“Lucky?” He snorted. “How the hell would they know I’m alive if not for you?”

“Because it didn’t begin here today,” I said softly. The Lab came over and sat in front of me, staring and panting.

“What’s your name?” I asked as I bent down to let him sniff my hand.

“It’s Buckminster,” Max said. “Bucky when he’s good.”

“Hello, Bucky,” I said, patting his back as I observed Max.

But Max wouldn’t make eye contact with me. Maybe he was starting to figure things out for himself. But then, obstinate to the end, he threw me another angry look. “Why are you here, Brooklyn?”

“Yeah, well, about that.” Now it was my turn to look uncomfortable. Glancing around for the first time, I pointed at the couch and chairs arranged in front of the fireplace. “Can we sit down for a minute?”

“Before you get into it,” Derek said, first meeting my gaze, then looking at Max, “do you have a back door?”

“Yeah,” he said, jabbing his thumb toward a doorway. “Through the kitchen.”

“Good. Gabriel and I will circle the area, and if the shooter’s still out there, we’ll trap him from behind.”

“I’ll go with you,” Max said, grabbing his rifle from the corner of the room where he’d left it.

Bucky immediately stood at attention.

“Somebody should stay here,” Derek said, casting a quick look at me.

“It’s my land,” Max said.

Derek studied him. “Are you willing to return fire if it comes down to it?”

“Stone’s in security,” Gabriel said, as if that explained Derek’s question.

“What do you do?” Max said, scowling at Gabriel.

Gabriel shrugged. “Little of this, little of that. Right now, I’m your best defense against whoever’s out there shooting at you.”

Max’s jaw clenched as he glanced at me. I could see the turmoil in his expression. He was a big man and used to living on his own. But he didn’t have the same kind of killer instinct Gabriel and Derek possessed, and I could tell he was beginning to realize that.

Reluctantly he nodded once, acquiescing to stay behind.

Derek moved into the kitchen with purpose, followed by Gabriel. I rushed after them. “Are you really going out there?” I whispered, feeling my throat dry up.

“Yes,” Derek said. “If there’s the slightest chance someone followed us here, I want to make sure they don’t follow us home.”

“But there haven’t been any more gunshots,” I said a little desperately. “Maybe he’s already gone.”

“That’s what we’ll need to determine,” Gabriel said, and pulled a powerful-looking handgun out from behind his back.

“Oh, my God, what’s that?” I asked stupidly. “That’s a gun. What are you doing with that?”

He grinned. “Relax, babe.”

I stared wildly at Derek. “He’s got a gun.”

“Yes, darling,” he said, and pulled his own weapon out of a holster under his arm.

I felt my eyes cross. “You—you’ve had that with you all this time?”

“Just since we got out of the car,” he said. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Don’t worry? Are you insane?”

He chuckled, leaned over, and kissed me. Then he looked at Max. “You’ll stay with her.”

“Of course. We’ll cook something.”

I laughed a little hysterically. They have to be kidding, I decided.

Max opened the back door and pointed out a few details. “The fig orchard should provide enough cover until you get to the barn. Don’t go inside unless you want to hear a deafening chorus of bleats from the goats.”

“No, thanks,” Derek muttered.

“It’s wide-open on this side—no cover except for the oak tree.” Max pointed the opposite way, then gazed up at the sky. “But it looks about to rain, so maybe he’s already gone.”

“We’ll soon find out,” Gabriel said, and zipped up his black leather jacket against the cold.

I watched them steal out of the house. Derek moved off toward the fig orchard while Gabriel hustled in the opposite direction, out into the open field.

Max shut the door. “Let’s you and me make some pasta sauce.”

“I thought you were kidding,” I said, gripping the kitchen counter nervously as I stared out the window over the sink. “I can’t cook while they’re out there.”

“You’re not cooking. I am,” he said. “You can talk to me. Tell me what the hell you’re all doing on my farm.”

“I thought it was Robson’s farm.” I sounded like a snotty little sister, which was probably how he’d always thought of me.

“Robson bought this place with my money,” he explained as he pulled a frying pan off the pot rack over the stove. “I signed power of attorney over to him a few weeks before I left and asked him to buy a few more houses, just in case.”

Just in case someone found you and you had to move quickly, I thought, but didn’t say it. I slid onto one of the stools that was placed next to a beautifully finished, waist-high, dark-stained farmhouse table in the center of the kitchen. “So you had this all worked out before you died? I mean, before you left?”

“Yeah.” He took a chef’s apron off a hook near the door and wrapped it around himself. “I drew up a will making Robson the executor. I had him give some money to a few people and he kept the rest in trust.”

“What in the world happened to make you think you had to go through this charade?”

“It’s a long story, and I need to cook while I talk.” He pulled mushrooms out of the refrigerator and onions out of a bag in the pantry closet, grabbed a head of garlic from a basket on the counter, then cut bits of herbs from several pots perched along the kitchen windowsill. I recognized thyme, oregano, parsley, and basil.

“I never knew you were such a cook.”

“I never was until I moved here,” he said as he briskly chopped the garlic cloves into tiny pieces. “No choice, really. It was learn to cook or starve.”

He scraped all the garlic bits up with the knife and placed them in a small bowl. Then he handed me another knife and a small wood chopping board. “Can you mince the herbs together?”

“Sure.”

He patted my shoulder. “And while you’re at it, tell me why you came here.”

“Oh yeah. Okay.”Although,I reminded myself, it’s Max who has the most explaining to do.

Walking back to the pantry, he pulled out two large jars of tomatoes and put them on the counter by the stove.

“Do you can those tomatoes yourself?”

“Yeah,” he said, picking up his knife again. “They taste better that way. Now talk.”

“Right.” I pushed the stool away and stood to work at the center table. Suddenly a great bundle of fur brushed against my ankles and I almost screamed.

“Meow.”

I looked down at the fat orange creature. “What’s this?”

“It’s a cat,” Max said. “That’s Clydesdale. Clyde, meet Brooklyn.”

“Hello, Clyde,” I said.

He blinked at me, wound his way in and out of my legs, then curled into a ball under the table.

I had to concentrate on chopping herbs and not my fingers as I told him the story. “A few days ago, I got a call from Ian McCullough at the Covington Library. He had a book for me to restore for their new children’s wing. I drove over there Friday morning to pick up the book and was surprised to see it was a copy of Beauty and the Beast.”

He stopped chopping and I noticed his grip on the knife was so tight, his hand was shaking. “Was it…” He shook his head and rolled his shoulders as if he were in a boxing ring, gearing up for a fight.

“Yes, it was the book I gave you and Emily.”

“So. She sold it.” He clamped his jaw shut, pressed his lips together. After a moment, he let out the breath he was holding and slowly continued his chopping.

Men. I rolled my eyes, then said, “No, Max, she didn’t sell the book.”

His chopping stopped again and he flashed a suspicious frown at me, but said nothing.

“It’s true,” I insisted. “Two weeks after you died, someone broke into Emily’s house and stole the book. It’s been missing for three years and it just resurfaced this week.” Kind of like you did, I thought, but didn’t say it out loud.