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goddamned boss. I can goddamned ground her.”
    So much for stoic and taciturn. Wyatt judiciously kept quiet.
    “For how long?” Mary asked.
    “Thirty days.”
    “She’ll go crazy. She’ll drive all of us crazy.”
    “Three weeks, then.”
    Wyatt stood between two dripping icicles and watched Lyman march up to the Beechcraft. He moved at a fast, determined clip. He wasn’t a big man, a couple inches under six feet, and his granitelike features didn’t bode well for the woman in the cockpit, given that they were related.
    By the time he arrived, Penelope Chestnut had jumped onto the runway, beaming, no indication she’d given herself a scare.
    “Well, well,” Wyatt said under his breath.
    He assessed her from a distance. Gray flight suit that would have done NASA proud, dark blond hair in a fat braid that had long since gone wild, athletic body, height just an inch or two under her father’s—and attractive. Not cute or elegantly beautiful, but striking. Unless the package all fell apart a few yards closer, Penelope Chestnut was not what Wyatt had expected. On his way north, he’d developed two different images of what he’d find. Both were older than he was. Neither had her flying planes. In one, she was the stereotypical pinch-faced New Englander with no makeup, faded turtleneck and tweeds, sensible shoes. In the second, she was the dairy farmer and earth mother. Cows, kids, land, gardens, dogs, cats, maybe a few chickens.
    Obviously he’d been way off the mark.
    Lyman Chestnut started in on her, pointing a callused finger, and Penelope about-faced and walked off as if they’d done this all before. Her father hollered so half the state of New Hampshire could hear. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you were in control of the situation, you’re still grounded!”
    She stuck her tongue out at him. Without turning around. That bit of prudence was the only point Wyatt had seen so far in Lyman’s parenting favor.
    “I saw that, Penelope Chestnut,” Mary said from the office door. “You’re lucky you have a father who cares about you. You’ve scared the bejesus out of him more times than any daughter has a right to and still live.”
    Penelope took a breath. Up close, Wyatt saw that the last few minutes had taken their toll on her, after all. She was a bit paler and shakier, he expected, than she wanted anyone to see. He also saw that she had green eyes, greener even than her father’s. She said, “I’ve scared the bejesus out of myself a time or two.”
    “Ha. The day you’re scared, I want to be in the front row. Do I need to call the FAA?”
    “No, Aunt Mary. Good heavens. I didn’t crash. I just didn’t get an accurate fuel reading before I left Plattsburgh. I never should have told you.”
    Mary sighed loudly. “Your father’s right. What you need is a break, and a break’s what you’re going to get. I still have the paperwork from the last mishap, before Lyman softened. He won’t this time. I won’t let him.”
    “Damn it, Aunt Mary, this is collusion. I have rights—”
    “Not here you don’t, missy.”
    Mary withdrew into the office, and the door banged shut behind her. Wyatt thought he saw a glimmer of humor—and affection—in Penelope Chestnut’s eyes. Then they focused on Wyatt, and he could see the wariness come into them—but no hint of embarrassment over the scene he’d just witnessed.
    Before Wyatt could introduce himself, Lyman caught up with his daughter and, containing his obviously still-boiling anger, jumped in ahead of him. “Penelope, this gentleman wants to see you about the junk you found in the woods. Talk to him. Then come talk to me. Wyatt, this is my daughter, Penelope Chestnut. Penelope, Wyatt Sinclair. Brandon’s son.”
    He stood back as if expecting fireworks. Penelope tilted her head, slightly, studying Wyatt with a frankness that somehow didn’t surprise him. Boots, jeans, black shirt, black leather jacket, no hat, no gloves. She seemed to take in