of trees and damaged some homes and businesses. No serious injuries.”
“That’s good. About the injuries, I mean.”
Samantha glanced up at the sky, graying now with dusk. It would be the kind of cool, beautiful night she’d anticipated. She’d checked the forecast on her phone on the drive from Boston, but she’d missed any reference to the force and speed with which the cold front would move into this part of New England.
Of course, it was just like a Bennett to be struck by lightning.
“What were you doing out here?” Justin asked her.
“Hiking.”
“Most people hike in Quabbin or one of the state forests. Why’d you pick here?”
“I wanted to follow Cider Brook to where it empties into Quabbin.”
“Any particular reason?”
“It seemed like a good idea this morning.” She smiled, feeling less jittery now that the fire was out. “That could be my family’s motto. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’”
Justin didn’t appear amused.
She added, truthfully, “I like the name Cider Brook. Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Never thought about it. Where’s your car?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Someone picking you up?”
“Not today.” She gestured vaguely toward the mill and surrounding woods. “I planned to camp out here.”
He shook his head. “Not happening. Most of your gear’s wrecked, and I can’t let you inside the mill until I’m satisfied it’s safe.”
Well, that was inconvenient. Samantha considered her options. Amherst, where her uncle and cousin were spending the night, wasn’t that far—but she would have to figure out how to get herself there. If they had to make a detour to pick her up early, she would never hear the end of it. Uncle Caleb would carry on about why she hadn’t known about the storm before it hit, the odds against a lightning strike setting the mill on fire and what she was going to do now that she’d come to the attention of the locals. She could just hear him: “You never should have gone to Knights Bridge in the first place.”
But she had, and now she needed to figure out what to do. Send Justin Sloan on his way and then...what? Buy a new tent and sleeping bag? Where? What about dinner? Water? Clothes? If her things were trampled, soaked, burned up in the fire or just out of reach, she would have to start from scratch. She didn’t even have a toothbrush.
“There’s an inn down the road,” Justin said, interrupting her thoughts. “You can stay there tonight. I’ll drop you off.”
The Farm at Carriage Hill. Had to be.
It was owned by the woman who was engaged to Dylan McCaffrey, Duncan McCaffrey’s son.
Samantha carefully arranged her features so she wouldn’t look as if her rescuer had just invited her into the lion’s den. She could be hard to read herself. It just wasn’t her natural state. Her natural state was to be open, honest and straightforward, but she had to be circumspect now that a fire had put an end to her low-profile presence in Knights Bridge.
“Thank you, Justin.” She even managed a smile. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”
“Not a problem.”
“I’m glad the damage to your mill wasn’t any worse. It’s a good thing you got here when you did, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” He took a half step closer to her and pointed at her jacket. “My padlock is in the inside pocket on the right. I felt it when I rescued you.”
“I didn’t need you to ‘rescue’ me.”
“Yeah. You did.” He tapped the lower left pocket where she’d tucked her grandfather’s flask. “Booze?”
“Scotch. Lagavulin. I was going to sip it under the stars.”
He gave just a hint of a smile. “I’ll bet you were.”
He went back up to the cider mill and disappeared inside.
Samantha exhaled but didn’t relax. She’d had a close call with the fierce storm and then the fire—closer than she wanted to acknowledge. It wasn’t easy to admit that if Justin Sloan hadn’t come along when he had and swept her out of the burning mill, she could have been overcome by smoke and gone up in flames.
She would return his padlock to him. Just not right now. Better to wait until they’d both had a chance to deal with the adrenaline dump of the fire.
Justin emerged from the mill with her backpack. He opened the passenger door to his truck and tossed the pack inside. “Hop in,” he said. He left the door open as he circled around to the driver’s side. “Carriage Hill is a ten-minute drive.”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?”
He got into his truck, shut the door and started the engine, clearly in no mood to wait. Samantha suspected his terse manner was the way he was, although the events of the day might have exacerbated his natural tendency. She reminded herself she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to make friends, or even because of Captain Farraday, as intriguing and as entangled with her true reasons as her colorful eighteenth-century pirate and his illicit treasure were.
She looked up at the old mill, bits of barn-red paint visible in its worn exterior. The fire smells were strong in the cool late-afternoon air. She wanted to know about the painting she’d found in her grandfather’s closet. She wanted to know how the author of The Adventures of Captain Farraday and Lady Elizabeth had ended up writing a fictional story about a real pirate, and why Harry Bennett had put her—his eldest grandchild—onto the trail of the mysterious New England pirate.
All of that was interesting, but Samantha knew it was only a small part of the reason for coming to Knights Bridge. The main reason—the real reason—was to make peace with Duncan McCaffrey, a man who’d hired her and mentored her.
Who’d trusted her.
“Damn, Samantha. It never occurred to me not to trust you.”
She tightened her jacket and headed for Justin Sloan’s dusty-gray truck.
* * *
The combination of adrenaline, an enclosed space and an intense man behind the wheel turned the ten-minute drive to The Farm at Carriage Hill into something that felt a notch short of an eternity. Samantha was accustomed to being around rugged men, but this was different. Even if she could have gotten out of the mill on her own—and she remained convinced she could have—Justin Sloan had, in fact, rushed into a burning building and carried her out. A courageous deed by any standard. As the beneficiary, she felt a mix of gratitude and guilt but also a physical awareness that had taken her completely by surprise.
Justin had rolled up the sleeves of his canvas shirt to just below his elbows, revealing taut, well-developed forearms. Samantha guessed that his volunteer firefighting plus whatever he did for a living kept him in shape. She wasn’t going to ask for details. Personal questions on her part risked personal questions on his part.
He pulled in front of a cream-colored center-chimney house, the last home on a narrow road that once had been a main route from Knights Bridge into the Swift River valley towns—long before major highways and interstates. Now it dead-ended at a Quabbin gate. Not only had she studied her map and the history of the area but she’d been out here before, if only that one time on a snowy March day.
She shook off that thought. Couldn’t go there. Later, maybe. Not now.
Justin turned off the engine. He’d parked next to a sign for The Farm at Carriage Hill painted with its signature blossoming chives. Although Samantha hadn’t done nearly enough planning for her trip to Knights Bridge, she knew that Olivia Frost, the owner, was a graphic