Her Very Own Family. Trish Milburn
tree. He rolled to a stop and caught sight of his dad poking his head out the front door of the mill. By the time he stepped out of the truck, his dad stood on the small porch.
“Didn’t expect to see you,” his dad said.
“I’ve been calling you all day.”
Nelson Witt’s gray eyebrows raised. “So you drove all the way up here to check on me?”
“Partly. Decided to take a couple weeks of vacation.”
He saw his dad frown. “I suppose Bernie told you where I was,” Nelson said, almost his old self again.
“Yeah. He said you’ve been spending a lot of time out here.”
“It passes the days.”
There might be hints of his dad’s normal self resurfacing, but it was going to be a long time, if ever, before the soul-deep sorrow went away.
“So, you’re helping the lady with a little work?” Brady nodded at the wood chips and dust coating his dad’s shirt and jeans.
“Yeah, doing some odds and ends now, but she’s going to have me make the tables and chairs for the restaurant eventually.”
Brady eyed the exterior of the old mill. “She really thinks people will come out here to eat?”
“They’ll come. Audrey’s smart, got a business plan, lots of great ideas.”
Brady didn’t know what he thought of his father’s glowing report. On the one hand, it was great that he had a project, something to keep him occupied. On the other, well, he just needed to meet this Audrey for himself to make sure nothing was fishy, that she wasn’t a gold digger looking for someone to bankroll her pet project.
“She around?”
His dad nodded toward the gravel lane leading back to the main road. “She’s gone into town to get some paint. Should be back soon.”
“Well, let’s see what you’re working on,” Brady said as he walked toward the porch.
His dad showed him the benches extending along one wall that he’d reinforced. The railing he’d built around the mill’s large gears to keep anyone from stepping too close and getting hurt. And how he was cutting out a section of wall next to the waterwheel so that a large window could be installed, affording a view of the wheel and the creek beyond.
“Sounds like Audrey’s kept you busy. I hope she’s paying you well.”
His dad made a dismissive wave. “We’ll get to that. It’s just good to have something to do, get away from the house.”
So this Audrey was enjoying the fruits of his dad’s labors without paying him. That wasn’t exactly a point in her favor.
He only half listened as his dad kept talking about Audrey’s plans for the place, all of which seemed expensive and quite possibly ill-conceived. Yes, Willow Glen got a bit of tourist traffic because of the surrounding mountains, but an out-of-the-way café seemed a risky proposition. He just hoped that a bit of carpentry help was all she’d talked his dad into. He’d hate to be put in the position of questioning his dad’s financial decisions. That would go over like firecrackers during a church sermon.
The sound of a car coming up the lane drew their attention at the same time.
“That sounds like Audrey now,” his dad said. “Come on. I think you’re going to like her.”
That remained to be seen.
When they stepped outside, the mysterious Audrey was hidden by the open trunk lid on her car. He followed his dad as he headed toward the vehicle, a nice blue Jetta not more than a couple of years old. It wasn’t what he’d expected.
“We’ve got some more company we can put to work,” his dad called to her.
“That right?” came the muffled voice from the back just before she closed the trunk.
The world seemed to slip into slow motion as each detail in front of him came into supersharp focus, none of them what he’d expected. Brady stared, at a loss for words and vaguely aware that his mouth might be hanging open. Instead of a woman more his father’s age, a tall, leggy blonde stared back at him, surprise written across her lovely face.
Looked like today was going to be full of surprises.
Chapter Two
The buckets of paint nearly slipped from Audrey’s hands, but her brain reengaged in time for her to adjust her grip.
“Audrey York, this is my son, Brady.”
Good heavens, if Brady Witt did indeed look like his father had at the same age, the recently departed Betty had been a very lucky woman. Tall, nicely toned, natural tan, angular features. His sandy-brown hair was a touch long and a bit messy, like he didn’t have the time for a haircut or just didn’t care.
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
“Let me take those,” Brady said as he reached for the paint cans.
“I’ve got them, thanks. But there are a couple of bags in the backseat with dinner in them.” Thankfully, she had extra.
As she turned away and started toward the mill, she exhaled slowly, trying to get her hammering pulse under control. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a good-looking man, far from it. So why did this one in particular cause her pulse rate to go supersonic?
Long days and little sleep, that’s why. Not to mention the stress of wanting to get the café up and running and lots of work standing between her and opening day. Of course, the fact that Brady Witt was drop-dead gorgeous could have something to do with the fact that her brain synapses were misfiring.
She told herself not to care how she looked in her sweaty tank top, cargo shorts and work boots, but she couldn’t help smoothing her hair once she’d placed the paint cans inside. Then she shook her head at her silliness. She didn’t have to look polished and professional anymore, and that’s the way she’d wanted it. Willow Glen was the antidote to all the disappointments in her old life.
“You can just set those over there.” She indicated the table as Brady and Nelson came in with the bags.
“Dad’s been telling me all about your plans for the place,” Brady said. “Seems like quite a job for one woman.”
“Well, your dad has been a big help.”
“So I hear.”
She glanced up at Brady as she pulled the sub sandwiches and chips from the bags. Was that suspicion in his voice?
No, it couldn’t be. He had no reason to suspect her of anything. She’d be glad when she stopped hearing and seeing accusations and suspicion everywhere she looked.
But even after they all sat down to eat, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching her for some misstep, some clue that would shine a bright spotlight on everything she wanted to leave behind.
“So, what gave you the idea for this little venture?” Brady asked.
It didn’t take a top investigator to figure out that he didn’t think it would work. But that was okay. She had enough belief in the project to counter any naysayers.
“I came up here last year, did some hiking along the Willow Trail, canoed along the creek. That’s when I saw this old mill, and my imagination just started leaping with ideas.”
She didn’t much believe in fate or destiny anymore, except what you made for yourself, but something about the sight of this old mill when she’d floated by that day had spoken to her, called her name, begged her to save it. At the time, she’d taken photos of it to preserve the piece of history. Only later did actual preservation of the building occur to her as a way of guiding her life in a new direction.
“How do you plan to