Читать книгу Raeanne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry Summer - RaeAnne Thayne - Страница 13

CLAIRE COULD HEAR HER pulse pounding in her ears, but she quickly tried to talk herself down.

She was seeing things. A trick of the wind or a shadow or something.

And even if she wasn’t seeing some weird hallucination, if she really had seen someone standing on her porch, the explanation was probably perfectly benign. This was Hope’s Crossing after all. Not that the town was immune to crime—as the recent rash of burglaries would certainly attest—but a home invasion robbery was an entirely different situation.

Settle down, she told herself. She was only freaking out because she was battling a completely normal sense of vulnerability, alone and helpless in her big house on a stormy night. It was only natural to start imagining somebody out there with a chain saw and a hockey mask.

She was seeing things. She was down to one pain-killer at night, but maybe even that much of the stuff lingering in her system was messing with her head.

She gazed out into the sleeting rain again, straining her eyes to peer at the dark corners of her lawn. There. Again. This time, she couldn’t come up with another rational explanation. That was definitely a person out there dressed in dark clothing, lurking on the edge of the porch.

In a panic, not really thinking about what she was doing, Claire checked to make sure the door was latched and then flicked the porch light rapidly on and off a half-dozen times.

It was probably a stupid thing to do, only serving to let the guy know she had seen him. She would have been better off using that time to barricade herself in the bathroom and calling 9-1-1 or something.

Stupid or not, though, it worked. She had caught his attention anyway. The figure turned quickly toward the front door and she caught the pale blur of a face, but couldn’t make out features or any other identifying details—even whether it was a man or woman—before he (she?) turned quickly and rushed down the driveway.

What on earth was that? Her breath came in shallow gasps as Claire reached down to put a comforting hand on Chester’s warm fur.

“You’re such a good, brave doggie. Yes, you are. Yes, you are. The bad man is gone now. We’re okay.”

Her voice sounded squeaky, as if she’d been sucking helium and she forced herself to try some of Alex’s circle breathing: in through the nose for five counts, fill the diaphragm and hold it for five, then out through the mouth for five counts.

She was only on her second rotation when Chester suddenly gave his howling bark again, his grumpy face concerned, just a second before the doorbell rang. Claire let out a little shriek. Was her intruder back?

After a frantic search for some kind of weapon, she finally picked up a stout umbrella from the holder by the door, then peered through the window again.

This visitor was unquestionably male. Hard chest, broad shoulders, a slight dark shadow on his face. Relief surged through her, sweet and pure like spring runoff.

Riley!

She fumbled with the dead bolt and the lock and yanked open the door, then shoved herself back in the office chair a few feet to give him room to come inside.

Some of her fear must have been obvious on her face. Riley looked wary. If she hadn’t known him since they were both kids, she would have called him dangerous.

“What is it? What’s wrong? I saw you flashing your porch lights as I was heading home. Are you hurt?”

Claire wanted to sink into his arms, into that peace and comfort she had found there that day in her store.

“Probably nothing. I feel like an idiot now. Sorry to make you get out of your car in the rain.”

She was suddenly aware she was dressed in her nightgown, cotton and shapeless, and no bra. At least it was fairly pretty, a light, sunny yellow that one of her friends from the senior citizen center had embellished with embroidery flowers and brought over a few days earlier.

Claire didn’t even want to think what her hair must look like, tangled and flat from falling asleep on the couch earlier. Why could he never see her under better circumstances? She didn’t always look like a frowsy invalid, she would almost swear to it.

“What happened?” Riley asked.

“Chester started barking at something, which is unusual for him. I came to investigate and thought I saw someone on the porch. I flickered the lights, I don’t know, just as a distraction, I guess. I had no idea you were out there, but I’m so glad you saw them, too. Anyway, it must have worked because he bolted.”

“He?”

“I don’t know. It might have been a woman. I couldn’t tell. I just saw this dark shape take off down the driveway. Did you see anything?”

He shook his head and she saw a few raindrops that still clung to the dark strands of his hair, gleaming in her foyer light. “Visibility is pretty poor out because of the storm. I didn’t see anything except your lights flashing, but I can look around for you. Lock the door behind me and wait right here with Chester.”

Did he really think she wanted to be anywhere else? She wasn’t a complete idiot. “Thank you, Riley. I’ll feel really silly when you don’t find anything. I’m sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me. This is my job, remember?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer before he headed back outside, closing the door firmly behind him. He waited on the other side until she clicked the dead bolt shut, then he began sweeping the lawn with his flashlight. She watched him through the window beside the door as he methodically crisscrossed her yard and then disappeared around the side of the house to check the back door.

What a relief to have Riley there. Not that she necessarily needed a man to protect her, but she couldn’t deny she found comfort from knowing she had an armed officer of the law watching her back.

An unaccustomed comfort, she had to admit. Even when she was married, Jeff wasn’t the sort to handle this sort of crisis. Once when Jeff was doing his residency, a neighbor in their condo complex had come home drunk in the middle of the night and mistaken their door for his. When his key didn’t work, he’d tried to break in through a window.

Jeff had been at the hospital and Claire had been alone with the children. She remembered how terrified she’d been, until she recognized the man and went out to talk him down and help him find his way home.

That seemed a long time ago, but she could still remember calling Jeff at work afterward, needing reassurance or comfort or something, even just the sound of his voice.

“Sounds like you handled it just fine,” he’d said, dismissing the whole incident.

That was her. She’d been handling every complication since she was twelve years old.

She petted a puzzled but tolerant Chester for another few minutes until Riley rapped on the front door again. Her hands fumbled with the lock and it took her a minute to undo the lock.

“Did you see anything?”

“No murdering psychos. At least as far as I can find.”

“You think I was seeing things, then?”

“Nope. You definitely saw someone out there.”

“How can you tell?”

He pulled a bundle from behind his back and carried it into the house. “I found this in a corner of your porch, back in the shadows. I probably would have noticed it when I came up to the door if I hadn’t been so worried about you.”

She stared at the huge basket. “What on earth?”

“Any idea who might have dropped it off for you in the middle of the night?”

“No. That’s crazy. Why wouldn’t whoever delivered it ring the doorbell?”

“Good question.”

He was wearing evidence gloves, she realized. As if this was a crime scene or something.

“You think it’s…something weird?”

“I’m sure it’s only from one of your many well-wishers. But just to be safe, why don’t I take a look since I’m here and all?”

“This is Hope’s Crossing, not Oakland, Riley. I highly doubt somebody’s left me a pipe bomb in a basket of…of magazines.”

His look was wry. “You didn’t expect anybody to break into your store and vandalize it, did you?”

She had no answer to that, so she merely pushed her chair out of the way. Riley set the basket on the console table in the entryway and began sorting through the contents.

“Looks like we’ve got something in a package that says Sugar Rush. What’s that?”

“Gourmet sweet shop down on Pine Street, opened about a year ago. They have the best ice cream in town.”

“This says blackberry fudge.”

“Ooh. Yum. My favorite.”

He gave her a sidelong look that made her toes tingle like she’d missed a step. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Though I’m not picky,” she confessed. “I like all their fudge. And the ice cream, too. Oh, and their caramel drops. Which is probably why I stay away from Sugar Rush.”

He smiled a little and reached into the basket again. “What else do we have here? Looks like lotion.”

He opened the lid and sniffed. “Nice. Smells like flowers.”

“Christy Powell makes soap and lotion. Maybe the basket is from her.”

“I haven’t seen a note yet.”

He pulled out a thick stack of new magazines, what looked like one issue of just about every offering from the rack at Maura’s bookstore, including several beading magazines, she was touched to see.

Usually Claire didn’t read many magazines. She preferred a good novel as a general rule, but when she was stressed, sometimes leafing through a magazine that didn’t require a major commitment in energy or attention was the perfect thing.

Riley wasn’t done yet. He pulled out about a half dozen of the romantic suspense novels she preferred and then a bag of gourmet hard candy, also from Sugar Rush.

“Wow. Somebody knows what I like. I bet it was Alex.”

Riley didn’t appear convinced. “Why would she bother skulking around your porch and leaving secret baskets instead of what she usually does—barging in and sticking her nose wherever she wants?”

“Good point.” She smiled a little. For all his grousing about his sister, she knew Riley and Alex usually had a great relationship. Alex adored her only brother, as did all the McKnight sisters.

“You’re right. Alex has a key anyway. If it had been her, she would have dropped off the basket on the kitchen table and then started rearranging my spice cupboard and nagging me about why I haven’t replaced the saffron I bought six years ago or something.”

He smiled. “Note to self, keep Alex out of my kitchen.”

“Wise decision,” she answered.

He reached into the basket again. “Check this out. I wonder if it came from Maura’s store.”

He pulled out a small flowered bookmark with a dangly angel charm.

Claire gazed at it for an instant and then gasped as all the pieces clicked into place. “The angel! Oh, my word!”

“Angel?”

“I must have had a visit from the Angel of Hope. Darn! Now I really wish I had been able to see more than just a dark shape out there.”

Riley carefully set the bookmark back into the basket, his wary gaze trained on her like he expected her to start speaking in tongues any minute now. “You think you’ve had an angelic visitation? You haven’t been mixing that pain medication with anything, have you? Like bourbon? Or, I don’t know, maybe peyote?”

She laughed. “Really? Hasn’t anybody in town told you about our angel?”

Riley shook his head and for the first time she realized how tired he looked. His features were drawn and his eyes wore dark smudges underneath.

Between Layla’s funeral, the accident and settling into a new job, he must be exhausted and here she was dragging him out on a rainy night for the most ridiculous reason when he probably only wanted to find his bed.

“What angel?” he asked.

“It’s not important. Remind me to tell you about it sometime when you’re not so worn-out.”

“What’s wrong with now?”

“Nothing, but you look like you’re going to fall over if you don’t get some rest. This obviously isn’t a bomb or hate mail or anything. I think your work here is done, Chief. Thank you.”

“I want to hear about the Angel of Hope. How can I not? If I’ve got heavenly visitors in my town, I’d like to know.”

“I’ll tell you, but do you mind if I find a more comfortable spot first?” The chair was convenient but keeping her leg down like this was invariably painful.

He instantly looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Need a push?”

“No, I’ve got a system.”

Using her cane and her right leg, she pushed herself back into the family room, grateful for the wood floors in her old house. In the family room, she went through the laborious process of transferring to the sofa with the aid of the crutches propped beside it, feeling about a hundred years old again.

“Need help?” he asked again.

“I’ve got it.”

“Of course you do.” Somewhat to her surprise, Riley took off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair, looking as if he planned to settle in at least for a while.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He shook his head, an exasperated sort of look in his eyes. “It’s freezing in here. You need a fire.”

“It’s a little tough to start one when I can’t quite muck around on the hearth,” she admitted. “I can nudge up the furnace, though.”

“The furnace won’t do you much good if the wind knocks out the power, which it probably will.”

Because she knew he was right, she didn’t complain when he headed to the lovely old mantel and grabbed kindling out of the basket on the hearth. With efficient movements, he had a little fire blazing merrily in just a few moments. Chester barely waited for Riley to stand up again before he replaced him on the hearth rug, circling his sturdy little body three or four times before settling into his ultimate comfort spot.

“Thank you,” she said when the welcome warmth began to seep into the room. “You’re right, that’s much better.”

“Just the thing on a rainy, stormy night.”

She had to agree. She had been thinking she needed to replace the drafty old fireplace with a gas insert for convenience’s sake, but there was something uniquely comforting about a wood fire.

Riley took the easy chair adjacent to the sofa. He gave a barely audible sigh and leaned back in the chair and she wondered if he’d had time to sit down all day long.

“Perfect. Okay. Now I’m ready. Tell me about the Angel of Hope’s Crossing.” He smiled slightly, that sexy little dimple in his cheek flashing at her. Her stomach dipped and fluttered and she drew in a steadying breath and told herself to stop being ridiculous.

“Here, have some fudge.”

“It’s for you,” he protested, but when she handed him a piece, he took it and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm. Okay, you’re right. Delicious. Now about the angel.”

She nibbled the edge of her own piece, letting the sweet, rich taste melt on her tongue. “Well, it all started with Caroline Bybee’s car.”

“Widow Bybee? Wow. Is she still alive?”

“Hush. She’s not that old. And she’s got the energy of a woman half her age. Haven’t you seen her garden around the corner on Blue Sage?”

“What happened to her car?”

“Well, you know she’s on a fixed income. Her husband has been gone a long time and even though she works part-time at the library, I can guess that making ends meet can sometimes be a struggle for the poor dear, especially the way property taxes keep going up.”

That was one of the problems with living in a town that had taken off as a tourist destination. People who had lived for years in their family homes often couldn’t afford to stay, not when they could make outrageous sums of money by selling their property to be turned into condos or vacation homes.

Many longtime residents had seized their golden ticket and left already, but those who considered Hope’s Crossing home and didn’t want to uproot their lives were stuck trying to find their place in the new economic reality of high taxes and tourist prices on groceries.

Add to that the fact that most of the jobs in town were relatively low-paying service-oriented positions at the resort or the other hotels that had sprung up—and the restaurants and bars that had followed—and Claire supposed it was no wonder some of the youth in town didn’t see a future for themselves here and had turned to crime.

“Caroline had that old sky-blue Plymouth she drove for years, remember?” she said. “It finally died last fall and even though she was much too proud to admit it, I don’t think she could afford to replace it. She made do for a few weeks catching rides from friends to church and the library or just walking if she had to do errands in town, but then the cold hit early.”

He said nothing for a long moment and when she glanced over, she saw his eyes were closed. He looked loose and relaxed in her recliner, more at ease than she’d seen him since he came back to town. Was he asleep? Was her story that boring or was the La-Z-Boy just too comfortable?

He opened one eye. “Go on. I’m still listening.”

Color climbed her cheeks. “Right. Sorry. Um, well, the morning of the first snow, Caroline woke up to find a strange car in the driveway. A Honda Accord only a few years old, complete with snow tires. Of course she called the police right away. Dean Coleman showed up and discovered two sets of keys inside the vehicle, along with a gift title made over to her and a note that said ‘Drive Carefully’ and that was it.”

He opened both eyes and she was astonished all over again at the vibrant green of them, like the foothills in May, lush with new grasses.

Alex had the same color eyes, but they somehow looked more startling amid Riley’s masculine features.

She shifted the throw off her a little, too warm now.

“Somebody gave Widow Bybee a car anonymously?”

“Crazy, right?”

“And she has no idea who did it?”

“None at all. You know Caroline. She’s not one to take things at face value. She tracked the purchase to a dealership outside Denver, but that’s as far as she could go with her digging. She hit solid bedrock and nobody would tell her anything.”

He looked intrigued and she remembered Mary Ella talking about how much Riley had always loved a good mystery.

“Obviously that wasn’t the end of it, as your visitor tonight indicates.”

“Not by a long shot. The rest of the winter, rumors started trickling around town of others who had been recipients of this unexpected generosity. Money left in mailboxes, baskets of food on porches, bills paid anonymously. Nothing along the lines of Caroline’s car, but always coming just at a critical moment when people were most discouraged.”

She smiled and gazed at her own basket, touched all over again that someone had gone to so much trouble on her behalf. For the first time, she realized that much of the impact these little gestures had on the recipient came not so much from the tangible gift as from the act of giving itself, the idea that someone had invested time and energy and thought into meeting a need without expectation of even a thank-you.

“Somewhere along the way, somebody coined the mysterious benefactor the Angel of Hope and the name stuck. It’s become quite a legend in town, with everyone trying to figure out who it might be. So far no one’s been able to catch him or her in the act. I probably came closer tonight than anyone else. It’s been really good for the town. I don’t think any of us realized just how fractured we’d become as a community until these things started happening.”

“Fractured? What do you mean?”

“Hope’s Crossing isn’t the same place it was when we were kids. It hasn’t been for a while.”

“Back then, the ski resort was just getting off the ground, only one double lift and a few runs,” he said.

“Right. We all thought Harry Lange and the other developers were smoking something funny to ever think they could make a go of another destination ski resort when Colorado was already glutted with them.”

“Their gamble paid off.”

“Right. Here we are, needing those tourists to survive,” she said, a little glumly.

“Any insight into who might be doing the good deeds?”

“There are about as many theories about that zipping around town as I’ve got seed beads at the store. I was thinking maybe it’s your mom.”

He snorted. “You’re crazy. My mom raised six kids by herself on a schoolteacher’s salary and whatever pitiful child support my dad condescended to pay before he died. No way would she be able to afford to buy a car for Widow Bybee, as much as she might love the cranky old girl.”

“It was only a theory. I think you’re probably right, not necessarily because of the money but because once Mary Ella was out of town visiting Lila when somebody had a cord of firewood sent to Fletcher Jones up in Miner’s Hollow.”

“Playing devil’s advocate here—not that I buy your theory for a minute—but even if my mother was out of town with my sister, she could have arranged the firewood delivery over the phone or before she left.”

“True enough, but she’s been in the store with me a few times when we heard about something the Angel of Hope had done. She was genuinely shocked and thrilled when we heard someone had paid the entire hotel bill for Mark and Amy Denton when their preemie was in the NICU for three weeks in Denver. I don’t think Mary Ella could possibly be that good of an actress. She was crying and everything.”

“I don’t know. She put on a pretty good show that everything was just fine after my dad left.”

She sent him a searching look, surprised he would refer to what had been a traumatic time for his family. He looked as if he regretted saying anything, so she returned to their previous topic.

“After I discarded the theory of your mother being the Angel of Hope, I thought it might be Katherine.”

He nodded. “Now that I might believe. She and Brodie are loaded. Between the sporting goods store and their condo developments, not to mention that her husband was one of the original investors in the ski resort, Katherine could easily afford to run around town helping people out.”

“Except right now, Katherine has far more important things on her mind than bringing me blackberry fudge and a magazine or two. She’s in Denver. I’ve talked to her every day since I’ve been home and I know she hasn’t left Taryn’s side at the children’s hospital.”

She was instantly sorry she’d brought up the accident. Riley’s expression grew shuttered and sudden tension seemed to seethe and coil between them.

Chester seemed to sense something was wrong. He lifted his head from the hearth rug and looked back and forth between them. He yawned and clambered to his feet and waddled over to the side of Riley’s armchair, as if trying to offer his canine version of moral support.

Riley reached down and scratched the scruff of his neck, his mouth a tight line.

She decided not to tiptoe around the subject. “Have you been to see Maura today?” she asked.

That bleak look in his eyes made her long for the teasing rascal he’d been as a boy. “I try to stop by every day. I swung by on my lunch hour earlier.”

“I’ve only talked to her briefly. Most of the time when I call, I reach her voice mail.”

“You’re not the only one. She’s shutting everyone out. Even when I show up in person, she doesn’t want to talk. She pretends everything is just as it was.”

“I guess some pain is so deep you have to swim through it on your own.”

“True enough.”

“How are you?” she asked after a long moment. “How are you really?”

“Fine,” he said shortly.

When she continued to look at him, he finally sighed. “I’ve had better months.”

She had a feeling he didn’t admit that to many people and she was touched that he would share with her. Without thinking other than to offer him comfort, she reached across the space between them and rested a hand on his forearm.

He looked down at her fingers for a long moment and when his gaze rose to meet hers, she wanted to think some of the darkness had lifted from his eyes.

Something flowed between them, something as warm and sweet as the homemade caramel sauce they drizzled over the ice-cream sundaes at Sugar Rush.

“You looked tired when you came in. Have you been sleeping?”

He shrugged but didn’t answer directly. “Why are you worrying about me, Claire? You’re the one with all the broken bones.”

“My injuries will heal,” she said softly.

He slid his arm away from her fingers on the pretext of scratching the back of his neck. “Don’t worry about me, Claire. Worry about Maura and the rest of my family and about the Thornes.” He quickly changed the subject. “So who’s next on your list, if not Ma or Katherine Thorne for the Angel of Hope?”

She decided to let him think he was distracting her, although she wanted to inform him she would worry about him whether he liked it or not. “I don’t know. I’m running out of possibilities.”

“What if it’s a whole group of people? Some kind of loosely structured consortium?”

She laughed. “A what?”

“What if you’ve got more than one Angel of Hope? An alliance of do-gooders? It could be all of them. Ma and Katherine, maybe even your mother. I could see Angie and her husband joining in.”

She considered the idea. “Okay, that’s an option. Maybe whoever gave Caroline her car was only the one who started it all, then others joined it.”

“I like it. So, really, the Angel of Hope could be anyone. And everyone.”

They lapsed into an easy sort of silence while she mulled the likelihood of that. It did fit. She had always considered it a little unlikely that one person could be orchestrating everything.

How would such a group work? Would they act independently or gather for a vote on who to help? While the rain clicked against the windows and the wind howled in the eaves of the old house and the fire simmered in the grate, she imagined the scene. A group of mysterious do-gooders gathered in a room somewhere drinking coffee and discussing the troubles of the people in Hope’s Crossing like the court of Zeus on Olympus.

She smiled a little at the image and opened her mouth to share it with Riley when she noticed his eyes were closed—really closed this time.

His hand had stopped moving on Chester’s fur and his chest was rising and falling in a steady, even rhythm.

“Riley?” she whispered. Her only answer was Chester’s snuffly breathing.

Definitely sleeping this time. Poor man. He had all but admitted he was struggling to deal with his niece’s death. She wished there was some way she could ease his pain. No basket of goodies or envelope full of cash could fix this. Even the Angel of Hope—or angels, as the case may be—wouldn’t have any magic cure.

Nor should there be, she thought. Some pain was simply meant to be endured.

Riley looked a different person in the circle of light cast by the lamp at his elbow. When her children slept, they looked peaceful and sweet, but Riley somehow looked much more like the rowdy rascal he’d been as a boy than the contained adult he’d become.

What would it be like to have the freedom to kiss that hard mouth? To dip her fingers in that thick, wavy hair and brush her lips against his ear…

She pressed a hand to her trembling stomach. What on earth was the matter with her? This was Riley! She had no business entertaining those sorts of thoughts about him. Besides the age difference…her thoughts trailed off. Okay, three years didn’t seem like a big deal when she was thirty-six and he was thirty-three. But she could still remember him so vividly as a nine-year-old pest, driving her and Alex crazy.

She let out a breath. He wasn’t that pest anymore. He was a man, tough and muscled, dangerously attractive. And she was a divorced mother whose love life consisted of watching lush, sweeping movies made out of Jane Austen books with a box of tissues and a bowl of popcorn.

The pain pills in her system must be messing with her. Sure, she knew they caused drowsiness and could lead to stomach upset. She found it more than a little disturbing that the prescription label hadn’t once mentioned as a possible side effect inappropriate sexual urges—toward completely inappropriate individuals.

A smart woman would wake him up and send him home where he could stretch out on his own bed and take all that…maleness…with him.

She opened her mouth to do just that and then closed it again. He had looked so very tired when he came in. If he was comfortable and could rest, it seemed cruel to wake him and send him out into the cold rain.

Hadn’t she just been thinking that she wished she knew some way to offer solace? Maybe a few hours’ rest were just what he needed.

“Riley?” she whispered again, giving one more try.

He released a long sigh of a breath and seemed to settle deeper into the easy chair. Even though she had a strong feeling she would live to regret this, she didn’t have the heart to wake him. Instead, she picked up another soft throw from the back of the sofa and carefully arranged it over him.

She would have done the same thing for Macy and Owen, she told herself as she settled back onto the sofa and tucked her own blanket around her aching leg. She was only being kind to an old friend. The gesture had nothing to do with the crazy, foolish part of her that liked having him there while the storm raged outside and the fire sizzled softly in the grate.