Читать книгу Her Sister's Children - Roxanne Rustand - Страница 9

CHAPTER THREE

LOGAN STOOD at the glass wall of his new house and stared out at the whitecaps crowning Superior’s gunmetal-gray waves. The windows stretched twenty feet skyward, providing a spectacular view of the most scenic length of shoreline between Duluth and the Canadian border.

But it wasn’t enough. The Worths’ greed and anger had divided Pine Cliff years ago. He wanted it all—the only real home he’d ever had, the land his grandmother and great-grandparents had cherished.

He wanted to get on with his life.

It should have been easy, stopping by Pine Cliff today for the executor’s address. He’d figured the Worth family wouldn’t care about Brooke’s property in northern Minnesota. A handful of quaint cabins and an old Victorian house were hardly their style.

Finding Brooke’s little sister there had been a complete surprise. She was grown-up now, well educated in her family’s unique brand of arrogance and temper. Except she didn’t quite fit the Worth mold. He’d seen the way she kept a loving hand on each of her daughters. Beneath the superior tone and air of control, she apparently had a gentle heart—a distinct aberration in the Worth family gene pool.

Meeting her again had set off warning bells. Maybe it was the contradiction of her tousled, touch-me mass of blond hair and her steel-cold stay-away voice.

Logan sank into the beige leather couch facing the fireplace and reached for the Wickham Towers file. He’d brought the new project—a proposed shopping center and office complex—to work on while up north. Back in Saint Paul, his partner, Harold, was managing the office and the regular accounts. For a few moments he stared at the hypnotic dance of flames curling through the stack of pine logs, then began to flip through the file.

But he was unable to focus on work. An image of Claire answering her door jumped into his mind. At the time his heart had hit his ribs with a thump, his skin had warmed and tingled. He hoped she hadn’t noticed his reaction. Feelings like that had no place in a business transaction. Especially not with a Worth.

Claire might be a loving mother, but a woman related to Brooke couldn’t have much more depth than a mud puddle in August. Hell, after the first good nor’easter sent waves crashing into the cabins, she and her kids would be heading south. She’d be gone by mid-November, easy.

Satisfaction radiated through him like a swallow of hot coffee. So why did he feel this odd twinge of regret?

With a soft curse he launched himself to his feet and surveyed his surroundings, resolutely studying the features of his new house. Redirecting his thoughts.

The design was free and open, the exposed pine beams of the ceiling above as rugged and solid as the surrounding forest. But the place felt even less like a home than his austere office back in Saint Paul. Damp smells of plaster and paint, and the sharp chemical scent of new bedroom carpeting upstairs filled the air. The stark white walls were sterile and cold.

He needed a decorator to hang bright prints on the walls, to do whatever it took to make the place seem like home.

Home. Closing his eyes, he remembered the beloved Victorian at Pine Cliff and the glowing warmth of fine old oak and well-worn comfort. Its gables and turrets and fanciful cornice draperies had fascinated him as a child. Very different from this new place with its space and light and freedom from memories, both good and bad. Here he’d find the solitude he needed.

But right now, he needed fresh air.

After sliding open a patio door, Logan stepped out into the brisk evening air, sauntered across the deck, then descended a circular sweep of redwood stairs leading to the granite shelf below. It felt so good, so right, to be back at the lake, at the place he’d longed for these past fourteen years.

A brisk wind, raw with the threat of rain, ruffled through his hair, beckoning him to the edge of the cliff. The past filtered back in scents and in sepia-toned images. The sweet fragrance of long-past campfires and melting marshmallows, fragile wildflowers and warm chocolate-chip cookies. His grandmother’s vein-knotted hands, knobby with arthritis. Gentle, loving.

His mother and the raw stench of cheap booze.

The past no longer mattered. He’d grown up, worked hard, established a successful business. But sometimes, in the dark of night, he remembered that frightening evening long ago when his mother had thrown his clothes in a grocery sack, grabbed his hand, and hauled him out to a car where yet another one of her “boyfriends” waited. “Your grandma will take care of you,” she’d said, reeling closer for a sloppy kiss. “I’ll come after you in a while.”

He’d been left like yesterday’s trash on the steps of Pine Cliff that night, and his grandmother had raised him from that point on.

He never saw his mother again.

A squadron of fat white seagulls swooped low overhead. Their piercing cries were as evocative of his childhood as the scent of lilacs, his grandmother’s favorite perfume.

With keen eyes, constant hunger and an abiding love of handouts, the gulls were like feathered watchdogs, loudly announcing the arrival of any potential food source—any prowler—along the shore.

They swung lower, disappearing behind the sheer granite face, then shot upward, screeching with obvious disappointment.

Someone was on the shore below.

Irritation surged through Logan. The drive and shoreline were posted No Trespassing. Courteous hikers were fine, but some built bonfires, toasted marshmallows, then left behind crumpled food packages, grocery sacks, beer cans.

Moving to the other side of the cliff, Logan looked over the edge. Saw nothing.

He stalked along a narrow ledge, brushing aside the tangle of wild raspberry vines curling over the old trail. Ahead, aeons of winter ice and battering waves had pried away small chunks of granite, leaving irregular steps. With a growl of impatience, he caught the familiar handholds and descended to the rocky shore below. An avalanche of pebbles skittered underfoot, ringing against the rocks like a handful of marbles.

A small figure crouched at water’s edge, half hidden under an outcropping of rock. A young boy with a damp Minnesota Twins T-shirt clinging to his bony frame, his thin arms curled tightly around his knees. He didn’t move when the frigid waves licked at his sodden tennis shoes. Even at a distance, with the sound muffled by the slap of waves and raucous seagulls above, Logan knew the boy was crying. The scene was an eerie vision of his own past.

“Hi there,” Logan called out as he approached.

The boy stiffened. He rose slowly, but didn’t turn around. Hiding the tears, no doubt.

“Are you okay?”

He nodded silently.

“Is your family along here somewhere?” Logan continued, keeping his tone friendly. “This area isn’t very safe.”

The boy nodded again. His face averted, he started across the water-slick apron of granite at the base of the cliff. Two steps later his feet shot out from beneath him. With a small cry he fell, then gripped an ankle with both hands and threw his head back in a silent expression of pain. Surely he would begin crying in earnest now. Instead, he was oddly quiet.

Hunkering nearby, Logan offered an encouraging smile. “Can I get your mom or dad? Where are they?”

The kid was older than he’d guessed from a distance, probably middle school. He had a defiant tilt to his chin and a stubborn glint in his eyes despite the tear tracks trailing down his cheeks. That hint of rebellion triggered even more memories of Logan’s adolescence.

“Is your family along the shore somewhere?” he asked again.

The boy stared at the ground.

“What’s your name?”

No response. A stiff, rain-laden gust of wind came off the lake. The boy suppressed a shiver.

“Cold?”

“No.” His voice sounded subdued. His thin shoulders started to shake.

Raindrops peppered the shoreline. Across the water, a wall of advancing rain turned sky and lake charcoal.

“Come on, fella. Let’s get inside. You can use my phone.”

Staring out at the advancing storm, the boy balked. Then he reluctantly stumbled to his feet.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll help find your parents and get you home before you freeze.” Looping an arm around the boy’s shoulders for support, Logan turned toward the series of narrow, ascending ledges leading to his house.

The boy whimpered, sagged after the first step. “I can’t!”

“Want some help?” Logan waited until the child gave a grudging nod, then gently swung him up into his arms. “This is rough going down here. I’ll set you down as soon as we’re on level ground.”

His face pale and clammy, the boy murmured some sort of indistinguishable protest, then melted into boneless surrender, his eyes closed. Logan’s heart caught for a beat, until he saw the narrow chest rise and fall in steady rhythm. A little hot chocolate and a blanket would help until a parent showed up.

The child’s weight felt good in his arms, filling Logan’s heart with an unfamiliar surge of protectiveness. Probably just some latent, universal parent-mode kicking in, he thought wryly as he picked his way over the slippery rocks, though heaven knew when he’d ever hold another child in his arms. He sure as hell wouldn’t risk another marriage, and he’d never have a child without one. His own childhood had taught him that. Deep regret washed through him at the thought.

By the time they reached the house, sheets of icy rain obscured the landscape, plastering Logan’s shirt and jeans against his skin. The child had burrowed closer to Logan’s chest for protection, and their shared warmth felt as deep and essential as the beat of his own heart.

At the door of the house he stopped. “Think you can stand?”

The boy nodded vigorously, but when he stood up he carefully avoided bearing weight on his injured ankle. “Thanks,” he mumbled, ducking his head.

Logan pushed the door open. “Let’s get you out of this rain, bud.” Inside, he kicked off his wet sneakers and ushered the boy into the kitchen. The white cupboards and bleached-oak flooring had once appealed to his preference for wide, well-lit spaces, Logan thought as he glanced around, but the effect was nearly as cold as the weather outside.

“Phone’s there,” he said, pointing to the wall next to the curved breakfast bar. “I’ll get you a towel and a dry shirt.”

When he returned, the boy still stood at the kitchen door, a wary look in his eye. “I don’t bite,” Logan said, tossing him a blue bath towel and a faded Saint Olaf College sweatshirt.

The boy wrapped the towel around himself and shivered into it, his lips blue against his white face. If he didn’t catch pneumonia after this, it would be a miracle.

“Called your parents yet?”

A flare of something—rebellion again?—turned the boy’s cheeks pink. Poor guy. When Logan met this kid’s mother, he would damn well tell her about the dangerous cliffs along the shore. Logan’s own mother hadn’t been any better; she’d never given a damn, either.

Logan reached for the phone. “If you won’t tell me your name, I’ll need to call the sheriff. Someone must be worried about you, and a doctor should see that ankle.”

“I’m J-Jason.” A look of anguish filled his eyes. “Please—please don’t tell—”

He crumpled before Logan could reach him. The sound of his head hitting bare oak flooring echoed like a cannon shot in the vast emptiness of the house.

CLARE FRANTICALLY pulled open the massive oak and leaded-glass door, then rushed into the kitchen. She’d gone down the shore both ways, then followed the paths she’d shown Jason just days before. There’d been no sign of him. Her fears had intensified with every step.

After a last glance outside, she snatched the receiver and began dialing the sheriff’s office. Again. Why hadn’t a deputy arrived? Or the sheriff? The entire National Guard standing in her kitchen with muddy boots would have been a welcome sight. Her cold-numbed fingers fumbled over the last number. Punching the reset button, she redialed with a vengeance.

Annie and Lissa sat at the claw-foot oak table, their milk and chocolate-chip cookies untouched and their faces reflecting her own concern. Jason had never been out past nightfall. The forest and shoreline were dangerous in the dark. One false step—

“Hello?” Claire gripped the phone tighter.

A sharp rap at the door jerked her attention away from the receiver. Jason? With a prayer on her lips, Claire dropped the phone, raced across the room and flung open the door.

Omigod

A gray-haired officer stood there, short and rumpled, with a belly the size of Hennepin County and a glaze of exhaustion in his eyes. After surveying the room, his gaze snapped back to Claire. “Dep-pity Miller, ma‘am. Anyone missin’ a boy?”

Measured footsteps crossed the porch behind him. It was Logan, holding a limp figure in his arms. Jason—his eyes half-closed, his skin pale as flour—wrapped in a red plaid blanket.

Claire’s heart faltered, then picked up a rapid cadence that made the room spin. She sprinted out onto the porch. Her hands flew lightly over Jason’s arms and legs. “Dear God, is he all right?”

“Hold on. You’re going to embarrass the kid to death.” Brushing her aside, Logan strode into the kitchen, then lowered Jason into a high-backed chair between the twins. He kept a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Crimson flooded Jason’s cheeks when he saw the five pairs of eyes trained on his face.

“He’s fine, ma‘am, just a bump on the head and a sore ankle.” The deputy gave Jason a hard look. “Been trespassin’, I hear.”

Logan looked up at Claire as though she were barely worth feeding to the seagulls, but the steely glint in his eyes faded when he finally spoke. “The shore by my place isn’t safe—”

“People come up here, and have no idea of the dangers. Think they can just let their kids run,” the deputy cut in. “The shore is no playground for unattended youngsters.”

Logan scowled at the deputy. “I think Mrs.... Miss...Ms. Worth must realize that by now.”

Surprised and thankful for his support, Claire ignored the veiled rebuke in Logan’s tone. “I had no idea that he would go roaming like that.” She pulled an afghan from the back of the chair and smoothed it around Jason’s shoulders, then took his cold hands in hers and bent down to search his face. “Honey, why were you over there? I’ve been worried sick!”

When Jason tipped his head and didn’t answer, Logan silently dropped his hands back onto the boy’s shoulders. The gesture of masculine support touched Claire’s heart. “He seems so groggy. What happened? Was he unconscious?”

From behind her, she heard the deputy’s impatient snort. “Sounds like he might have fainted, and then bumped his head when he fell, but he’s been plenty alert. Couldn’t get a word out of him, though.”

“He must have been scared,” Claire protested, eyeing Jason’s pale face with concern. “We’re taking you to the hospital, honey.” She wanted to hug him fiercely, but knew he would jerk away. Tears prickled behind her eyelids.

Angling her face to hide her emotions, she moved to the sink, where she filled a measuring cup with water, then set it in the microwave to heat. After he had a hot cup of cocoa and a deep, warm bath, she would take him to the emergency room to check out his bumps and bruises. Maybe he would talk to her after the men left.

She spoke without turning around. “I can’t thank you two enough for bringing him home.”

“You’re damn lucky he made it back,” Logan said sharply. “Some of those cliffs drop a hundred feet, and in heavy rain it’s hard to see out there.”

Claire glanced at him in surprise. He’d defended her against the deputy, yet now he echoed the man’s criticism?

She lifted a box of instant cocoa from the cupboard, hesitating just long enough to temper her reply. “I’m deeply grateful for your help, believe me.”

She opened a packet with a sharp jerk that sent a puff of cocoa mix into the air. “Would you like some coffee or tea?”

“No thanks.” Logan said, giving Jason’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You okay now, kid?”

Jason jerked his head in assent.

“Then I’ll be—”

“Coffee would be nice, ma’am, it’s a long way back to town,” the deputy interrupted. He dragged two chairs away from the kitchen table. “Good to meet the new neighbors. Right, Matthews?”

A low growl rumbled from beneath the table. Gilbert rose from his spot at Jason’s feet, his teeth bared.

The deputy sidestepped, taking the chair farthest away. “Uh...nice pooch, there. You’ll need a good watchdog out here.”

Logan raised an eyebrow as he took the chair next to Jason. “High crime rate?”

“Nope, but off-season we’re down to the sheriff and me, and this is a mighty big county.”

Logan frowned. “So response times...”

“Depends on the circumstances. If we’re at the far end of the county, could be an hour or more. Otherwise, maybe twenty minutes.” Miller shrugged. “Population can’t support a larger staff, but usually there isn’t much going on.”

Claire suppressed a shudder. An hour? Coming from New York, she had no problem imagining a few dozen frightening scenarios as she finished preparing Jason’s cocoa and then offered a tray of coffee and fresh ginger cookies to the men. “Cream or sugar?”

The deputy creamed his coffee to a pale tan. “How do you all like it here?” He rocked back in his chair and took a long swallow.

Annie tore her gaze from the man’s badge and straining shirt buttons. “I’m scared of bears. We got a nice man next door, though.”

She extended one sticky finger toward Logan, nearly poking his arm. He looked down in surprise and she grinned back at him, her eyes sparkling. “You brung Jason home.”

A muscle jerked in Logan’s cheek. “Yes—well—he shouldn’t be out with a storm brewing.”

Watching Logan’s sudden discomfort, Claire wondered what he’d been up to all these years. It didn’t appear he’d had many conversations with children. Especially children who looked at him with such total admiration.

Years ago, had she looked at him that way herself? He’d been just twenty-two or so at the time, and as an awestruck fourteen-year-old she’d thought him handsome and wonderfully mature.

The deputy cleared his throat. “I’ll check up on you now and then.” Folding his hands across his belly, he gave Claire a broad I’m-your-guy wink. “You never know what’s out in them woods.”

She had no interest in any relationships right now—especially with an elderly deputy who eyed her like his favorite dessert. “Mr.—”

“Wayne, ma’am.”

“Thanks, but we’ll be fine.”

He twitched, patted his hip pocket. “Pager just buzzed me. Gotta go.”

Logan lifted his cup a notch higher in farewell. “Pine Cliff is safe tonight,” he murmured as the screen door slammed. “In town, I heard the county deputy was in an accident. Miller’s retired, but the sheriff brought him back for a few weeks.”

She gave him a dry look. “That isn’t very reassuring.”

“No one seems too concerned. The off-season population up here is really sparse.”

Fingering the slim gold bracelet she always wore, Claire stood at the back door and watched the taillights of the patrol car fade into the darkness. She hoped Deputy Miller wouldn’t entertain any romantic thoughts about her.

And then, without warning, the image of the deputy faded and one of Logan appeared in her mind’s eye. Tonight he’d arrived on her doorstep with Jason in his arms, like some old-time western hero. She envisioned him leaning against a door frame. tall and rugged, an unbuttoned oxford shirt revealing the hard, muscular curves of his chest and the flat ripple of muscle across his belly. A streak of dark hair disappeared into the unbuttoned vee of his jeans. His dark, sensual gaze drew her closer. Closer—

A dark Mustang pulled to a stop under the yard light. Claire blinked, refocused her thoughts. Residual adrenaline and fear had to be taking their toll. Nothing else could explain her unexpectedly sensual thoughts and the ridiculous longing that now sped through her veins.

Back to business, she reminded herself sharply. Standing straighter, she watched the occupants of the car climb out and converse at the end of the sidewalk. More guests. She turned away from the window. “Jason, I need to take a quick look at that ankle.”

Crossing the kitchen, she knelt beside him, gently propped his foot in her lap and started on his wet, tightly knotted shoelaces. From the corner of her eye, she saw Logan rise and finish his coffee in one long, slow swallow, then turn to leave.

“Don’t worry, my ankle’s okay,” Jason mumbled. “Mr. Matthews gave me an ice pack, and called some doctor.”

Claire looked at Logan. “You talked to a doctor?”

He shrugged. “He didn’t sound too concerned, but a trip to the ER wouldn’t be a bad idea, just to make sure.”

He paused at the door and gave her a brief smile, then scanned the room, as if memorizing each detail. The lights shadowed the angles of his lean face and sparked gold highlights in his hair, while his navy ski jacket emphasized the bulk of his shoulders and narrow waist.

A ripple of deepening awareness started low in Claire’s belly and unfurled into something akin to desire, a stunning echo of the errant thoughts she’d banished moments ago.

And something more—she felt a sudden longing to know him much better.

This is simple physical attraction, she sternly told herself. Nothing more. If she repeated it often enough, surely she would begin to believe it. She had to—there was too much at stake.

His hand on the doorknob, Logan glanced back at Jason. “Take it easy, kid. And listen to your mom from now on, okay?”

Jason’s quick grin faded at the word mom. “Yeah, sure.”

A tentative knock sounded at the door. Logan pulled it open, revealing a middle-aged man and woman whose faces were sallow beneath the bright porch light.

“I need to register,” the man wheezed. He lifted an inhaler to his bushy mustache and looked expectantly at Logan through the screen door. “We have reservations. The Sweeneys?”

Logan ushered them inside, then drew close to Claire and lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Country clubs back home, or this? Ought to be an easy choice.” With a smile at the couple hovering in the doorway, Logan left.

So they were back to that—opposing camps, with opposing goals. Claire gave the newcomers a bright smile of welcome. “I’m Claire, the manager,” she said in a ringing tone, extending her hand. “I know you’ll enjoy your stay. I can’t imagine ever living anywhere else!”

The Sweeneys smiled in response. Through the screen door, she saw Logan continue down the stairs, though one of his shoulders twitched.

Sorry, fella, she said under her breath. There isn’t a person on earth who could make me leave.

THE OLD PRIMER-GRAY Chevy was perfect. Parked a couple dozen feet off the road between some pines, it blended invisibly into the shadows.

Drumming his fingers on the cracked dashboard, the driver eyed the house and then shifted his gaze back to the hulking passenger sitting next to him. The guy wasn’t very bright, but he had the muscle and skills of a back-alley street fighter. And he had just as much to lose. “Ain’t gonna be hard. Once the lights go out, we can get in and be real quiet.”

“But—”

“We’ve got to find the invoices and that tape.”

“But they’re home.”

“That woman and her kids are always home, dammit. We don’t have much more time.”

“They’ve got a dog.”

“It must be deaf. It didn’t bark when we went through the shed last night,” Hank snapped.

“What if that deputy comes back?”

“He didn’t see us.” Hank uttered a foul curse. “Just do what I say and shut up.”

At a sudden motion on the porch they both froze, and watched as a tall, powerfully built man strode down the sidewalk, then drove off.

“Who the hell was that?” Hank muttered. If he was the woman’s boyfriend, he might be back. Damn. “C’mon, Buzz, show time. Let’s check the back windows. I want to know how we’ll get in later.”

He eased his car door open and slid out. Buzz shoved his own door open and followed him toward the house.

Voices reached them from an open kitchen window, barely distinguishable over the sound of waves hitting the shore.

“Am not!”

“Yes, you are, Jason.”

“Not! I won’t go!”

Silence. And then, “There’ll be a bigger scene if the ambulance comes here to pick you up.”

“Ambulance!” A long pause, then a sullen, “You wouldn’t.”

“Want to bet? We need to make sure you’re okay. That bump on your head—”

“It’s nothing!”

“I want a doctor to check your ankle.”

Come on, kid. Cooperate. Hank stopped abruptly, thrust a hand against Buzz’s chest. A middle-aged couple strolled into view at the far end of the lane. Damn.

A few minutes later the woman and all three kids came out of the house, then climbed into a minivan parked in the driveway. Maybe things were looking up after all. An emergency room meant hours of waiting.

And hours of freedom to search the house.

“Let’s go,” Hank growled. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll have to scare her off, or force her into cooperating and risk being identified.”

“But—”

“You want one of our old pals coming after us? Or for her to go to the cops with Brooke’s evidence? What’s better—death or prison?”

At the look of naked fear on Buzz’s face, Hank gave a harsh laugh. “That’s what I thought.” Motioning to him, Hank slipped through the shadows to the back door of the house.

Three hours later, as they heard the minivan return and pull to a stop outside the house, Hank punched a fist against an attic wall and swore. Nothing.

Time was running out. Had the Worth woman already found the evidence? Hidden it? With a jerk of his chin, he signaled Buzz. They both sped silently down the stairs and out the back door.

They’d have to return another night. If she was real lucky, she wouldn’t get in the way.

If she wasn’t, she might just have to die.