Chapter 1

Steve McAllister backed out from his crouched position under the sink and set the wrench down. Hopefully, the patch on the pipe would hold. He was a science teacher at Middletown High, so people often called him when something didn’t work.

“Laura! I smell smoke. Are you burning something?”

He clomped over to the industrial oven. Cool to the touch. He peeked inside, just in case. It was empty.

The inn had fifteen guest bedrooms, eight of which had their own fireplaces. It was summer; there was no reason to use them. Steve sniffed the air and turned in a slow circle. The smell wasn’t coming from upstairs.

Out the window above the kitchen sink, he spotted the bed-and-breakfast manager, Laura Wittmore, working in the garden. It wasn’t like her to ignore the town code and burn something in the yard.

Steve yanked open the back door. “Laura! Are you burning something? Leaves, maybe?”

Laura rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips. Her baby girl played nearby in the grass.

“Burning leaves at the end of summer? We’ve got months to go before that. Don’t tell me you hit your head under there, Steve.”

Steve laughed. “No, I didn’t. Something’s burning.”

Laura frowned.

He stepped back inside, and his eyes landed on the basement door.

“Of course,” he muttered. Old mansions came complete with ancient, terrible wiring. The whole place could go up in smoke if he didn’t act fast.

Steve hurtled down the stairs. What he saw made him freeze.

A woman he’d never seen before was hunched over a metal tub in the middle of the floor. Her copper hair spilled across her face, hiding her expression. Scattered around her were dozens of sheets of paper.

He stepped closer. She didn’t look up. Steve picked up one of the pages. It was a handwritten Dear Jane letter.

Her shoulders trembled. She muttered, “Never again.”

Diana tossed a folded stack of papers into the small fire smoldering in the tub. Flames licked the rim as the papers curled and blackened. Then she reached for a mound of white fabric beside her. If she threw that wispy thing into the tub, the fire would surge—and stink up the place, too.

Steve crossed the room. Almost in a daze, Diana lifted her arms, ready to toss the white dress in.

He caught her wrists just in time. “Are you crazy? Don’t do that.” He tugged the dress from her hands.

Diana slammed her hands onto her hips. “Give that back.”

Steve tossed the dress out of her reach. She made a move for it, but he stepped in and grabbed her slender shoulders. Finally, she looked at him.

He recognized the dark, smeared mascara and puffy eyes immediately. She’d been crying. Not just crying—sobbing. But even through the mess, she was striking. Freckles across her cheeks, a delicate nose, pursed lips trembling on an exhale ... everything about her said ‘I’m hurting’.

Steve’s first instinct was to protect her—but he shook it off. He’d had the chance to protect someone once. More than once. And he had failed.

A thin breath rattled from her, and she shrank back. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing...”

She looked like a frightened animal, begging not to be cornered.

“Can you please hand me my wedding dress?”

“Your...?” His eyes darted to the white heap he’d tossed into the corner. A wedding dress? Was she going to burn that?