Brooks. Stone walls.”
“Turn-of-the-century dumps,” he added without detectable sarcasm. Unmoved by her protest, he turned to Harriet. “I’d like to reserve a room for three nights, perhaps longer.”
“As long as you wish, Mr. Sinclair. This is our slow time.”
“I rode with your cousin from the airport. I’ll check in after I’ve picked up my car.”
“You can check in whenever you want.”
He smiled, laying on the charm. “Thank you, Miss Chestnut.”
“My pleasure. Penelope—”
“I’ll talk to you later, Harriet. The scones were spectacular today, as usual.”
Penelope had no intention of chitchatting with her cousin. Couldn’t she tell she wanted Wyatt Sinclair out of town? Not Harriet. There was a simple reason she could deal with the public with such genuine good cheer—Harriet was oblivious to the undercurrents between people. She took them at face value, and that was that. Which was why she’d missed Penelope’s frustration with Sinclair, the phoniness of his charm and how much he was enjoying thwarting her. If she was going to stick to her story, he could at least do something she didn’t want him to do. Jerk her chain. Rattle her.
As if the black leather jacket and the strong, lean build weren’t enough, Penelope thought grimly.
She started for the door, assuming Sinclair would follow. To her relief, he did. She glanced at Harriet. “Oh, and if Mother calls, I’d like to tell her myself I’ve been grounded, not that she won’t have heard it from half the town by now.”
“Your father already told her. She’s staying out of it.”
Just as Penelope had expected. If Robby Chestnut was anything, it was laissez faire when it came to her husband’s relationship with their daughter, especially if flying was involved.
Penelope charged through the door and into the chilly, damp air. She never should have picked the Sunrise Inn, except that during the crisis, thinking about Harriet’s scones had helped her stop berating herself for not properly preflighting her plane.
Her father’s plane, she amended, suddenly feeling quite grouchy.
When she finally had Wyatt Sinclair in her truck, she gripped the wheel and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day. And it showed no signs of improving.
“What’s the matter?” he asked mildly, knowing damned well he’d struck a nerve. “Is Harriet the crazy cousin who snuck out of the attic?”
“No, she’s the crazy cousin we should lock in the attic.” Penelope shook her head, debating how much she should tell Sinclair about her cousin before he spent the night under her roof. Tears rushed to her eyes. Damn. That was all she needed, to start crying. Harriet, Harriet. What am I going to do with you? She took one last look at the Sunrise Inn, shook her head and started the engine. “You knew I don’t want you staying there.”
“Why not?”
“Harriet’s—she’s—” This wasn’t going to be easy. “You’re the first Sinclair she’s ever met.”
“I’m the first Sinclair you’ve ever met. It hasn’t seemed to affect you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
She thrust her truck into gear and let out the clutch. “It’s not my place, but if you’re intent on sticking around town for a few days, you’ll find out anyway. If no one else tells you, Harriet will herself.” She exhaled slowly, refusing to imagine the results if that happened. Would Sinclair laugh hysterically? Threaten her? Call in the men in white jackets? “Look, she’s a sweet soul.”
“And?”
“Well, she thinks she’s one of you.”
Wyatt frowned. “You’re right. I don’t understand.”
Penelope bit her lower lip. “Harriet is convinced she’s Colt and Frannie’s long-lost daughter.”
Four
That was all Wyatt could get out of her. The plain, sweet-souled woman at the inn thought she was Colt and Frannie’s daughter. It was a harmless fantasy, no one believed it, end of story. Just like the turn-of-the-century dump was the end of that story.
He was beginning to think Cold Spring was one weird little town.
He headed for his car. The temperature had dropped noticeably, the sun long gone. Penelope had driven him to the airport, given him a tight-lipped smile and charged off in her truck.
“Sinclair—wait a second.”
It was Lyman Chestnut. He crossed the rutted lot at an unhurried pace, wiping his thick fingers with a black rag. Wyatt waited for him. His patience was at a low ebb. Tea, scones, lies—and those green eyes and flushed cheeks, sexy, challenging.
“Harriet called,” Lyman said. “Says you’re staying a night or two.”
“I might.”
“Penelope tell you her story?”
Wyatt noticed the careful wording. He nodded.
“She was in rough shape when she came out of the woods Sunday night. She was lost most of the afternoon. It was dark—we’d organized a search party and were just about to get started after her. She has a way of losing track of what she’s doing and getting herself in trouble. She’s been doing it since she was a little kid.”
He wiped his fingers on the rag, pretending to concentrate on the task. Wyatt could see he was frustrated, preoccupied, awkward. Having the daughter he had would have its ups and downs. “Mr. Chestnut—”
“Lyman. I make my flying students call me Mr. Chestnut, but that’s about it. Look, Penelope’s been fantasizing about finding that plane since she could walk. Everyone around here has. I’m guessing once she realized she didn’t find anything up in the woods after all, she just tried to figure out a way to save face. She hates to be wrong.”
That Wyatt could believe. “What about this dump story?”
“There are plenty of old dumps around here.”
He wouldn’t counter his daughter, not to a Sinclair. Wyatt acknowledged his statement with a curt nod. “It’s hard to believe she can’t find her way back to whatever it is she found.”
Lyman shrugged. “Maybe she’s just embarrassed.”
“Excuse me, but your daughter doesn’t strike me as a woman who embarrasses easily.”
“That’s the God’s truth.” He almost managed a smile. “Here’s the deal. I don’t want any trouble. Penelope’s a good kid. Her mind hasn’t been on her work lately, but that’s got nothing to do with you Sinclairs.”
“What does it have to do with?”
Lyman inhaled, shaking his head. “Damned if I know. Boredom, I think. She needs—well, hell, I’ll just get myself into trouble if I start talking about what she needs. It’s getting around town, you being here. You know, I searched for your uncle’s plane myself. I walked up and down these hills for weeks, never saw a thing, not one sign a plane had gone down. We all did everything we could, but…” He broke off, shook his head. “What’s done is done.”
Wyatt finished Lyman’s thought for him. “But my family wasn’t satisfied. My grandfather didn’t think you’d done enough. The people of Cold Spring, I mean, not you individually.”
Lyman leveled his frank gaze on Wyatt and nodded. “I guess that’s right. I heard he died—your grandfather. He and my father used to go hunting and fishing together. Well, I guess old Willard thought of my father as a guide. But that’s not how my father saw