The Missing Heir. Jane Toombs
off a piece and raise it to her lips.
When she opened her mouth, his fingers brushed her lower lip as he slid the chocolate inside. He drew his hand back quickly, disturbed by the tingle that ran through him from the brief contact.
Mari did her best to ignore the frisson his touch sent zinging along her nerves. She concentrated instead on the candy. “Umm, yes, it certainly does taste like fudge,” she said.
He laughed. “One for your side.”
She grinned, enjoying how relaxed she felt with him. “We’re counting? I’ll have to remember that. Actually, it’s excellent fudge.”
He dropped the bag onto her lap, saying, “Souvenir T-shirts next?”
Mari shook her head. Even if she’d wanted one, she couldn’t afford to spend the money she had with her unnecessarily. Though she’d recently gotten a credit card strictly for emergencies, Stan didn’t have any. When Mari was ten, Aunt Blanche had cut up the one she shared with Uncle Stan. Her words echoed down the years: Gamblers got no business with that plastic. You go getting us any more in debt and we’ll lose the ranch.
Her uncle was no longer a high roller. Unless—and the thought chilled Mari—unless this entire Haskell business was no more than a scheme of his. A gamble. She shivered.
“Cold?” Russ asked.
“No.” And, no, too, to that disquieting notion about Stan. Her uncle loved her; he wouldn’t do anything like that to her. He might have been a gambler at one time, but he’d never been under-handed.
“The lake breeze isn’t exactly warm,” Russ said.
“I should be getting back,” she told him. There might be word by now about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She ought return to the cottage and find out.
“I’ll walk you—” he began.
“No!” Realizing she’d blurted the word, she added, “I mean, I’d like to be by myself for a while. Thanks for the fudge. I’ll meet you in the morning—where? Here in the park?”
His gaze was frankly assessing, but he didn’t comment other than to say, “Remember where the stable was? I’ll have our horses ready there. Nine?”
“Okay. See you then.” The bag of fudge clutched in her hand, Mari strode away from the park, aware she was all but running, which was foolish. Still, she couldn’t seem to slow down.
Running away from Russ when what she really wanted was to be with him? Yes, but did she want to share her story with him? She could hardly go on meeting him without admitting she was staying at the Haskell cottage. And why would she be doing that when the owner was in a New York hospital? If she was a family friend, wouldn’t Russ expect her to be in New York at Mr. Haskell’s bedside?
She hated to lie. In any case, she’d never been any good at making up believable ones. And, somehow, she didn’t want to lie to Russ at all. Despite their short acquaintance he already felt like a friend.
And maybe a tad more?
Chapter Three
W alking down to the stables the next morning, Mari tried to feel optimistic about what Pauline had told her at breakfast. Mr. Haskell, it seemed, was “holding his own”—whatever that meant. At least he wasn’t worse.
On such a fine morning, brisk, but with the promise of later warmth, it was difficult to feel anything but upbeat. Or was it actually because she was going riding with Russ? A bit of both, Mari told herself. It had been silly not to tell him where she was staying. Maybe he didn’t even know Mr. Haskell. Still, after Mr. Haskell’s dramatic appearance on TV, probably everyone did. Would Russ connect her with the missing Haskell daughter if she told him she was at the cottage?
Mari grimaced, disliking having to be secretive with a man she felt was a friend. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about Russ knowing where she was staying. Besides, the island was so small he’d find out sooner or later, anyway. She might as well tell him herself if the chance came to bring it up casually.
Russ was waiting at the stables with two handsome chestnuts that looked like a matched pair. She tried to tell herself her heart wasn’t racing at the sight of him, and gave him an offhand greeting. “Good-looking pair,” she said, forcing her attention to the horses rather than on him.
“Same sire and dam,” he told her. “My friend Nellis told me they were slated for one of the fancier two-horse surreys, but then Jill balked at having anything with wheels behind her, and Jack refused to be hitched unless Jill was beside him. Since they come from a long line of buggy horses, Nellis was surprised but happy when they turned out to be good riding horses. Genes don’t always run true.”
Mari blinked, unsure if the last few words might not somehow be directed at her. Almost immediately she decided she was way off the mark. He couldn’t possibly know who she was or who she might be. He’s talking about horses and nothing else, you worrier, you, she told herself.
To calm herself, she rubbed Jill’s nose. “You’re a smart mare,” she said. “I wouldn’t like one of those wheeled things rumbling at my heels, either.”
“Just like women to stick together,” Russ observed as he gave her a hand up onto Jill’s back.
“I suppose men don’t?” she countered.
“Independent to the core, all of us.”
She rolled her eyes.
He mounted Jack, saying, “We’ll ride around the island’s perimeter this morning to give you an idea of its size. I’ll save the historical spots and unusual rock formations for later trips. That is, if you’ll be staying around for a few weeks.”
“Uh, maybe.” She hadn’t a clue how long she’d be here. It depended on Mr. Haskell’s health and how soon he might be able to return to the island. After that, who knew?
“Maybe you’ll be here for a couple weeks, or maybe you’ll put up with my company after today?” he asked.
Though very aware of how much she enjoyed being with him, she wasn’t about to tell him that. Slanting him a look, she said, “Both. How far is it around the island?”
“Eight and a half miles.” Letting Jack set an easy pace, Russ led the way from the stables to the lake road that followed the island’s perimeter.
Mari was charmed anew by the lack of motorized vehicles. “It’s like living before they invented the automobile,” she said as she pulled up even with him. “I can’t get over how different it is here.”
He gestured to the left, toward the arched span of the Mackinac Bridge, visible in the distance, connecting Michigan’s Lower and Upper Peninsulas. “That’s as close as cars get to the island. Except for a couple of emergency vehicles, there are none here.”
Mari, watching a sailboat scud along Lake Huron and wishing again she was just a tourist, sighed.
Russ glanced at her. “Something wrong?”
She shook her head, not daring to dare tell him how troubled she felt over why she’d come here. Her birth mother had listed her name as Ida Grant on Mari’s birth certificate. On TV, Mr. Haskell had given his daughter’s name as Isabel and said she might be using Morrison as her last name. Why had Uncle Stan been so sure Ida Grant was Isabel Haskell Morrison? As far as Mari knew, he had no real proof.
As the horses clopped along, Russ pointed out a limestone formation called Devil’s Kitchen. “Not one of the more spectacular. We’ll give it a miss.” Farther on he gestured to a bluff on the right. “Lover’s Leap.”
“We have a few of those in the Sierras,” she said. “I’ve always thought it strange anyone would want to die for love.”
“You ever been in love?”
Had she? With Danny Boy? She’d been infatuated enough