From the foliage of the maple tree, a songbird trilled enthusiastically, mocking her uneasiness. Shrugging, she gripped the handle of her bag and rolled it across the uneven lawn, banging it up the front steps.
The dog scrambled to its feet, ears perked. It had the black and tan coloring of a German shepherd, but its blocky build and thick, shaggy hair reminded her of a much larger breed. Definitely a classic mutt. A very large male mutt. She held out her hand for him to sniff.
Setting her bag down, she hunted through her pockets for the key the real estate agent had given her. After several tries, the lock gave with a screech and the beveled-glass door swung inward.
She looked down at the dog. “Excuse me.”
He cocked his head.
“Shoo?” She wiggled her fingers, and when that had no effect, she managed to look stern. “Go home!”
He didn’t budge.
She sighed. “I absolutely cannot get attached to you—someone owns you, I’m sure of it. I’m not letting you inside.”
He barked, and she jumped a foot. Then he trotted into the foyer.
“Right,” she muttered.
She set her bag inside the door, then slowly turned in a semicircle. The carved mahogany staircase that had made her hyperventilate when she’d first laid eyes on it rose in a graceful curve to the second floor, its risers covered by a faded, robin’s-egg-blue runner worn through at the front edges. To her right stood the parlor with its bay window looking onto the front porch; to her left, the library that had been the second reason she’d lost her mind and written an obscenely large check.
“God.” She sagged against the arched doorway to the library, staring at the cream-colored area rug. “That may be an Aubusson. Did I even notice that when I was here before?”
Nails clicking on the oak parquet flooring, the dog came to stand next to her, sniffing the stale air. She rubbed his head. “If you pee on that rug,” she warned, “we’ll have words. No marking your territory, even if it is the male imperative.”
He looked insulted and returned to lie down by the front door.
The house had the empty silence of disuse, as if it had been waiting far too long for her arrival. She climbed the stairs, brushing cobwebs off the dusty railing. High up in the stairwell, sun shone through a small dormer window, turning the tracks her fingers made a burnished gold. Dust motes spiraled upward, floating on air currents warmed by shafts of sunlight.
She walked into the front bedroom, a giant, dimly lit cavern, the formality of its frescoed ceiling relieved by the cozy window seat in the turret. The room stood empty, its wide-planked floor scratched and bare, and the air was even staler than it had been downstairs.
After three tries, she found a window that wasn’t painted shut. Fresh air blew in on a cool breeze, banishing the odors of must and mildew. She’d start cleaning in here first so that she wouldn’t have to put her sleeping bag down in the dust. She’d packed only the essentials for the trip—casual clothes, an espresso maker, books. The movers wouldn’t be here for another day or two, so she’d be roughing it until then.
Bracing her knee on the worn velvet seat cushion, she gazed down at the street through the leafy boughs of the maple tree. The neighborhood was quiet, filled with quaint, carefully tended houses and mature trees, reminiscent of small-town America from a bygone era. Ryland would have hated this place, she mused, as much as she was drawn to it.
The dog trotted up the stairs but stopped short of coming into the room, watching her hopefully with soft, liquid brown eyes. She straightened, sighing. “You really do need to go home.”
Walking over to him, she rubbed his head some more, then ran a hand down his back. She could feel every joint of his spine, she realized in horror. Whoever owned him certainly didn’t deserve him. “Come on, fella. Let’s find you something to eat.”
She bounded down the stairs. Glancing into the library as she walked past, she noted what she estimated to be a few thousand books stacked in random piles and jammed into glass-fronted bookcases. A wingback chair sat in the center of the room, flanked by a rickety pedestal table and a floor lamp with a leaded-glass shade. Across the room, a huge oak desk sat stacked with more books and yellowed newspapers. But it was the French doors on the opposite wall that beckoned.
She held up a hand to the dog. “I’ll only be a moment …”
The doors swung open onto a stone patio tangled with weeds. An intoxicatingly sweet scent blew in, and she ventured out a few steps and looked up, trying to locate its source. She gasped. Wisteria covered the entire side of the house. Its cascading lilac flowers drowned her in fragrance.
“Oh … oh!” She knelt and wrapped her arms around the dog’s neck.
In her mind’s eye, she could see the garden as it would be when she cleaned it up—overflowing with flowers, bounded by bentwood fencing lush with climbing roses blooming in a riot of pink and white. What she’d felt the first time she’d seen the house had been a serious crush, but this … this was love.
“I’ll be okay,” she sniffed, burying her face in the dog’s fur and pushing back the ever-present grief. “We’ll be just fine.”
“Hello?” The call came from the front hall.
“Coming!” She stood, swiping at tears, and crossed the library. Through the window, she spied a police cruiser parked at the front curb. Damn.
A woman stood inside the door, her gaze as sharp as the razor cut of her chin-length ash-blond hair. She spied Jordan. “Oh, good. I was afraid Sandy—the real estate agent—had left the door open. You must be the psychologist.”
Though dressed casually in pressed jeans and a tailored jacket, she reminded Jordan of a Scandinavian Valkyrie—around six feet tall, she estimated, athletic and imposing as hell. Jordan had had her fill of cops in the last few months, asking questions for which she had no answers, treating her as if she were a criminal.
The Valkyrie thrust out a hand nearly twice the size of her own. “Darcy Moran. Port Chatham chief of police.”
Chief of police. Even worse. Jordan reluctantly introduced herself. “What can I do for you, Chief Moran?”
“Make it Darcy. Stopped by to welcome you to the neighborhood.”
Jordan relaxed marginally. “Thanks.”
Darcy jerked her head toward the front door. “Looks like you could use some help carrying boxes.”
“That’s okay. You don’t—” She was talking to empty space. The woman was already at the curb, pulling boxes from the trunk of Jordan’s Prius.
Jordan followed at a more leisurely pace. “Slow day?” she asked wryly.
“Waiting for the tourists to wake up and hit the streets.” Darcy shoved a box into her arms, then picked up two more. “Where do you want these?”
“Um, the kitchen?”
They carried the boxes down the hall to the roomy country kitchen at the back of the house.
“When did you hit town?” Darcy asked over her shoulder as she deposited her boxes on the warped linoleum counter and headed back outside.
Jordan had to trot to keep up. “This morning. I’m a bit overwhelmed.”
“Buyer’s remorse.” Darcy handed her another box. “You’ll get over it.”
“The wisteria’s helping.”
“Yeah, it’s cool. Bit of a pain to keep in check, though.”
It took only two more trips to empty the car. “See?” Darcy dusted off her hands. “Much easier when someone helps.”
Jordan eyed her, trying to catch her breath. “Anyone ever compare you to a human cyclone?”
“I may have heard similar comments a time or two. Got anything to drink?”
Jordan rummaged in the ice chest they’d brought in, coming up with a soda. Then she found a bowl and headed for the sink. Nothing but a hiss of air came out when she turned the faucet handle, so she uncapped a bottle of Evian and poured it into the bowl for the dog. Unwrapping the all-natural chicken breast she’d been saving for a sandwich, she held it out to him. He scarfed it down in one gulp, then looked at her expectantly.