Chapter 1

     April Fairchild stared in disbelief at the letter she'd ripped open with her garden shears. "Who does this McKittrick fellow think he is?" She crumpled the paper and shoved it into the pocket of her smock. "The trouble with corporate executives," she muttered to the black and white cat batting at her shoelace, "is they can't see beyond their high-rise office windows."

     She seized her pruners and snipped a damaged cane off the Docteur du Jamain. In another week, the rose would be covered in fragrant, dark red blooms, but it wouldn't matter one bit if the new owner ordered her off the property. Her throat tightened. It wasn't fair.

     She sidestepped a fat mackerel tabby poised to pounce on something–-probably her ragged sneaker--and clipped a wayward shoot from the pale ivory Sombreuil that skimmed the stone wall bordering the caretaker's cottage.

     If Mr. Thomas J. McKittrick wants me off the estate, it'll take more than a note from his pushy attorney. She brushed back a strand of blonde hair that had come loose from the flat tortoiseshell barrette at her nape. No way would she give up six years of her life without a fight. He'd have to use force. She fished in her pocket for the letter and reread the opening paragraph. "We expect you to vacate the property known as Creggan no later than Monday the eleventh...."

     It made no sense. She'd just received a note from McKittrick's office last week thanking her for her excellent payment record. The eviction notice had to be a mistake.

     But there it was, plain as the eye on a potato.

     She squinted at the signature. There was only one thing to do. She'd call James Rector, Esq. this very minute. Disengaging her shoelace from the cat, she marched toward the cottage.

     In her compact green-and-white kitchen, she dialed the number, then juggled the handset while she plugged in the electric kettle for tea.

     "Blum, Blum, and Rector," a woman's voice intoned.

     "James Rector, please." Why did all legal receptionists sound as if they were underwater?

     "He's gone for the day," the woman answered in a nasal twang. "If you'd like to leave a message...."

     April groaned and waited for the voice mail beep.

     She cleared her throat. "This is April Fairchild. I received your letter. However, I have a lease agreement with Mr. Jerome McKittrick, which assures me of continued access...."

     She reiterated the rest of the terms and hung up. Stating her case to an answering machine did nothing to ease the dull ache spreading from her shoulders down her spine.

     The kettle screamed. She splashed water over an Earl Grey tea bag, settled onto a green painted ladderback chair at the round kitchen table and stared at the row of potted herbs on the sunny window sill. Sage and thyme, root cuttings of lemon verbena, lavender, and purple-blooming hyssop. All waited for planting in the newly dug herb bed. They'd perfume the air around the cottage, and when harvested, they'd be used in sachets, decoctions, and medicinal infusions.

     If she could convince McKittrick's slick lawyer that she needed to stay.

     Dread welled up from the pit of her stomach. She couldn't give it up. She'd come to Creggan the month after Teddy died, and the cottage had been her safe haven all this time. She'd transformed it from a drab, drafty cabin into a warm, snug home for herself and the nine stray cats she had adopted over the years.

     She glanced at the photo tucked into a shelf in the open area that was her living room. Teddy Fairchild. Wealthy, handsome, reckless.

     And ... dead.

     She let out the breath she'd been holding. The cottage here at Creggan had been her lifeline. She'd healed, built a new life-–a life she liked. Needed, even. She couldn't give it up; it had cost her too much.

     A sleek, black form brushed against her leg. Shadow, the latest of her rescues, a rail-thin, newly altered tom, demanded attention. She bent to stroke the shiny fur. She'd found him foraging in a dumpster behind the Shady Acres convalescent home. With luck she'd find a home for him this week. For Shadow and the six other strays she'd taken in over the winter. Between tending the gardens, her dried herb-and-flower business, and finding homes for assorted cats, her life at Creggan was full. Safe.

     She glared at the crumpled letter she'd tossed on the table.

     Until today.

     The bell in St. John's church tower rang out over the valley below. Six o'clock. Dinnertime for cats and for April. She stepped outside, retrieved her pruners, and tossed the rose clippings onto the compost bin she'd built last summer. The sun glinted red-gold shafts of light through a stand of newly leafed-out liquidambars. April tipped her head up and squinted, letting the rays warm her face. Creggan was the most beautiful spot on earth. She had to stay. Had to. The cottage and her gardens not only made possible her herb business, they nourished her soul.

     Old Jerome McKittrick had loved the place, too. He'd used it as a retreat from his San Francisco brokerage firm until he moved into a retirement home at which time he'd given her a ten-year lease on the cottage. Generous use of half-timbered trim and rounded shingles gave the sprawling eighty-year-old main house a fairytale appearance, as if Snow White herself might step through the arched doorway.

     The shake-sided caretaker's cottage the old man had left her was her home and workshop. Her kingdom. The only place she'd ever felt totally at peace.

     At the cottage door she called the cats, then filled three bowls with kibble. If Junior McKittrick thought he could evict her, he was nuts. She wasn't leaving, ever!

     April shoved her vintage Volvo into gear and headed down the highway. At Lupine Valley's first weekly farmer's market of the season, she'd sold all but two of the eucalyptus wreaths she'd made and three dozen lavender sachets. She should be thrilled. Instead, she couldn't shake the knot of worry in the pit of her stomach. Maybe she should telephone Big Shot McKittrick himself and explain?

     She swerved to avoid a pothole. Useless idea. Men like McKittrick don't care about other people's lives. They're too busy worrying about their stock market assets.

     The sky darkened. Channel Four news had predicted rain, but the black clouds above looked like a real gullywasher. She tightened her lips. Just what she needed. The driveway would flood again, and she'd have to call Dave to bring out his grader.

     She shoved the accelerator to the floor, and the car leaped forward. She had to get home and cover the seedlings before the storm broke.

     Huge raindrops began to pelt her windshield. Flipping on the wipers, she peered at the twisting road ahead and leaned the car into a curve. She pulled into her driveway and came to instant attention. Another car sat in her drive, a sleek silver Mercedes. The driver's side was empty. She slammed on the brakes.

     Her skin prickled.

     Thunder rumbled as she opened the door and set one foot on the ground. No one she knew owned a Mercedes. Cautiously, she climbed out of the car, shut the door, and dashed toward her front door.

     A tall man appeared from behind the Rosa Mundi hedge between her cottage and the main house. He strode across the spongy meadow, oblivious to the spray of mud gushing up with each step. Water darkened the shoulders of his suede jacket, and a shock of dark hair hung over his brow. He picked his way through the tall grass, a scowl clouding his features.

     April noted his mud-spattered shoes-–expensive Italian loafers. Odd for a prowler. Who was he? "What are you doing here?" she called.

     The man's features hardened. "You're supposed to be gone."

     Her heart thumped. "I beg your pardon?"

     The man stopped three feet from her and stared into her face. "Mrs. Fairchild?"

     His face, which looked as if it had been chiseled from granite, was extraordinarily handsome except for the scowl. His eyes were an odd shade, neither green nor brown, and they bored into her as if he wanted to pin her to the wall. "I am April Fairchild."

     His eyebrows drew together in a frown. "You got my attorney's letter?"

     His attorney's letter? Oh, lord, was this Thomas J. McKittrick? Dumbstruck, she peered at him. A bold forehead and firm chin with the hint of a cleft. He was taller than she'd pictured him, at least six feet two. Lean, rangy build with broad shoulders, and hair that looked like it had a mind of its own. Except right now it was plastered to his head.

     "I received a letter yesterday. I called Mr." --she searched her mind for the attorney's name-- "Mr. Rector's office and left a message."

     McKittrick studied her. "How long will it take you to vacate the cottage?"

     April sucked in a breath. He couldn't be serious. She eyed the sodden front and shoulders of his jacket, the rivulet of rain running off his straight nose. She'd have a better chance of convincing him out of the rain.

     "You might as well come inside. We can talk where it's dry." She led the way along the path to the front door and unlatched it.

     McKittrick hesitated at the threshold, his mouth set in a grim line. She took another deep breath. "You're getting wet."

     He glanced at his jacket, hesitated a moment longer. Then with a shrug he ducked under the low beam. He stood just inside in a stiff-legged stance, but let his eyes wander around the room, taking in the leather chair, her plump denim sofa and the bookshelves that ran down one side of the room. He seemed to be taking inventory.

     April rubbed her arms, then knelt beside the wood stove and added two sticks of kindling and a madrone log to the banked embers. In seconds, the kindling flared. When flames lapped the log, she turned to him.

     "Look, I–-" he began. Suddenly, he sneezed.

     "Give me your jacket, and I'll get you a towel."

     He frowned, but shrugged out of the wet garment.

     His jacket smelled like damp leather and something woodsy and male. Her nostrils tingled. She hung the wet suede over the back of a kitchen chair, then reached in a cupboard for a blue bath towel and handed it to him. He sneezed again, and rubbed his sodden hair.

     She plugged in the electric kettle and watched him. A muscular torso tapered to a narrow waist. Nice backside, too, if one were interested. She wasn't. The coffee type, she decided. She measured four scoops of French roast into the filter.

     "Cream?" she asked. On second thought, he didn't seem like the cream type.

     He flashed her a quick glance that turned into a look of resignation. He might as well be resigned to being there. It was raining jackhammers outside.

     "Sure."

     She brewed the coffee and poured out two mugs and handed one to him, motioning to the sofa.

     He shook his head and stared down at the steaming liquid. "I'll stand." He raised the mug to his lips.

     Uneasy, April perched on one arm of the sofa and studied him. He had long tapering fingers; she imagined them signing executive documents. He looked crisp and efficient. Starched. She gave him a wary smile and sipped her coffee.

     After a long pause, he set his mug on the table. "I believe we were talking about your occupancy of the cottage."

     She raised her eyes to his. Here it comes, she thought. "I had an agreement with your–- with Jerome McKittrick."

     "My grandfather. He died two years ago." He ran a hand across his forehead. "I own the estate now."

     "Yes, but–-"

     He cut her off with a wintry stare. "I will be occupying the house from now on, Mrs. Fairchild. I've no need for a caretaker. In fact, I'd prefer to be alone."

     "That's easy for you to say, but my lease-- "

     "Doesn't apply any longer. As I said, my grandfather's dead."

     April gritted her teeth. "I understand that, Mr. McKittrick." She opened her mouth to explain about the lease, then changed her mind. No sense antagonizing the man. She struggled to keep her voice calm. "I can't just leave. This place, it's my livelihood. The roses are prizewinners, and I've hybridized three new strains. And my wreaths...."

     "Wreaths?" One brow quirked upward.

     "I sell them at the Farmer's market on Tuesdays, along with my sachets and potpourri. My herbs and flowers are my only source of income." She reached a hand toward him. "I mean this isn't just a home, Mr. McKittrick-–it's my whole life!"

     He gave her an odd look. "It's my land. My property."

     "Yes, of course, but-– "      "My estate. And my caretaker's cottage." Jaw squared, he crossed his arms in front of him. "I want you out of here."

     "Well, I won't go!" She gulped at her blurted words, but she couldn't back down now. "I have a legal right to be here."

     "Only until Monday," he snapped. "Read my attorney's letter."

     "Of all the unreasonable, pig-headed–- " She clamped her lips together. "I apologize for getting personal, but I do not apologize for stating my case." She drew in a shaky breath. "I need this house. It's much more than just a roof over my head. I've tended the gardens for six years. Did you know Creggan took a first prize last year for my Madame Isaac Pereire?"

     "I take it that's a flower, not a person?"

     "An old rose, deep pink and very fragrant." She stepped to the window and pointed to a freshly dug bed. "Everything that grows on the estate has been nurtured. All the beds are double dug, and I fertilize and weed regularly. You won't find better soil in the county. Or lovelier flowers."

     "The gardens may be lovely," he muttered, "but–- "

     "That's because I compost and cultivate to continually improve them." It was working! His face relaxed a bit as he gazed out the window. She'd get him to see things from her point of view, and then he'd let her stay. A bubble of relief rose in her chest.

     He turned toward her and almost smiled.

     At that moment her large orange cat strolled into the room and meowed.      April absentmindedly petted the plump feline. "In a minute, Pumpkin."

     She tossed McKittrick a sidelong glance. "There's also the cats." She had him now. She knew a cat person when she saw one.

     "Cats?" He squinted warily at the animal. "How many cats?"

     April hesitated. Did she dare tell him?

     "How many cats," he repeated.

     "Nine."

     "Good Lord!" He snorted, and stared out the window once more.

     Damn. How could she tell what he was thinking if he wouldn't look at her. "But they're mostly little ones!" she exclaimed. "They don't eat much and they catch mice and-- "

     "Nine cats," he muttered. "A flower-crazy woman and nine cats. Just what I need." He spun from the window and faced her. "No."

     "No what?" His unusual eyes had hardened into chunks of granite. Her heart began to sink.

     "No cats. And no roses or wreaths or whatever it is you make. You've got thirty days."

     Turning on his heel, he yanked open the door and stalked out into the rain.

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