Lone Wolfe Read Free

she’d struggled herself;
in the long, lonely years since Jacob had left, Mollie had wondered if the
crumbling of the manor and the wild ruin of the garden had speeded her father’s
own descent into dementia. She’d often imagined the seductive what-ifs … what if Jacob had stayed, if
all the Wolfes had stayed, if the manor had remained loved and lived in, and
the gardens as well …?
                 Yet
now it was too late. Now her father was dead, the Wolfes all gone, the manor a
falling-down wreck. Now Jacob was back, and Mollie wasn’t sure she was glad to
see him.
                 Standing
there now, staring at him, at his coldly composed face, so handsome, so blank,
she felt the bitterness rush back, filling the empty spaces in her heart and
mind.
                 ‘You
know me?’ His words were careful, controlled and completely without emotion.
                 Mollie
let out a short, abrupt laugh. ‘Yes, I know you. And you know me, although you
obviously don’t remember. I know I was always easily forgotten.’ Even that
rankled. She’d watched the Wolfe siblings play together, seen them tramp off to
London to go to their fancy department store, and in some desperate corner of
her childish heart she’d been jealous. Their lives had been torn apart by
unhappiness and despair—who didn’t know that? Yet at least they’d always had
one another … until Jacob had left.
                 Jacob’s
eyes narrowed, and his gaze swept around the dismal
clutter of the cottage. Her bags still lay in a heap by the door, and Mollie
was conscious of all the things she hadn’t thrown out before she’d left,
because she hadn’t been ready to. Her father’s pipe and tobacco pouch on the
mantel, his coat hanging on the door. Even her father’s post was stacked on the
table, a jumble of flyers and bills and letters that no one would ever answer.
                 ‘You’re
the gardener’s girl.’
                 Indignation
rose up inside her; it tasted sour in her mouth. ‘His name was Henry Parker.’
                 Jacob
turned to face her again. His eyes were cold and grey and so very shrewd.
‘Was?’
                 ‘He
died seven months ago,’ Mollie replied stiffly.
                 ‘I’m
sorry.’ Mollie nodded jerkily in acceptance and Jacob’s glance flicked to the
suitcases by the door. ‘You just returned …?’
                 ‘I’ve
been in Italy.’ Mollie realised how it sounded; her father died and she swanned
off to Italy?
                 She
refused to explain herself. Jacob Wolfe could think what he liked. She would
not make excuses. He did not deserve explanations.
                 ‘I
see.’ And Mollie knew just how much he thought he saw. ‘And you returned to the
cottage because …?’ It wasn’t so much a question as an accusation.
                 ‘Because
this is my home,’ Mollie replied. ‘And has been since I was
born. You may have run out on Wolfe Manor, but that doesn’t mean the
rest of us did.’
                 Jacob
tensed, his body stilling, and Mollie felt the sense of latent anger like a
shiver through the room. Then he relaxed and arched one eyebrow, the expression
eloquently contemptuous. ‘Wolfe Manor is your home?’ he inquired with a
dangerous softness.
                 Fury
raced through Mollie’s veins and burst in her heart. ‘Yes, it is, and always
has been,’ she snapped. ‘Even if you never thought of it that
way. But don’t worry,’ she continued before Jacob could say something
scathing in reply, ‘I’m not staying long. I just came back to pack up my things
and then I’ll be on my way.’
                 Jacob
folded his arms. ‘Very well.’ His glance took in the
small, cluttered cottage. ‘That shouldn’t take too long.’
                 Mollie’s
mouth dropped open