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across from her welcome visitor. “It's as though some genie lifted them whole from some coastal village in New England and set them down here, in the woods of the frontier.”
    Mrs. Chilcote smiled, and Lydia had no doubt that the woman had been a significant beauty in her youth. “Quade's Harbor doesn't have the raw look of Seattle, does it?” she agreed. “My nephew—it's Brigham I refer to now—had a vision of how he wanted this place to be before he ever staked claim to his first stand of timber. Things tend to take shape the way Brigham imagines them.”
    â€œYes,” Lydia said.
    Mrs. Chilcote leaned forward in her chair, hands folded serenely, eyes dancing. “Am I wrong in guessing that you've already met Brigham and found him difficult?”
    It would have been impossible to lie to the woman, Lydia concluded, even if she'd been so inclined. “He's very officious and overbearing,” she allowed, looking away.
    The Quades' elderly aunt laughed, the sound soft and rich, like the patter of summer rain on the roof. “Brigham is strong-willed,” she agreed. Her look became more solemn. “But please don't judge him too harshly. His life has not been easy, despite a fortunate birth, and he's built the beginnings of an empire in these woods, with more hindrance from the fates than help, I'm afraid.”
    Lydia was puzzled by this last remark, but she didn't pursue it. The excitement and drama of recent events had finally begun to catch up with her, and she wanted nothing so much as a warm fire on the hearth, a pot of strong, sweet tea, and a long, blissful nap.
    â€œYou must be very weary,” Mrs. Chilcote said pleasantly, and Lydia added astuteness and perception to the qualities she'd already ascribed to the lady. “Would you care for some refreshment?”
    â€œTea would be wonderful,” Lydia answered. “Thank you.” Her hostess rose resolutely and left the room, and Lydia went to the marble fireplace, where small bits of dry bark and sticks of kindling rested on the grate. She found matches on the mantelpiece, in a porcelain box with violets painted on the lid, and lit the fire. When the blaze had caught properly and she'd adjusted the damper to her liking, she added several small, seasoned logs from the brass basket at her side.
    She was warming herself, hands outspread, when Mrs. Chilcote returned with a tray. This she set on a sturdy table of highly polished, ornately carved pine, and Lydia caught the wondrous scent of tea. There was also a dish of cinnamon pears, a small sandwich with the crust cut away, and a bowl of savory-looking stew.
    â€œI'll leave you to get settled,” Mrs. Chilcote said, her voice as warm as the crackling fire on the hearth. “Dinner is at seven, as uncivilized as that seems. Brigham declares he'll starve if he has to wait until eight, as would be proper.”
    Lydia measured the man in her mind; he seemed as tall and burly as a bear, though in truth he had the same lean grace and broad shoulders as his brother. She'd sensed a controlled energy about him, as though there were a furnace burning in his spirit, growing hotter and hotter, threatening to burst free in an explosion of molten activity.
    She nodded her thanks to Mrs. Chilcote, and when she was alone, settled down on the side of the bed to consume the food. When every crumb was gone, she fed the cheerful fire more wood and then stretched out to nap, covering herself with a rightly patterned quilt.
    When she opened her eyes again, hours later, the room was in shadows and she could hear rain whispering at the window glass. There was a dank chill in the air, and the fire had reduced itself to a few forlorn embers.
    Rubbing her arms in an effort to warm herself, Lydia sprang from the bed and went to the hearth to add kindling, then another log. In the glow of the resultant blaze, she found the kerosene lamp on her bedside table, turned up the wick,