He could be miles away by now. So could my two innocent little dogs. "I'll kill him," I repeated, startling a pair of hikers. "Someone opened my gate and let my dogs out," I explained.

The hikers hadn't seen my dogs, but a flock of birders had. This time, my accusation was more specific. "Mike Krawbach helped my dogs escape from my yard."

"Are your dogs wearing tags?" a woman asked.

"Yes, and my address is on their collars, so if you find them . . ."

"The poor dears." She wiped at her eyes. "If we see them, we'll bring them back." Elderberry Bay had its share of sympathetic citizens.

But what if the dogs lost their collars? Or some horrible person like Mike Krawbach took them home and didn't pamper them?

It was too dark to see. Telling myself that Sally and Tally could have returned home, and also telling myself not to think about the treacherous ice patches in the river, I jogged back. I'd left my gate open so the dogs could come in. I called them, but all I heard was my shop phone ringing. I ran up the hill and answered the extension in my apartment. Nobody. No messages, either.

Where were Sally-Forth and Tally-Ho? Staring out into the darkness toward the river, I kicked myself over and over.

I should have padlocked my gates. I didn't dare leave to buy locks right now, though. The dogs might return, find they couldn't come inside, and blithely run off.

Upstairs in my shop, the doorbell rang.

3.

I CHARGED UP THE STAIRS AT A BREAKNECK pace. Sally and Tally pressed their noses against the glass of my front door. Breathless with relief, I threw the door open. They galloped inside, towing a man behind them. Without a glance at the man, I knelt and buried my face in cool fur, first Sally's, then Tally's. The wriggly pups whimpered and kissed me until my cheeks were wet from more than their kisses.

I forgot the man until the door latched, closing him and the dogs inside my shop with me. "I take it these two scamps belong to you," he said.

I rose from my emotional greeting with my pups and blushed. Not because the man's warm brown eyes radiated kindness and concern, but because I'd neglected to thank him for bringing the inquisitive pooches home. He knelt to cuddle the dogs. Luckily, he didn't seem to mind being slobbered over.

A red pickup truck with white lettering on the door was parked underneath a streetlight outside. I stammered my thanks, adding, "I hope they didn't track too much mud into your truck."

"They were good. It was hard to see over the two of them, though. They sat on my lap." He stood. I'm tall, but he had to look down to see into my face. His teasing grin made me wonder if he was telling the truth. If he was, my dogs had good taste in men. He untangled a rope looped through both collars, then held out his right hand. "Clay Fraser."

I let his warm hand engulf mine. "Willow Vanderling."

"You're freezing." He frowned toward the back of the room. "Your woodstove's nearly out."

So it was. I turned on lights, strode to the stove, and tossed in a piece of firewood. The cider on the stove's soapstone top still radiated heat. "Want some cider?"

"Sounds good."

I poured us each a mug and passed him a plate of molasses cookies, my favorite recipe.

"Your shop looks great," he said, chowing down. "You've arranged everything the way I pictured it."

The way he pictured it? Understanding beginning to dawn, I dodged past bolts of cloth for a better look through my huge front windows at the words on his truck. Fraser Construction. "Did you have anything to do with the renovations here?" I asked.

"Haylee described what you wanted, and I carried it out."

I had to admire Haylee's nerve. The first time I ever heard about this building was after it had been renovated, when Haylee told me I had to fly up from New York to see this store that had just come on the market. I arrived the next day, and as Haylee must have planned, I'd known immediately that I'd needed to open the embroidery boutique I'd always dreamed of owning.

In Threadville.

I'd fallen in love with the empty store and with my dogs at first sight. I sternly told myself I wasn't about to fall in love with any man at first sight.

However, if I ever changed that rule, this might be the man I'd want to catch sight of. It was too late for first sight, I supposed, but I could fake it.

Standing near this obviously strong and capable man, I felt brave enough to tackle anything. "Would you be interested in renovating my cottage, the one beside the hiking trail?"

"Blueberry Cottage? Sure, if the inside's anything like the outside."

"Falling into disrepair?" I prompted.

"Architecturally important. It's a great example of carpenter gothic."

Important, Blueberry Cottage? How dare Mike Krawbach deny me that building permit!

Apparently, Clay knew about that, too. "I'll help wangle permits. Krawbach gave Pete DeGlazier, Uncle Allen's brother, a permit to build a gazebo upstream. That gazebo is on the flood plain. It's also closer to the river than Blueberry Cottage is."

That figured. Mike's real reason for rejecting my application had been to commandeer some of my land for outhouses.

"We'll go over Krawbach's head," Clay said.

"You can do that?" No wonder Haylee kept this man a secret.

"Mike was appointed zoning commissioner by the mayor, Irv Oslington. We'll tell Irv about Mike's favoritism."

I shoved the plate of cookies at Clay.

He polished off the cookies and let the dogs lick his hands. "How did these two escape?"

"Someone opened my gate." My voice became hard. "Mike Krawbach, probably. I wish the hardware store wasn't closed for the night. I need padlocks so he can't let my dogs out again."

"In the evenings, the hardware store is more like a men's club, but you can buy things. I'll come with you."

I wasn't used to leaning on anyone and would have to be very stern with myself about relying on Clay Fraser. "Okay," I said, planning to be stern with myself later, like maybe tomorrow. I locked the dogs into my apartment and zipped my parka. "Did you renovate the downstairs apartment, too?" I suspected I knew the answer.

Clay tilted his head like he was trying to figure something out. "Haylee relayed your instructions, and I followed them. Do you like it?" He opened the front door and held it for me.

"It's gorgeous, all that white and natural light." I was going to have to talk to Haylee about how she had "just happened" to find a shop and apartment I was sure to love.

The hardware store was so old that the sign above its door was made of wrought iron and said The Ironmonger . Inside, nothing besides merchandise seemed to have changed in a century. Even the lighting was dim, as if whoever had installed the bulbs had decided that anything brighter than the original gas lanterns might be too luxurious. The effect was cozy, giving the natural woodwork a charming patina. As in my shop, the floor was black walnut. The walls were lined with oak drawers, each with a handle above a small metal square framing a slip of paper with the drawer's contents handwritten on it.

Several of the men sitting around the potbellied stove had witnessed my lunchtime fight with Mike. Two much younger men, Irv Oslington, the mayor, and Herb Gunthrie, our hunky postman, had now joined them. Herb waved his good arm and threw me one of his heartstopping, devil-may-care grins.

Haylee's three mothers, who usually ate dinner together, taking turns in each other's apartments, scooted into the hardware store right behind us. They were very protective of Haylee and, as I'd seen this afternoon when they streamed into my shop in my defense, had decided to protect me, too. Having seen Haylee roll her eyes at their lack of subtlety, I grinned to myself. Who or what were they trying to guard me from now?

I told Sam I needed two padlocks.

"Betcha I can find you a pair that use the same key, so's you'll only need to carry one. They stamp secret codes on the packages. Here, I'll show you."

Apparently, he'd owned The Ironmonger for so long he didn't need much light to find his stock. He hauled packages of padlocks from a deep drawer underneath the counter and held one up where I could see it. "See this four digit number printed up here in this corner? All's we have to do is find two packages with matching numbers and eureka! The locks will have matching keys." He dumped packages of locks on a table near the old-timers and Irv and Herb. They immediately started shuffling through the packages and shouting numbers at each other.

Clay poked around in barrels of nuts and bolts.

Opal hugged me. "I guess we showed that Krawbach creature, didn't we?" I wasn't so sure. She looked me up and down. "Have you made an appointment with Dr. Wrinklesides yet?"

"Why?" I asked, startled. Had my anger at Mike turned my face permanently purple?

"He's got lots of experience. He's so good the coroner calls on him for assistance."

How reassuring. With any luck, I wouldn't need a doctor.

Edna sidled up to me. The top of her bright orange head came almost to my shoulder. "We were discussing you over cocktails," she whispered. "You're too thin. Like Haylee. You're both wasting away. You could have an eating disorder."

If I did, it was the same as Edna's and Opal's-being too fond of food.

Naomi, the bony one, edged between us. "Haylee and Willow both look great."

Clay had moved on to spools of twine, chain, and wire. He had his back to us but must have heard every word. His shoulders shook. I wanted to laugh, too. The urge came out as a huge smile, which undoubtedly would have encouraged the three women to continue with their nagging if they hadn't been distracted by the arrival of a tall, muscular, blue-eyed blond man.

"Ooh," Opal whispered. "Now Willow really will have to go see Dr. Wrinklesides."

"Why?" Edna asked.

Opal elbowed her. "She's about to break out in hives."

Edna looked bewildered, but Naomi giggled. Shielding her mouth with her hand, she stage-whispered, "It's that beekeeper, the one who's sweeter than his honey." The three women gathered around me and a carton of windshield scrapers.

Throwing an apologetic glance at my fierce chaperones, the beekeeper spoke to me over Edna's head. "I'm sorry about my cousin. He doesn't have any manners."

Edna's lips thinned. "You're that Mike Krawbach's cousin?"

"Smythe bought his hat and gloves at my store," Opal said. "They look great, Smythe."

The hat was a whimsical stocking cap, knit in yellow and black stripes, complete with a hand-knit stinger at the crown. "Smythe Castor," he introduced himself, removing his yellow and black striped gloves and looking deep into my eyes. "Haylee told me all about you." Trust Haylee to know all the handsomest men in the county.

"What're you doing here, Smythe?" Herb yelled. "I thought you were in Erie."

Smythe smiled. "I'm on my way there this very minute."

"And you said to hold your mail for three days?" Herb asked.

"That's right." Smythe's yellow parka perfectly matched the yellow stripes in his hat and gloves.

Herb's grin grew. "And what's the name of the conference where you're speaking?"

Smythe looked adorable when he blushed. "The Honey Makers' Conference."

Herb smacked his thigh with his good hand. "Looks like he's trying to make some honey right here and now."

The men around the stove guffawed.

Opal nudged me and murmured, "Mmmm."

His face scarlet, Smythe ran out of the hardware store.

Sam called out, "Okay, Willow, we found two matching packages."

I paid for my padlocks. Clay left with me, and so did Opal, Naomi, and Edna, presumably to finish their interrupted cocktails.

Clay opened his truck door. "I'll call you tomorrow so we can set up a time to go through Blueberry Cottage together."

"Okay," I managed, at my loquacious best.

After I was inside my shop, Mike Krawbach strode past, squinting toward In Stitches as if he were trying to see inside. I stayed very still. He climbed into his pickup and peeled away. Had he gone to The Ironmonger after we left, or had he been in my backyard, gloating over land he was planning to steal for outhouses?

I went outside, fastened my new padlocks to the gates, and made certain they were locked before I let the dogs join me. They did their usual mad dashes. If they were tracking a trespasser, it wasn't obvious where the trespasser had gone. On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past Mike to zigzag erratically all over my yard. I took the dogs inside.

Sally and Tally each had a bed embroidered with their names and, thanks to my computer and software, very realistic embroidered portraits of their faces, but tonight they cuddled together on Tally's bed, probably to dream of running unfettered along the river trail. I would dream of having Mike's zoning decision quashed so I could renovate Blueberry Cottage and rent it out. Or maybe of doing so well in my embroidery shop that I would never regret leaving a lucrative career in Manhattan. I would not, of course, consider dreaming about Elderberry Bay's heartthrobs, Clay Fraser, Smythe Castor, and Herb Gunthrie.

Dreaming about heartthrobs would have been better than the nightmare about the roaring menace bearing down on me. Barking madly, the dogs woke me up. An engine roared behind Blueberry Cottage. No one should be driving there, especially at four in the morning. The noisy engine stopped suddenly, as if someone had shut it off.

Still groggy, I pulled my embroidered duvet over my ears. The dogs added whining and pawing at the back door to their entreaties. I buried my head underneath the pillow and tried to go back to sleep. The dogs' barking became frantic.

Mike Krawbach could be out there wrecking Blueberry Cottage so he could replace it with outhouses. I eased out of bed and tiptoed to the windows.

Blueberry Cottage was a dark blur. It was fine.

Tally revved up his whimpering until he sounded more like a goose than a dog. Clumsy with adrenaline-interrupted sleep, I patted around in the dark for my jeans, sweater, boots, coat, scarf, hat, and mittens. Putting them on seemed to take forever, especially to my impatient dogs. I opened the door.

The night was like a wall of darkness. Cold needled my lungs and pasted my nostrils shut. Yipping, the dogs bounded down the hill toward the river. That gate had to be locked, had to. The dogs stopped short, barking at bushes. I could barely make out Tally's white plume of a tail and Sally's white fur cape. Had I bundled up at this hour so they could corner a rabbit and then be afraid to chase it into its lair?

A dark vehicle was parked on the trail. Nervously, I turned on my flashlight. I might have known. An ATV.

No one stirred, and the trailside gate was locked. I had an eerie feeling that someone was watching me from inside Blueberry Cottage. Was the odor of gasoline coming from the ATV, or had someone poured gas around Blueberry Cottage? I shined my light on the structure. The door of the lean-to where I kept my canoe, lawnmower, and garden tools swung open, creaking in breezes so slight I could barely feel them on my frozen face. Last I knew, that door had been padlocked.

Whimpering, Tally nudged my mittened hand. I looked down. He turned his head to stare at his sister. She nosed at something on the ground.

Mike Krawbach lay sprawled on his back.