“Caroline Robson.” Roane was cut off by the appearance of a familiar blond woman.

She stood over our table, staring down at Caro, wearing calf-length army pants and a khaki tank top. Her calves and arms were enviously toned, while her face was somewhat weather-beaten. It made it hard to determine what age she was.

But I recognized her.

She was the quad bike blonde.

I’d seen her a few times driving through the village on her quad bike, but I’d forgotten to ask Roane about her.

“Uh, it’s Mordue,” Caro corrected shyly.

“No, it’s not.” The blonde scoffed and shot Roane a commiserating look. “ ’Bout time you took back your legal name, girl. Hell can stuff it.”

Hell? I mouthed at Roane. Did she mean Helena?

At the twitch of Roane’s lips, I made a strangled noise to cover my amusement.

“You must be the American.” The blonde turned her eyes on me. They shone an indeterminate color in the sun. Green or blue. It was difficult to tell. “I hear you’re behind the market, along with this one.” She gestured to Caro.

“That’s right.” I stuck out my hand. “I’m Evie.”

The blonde took my hand and shook it vigorously. “Annie Foster.”

Foster?

I’d met a Foster already. Maggie Foster was an older woman who owned the art gallery/jewelry store. I’d been in and bought a bracelet for Greer. Maggie was sweet and affable and a good listener. She’d questioned me about my stay, and I’d spent an entire lunch break chatting her ear off. Not that she’d minded. In fact, I got the distinct sense she enjoyed company.

I really ought to stop in to see her more.

“Any relation to Maggie?”

Annie dropped my hand, her expression turning blank, before she looked at Caro. “Is it too late to set up a stall?”

Surprised by her abruptness and more than sensing I’d said something out of turn, I shot a look at Roane. He squeezed my knee under the table, giving me quiet reassurance, but I knew all of his expressions well enough to know I had definitely said something wrong.

“What are you selling?” Roane asked her.

“Lizzie’s paintings.”

Caro’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m not sure people shopping the market could afford those, Annie.”

“The wee ones.” Annie shrugged. “She won’t be charging near as much as she normally would.”

Roane frowned. “But they’ll be worth a fortune.”

“Aye, so?”

Lost, I blurted out, “Who’s Lizzie?”

“My wife.” Annie stared stonily at me.

Confused by her attitude, I asked, “Is she a famous painter?”

As if a switch had flipped inside of her, Annie grinned at me. “Aye. A bloody good one.”