River’s End

was Frank Brady’s son, after all. And Frank was one of the few people she trusted absolutely.
    She arranged to take the fruit bowl up herself, had worked out exactly what she would say and how she would say it.
    Welcome to River’s End again, Noah. It’s nice to see you. Can I come in for a minute?
    Reasonable, calm, rational. But as she’d started toward his room the fear had crawled into her and she’d gripped her anger like a weapon to beat it back. Then he’d opened the door, and smiled at her. Smiled, she thought now as she turned her head to rest her cheek on her updrawn knees, with absolute delight. As if there had never been betrayal, never been deceit.
    And he’d looked so pleased and attractive—his hair dark and wet from the shower, his moss-green eyes lit with pleasure—that some ridiculous part of her had wanted to smile back.
    So she’d attacked. What other choice had she had? she thought now. Instead of persuading him, or intimidating him, into backing away from the book, she was dead sure she’d convinced him to dig in his heels.
    She wanted to be left alone. She wanted to protect her world and to be left alone inside it.
    Why had Sam Tanner contacted Noah? No. Furious, she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to think about that, about him. She didn’t want to know. She’d put all that away, just as her grandmother had put her memories in the chest in the attic. It had taken years to accomplish it. Years of secret visits to that attic, of nightmares, years of painful, guilty searches for any snippet of information about her parents. And once she’d found all there was to find, she’d put it away, focused on the present and the future rather than the past. She found peace of mind, contentment in her work, a direction to her life.
    All that was threatened now. Because Sam Tanner was getting out of prison, and Noah Brady was writing a book. Those were facts she couldn’t ignore. She glanced over as the lab raced down the path. The greeting took the form of a dancing leap and many sloppy kisses that had Olivia’s tension breaking open so that a laugh could pour out.
    “I can always count on you, can’t I?” She nuzzled into Shirley’s neck before she rose. “Let’s go home, girl. Let’s just go home and worry about all this later.”
    The food was great. Noah gave the MacBrides high marks on the lodge kitchen, particularly after indulging himself in two passes through the breakfast buffet. The service was right up there on a level with the food—warm, friendly, efficient without being obvious.
    His bed had been comfortable, and if he’d been in the mood, he could have chosen from a very decent list of in-room movies.
    He’d worked instead and now felt he deserved a morning to piddle. Trouble was, he mused, looking out the window of the dining room at the steady, drumming rain, the weather wasn’t quite as appealing as the rest of the fare. Then again, the brochures had warned him to expect rainy springs. And he couldn’t say it wasn’t picturesque in its way. A far cry from his own sun-washed California coast, but there was something compelling about the shadowy grays and greens and the liquid wall of rain. It didn’t make him long to strap on his foul-weather gear and take a hike, but it was pleasant to study from inside the cozy warmth of the lodge. He’d already made use of the health club and had found it expanded and nicely modernized since his last visit. They’d added an indoor pool, and even as he considered a swim he tossed the idea aside. He couldn’t imagine he’d be the only one with the idea and the prospect of families splashing around and hooting at one another just didn’t fit his plans.
    He could get a massage, or make use of the lodge library, which he’d wandered into the evening before and found well stocked and welcoming.
    Or he could do what he’d come for and start poking around.
    He could hunt up Olivia and argue with her again.
    The bark of male laughter had him glancing over, then narrowing his eyes in speculation. The man was dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and work trousers. His hair was thick, a Cary Grant silver that caught the overhead lights as he worked the dining room, stopping by tables of those who, like Noah, were lingering over that last cup of coffee.
    His brows were defiantly dark, and though Noah couldn’t catch the color of his eyes, he imagined they would be that odd and beautiful golden brown. He had the whipcord