They were definitely sisters; they both had rich, strawberry blonde hair, trim figures, flawless complexions, and similar facial features and mannerisms. Winter’s hair was woven into a single braid that reached clear to her waist, while Megan’s hair fell loosely down to her shoulders. Winter was about three or four inches taller than Megan, and maybe a tad more curved in all the right places. Both wore snug jeans, scuffed boots, and heavy fleeces over turtleneck jerseys.

The only difference between the women was their eyes. Megan’s eyes were a sharp, clear green, while Winter’s were an even more vivid crystalline blue, as deep and as reflective as the late September sky overhead. Both women appeared comfortable in the forest, though Matt wasn’t surprised, learning that Megan was a field biologist and having seen Winter’s paintings.

Winter MacKeage didn’t just paint animals, she painted…well, she painted their souls. She somehow managed to draw an observer deep into the world she created on nothing more than canvas, bringing the flat surface to life in an almost mystical way. Hell, even her carefully detailed trees and moss-covered boulders seemed to resonate with energy.

The moment he’d spotted the painting hanging in her gallery window of a mother deer and two fawns grazing in a springtime meadow, Matt had realized he not only had to meet the artist—which he had innately known was female—but that he had to find a way to enter her mystical world.

Winter MacKeage’s physical beauty was merely a bonus.

Matt thought back to their conversation at the resort. He’d almost blown it back at Gù Brath, when he’d let his anger at Megan’s predicament get the best of him. He’d come damn close to scaring Winter off, and that was definitely the last thing he wanted to do.

Matt lazily brushed the crumbs off his chest, listening to the low hum of Megan and Winter talking as he gazed out over Pine Lake. The sun hung low in the sky, and he guessed they had about two hours before it dropped behind the chain of mountains on the western shore of the lake, which was nearly thirty-five miles long and seventeen miles across at its widest point. It was a massive body of water, set close to the Canadian border to the northwest, completely surrounded by rugged mountains and wilderness broken only by occasional small towns.

His research had also revealed the lake was fast becoming a retirement community for corporate executives who were tired of urban congestion. Retirement wasn’t what had brought him here, though. No, it was the land itself that had drawn him: the mountains, clear waters teeming with fish, and the hum of energy that seemed to pulse through the air like nuclear fission.

That, and his unfinished business with his brother.

“How come you have a slight accent and Megan doesn’t?” Matt asked, brushing the last of the crumbs off his hands.

Both women looked up, Megan smiling and Winter frowning.

“I’ve spent most of the last nine years away from my family,” Megan answered before Winter could. “College wiped out what was left of my brogue.”

“College didn’t wipe out your brogue?” he asked Winter.

Her frown turned into a scowl, and Matt held in his smile. Winter MacKeage was a prickly little thing, always trying to stand her ground against him.

“I didn’t care for college,” she said, getting to her feet and gathering up the leftover food rather than look at him.

“You didn’t even attend art school?”

She finally looked up, her expression saying it was none of his business. But again it was Megan who answered for her, also standing up. “College isn’t for everyone,” she said. “Not if their path is leading them in another direction.”

Matt jumped down from the boulder and held up his hands in supplication. “I have nothing against uneducated women,” he said, watching with amusement as Winter bristled in outrage.

“I am well educated,” she snapped.

Again Matt held up his hands, finally freeing his laughter. “I’m teasing, Winter. There’s an intelligence in your paintings the rest of us can only hope to have. You see and feel and understand more about life than a whole university of scholars. I was just teasing,” he repeated.

The poor woman didn’t seem to know how to respond, all that bluster she’d worked up slowly deflating as she stared at him.

“We need to get down to Talking Tom’s,” Megan said, packing up what was left of the picnic.

“It’s going to get chilly as soon as that sun sets, and you need to get your jacket, Winter.”

“Talking Tom?” Matt repeated, going over and helping Megan by handing her the wrappers to put in her saddlebags.

“He lives in the cabin on the point,” Megan explained. “And Winter forgot her jacket there this morning.”

“In my cabin?”

Megan straightened, her chin lifting defensively. “Tom’s lived there for the last two and a half years, not bothering anyone. It’s an old run-down cabin, and it’s only accessible by boat or on foot. He’s not bothering anyone,” she repeated.

And again, Matt held up his hands. “I was just surprised to hear that anyone lives there. Why do you call him Talking Tom?”

“Everyone calls him that, because he talks to himself when he walks the woods,” Winter told Matt, apparently having gotten over his teasing, though her scowl was still in place. “He talks to himself so the bears hear him coming. There’s nothing nastier than walking up on a surprised bear. That’s why we have bells on our horses.”

“I wondered about those. They were driving me crazy.”

“Better crazy than mauled.”

“So this Talking Tom. Who is he?”

Winter shrugged. “He showed up here a little over two years ago,” she told him. “Do you remember seeing the wood carvings in my gallery? Tom did them.”

“And nobody knows anything about this man, who just walked into town and took up residence in someone else’s cabin?”

Winter waved at the forest around them. “There’s dozens of old abandoned cabins in these woods. Most of the land belongs to the paper and lumber mills, and as long as they’re not actively cutting an area, they don’t bother people who aren’t bothering them.”

“You won’t kick Tom out, will you?” Megan asked, looking at Matt with worried eyes. “He respects the land and the animals. He’s not hurting anything by staying there. And…and we don’t think he has any place else to go.”

Matt couldn’t help but smile at the pleading woman. “Is that why you don’t think the point would be a good place for me to build?” he asked, looking at Winter to include her. “Because you don’t want Talking Tom evicted?”

Both women shook their heads. “You’d have to clear all the trees to put a home on that narrow point,” Winter said. “And that would expose your house to the strong winds that blow in off the lake.”

“And building up here wouldn’t?” he asked, waving at the open expanse in front of them. “This is just as exposed.”

“The point is too narrow for the legal setback from the lake required for new construction,”

Megan said. “You can’t build there even if you wanted to.”

Matt took the saddlebag from Megan, carried it over to her sleeping horse, and tied it on the back of her saddle.

“Well?” Winter asked, untying her own horse’s reins. “Are you going to evict Tom?”

“I haven’t even met the man,” he said, untying his own horse and mounting up. He looked down at the two women glaring up at him and smiled. “But I’ll take your resounding endorsements of his character into consideration.”

“If you kick him out, I’m not taking your commission.”

Matt nodded. “I will also factor that in.”

Winter looked mad enough to spit. Matt turned his horse away before she could see his amusement and headed in the general direction of the point of land Talking Tom was calling home. But he stopped and looked back when he realized he was riding alone. Both women had lead their horses over to what was left of an old stump, and Winter held her sister’s horse while Megan tried to mount up.