“He can peel carrots,” Quinn objected.

“Fox can peel carrots,” Cal volunteered. “He can handle vegetables because that’s about all they ate at his house.”

“Which is why you should practice,” Fox shot back. “I want to talk to Layla. Where is she?”

“Upstairs. She… hmm,” Quinn finished when Fox simply turned and walked out. “This ought to be interesting. Sorry I’m missing it.”

He headed straight up. Fox knew the layout of the second floor, as he’d been drafted into carting up bits and pieces of furniture when the women were settling in. He turned straight into her bedroom, through the open door, where she was wearing nothing but a bra and a pair of low-cut briefs.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Out. Get out. Jesus.” She grabbed a shirt from the bed, whipped it in front of her.

“It won’t take that long.”

“I don’t care how long it takes, I’m not dressed.”

“For Christ’s sake, I’ve seen women in their underwear before.” But since she merely lifted her arm, pointed at the door, he compromised by turning around. “If you’ve got modesty issues, you should close your door.”

“This is a houseful of women, and I… never mind.”

He heard the rustling of clothes, slamming of drawers. “How’s the headache?”

“It’s fine-gone, I mean. I’m fine, so if that’s all-”

“You might as well dismount.”

“Excuse me?”

“From your high horse. And you can toss out the idea of me apologizing for reading you before. You were pumping off fear, and it rammed right into me. What happened after was instinctive, and doesn’t make me a psychic Peeping Tom.”

“You can curb your instincts, and do it all the time. You told me.”

“It’s a little tougher when it’s someone I care about in crisis. So deal. Meanwhile you might want to start thinking about another job.”

“You’re firing me?”

He figured she’d had enough time to pull something on, so he turned around. He still had a crystal-clear picture of her wearing only bra and panties in his head, but had to admit she made an equally impressive picture wearing jeans, a sweater, and outrage.

“I’m suggesting you think about finding a job where you work around people, so you’re not left alone. I’m in and out of the office, and once Mrs. H-”

“You’re suggesting I need a babysitter?”

“No, and right now I’m saying you have a big overreact button, and your finger’s stuck on it. I’m suggesting you shouldn’t feel obligated to come back to the office, that if it makes you uneasy, I get it, and I’ll make other arrangements.”

“I’m living and working in a town where a demon comes to play every seven years. I have a lot more to be uneasy about than doing your damn filing.”

“There are other jobs where you wouldn’t be doing anyone’s damn filing alone in an office on a regular basis. Alone in an office where you were singled out and attacked.”

“In an office where I fought back and did some damage.”

“I’m not discounting that, Layla.”

“Sounds like it to me.”

“I don’t want to feel responsible for something happening to you. Don’t say it.” He held up a hand. “My office, my schedule, my feelings.”

She angled her head, the gesture both acknowledgment and challenge. “Then you’ll have to fire me or, to toss back your own advice, deal.”

“Then I will-deal. We’re going to try to come up with some sort of alarm or signal that can reach everyone at the same time. No more phone trees.”

“What, like the Bat Signal?”

He had to smile. “That’d be cool. We’ll talk about it.”

When they walked out together, he asked, “Are we smooth now?”

“Smooth enough.”

Despite Cybil’s edict, the rest gathered in the kitchen. Whatever was on the menu already scented the air. Cal’s dog, Lump, sprawled under the little cafe table, snoring.

“There’s a perfectly good living room in the house,” Cybil pointed out. “Well-suited for men and dogs, considering its current decor.”

“Cyb still objects to the flea-market-special ambiance.” Quinn grinned and crunched into a stalk of celery. “Feeling better, Layla?”

“Much. I’m just going to grab a glass of wine then go up and chart this latest business. By the way, why were you calling me? You said you’d tried to call me on the office phone and my cell.”

“Oh God, with all the excitement, we forgot.” Quinn looked over at Cybil. “Our top researcher’s come up with another lead to where Ann Hawkins might have lived after the night at the Pagan Stone.”

“A family by the name of Ellsworth, a few miles outside of the settlement here in sixteen fifty-two. They arrived shortly after Hawkins, about three months after from what I’ve dug up.”

“Is there a connection?” Cal asked.

“They both came over from England. Fletcher Ellsworth. Ann named one of her sons Fletcher. And Ellsworth’s wife, Honor, was third cousin to Hawkins’s wife.”

“I define that as connection,” Quinn stated.

“Have you pinpointed the location?”

“Working on it,” Cybil told Cal. “I got as much as I got because one of Ellsworth’s descendents was at Valley Forge with George, and one of his descendents wrote a book about the family. I got in touch-chatty guy.”

“They always talk to Cyb.” Quinn took another bite of celery.

“Yes, they do. He was able to verify that the Ellsworths we’re interested in had a farm west of town, in a place that was called Hollow Creek.”

“So we just have to-” Quinn broke off, catching Cal’s expression. “What?” Because he was staring at Fox, she turned, repeated. “What?”

“Some of the locals still call it that,” Fox explained. “Or did, when my parents bought the land thirty-three years ago. That’s my family’s farm.”

Six

IT WAS FULL DARK BY THE TIME FOX PULLED UP behind his father’s truck. The lateness of the hour had been one of the reasons his parents weren’t going to be invaded by six people on a kind of scavenger hunt.

They’d have handled it, he knew. The house had always been open to anyone, anytime. Relatives, old friends, new friends, the occasional stranger could count on a bed, a meal, a refuge at the Barry-O’Dells. Payment for the hospitality might be feeding chickens, milking goats, weeding a garden, splitting wood.

Throughout his childhood the house had been noisy, busy, and often still was. It was a house where those who lived in it were encouraged to pursue and explore their own paths, where the rules were flexible and individualized, and where everyone had been expected to contribute to the whole.

It was still home, he thought, the rambling house of stone and wood with its wide front porch, its interesting juts and painted shutters (currently a sassy red). He supposed even if he ever got the chance to make his own, to build his own family, this farm, this house, this place would always be home.

There was music when he stepped into the big living room with its eccentric mix of art, its bold use of color and texture. Every piece of furniture was handcrafted, most by his father. Lamps, paintings, vases, bowls, throws, pillows, candles, all original work-family or friends.

Had he appreciated that as a child? he wondered. Probably not. It was just home.

A pair of dogs rushed from the rear of the house to greet him with welcoming barks and swinging tails. There’d always been dogs here. These, Mick and Dylan, were mutts-as they always were-rescued from the pound. Fox crouched to give them both a rub when his father followed them out.

“Hey.” Brian’s grin flashed, that instant sign of pleasure. “How’s it going? You eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Come on back. We’re still at it, and there’s a rumor about apple cobbler.” Brian swung an arm over Fox’s shoulders as they walked back to the kitchen.

“I was going to drop by today while I was working in town,” Brian continued, “but I got hung up. Look what I found,” he said to Jo. “He must’ve heard about the cobbler.”