RaeAnne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry Summer\Woodrose Mountain\Sweet Laurel Falls (36 page)

She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes wide and slightly stricken.

“Riley—”

“Just give it a rest, Ma, okay? Thanks for the dance.”

He walked her to the edge of the dance floor, gave her a brief hug and then walked away before she could say any of the arguments he could see brewing in the green eyes he had inherited.

He had to get out of here. The crowd and the music pressed in on him and he was desperate for fresh air. He headed out the double doors into the lobby of the resort and kept going through the massive carved outside doors.

The cool mountain air was fresh and sweet. No
matter where he eventually ended up, that particular scent—sage and pine and wilderness—would always mean home.

The jazz music was still audible out here, though muted. Riley took a deep breath, wishing suddenly for a cigarette. He hadn't smoked since his rebellious teens and had no intention of ever starting again, but once in a great while the fierce craving for that nicotine rush hit him like a fist to the gut.

A thin blur of smoke drifted to him. Cigar. An expensive one. Apparently someone else had the same craving.

He turned his head, squinting into the shadows. He saw only a dark shape there and the red glow of the cigar until the other man stepped into the light from the chandelier of entwined elk antlers that hung from the massive log support beam overhead.

“McKnight,” Harry Lange greeted, his voice gruff and the cigar clamped between his teeth.

“Mr. Lange,” he said just as curtly. He wasn't in the mood to be polite, especially not to the sour bastard who owned half the town, including this resort. He should just keep walking, maybe stroll around the hotel perimeter just to make sure Lange's security was up to par. He started to take a step, but the other man spoke before he could.

“Big turnout.”

Riley sighed. He couldn't be rude, much as he would like to. “I'm surprised to see you here.”

Harry harrumphed. “Why? Because I think most of the people in this town have shit for brains?”

Riley couldn't help his small smile. Was it because
Harry Lange had more money than God that turned him so contrary or had he been that way even before the real estate deals that had cemented his fortune?

“Yeah, something like that. I didn't think you were generally part of the town social scene.”

Harry puffed his cigar. “Seems like a good cause, a memorial for that dead girl. I figured I might bid on the Sarah Colville painting. I've got a couple of hers already. I'd like to add a few more to my collection, but for some reason she refuses to sell me any more, at least not directly. I figure this is a good way to pick one up on the cheap. People around here don't know quality when it bites them on the ass and I figure I've got deeper pockets than anyone else in town. It will probably be a steal.”

Using a benefit auction to hunt for bargains. Definitely sounded like a Harry Lange tactic. The man had turned being unpleasant into an art form. He remembered suddenly that Claire had told him Harry and Mary Ella were carrying on some sort of feud. He could easily picture Lange holding a grudge over anything, no matter how inconsequential, if he were in the mood. But Riley still couldn't wrap his head around the idea that his mother would ever retaliate in kind.

“The dead girl was one of your sister's kids, wasn't she?”

Riley released a heavy breath, picturing Layla, all Goth and attitude.

“Yeah. Maura's youngest.”

“Maura. She's the one who married that musician, right?” There seemed to be more than normal curiosity in the other man's voice, although Riley couldn't
figure out why Harry Lange would be so interested in his family.

“Yeah. Layla's father was Chris Parker. The rock star.”

Maura hadn't had the greatest of luck, men-wise. She was another McKnight who struggled in the relationship department. She'd gotten pregnant with Sage when she was only seventeen, although she'd never revealed the father's identity. Whoever the son of a bitch was, he'd never stepped forward to support his kid—just another reason Riley had been so determined to marry Lisa Redmond when they found out she was pregnant. He had seen how rough things had been on Maura and on Sage. No way would he have put a kid of his through that.

Maura started dating Chris Parker when Sage was three or four, although none of the family had been too sure about the relationship, Riley remembered. At the time, Parker's rock band was playing weekend gigs at bars and casinos. They'd married, but stayed together just a handful of years, long enough to have Layla, before Parker hit the big time. Maura didn't talk about it, at least not with him, but Riley had a feeling the guy hadn't wanted the burden of a family on his climb to the top.

“I haven't seen your sister around tonight.”

“She didn't make it,” he said. No way would Maura have been strong enough emotionally for this. She was still lost and grieving and refusing to let anybody try to help.

Harry puffed on his cigar. “I would have thought she'd at least show up to say thank you, what with
everybody going to all this trouble in her kid's memory.”

He didn't dislike that many people, but for a brief instant, Riley wanted to reach a hand out and shove that cigar right down Harry Lange's throat. “She's…having a rough time,” he managed to say calmly. “Right now she needs to grieve in her own way.”

Harry puffed again. “Do you remember I was there?” he said after a moment. “At the scene? There wasn't a thing anyone could have done for that girl. She was dead before I even made it to the scene, just a few minutes after the accident. I guess it's some relief she didn't suffer.”

Was that Harry's idea of offering his condolences? It was a damn good thing Maura
hadn't
come. Riley didn't think she would necessarily find that a comfort.

“What were you doing out that time of night in the snow when you spied the break-in?” he asked suddenly, a question he'd wondered but never had the chance to ask in all the craziness after.

“Walking my dogs,” Lange said, his voice curt again.

That struck him as both incongruous and rather sad. He knew Lange lived alone in a huge house near here. His wife had died years ago and as far as Riley knew, the man had never remarried. He'd had a son several years older than Riley who'd left town just out of high school and rumor was the two of them had come to blows beforehand.

For all his success, the man had no one except some
dogs to share it, and had become bitter and reclusive in his old age.

No parallels whatsoever to his own life, Riley assured himself.

“We should probably go back in,” he said. “The music has stopped, which means they'll be starting the auction soon. You've got a painting to steal out from everyone else, don't you?”

The old man tipped his cigar, a look of almost amusement in his eyes. “We've got time. They'll save the good stuff for last. Right now they're probably getting ready to auction a quilt or a flower arrangement or some other garbage like that. I hear you're having a bit of trouble with the city council.”

Riley scratched his eyebrow. He should have walked away when he had the chance. “So I hear.”

He probably ought to be a little more upset by the apparent wavering of confidence in him by the people who had hired him. He had no doubt he could easily prove himself to the town in time, but the truth was, he couldn't bring himself to care much, especially because he was considering leaving anyway. The last two weeks had been hell, living down the street from Claire, driving past her store on patrol, knowing she was so close but impossibly out of reach.

“I think it's a bunch of hooey, if you want my opinion,” Lange said. “That J. D. Nyman's a pissy little prick and always has been. Stirring up trouble behind a man's back. What a pansy.”

The words surprised a smile out of him. “Man's got a right to his opinion.”

“I guess.” Lange gave him a long, measuring look
before puffing one last time on his cigar stub, then tossing it in the ashtray. “Doesn't mean his opinion holds a drop of water.”

He didn't quite know how to respond to that rather flattering, if unspoken, seal of approval.

“For what it's worth, I've got no beef with the job you've done since you came here. I was there that night. I saw you back off the chase and shut down your lights when you realized how slick the road had become. I don't see how anyone can blame you for what happened.”

“I… Thank you.”

“Unlike J. D. Nyman's, my opinion does matter around here. One of the few benefits of being the richest man in town. People tend to listen when I open my yap. You want me to, I can make it clear to those boneheads on the city council I still think you're the right man for the job. That should shut them up.”

Riley scrambled for an answer. “Uh, while I appreciate the offer, to tell the truth I'm beginning to think this job might not be the best fit for me after all. Maybe it would be better all the way around if I just saved the city council the trouble and paperwork of firing me.”

Harry's expression was scathing. “Your mother must be so proud to know she raised her only son to be a quitter, running away like a little girl at the first sign of trouble.”

Oh, right. Now he remembered why Harry Lange was so universally disliked. “What's the shame in admitting I may have made a mistake?” he said stiffly. “Maybe I'm just not sure the life of a small-town police chief is right for me.”

Over the other man's shoulder, he saw through the wide windows that the auction had started. He didn't recognize the auctioneer who had taken to the dais and was now holding what appeared to be—as Lange has predicted—a quilt with a big multicolored star in the middle.

Claire stood on the edge of the dais, apparently helping to organize the order of the auction items. Through the window, he could see her smile at something one of the other assistants said and something hard lodged in his chest. He couldn't do this. He had spent his boyhood watching and wanting her. Why put himself through that as an adult?

“Maybe it would be better for everybody if I just stepped down and let Hope's Crossing find a police chief who's a better fit.”

At Lange's continued silence, Riley finally turned and found the man watching him with uncomfortable perception. His gaze flicked between Riley and the auction inside and then back to Riley.

“Aah.”

Riley glowered. “What the hell does that mean,
aah?
”

“Nothing, kid. Nothing.”

“No, tell me. You're the one who said your opinion was so damn important around here. I'd like to know.”

“Pretty girl, that Claire Tatum.”

“Bradford,” he corrected.

Harry made a dismissive sort of noise as if her ten-year marriage meant nothing. “Her mother can be a
pistol, but Claire's one of the nicest people in town. Genuinely nice, not just-because-you're-loaded nice.”

Riley had no answer to that. This was
not
making him feel better, although he doubted that was Harry's intention anyway. Why did the guy think anything about Claire mattered to him? First his mother guessed his feelings for her, now a virtual stranger. Was he wearing a frigging sign?

“Guess it's a good thing you're leaving, now that I think on it. Stupid asshole like you doesn't deserve a nice girl like that.”

Why, again, was he standing here listening to a crazy old man? “Never mind. I don't want your opinion after all.”

“That's because you know it's the truth. She deserves better than an idiot with one foot already out the door. I'm going to give you a little advice, kid.”

“Please, don't hold back.”

Harry ignored his sarcasm. “Most people would say I've got everything I could ever want. Fancy house, priceless artwork, enough money to buy and sell most of the town. But I can tell you this. Regret makes a bitter companion. Think hard about what you're giving up. That's all.” He straightened. “Now if you're done yakking at me, I've got a painting to buy.”

With an abrupt pivot, he turned and headed back into the hotel, leaving Riley standing alone with the echo of his words mingling with the sounds of the auction as the doors opened and then closed behind him.

Riley stared out at the night and the dark shadows
of the mountains.
Think hard about what you're giving up.

Only everything he had never admitted he wanted.

This town. Home, family.

Claire.

Lange was right. He
was
an idiot.

His father had thrown everything away to selfishly go after his own dreams. How the hell was Riley any better than that? He was throwing away his
dreams
—the chance of a wonderful, joy-filled life here with the woman he loved—because he didn't trust himself not to turn into his father. He was
not
James McKnight. He never had been. Suddenly Riley knew without question that he would cut off his arm before he walked away from his obligations to pursue his own selfish desires, as his father had done.

He was in no danger of becoming like the man. He had spent nearly the last twenty years proving it. That fear was only one more excuse, a convenient rationalization to avoid allowing himself to be vulnerable. He was afraid of failing, of reaching out to grasp everything he had ever wanted for fear that he would screw up everything.

He had told Claire he didn't want to hurt her. The bald truth was, he was more afraid of this tenderness inside him, this overwhelming need to be with her, to watch her smile, to become a better person just because she thought he could.

Why should he fear it? Claire offered peace and comfort. Every time he was with her, life seemed brighter and richer.

He had told her he didn't want to cause her more pain. He would hurt her by walking away, just as James McKnight had done. Why would he do such a stupid, self-destructive thing when everything he wanted was right here?