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Dahlia wanted to write articles. For all her sister sometimes seemed stoic and hard to reach when they talked, when she wrote she poured her soul out. When they were kids, Dahlia had written breathless romances—in the vein of Jane Austen, of course, but always with a suggestive scene of the hero and heroine disappearing behind closed doors.
Ruby had loved them.
Ruby had loved that time in their lives. The idea of living in it again made her feel... Just so very good.
There was a little bookshelf in the entry, built-in, stacked with Dahlia’s books, and Ruby had a feeling there was going to be a tussle over shelf space. That was predominantly what she had shipped back to the States, in a flat rate box, because it was cheaper than paying the exorbitant airline fees for anything that heavy.
And Ruby was nothing if not a book pack rat.
There were two very small bedrooms, and one had the door firmly shut, the other opened. Ruby pushed the door open. The room was sparse and clearly not Dahlia’s. There was a small twin bed pressed against a wall of windows that backed the woods.
Not just the woods.
The Brewer orchard.
She stood there at the window and stared out for a long time. There was something... Unsettling about the orchard. About the Brewers themselves.
They were placed firmly on Pear Blossom’s list of pariahs.
Her mother had cautioned them to stay away from the property, though when no other incidences occurred, Ruby had always found it a little bit sad. But Nathan Brewer’s parents had been ostracized along with him.
She didn’t remember his mother at all. She’d died when Ruby was maybe four or five. But while Nathan had left, his father had stayed, regardless of the fact that people in town have their opinions. He still went out drinking at the bar; he still had his stalwart friends, as far as Ruby knew.
But that was how Pear Blossom was. When an opinion was set, it was set.
Nathan Brewer had been tried and found guilty of murder by the citizens, and that was all that mattered. Whether or not a court could convict him was irrelevant.
She turned away from the window. She didn’t need to be thinking about murder while contemplating moving into her new room. Much less in the context of the orchard that was just on the other side of where she would rest her head at night.
Of course, the orchard had been searched. When Caitlin Groves had gone missing, search and rescue had brought dogs out, and members of the community had formed a line, both on foot and on horseback, and combed the whole property and the surrounding woods.
At least, that was what her father had said when he had relayed the story years later. It was impossible to live in town and not know about it, even though it had happened before she was born. Because posters of Caitlin remained up in town. Pear Blossom’s only missing person’s case.
For a moment, a strange sensation settled over Ruby’s skin. A missing person. She could be a missing person, really. Kidnapped, taken away from her mother. Brought out to Pear Blossom, left on Sentinel Bridge. Maybe she was on a poster somewhere. How would she ever know?
It was unlikely, but that was one of her more simplistic fantasies. Of course, it led to the possibility that she was a kidnapped princess. Not that she really believed that, but in her opinion, it would have been a failure of imagination to never entertain the more fantastical options.
Secret princess or an heiress of some kind.
Yes, of course she had thought of that.
And there were enough books on the subject that it seemed like it had happened sometimes. She had thought—really—that it might be true when she was maybe thirteen. She had thought that perhaps her love of soft pillows and England related to her potential status as monarchy. But in the end she had been forced to admit that a missing princess would have likely been headline news enough that she would at least be able to find out which one she was and coordinate dates.
No such luck.
Come to that, if she were anyone who had been reported missing, it was likely that the news stories from when she was found would have alerted people.
It wasn’t like she needed those kinds of childish, easy fantasies. She didn’t. But the alternative brought back that hollow feeling.
And so she pushed it off to the side, and imagined it flying away on the wind, because she did not need to wallow in sadness of any kind.
She wandered into the living room and looked out the windows there, wrapping her arms around herself, and then she caught sight of some movement in the trees. She took a step back and kept on staring. Wondering if it was a deer or maybe a bear. She sort of hoped so. She was in the market for a little bit of adventure.
But the movement continued, and when the figure moved into a clearing, it was not a bear.
There was a man standing here.
But it wasn’t an old man. He was young, tall with dark hair and a dark beard. She couldn’t make out his facial features from that distance, but she saw the moment that he saw her. Watching him through the window. He didn’t move, and neither did she. And then, with a trickling sort of dread, she realized exactly who she was looking at.
