Читать книгу His Arch Enemy's Daughter - Crystal Green - Страница 11

Ashlyn couldn’t believe Sam had cared enough to hunt her down and drive her home.

But, she told herself, don’t read too much into it. He’s the sheriff. He protects people.

Her hand still tingled from when she’d touched his muscled arm—tingles powered by a little girl’s dreams. If Horatio Spencer saw her in this car with someone who could be considered the family enemy, she’d have hell to pay. Even Ashlyn’s mother wasn’t too fond of the Renos and their foster son, Nick Cassidy.

Ashlyn still recalled the day she’d come home from Meg and Nick’s wedding, having served as an impromptu maid-of-honor. They’d caught her hanging out with the old men from the general store, rocking on the porch, exchanging salty jokes and laughter. She’d been oddly touched when Meg had hopped from Nick’s beat-up truck, five-month-pregnant tummy and all, to ask her to stand up for their union. Ashlyn had taken great pride in picking wildflowers for the bridal bouquet, in standing next to Meg at the altar while they’d exchanged vows.

She’d mattered to someone. She’d played a positive part in Meg and Nick’s happiness.

But when her mother had caught wind of the gossip, she’d all but keeled over. Ashlyn didn’t even want to remember what her father had said.

Sam floored the gas pedal, and Ashlyn grabbed the door handle. The Bronco flew up the driveway.

While trees swished by, Ashlyn tried to calm herself, hoping that she’d been wrong about her father being home. Maybe he was still at work, practicing his usual late-night hours.

They pulled onto the circular path that looped in front of the white doors and columns of her home. No one stood outside. Ashlyn breathed a sigh of relief, but stopped short when her gaze traveled to the second story.

Framed by a window, her mother’s silhouette stood sentinel, hand raised to her mouth. Ashlyn could imagine a cough racking Edwina Spencer’s body and the pills she would take to make her ailments disappear. Until the next sickness came along. And the next.

Her mother’s shadow seemed all the more desolate due to the two nearly deserted mansion wings spanning either side of her. All the windows reflected darkness, silence.

After Ashlyn left Sam, she’d shuffle to her room in one of those wings, alone, listening to the wind whistling through the halls, wondering if she’d ever have the courage or confidence to leave the only place she felt comfortable being a Spencer.

Sam pulled up to the doorway, stopping the vehicle. He watched her mother’s shadow, too, perhaps wishing he had a family to come home to. Or maybe Ashlyn was being overly fanciful, interpreting his softened gaze as more than it was.

His mouth turned up in a slight smile as Ashlyn realized she was staring again.

He said, “Could you do me a favor next time and drive a car at night? Not even Kane’s Crossing is one-hundred percent safe.”

Yet, right now, she felt protected, oddly secure, with him. “Sheriff Sam, your big-city fears are showing.”

“Better safe than sorry.” He waited for her to leave, idling the engine.

It was hard for her to open the car door, step out onto the cold asphalt driveway. Staying with Sam would’ve felt much better.

She said, “I almost wish you could come in, enjoy a spot of tea, engage in some civilized conversation, you know.”

Sam actually laughed, sounding more like a creaking hinge in a dark room than anything. But it was a start.

“Maybe in Bizarro World.” He paused. “Not that Kane’s Crossing is so much different.”

Finally, a bit of levity from the man. Ashlyn knew he had it in him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try? I’ve got coffee, the aforementioned tea…” Me.

Yeah, right, she thought. As if tall, handsome, honorable Sam Reno would fall for her, the runt of a very distinguished litter.

Sam focused his attention on her mother’s window again, a grin lingering as he shook his head.

Ashlyn followed his gaze, noticing how the velvet curtains moved back and forth, caught in the wake of her mother’s disappearance.

Was her father home? How long would it be before he burst through the front door, engaging Sam in the inevitable confrontation between Spencer and Reno?

While she weighed the comfort of being with Sam against the desire to defend him from anguish, she felt a light touch brush over the hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin goose-bumped, making her feel dizzy, mystified.

She turned back to Sam, catching him staring straight ahead, one hand resting against his door, one fisting the steering wheel.

Had the contact been her imagination? If she didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed that he’d run his finger over her hair, just like a whisper of air over leaves.

No, this was crazy. Sam had too much self-control for games like that.

Maybe she was tired, her mind playing mean tricks on her.

She sighed. “Thanks for going easy on me tonight.”

“‘Easy’ doesn’t describe you, Ashlyn.” Again, that ghost of a grin slanted his lips.

Now she really needed to leave, before she curled up next to him, light as a wisp of smoke, to feel the security of his arms.

She opened the car door, grinning at him. “Good riddance” was probably pin-balling through his thoughts, and she couldn’t blame him in the least.

“Good night,” she said softly.

He lifted a hand, gesturing a laconic farewell.

Typical Sam Reno. She walked up the stone stairway, lined by spring’s newest azaleas, their pink blooms reflecting her attitude. He’d smiled, laughed. And the responses made her giddy, layering hope upon hope in her soul.

What if…?

As she turned around to catch a last glimpse, he lightly shut the door and drove away, the Bronco’s red taillamps streaking down her driveway, red as Cupid’s kisses.

As untouchable as Sam himself.

Sam couldn’t believe he’d touched her hair.

Damn him, he’d actually reached out as she’d turned away from him, wisping his finger through one of her short, sandy locks.

He gritted his jaw, guiding the Bronco down the driveway. What had come over him?

They’d been sitting in the car, a typical goodnight-to-you drop-off when she’d smiled at him with all the power of midday sunshine. Then she’d said something cute, something flippant enough to divert his attention from the upstairs-window shadow, lording it over the fancy Spencer mansion and its twinkling porch lights.

Another house that greed had built.

And, dammit, he’d seen enough greed in Washington, D.C., to last him five lifetimes.

Kids, walking home from school, when…

Sam shut his mind’s eye to the sight, punching away the memories.

Instead, he watched his headlights suffuse the pine trees, the willow by the massive Spencer gates.

He’d touched her hair, and it had felt just as soft as he’d imagined. Sam used to touch Mary’s hair, too. He’d done it to reassure her, done it when he’d wanted her to look at him. It had always been an absent gesture, borne of the need for comfort.

When he’d reached out to Ashlyn, he hadn’t even been thinking straight; he’d merely been reacting to the welcome happiness their banter had induced.

What? Happiness?

Sam turned on to the country road, lining up the Bronco in his lane to adjust to an oncoming car. A Mercedes.

He accelerated just as Horatio Spencer slowed down, turning into his driveway. Sam caught a slow-motion glimpse of the man’s miffed glance, the startled moment of recognition as Horatio saw the sheriff’s vehicle.

Sam steadied his pulse, pulling the Bronco away from the mansion. He’d have to come face-to-face with the man someday. Confront his family’s demons head-on.

But in the meantime, Sam would do well to avoid Ashlyn Spencer. He didn’t need another woman in his life, especially after what he’d done to lose his wife. He didn’t need the pain.

Sam drove into darkness, into the dead zone, once again feeling a dull stillness as it settled around his body.

And around his heart.

Ashlyn stepped inside the mansion, the Italian-marbled foyer seeming cold and lifeless.

She thought of going to the kitchen to grab a few leftovers for a late dinner, but decided she was too excited to be hungry. Instead, she wandered to the antique Baltimore secretary leaning against the wall, reaching inside to retrieve the mail that the downstairs maid had dropped off.

Catalogs, junk ads, wastes of good paper. Heck, why couldn’t she even pay proper attention to her mail?

The front door opened, and she felt him. Her father, watching her from behind.

His voice, rough as rocks crashing together in the black of a cave, said, “It wasn’t bad enough when you played bridesmaid to the Cassidys, was it? Now you’re sleeping with the enemy.”

“Hello, Father,” she said, making sure her tone was unaffected. She turned around, grinning her ain’t-I-sweet-as-sugar smile.

He seemed to fill the door frame with his wiry stance, encased by a business suit even this late at night. She’d gotten her height from him, and she shuddered to think what else she might’ve inherited.

His hair, black-and-white as marbled stone, all but stood on end. As he stepped inside, Ashlyn could’ve sworn she saw something like concern tumble through his dark eyes, but then—poof!—it disappeared.

“What circus act of yours brought the sheriff to our doorstep?” asked her father.

His verbal barb was unfair, and he should’ve known it. Ashlyn hadn’t gotten under the law’s skin since her brother Chad had come home last year. And even then, she hadn’t done anything serious—just a practical joke concerning Chad’s shoes and some horse pucky in a paper bag.

She reached up to fidget with her necklace.

Memories flashed through her head: gravel blinding her, dirt drying her mouth, her father’s voice announcing her second-place station in life. Right behind Chad.

She dropped her hands to her sides, tilting her head, grin turning to stone. “I was merely taking in some fresh air, Father. There’s not much to be had at home.”

“You missed dinner, Ashlyn.”

So she had. “I’ll grab something from the kitchen.”

Her father frowned. “Eugene Hampton was here. Did you or did you not remember you were to meet him tonight?”

Oh, brother. Another one of her father’s blind date proposals. Every month held another possibility of some Harvard School of Business graduate coming to dinner to meet Ashlyn, and, predictably, she always did her best to sabotage any hope on their part.

It struck her that maybe she was too good at ruining relationships.

“Sorry, Father. Maybe next time?”

“And there will be a next time,” he said, his voice following her into the foyer. His statement echoed, racing along the spiral stairway that led to a higher floor. “I’ve invited Eugene to the Spenco Toy Factory opening picnic next weekend, so mind that you’re there.”

Ashlyn crossed her arms, met his stare head-on. “Let’s be honest. These things never work out. I can’t believe that, after five years, you’re still trying to set me up with the man you believe is Mr. Right for the Money.”

“You saw what happened when that whelp Nick Cassidy came in and took a bite of our holdings. I’d like your future to be secure.” Her father shut the front door behind him, blocking out the night sounds.

The Cassidy name leveled an uncomfortable silence between them, as if it were a physical reminder of Chad framing Nick for her own brother’s crime. “Please don’t bother with my future, Dad.”

He stepped into her view, stern as the suit of armor decorating the entrance to his game room.

“Sorry. Father.”

“That’s it for now.”

He hesitated, and Ashlyn knew he was dying to say something more about Sam Reno or his family before dismissing her altogether. She willed him to speak, but his hard, dark eyes erased the need.

She wondered how her father would react if she said Sam’s name, allowing it to reverberate through the mansion’s sterile halls. His name was already bouncing off the walls of her heart, every thump reminding her of a teenage boy who’d unwittingly encouraged a little girl’s innocent crush. She still remembered how he’d smiled her way one lonely night—years and years ago—making her feel special. Wanted. Even for an anonymous moment.

Instead he said, “See your mother before you retire, Ashlyn. She’s worried.”

She’s worried. If Chad had been out until the ghosting hour, if he’d been escorted home by the law, her father would’ve been frantic.

At least Ashlyn merited concern from her mother.

She tried to not let her shoulders droop as she climbed the stairs, sliding her hand along the polished cherrywood. She felt her father watching her, but she wouldn’t peek down, wouldn’t let him know that she was aware of his stare.

She moved past the wallpaper, its design showcasing half circles floating among lines and gild, the incomplete rings seemingly reaching out to connect with one another.

Her heart smarted as she glimpsed her red second-place horse show ribbons hidden behind Chad’s treasure trove of State Championship football trophies and uniform jerseys as she passed the glass-encased trophy cabinet on the second-floor parlor.

Her mother’s door revealed a crack of light around the edges. She usually didn’t stay up so late.

Ashlyn knocked lightly and entered when urged to by a wispy, Southern-genteel voice.

The stench of medicines mixed with expensive perfume assailed her. “Hello, Mother.”

Edwina Spencer shifted beneath the silken covers of her king-size bed, knocking over a glass pill jar. It clanked against other containers. “Ashlyn?” she slurred.

“It’s me.” She strolled to the nightstand, grabbing the empty jars on the way. She placed them amid half-filled atomizers and more prescription tubes. “Feeling better tonight?”

Her mother heaved a sigh, pushing back a thinning patch of blond hair from her faded blue eyes. Her brother looked more like their mother with her china-doll fragility.

“Oh, no, Lynnie. I’m awful, simply awful.”

Ashlyn recalled the sight of her mother’s shadow by the window, but didn’t comment. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need me to get you anything?”

“Dear, that’s what the maid is for. She’ll fetch whatever I require.”

She waited for the older woman to ask where Ashlyn had been tonight, but she knew her mother wouldn’t say anything unless forced to. For as long as Ashlyn could remember, pills had helped Mrs. Spencer avoid life.

Instead, her mother played the guilt card. “I miss you when you’re not here, Lynnie.”

She’d heard these words time and again, especially when she’d been eighteen and ready to move out into the real world.

Ashlyn still recalled the new bedroom accessories she’d purchased with earnings from jewelry and sculptures she’d sold on the sly, the friends she’d made at college orientation day. But one well-thought guilt-trip from her mother had kept her home, out of the dorms, attending the local college instead.

“I’m so happy you care enough to stay with your poor mother. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Ashlyn tried not to cringe, tried not to think of what her life would be like if she had the courage to leave the mansion. Would she be able to get along with Sam Reno more easily if she distanced herself from her family?

“Maybe you should get some sleep, Mother.”

Two bony, vein-webbed hands shot out to clamp onto Ashlyn’s arms. “Don’t leave me.”

Ashlyn wondered what her mother had taken tonight. Valium?

She pulled back from the skeletal hands, played with her necklace. It seemed more like a collar and leash than jewelry right now. “I won’t leave you.”

The words felt like hands clutching her ankles, dragging her down into a dark hole that was cold and ragged enough to scrape off her fingernails as she grabbed for purchase.

“That’s my girl. I’m so thankful for my Lynnie.” And with that her thin-as-parchment eyelids fluttered shut, her frill-collared nightdress making Edwina Spencer seem even more breakable.

After a moment of collecting herself, Ashlyn left the room, embarking upon the lonely walk to her side of the mansion.

That night, in his box-littered kitchen, Sam stood in front of his open refrigerator, lit by its glaring bulb.

Damn the Spencers. Damn him for being unable to forget the past, the pain.

Part of him wanted to be back in D.C., away from the tangled mess of Kane’s Crossing and all the history of his family. But he couldn’t stand the thought of shuffling around the town house he’d once shared with his wife, reminding him of his shortcomings. That’s partly why he’d moved in the first place.

Now, in his new home, it wasn’t much better. He still hadn’t unpacked his belongings. The rooms yawned with empty walls and the absence of furniture. He’d gone poking around the basement a time or two, before he’d officially accepted the sheriff’s position, but Sam hadn’t wanted to disturb the graveyard-like atmosphere of someone else’s life, as represented by antique furniture and boxes filled with mementos.

The former owner had moved to a nursing home in Memphis, Tennessee, closer to his family. He’d left most of his belongings to the next occupant, obviously thinking they’d be of some use. Of course, if Sam could manage to adopt someone else’s life, that might not be a bad thing. Maybe it was even a good idea, based on the mess he’d almost made tonight with Ashlyn.

Hell, why did he even care about it? Even if Ashlyn had stirred more heat into his body than he’d felt in years, that didn’t mean squat. It was only lust—that hormone-driven Mack truck. Nothing to lose his head over.

Sam shifted, his jeans scratching the refrigerator door, as he peered at an army of beer bottles. Looked a lot like his days as a soldier, grouped together with his platoon of fighting machines, honing their discipline, dreaming of life beyond that short military stint.

After putting his days in the service behind him, Sam had gone back to college to earn a master’s degree in criminal justice. He’d then returned home to spend time with his parents before devoting himself to a career in law enforcement.

He’d been visiting Kane’s Crossing when his dad had been killed. Sam had done his best to take care of his mom in the aftermath, but it had been too little, too late.

After his mom’s death, he’d headed to D.C. to fulfill his dream of becoming a cop, of getting married and living in peace.

Thoughts of his dead wife twisted his throat until it burned. He didn’t want to think about her and their short-lived marriage. He couldn’t stand to think about the death of his own soul.

Dammit. He’d made his choices. And now he needed to live with the consequences.

He looked at the beer again, the shimmer of glass reminding him of Ashlyn Spencer’s lively gaze.

He needed to stop making bad choices.

Sam thrust shut the refrigerator door, the clink of the bottles mocking him with their glee.

On the other side of town, Ashlyn wandered from her art studio back to her bedroom. She had no patience for the paint-splattered canvas hideaway tonight. No tolerance for sitting still, running her fingers over shapeless metal, trying to conjure ideas that wouldn’t leave the darkness of her mind for fear of failing. Even so, her hands desperately needed something to do.

She bent down, peeking beneath her bed. There it was, a web-shrouded memory book.

After pulling it out, she flipped open the yellowed pages, smiling when she came across a blue jeans’ pocket from her first boyfriend, who’d torn it from his backside and given it to her on a whim. He’d moved from town the next month after the Spencers foreclosed on his family’s home.

Dried flowers, watercolor paintings, journal entries, magazine clippings… Here it was.

The red ribbon.

Ashlyn clutched it, remembering how it had comforted her beneath the Spencer High football bleachers on that October night so long ago.

At seven years old, she’d hidden in the darkness, peeking through the slats of the seats, feeling locked in the shadows of her traumatic cave memories. Beneath the bleachers, she had safely tucked herself away, becoming invisible.

As she’d drawn pictures in the dirt with a discarded straw, she spied a tall, wiry silhouette—broad through the shoulders and lean in the hips—blocking the light of the locker room. The boy ambled nearer, to a cheerleader whom Ashlyn hadn’t noticed leaning against a nearby water fountain.

Jo Ann Walters. Ashlyn had caught her breath, hoping that she’d grow up to look just like the head cheerleader, a girl even her stuck-up brother went silly over. She reminded Ashlyn of a princess in one of her Disney storybooks, all pink and slender, with a smile that glimmered with fairy dust.

Enthralled, Ashlyn had set down the straw, sniffed her runny nose and found a comfortable place to spy on her role model.

Even now, with the passage of years, Ashlyn could still see the light from the locker room as Jo Ann had fallen into the boy’s arms.

They’d kissed hello and, afterward, the boy thrust a bunch of what looked like flowers at Jo Ann, who accepted them with a giggle.

It was the most romantic thing Ashlyn had ever seen. Her father never brought her mother anything, not even chocolates. They’d always ignored each other.

Ashlyn sighed, remembering how she’d wished that someday someone would look at her the way the boy had looked at Jo Ann.

She remembered cringing back into the shadows as the couple began walking to the parking lot, passing her hiding place.

As if in slow motion, a ribbon had fluttered to the ground from the flower stems, a perfect circle, a shadow in the light.

She’d scuttled from her hiding place to retrieve it, running it between her fingers with something akin to awe. It was soft and silky, as red as a Valentine.

The boy must’ve heard her, because he turned around, light suffusing his face.

Sam Reno, one of her brother’s football team-mates.

She’d wanted to run back to her hiding place, to cower in shame. A silly ribbon. What would Sam think of her?

But he’d smiled. A crooked slant of a smile that had led to years of teenage dreaming for Ashlyn. No boy had ever lived up to it since.

Now Sam was back, and he probably couldn’t stand the sight of her.

Ashlyn wandered to the window, and stared at the dim lights of Kane’s Crossing in the near distance. The wooden window frames cast barlike shadows over her hands as she held up the ribbon to the moon, watching its circle imprint on the silvery light.

Somehow she felt like the world’s most privileged prisoner.