Sliding his key ring from his pocket, he hurried down the flight of stairs and strode across the patchy dry lawn to a spot of concrete by the garage where his pickup leaked a little oil. He’d lived here for a couple of weeks and planned to stay until he could make the old ranch house livable. It would take a little doing, even by his spartan standards.

A crow cawed angrily from an eave of the main house, a massive Victorian complete with gables, shutters and gingerbread trim. The turn-of-the-century home had been divided up some years back and now had several apartment units ensconced within its century-old walls.

He heard the sound of tires on gravel. A convertible, belching blue exhaust, the engine knocking out of synch, careened into the drive. The driver, a red-haired woman he’d caught glimpses of before, stepped on the brakes. She was out of the car before it stopped rolling.

“Hi!” She waved.

What was her name? Katie Something-or-other, he thought—a relative, maybe a sister, of Tiffany Santini, the widow who was his landlady.

Katie strode toward him with an air of confidence he found refreshing. A mite of a thing with fiery red hair, a sprinkling of freckles over a pert little nose and a pixie-ish jaw, she didn’t dally. Sunglasses covered her eyes. “You’re Luke Gates, aren’t you? I’ve seen you around here and I always wanted to introduce myself.” She flashed him a smile that wouldn’t quit, the kind of thousand-watt grin that beautiful women used to get what they wanted. Her hand was already outstretched as she marched up to him. “I’m Katie Kinkaid, Tiffany’s sister—well, half-sister really.” Her teeth were a set of pearls that were straight enough except for a small, sexy overlap in the front two and her face was flushed, as if she’d been running. He could do nothing but accept the small hand that was jabbed his way.

“Glad to meet you,” he drawled, though he wasn’t really sure. Katie struck him as the kind of woman who could steamroll right over a man even though she was only a couple of inches over five feet.

“Me, too.” She shook his hand crisply, then let it drop. “Don’t suppose you’ve seen my son around here, have ya? He’s ten going on sixteen, got reddish-brown hair and is about yea tall.” She gestured with the flat of one hand to the height of her opposite shoulder. “He’s usually moving about a billion miles a minute and he’s been spending a lot of time hanging out here with Stephen in the last day or two.”

Luke knew the kid she meant. A gangly kid always on the go. “I think I’ve seen him,” Luke allowed with a flick of his gaze toward the back porch. “But not today.”