“Come on in.” She stepped back from the door. “How have you been? Still the town’s best plumber?”
“One of the town’s only plumbers.” He puffed up his chest anyway.
“Do you want something to drink?” She held her breath, hoping he’d say no.
“Sure, a can of pop if you have it.”
“I do.” She moved past him to go into the kitchen. She ducked into the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda. “Do you want a glass?”
She cocked her head, waiting for an answer from the other room. “Wyatt?”
“Yeah?”
She jumped, the wet can slipping from her hand and bouncing on the linoleum floor. Wyatt moved silently for a big man.
“Sorry.” He pushed off of the doorjamb and crowded into the small kitchen space.
Before she could recover her breath, he crouched down and snagged the can. “Do you have another? I don’t want to spray the kitchen with pop.”
She tugged on the fridge door and swept another can from the shelf.
He exchanged cans with her. “You’re jumpy. Is it this house?”
Her gaze met his dark brown eyes, luminous in the pasty pallor of his face—a sure sign of a Timberline native.
Ducking back into the fridge, she shoved the dented can toward the back of the shelf.
“You just startled me, Wyatt. I’m not reliving any memories.” She waved her arm around the kitchen to deflect attention from her lie. “This is just a house, not a living, breathing entity.”
“I’m surprised you’d have that outlook, Kendall.” He snapped the tab on his can of soda and slurped the fizzy liquid from the rim. “I mean, since you’re a psychiatrist.”
“I’m a psychologist, not a psychiatrist.”
“Whatever. Don’t you dig into people’s memories? Pick their brains? Find out what makes them tick?”
“It doesn’t work that way, Wyatt. You get out of therapy what you put into it. My clients pick their own brains. I’m just there to facilitate.”
“Wish plumbing worked that way.” He slapped the thigh of his denims and took another gulp of his soda. “Seriously, if you ever want to talk about what happened twenty-five years ago, I’m your man.”
“I think we’ve talked it all out by now, don’t you?”
“But you and me—” he wagged his finger back and forth between them “—never really talked about it—not when we were kids right after it happened and not as adults.”
Folding her arms, she leaned against the kitchen counter. “Do you need to talk about it? Have you ever seen a therapist?”
He held up his hands, his callous palms facing her. “I’m not asking for a freebie or anything, Kendall.”
A warm flush invaded her cheeks, and she swiped a damp sponge across the countertop. “I didn’t think you were, but if you’re interested in seeing someone I can do a little research and find a good therapist in the area for you.”
“Nah, I’m good. I just thought...” He shrugged his shoulders. “You know, you and me, since we both went through the same thing. You lost your sister and I lost my brother to the same kidnapper. We just never really discussed our feelings with each other.”
Years ago she’d vomited up these feelings to her own therapist until she’d emptied her gut, and she had no intention of dredging them up again with Wyatt Carson...or with anyone.
“It happened. I was sad, and we all moved on.” She brushed her fingertips along the soft flannel of his shirtsleeve. “If you need—if you want more closure, my offer stands. I can vet some therapists in the area for you.”
He downed the rest of his drink and crushed the can in his hand. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what’s going on, Kendall.”
“I know.” She took a deep breath. “Two children have been kidnapped.”
“I moved on, too.” He toyed with the tab on his can until he twisted it off. “I had it all packed away—until this. I just figured that’s why you came back.”
“N-no. Aunt Cass left this house to me when she passed, and I’m here to settle her things and sell the property.”
“Aunt Cass passed away ten months ago.”
“You know, probate, legal stuff.” She flicked her fingers in the air. “All that had to get sorted out, and I had a few work obligations to handle first.”
“If you say so.” He held up the mangled can. “Trash?”
“Recycle bin in here.” She tapped the cupboard under the sink with her toe.
He tossed the can into the plastic bin and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, you might not be able to slip in and out of Timberline so easy.”
“What does that mean?”
“There’s a new sheriff in town—literally, or at least new to you. He’s actually been here about five years.” Wyatt tapped the side of his head. “He’s been picking my brain, and I’m pretty sure he’s gonna want to pick yours, too, once he knows you’re back.”
Her heart flip-flopped. “I’d heard that from someone else—that he wanted to talk to me.”
“Timberline’s still a small town, even with Evergreen Software going in. Coop must’ve heard you were back already.”
“Coop?”
“Sheriff Cooper Sloane. He moved here about five years ago.”
“Yeah, you said that. Isn’t the FBI involved?”
“As far as I heard they were. I think they set up operations just outside of Timberline. There are a couple of agents out here poking around, setting up taps on the families’ phones, waiting for ransom instructions.”
Kendall pressed her spine against the counter, trying to stop the shiver snaking up her back. There had been no ransom demands twenty-five years ago for the Timberline Trio—the three children who’d been kidnapped. Would there be any now?
“Anything?”
“Not yet and it’s already been almost three weeks.” Wyatt scratched his chin. “That’s one of the reasons Coop’s so interested in talking to all the players from the past. He sees some similarities in the cases, but the FBI agents aren’t all that interested in what happened twenty-five years ago.”
“Well, I’m not going to be much help.” She pushed off the counter. “But I do need to get back to work if I hope to get this place on the market.”
“Don’t worry. I’m outta here.” Wyatt exited the small kitchen and stood in the middle of the living room with his hands on his hips, surveying the room as if he could see the ghosts that still lingered. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”
“I appreciate that, Wyatt.” She took two steps into the room and gave the big man a hug, assuaging the pangs of guilt she had over her uncharitable thoughts about him. Had he sensed her reluctance to talk to him? She squeezed harder.
“Take care, Wyatt. Maybe we’ll catch up a little more over lunch while I’m here.”
“I’d like that.” He broke their clinch. “Now I’d better head over to the police station.”
As much practice as she’d had schooling her face into a bland facade for her clients, she must’ve revealed her uneasiness to Wyatt.
His dark eyebrows