~ Shadows in Time ~

 by

Twila Hanna

The sound of shattering glass brought Prescott MacKenzie to an upright position instantly, his heart thudding heavily against his chest at being awakened so abruptly.

"What the hell was that?"

He raked his fingers through his sleep-tangled hair and listened intently for a few more seconds.

Silence!

Had he been dreaming?

No. Something had definitely crashed to the floor in the room beneath him.

He slipped out of bed and wrapped a rumpled muslin sheet around the lower half of his naked body. A scowl of contempt formed when he glanced in the direction of the clock on the bedside stand.

"Six hours of sleep in two days. It’s like being a damn intern again," he grumbled.

Crossing the small room darkened by drawn window shades, he stepped out into the hall and let his bleary eyes adjust to the bright daylight streaming in a window at the end of the hall. Murderous thoughts about mice whose antics undoubtedly were behind the crashing sounds, entertained his imagination with vivid and gory pictures of the revenge he would like to take on the furry pests.

This was one of the few times he actually missed the traitorous feline who deserted his job as mouse catcher immediately after Maisie’s death. It hadn’t taken long for the mice to discover the cat’s absence. They’d moved in quickly and he’d been at a loss how to keep them from overrunning the unguarded house.

Picking up a shoe from a pair he’d kicked off at the top of the stairs, and clutching the sheet around him with his other hand, he descended on silent feet, intent on catching the marauding mice in the act and dispatching them with the size ten Nike. He’d only gone a third of the way down the stairs, still hidden by shadows, when his eyes widened in surprise to see the mouse that had awakened him.

A woman stood in front of the open china cupboard, seemingly mesmerized by the broken glass scattered at her feet. Her back was partially to him, although he saw enough to make a quick and very male assessment. She had a slim figure, but one that was rounded where it counted, beneath the well-fitting, tailored slacks and the soft green blouse she wore.

But what the devil was this woman doing rummaging through Maisie’s china cupboard?

She hardly looked like a burglar. In fact, the air of elegance about her identified her as a stranger to this part of the country. The clothes she wore were not homemade, or bought from a second hand store, or even bought off a rack in a discount department store. The way she was put together, from the smooth styling of her dark hair, the fit of the designer clothes, down to the Italian leather shoes on her feet, presented a total package of sophistication that only money could buy.

But who was she? And what was she doing snooping around?

As if a light bulb had suddenly flashed on, the answer dawned on him and he cursed his stupidity under his breath. Must have been the lack of sleep that made him forget. Only that morning Truly left the message at the clinic reminding him that Maisie’s granddaughter was coming to the farm for the reading of the will.

But she wasn’t supposed to be here until...two o’clock! The clock in his room read nearly three o’clock.

He cleared his throat to announce his presence and her shoulders instantly stiffened. She turned in a slow arc to face him, her dark brown eyes widening with shock. He flashed a quick smile to put her at ease, but the effort failed miserably. She was anything but easy with his sudden presence.

"Who...who are you?" she stuttered, glancing toward the table. He followed her gaze and noticed the leather purse, then a notepad and pen laying beside the purse. Evidently, she’d been making herself at home and he wondered just how long she’d been wandering around the house while he slept.

Suddenly, she dashed for the purse, catching him totally off guard, and pulled out a can he immediately guessed to be pepper spray. He felt a desperate urge to laugh at the picture she presented, a wide-legged stance, holding the can out before her, her arms stiffly locked, her finger poised to trigger it. Yet, something warned him he’d better not so much as let her hear a snicker. Despite the way her slight frame trembled, a determined tilt to her chin told him the lady with the can of pepper spray stood ready and able to use it if he even breathed the wrong way.

"Look, Miss Hamilton, you can relax. I’m not a bad guy. Honest."

"You stay right where you are," she warned, her mouth taking on a grim line when he dared come down two more steps.

Now that he no longer stood in the shadows of the stairway, her gaze made a brief stop on the shoe he held before settling on the sheet that only partially covered him. With some discomfit, he realized the covering of his otherwise unclad body was being compromised as the sheet had slipped dangerously low on his torso.

"There is a logical explanation for the way I’m...ah...dressed...and for this shoe I’m carrying. I thought you were a mouse...what I mean is...look, just trust me, Miss Hamilton, despite what you see, I’m perfectly harmless, I promise."

"Will you please stop calling me Miss Hamilton?" she demanded with an icy tone that could have chilled a polar bear.

"Are you telling me you’re not Maisie’s granddaughter?"

"I didn’t say that."

"Then who are you, and what are you doing wandering around Maisie’s house, breaking her things?"

He’d grown weary of playing a cat-and-mouse game, to say nothing of being damn uncomfortable standing nearly naked on the stairs while a beautiful, but dangerous woman pointed a can of pepper spray in his direction.

She paled slightly at the mention of the broken china and her hold on the pepper spray loosened slightly.

"I am Maisie Hamilton’s granddaughter, but I never use the name of Hamilton. My name is Juliette Sutton-Ross."

He might have known. Money and high society just naturally had to go with a name like Sutton hyphenated Ross, Maisie’s granddaughter not withstanding. He sighed heavily, thankful to know they were going to have only a short acquaintance. Impatience sounded in his voice.

"Glad to meet you, Ms. Sutton-Ross. Now why don’t you make yourself at home again while I go upstairs and get dressed, then I’ll introduce myself properly. Oh, and if you want to clean up that mess you’ve made, you’ll find a broom and dustpan in the pantry. You already know where the pantry is, I assume."

He was being rude and he knew it. But he was anxious to remove himself from that all too familiar stare of disapproval the rich seemed to use on people like him, and he needed to flee his less than dignified position on the stairway. Without waiting for a response, he turned and took a few steps upward, then suddenly halted and tugged on the sheet.

"Damn!" he muttered when it became apparent a corner of the sheet had firmly caught several steps below on a couple of protruding nails he’d been meaning to hammer down for weeks. He yanked harder in an effort to free the sheet, but instead of liberating it, he heard a ripping sound and that spelled more trouble. Cautiously, he chanced a glimpse back at the visitor, annoyed when she seemed to find his predicament amusing.

"You seem to have a bit of a problem there. Would you like some help?" Juliette offered in a syrupy voice.

"No thanks. I can manage," he assured stubbornly, the rip in the worn muslin sheet worsening when he pulled harder on it still without success. There was definitely a smile edging the lines of her pretty mouth now. One thing for sure, he wasn’t about to stand there forever trying to free himself, nor was he about to enlist her help. There seemed to be only one solution. The thought of what he was about to do brought a mischievous lift to the corners of his mouth.

"It appears I’m helplessly caught on that nail, and since I don’t know any graceful way of getting out of this situation, I apologize in advance--and suggest you turn your head--now!"

With no further warning, he released his hold on the sheet, allowed it to drop to the stairs, and then with as much dignity as he could muster, he walked up the remaining steps and down the hall to his room. Once inside with the door solidly closed behind him, he groaned at what he’d just done.

If Maisie happened to look down from Heaven at the stunt he’d just pulled, he could only imagine the tongue-lashing she’d give him for treating her granddaughter so crudely. Still, he doubted Juliette had been any more shocked by his actions than he’d been to find her in the dining room threatening him with a can of pepper spray. The memory of her standing there ready to defend herself brought an incredulous shake of his head--then a grin. From what he’d witnessed of Juliette Sutton hyphenated Ross, how could he have not known that the feisty lady, had to be Maisie’s granddaughter. Feistiness was Maisie Hamilton’s middle name and obviously, her granddaughter took after her in spades.