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  The front wall was made almost entirely of windows, perfect for looking out and enjoying the spectacular view of Lake Haven during one of its most beautiful seasons, late spring, before the tourist horde descended.

  On impulse, Elliot walked out onto the wide front porch. The night was chilly but the mingled scents of pine and cedar and lake intoxicated him. He drew fresh mountain air deep into his lungs.

  This.

  If he needed to look for a reason why he had been compelled to come home during his suspension and the investigation into his actions, he only had to think about what this view would look like in the morning, with the sun creeping over the mountains.

  Lake Haven called to him like nowhere else on earth—not just the stunning blue waters or the mountains that jutted out of them in jagged peaks but the calm, rhythmic lapping of the water against the shore, the ever-changing sky, the cry of wood ducks pedaling in for a landing.

  He had spent his entire professional life digging into the worst aspects of the human condition, investigating cruelty and injustice and people with no moral conscience whatsoever. No matter what sort of muck he waded through, he had figured out early in his career at the FBI that he could keep that ugliness from touching the core of him with thoughts of Haven Point and the people he loved who called this place home.

  He didn’t visit as often as he would like. Between his job at the Denver field office and the six true crime books he had written, he didn’t have much free time.

  That all might be about to change. He might have more free time than he knew what to do with.

  His shoulder throbbed again and he adjusted the sling, gazing out at the stars that had begun to sparkle above the lake.

  After hitting rock bottom professionally, with his entire future at the FBI in doubt, where else would he come but home?

  He sighed and turned to go back inside. As he did, he spotted the lights still gleaming at the cottage next door, with its blue trim and the porch swing overlooking the water.

  She wasn’t there now.

  Megan Hamilton. Auburn hair, green eyes, a smile that always seemed soft and genuine to everyone else but him.

  He drew in a breath, aware of a sharp little twinge of hunger deep in his gut.

  When he booked the cottage, he hadn’t really thought things through. He should have remembered that Megan and the Inn at Haven Point were a package deal. She owned the inn along with these picturesque little guest cottages on Silver Beach.

  He had no idea she actually lived in one herself, though. If he had ever heard that little fact, he had forgotten it. Should he have remembered, he would have looked a little harder for a short-term rental property, rather than picking the most convenient lakeshore unit he had found.

  Usually, Elliot did his best to avoid her. He wasn’t sure why but Megan always left him…unsettled. It had been that way for ages, since long before he learned she and his younger brother had started dating.

  He could still remember his shock when he came home for some event or other and saw her and Wyatt together. As in, together, together. Holding hands, sneaking the occasional kiss, giving each other secret smiles. Elliot had felt as if Wyatt had peppered him with buckshot.

  He had tried to be happy for his younger brother, one of the most generous, helpful, loving people he’d ever known. Wyatt had been a genuinely good person and deserved to be happy with someone special.

  Elliott had felt small and selfish for wishing that someone hadn’t been Megan Hamilton.

  Watching their glowing happiness together had been tough. He had stayed away for the four or five months they had been dating, though he tried to convince himself it hadn’t been on purpose. Work had been demanding and he had been busy carving out his place in the Bureau. He had also started the research that would become his first book, looking into a long-forgotten Montana case from a century earlier where a man had wooed, then married, then killed three spinster schoolteachers from back East for their life insurance money before finally being apprehended by a savvy local sheriff and the sister of one of the dead women.

  The few times Elliot returned home during the time Megan had been dating his brother, he had been forced to endure family gatherings knowing she would be there, upsetting his equilibrium and stealing any peace he usually found here.

  He couldn’t let her do it to him this time.

  Her porch light switched off a moment later and Elliot finally breathed a sigh of relief.

  He would only be here three weeks. Twenty-one days. Despite the proximity of his cabin to hers, he likely wouldn’t even see her much, other than at Katrina’s reception.

  She would be busy with the inn, with her photography, with her wide circle of friends, while he should be focused on finishing his manuscript and allowing his shoulder to heal—not to mention figuring out whether he would still have a career at the end of that time.

  Don’t miss THE COTTAGES ON SILVER BEACH

  by RaeAnne Thayne,

  available July 2018

  wherever HQN books and ebooks are sold!

  Copyright © 2018 by RaeAnne Thayne.

  If you loved this story by New York Times bestselling author

  RAEANNE THAYNE

  be sure to check out

  MICHELLE MAJOR!

  and her Crimson, Colorado mini-series for stories about

  life, love, and family!

  SLEIGH BELLS IN CRIMSON

  ROMANCING THE WALLFLOWER

  CHRISTMAS ON CRIMSON MOUNTAIN

  ALWAYS THE BEST MAN

  A BABY AND A BETROTHAL

  A VERY CRIMSON CHRISTMAS

  Don’t miss her latest novel about going home and finding your happily-ever-after!

  COMING HOME TO CRIMSON

  available June 2018 wherever

  Harlequin® Special Edition books and ebooks are sold.

  ISBN-13: 9781488099830

  Back on Bittercreek Ranch

  First published as The Interpreter by Silhouette Intimate Moments in 2005

  This edition published in 2017

  Copyright © 2005 by RaeAnne Thayne.

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  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

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