The Edge of Heaven

Edge of Heaven

The McRae's Series

Book 2

by

Teresa Hill

USA Today Bestselling Author

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-202-4

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Copyright © 2001, 2012 by Teresa Hill. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Thank You.

For my editor, Cecilia Oh, because she makes time lines so I can keep the dates straight in my own stories. And because she wasn't afraid of Emma and Rye.

Chapter 1

He got into town just before dawn, having driven all night. Once he'd decided to go, he'd gotten into his truck and left, not wanting time to think about giving into this impulse one more time.

There was a note on the seat of the pickup with directions to the town and an address, but Rye didn't need to look at them. He'd memorized them long before he'd found the courage to come.

He wasn't sure what he was going to say once he got there. He usually played it by ear, and so far, it hadn't been too difficult to find out what he wanted to know. The hard part had been making himself keep searching.

It started snowing on I-75 in the mountains in Tennessee and kept it up the whole way to the tiny town of Baxter, Ohio, on the banks of the Ohio River just west of Cincinnati.

There were 8,436 people living here, according to the sign on the edge of town, which also bragged about being the home of an artist named Richard Landon, who made, of all things, snow globes.

Rye shook his head over that. A town would have to be pretty hard up for things to brag about to mention a man who made kids' toys.

But it was pretty here, like something out of a wintry postcard. The streets of downtown were wide, the sidewalks broad, many of the old brick storefronts preserved intact, everything neat and polished. There was an honest-to-goodness town square, an old courthouse behind it, a block of streets surrounding it with a parklike setting in the middle.

He turned into a neighborhood of Victorians, late 1800s, three stories, high-pitched roofs, stained-glass windows, wide porches. As someone who worked in construction, he couldn't help but admire the workmanship that had gone into restoring them.

He drove slower and slower, the closer he got. If he wasn't careful someone would call the law on him, and that was the last thing he needed.

Finally, he saw it. No. 12. Maybe the prettiest house on the street. A soft gray with touches of blue on the trim and in the exquisitely beautiful stained glass in the windows and the panels of the front door.

There was money here. He frowned even more.

There was a pretty sign in stained glass hanging from the mailbox that said, McRae Construction, Props. Sam and Rachel McRae.

Yeah, this was it.

He parked on the opposite side of the street, cut the engine and the lights, and sat there, snow falling softly all around him, the neighborhood just starting to stir.

What now?

Knock on the door?

It was too early for that.

But soon lights started coming on inside the house, one by one, upstairs first and then down. A car came by, driving slowly, and the morning paper was hurled onto the front lawn. The front door of the house opened. A dark-haired man in worn jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt came outside and retrieved the paper. What was he? Early forties? Late thirties? That would be about right.

Not five minutes later, a taxi stopped in front of the house. Doors to the taxi and the house were thrown open. The man came back out. He must have been watching and waiting himself.

A woman climbed out of the taxi and ran to him, throwing her arms around him. He picked her up and spun her around in a circle before lowering her to her feet and giving her a quick kiss on the cheek. They were both laughing.