The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (25 page)

“You know, this particular parcel isn’t crucial to the development. We could work around it. Why not leave the old lady in peace? I’m sure her family has plenty else to worry about right now.”

“We could do that.” His piercing blue eyes glinted. “However, the workaround would eat up all the money set aside to make it a green build, along with the extras you negotiated. Of course, you could fudge on quite a bit of it. No one would ever need to find out.” His smile stretched tight over his teeth. “Your call.”

Clint swallowed the bile trying to escape his stomach while an almost-remembered whisper of his nightmare drowned in his headache. “Are you absolutely certain about the numbers?”

“I’m growing weary of having to reassure myself of your loyalty. This project is of great importance to J. Milton. If we can’t build the convention center here, we would sustain an unmitigated loss.” He paused. “As of course would Green Man. For someone who’s been in business for a while, you don’t seem to have mastered the art of compromise very well.”

Shit. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he fudged on the green aspect of the design. Which meant either Cayden and her grandmother lost the land, or he lost Green Man, and all of his people lost their jobs.

“Ask yourself this, my friend. Is one old woman’s stubbornness worth all of the good you could do making a convention center this size green? Or all of the environmentally positive projects Green Man could do in the future? The financial security of your crew? It’s a pretty small sacrifice for a much greater good, wouldn’t you say?”

Clint scratched his ring finger. What could he say?

“You’re right.” He shrugged outwardly, inwardly praying there was something he could still do for Cayden. “How are you going to do it, if you can’t convince the family to sell?”

“Ever hear of ‘rezoning’ or ‘eminent domain?’ I hope so. Because you’re going to help me make the case why it’s necessary for the town of East Granby to grant it for us.”

Clint smelled the smoke of his last hope of a relationship with Cayden burning on the altar of that greater good’s justified means.

For at least the sixth time since yesterday, Clint experienced an eerie feeling of déjà vu. Unlike the others had been, this one was easy to place. He clearly remembered when he’d last sat in the parking lot of HandiMart, afraid to go inside. The only difference tonight was that his quest for aspirin wasn’t thwarted by that moron Dillon having insulted Cayden. This was worse. So much worse he’d been parked here for over an hour.

The unbearable headache finally pushed him out of his seat. All too real, it was still a piss-poor excuse. It had worked before though, and he was desperate enough, in more ways than one, to throw himself on her mercy again.

A gloomy gong rang when he walked through the door. He was nearly to the counter before he scrounged the nerve to look up. Cayden’s pretty eyes were wide. Beneath her makeup, her skin was ultra pale and dark circles hung under her eyes.

“What are you doing here?” Her voice was harsh.

Thunder brewed in the distance. Clint wasn’t sure any more, but he thought the sky had been clear when he’d left his house.

“I…” He coughed. “I’m out of your tea, and my head—”

“A headache? That’s the best you can come up with?” She fisted her small hands on her round hips, which were covered in something that would be sinfully wonderful to touch.

“Cayden, honey, please listen to me. I had no idea Cumberland was the developer after your grandmother’s place.”

“What did he offer you to hook up with me? Whatever it was, you must want it pretty badly to whore yourself to a woman like me. You should consider changing careers. Your act is quite convincing.” Her lips flattened.

“Now you wait just a damn minute!” He inhaled, long and slow, before he gave it another shot. No point in both of them getting emotional. “What did Cumberland offer me for what? What is it you think I was doing for him? If I were using you to get that damn land, if it was all a big secret plot, why would I have brought you to the mall? It’s not as if the sign was hidden. And it’s not as if being with you has gained me or Cumberland an advantage. Think about it.”

She tucked her small hands under her round arms. “I have no idea what your plan was. But you can’t honestly expect me to accept that this is all just a coincidence.”

“I guess so, yeah. Because I honestly didn’t know. And I’m so sorry. Really, really sorry.”

“Oh? Are you still working for him?” Her fisted hands had returned to her hips.

The thunder rumbled ominously. Was it closer?

Shit, she would have to ask that. “I can’t break the contract. I have a company, employees who depend on me. They’d lose their jobs, and I’d lose everything. But Cayden, there’s something you need to know. You have to accept Cumberland’s offer before it expires next week. I had a meeting with him this morning. He intends to—”

“Knowing you work for the men who tried to have me murdered, who came after Gran and put her in the hospital,
knowing I know
, you’re asking me to sell them Buchanan’s Crossing? Exactly how gullible do you think I am? Even you’re not that good.”

He groaned. Gullible, no. Irrational, yes. “Dean wouldn’t go that far. He doesn’t need to. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. You have to listen to me. I want to help you.”

“Why should I believe you? You don’t care about me.” The fire flashing in her eyes threatened to drown in the tears welling in them. God knew he was about to.

“I care, damn it.” Too goddamn much.

An unexpected fragment of last night’s nightmare surfaced, the image of a red-headed baby boy crying. “Wait, you’re carrying my son, aren’t you? Please, Cayden. You have to talk to me. Let me help you.”

“I don’t have to do anything with you. I’m not carrying—” she faltered “—your son.”

Why did he feel disappointment rather than relief?

Thunder boomed, definitely closer. Buckets of rain sheeted the asphalt in the parking lot.

Cayden reached under the battered counter and thrust a shoe box at him. “This is your stuff. What’s left of it, anyway. When I got back to the apartment yesterday, it… There was an accident. Send me the bill. For your lawyer, as well. I don’t want to owe you anything.”

He opened his mouth to plead with her again, to tell her Dean was going to get Buchanan’s Crossing without her consent, that she needed to prepare herself, that he’d help her, and—

The gong rang, as if signaling he was out of time, game over. A couple of teenage girls burst in, soaked and giggling. Probably high, but not dangerous.

“You should get in your truck and leave now. Goodbye, Clint.” Cayden’s hands were clenched so tight her knuckles looked ready to pop.

Clint caught a brilliant flash of lightning out of the corner of his eye. The roaring crack that followed could have been next door. The store’s fluorescent lights flickered.

The girls screamed, then stared out the big plate glass window. One said, “Wow! Check out the truck. Is that bizarre or what?”

He grabbed the shoe box and ran out the door.

The light in the parking lot was out, though the rest of the street remained lit. As was his truck, which looked like a Christmas tree in a thunderstorm. All of the lights were blinking: cab lights, overhead lights, turn signals, brake lights, headlights, brights. It was also rocking, because the engine was gunning while the brake was engaged. Clint patted his pocket. His keys were still there. He walked carefully around the bouncing truck and hit the lock release for the hell of it. Everything stopped.

He’d heard of lightning doing some weird shit, but this was a new one. He flipped on the dome light and warily opened the shoe box, not at all sure he wanted to see what it contained, yet unwilling to ride home with it sitting next to him not knowing, either.

The ashes were rather anti-climactic, all things considered. As long as he didn’t take the symbolism into account.

Chapter Sixteen

C
ayden turned from the grove’s edge on the hill of Buchanan’s Crossing. The glimmer of the sun’s last rays glancing off the copper witch-on-her-broom weathervane perched on the roof of Gran’s cottage below coaxed a smile out of her. Weariness soaked her bones. The climb had taken more out of her than sending the clouds away.

The awareness of her capabilities, then acceptance of responsibility for them—easier once Nevermore informed her Clint hadn’t been harmed when she’d teleported—had led to marginally better control of her power. She’d been sorely tested Monday night when he’d come into the HandiMart, though.

His visit hadn’t been entirely unexpected. She’d brought the box with her to work in the likelihood he’d show up eventually. When she’d finally made it home from the mall late that awful afternoon, she’d found the little piles of ashes scattered around her apartment where his stuff had been. Collecting them had been cathartic, dumping them into the empty box of the shoes she’d ruined, appropriate. She knew exactly when it had happened. She’d found the lump of melted metal bearing a vague resemblance to her house key in the palm of Dr. Seuss’s mail glove. Its presence assured she wouldn’t receive any unwelcome visits to her apartment from him.

No, the surprise was that Clint had been under the impression she would listen to anything he’d have to say. She’d needed so much focus to act cool, there had been little left over when he’d made her truly angry. She hadn’t hurt him then either though, and he’d driven away in his truck, so it couldn’t have been damaged too badly.

In the four long days and nights since, she’d gone over all of it a thousand times. The big question—and it didn’t help that Clint was the one who’d raised it—was that if he’d known the Cumberlands were the enemy, why would he have brought her to the mall, revealing his relationship with them before he’d succeeded in getting her to sell the Crossing? If he’d come to the realization it wasn’t going to happen, he might have wanted to flaunt duping her. She couldn’t imagine him being that cruel, or that good an actor. He’d been lousy at hiding his thoughts, his doubts, and his feelings from her. Unless that too was part of his act, a theory supported by his last-ditch Monday night attempt at HandiMart.

Even if she wanted to believe him, the chances of a man like Clint wanting a woman like her, while coincidentally working with the evil vermin after the Crossing, were ridiculously negligible.

Ultimately, whether he’d intended to betray her all along wasn’t important. Not as long as he continued to serve them. She’d seen the black tendrils holding him in their grasp, and Gran had warned her about them later as well. But the other news she’d dropped that day, the true purpose of the Joining, had distracted Cayden from the full meaning of the words. It was crystal clear now.

She couldn’t sit back and wait any longer. Not without knowing what her relationship with Clint may have cost the Crossing. Not with Gran lying in the hospital, getting weaker every day. The time couldn’t possibly be more right than it was now, could it?

The waning quarter moon offered little illumination as Cayden carefully laid the white ash lines of the pentacle. Though summoning a light would have been as simple as wishing for it, she chose to seek support in the form of a prayer in the magical Gaelic of old.

Probably because she was trying so hard not to, memories of the Joining, Clint, and how the air had felt that night washed over her, drifting to the way he smelled like sunshine, like warmth and life rather than overripe fruit.

Neither lingered in the air tonight. She shivered and hugged her cape more closely around her shoulders. The sooner she got this over with the better, for everyone.

Inhaling deeply, she spread her arms and opened her mouth to light the fire and swear the binding oath. The air vibrated and the kindling ignited. The soggy wood spit, popped, and crackled as it burned. The words of rite echoed inside her head, burned in her throat, but refused to pass her lips.

She heard Gran’s sigh on the breeze weaving through the ancient trees and knew she’d failed again.

Sometime after she’d succumbed to despair and crumbled in a heap on the unyielding earth, the rain returned. Though the leaves gentled its descent, it was already washing away the pentagram. She hadn’t noticed when the fire died, though the traces of it were vanishing as well.

The cleansing wasn’t only around her. Her tears eased the pain enough to ask herself why the Crossing had rejected her yet again. Maybe Gran’s soul-ward blocked her. More likely, it was simple inadequacy. She was used to that. She’d never been enough.

She’d had
enough
, though, of dwelling on all the things she wasn’t enough for by the time she made her way down the hill to pick up her bike in Gran’s yard. Spending the rest of the night brooding on that topic would surely result in a ménage à trois with Ben & Jerry, followed by a Saturday morning filled with yet more self-recriminations.

No, what this situation called for was being lost in a crowd, her thoughts drowned out by music. It was Friday night and her favorite DJ was playing at The Night Crawler. If they weren’t already, her hair and makeup would undoubtedly be well-seasoned by the time she rode her bike all the way there.

“Clint, you were planning on giving Alexa a ride home, weren’t you?”

Crap. He’d almost made it to the door this, his third, try. Did Dean have some kind of close-range GPS on him? It had been a long, lousy, sleepless, headache-filled week. Clint was tired in general, tired of the party, tired of the rich food rolling in his gut, tired of all the posturing and pretense. Tired in particular of being pedaled like a chunk of meat. The woman in question was thin, pretty, sophisticated, and well-dressed—all the things he used to think he wanted. She just wasn’t Cayden.

The thought pained him and he made a face.

Dean pursed his lips and shook his head. “I don’t get you. This is an easy win-win.”

Clint saw no point in enlightening Dean as to what he’d been thinking, especially since he wasn’t all that delighted with what Dean wanted from him anyway.

Dean leaned in. “It’s not as though I’m asking you to take one for the team. She’s a real looker, can’t be more than a few years older than you are, and she could do things for you, for your company. Being on the commission is just her volunteer gig. All you have to do is make her happy; she makes you happy, and Monday evening at the East Granby Planning and Zoning Committee meeting, everybody’s happy.”

Except Cayden and her grandmother.

“What about the other three? I thought we needed four votes.”

“Two of them will go for any type of development, and the third is back in the game room playing poker. He’s not going to be a problem. That just leaves the lovely Alexa.”

“If you’re so keen on her, why aren’t you the one making her happy?”

“Even if she wasn’t three inches taller than I am, it would look bad in other ways. Besides, she likes you.”

Clint had gotten that impression too, and it made him nervous. “Dean, I’m afraid I’m not up for this sort of thing.”

“You’ll do whatever it takes. I don’t have to tell you what happens if the vote doesn’t go our way. Before the old lady got sick, she organized some of the neighbors who aren’t part of the sale, got two of the members to commit to voting against the project. We need Alexa’s vote.” Dean’s face changed instantly from an unyielding scowl to full-watt beam. “And here she is, the belle of the ball. Clint here was telling me he thinks he should give you a ride home.”

“Really?” She arched her eyebrows and gave Clint a sultry smile. “But I’m just getting started. I don’t see how three martinis, no matter how dry, make me unfit for anything.”

Dean raised a palm, grinning. “I’m sure you’re fine, but you know how the cops are out here, not enough to do. I’ll have someone drop your car at your condo tomorrow morning. Have a nice evening, you two. I’m so pleased both of you could make it.”

Then the little weasel darted off.

“Well, Clint, if you insist,” Alexa drawled. “I’ll fetch my wrap and meet you in front. It’ll give the valet a moment to get your car.”

“Um, truck,” he said, but she was already working her way through the crowd.

“Well, this is certainly…masculine,” Alexa said as he helped her into the truck’s cab.

Clint was thankful he couldn’t see her expression in the dark.

As they drove slowly through the curving suburban streets, she unsnapped her seat belt and leaned closer. “You know, for a while there, I wasn’t sure you were interested.”

Shit. What was he supposed to say to that? The hand she’d placed on his thigh was making it harder for him to think, even if it was panic-inducing rather than a turn-on. The truth started dribbling out of his mouth. “I, uh, didn’t tell Dean—”

“It was sweet of you to make an excuse for us to leave together. I may not be done partying, but I can’t wait to get you home.”

If that hand of hers hadn’t squeezed his thigh a little too close to home, he might have been grateful she’d interrupted him. As it was, all he could think was that he needed to come up with something, fast.

Stuck at the light, he spied a flyer stapled to a light pole.

“You said you weren’t done partying. Would you enjoy some music? We could probably make the last set at a nice little jazz club in Springfield.” Where he would fill her with enough booze that he’d be able to take her home, tuck her into bed and leave, pleading “real men don’t take advantage.”

Two people came out of a bar across the street. A snatch of crowd noise and music drifted through the sunroof. Alexa tilted her head. “Mmm, that does sound fun, particularly if they have dancing. Slow-dancing with you would definitely enhance the mood.” Her hand skimmed even higher. His foot slammed down on the accelerator.

He may have broken a speed limit or two trying not to think about the last time he’d slow-danced, who he’d been with, how it had felt, and how it could never feel that way with another woman.

The place turned out to be a little hole-in-the-wall without a parking lot. The closest spot was a couple of blocks from the door. He leaped out of the truck the second he yanked the keys under the guise of hurrying to get Alexa’s door for her. What he really wanted was to get away from those roaming fingers of hers. At some point, she’d realize he wasn’t reacting, and no one would be happy about that.

As they walked down the sidewalk, she slid her arm around him and gave his ass a squeeze. “Yum, I’m looking forward to taking a bite out of this.”

He was still trying to find somewhere casual to put his arm when a blur in the street solidified into… Holy Christ, no. His heart slammed into his throat and stuck there.

The blur had solidified because it wasn’t moving. It was standing there, holding up a recently-repaired steam punk bike, staring at him with the widest tear-brightest eyes in the palest face he’d ever seen.

Her always wildly sexy hair was wilder and sexier than ever. Under the streetlight, the black curls highlighted the red, making them glow like flames licking her face. Her makeup was especially macabre, perfect for The Night Crawler, which happened to be on the next block. The rain had stopped over an hour ago. To look both that dry and windblown, she would have had to ride her bike a long way—like East Granby, damn it.

While he was fighting the urge to grab her and kiss her and shake her and hold her, his mouth got away from him. “Goddamnit, Cayden, what are you doing riding your bike all the way from East Granby at this time of night, and in the rain yet? Are you trying to make yourself sick?”

She blinked rapidly. Clint hardly recognized her voice when she said, “I would have spared myself the trouble, had I known you were going to do it for me.”

He tried to go to her then. But Alexa’s hand on his arm, and the sharp long nails attached to it, gripped him like a vise. “And I thought my little sister was an embarrassment. It’s not your fault, you know, sometimes they just—”

A tell-tale caw, followed by more in the distance, stopped Clint from any explanations he might have attempted. He dragged Alexa up the block as fast as he could.

Not fast enough.

He needn’t have worried about Alexa, though. Avoiding the stares of other patrons, he installed her at a cafe table with a drink while he went to the men’s room to clean up. He ordered them each another drink when he got back.

That part of his plan worked, anyway. By the time the band finished their last set, Alexa was pretty well trashed. He thought she might actually pass out laughing when they got to his truck. Clint was just glad he’d taken to keeping a rag and some cleaner in the back because his windshield wipers alone wouldn’t have been able to handle the layers of bird shit on both sides of the windshield.