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“Sorry. Reflex. Why don’t I go with you to get it?”
“Sure. I’d appreciate that.”
My hands tight in the back of his shirt, I walk with him, scanning the ground for snakes. He grabs my pack and, amazingly, there’s not a nest of slithering creatures under it.
He riffles through my pack until he can confirm it’s snake free and hands it over.
“Thank you. I guess we should go knock on the door.”
Another roll of thunder, sounding closer, punctuates my suggestion. It’s been raining on and off as we’ve hiked out here. There’ve even been a few flashes of lightning, though they seem far away.
Noah grabs my hand and laces his fingers through mine. I’m so intensely glad to have him here with me, steady and strong and sure. “Let’s go steal an author.”
If it weren’t for his teasing tone, I might get annoyed. Instead, I squeeze his hand and together we walk toward the house.
The front door swings open and a woman with red hair falling to her waist and wearing a loose-fitting maxi-length sundress steps out onto the porch, a rifle held loosely in one hand.
“Who goes there?” she shouts.
“Daisy Weston from Lovemore Publishing, and my hiking guide and friend, Noah Brooks.”
“The new doctor in town?”
“That’s me,” Noah calls to her.
“Well, come on in.” She gestures for us to do just that.
“Maybe she’s a caretaker,” I say in a low voice.
“What makes you think that?”
“Because she doesn’t look any older than me and Cynthia Bennett’s been publishing books for forty years.”
“Wow, that would mean she’d have to at least be in her sixties, right?” he says. “You think a woman that age hikes in and out of here every time she needs to go to town?”
“If she does, she’s my goal in life, but maybe that’s why she has a caretaker.”
The front door is still open and we walk into a modern, but homey living room, the front wall of which is covered in floor-to-ceiling windows, allowing an incredible view of the valley. From here, we can see the dark clouds rolling in, even though it’s early afternoon and the storm is supposed to be hours away.
“I’m in here,” a feminine voice trills out.
We follow the sound into a large, modern kitchen with light-gray granite counter-tops and pale yellow cabinets. The red-haired woman is alone in the kitchen, putting a sandwich that appears to be on homemade bread on plates with a side of chips. “I’ve made chicken salad sandwiches for us to have for lunch.”
“Sounds wonderful,” I say. “I hate to storm in here all sweaty and in work-out clothes. Would you mind if I borrow your restroom to change before Cynthia joins us?” I assume that’s who the third sandwich is for, since they weren’t expecting me to bring a friend.
The woman tilts her head, her green eyes widening. Freckles cover her nose and the apples of her cheeks. “I’m Cynthia. Were you expecting someone different?”
I sink onto a stool at the kitchen island, feeling dizzy. “Cynthia Bennett has been writing books for forty years.”
The woman nods. “That’s right.” Then her eyes somehow widen even more. “Oh. No one told you. I would have thought… Though my agent keeps that information very need-to-know with NDAs and all that. I’m guessing you haven’t signed an NDA?”
I shake my head.
Cynthia grins and shrugs. “Well, too late now. If my agent asks, pretend you don’t know, okay? I’ll tell her you need the deets.”
“The deets?” What the hell is going on? “What exactly am I pretending not to know?”
Cynthia’s smile slips. “It’s a really long story, and I’m starving. Can I explain while we eat?”
