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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Also by Rett MacPherson

  Copyright

  To the members of the Alternate Historians: Tom Drennan, Laurell K. Hamilton, Debbie Millitello, Sharon Shinn, and Marella Sands. My buddies, my pals, and the best darn critique group west of the Mississippi.

  Acknowledgments

  The author wishes to acknowledge those who have helped her bring this book to publication.

  First of all I would like to thank the folks—mostly family—in Minnesota: Jean and Gary Erickson, Mike and Lavonne Sparks, Aaron and Rachel Remig, Hans and Sherry Sparks, Bobby Sparks, and Tara and Shawn Raftery. All of the Pecarinas: Dan, Mary Kaye, Alan, and Jenny; and the Edmans: Mary Lou, Nikki, and Betsy. Without you guys I wouldn’t know anything about Minnesota, nor would I have anybody to visit! Thanks for sparking my interest and answering the endless questions; unfortunately a lot of what I’ve learned didn’t even make it into this book.

  Thank you to everybody at Writers House, Michele Rubin, and Merrilee Heifetz, and all of the people at St. Martin’s Press who do a wonderful job on my books. In particular, my editor, Kelley Ragland and her assistant, Benjamin Sevier.

  Thank you to my husband, Joe, for putting up with me and in general helping out when I’m “cramming” pages.

  Big thank you to Sharon Shinn who keeps asking for more, and, in general, couldn’t be more supportive.

  And thanks to you readers who keep the series going.

  One

  “Really, Torie. Have you gained weight?”

  I just stared at my stepfather, Sheriff Colin Brooke, hoping that his head would burst into flames. I was sandwiched in between him and my husband, Rudy, in the front seat of Rudy’s truck, on our way to Minnesota for a fishing excursion and a visit to my most favorite aunt in the world. Colin twisted and turned on the passenger side of the truck, trying to scratch an itch on his back. Colin has always been a strapping man, and it seemed that he was getting bigger with every year. The audacity of him to suggest that I was the one who had gained weight!

  “Let me tell you something, Colin. You now live with the greatest cook in the world—who happens to be my mother—not me. When was the last time you stepped on a scale?”

  “Now, now, Torie,” Rudy said. Rudy was always the peacekeeper and the first to tell me when I was jumping to conclusions. Even though I know this about him, it didn’t make it easier to listen to him now.

  “Oh, don’t you even start,” I said. “He just called me fat and you’re going to take his side?”

  “He did not call you fat, and I’m not taking his side,” Rudy said.

  I folded my arms, made some disgruntled sound, and watched as silo number fifty-four went by. Iowa is not boring, contrary to popular belief. In fact, it’s quite pretty. All of the rolling farmland stretching out into the distance is very soothing to the eye. At least for me, anyway. But I’ve always loved farmland and I’ve always loved the subtle rolling charm of the Midwest.

  My aunt Sissy had called a few weeks ago to ask if I would come up for a visit. She had sounded a bit odd, but then Aunt Sissy always sounds odd. But this time there had been just a bit more urgency in her voice and a touch of … worry. At any rate, Rudy hadn’t been able to pass up the chance to spend a week in the land of ten thousand lakes. Actually, there are almost twelve thousand lakes, but I guess rounding it down to ten thousand was catchier for bumper stickers and license plates. Believe me, there is no other person on the planet, other than my dear aunt Sissy, for whom I would deliberately squeeze myself between the two biggest fishermen west of the Mississippi, nor was there another person for whom I would put myself in the line of fire of Sheriff Colin Woodrow Brooke for thirteen straight hours with no reprieve.

  Fifteen minutes later Colin tried to scratch his itch again. “We should have gone through Wisconsin,” he said.

  Most people who go to Minnesota from eastern Missouri would go through Illinois to Wisconsin to Minnesota, but it added extra miles and an extra hour to the trip. It’s just that, well, there’s an actual highway to take if you go through Wisconsin. I feel comfortable on two-lane roads, but most people prefer highways. And besides, every time I take the Wisconsin route I always get off on the wrong exit and end up in Chicago first.

  “The Wisconsin route takes you way out of your way,” Rudy said.

  “Yeah, but there’s no place to stop and eat in this state,” Colin said, flailing his arms all about. “How can there be so much … so much nothing? There’s miles and miles of nothing.”

  “There are plenty of places to eat,” I said. “If you only eat three meals in one day.”

  “And what is that supposed to mean?” Colin asked.

  “It means that you eat ten meals a day. I swear, if you were shorter, I’d think you were a hobbit,” I said.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Colin said. “Let me out.”

  “Colin,” Rudy chastised.

  “She just called me a hobbit!” he yelped. “I don’t have to put up with this. Let me out.”

  “You’re going to walk to Minnesota?” I asked, laughing. To think, I could have called him something a lot worse than a hobbit.

  “It beats the heck out of traveling with you!” he snapped.

  Being trapped in the cab of a truck with Colin would be enough to do a lot of people in, except my mother, who loved him, and my husband, who could talk fishing lures and bait and tackle forever with this man. The fact that I couldn’t get away from him seemed to make my fuse shorter and my tolerance nil.

  “Well, nobody invited you,” I said. “You heard Rudy say he was going fishing in Minnesota and you just assumed that meant you were going.”

  “You know, I always thought Rudy was a saint, but now I know he’s a saint!”

  “Oh, that is just so typical of a man,” I said and huffed. “Rudy, pull over and feed him so he’ll stop barking.”

  In response to that, Colin could do nothing but sputter and spew and look out the window with so much venom it was as if he were trying to melt the glass. I know he’s the sheriff and all, but it was really difficult to take him seriously when he was wearing a pin on his fishing cap that read: FISHERMEN DO IT IN THE RIVER.

  “Okay, stop it,” Rudy said to me. His beautiful brown eyes held no humor this time. He was genuinely annoyed. “You’re behaving like our children. You’d ground the girls for fighting like this.”

  “Yes, but he—”

  “What?
He started it? Oh, come on, Torie. Come up with something more original than that.”

  Colin cast his eyes to see me without turning his head. He was smug and happy that I had been properly chastised. And I didn’t care what Rudy said, I still wanted Colin’s head to burst into flames. I mean, you just don’t ask a woman if she’s gained weight and expect to live.

  “I don’t believe this,” I said.

  “And as for you, Colin,” he said, “you’re not on duty, so quit acting like you can just boss everybody around. And next time you’re hungry, just say you’re hungry so we can stop, rather than huffing and puffing and pouting and shifting and complaining about taking the Iowa route. Okay?”

  “Whatever,” Colin said. Without missing a beat his eyes caught a glimpse of a sign and he nearly lurched out of his seat belt. “Oh, there’s a Pizza Ranch at this exit!”

  * * *

  So, obviously, we stopped at the Pizza Ranch, which is like a Ponderosa buffet, only with pizza. Colin must have eaten two whole pizzas, but there was no way to tell since he could claim that two of the seven times he got up, he had actually gone to the rest room. No sense in arguing with the man. I knew how much pizza he had eaten. We were back on the road after what seemed like a two-hour meal, only to stop two more times for gas, once to get more food at a drive-thru, and five times so that I could get my french vanilla cappuccino refilled. I never drink coffee; in fact, I like my caffeine cold. But on a trip like this, the only thing that kept my eyelids from plastering shut was the real stuff.

  The thirteen-hour trip to my aunt Sissy’s house along the St. Croix river turned into a seventeen-hour trip due to the fact that we had to stop and feed the horse known as Colin Brooke. As a result we didn’t get into my aunt’s house until about four in the morning, when I had expected to be there by midnight. I could only hope that she wasn’t up waiting for us, because I would feel incredibly guilty and then I’d have another reason to be mad at Colin.

  When the lights from our truck flashed across a sign that read MORGAN FARMS AND NURSERY my heart gave a little skip. I was like a giddy schoolgirl, so excited to get to see one of my most favorite relatives. I was a little concerned, though. Aunt Sissy had called and left a message on our machine that said, “This is your aunt Sissy. I need some help. Come up for a week.” She hadn’t even given me time to answer. The next morning she called and said, “You comin’ or not? I’m an old lady and I don’t have as much time as you.” That was Sissy Morgan for you. Gruff and brusque, to the point, and brutally honest. But I adore her nonetheless. Maybe it is just because she is so different from most of the people in my family.

  But, still, I couldn’t help but wonder why she needed my help. If it was feeding the horses or pulling weeds, not a problem. I’d be out there at the crack of dawn. Our conversation had held a clear underlying urgency, but not to the degree that I could question her about it. And that worried me.

  Rudy pulled the truck onto a gravel road that had deep ravines cut in it. Off to the left was a two-story Victorian home, surrounded by outbuildings, fencing, animals, greenhouses, and fields on top of fields of growing things. The front porch light was lit and a small lamp glowed in the front living room.

  “That’s it!” I exclaimed. “That’s her house.”

  Five minutes later we were standing on the front porch with our suitcases, smelling the country air and feeling the nip of spring on our cheeks. May in Minnesota is a bit cooler and wetter than May in Missouri. There was a note on the door that read: “Obviously, you’re late. If you’re not up by six, you miss breakfast. Aunt S.”

  “Gee, what a warm welcome,” Colin said.

  “Listen here,” I said. “You say one thing bad about my aunt Sissy and I will torture you.”

  Colin looked taken aback and then started to laugh.

  “No, you don’t understand,” Rudy said. “She’s serious.”

  “Oh.”

  “Come on,” I said. “I know which ones are the guest rooms.”

  We entered the house, and the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg overwhelmed my senses. Her house always smelled so good. Ever since I was a child, I had imagined the smell of her house was what heaven must smell like. As we made our way up the stairs, I heard Colin talking to Rudy.

  “Is she always like this?” Colin asked. “I mean, I’ve never seen another side to her. But I know there has to be one.”

  “Torie definitely has her good side.”

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “That’s good, because I worry about you.”

  Rudy laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Colin asked.

  “It’s you I’m worried about. I can handle myself.”

  Colin made some smirking sound and I ignored them as best as I could. Tomorrow would be a better day. I wouldn’t be trapped in a car with Colin, listening to him complain and discuss fishing lures for hours on end. I wouldn’t be all cramped and cranky and I’d get to visit with my aunt and things would look better. Colin wouldn’t annoy me as much, because he’d be in a boat out on a lake, miles away, and I’d be with Aunt Sissy. He couldn’t annoy me if he wasn’t around, right? Don’t answer that. Yes, tomorrow would be a better day.

  Even if it was only two hours away.

  Two

  It seemed as if I’d just shut my eyes when the alarm went off.

  Aunt Sissy had set both alarm clocks in the guest rooms so that we woke up at precisely six in the morning. For a split second, I thought I was still at home in New Kassel, Missouri, in my blue gingham bedroom, and the Mississippi tugboats charging by outside my window. But soon my eyes focused on my surroundings: the antique dresser, the beveled mirror, the watercolor portrait of my grandmother Keith’s grandparents from France.

  And then there was that smell …

  Bacon, brown-sugar sausage links, eggs, warm maple syrup, biscuits, and coffee. I definitely was not in New Kassel. I hadn’t woken up to breakfast being cooked downstairs since my mother married Colin and moved out. I realize, of course, that my mother had to move out if she was to get married, but Colin definitely got the better end of the deal. It had been instant oatmeal, Pop-Tarts, and cold cereal ever since. Sigh.

  No matter how gritty my eyes felt, or how sunken they looked, the smell of breakfast cooking was enough to make my body get up and move. I yanked the covers back and swatted Rudy on the butt. “Rise and shine!”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said and pulled the covers back up and over his head.

  “Smell that?” I said and jumped on top of him.

  “My nose doesn’t work this early.”

  “Mmmmm, bacon and sausage and eggs…”

  “You don’t even eat sausage,” he grumbled.

  “That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t smell good.”

  “Go away.”

  I tickled his ribs and still he made no move to get up.

  “There’s a big swordfish out there with your name on it. Just waiting for you to catch it and eat it or mount it or whatever it is you’re going to do with it. Although, if you’re going to mount it, you and I need to have a serious discussion about interior decorating.”

  “There are no swordfish in Minnesota,” he said from under the covers.

  “Whatever. There’s a big fish out there just waiting for your worm. Okay, that didn’t sound right. Just waiting for your bait and lures and stuff. Come on, get up,” I said. I tugged on the blanket, but he had a death grip on it.

  “Go away.”

  “Come on, you sound like Lon Chaney under there.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?” he asked.

  “Fine,” I said. “But you know Colin is probably already down there eating all your food.”

  He sighed heavily and threw back the covers. “All right. Get off me.”

  I pulled on the jeans and sweatshirt from the drive up and then nearly skipped down the hallway and took the steps two at a time. I rounded the corner, r
an into the kitchen, and threw my arms around my aunt Sissy. “I’ve missed you!”

  She hugged me back, a batter-covered spatula in her hand nearly hitting me in the head. “Beginning to think you weren’t coming,” she said.

  “Well, you know—”

  “I know. You had to stop and feed that one,” she said and pointed to Sheriff Brooke, already seated at her table and partaking of a breakfast fit for a king. He smiled and had the decency to blush.

  “That’s exactly right,” I said. I was a little taken aback by Aunt Sissy’s appearance. She was dressed as I’ve always seen her. Some Wal-Mart pullover shirt, jeans cut off at the calves, red high-top sneakers, and a baseball cap on her head. But she looked thinner. And a shadow had cast itself under her eyes and along her cheekbones.

  She smiled and I instantly dismissed whatever it was that was niggling at my brain. “There’s my favorite nephew-in-law,” she said as Rudy shuffled into the kitchen and yawned. “You’re only my favorite because you’re married to Torie.”

  “I know,” he said. “I love you, too.” He hugged her and she returned the embrace with gusto.

  “Can I help you with anything?” I asked.

  “No. Just eat up. Your uncle Joe is out feeding the horses. You can go on out after you eat,” she said. “He’s expecting you.”

  “Sure,” I said, feeling as if I were fifteen and had just been given license to do something reserved for big people.

  “So, what kind of farm is this?” Colin asked.

  “We sell chickens and eggs, and llamas.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yeah, the llamas are good for keeping coyotes and predators away from other animals. So, farmers who have livestock, or sheep, turkeys, and chickens, all come to us for the llamas.”

  “Well,” Colin said. “Never heard of such a thing.”

  Aunt Sissy just looked at him as if he were stupid. I, of course, didn’t mention that I had never heard of llamas being sold to keep away predators either. I was enjoying the fact that she thought Colin was stupid. Why disrupt a perfect moment with the truth?