Cider Brook

Two

The storm was fierce, intense and downright unnerving, but Samantha rode it out inside the dusty, empty cider mill. With the rain stopped and the thunder clearly off to the east, she had her grandfather’s flask out of her jacket pocket and was debating whether to imbibe now or wait until after dark.

Then she smelled smoke.

Smoke? She groaned in disbelief. Wouldn’t that just top off her day?

She tucked the flask back in her pocket and breathed in deeply, hoping the smell of smoke had been a trick of her imagination. The mill consisted of a single room with rough-wood walls, wide-board flooring and a pitched ceiling with open rafters. It would go up in flames in no time if it caught fire.

The smell didn’t dissipate, and it wasn’t her imagination. It was definitely smoke.

Could the wind have carried smoke from a chimney in a nearby farmhouse?

What nearby farmhouse?

She could taste smoke now, feel it burn in her eyes.

She reached into the open compartment of the backpack at her feet, grabbed her four-by-nine-inch documents pouch and slipped it into an outer jacket pocket, opposite the one with the flask.

A strange hissing noise seemed to come from beneath the floor by a half-dozen old wooden cider barrels pushed up against the wall. In another moment, smoke, visible now, curled through cracks in the floorboards and floated up to the rafters as if it were a living thing. Samantha stared at it, transfixed. She couldn’t delude herself. She was in a fire.

She didn’t have a minute to waste. She clicked into action.

She knew she had to leave everything—tent, sleeping bag, food, water, toiletries, bug spray, first-aid kit, flannel pajamas and her merino wool wrap, a gift from her mother. So much for watching the stars come out, envisioning life here in the early eighteenth century.

More smoke poured through the floorboards.

Samantha dropped low, remembering that was what someone was supposed to do in a fire, with rising smoke. She pulled her jacket collar over her mouth and nose and launched herself toward the door.

She swore she could hear flames under her in the mill’s cellar.

Her eyes were blurry and watery with smoke, but she could see an orange, fiery glow by the north wall. She felt the heat of the fire now. Sudden, intense.

How long did she have before the old, dry wood exploded into flames?

Stifling a surge of panic, she crouched even lower, coughing as smoke filled the enclosed space. She kept moving. She had to get out of here before she collapsed due to smoke inhalation.

Flames burst through the floorboards by the barrels and crawled up the wall, bright and terrifying in the gray light. Fire and smoke seemed to join, forming a monster ready to consume everything in its path.

She got onto her knees, gasping for air. Her hand fell from her jacket, exposing her to more smoke. She covered her mouth and nose with the crook of her arm and decided she would crawl on her belly if she had to...but she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. There was no pirate rogue to save her. She had to save herself. She had to stay conscious, get moving, steer clear of the flames.

The front door banged open, startling her.

“Is anyone in here?”

A man’s voice. Soothing, firm, maybe a little annoyed. Or was it her imagination, or a passage from the pages she’d discovered in her grandfather’s office?

Samantha tried to stagger to her feet. “Captain Farraday?”

“Easy. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head and blinked, but she couldn’t focus—couldn’t see the man through the smoke and her own burning tears.

Strong arms reached around her. “Stay low,” her rescuer said. “We need to move fast.”

He had her up off her feet before she realized he had lifted her. In a few long strides, he had her out the door and down the stone-slab step, then flung onto the bank of the small millpond. She landed in cold, wet grass, rolled onto her stomach, coughing, spitting, sucking in the clear air.

“Do you have medical issues?”

The man again. Samantha sat up, her eyes and throat burning, aching. She tasted smoke and grime and felt her heart thumping in her chest. She blinked rapidly, peering up at the man standing between her and the mill. He was tall, looming over her. She made out dark short-cropped hair, deep blue eyes, a firm mouth, a square jaw, broad shoulders. He wore a black canvas shirt over a black T-shirt, jeans, scuffed leather boots.

Hauling her out of the mill had obviously not taxed him to any degree, but he didn’t seem happy about it. She had no idea who he was. A hiker? A local man? Did he own the cider mill? She hadn’t considered she might have to contend with an owner, or that it might be a tough, humorless man not much older than she was.

“I’m sorry,” she said, clearing her throat. “What did you ask me?”

He sucked in a quick breath. “Do you have asthma, allergies, a heart condition, anything—”

“No. Nothing. No medical issues.” Her voice was raspy, tense. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

He showed no sign of lowering his guard. “Fire department’s on the way. I have to get to work. You sit tight.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Stay out of the way.”

He hadn’t hesitated even half a beat before firing off his answer. He didn’t wait for a response and set off toward the mill. Thick smoke billowed from the open door into the cool, clear air. Flames glowed orange behind the dirty plastic and cracked glass in the windows.

Samantha watched as her rescuer stopped at a dusty-gray pickup truck, parked with its hood facing out the pitted dirt driveway. In seconds, he had donned fire gear—hat, mask, jacket.

A firefighter?

He grabbed an ax and headed for the mill.

The fire seemed to have sucked the door shut. He kicked it open and went inside.

Whoever he was, her rescuer was strong and utterly fearless.

She shivered in the cooler air. She hadn’t called him Captain Farraday, had she? Not out loud. It just wasn’t possible.

She heard sirens and realized a road was closer than she’d thought. In another thirty seconds, fire trucks and a lone police car descended. Samantha moved to a small boulder by the brook. With the downpour from the storm, the water was high, rushing over rocks, moss and mud.

As she watched firefighters set to work, she could feel the padlock in her jacket pocket.

If no one asked about it, she saw no reason to mention it.

Three

Her rescuer’s name was Justin Sloan.

Or so he told Samantha right before he demanded she produce his padlock.

He put out a callused hand. “Where is it?”

The fire was out, the mill intact if damaged. The firefighters had loaded up their gear and left, and the two uniformed police officers had followed them along the rutted driveway to the road. One of the officers had interviewed her. She’d told him the truth about how she’d ended up in the cider mill—that she’d ducked inside to get out of the thunderstorm. He’d asked if she’d noticed the Do Not Enter and Danger signs. She’d said she had. He’d scowled and hadn’t requested further details.

He was a Sloan, too. Eric Sloan.

One of the firefighters was also a Sloan. Christopher.

Small towns, she thought.

Justin, she now realized, was a volunteer firefighter. After helping put out the fire, he’d returned his gear to his truck and then joined her by her boulder. Samantha had dipped a hand into the cold brook water and done what she could to wipe the soot off her face, but she doubted she’d gotten it all. The acrid fire smells wouldn’t be easy to eliminate from her skin or her clothes. She had travel wipes and fresh clothes in her backpack, assuming it had survived the fire and wasn’t too contaminated by smoke.

Telling Justin Sloan that his missing padlock was in her jacket pocket didn’t seem like a particularly wise course of action at the moment. Although he gave no indication, he had to be in high-adrenaline mode after coming upon the old mill in flames, discovering a woman was more or less trapped inside, carrying her to safety and then helping to put out the fire.

Samantha realized she was in high-adrenaline mode herself. She stood, the seat of her pants wet, and flicked an ant off her knee. Casual. As if she hadn’t picked the padlock to get into the mill and didn’t have it in her jacket.

The banter she’d overheard between the firefighters had confirmed her suspicion that her rescuer owned the old cider mill.

“Hell, Justin, this place is even more of a dump than I thought.”

“I can’t believe you spent real money on it.”

“Firetrap, Justin. Told you.”

That last had come from Christopher Sloan. Apparently he was one of two full-time firefighters in Knights Bridge. Everyone else was a volunteer.

“They’re your brothers?” Samantha asked. “Eric and Christopher?”

“My brothers. Yes.” Justin snapped two fingers of his outstretched hand. “My padlock.”

Not a man easily distracted. She tried to look as if she didn’t quite understand him. “Padlock?”

“The one you picked or broke to get into the mill.”

He lowered his hand to his side, but she could tell from his set jaw that he wasn’t giving up. She didn’t feel guilty at what she’d done, but she didn’t want to explain herself to a man who’d just carted her out of a burning building and had helped put out the fire. He didn’t look as if he’d be a willing listener on a good day. Since one of his brothers was a police officer and another was a professional firefighter—and he himself was a volunteer firefighter—she wasn’t afraid of him. He wasn’t a thug. He was just not in a great mood.

“It was a dangerous storm. Downright scary, and I’ve been in some scary storms.” She decided to change the subject. “My name’s Samantha, by the way.”

His deep blue eyes narrowed on her. “What’s your last name, Samantha?”

“Bennett,” she said, sounding more tight-lipped and reluctant than she would have liked. She hadn’t volunteered her last name on purpose. She’d told Eric Sloan, the police-officer brother, but he’d asked, leaving her no choice. She doubted the Bennett name meant anything to him, Justin or the other firefighters who’d rushed to the old cider mill, but she’d intended to get in and out of Knights Bridge without the knowledge of any of its residents.

“Are you a Sam or a Samantha?”

“Either works.”

“Mostly Sam?”

“Mostly Samantha, actually.”

“Well, Samantha, you’re damn lucky you got out of there in time.”

“No argument from me. I noticed the smoke about fifteen minutes after the storm ended. Lightning caused the fire?”

He gave a curt nod. “Looks as if it struck the roof and traveled down the side wall to the cellar. The fire started there and worked its way up the wall. We’ve had a string of severe storms this past month.” He looked at her as if she might have caused the recent bad luck with the weather. “A microburst hit the center of town a few weeks ago. It uprooted a bunch 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 designer, as well as Dylan McCaffrey’s fiancée.

Samantha unlatched her seat belt and pushed back a surge of regret that she hadn’t stayed in Boston and walked the Freedom Trail with her aunt and young cousins. No point second-guessing herself now. Dylan had only ventured to Knights Bridge earlier that year, meeting Olivia in the process. After his career in the National Hockey League had ended, he’d teamed up with his childhood friend, Noah Kendrick, an MIT genius. Together they had transformed Noah’s fledgling NAK, Inc. into a profitable high-tech entertainment company that had gone public last fall. Samantha had never met Dylan during her weeks working with his father, and she wasn’t in Knights Bridge to intrude on his and Olivia’s lives.

But here you are, on their doorstep.

Justin pushed open his door. “Carriage Hill’s just opened. It’s not a regular inn.” He glanced sideways at her. “Your hands are trembling. A little wobbly? It’s normal after a fire.”

“I’m okay. Hungry. What about you? Are you wobbly?”

“Me?” He grinned. “No. Not wobbly.”

“You’ve had experience with fires, but this one was on your land.”

“Doesn’t change anything.”

A dark-haired woman was arranging pots of yellow-and-white mums on the steps to a one-story ell off the main part of the house. Olivia Frost, presumably. Samantha turned to Justin. “Am I expected?”

“I didn’t have a chance to call ahead. It’ll be fine.”

She didn’t move as he headed to the stone walk. He’d left the door open. She could hear Olivia as she approached Justin, dusting off her palms on her baggy cargo pants. “Dad just called about the fire. He says it was a lightning strike. Yikes, Justin. You’re all right?”

“Yep. Fine.”

“The storm must have gone right over the mill. It wasn’t that bad here. Dad says a woman was camping there—”

“Samantha Bennett,” Justin said. “She needs a place to stay tonight.”

“Of course. We have loads of room.”

He motioned to the truck. “Hop out, Sam. Come meet Olivia.”

Samantha could think of a hundred other places she would rather be. She wished she’d at least found refuge somewhere else besides Justin Sloan’s cider mill. The chicken coop at the farmhouse upstream would have done nicely.

She stepped out of the truck, misjudged the distance and felt her knees buckle under her. Even as she steadied herself, Justin was there, one hand on her elbow. “I guess you’re wobbly after all. No shame in it.”

“I’m not that used to trucks is all.”

He lowered his hand. “I’m not surprised.”

Olivia stepped forward with a smile and introduced herself. “My father was at the fire. He’s a volunteer firefighter. I’m so glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Thanks,” Samantha said. “It’s been quite an afternoon.”

“You must be beat. We’d love to have you stay with us.”

“If you’re sure it’s not too short notice—”

“I’m positive,” Olivia said graciously. “Did Justin explain that Carriage Hill isn’t a regular inn? We’re just getting started with destination events. Showers, weddings, meetings—that sort of thing, mostly on weekends. My friend Maggie and I are having a blast so far.”

Samantha stood back. “You mean you don’t take in overnight guests? I can find a place to pitch my tent. Really. I don’t mind.”

“Your tent didn’t make it out of the fire,” Justin said.

She frowned at him. “It burned?”

“I told you most of your gear was wrecked.”

Olivia shot him a disapproving look, apparently not appreciating his bluntness.

He shrugged. “Your tent and sleeping bag were trampled and soaked. They’re easily replaced.”

“Is there some place in town I could buy new ones?” Samantha asked.

“The Swift River Country Store on the town common,” Olivia said. “We call it Hazelton’s—they were the original owners. It’s got everything. They must have tents.”

“Then I could pop over there,” Samantha said.

Justin shook his head. “They’re closed.” When Olivia glared at him again, he softened his expression and added, “You’ll like Carriage Hill. Maggie and Olivia are even making their own goat’s milk soap these days.” He glanced at Olivia as if to say “Better?”

She ignored him and shifted back to Samantha with an encouraging smile. “We do take in overnight guests, of course, and we’d be happy to have you stay with us. Welcome.”

“I love goat’s milk soap,” Samantha said. “I appreciate this very much. Thank you, Olivia. I’m still a bit rattled, but a quiet night will help.”