The Mistaken Heiress Read online

  Oh, yeah? If He has, Mother will probably find a way to take mine over and sell it.

  Kate’s cheeks warmed at the irreverence of her thoughts. She turned her eyes from the minister’s probing gaze to a window on the far side of the sanctuary and the marble stones barely visible in the evening light. She closed her eyes trying to envision this wonderful place the pastor described instead of the cold, dark graves out there.

  Could she trust God to provide such a place when she died? Could she trust God to provide anything at all for her, here in this life or anyplace else, when He let all the things she loved most be taken away from her?

  Biting back threatening tears, she ignored the minister’s words as she stared out the window at the gathering darkness.

  Soon, the white tombstones and bright flowers at the grave sites were no longer visible.

  Like her future, only a black void remained.

  Chapter 2

  A pregnant young woman in a white top and black pants ushered Kate into the inner office. The man behind the massive desk stood and extended a hand. He was almost as tall as the man camping in her woods, but there was no comparison in their appearances.

  L. Paul Boyer, attorney-at-law, looked a few years older than the man who had taken over her land. He looked forty, at least. He had a slender build instead of broad shoulders. He sported what was obviously a salon-styled haircut, short with sides and the top brushed up neatly from a clean-shaven face. His clothing was in sharp contrast to the intruder’s. Instead of a silly T-shirt and rough woodsmen’s boots, he wore a dark suit with a snowy-white dress shirt and red tie.

  Conscious of her own untidiness, Kate wiped her sweaty hands down the sides of her jeans before shaking hands with him. Her cheeks grew hot as his smooth hand with immaculate nails enveloped her work-roughened hand with its stained, uneven nails.

  “Have a seat, Miss Sanderson.” He resumed his seat behind the desk.

  Kate tugged at the hem of her blue T-shirt and sat on the edge of the padded chair across from him. She curled her hands in her lap to hide her nails.

  “Now, Miss Sanderson, tell me what you wish to talk to me about.” His voice was as smooth as his appearance.

  “Well, I—” She took a deep breath, and her next words came out in a rush. “Someone is trying to take my land.”

  He nodded. “Yes. Go on.”

  “He says he bought it, but it’s rightfully mine.” She hadn’t intended to sound so defiant, but the mere thought of the arrogant man in the woods irritated her.

  The attorney settled back in his big leather chair. “Suppose you tell me the whole story, then we’ll see if I might help you.”

  His calmness helped calm Kate a bit. She slid back in the chair.

  “When my grandfather died, he left some land. He had already given land to his children to build homes—but my mother sold hers and moved away. I didn’t expect all that was left to be mine, but he knew how I loved the place. I was with him a lot before I went off to school, took care of him after his tractor accident and first stroke. I found him after the big one and—”

  She realized she was babbling and stopped.

  The man cleared his throat. “Tell me about the property you expected to have. Have you talked with your mother about the sale?”

  “No!” Kate slid forward to the edge of the chair. “And I don’t want her to know I talked with you about it. If she knew, she’d find some way to block anything I might be able to do, especially since her daughter—my older sister— is a lawyer.”

  His brows went up, and then he nodded. “I assure you, Miss Sanderson, whatever you tell me will be held in strictest confidence.”

  “Thank you.” She settled back in the chair.

  “And who is this person who claims to have bought the property?”

  “I...don’t know his name. I only met him— Well, saw him briefly yesterday in the woods. Can you find out some way?”

  “Possibly.” He picked up a pen and held it poised over a note pad. “When did he allegedly purchase it?”

  “I don’t know. Grandpa died less than two months ago.”

  “Was there a will?”

  “If there was one, nobody said anything to me about it.” How surprising is that?

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “I see.” He picked up the pen again. “All right, I’ll see what I can do and—”

  The phone on his desk buzzed. “Excuse me.” He picked up the receiver. “Yes, Jane?”

  After a brief pause, he added, “Put her on.”

  Looking at Kate, he said, “I’ll only be a minute. If you’ll excuse me—” He swung his chair round with his back to her. “Hello, Claire. How was the flight?”

  The crackle of a feminine voice vibrated over the line.

  He sighed. “Yes. Of course. I’ll work it out. Again. I’ll have Mrs. Mason stay over with the kids.”

  Kate turned to stare out the window at the traffic passing on Main Street. But she could still hear his end of the conversation.

  “Lisa cried last night because she misses you.” His voice was heavy with irritation. “Most people want to spend Thanksgiving with their families, you know.”

  He lowered his voice. “I know she’s almost a teenager. That doesn’t stop her from missing her mother.”

  Kate stood and turned toward the door. That was all she needed, a lawyer with domestic issues. He had enough of his own problems without taking on hers.

  “Claire, I have to go.

  “Miss Sanderson?” He hung up the phone.

  Kate looked at him.

  “You can give Jane the names of the people involved, and your phone number, and I’ll see what I can do. Jane will call you to set up an appointment when I have something.”

  * * *

  Driving toward her aunt’s house, Kate found herself humming one of the more lively tunes from yesterday’s church service. If Mr. Boyer could get things straightened out by the time school let out for Christmas holidays, she would come back here until winter session.

  She smiled, thinking about the old house, the way it stood white in the sun, its long front porch shaded by sweet-smelling wisteria and honeysuckle in spring and summer, and rain playing softly on the tin roof in fall and winter. She could almost smell the burning logs in the rock fireplace.

  Burning logs. Her mind flew to the man from the woods.

  Grrrrind. A sudden lurch and grinding noise jerked her thoughts back to the present. Slamming on the brakes, she felt the little car tilt sideways. “I can’t believe this! Why did I try something so foolish?”

  Unmindful, she had turned onto the rutted driveway leading to the old house. She put on the emergency brake and pounded the steering wheel with her fist.

  Crawling out of the car, she stooped and peered underneath. No major dents or scrapes. Not yet anyway. Maybe she could put the car in Reverse and back up the hill.

  But it would not move backward any more than forward.

  Transferring her foot from the accelerator to the brake pedal, she laid her aching head against the steering wheel and groaned aloud. “This is just what I needed.”

  Well, sitting there fuming was not going to solve anything. She crawled out of the car and stared at the two tires sitting in a rut. She might be able to pile brush under the tires and give them some traction.

  She stood and glanced around for fallen limbs and sticks.

  * * *

  Behind the house, at the edge of the yard, a perspiring Steve Adams hacked away at bushes and vines blocking a trail through the woods. He stopped to wipe sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his denim shirt. Whew, it was awfully warm for late November.

  He didn’t mind the heat so much, if the rain would just hold off so he could get some work done.

&
nbsp; Picking up a small insulated jug from the ground, he turned it up to drink from the spout, and stopped. Was something bumping down the washed-out driveway?

  He cocked his head to one side and listened. A picture of the young woman who had challenged him in the woods flashed into his mind. He couldn’t help smiling as he recalled the way she had stood glaring down at him as he lay on the ground stunned by her sudden, almost violent appearance in the peaceful woodland setting.

  But he knew the situation was no laughing matter—for him or for her. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if she did decide to check out the old house.

  He listened again, but the bumping had stopped. More than likely a train in the distance. Turning up the jug, he drank long and deep, then set it down. He picked up the machete and began swinging it again.

  After a few minutes, he stopped hacking and glanced down the trail he had cleared from his camping spot to the backyard of the old farmhouse. He would widen it more later so trucks could get through.

  He headed back to the old house again, planning to go inside this time and look around, see if there was anything he could salvage.

  The back steps appeared too rotten to hold his weight, so he made his way round to the front. The steps there didn’t look much sturdier, but he approached them cautiously and crossed the rickety porch to the front door. Something inside the door prevented him from opening it enough to go inside, so he leaned over, put his eye to the crack and peered in.

  Part of a large tree limb had fallen through the roof and was blocking the doorway. He’d go back to camp and get his power saw and see if he could cut his way inside.

  He moved back across the porch and down the steps. At the corner of the house, he paused and glanced in the direction of the pitted roadway leading from the main road. A funny scratching sound came from up the hill. Surely that crazy redhead wouldn’t try to drive over all those ruts and boulders.

  It was probably a county work crew filling in potholes on the main road. He made a mental note to work on the driveway in the near future—before someone, like that stubborn woman, did try to drive down it in a low-slung automobile.

  He listened again to the scratching. Don’t know why I keep watching for her to reappear. It wasn’t as if he believed she really had a legitimate claim on the land.

  Still, he couldn’t get her off his mind. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for her losing her grandfather and then learning he had not left her his home as he had promised.

  Well, it wasn’t his problem. He’d bought the place in good faith. And he had a lot of work to do on it before winter set in. Right now, he’d better get his mind off her and retrieve the saw. He glanced again in the direction of the roadway and then set out in a lope across the overgrown yard toward the woodland trail.

  * * *

  On the washed-out roadway leading to the farmhouse, Kate wiped her perspiring forehead with the back of her arm. She surveyed the pile of twigs and small rocks she had packed into a rut in front of the Escort. Hopefully, these would prevent the tires from sinking deeper in the hole. She climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and began to inch forward.

  Whew! She made it through that one. Now, if she could get around the ditch that loomed up ahead.

  Fighting to avoid the deeper ruts and larger stones, her mind was completely absorbed in trying to keep the car—and herself—from real harm. When she finally slid around the last curve, her foot involuntarily jammed on the brakes. Her head almost hit the windshield.

  “How could they? How could they let it go to ruin this way?”

  It seemed impossible the place could have gone down so quickly from disuse. Had it begun deteriorating even before she’d left for college, and she had been too preoccupied to notice?

  She stared in disbelief at the beloved house. Overgrown weeds and shrubs covered the windows. Vines crept up the walls and rock chimney. A fallen limb jutted from a hole in the roof.

  “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

  She dashed a tear from her cheek and turned off the car. She made her way through the tangle of weeds and vines in the yard and up the crumbling steps, across broken and sagging boards of the porch. But something inside prevented her from opening the door.

  She put an eye against the crack and peeped in. The inside was almost as bad as the outside.

  Several windowpanes were broken. The sofa was saggy and covered in dust and grime. Once-pretty bright red curtains now hung in faded tatters. Wallpaper was peeling from the walls in places.

  She repositioned her eye at the crack so she could see the corner where the desk sat. This was where she’d found her grandfather after his first stroke.

  He had appeared to be fine before the stroke hit him. He’d had an enjoyable three-day visit with two old army buddies. They’d had breakfast at McDonald’s, lunch at the new buffet place in town. They’d played dominoes, pulled out pictures from army days and talked about old times. The men had left only the day before the stroke.

  Grandpa had seemed a little tired when Kate left for school that morning, but she thought it was only from all the activity of the past few days. He told her not to worry about him; he was fine, going to spend the day resting and catching up on paperwork. He’d asked her if she could drive him to town after school that afternoon so he could run some errands.

  But when she’d gotten home she’d found him on the floor beside the desk.

  Peering through the crack in the door, she relived the scene.

  He’d lain very still, eyes closed, writing pen clutched in his hand. Papers from the desk surrounded him on the floor.

  When she’d rushed to him and placed her hand on his forehead, he’d opened his eyes and tried to speak. But his mouth was twisted in an odd way and spittle dribbled into his gray beard. When his words came out garbled, she knew it was more than just a fall.

  Hush, Grandpa, she’d whispered. Be quiet now. Everything will be all right.

  She had jumped up, grabbed the telephone, dialed 911 and then called her uncle Rob.

  Sitting on the floor beside her grandfather, she’d cradled his head in her lap. I love you, Grandpa. You can’t leave me.

  Lo-love you, Kate. He’d struggled to sit up. Pa-papers— Desk.

  Yes, I see them. I’ll mail the checks. Be still. Lie back down.

  He’d struggled harder to sit. And to speak. Pa-papers.

  I’ll take care of the papers, Grandpa. Now hush. Rest. Tears had streamed down her face. I’ll take care of everything for you. And I’ll take care of you. I promise.

  Remembering, tears streamed down her face now, too. “Mother didn’t allow me to take care of everything for you the way I promised, Grandpa,” she whispered, as though he were there to hear her. “But I did the best I could to take care of you.”

  She tore her gaze from the crack in the door and wiped her tears on the tail of her T-shirt. She stretched her neck and then stepped carefully across the rotted boards of the porch to the crumbling stone steps. She sat down on the top step and returned to the past.

  Her grandfather had seemed too disoriented to understand her words of reassurance. He’d continued to ramble on about “papers,” even as he was being loaded into the ambulance. So, before driving to the hospital, she’d quickly gathered up the checks and other papers scattered about the floor and stuffed them into her shoulder bag.

  Sorting them later, she found a gas bill but no check to the gas company, and the checkbook was missing. When she didn’t find them in the desk drawer or under the desk, she called her mother over at Uncle Rob’s house.

  “Yes,” her mother snapped. “I found the checkbook on the floor, but I didn’t find a check. You can give the gas bill to me. Don’t you worry about Father’s business affairs. It’s not your place to take care of them. I’ll be taking care o
f things from now on.”

  Her grandfather had never been able to speak clearly again. Off and on through the years he would try to talk to her about the “papers.”

  Kate had tried to explain that her mother had mailed all the checks, including a new one she’d written to the gas company. But he’d continued to bring it up, as if his mind was stuck in the unfinished task.

  Straightening herself on the step, Kate took a deep breath and stood. Well, she couldn’t sit there thinking about the past forever. She had to get on with the present. Maybe she could get inside through the back door, see if anything in there was still any good.

  Tramping through the weeds to the end of the house, she rounded the corner—and stopped short. Her mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. She stared at the dark late-model pickup sitting in the backyard.

  Weeds and briars were trampled down between the house and the path leading through the woods toward the stranger’s camp. It appeared as though the trail was recently widened.

  So, it’s beyond repair, is it?

  If he really thought the house was too far gone to use, why had he gone to the trouble of clearing a path to it? What had he been hauling to it—or away from it—in a pickup truck?

  More than ever, she was sure something was shady about the sale of the place.

  Maybe the man was bluffing about buying it. With that bushy beard and those ratty blue jeans, he looked as though he could be a fugitive from the law.

  Sudden loud singing—or bellowing—came from the woods.

  Her heart beating wildly, Kate jumped behind a bush at the corner of the house.

  That man was striding up the trail through the trees, swinging a machete in one hand and a power saw in the other, singing loud and off-key.

  * * *

  My, how he loved this place! Fresh air. Beautiful autumn colors. Freedom to sing as loud as he wished. With head thrown back, arms and shoulders keeping rhythm, he sang at the top of his lungs, “Everybody, come on, praise the Lord. Praise the Lord. Praise—”