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pictures along the way, Allison wandered to the adjoining room. At the archway that separated dining and living areas, she slid open the bifold doors that divided the two. And caught her breath.
    The big room lined with varnished pine and floored with gleaming birch glowed golden in the soft light of the flames dancing in the wide fieldstone hearth that dominated the room. A long, chocolate-colored couch and an oak coffee table filled the area in front of the fireplace. On the opposite wall, a well-filled bookcase stretched from floor to ceiling. To its left, a closed door led to what Allison remembered was her grandfather’s office. Scattered around the spacious room in friendly conversational groupings were matching easy chairs, each with an end table holding its own oil lamp as the center piece. A pair of hurricane lamps decorated the mantel.
    Allison remembered her grandfather had not permitted the installation of electric lights in this room. He’d wanted his guests to experience the romance of a pioneer ambience in a homely atmosphere.
    Homely. Like home. The thought rose up to describe her overall impression. But that was ridiculous. Home for Allison Armstrong was an ultramodern glass-and-chrome condo situated on the seventeenth floor of a security building in the heart of Toronto. Home was an hour’s drive from her parents’ spacious multilevel in the suburbs and another half hour’s drive from the stable where she boarded her horse. Allison’s Pride was an elegant Kentucky-bred chestnut hunter with a family tree that would impress the most discriminating of equine enthusiasts.
    It wasn’t this log hostelry in the backwoods.
    Pulling herself out of her thoughts, she crossed the room and curled up on the couch to stare into the flames crackling on the hearth.
    “Coffee.” Heath walked into the room with a wooden tray holding a pot and mugs with pheasant motifs. He placed it on the table in front of the fire and poured dark, steaming liquid into the cups.
    “Cream, sugar?”
    “Black.”
    “I should have guessed.”
    “And just what is that supposed to mean?” She tried to remain cool as she lifted her cup from the tray.
    “Everything with you has to be black and white. Good or bad. Worthwhile or garbage. No gray areas for Ms. Armstrong, CFO.”
    It’s on. Oh, it’s definitely on, Mister He-Man Woodsman.
    “You think you know me so well, don’t you.” She plunked her cup down onto the coffee table and jumped to her feet. “You have no idea who I am, who I’ve become. But as soon as Gramps’ will is read, you’ll learn a whole lot more.”
    “Good. I like a surprise.”
    “When is the will to be read?” She swallowed her reflexive response and managed a semblance of civility. “Super soon, I hope.”
    “Tomorrow around noon.” He sat down in front of the fire, weathered fingers clasping his cup. “You’ll be able to catch the four o’clock flight.”
    “Good. Great, in fact. As soon as I get back to T-O I’ll contact National Realty and set up the sale of this place. You’d better start packing. I’ll want you out asap.”
    She turned to sweep out of the room, remembered her coffee, and hesitated. It was good, one of the best brews she’d ever tasted. And she hadn’t had a cup since breakfast. She swung back, scooped up the mug, then made a second attempt at a haughty exit.
    “Don’t let thoughts of what Jack might have left to me disturb your sleep. The only thing he promised me was his favorite old salmon rod.” His words, tinged with sarcastic humor followed her.

Chapter Three
    “Gramps left you a fishing rod?”
    “Yes.” He freshened his coffee. “Years ago, when I caught my first salmon on that rod and Jack showed me the right way to release it back into the river, he said he’d leave it to me in his will. He always kept his promises.”
    “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
    “You don’t.” He shrugged. “And neither do I…until tomorrow.”
    Keep your