“No. My grandmother had the windows shuttered after Mom’s funeral and posted NO TRESPASSING signs, but no one has been inside.”
Noah fell silent as she reached the turn that was marked with an old billboard that advertised a nearby lodge and water resort. Thank God it was still there. It was the only way she could remember which road to take.
She turned onto the narrow path before taking the first left and then another right and another left. She remembered the few times her grandma had driven her to the cabin, to take a picnic basket filled with lunch for her mother, that she would always sing a little song. Left, right, left. It’s easy as can be. Left, right, left. Don’t forget, sweet sweetie. Wynter had no idea if she’d sung the song to remind herself how to get to the cabin, or in case Wynter happened to wander away, so she might be able to find her way back.
The path wound upward at a steep angle, and the dirt softened to a soggy mud. Worse, as she rounded a corner she discovered a large tree had toppled to land directly in their path.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to walk.”
Noah shoved open his door and jumped out of the truck without hesitation. By the time she joined him, he’d tilted his head back to admire the towering red pine trees that surrounded them. “It’s a beautiful location.”
Wynter nodded, heading up the road to climb over the tree trunk. The cabin wasn’t far. “My grandma told me that my mother loved being here. It was a special place she came with my grandfather. Just the two of them. They’d fish and cook over a campfire and my mother would paint while my grandpa would read a book.”
Noah kept step beside her, his large body moving with a loose ease that came from years spent hiking through the woods. Wynter instinctively moved closer. She wasn’t afraid. The sun was shining and the sound of birds chirping added a song to the air, but the trees were so densely packed they made her feel claustrophobic. As if they were closing in around her.
She’d felt the same when she was just a little girl.
“Your mom never brought you up here to spend the night?” Noah asked, almost as if he sensed she needed a distraction.
“No.” She picked up the pace. The lake was over the small ridge just ahead. “I didn’t care. I loved spending time with my grandma,” she assured Noah. “I would sit on the kitchen floor and watch her cook. Even after my mother died, I would come to spend time with her.” A smile curved her lips. “She’s the inspiration for my restaurant. I’m pretty sure heaven must smell like her cinnamon rolls.”
“I hope you’re right,” Noah murmured, releasing a low whistle as the trees at last thinned to reveal a wooden cabin perched next to the lake. “Is this it?”
“Yes.”
Wynter stepped into the clearing, taking in the picturesque sight. The lake wasn’t large, but it had been well-stocked by her grandfather and the banks were seeded with wildflowers that provided a sweet perfume during the summer months. The cabin was built of weathered wood with a tin roof and a chimney that was beginning to crumble. There was a shallow porch where a rocking chair used to sit along with a wooden rack for her grandpa’s fishing poles. Both were gone now, and heavy wooden shutters had been fastened over the windows.
It made the place look gloomy. As if it had shut itself away to mourn the loss of her mother. Or maybe it was sulking at being abandoned.
Wynter felt an unexpected pang of guilt.
“How are you going to get in?”
She jingled the key chain she held in her hand. “I’ve carried the key for years. I keep telling myself that I needed to come up here and check on things. If nothing else, I needed to make sure there was no squatter. I’ve just never had the courage.”
“You shouldn’t have to do it on your own.” Noah glanced around, as if emphasizing the isolation of the cabin.
She turned her head to send him a grateful smile. “I’m not on my own.”
Chapter 5
There was a high-pitched screech as Wynter forced open the stiff door. A chill crawled down her spine. It felt like the cabin was battling to keep her out. As if it held secrets it wasn’t prepared to give up.
Wynter shook off her ridiculous reluctance to step over the threshold. Her raw nerves were making her jumpy. The hinges squeaked because they were rusty. Nothing sinister about that.
Entering the cabin, she was instantly swallowed by the gloom. She halted to reach into her purse and pull out her cell phone. Then, pressing the flashlight on, she turned in a slow circle.
The room was small, with a low ceiling and a few pieces of faded furniture. The walls were covered with paneling, but the floor was plain wood planks. It looked like every other fishing cabin in this area, except for the fact that it was littered with the supplies of an artist.
Near the window was an easel holding a rectangular canvas. There was a tall stool that was half-hidden by the stained smock that had been carelessly tossed on it. Around the stool were piles of paints and brushes and half-empty jars scattered in random patterns. And in the far corner was a stack of finished oil paintings waiting to be framed.
“It’s like a time capsule,” she murmured, imagining her mother seated on the stool, her smock pulled over her clothes as she released her creative soul on the canvas.
A sharp sense of loss cut through her. Not only had the world lost a gifted artist, but she’d been robbed of a mother. It was tragically unfair.
Easily sensing her unexpected burst of grief, Noah headed back to the door. “I’ll open a couple shutters so we can have some light.”
She nodded, appreciating the moment of privacy. This was why she’d waited so long to come to the cabin. She’d always suspected the ghost of her mother would be strongest here.
Drifting toward the painting left unfinished on the easel, she studied the sweeping lines of vibrant color. There was something so . . . boldly alive about the strokes. As if the artist was perfectly confident that she was creating a masterpiece.
Lost in admiration, Wynter didn’t hear Noah returning. It wasn’t until he released a low whistle that she realized he was standing in front of the canvases piled in the corner.
“Your mother was talented.”
Wynter glanced around the room that was now filled with sunlight. It didn’t dispel the ghosts, but it lightened the heavy sense of sorrow.
“I’ve always regretted the fact I didn’t inherit her artistic ability,” she told Noah. “My grandmother said she knew my mom was going to be a painter when she found her in the dining room coloring a mural on the wall when she was just five. By the time she graduated high school she had her paintings displayed in the state capitol building and a dozen scholarships to the finest art schools in the country.”
Noah turned, his brows raised as if confused by her words. “You did inherit her talent.”
“I can’t draw a stick figure.”
“You create art on each plate that comes out of your kitchen.”
“That’s . . .” Words failed as his praise settled in the center of her heart. Noah wasn’t a charmer. He didn’t flatter women or feel compelled to constantly flirt. He was direct, honest, and sometimes painfully blunt. Which made his compliment all the more precious. “Thank you.”