âHow long has it been since you two have seen each other?â Matthew asked Zoey.
Zoey stiffened, searching for undercurrents of suspicion in the husky voice. Zoey tried to tell herself it only made sense that his concern would be centered on her grandmother now.
But he probably thought that she had shown up, circling like a vulture, to determine just how sick her grandmother was. Heâd seen the condition of her Jeep. The clothing piled in the backseat. More than likely she was down on her luck. Looking for someone to take care of her.
The thought turned Zoeyâs stomach.
She wouldnât try to explain that the reason sheâd come back was to give, not take.
It wouldnât make any difference. As soon as he left, the good pastor would no doubt ask around townâfind at least a dozen people who would cheerfully supply all the gruesome details of her pastâand he wouldnât believe her anyway.
She shouldnât have come back.
The thought raced through Zoey Deckerâs mind the moment she spotted a square, unassuming green road sign sprouting from the snow-covered ditch.
Mirror Lakeâ3 miles.
Spots began to dance in front of her eyes and she stomped on the brake, wrestling the Jeep onto the side of the road. Maybe she should get out of the vehicle for a few minutes. Stretch her legs.
A bracing March wind pinched Zoeyâs cheeks as she bailed awkwardly out of the driverâs seat and started down the road, fatigue adding weight to her limbs.
For the past few hours, sheâd been telling herself that sheâd made the right decision. Nowâonly a few minutes from her destinationâshe was having second thoughts.
Zoeyâs gaze locked on the sign again.
What was that old saying?
You canât go home again?
But Mirror Lake had never been home. Not really. It just happened to be the town where her grandparents had retired. The place her parents had dumped her off because they didnât know how to deal with a full-blown case of teenage rebellion.
And even though Zoey had only lived in Mirror Lake two short yearsâwhich must have seemed more like a lifetime to her sixty-five-year-old grandparentsâshe had definitely made her mark.
A black oneâ¦
âAre you lost?â
Zoey whirled around at the sound of a voice behind her. A low, masculine rumble that had her questioning her impulsive decision to stop on a quiet stretch of road sandwiched between two imposing walls of towering white pine.
With not a house in sight.
She hadnât expected to see anyone. Not this early in the morning. And especially not a man, whoâd materialized seemingly out of nowhere.
Zoey caught her lower lip between her teeth as she considered the six-foot-tall obstacle that now stood between her and the safety of the Jeep. Chiseled features, tousled dark-blond hair. The lean but muscular frame of someone who probably earned his living outdoors.
Under ordinary circumstances, someone of his size shouldnât have been able to sneak up and catch her unawareâbut then again, nothing about the last twenty-four hours had been ordinary. Zoey had spent most of the night navigating miles of national forest, where white-tailed deer far outnumbered the population of the towns sheâd driven through.
The guy didnât look like a criminal. But how was a woman supposed to know who she could and couldnât trust these days? And if Zoey was completely honest, she knew her track record in that department hadnât always been the best.
He shifted his stance, a subtle movement that positioned him closer to the vehicle.
Had the action been deliberate?
Zoey suppressed a shiver and rolled her hands up in the hem of the oversized, hand-knit sweater that had been a gift from her grandmother many Christmases ago.
The man noticed the gesture and his eyebrows dipped together in a frown. âAre you lost?â he repeated.
In a different situation, the question might have made Zoey smile. âIt depends on who you ask.â
The frown deepened. He obviously didnât understand her wry sense of humor. âIs something wrong with your car?â
âNo.â At least, Zoey silently amended, nothing that could be fixed on the side of the road. She cast a fond look at the eggplant-purple Jeep, decorated with its contrasting pattern of rust, intricate as a henna tattoo. It had outlived its warranty by at least a few thousand miles and yet somehow managed to get her from Point A to B. That was good enough for her. âIâm fine. My car is fine, too.â