Read Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) for Free Online Page A

what you came here to talk about.”
    The telephone rang.  Caller ID said it was the bank. Probably calling with questions about his loan application. He answered and covered the mouthpiece. “I’m sorry. This could take a while. Why don’t you grab a bite and come back later?”
    She stared blankly at him.
    “Say, around three?”
    ***
    Dismissed like a door-to-door salesman! Whitney hauled back and kicked a clod of dirt on the road next to her car and watched it explode in a dry puff of dust. She scanned the street.
    Okay, Sherlock. He’s not the only game in this so-called town. Who else can give you information about Gannon?
    In five minutes she was strolling down the main street in Estrade, viewing it with a more discerning eye. The air was redolent with the scent of burning wood, and the acrid taste caught in the back of her throat.
    The business area was only two blocks long, and the rest of the road zigzagged upward until it disappeared a short distance later around the side of the mountain. She was struck by the town’s eccentric architecture—an odd assortment of buildings that ranged from old tin-roofed mining-camp shacks to fairy-tale gingerbread houses. Several small homes had been converted into restaurants or stores.
    Good. She’d have lunch and then hit a shop or two to see what she could uncover from some of the locals.
    Tramping up the incline, Whitney assessed the town’s photographic potential. Above her, decrepit buildings clung to the rocky mountainside, and many bore signs that read Closed for the Season. Others looked abandoned, their windows crisscrossed with crude boards.
    Estrade reminded her of an old deserted movie set she’d once visited. Despite that, it was rather picturesque, a statement about another era, another kind of life.
    And Mabel’s Café, with its handwritten menu taped to the front door, looked as if it had come right out of The Last Picture Show .
    She stepped up and peered through the yellowed glass on the door. Several small square tables with blue-and-white checkered tablecloths were bunched together in the center of the narrow room. Four or five booths hugged the red used-brick walls on either side, and plants clustered in corners and dangled overhead from hooks in the copper-tiled ceiling.
    Deciding to go in, she reached for the knob and saw another pair of eyes peering at her from the opposite side of the door. She gasped and flinched sideways, nearly tumbling onto an iron bench.
    The door creaked open and a wizened old man stood in the opening. “Didn’t mean ta scare ya, ma’am.” He smiled, and his eyes disappeared into deep folds in his round leathery face. “Just wanted to tell ya to c’mon in.” He extended a gnarled hand to help her up the step and inside.
    The man was at least seventy, she figured, and from the looks of his grizzled face and dusty miner’s clothing, he hadn’t seen the inside of a shower for a long time.
    “Can’t get better food than Mabel’s,” he said, sending an affable gaze over her attire. “No matter where yer from.”
    So much for the jeans and blue denim shirt she’d worn to blend in.
    “Thank you. I didn’t know if the restaurant was open.” She glanced about for a rest room as he led her farther inside.
    “You know—” the man said, pausing to rub the silvery stubble on his chin “—no place is too busy now that the tourist season’s wound down.”
    She followed him to the back of the café where an opening into the kitchen revealed a robust woman about his same age, standing next to a beige enameled stove that looked like one her great grandmother might’ve used.
    “Mabel, whatcha got cookin’ for this young lady?”
    When the woman turned from the concoction simmering on the stove, Whitney warmed at seeing a familiar face. Mabel — who bore a strong resemblance to the southern woman with a TV cooking show — was the same woman who’d given her a room at the inn last night. Mabel wiped her hands on