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The little laugh that erupted from her throat was brittle with self-condemnation. “If only I could believe that.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.”
“There’s no one else to blame.”
“How about your ex-husband to start with?” Noah spat out, surprised at the hatred he felt for a man he didn’t know. “Or your father. He should have told you about his financial problems.”
She shook her head, and the tears in her eyes ran down her cheeks. “He didn’t want to burden me, and I didn’t even ask!”
“Shhh . . . love, don’t,” Noah whispered, holding her shaking form against him, trying to quiet a rage that burned within him. How did so beautiful a creature, so innocent a woman, get caught in the middle between two men who only meant to hurt her? Her husband was a wretch, and her father, while trying to shield her, had wounded her in the end. The fire and Oliver Lindstrom’s part in its conception waged heavy battles in Noah’s tired mind. If only he could tell Sheila what he knew about her father, if only he could bare his soul to her. But he held his tongue, fearful lest he reinforce her feelings of guilt.
Noah had never guessed why Sheila’s father had borrowed against his interest in the winery. He had assumed that the money was used for personal use or folly, but he didn’t doubt the authenticity of Sheila’s tale. Too many events correlated with the ledgers at Wilder Investments, ledgers he had studied for hours before coming to the Cascade Valley. If the ledgers weren’t evidence enough the guilt-ridden lines on Sheila’s face testified to her remorse and self-incrimination.
“Come on,” he murmured, rising and pulling her to her feet “Let’s go back to the house. You need some sleep.”
“Will you stay with me?” she asked, cringing in anticipation of possible rejection. She felt as if her confession would destroy any of the feelings he might have had for her.
“For as long as you want me,” he returned, slowly walking up the hill toward the house.
* * *
Sheila woke to find herself alone in the bed. The blue printed sheets that she loved seemed cold and mocking without Noah’s strong embrace. She knew why he wasn’t with her. He had held her and comforted her most of the night, but sometime near morning. when she was drowsily sleeping, he had slipped out of her room to wait for dawn on the uncomfortable couch. It was somewhat hypocritical, but the best arrangement possible because of Emily and Sean.
The day began pleasantly, and even a makeshift breakfast of sausage and pancakes went without much of a hitch. Sean was still sullen and quiet, but at least he seemed resigned to his fate, and for the most part didn’t bait Sheila.
After breakfast, while the kids washed the dishes, Sheila took Noah through the rooms of the château. It was a large building; it had originally been built as the country resort of a rich Frenchman named Gilles de Marc. Viticulture had been his hobby; and it was only when he discovered the perfect conditions of the Cascade Valley for growing wine grapes that he began to ferment and bottle the first Cabernet Sauvignon.
Other than a few rooms on the first floor that had been spared, the damage to the main house was dismal. Noah’s practiced eyes traveled over the smoke-laden linen draperies and the gritty layer of ash on the carpet. It was obvious that·Sheila had tried to vacuum and shampoo the once-burgundy carpet to no avail. Huge water stains darkened the English wallpaper, and a few of the window panes were broken and covered with pieces of plywood. The elegant European antiques were water stained, and with the grateful exception of a few expensive pieces, would have to be refinished. Everywhere there was evidence that Sheila had attempted to restore the rooms to their original grandeur, but the task had been too overwhelming.
* * *
Later, sitting in the office looking over Oliver Lindstrom’s personal records, Noah noted they coincided with the events in Sheila’s story. He pondered the entries in Oliver’s checkbook, noting dismally when the money borrowed from Wilder Investments had come in. Some of the funds had been sent in quarterly installments to Sheila in California; other money had been used for the day-to-day operation of the winery in lean years. As far as Noah could tell, Oliver had used none of the funds for himself. That knowledge did nothing to ease his mind; it only made it more difficult to explain to Sheila that her father was involved with the arson.
Sheila attempted to help Noah, explaining what she knew of the winery. Noah sat at her father’s desk, jotting notes to himself and studying her father’s books as if they held the answers to the universe. She felt as if she were growing closer to him, that she was beginning to understand him. She knew that she could trust him with her life, and she quietly hoped that the love she was feeling for him would someday be returned. Perhaps in time the shadows of doubt that darkened his eyes would disappear and be replaced by trust.
Even Emily was beginning to open up to Noah, and the little girl’s shyness all but disappeared by midafternoon. Though he was busy looking over the books, he always took the time to talk to her and show an interest in what she was doing. By late afternoon Emily seemed completely at ease with Noah.
The most surprising relationship that began to evolve was Emily’s attraction to Sean. She adored the teenager and followed after him wherever he went. Though Sean tried vainly to hide his feelings, Sheila suspected that Sean was as fond of the tousled-headed little girl as she was of him. Things were going smoothly—too smoothly.
“Enough work,” Sheila announced, breezing into Oliver’s study. Noah was at the desk, a worried frown creasing his brow. One lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. As he looked up from the untidy stack of papers on the desk and his eyes found hers, a lazy grin formed on his lips.
“What have you got in mind?” A seductive glint sparked in his eyes as they caressed her from across the room.
She lowered her voice and dropped her eyelids, imitating his look of provocative jest. “What do you have in mind?”
“You’re unkind,” he muttered, seeing through her joke.
“And you’re overly optimistic.”
He leaned back in the leather chair and it groaned with the shifting of his weight.“Expectantmight be a better word.”
“I was hoping to hear that you were hungry.”
His smile broadened. “That might apply,” he admitted, his voice husky.
“Good.” She threw off her look of wicked seduction and winked at him. “We’re going on a picnic.”
“Alone?”
