At the bottom of the letter was a yellow sticky note her brother had added. On it was written: “Thought you might find this interesting. Brett swears it worked in our case. Judge for yourself.”
It was “the box,” the one Gaylynn had heard so much about but had never seen before, the one Greataunt Magda in Hungary had sent Michael. Three weeks later, he’d married Brett.
Gaylynn clearly remembered the first time she’d heard about the love-charmed box. It had been right before Christmas when her father had told the family legend of a beautiful young Gypsy girl who’d fallen in love with a nobleman who did not return her feelings. Gaylynn had promptly dubbed him the “no-account count.”
The story was that the girl had paid to have a love spell cast on her behalf, but the old Gypsy woman who was in charge of such things had messed up the spell so that every second generation of Janos children would find love “where they looked for it”—which was taken literally! In remorse at her error, the old Gypsy had insisted the girl keep the engraved box she’d brought along, the only thing of value she had. Legend had it that the slightly out-of-whack love spell worked to this very day.
Leaning forward, Gaylynn tried to get a better look at the supposedly magical box—only to have the rocking chair shift forward, thereby tilting the box so that the lid opened.
Knowing the family legend that you’d find love with the first person of the opposite sex you saw after opening the box, Gaylynn automatically looked up-to see an old man dressed as a bum shuffling along the edge of the woods that surrounded the cabin.
Startled, she stood. The man disappeared back into the woods and the box lid flipped shut again.
“Great,” she muttered. “When Michael looks up he sees beautiful Brett. When I look up I see a derelict moonshiner! Maybe this box is a curse instead of good magic.” Having said that, Gaylynn carefully returned the box and the letter to the cardboard container. As she closed the cardboard flaps, she couldn’t help wishing she could bundle up her own ragged emotions just as easily.
By that evening, Gaylynn had already named the family of stray cats. The mama was Cleo, short for Cleopatra. The cream-colored kitten turned out to be a cream-colored Siamese, complete with crossed eyes in a vivid blue color. She was dubbed Blue. The little calico kitten had the temporary nickname of Spook.
Gaylynn wandered down to the edge of the woods and fed them all the salami she had in the house, as well as a sampling of other fare—cheese crackers, skim milk, a can of tuna. Tomorrow she’d have to get some dried cat food from the little gas station/food store at the base of the mountain. And some more food for herself.
Looking up, she only now realized that night had fallen while she’d been engrossed with the feline family. Not long ago, she’d enjoyed darkness. Now the woods that had seemed so peaceful became ominous, with the stark shapes of the foliage and trees taking on the outline of someone ready to strike.
Gaylynn jumped to her feet, her sudden movement scaring away little cross-eyed Blue, the only one who’d let her get within a foot. Now the kitten bolted, bringing tears to Gaylynn’s eyes. Damn, she’d never been the weepy type before. She hadn’t even cried when she’d broken her arm in two places at fourteen.
Biting her bottom lip to keep her unruly emotions at bay, Gaylynn quickly made her way back toward the cabin. Halfway there, a floodlight flickered on, illuminating her way. She remembered Michael telling her he’d installed a light-activated light.
She’d no sooner gotten inside the cabin when the sound of gravel crunching in the stillness of the night made her freeze in her tracks. Someone was outside!
Gaylynn couldn’t help it. Fear washed over her.
The twin beams of a car’s headlights pierced the shadowy darkness of the living room. The cabin was far enough off the beaten track to ensure that no one would just be passing by. That was one of the reasons Gaylynn liked it so much. Perched on the top of a hillside, it was just her, the kitties and the other wildlife, none of it human—other than the brief glimpse of that old moonshiner.
She was not expecting company. Only her family knew she was here. Yet a car was definitely making its way up the long and narrow gravel driveway—a driveway that was private and so secluded no one could stumble upon it by accident.
Silently thanking her brother’s foresight in installing the large floodlight on the outside corner of the cabin, Gaylynn tiptoed to the front door and peeked out the curtained window. The driveway was brightly lit. There was a car all right. A dark-colored sedan. She didn’t recognize it.
The car door opened and she saw a man step out. The floodlight shone down on his head. He had dark hair. As he turned toward the cabin she saw his face clearly for the first time.
An instant later, her fear was replaced by anger. Yanking the door open, Gaylynn confronted the man climbing the wooden steps leading up to the front porch.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Now is that any way to greet an old friend?” Hunter Davis returned with a slow smile.
Gaylynn hadn’t seen Hunter Davis in ten years, but in many ways it was as if she’d only seen him yesterday. His dark hair was longer than she remembered and had a touch of silver at the temples. His deep-set eyes were exactly as she remembered, a vivid shade of green—the color of backlit spring leaves.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in, Red?” he drawled.
She’d hated the nickname as a kid, and she intensely disliked it now. Hunter had given her the nickname when, as an awestruck thirteen-year-old, Gaylynn had used henna on her hair to impress the “only man in the universe” for her. Hunter hadn’t known that he was that man. He’d been eighteen, five years older than her. In her idolizing eyes, he’d seemed like the perfect man.
Seeing Hunter now, she realized how wrong she’d been. Now he was a man. Not perfect perhaps, but definitely rather awesome. The years had honed him to a sharp edge, as was illustrated by the fine lines at the outer edge of his green eyes. His level brows intensified his elemental attractiveness. His face was too powerful to be handsome, yet it held a woman’s attention longer than any surface good looks would.
When, at age thirteen, Gaylynn’s plain brown hair had turned a vivid red as a result of her henna experiment, Hunter had started calling her Red. She’d tagged after him and her brother, anyway. She’d fallen in love—with capital letters and all the fervor of a teenager.
And when Hunter had gotten married at twenty-five, she’d shed a tear or two. It was the last time she’d cried. Until last month.
“What are you doing here, Hunter?” she asked.
Instead of answering, he eyed her with a frown. “What’s-wrong?” he said bluntly. “You look awful.”
Her cheeks burned. She knew her clothes were rumpled, and her jeans had dirt marks at the knees where she’d bent down to feed the stray cats. She’d planned on taking a shower after she’d eaten her late lunch, but had gotten distracted. Her hair hadn’t been brushed in hours and probably had a twig or two sticking out of it from her exploratory walk along the edge of the woods. “I wasn’t expecting company right now. Go away,” she muttered with self-conscious irritability, trying to move him toward the front door.” Come back later.”
She might as well have tried to move Mount McKinley. “I’m not going anyplace until you tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m on vacation, okay? This is the