Читать книгу A Montana Homecoming - Allison Leigh - Страница 10

Who was inside the old Runyan house?

The car—dark blue and dimmed by a thick layer of dust—was still parked in the cracked, uneven driveway when Shane drove past. It hadn’t been there when he’d gone to the station in the morning. But it had been there when he’d driven out to his brother’s place that afternoon. And it was still there this evening on his way home for the day.

He could have kept on driving. Instead he pulled in to the rutted driveway and parked behind the small blue sedan.

A light shone from the front picture window of the house. Old Roger Runyan had been dead five days now, but the house he’d lived in for as long as Shane could remember looked more welcoming in that moment than it had in years.

Question was, who was inside the house, turning on lamps as if they belonged there? Roger had no kin except Laurel, and she hadn’t been in Lucius for twelve years.

Twelve years. He sighed and climbed out of his SUV.

There were three steps leading up to the front door. Wooden and nearly rotting through. It would be a merciful day when Shane finally got the deed to this place and tore it down. Just the thought of it was almost enough to put a smile on his face.

He planted his boot on the top of the porch and climbed up, bypassing the steps altogether, and tilted back his hat a few inches to peer through the metal-framed screen door as he rapped his knuckles on it.

He already knew from dealing with Roger’s death that the furnishings inside the house hadn’t changed over the years. Considering the old man had rid himself of his wife, Violet, twelve years ago, Shane had been surprised Roger hadn’t done a thing to eradicate her little touches from his home. But they’d still been there. Fussy little glass lamps with beads hanging from the fading shades, bowls of dusty plastic grapes and apples, vases of unnaturally bright flowers that never needed a drop of water.

Just another thing Shane would never understand about the man.

He figured the person inside the house was the real estate agent. Only, he didn’t recognize the car, and Shane knew all the cars around his town.

All part of the job.

He knocked again. “Hello?”

“Coming.”

The voice was female.

Throaty.

Young.

He straightened and absorbed the shock of it.

He was pretty sure he recognized the voice, and it was definitely not anyone from down at Lucius Realty.

The woman neared the door, her form blurred by rusting metal mesh. The porch light flicked on. The door screeched as it began to swing open. “I’m sorry. I was in the back and didn’t hear…” The woman’s voice trailed off as Shane stepped away from the screen door enough for her to open it.

She looked up at him. Her eyes widened a little. The color in her cheeks rose, then fell.

Recognition, all right. “Hello, Laurel.”

Her lips—damn, but they looked as soft as ever—rounded into a little O. She wore a tidy white blouse tucked into a slender beige skirt. Little gold hoops hung in her ears, visible because her hair was pulled back from her face in a snug knot. She looked about as finished and polished as she’d looked ravaged and pained the last time he’d seen her.

Except for her eyes.

Her eyes looked positively shell-shocked.

And he felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

Then her lashes swept down for a moment, and when she looked up at him again, the shock was gone. Everything was gone. There was nothing but politeness, and for an awful moment Shane thought maybe the stories had it wrong and that Laurel Runyan had never climbed out of the pit of despair she’d been tossed into that long-ago summer when her family had disintegrated before her eyes.

“Hello, Shane. What are you doing here?” The greeting was considerably less welcoming than the light shining from the front window had been.

But at least she remembered him. That was good. He’d rather have her still hate him than be feeling the emotional numbness that had gripped her for months after that summer.

“Saw the light,” he said, looking past her into the house. But he couldn’t see hide nor hair of another person. Had she come alone to Lucius? Had she married? Did she have a little tribe of kids now? He wished he could blame the questions on simple curiosity. But nothing about Laurel had ever been simple. “Wanted to check it out.”

Her eyebrows drew together a little, and the corners of her lips lifted a little. “Check it out. For what? New church members?” Her hands lifted to her sides for a moment.

A moment long enough for him to see there was no ring. A faint tan line where one had been, though.

Recently.

“Sorry,” she went on, oblivious to his cataloging. “I gave up going to church years ago.”

He had, too. For a while.

“Thought maybe you were one of the agents from Lucius Realty,” he admitted.

“Well, as you can see, I’m not.” Her voice was still pleasant. But the edge of curiosity was still there, not quite hidden. “I…didn’t think you were still in Lucius,” she said. “I saw the sign outside your dad’s church. He’s still pastor there. And there was a name I didn’t recognize listed as the associate pastor. Um, Morrison or something.”

“Morrissey.”

She nodded and leaned slightly against the opened screen door. Her position was clear. She had no intention of inviting him in.

But she was still curious.

Hell. So was he. If he’d had any way of reaching her, any way of knowing where she was, he would have notified her himself about her dad.

“I’m sorry about your father.” He should have said that right off. No wonder he hadn’t ended up in the ministry. Unlike his father, Beau, Shane’s people skills were miserable. He took care of his townspeople’s safety. He left it to people like his father to take care of their sensibilities.

Her head tilted a little to one side, and a few strands of silky hair drifted from the knot to lie against her slender throat. Her hair was darker than he remembered. Almost the color of walnuts. Back then, it had been streaked with blond from the summer sun, a shifting mass of burnished gold that had felt like silk against his rough fingers.

“Condolences?” she asked. “I know what you thought of him. What everyone in this town thought of him.”

“He was still your father.” He wasn’t sorry about Roger. But he was sorry if the loss hurt Laurel. He was always sorry when something—or someone—hurt Laurel.

Her lips pursed a little and her lashes swept down, hiding her expressive brown eyes again. “Yes,” she murmured after a moment. “He was. Thank you.”

“If you need any help with the arrangements, just ask.”

She lifted her hand and tucked the stray strands of hair behind her ear. She pushed the screen door the rest of the way open. It was so worn, it merely settled open with a sigh and she stepped out onto the porch. Even with her high-heeled shoes—pretty for her ankles, but still a conservative tan color—she didn’t reach past his shoulder.

How could he have forgotten how small she was compared to him?

“I’m not sure my father would have wanted a religious service,” she admitted. “His lawyer, Mr. Newsome—I can hardly believe my dad had a lawyer—said he didn’t have a will when he notified me about his death. He didn’t say if Dad had specified any instructions at all. Only that he’d asked Mr. Newsome to contact me.” Her voice faltered a little. “I, um, I haven’t had a chance to go through any of Dad’s records here yet.” The prospect clearly held little appeal for her.

He couldn’t blame her. Even under the best of circumstances, such a task would be difficult. “The lawyer might not have known, but your father went to Sunday service every week. Talk to Beau. He’ll be able to help you figure it all out.”

“He went to church?”

“Regular as rain,” he assured. But he couldn’t fault her for her skepticism. Unlike Roger, who had never gone to church until after his wife died, Laurel had once been a regular presence at Lucius Community Church. Her grandmother had taken her every Sunday, and then when Lucille died, Laurel had continued going on her own.

Until the summer she turned eighteen.

Twelve years ago.

A lot had changed that summer for the Runyan family.

And for Shane.

“So,” Laurel finally said, as if she were anxious to move on from the notion of her father having discovered religion. “Your name wasn’t alongside your father’s on the sign at the church. So I guess your ministry took you elsewhere, after all.”

“I didn’t go into the ministry. Don’t know why I ever thought I could.”

Her eyes widened again at that, and for a long moment she stared at him. “You’d planned it all your life.”

“Planning doesn’t mean the same thing as having a calling.”

She finally unfolded her arms and propped one hand on the doorjamb near her shoulder, which let the lamplight behind her shine through the fine weave of her lightweight blouse. He could clearly see the outline of her bra beneath it.

“But you’re here. In Lucius. So what do you do?” she asked.

Look at you and still want. He wasn’t quick enough to cut off the realization. “I’m the sheriff,” he said.

She closed her hand over the screen door latch, that brief moment of softening, of near welcome in her demeanor drying up as surely as the grass in the yard behind him had.

“Sheriff. I see. No wonder you wanted to check things out at the Runyan place. But as you know, my father’s dead. There’s no one here anymore for the law to come after.”

Without another glance at him, she stepped back into the house and firmly pulled the screen door shut.

Then she turned away, closing the wooden door with a thud. He heard the lock sliding into place as she disappeared into the house where, twelve years ago, her father, Roger Runyan, had gotten away with killing his wife.

Laurel was shaking.

The moment the door slammed shut behind her, she reached out for the arm of the couch and shuffled around to sit before her legs simply quit functioning.

Shane Golightly.

She closed her eyes, her hand pressed against the base of her throat.

She’d known that returning to Lucius—to this house—would stir up memories. She could handle memories.

Most of them.

But why, oh why, hadn’t she prepared herself for this? Why had she let herself believe that he would’ve followed through, chapter and verse, with his long-ago plans?

Because the Shane she’d known had never deviated from his chosen course. Not ever.

Except for her. She’d definitely been off the path for Shane.

“Foolish Laurel,” she whispered aloud, and nearly jumped out of her skin at the imperious sound that drowned out her hoarse whisper.

A fist pounding on the front door.

“Laurel, open the damn door.”

Her heartbeat skipped right back into triple time. She stared at the door, half expecting it to open even though she’d flipped the flimsy lock.

“Laurel.” He’d moved to the grimy picture window next to the door and was looking in at her through the limp curtains. As if he had every expectation of her jumping right to her feet. “I’m not leaving,” he said, and he didn’t even have to raise his voice to be heard through the thin pane.

Voices had always been easily heard through the walls of the Runyan place. Particularly the raised voices.

She didn’t want to open the door. She didn’t want to see Shane. She didn’t want a lot of things, and for that reason alone, she forced her muscles into motion and rose from the couch. He moved away from the window and was standing in front of the screen again when she unlocked and pulled open the door. She leaned her shoulder against the edge of it and was glad he couldn’t see the death grip she had on the inside knob.

Weren’t sheriffs supposed to wear khaki-colored uniforms and badges in full view to warn all innocent bystanders of their position? Shane was wearing a charcoal-gray shirt, open at the throat, and blue jeans that fit entirely too well.

“I’m busy, Sheriff.”

“I could see that through the window.” His voice—droll though it was—was deeper. Everything about him seemed deeper. His gray eyes. His golden hair. His…intensity.

“Where are you staying?” he asked.

It was the last question she expected. Not that she’d expected any questions from him, since she had been naive enough to believe he’d be far, far from Lucius. That had been his plan that one summer. To finish seminary and take his ministry wherever he could help people the most.

“I’m staying here,” she told him.

His mouth tightened. Then, in a clearly conscious effort, his entire expression gentled. “Do you think that’s wise?” His voice was even more gentle. More careful.

Her spine stiffened. “You needn’t speak to me like I’m deranged, Sheriff.”

“I wasn’t.” Again in a gentle, careful tone.

She understood where it came from, and why, but she still hated it. Hated that it was coming from him, most of all. “Yes, you were. Are.” She also hated the fact that she was the one sounding defensive. She swallowed and scrambled for her wits. Her composure. She was a composed woman. Had always been a composed woman.

Except for the brief time when she was more than a girl but not yet a woman and had spent more hours than she could remember in a room where there were no sharp corners.

“This is…was…my father’s home. I’m staying here. Unless there’s some law against it?”

He didn’t look pleased. “By yourself?”

“Yes,” she managed calmly.

Something in his eyes made him look even less pleased. Anyone else and she might have blamed it on the dwindling light, or on the bare bulb that would have sufficed as a porch light if it had been a higher wattage.

“Here.” He abruptly pulled out his wallet and slid a card from it. “Call me if you need anything.” He extended the business card.

She plucked the card from his fingers, careful not to touch him. “I won’t need anything,” she assured him stiffly. “But, thank you.”

“I’ll come by and check on you in the morning.”

“I don’t need to be checked on.”

“You’re not—”

“Capable enough to stay alone in the house where I grew up?” She crossed her arms. “I’m not crazy, Sheriff.” Not anymore.

“Nobody said you were, Laurel.” His deep voice was smooth, so incredibly smooth, that they might just as well have been exchanging pleasantries on the steps of his daddy’s church. “But this place is—”

“What?”

“Falling apart,” he said simply.

Truthfully.

The defensive balloon that had puffed up deflated, leaving her feeling off-kilter. “I’ll be all right.”

“The furnace stopped working last year. Roger never had it fixed.”

“It’s the middle of June. I won’t need the furnace yet.”

He barely waited a beat. “Yet?”

She unfolded her arms. Folded them again. She’d been debating the idea of staying since before she’d driven back into the town limits. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go. Not since two weeks ago when she’d called off her own wedding at the very last minute. Finding out that Shane was still in Lucius didn’t change a thing where her plans, her nonplans, were concerned.

Did it?

“It won’t be cold for months. I’ll have plenty of time to fix the furnace,” she said more confidently than she felt.

She had time, yes. Money? That might be another matter. A matter she intended to keep to herself.

“You can’t be planning to stay.”

He actually sounded horrified, and it surprised her enough that she managed not to get defensive over the flat statement. “Why not?”

He jammed his hat on his head. “This house isn’t fit for anyone to live in it.”

“How do you know?” She highly doubted he’d spent Sunday afternoons visiting with her father.

“Because I make it my business to know what’s going on in my town.”

“Including the habitability of my father’s house.”

“Yes.”

“How sheriffy of you.”

“You’ve earned yourself a smart mouth somewhere along the way.”

She managed an even smile. But the truth was, she didn’t have a smart mouth. The only thing she’d done in her entire adult life that wasn’t agreeable and sensible was walking out on her wedding to a perfectly decent man. “Maybe I’ve picked a few things up from the third-graders I teach. You went from the Lord to the law,” she observed. “Time brings all sorts of changes to a person.”

“Time doesn’t change everything,” he said flatly.

She didn’t know what on earth to make of that, not when they were both living evidence to the contrary. So she just stood there. And the silence between them lengthened.

Thickened.

She cast about in her mind fruitlessly for something—anything—to break the silence, only to gasp right out loud when a metallic chirp sounded.

Shane made a muffled sound and pulled a minute cell phone off his belt. “Sorry,” he murmured and flipped it open. “Golightly.” His voice was brusque.

She, for one, was perfectly happy for the intrusion as she drew in a long, careful breath. His call, though, was brief, and when he snapped the phone shut, he was very much in lawman mode.

“I’ll check on you later.” He settled his hat and turned on his heel, clearly expecting no arguments from her this time as he stepped off the porch past the rotting steps.

She didn’t have the nerve to argue, anyway. Not when he looked so grimly official. Instead she stood there in the doorway, hugging her arms to her waist, and watched while his long legs strode across the tired yard toward the tan SUV parked behind the little car she’d rented at the airport in Billings.

He wasted little time backing out and driving up the road toward town, but she still had plenty of time to study the word that was emblazoned in dark-green printing on the side of his SUV: Sheriff.

Shane was the sheriff.

And it was a sheriff who’d arrested her father one hot summer night for something he hadn’t done. Something she’d never, ever believed he’d done.

The brake lights of Shane’s truck—the sheriff’s truck—disappeared and Laurel finally drew in a full, cleansing breath.

It didn’t quite stop the trembling inside her, but it helped.

She let her gaze drift up and down the road. One way, the way Shane had driven, lay the town proper. The other way, beyond a sharp curve that skirted the stand of tall, centuries-old trees, lay nothing but miles and miles of…nothing.

She’d come back to bury her father.

But once she’d done that, once she’d dealt with his belongings, with the house, there was nothing else for her here. As much “nothing” as what lay beyond the curving highway.

Unfortunately, Laurel knew as she finally turned and went back inside the house, there was nothing for her to return to in Colorado, either. No job. No home. No fiancé.

Maybe she was just as crazy as Shane probably thought.