A Time To Keep. Rochelle Alers
waited until she was seated before he returned to his SUV, turned off the flasher, executed a U-turn and headed southward. He glanced up at the rearview mirror. She was following him.
He decelerated and drove onto a paved road leading to a smaller version of the half-dozen restored antebellum mansions offering tours. Live oaks formed a natural canopy as he approached the house known as Bon Temps—meaning “good times” in French.
Shiloh wondered if Gwendolyn Taylor was aware of what had gone on behind the doors of the infamous mansion. He also wondered how well she’d known her namesake, Gwendolyn Pickering. A knowing smile parted his lips. If she didn’t know, then she would once the gossips came to introduce themselves to the newcomer. His first instinct was to warn her, but he changed his mind. There was something about Gwendolyn Taylor that said she could hold her own with anything and anyone. She had with him.
He waited in his vehicle, watching Gwendolyn as she parked her car, walked to the entrance of the house, and unlocked the front door. She disappeared inside and seconds later the first floor was flooded with soft light.
Shiloh smiled when she waved to him. He returned her wave, waiting until she closed the door. It wasn’t until he’d left Bon Temps and headed in the direction of his own house that he chided himself for not checking to see if she was safe—that no intruder or squatter had taken up residence.
Flipping a signal, he drove back to Bon Temps.
Gwen stood in the entryway, staring up at a cobweb-covered light fixture overhead. Muslin slipcovers were draped over all of the tables and chairs and a layer of dust coated the parquet floors bordered in a rosewood-inlay pattern.
Gwendolyn Pickering had passed away in late February, and it was now early May. It was that apparent no one had come to clean or air out the house. She pretended she didn’t see the stained and peeling wallpaper. Walking across the living room, she saw a massive chandelier resting in a corner on a drop cloth, the sooty remains in the brick fireplace, and the threadbare carpeting on the staircase leading to the second floor. Despite the disrepair, she recognized the magnificence of the mansion, which dated back to the 1840s.
Bon Temps was home, and not the three-bedroom apartment on the top floor of a turn-of-the-century town house she’d occupied for the past decade.
Heading for the staircase, she flipped on the light switch on a wall panel and illuminated the landing and the hallway at the top of the staircase.
Her footsteps were slow and determined as she climbed the stairs to see what awaited her. Her late aunt’s attorney had mailed her an envelope filled with photographs of the exterior and interior of Bon Temps, floor plans, copies of the original architectural drawings, and a description of the furnishings with authentication of every inventoried item.
The five-thousand-square-foot house contained four bedrooms, five-and-a-half bathrooms, a kitchen, a pantry, a laundry room, a formal living and dining room, and a small ballroom for entertaining. The floor plans also included a second-story veranda that overlooked an orchard and formal garden.
It took several hours after a lengthy conversation with Gwendolyn Pickering’s attorney for Gwen to digest the information that she now owned a house that if restored, would be granted historic landmark status. Mr. Sykes said she could either turn Bon Temps into a museum or live in it, so she’d opted to claim it as her home.
Gwen stopped as she reached the last stair when the chiming of the doorbell echoed melodiously throughout the house. Had someone seen the lights and come to investigate? She tried to remember if she’d locked the door behind her. Turning, she descended the staircase and walked to the door. She breathed a sigh of relief. Unconsciously, she’d locked it. Living in a big city had honed her survival skills—never leave a door unlocked.
The bell chimed again. Peering through the security peephole, Gwen saw the distorted face of the man whom she’d left less than five minutes before.
“Yes?” she asked through the solid wood door.
“Miss Taylor, it’s Shiloh. Please open the door.”
Her eyebrows inched up. He hadn’t identified himself as Sheriff Harper. She disengaged the lock. The man who’d rescued her from the ditch looked different without his hat. His close-cropped black hair hugged his head like a cap. The soft yellow light from the porch lamps flattered the angles of his dark brown face. He looked like someone she’d seen before.
She affected a smile. “Yes, Sheriff?”
Shiloh’s gold-flecked green eyes lingered on her lush mouth. “Please call me Shiloh.”
Her smile faded. “Why?”
“Because I’m off duty. Your place has been vacant for several months although my men do check at least twice a week to make certain squatters or vandals haven’t broken in. I just came back to make certain you were all right.”
Gwen knew it was impolite to stare, but she couldn’t take her gaze away from Shiloh’s face. Who did he look like? She mentally ran through the faces of people she’d met and interviewed over the years, but came up blank.
She blinked as if coming out of a trance and opened the door wider. “You’re off duty, yet you’re still on the job?”
He angled his head, smiling. “I’m always on the job, Miss Taylor.”
Shiloh liked listening to Gwendolyn Taylor’s voice. It was a welcome change from the slow drawl and distinctive inflection of the Cajun dialect of most people in the parish. Not only did she talk different, but she also looked different from the women in the region. Despite her casual attire, there was something about her that silently screamed big city, and he wondered how long it would take for her to abandon Bon Temps, tire of the slower lifestyle, and return to Massachusetts.
Gwen gave him a warm smile and offered her right hand. “I’d like you to call me Gwen.”
Shiloh took her smaller hand in his, enjoying its softness. It was with reluctance that he released it. He’d returned to Bon Temps to make certain it was safe for Gwendolyn Taylor to enter, and he’d also returned to see her again. He didn’t know what it was about the transplanted Bostonian, but something about her intrigued him. Not knowing whether there was a Mr. Taylor or a few little Taylors, but like a besotted teenager he’d come back for another glimpse of a woman whose voice drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
He nodded, smiling. “Then Gwen it is. Do you mind if I check around?”
She stepped aside. “Not at all.”
Shiloh moved into the entryway, his sharp gaze cataloguing everything. Even to someone who lived his entire life in the South the heat inside the house was oppressive.
He walked into the living room, stopping short, and a soft body plowed into his back. Turning quickly, he reached out to steady Gwen as she swayed and struggled to keep her balance.
“Just where are you going?” he asked, glaring down at her stunned expression.
Gwen felt the unyielding strength in the fingers around her upper arms, inhaled the lingering scent of a provocative men’s cologne, and shivered from the press of Shiloh’s body against hers.
“I’m following you.” She didn’t recognize her own voice because it had come out in a breathless whisper.
Shiloh eased his grip on her arms, but didn’t release her. A frown marred his smooth forehead. “No, you’re not.”
She bristled visibly. How dare he tell her what she could do in her own home? “And why not?”
“Because I’m the one with the big gun,” he drawled. He hadn’t bothered to hide his arrogance.
Gwen tried unsuccessfully to bite back a smile. “Oh, really,