her threateningly, but he also didn’t smile in welcome. Something kept her from leaving. She was tired of being pushed around. This land belonged to her, as did the decrepit little cottage. Hers. She’d earned it. She’d fought and clawed her way for what she had.
“You’re Valerie Walsh?” He didn’t seem pleased as he looked her over. The man had her at a disadvantage. She had no clue who he was. “I thought you were moving in next month.”
“You’ve heard of me?” She crossed her arms over her chest. The gesture was more out of nervousness than aggression.
“More than I wanted to. Less than I should have.” He laughed softly to himself but hardly seemed to be in good spirits. There was a strength in his expression and gestures, an arrogance as he articulately pronounced his words, which belied the blue-collar attire. “Is it true you’re staying out here alone?”
“N-no,” Valerie said. She’d always been a horrible liar. Well, unless she was
“ Y ou’re trespassing . You shouldn’t be here.”
Valerie gasped in surprise, startled by the man’s voice. The smooth Southern accent came from behind the crumbling stone cottage. Vines and vegetation had taken over the exterior walls, growing into cracks along the sides, covering what remained of tiny windows. Time caused the stone blocks to lean a little toward the back, but the old home still stood and would most likely endure for another hundred years. Trees lifted around the cottage like a fortress wall, as if the woods stood guard, allowing access only by a narrow worn path that the grass refused to completely overtake.
Something drew her away from unpacking boxes to come and explore the land around her new home. There was much left to do, and she had writing deadlines, so the break was ill advised. Despite her responsibilities, the feeling had overtaken her. It was an impulse she could not control. The cottage called to her, pulling on the strings of curiosity inside her. The realtor had said nothing about outbuildings, and she wanted to explore inside.
The man continued, “Didn’t you see the signs?”
A hand appeared by the bottom edge of the cottage’s corner. The man placed a bottle of whiskey on the ground. His strong fingers slid down the sweaty length of the bottle to land flat on the patch of dirt. His rolled blue flannel sleeve revealed a tanned arm. It was a worker’s hand—calloused fingers and an old scar. Mesmerized, she stared at the fingers. They drew her attention like the cottage had, urging her to move forward. She resisted.
Valerie slowly backed away. When she’d bought the old house in the middle of nowhere, she’d been told that no one would disturb her. This was her sanctuary. Still, here it was, day two after moving in, and she was being accosted while walking her property.
The arm flexed, signifying that he was going to stand up. She quickened her retreat while keeping an eye on the cottage. Her heartbeat sped, and her muscles tensed, readying to run.
Valerie wasn’t sure what she expected when the figure finally emerged, but she didn’t expect him to be handsome. The bottle was only a quarter gone, and the man didn’t appear too drunk as he came before her. He was one of the lucky people who’d been blessed with an ageless face, a face that could have been twenty or forty. The grumpiness of his voice and the seriousness of his eyes made her think he was older.
The sun had kissed the strong lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Old jeans and worn flannel coupled with the longer style of his hair gave the appearance of manual labor, as did the strength of his body and the ease in which he moved. The brown eyes were soulful when they looked at her, but his expression was stiff and restrained. “You shouldn’t be here, lady. It’s not safe.”
“Those are my signs now. I’m not trespassing.” Valerie watched him closely, wondering if the prudent thing would be to run for help. He didn’t advance on her threateningly, but he also didn’t smile in welcome. Something kept her from leaving. She was tired of being pushed around. This land belonged to her, as did the decrepit little cottage. Hers. She’d earned it. She’d fought and clawed her way for what she had.
“You’re Valerie Walsh?” He didn’t seem pleased as he looked her over. The man had her at a disadvantage. She had no clue who he was. “I thought you were moving in next month.”
“You’ve heard of me?” She crossed her arms over her chest. The gesture was more out of nervousness than aggression.
“More than I wanted to. Less than I should have.” He laughed softly to himself but hardly seemed to be in good spirits. There was a strength in his expression and gestures, an arrogance as he articulately pronounced his words, which belied the blue-collar attire. “Is it true you’re staying out here alone?”
“N-no,” Valerie said. She’d always been a horrible liar. Well, unless she was
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