She waited, but there was no answer. Had he left the room and gone downstairs while she’d been in the twins’ room? The door had a stubborn squeak, so she thought she would have heard him if he’d opened it.
“Mr. Layton?”
Still no answer. Gingerly she pushed the door open, and the squeak came right on cue.
The bedcovers were thrown messily aside, and the closet door stood open, showing several articles of” clothing hanging from the pole. Each guest room had a small private bath and that door, too, was standing open. A small leather suitcase was on the folding Ing-gage stand, the lid open and propped against the wall. Mr. Layton, however, wasn’t there. He must have gone downstairs while she’d been talking to the boys, and she simply hadn’t heard the door squeak.
She started to back out of the room, not wanting him to return and think she was she snooping, when she noticed the window was open, and the screen looked slightly askew. Puzzled, she crossed to the window and tugged the screen back into place, latching it. How on earth had it gotten unlatched? Had the boys been playing in here, and tried to climb out the window? Her blood ran cold at the thought, and she looked out at the drop to the porch roof below. Such a fall would break their bones, possible even kill them.
She was so riveted with horror at the possibility it was a moment before she realized the parking area was empty. Mr. Layton’s rental car wasn’t there. Either he hadn’t come back upstairs at all, or—or he’d climbed out the window onto the porch roof, swung down to the ground, and driven off. The idea was ridiculous, but preferable to thinking her little boys might be climbing out on the porch roof.
She left room 3 and returned to the twins’ room. Tanner was still in the naughty chair, and still looked in danger of imminent demise. Tucker was drawing on their blackboard with a piece of colored chalk. “Boys, have either of you opened any of the windows?”
“No, Mommy,” Tucker said without pausing in his art creation.
Tanner managed to lift his head and give it a ponderous shake.
They were telling the truth. When they lied, their eyes would get big and round and they’d stare at her as if she were a cobra, hypnotizing them with the sway of her head. She hoped they’d still do that when they were teenagers.
The only explanation left for the open window was that Mr. Layton had indeed climbed out it, and driven away.
Why on earth would he do such a strange thing?
And if he had happened to fall, would her insurance have covered it?
Chapter 2
Cate hurried down the stairs, hoping Sherry hadn’t been overwhelmed by an unexpected influx of customers while Gate had been upstairs dealing with the twins. As she approached the kitchen door, she heard Sherry’s voice, rich with amusement. “1 wondered how long you were going to keep your head stuck under that sink.”
“I was afraid if I moved, she’d swat my ass, too.”
Gate skidded to a stop, her eyes wide in astonishment. Mr. Harris had said that? Mr. Harris? And to Sherry? She could see him saying something like that to another man—maybe—but when he was talking to a woman, he could barely put two words together without blushing. And there was an ease to his tone she’d never heard before, one that made her doubt her own cars.
Mr. Harris… and Sherry? Had she missed something there? It couldn’t be; the idea of those two together was too outlandish to be real, like… like Lisa Marie and Michael Jackson.
Which told her that anything was possible.
Sherry was older than Mr. Harris, in her mid-fifties, but age didn’t matter much. She was also an attractive woman, hefty but curvy, with reddish hair and a warm, outgoing personality. Mr. Harris was—well, Cate had no idea how old he was. Somewhere between forty and fifty, she guessed. She pictured him in her mind’s eye; he looked older than he probably was, and it wasn’t because he was wrinkled or anything like that. He was just one of those people who was born old, with a seen-it-all manner. In fact, now that she really thought about it, he might not even be forty yet. His nondescript hair, somewhere between brown and dishwater blond, was always too shaggy, and she’d never seen him when he wasn’t wearing a pair of grease-stained, baggy coveralls. He was so lanky the coveralls hung on him, looser than a prostitute’s morals.
Cate felt ashamed; he was so shy she actually avoided looking at him or casually chatting, not wanting to stress him out, and now she felt guilty because not drawing him out was easier than getting to know him and putting him at ease, as Sherry had obviously done. Cate, too, should have put herself to the trouble, should have made the effort to befriend him, as everyone here had made the effort to befriend her when she’d first taken over the B and B. Some neighbor she’d been!
She went into the kitchen, feeling as if she were stepping into the twilight zone. Mr. Harris literally jumped when he saw her, his face turning red, as if he knew she’d overheard. Cate jerked her thoughts back to Mr. Layton’s weird actions and away from the possibility of a romance going on beneath her nose. “The guest in number three climbed out the window and left,” she said, then lifted her shoulders in an “I don’t know what the hell’s going on” gesture.
“Out the window?” Sherry echoed, equally puzzled. “Why did he do that?”
“I don’t know. I have his credit card number, so it isn’t as if he can run out on the bill. And his stuff’s still here.”
“Maybe he just wanted to climb out the window, see if he could.”
“Maybe. Or he’s nuts.”
“Or that,” Sherry agreed. “How many nights is he staying?”
“Just last night. Checkout’s at eleven, so he should be back soon.” Though where on earth he could have gone, she couldn’t imagine, unless he’d felt a sudden urge to visit the feed store. Trail Stop didn’t have any shops or restaurants; if he’d wanted breakfast, he should have eaten here. The nearest honest-to-God town was an hour’s drive away, so he wouldn’t have time to go there, eat, then get back before it was time to check out—not to mention that it would be self-defeating, if he simply hadn’t wanted to eat with strangers.
Mr. Harris cleared his throat. “I’ll be… um—” He looked around, clearly discomfited.
Guessing that he didn’t know where to put his empty cup, Cate said, “I’ll take it,” and held out her hand. “Thanks for stopping by. I wish you’d let me pay you, though.”
He stubbornly shook his head as he gave the cup to her. Determined to be more friendly, she continued, “I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”
“None of us know how we got along before Cal settled here,” Sherry said cheerfully, moving to the sink, where she began loading dishes into the dishwasher. “Waited a week or more for someone from town whenever we needed repairs, I guess.”
Cate was vaguely surprised; she’d thought Mr. Harris had always been here. He certainly fit in with the locals as if he’d lived here all his life. The sense of shame rose in her throat again. Sherry referred to him by his first name, while Cate had always called him Mr. Harris, effectively putting him at a distance. She didn’t know why she did it, but there it was.
“Mommmmy!” Tucker bellowed from the top of the stairs. “Time’s up!”
Sherry chuckled, and Cate saw a brief smile tug at Mr. Harris’s mouth as he gave Sherry a two-fingered salute and picked up his toolbox, evidently intent on making a getaway before the boys came back downstairs.
Cate rolled her eyes heavenward, silently asking for a little peace and quiet, then stepped into the hall. “Tell Tanner he may get out of the naughty chair.”
“Awwight!” The gleeful shout was followed by the sounds of jumping. “Tannuh! Mommy said to get up! Let’s build a fort and bawwicade me and you in it.” Caught up in his enthusiasm for his game, he ran back to their room.