Robinson Family Tree
One
Charlotte Simpson had never stalked a man before.
She freely admitted to the social media stalking of an ex-boyfriend or two. In high school she’d once sat outside her boyfriend’s home to see if Mindy Miller really was only dropping off brownies for his sick mother. (She wasn’t.)
But Charlotte had never stooped to peeping out a barn window, the rubber rings of the binoculars pressing into her eye sockets.
She turned the Focus knob. Gavin Robinson walked toward the leveled rectangle of land that would soon support her new stable. His jeans were faded and speckled with... She fine-tuned the focus. Paint? Drywall mud? Something construction-y? He squatted, inspecting one of the footers on the western edge of the space.
Rogue nickered from the pasture outside the window, wanting her attention. But she couldn’t pull her gaze from the man a hundred yards away. She adjusted the eyepieces for a better fit. Gavin had aged a little since she’d seen him last. But then, he hadn’t had an easy life.
He’d been way ahead of her in school—eight years maybe? That would make him . . . thirty-fiveish. Charlotte was closer in age to his sister, Avery. She’d been a senior when Charlotte was a freshman. Their brother, Cooper, had also already graduated by then.
They’d never run in the same circles, but everyone knew the Robinsons. They had a good name in the community. They stuck together like paint on a barn and were always willing to lend a hand.
Avery ran Riverbend Gap’s medical clinic, Cooper was the county sheriff, and Gavin owned the construction company she’d hired to build her stable. When she’d entered his office on Jell-O legs that warm April afternoon, she hoped to work with him personally. But his business partner and brother-in-law, Wes Garrett, was working the office that day, so he’d taken the project himself.
Thus, this was her first real glimpse of Gavin since the “Big News.”
He stood, seemingly satisfied with the subcontractor’s work, and did nothing more interesting than trek around the dirt rectangle. But since this was her first chance to observe him up close...
Observe.Yes, she liked that word much better.
As soon as she got up the nerve, she would go out there and chat with him about the project. Her heart palpitated in her chest like a foaling mare’s. She would tell him the footers of the foundation looked good (as if she knew). She would ask him what came next and what the schedule would be like, even though Wes had thoroughly covered that.
It was hard to tell in that big, open space with the mountainsrising behind him, but Gavin was tall—at least six feet. He was tanned from hours in the sun and built like a man of his trade. His black hair was shorter than she remembered, though the top was long enough that the warm May breeze toyed with it.
She squinted as she homed in on his face, wishing she could remember his eye color as, even with the binoculars, she was too far away to tell. They were set deep beneath the dark slashes of his brows. A clean-shaven jawline revealed sharp turns.
He would be considered handsome by anyone’s yardstick with his well-placed, rugged features and athletic physique. But she didn’t care about all that. After all, it wasn’t Gavin’s good looks that had her studying him like a scientist with a microscope. It was his genetics.
***
Welcome to Riverbend Gap! Best little town on the Appalachian Trail!
Gunner Dawson roared past the welcome sign on his Harley-Davidson, then leaned into a curve. He followed the two-lane road that led him across a bridge spanning the French Broad River and immediately into the town proper.
He slowed his Harley to a crawl. Old storefronts lined Main Street: a hardware store, a coffee shop, the Beauty Barn, the Iron Skillet, the Grab ’n’ Go Deli. The latter brought back a fond memory of fresh-toasted bread piled high with salami and melted cheese so thick it made his mouth water.
Locals meandered up and down sidewalks on the sunny Saturday afternoon, dined alfresco on sidewalk patios, and rested on shade-drenched benches. Hikers, obvious by their backpacksand sweat-stained T-shirts, entered Appalachian Outfitters, no doubt to grab supplies and restock their food packs.
In short, the town appeared exactly as it had last time he’d been here. A year ago he’d come off the trail seeking a home-cooked meal and a decent bed. Ideas he could get behind today after his four-hour trip turned into six due to extensive road construction on 75 and an accident on 40.
When he reached the other side of town, he accelerated, following the road that ran alongside the meandering river. He passed the campground and a few more businesses: a clinic, a mercantile, a flower shop, all housed in old homes. He continued, heading to the far side of town where the houses thinned and properties stretched out, low and hilly.
He was a day early for his interview, but he couldn’t resist another peek at the quaint horse ranch where he hoped to hire on. After being one of many trainers on a large operation, he was eager for the challenge of something new. Something smaller.
And this pretty little town, nestled in the Appalachian Mountains, fit the bill. The smell of pine and mowed grass teased his senses as his eyes feasted on the sweeping panorama of majestic blue-green mountains. Yep, he could settle here for a while.
Up ahead the modest wooden sign came into view:The Stables at Wildflower Falls. When he came to the gravel drive, he turned. Wouldn’t hurt to check in. Maybe he could even get the interview over with, and then he could start searching for a place to rent. He wouldn’t need much. A bed and a small kitchen. Plumbing would be a plus.
The driveway wound between fenced-in pastures toward a two-story farmhouse. A red barn sat behind the house, to theleft. A bay mare watched him pass by while her foal wandered off toward a copse of trees.
A moment later he pulled up behind a beige Tahoe and turned off his motorcycle. His back muscles protested as he dismounted the bike and removed his helmet. He stretched. He wasn’t twenty-five anymore. In fact, he’d passed that milestone almost a decade ago, though it hardly seemed possible.
A squirrel nattered in the sudden quiet. A breeze whispered through the treetops and cooled the back of his neck. He glanced down at his attire: gray tee, worn jeans, boots. A little grungy, but he’d be riding horses, not sitting behind a desk.
