The longer I drove, the more I had to begrudgingly admit the scenery was not horrible. If I was passing through, I probably would have even thought it was nice. After I took a right, following directions, I was impressed by the two-lane road lined with enormous pine trees on both sides. I was guessing it would be stunning in the winter.
Speeding down a small hill, I saw a wooden arch with the name Cahill on it and took a sharp left there to begin the long trek toward the house. The winding gravel driveway was seemingly endless, and I could only guess what a pain in the ass it was to navigate once it was covered in a foot of snow. It was as scenic as the rest of the journey and the closer I got to the house, I noticed there were other fences, some around large oak trees, which made no sense until I saw the horses.
I passed a barn that was bigger and nicer than a lot of homes I’d seen in my life, and then I saw the main house that resembled a log cabin—if those came in mansion size. It hit me then that I was looking at money. Big money. It also didn’t escape me that Cahill Lumber was probably what kept the town alive.
When I was finally parked in the paved circular driveway, I got out and stretched at the same time I saw a man coming down the front steps toward me.
Extending my hand, I was surprised when the man in the black suit, crisp white shirt, and tie, holding a thick leather binder, only scowled.
“Are you Mr. Calder?”
“I am,” I said, squinting, crossing my arms, annoyed that fast. I was still stiff from driving for two days, and this man was about as welcoming as a porcupine and seemed just as prickly. I needed food, a shower, a bed, and mostly, a warmer goddamn greeting. I was there because I’d been asked to be there, after all.
“You’re at the wrong address,” the man informed me, clipping his words.
This was news. “I’m sorry?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m Mr. Cahill’s personal assistant, Mr. Duvall, and our contract with your firm, Torus, is for you to oversee the household of the groom, not the bride.”
I was lost. “I’m here to facilitate the wedding of Ms. Andrea Cahill to—”
“No.” Duvall shook his head. “It’s Miss Cahill, Miss Lydia Cahill, who has never been married, and she’s engaged to Mr. Emery Dodd, who was married before to Andrea Darrow-Dodd, who passed away three years ago.”
Wait. “Who do the kids belong to?”
Duvall made a face like I smelled like dog crap or something. “There are two girls, Olivia, who is six, and April, who is eight. They are Mr. Dodd’s children, and he will retain sole custody of them even after the marriage. That is a prenuptial stipulation.”
None of that mattered to me. “So Mr. Dodd has the kids, and I’m supposed to be at his house, helping him out until the wedding.”
“Not helping out,” the older man said, like I was stupid and he had to use small words to communicate with me. “Keeping an eye on him and making certain the nuptials go forward without issue. The wedding is very important for the town, and Sheriff Thomas was happy to refer us to your firm, as we are in need of outside assistance to ensure a smooth transaction in both the marriage and the merger of Cahill Lumber and Darrow Holdings.”
I had no idea what was going on, and at the same time, I had a moment to wonder how well my boss’s friend knew the sheriff. Maybe old friend translated to someone he hadn’t seen or talked to in years. I would have to make a call the second I was back in the car.
“Okay, then,” I said, walking back around to the driver’s side door. “Could you tell me exactly where Mr. Dodd lives?”
“Oh,” Duvall said quickly, his brows furrowing. “Perhaps you would like to come inside and meet Miss Cahill and have some refreshments?”
It was like all of a sudden he remembered his manners. I would have sooner gargled glass than step one foot into the log cabin mansion. “No, I’m good, thanks. Could ya just point me in the right direction?”
“At the end of the drive, you take a right, go back toward town, and the Dodd home is ten miles in the opposite direction.”
“Great,” I quipped, and got into my SUV and left without another word.
Once I was halfway down the road, I got on the satellite phone and called the office.
“Torus,” Locryn answered, because of course he was the one on call since it was the weekend. I could have kicked myself, but I’d forgotten it was Saturday morning and called there on instinct. What an idiot.