memory opened a tiny crack in the mental dam that had kept her safe. The specter of loss slipped through, and she was overcome with a frightening sense of vulnerability.
“No,” Katy said, squaring her shoulders. She forced herself to focus on the photographs adorning the fireplace mantel. She studied them, her mouth softening. Children, parents and grandparents. Two young couples in various poses, with and without the children. A handsome teenager holding up a string of fish which, judging from the rod in his other hand, he had caught. Family, she thought, and felt the familiar pinch of longing.
Her gaze shot back to the young fisherman. Above the mantel was a large framed portrait of the same man. He appeared to be thirty or so at the time it was painted. His skin was tanned, his coal-black hair charmingly tousled. Her gaze stopped on his face, suddenly riveted as a sweet quill of feeling arrowed through her. He had a strong, aquiline nose and a stubborn chin. But it was his eyes that caught and held her attention. Those sky blue eyes seemed to be looking directly at her.
Entranced by the clarity of his gaze, Katy studied his face. There was something about his expression, an openness she found very pleasing.
She started as a sound broke her bemusement. Someone was whistling. Turning, she glanced through an interior doorway, past a golden-oak table and out a bank of windows that overlooked the back lawn. Behind the house lay a meadow. And striding through the lush green grass was the man in the picture.
Whistling as he walked, he swung a small metal bucket in each hand, brimful with ripe raspberries. He was dressed in a T-shirt, faded jeans and scruffy sneakers. Her breath caught, and she had to force herself to exhale. Even from this distance he was an arresting man.
Drawing herself up to her full height of five-feet-three and one-quarter inches, Katy took a step forward, only to stop in sudden indecision. Should she wait to be discovered or walk to meet him? And while she stood here and dithered, he swung lithely across the lawn and down the redwood deck to the screened door.
Katy reminded herself that she was twenty-nine and a little too old to be thrown by an attractive male. But damn, he was appealing! Ruggedly so, with the kind of muscles that came from hard work, not a gym.
She saw his vivid blue eyes widening as he stepped inside and saw her, then crinkle at the corners with a smile.
“Well, hello!” he said. “This is one of my nicer surprises today.” He set down the buckets and stuck out his hand. “I’m Thomas Logan. And you are...?”
Katy started to shake hands, then realized she still held her empty glass. Putting it down, she slipped her hand into his hard, brown fingers.
“Katy Lawrence.” She paused expectantly. “I’ve just arrived. On the ferry,” she went on when he tipped his head quizzically Idiot! Of course you arrived on the ferry, she chided herself silently. How else could you get on and off the island? Except by plane-and you’ve just driven all the way from California to avoid flying.
“Mr. Logan, I called and made reservations. For five weeks?” she prompted. “A woman answered the phone.”
“That would be Maddie. She handles most reservations.”
Who was Maddie? Katy reclaimed her hand, conscious of a tingling in her fingers. “Maddie? Is she the owner?”
“Maddie’s the maid. I’m the owner.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You run this B&B?”
“Yes. Shouldn’t I?”
That quizzical smile shaped his mouth again.
Katy blushed, a maddening trait. “Yes, of course, I was just...Mr. Logan, do I have a room or not?”
“Yes, Miss Lawrence, you have a room.” His voice deepened. “It is miss, isn’t it?”
Rattled, she gave a brusque nod.
He relaxed into a grin that weakened her knees.
“Welcome to Tumbling Brook Farm, Miss Lawrence.”
“Thank you. Is it a real farm?”
“No, not really, not anymore. But I liked the name, so I kept it.” Pulling a red bandanna from his rear pocket, he wiped his damp forehead. “Warm out there! Where are you from?”
“Southern California. San Diego, to be exact.”
“And you drove here?”
“Yes. I like to drive.” Hearing the hint of defensiveness in her reply, Katy lifted her chin, her gaze a tad defiant.
Thomas turned away. “Well, you’ll find this a very restful place, ideal for restorative purposes,” he said lightly. “Your bags still in the car? Five weeks, you say?”
“Yes.” Katy followed him out the door. “That’s not a problem, is it?”
“Not at all.”
He glanced back at her and she noted the laugh lines around his eyes and mouth. Mid-thirties, she decided. An experienced charmer, no doubt. Why hadn’t she been told about him? Her friend, Patsy Palmer, lived on the island and had recommended Tumbling Brook Farm. But she hadn’t mentioned its handsome owner.
All those telephone chats, Katy thought dryly, and not once had Thomas Logan’s name come up. “That little minx!” she muttered wryly.
Thomas’s long legs had already carried him to her car. She hurried past him and unlocked the trunk. Easily he lifted out the two large leather bags, leaving only a camera case and favorite pillow for her to carry.
Just as she reached inside the trunk for her things, Katy heard a sound that stiffened her slim body to a taut line. A small airplane flew overhead, its engine loud enough to hurt her ears. She stilled, mentally following its flight. She felt a scream welling up—the plane was too low, surely it was too low! She shuddered, struggling for control. But the sound swelled into a snarling roar that filled her entire being. Suddenly, reality vanished, and she was caught in a steely web of memory.
For a desolate moment, Katy felt powerless to free herself; the memory that froze her in place was crystal-clear. The combination of grief, horror and impotent rage was so strong she could taste its bitter tang...
“Miss Lawrence? Are you all right?”
The husky male voice had the effect of a soft touch on bare skin. There was incredible tenderness in it. Like splintering ice, the spell broke, and Katy let out the breath she’d been holding. A swift glance over her shoulder located Thomas standing at the edge of the driveway, waiting for her. Had he noticed her reaction to the plane? Idiot! Of course he’d noticed. Color scalded her cheeks as she met his concerned gaze.
Katy forced a laugh. “Yes, my goodness, of course I’m all right! It was just...” She inhaled, laughed again, shook her head at her foolishness. “I don’t usually freak out when an airplane flies over, but this one was so loud. And so low!”
“Just a friend buzzing me. On his way to pick up a couple of tourists, I imagine,” Thomas said. “I’m sorry it disturbed you.”
“It just startled me. Let me get my camera and pillow, and I’ll be right with you.” She’d covered pretty well, Katy thought. She picked up her camera case. The sound of the plane had faded into the distance. The memory had faded, too, but it had left its calling card.
With practiced discipline, Katy drew a long, deep breath and stilled her inner trembling. Then she grabbed her pillow, closed the trunk and turned to face him with a bright smile. “Can’t sleep without my special pillow! I’ve had it since college.”
His deep chuckle sent a rush of warmth through her body. Katy stepped around him and led the way back up the mossy, brick walkway. Her gaze, circling the yard, was curious and eager. On one side, young pear trees held a bounty of miniature fruit. On the other, a well-tended bed of huge pink peonies backed by white daisies flowed along an old stone fence. Pots of pansies and sweet alyssum flanked the steps. An inviting white wicker swing graced the porch.