Page 20 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

Isla smiled down at me. “And if I know my sister, and I certainly do, she’ll make sure that article about Margaret’s untimely death comes with a good dose of information about the woman herself.”

“You do know me, and it wouldn’t be interesting if I didn’t at least build out the character of the woman first. I’ve got all kinds of notes. But there’s one big problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I still have no idea how she died. And, of course, I’m not going to find it in the journal unless wonderful, magical Margaret found a way to write in her journal after her death.”

“Well, good luck. I’ve got to get the baked goods to the café.”

Isla filled her basket, bundled up and walked out. I settled back into my tent with my cup of coffee and the open journal. I’dgotten so caught up in Margaret’s exciting adventures, I still had a good portion of journal to browse. As much as I hated to jump ahead and miss some terrific entry, I flipped closer to the back. I was disappointed to find that there were at least twenty blank pages at the end. I flipped back a few pages, and that was when I found it—the June 1899 entry that, if my intuition was right, was the beginning of the end for Margaret Grimstone:

I daresay one day I’ll look back upon this moment with bouts of laughter, but today, the incident and the pain are still far too fresh in my mind to consider it humorous. Irony, however, has reared its sharp and pointy head in the most spectacular way. I’ve always considered myself to be quite the sportswoman. I can ride a horse better than most men … and women. Just the other morning I rode down to the coast, and Belle and I galloped from one end of the cove to the other at breakneck speed. It was exhilarating for both horse and rider. I’ve traversed terrain that I would not wish on my worst enemy. (Katherine Bosworth, your ears must be burning.) I can stand steadily on the deck of a boat plowing through a squall that would make a stalwart pirate captain break down in tears, but this morning I’ve proven to myself that I am merely mortal. And the entire humiliating and dreadful experience happened so fast, it’s hard to believe that it has left such a lasting impact.

Weeks ago, the Morrisons invited me for a duck hunt. I made excuse after excuse to avoid the event. A nice day shooting would have been pleasant enough, but Edith Morrison tended to do far more gossiping than shooting. I knew spending the day with the Morrisons meant me having to smile, nod politely and put up with Edith’s constant chatter. And I do not exaggerate when I say constant or call it chatter. It starts from the first moment I step on the property, and the steady stream of judgmental nonsense continues until I’m finally tucked safely inside my carriage for the ride home. But after turning down many invites, I could no longer put it off. It was more “I’ll get it over with,” like a trip to the barber-surgeon to have a nagging toothache looked at.

I would have had a much more pleasant day if I’d gone to the barber-surgeon. After an hour in the fields and with no luck on the hunt (it was hard to lure ducks to a field because of Edith’s constant chatter), I decided to gift myself a break from Edith’s tiresome voice and wander off the path. I reached a small creek, fat and bubbly from an earlier rainstorm. I hadn’t bothered with my usual tall boots and hunting gear because I knew a hunting trip on the Morrison land would be tame and not requireany special gear, so I’d worn only my ankle boots for the day. The creek was narrow and dotted with well-placed stones, so I decided to venture across. I stepped on a smooth stone, unaware that it was slippery with algae. My foot slipped wildly off the edge of the rock and landed directly in the cold water. Searing pain shot up my leg, confirming what I feared just seconds before. I tried to pull my leg free but sucked in a sharp gasp. Blood began to spread out in the water around my ankle. I held my breath and finally managed to yank my wedged foot from between the rocks. The top of the ankle boot was torn, and there was a three-inch gash on my lower calf.

One day, I’ll open this journal, read this entry and laugh at my predicament. But not today.

“Oh Mags, you poor thing.” I shut the journal, rested my head back and closed my eyes. I was up a good two hours before my usual wake time, so I was going to feel it this afternoon.

“Are you gonna shower?” Layla’s voice startled me from a semi-sleep.

“It’s too cold to shower right now. You go ahead.”

“Gee, thanks.” Layla turned around and trudged down the hallway to the bathroom.

My stomach growled. Coffee wasn’t going to cut it this morning. I needed fortification for my day of research. I decidedto get changed and go to the café for some of Dex’s delicious biscuits and gravy.

Aria brought me the plate and sat down for a second. “How is the article going? More importantly, what’s it like working in that house?” She looked over her shoulder toward the kitchen and then leaned forward to lower her voice. “Dex has been worried about you up there in that old house with acomplete stranger. His words, not mine. Although he has a point. We don’t know much about the man.”

“And you didn’t know much about Dex when you hired him and immediately got swept off your feet by him,” I reminded her.

Her eyes rounded. “Are you—you know—being swept off your feet? He’s quite good looking in that stern and serious sort of way.”

I laughed, probably a little too exuberantly given the context.

My big sister, who’d instinctively developed a mom-like sixth sense when it came to the rest of us, noticed, too. “That over-the-top laugh tells me that there’s been some sweeping happening.”

I lifted my chin. “Nope. I’m far too involved in my first important writing project to notice his golden, surfer-ish good looks or the fact that his smile, while not given easily, is nothing short of breath-stealing.”

Aria clapped. “Aha. You like him. I have to say he did have that dark and brooding manner about him, just the kind of guy you like. A dash of Heathcliffe, a splash of Mr. Rochester, all rolled up in a Mr. Darcy package. Too bad he owns Grimstone and not Pemberly.”

“Just wait. Once he’s finished patching up that old house, it’s going to outshine any English manor.”

Aria sat up straighter with the news. “He’s going to restore the manor? Great to hear. What else do you know about him?”

I finished a bite of food as I thought about it. “He’s pretty much a puzzle. I think he owned some kind of business, and now he’s dumped his past life to start a new one at Grimstone Manor. He has a brother, a lawyer on the East Coast, and he likes homemade cookies. I don’t have much more than that. Not that I haven’t blurted out some nosy questions. I still don’t know the story behind the burn scars on his arm, but whatever happened, I get the sense that it turned his whole world upside down. I’m heading up there after I eat.”

“Have you found a lot of information for your article?”

“I’ve learned a lot about Margaret Grimstone. I’ll have to tell you all about it when I have time.”

Aria got up from the table. “I’d better get back to work. Terry called in sick today.”

“Tell Dex the biscuits and gravy are superb, as usual.”

Chapter Sixteen

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