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As he listened to the blessed quiet of Junior and Sonny sleeping off their canned-beer binges, Sam wiped a hand over his face, regretting what he’d said to Ashlyn Spencer.
Of course, it was no big mystery that his father had been killed in the factory. Everyone in town knew it. Ten other people had died that day, as well. Worst part of it was, Horatio Spencer had blamed Sam’s father for the deaths, but Sam knew better. His father had been talking about the grinding machinery, the wear and tear on the assembly line.
But any way you looked at it, Ashlyn wasn’t responsible for those deaths. Putting her on the same level as her family wasn’t fair.
Fairness. Justice. Words he didn’t believe in anymore. His sense of faith in the world had died the night his wife, Mary, had been killed by a hit-and-run driver.
He’d quit his job a few weeks before the accident. So when his buddies from the D.C. police force had shown up on his doorstep, pity dragging down their expressions, he’d known something was very wrong. Sam even remembered the exact instant his soul had been sucked from his body by the news of her death. He remembered feeling a numbness slide into the place where he used to keep happiness in all the colors of a rainbow, the place he’d tried to fill with dreams of marriage and warmth.
Rainbows. He hadn’t noticed one for a while, didn’t even know if he could still recognize the different shades. But when he’d looked into Ashlyn’s eyes tonight, he’d seen them—vibrant facets of blues, greens, violets—swirled together to create a glint of what heaven must look like.
Right, Sam. Just forget that she’s a Spencer.
He couldn’t forget the stark horror grimacing his mother’s lips when she’d heard her husband had been caught in the Spenco Toy Factory machinery. Couldn’t forget the quiet funeral she’d requested before she’d contracted a fatal case of pneumonia, joining her husband in death.
There were so many things he couldn’t forget. Couldn’t forgive.
Dammit, he’d come back to Kane’s Crossing to erase his past. His parents were far enough in the land of memories that it shouldn’t be tearing at him right now. All Sam wanted was to live the rest of his life in peace, in the presence of his foster brother, Nick, and his family.
Headlights flashed through the front office window, jerking Sam from his thoughts. Good thing, too. He’d never get any work done if he sank into a pool of emotion.
Deputy Joanson stuck his head in the door. “Sheriff?”
Sam tried not to seem as if he’d been mulling over useless memories again. “Yeah.”
“Ashlyn Spencer? Well, I dropped her off at Locksley Field, but…”
By God. “What?”
“Well, I know the other deputies, before me, would’ve chased her down, but she’s not too good at listening.”
Sam stood, worried now. He realized his agitation and erased his mind. “What the hell did she do?”
“Oh.” Gary stepped in the door, shrugged. “Nothing like that. Sorry to make you fret, Sheriff.”
“I wasn’t fretting.”
“Right. So she said she had her car at the field, but she lied to me. Wouldn’t get back in the grandma car. Said she’d rather freeze her patootie off than be caught dead in it again.”
“She walked home?” Two degrees below red-nose weather and the blasted woman was taking a stroll? “I’ll take care of it.”
Gary shuffled his feet. “Sorry I couldn’t tackle her like the other deputies would’ve. But she’s a lady.”
“Appreciate it, Joanson.” Sam grabbed his coat and clutched the Bronco keys. And he thought he’d only have to deal with drunks as Kane’s Crossing’s sheriff. Ashlyn would obviously make him earn his paycheck.
“I know, I told her.” Gary rattled on, blocking Sam in his bid to provide more information. “Women-folk shouldn’t be walking alone. Especially during April Fool’s with the high school boys roaming around.”
Sam almost laughed at his deputy’s concern. Maybe Joanson should visit Washington, D.C., on a normal night. That’d give the guy nightmares for sure.
Still, the idea of Ashlyn walking home alone made him cringe. Any number of things could happen to a woman strolling by herself on a country road. Things he didn’t want to think about.
“Besides,” added Gary, “her daddy’ll kill you if something happens to her.”
“I wasn’t put here to please Horatio Spencer,” Sam said, shutting the door on Gary’s answer.
The cold air nipped at his skin, and he thought of Ashlyn’s thin, fashionable red sweater and ankle-skimming pants. What was going through her mind?
He settled himself into the Bronco, easing the vehicle onto the road again. Ashlyn Spencer—a synonym for trouble, if there ever was one.
He cruised to the outskirts of town, near the Spencer mansion, intending to backtrack from there to Locksley Field. When a flash of red sweater filtered into his headlight view, he slowed to a near stop, putting down the window to talk with Ashlyn.
She kept going, barely glancing at him, forcing him to do a U-turn and roll down the passenger window.
“Get in before I lasso you in.”
Her walk was easy, swivel-hipped, casual. As if she were enjoying a sunny afternoon, parasol tipped over her head, fountains splashing in the background.
“I’m fine, Sheriff Sam.”
He kept his silence, knowing words couldn’t approach where his anger was leading him.
She seemed to catch his frustration, stopped, tilted her head. “I’m sorry for what happened to your family.”
His vision went dark for a moment. All he could do was nod, accepting her sentiment. He would’ve apologized to her for his sharp attitude in the office, but he found it hard to speak with his throat burning as sorely as it was.
Damned wimp. Since when did he get so emotional?
He put the Bronco in neutral, pulled the emergency brake, slid over to open the door and extended a hand to help her into the vehicle. An eternity seemed to pass before she accepted, blazing his skin with the touch of hers.
Wasting no time once she was inside, he retreated back to his side of the car, angry at his body’s reaction to her soft skin, her colorful eyes, her sweetheart smile.
Dammit.
He started up the car, drove a little faster than necessary in the hope of getting her away from him.
The police scanner did the talking for them, bits and pieces of static, beeps and Deputy Joanson’s monotone saying, “Testing, testing…” He really needed to hire that dispatcher. As soon as possible, too.
It was no use thinking about the job. He was much too aware of her honey-and-almond scent, the way her hair stuck out at interesting angles, making her seem as though she’d just tumbled out of bed. It was a long drive all right.
After what seemed like generations later, they pulled up to the Spencer mansion. Normally, its thunderous iron gates were like muscle-bound arms crossed to the rest of the world. But tonight the gates were open.
He and Ashlyn exchanged looks, noting the oddity.
The engine purred as Sam hesitated, peering up the stretch of driveway, past the fortress of pines—trees that blocked the brick Colonial-style mansion from gawkers, those unworthy enough to happen upon the Spencers’ seclusion.
He started to turn the steering wheel, aiming for the driveway.
Ashlyn reached out, her fingers clutching his biceps. They remained for a beat too long, lazily sketching down the length of his forearm as she absently peeked out the window at her grandiose home. He wasn’t sure she knew what she was doing, touching him like this, leaving a trail of dangerous fire that had spread from his arm to his stomach.
“I’ll bet my father’s waiting for me,” she said.
The words sounded ominous because Sam thought maybe Horatio Spencer was waiting for him, too. Waiting to blast him a glare he usually reserved for Sam’s foster brother, the one who’d purchased the all-important businesses from under the Spencers’ noses.
It didn’t matter that Nick had been helping needful families by giving them houses and businesses with money from his self-constructed fortune. Horatio Spencer looked upon the whole episode as a young man’s revenge against Chad, his son. The son who’d framed a teenage Nick for a crime he hadn’t committed.
Sam held back a grimace, welcoming this chance to greet Horatio.
Ashlyn’s hand left his skin, traveling from his arm to her neck, toying with the necklace she wore. It was a chunk of ordinary gravel, surrounded by gleaming silver half circles. He wondered why someone as rich as Ashlyn Spencer wasn’t wearing emeralds or sapphires to go with the shine of her eyes.
He couldn’t help asking about the charm. “Is your talisman strong enough to get you out of trouble?”
She started, maybe just realizing that she’d been rubbing it as if it were Aladdin’s lamp. “I’ve got my own strength.”
Shut out, as he’d done to her so many times tonight. “Right.”
Her smile was wistful. “It’s nothing, anyway. Just my albatross.”
He cocked his brow, not knowing what to say. Instead, they both returned their attention to the open gates.
“Let’s go,” he said.
Chapter Three
Ashlyn couldn’t believe Sam had cared enough to hunt her down and drive her home.
But, she told herself, don’t read too much into it. He’s the sheriff. He protects people.
Her hand still tingled from when she’d touched his muscled arm—tingles powered by a little girl’s dreams. If Horatio Spencer saw her in this car with someone who could be considered the family enemy, she’d have hell to pay. Even Ashlyn’s mother wasn’t too fond of the Renos and their foster son, Nick Cassidy.
Ashlyn still recalled the day she’d come home from Meg and Nick’s wedding, having served as an impromptu maid-of-honor. They’d caught her hanging out with the old men from the general store, rocking on the porch, exchanging salty jokes and laughter. She’d been oddly touched when Meg had hopped from Nick’s beat-up truck, five-month-pregnant tummy and all, to ask her to stand up for their union. Ashlyn had taken great pride in picking wildflowers for the bridal bouquet, in standing next to Meg at the altar while they’d exchanged vows.
She’d mattered to someone. She’d played a positive part in Meg and Nick’s happiness.
But when her mother had caught wind of the gossip, she’d all but keeled over. Ashlyn didn’t even want to remember what her father had said.
Sam floored the gas pedal, and Ashlyn grabbed the door handle. The Bronco flew up the driveway.
While trees swished by, Ashlyn tried to calm herself, hoping that she’d been wrong about her father being home. Maybe he was still at work, practicing his usual late-night hours.
They pulled onto the circular path that looped in front of the white doors and columns of her home. No one stood outside. Ashlyn breathed a sigh of relief, but stopped short when her gaze traveled to the second story.
Framed by a window, her mother’s silhouette stood sentinel, hand raised to her mouth. Ashlyn could imagine a cough racking Edwina Spencer’s body and the pills she would take to make her ailments disappear. Until the next sickness came along. And the next.
Her mother’s shadow seemed all the more desolate due to the two nearly deserted mansion wings spanning either side of her. All the windows reflected darkness, silence.
After Ashlyn left Sam, she’d shuffle to her room in one of those wings, alone, listening to the wind whistling through the halls, wondering if she’d ever have the courage or confidence to leave the only place she felt comfortable being a Spencer.
Sam pulled up to the doorway, stopping the vehicle. He watched her mother’s shadow, too, perhaps wishing he had a family to come home to. Or maybe Ashlyn was being overly fanciful, interpreting his softened gaze as more than it was.
His mouth turned up in a slight smile as Ashlyn realized she was staring again.
He said, “Could you do me a favor next time and drive a car at night? Not even Kane’s Crossing is one-hundred percent safe.”
Yet, right now, she felt protected, oddly secure, with him. “Sheriff Sam, your big-city fears are showing.”
“Better safe than sorry.” He waited for her to leave, idling the engine.
It was hard for her to open the car door, step out onto the cold asphalt driveway. Staying with Sam would’ve felt much better.
She said, “I almost wish you could come in, enjoy a spot of tea, engage in some civilized conversation, you know.”
Sam actually laughed, sounding more like a creaking hinge in a dark room than anything. But it was a start.
“Maybe in Bizarro World.” He paused. “Not that Kane’s Crossing is so much different.”
Finally, a bit of levity from the man. Ashlyn knew he had it in him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try? I’ve got coffee, the aforementioned tea…” Me.
Yeah, right, she thought. As if tall, handsome, honorable Sam Reno would fall for her, the runt of a very distinguished litter.
Sam focused his attention on her mother’s window again, a grin lingering as he shook his head.
Ashlyn followed his gaze, noticing how the velvet curtains moved back and forth, caught in the wake of her mother’s disappearance.
Was her father home? How long would it be before he burst through the front door, engaging Sam in the inevitable confrontation between Spencer and Reno?
While she weighed the comfort of being with Sam against the desire to defend him from anguish, she felt a light touch brush over the hair at the nape of her neck. Her skin goose-bumped, making her feel dizzy, mystified.
She turned back to Sam, catching him staring straight ahead, one hand resting against his door, one fisting the steering wheel.
Had the contact been her imagination? If she didn’t know any better, she’d have guessed that he’d run his finger over her hair, just like a whisper of air over leaves.
No, this was crazy. Sam had too much self-control for games like that.
Maybe she was tired, her mind playing mean tricks on her.
She sighed. “Thanks for going easy on me tonight.”
“‘Easy’ doesn’t describe you, Ashlyn.” Again, that ghost of a grin slanted his lips.
Now she really needed to leave, before she curled up next to him, light as a wisp of smoke, to feel the security of his arms.
She opened the car door, grinning at him. “Good riddance” was probably pin-balling through his thoughts, and she couldn’t blame him in the least.
“Good night,” she said softly.
He lifted a hand, gesturing a laconic farewell.
Typical Sam Reno. She walked up the stone stairway, lined by spring’s newest azaleas, their pink blooms reflecting her attitude. He’d smiled, laughed. And the responses made her giddy, layering hope upon hope in her soul.
What if…?
As she turned around to catch a last glimpse, he lightly shut the door and drove away, the Bronco’s red taillamps streaking down her driveway, red as Cupid’s kisses.
As untouchable as Sam himself.
Sam couldn’t believe he’d touched her hair.
Damn him, he’d actually reached out as she’d turned away from him, wisping his finger through one of her short, sandy locks.
He gritted his jaw, guiding the Bronco down the driveway. What had come over him?
They’d been sitting in the car, a typical goodnight-to-you drop-off when she’d smiled at him with all the power of midday sunshine. Then she’d said something cute, something flippant enough to divert his attention from the upstairs-window shadow, lording it over the fancy Spencer mansion and its twinkling porch lights.
Another house that greed had built.
And, dammit, he’d seen enough greed in Washington, D.C., to last him five lifetimes.
Kids, walking home from school, when…
Sam shut his mind’s eye to the sight, punching away the memories.
Instead, he watched his headlights suffuse the pine trees, the willow by the massive Spencer gates.
He’d touched her hair, and it had felt just as soft as he’d imagined. Sam used to touch Mary’s hair, too. He’d done it to reassure her, done it when he’d wanted her to look at him. It had always been an absent gesture, borne of the need for comfort.
When he’d reached out to Ashlyn, he hadn’t even been thinking straight; he’d merely been reacting to the welcome happiness their banter had induced.
What? Happiness?
Sam turned on to the country road, lining up the Bronco in his lane to adjust to an oncoming car. A Mercedes.
He accelerated just as Horatio Spencer slowed down, turning into his driveway. Sam caught a slow-motion glimpse of the man’s miffed glance, the startled moment of recognition as Horatio saw the sheriff’s vehicle.
Sam steadied his pulse, pulling the Bronco away from the mansion. He’d have to come face-to-face with the man someday. Confront his family’s demons head-on.
But in the meantime, Sam would do well to avoid Ashlyn Spencer. He didn’t need another woman in his life, especially after what he’d done to lose his wife. He didn’t need the pain.
Sam drove into darkness, into the dead zone, once again feeling a dull stillness as it settled around his body.
And around his heart.
Ashlyn stepped inside the mansion, the Italian-marbled foyer seeming cold and lifeless.
She thought of going to the kitchen to grab a few leftovers for a late dinner, but decided she was too excited to be hungry. Instead, she wandered to the antique Baltimore secretary leaning against the wall, reaching inside to retrieve the mail that the downstairs maid had dropped off.
Catalogs, junk ads, wastes of good paper. Heck, why couldn’t she even pay proper attention to her mail?
The front door opened, and she felt him. Her father, watching her from behind.
His voice, rough as rocks crashing together in the black of a cave, said, “It wasn’t bad enough when you played bridesmaid to the Cassidys, was it? Now you’re sleeping with the enemy.”
“Hello, Father,” she said, making sure her tone was unaffected. She turned around, grinning her ain’t-I-sweet-as-sugar smile.
He seemed to fill the door frame with his wiry stance, encased by a business suit even this late at night. She’d gotten her height from him, and she shuddered to think what else she might’ve inherited.
His hair, black-and-white as marbled stone, all but stood on end. As he stepped inside, Ashlyn could’ve sworn she saw something like concern tumble through his dark eyes, but then—poof!—it disappeared.
“What circus act of yours brought the sheriff to our doorstep?” asked her father.
His verbal barb was unfair, and he should’ve known it. Ashlyn hadn’t gotten under the law’s skin since her brother Chad had come home last year. And even then, she hadn’t done anything serious—just a practical joke concerning Chad’s shoes and some horse pucky in a paper bag.
She reached up to fidget with her necklace.
Memories flashed through her head: gravel blinding her, dirt drying her mouth, her father’s voice announcing her second-place station in life. Right behind Chad.
She dropped her hands to her sides, tilting her head, grin turning to stone. “I was merely taking in some fresh air, Father. There’s not much to be had at home.”
“You missed dinner, Ashlyn.”
So she had. “I’ll grab something from the kitchen.”
Her father frowned. “Eugene Hampton was here. Did you or did you not remember you were to meet him tonight?”
Oh, brother. Another one of her father’s blind date proposals. Every month held another possibility of some Harvard School of Business graduate coming to dinner to meet Ashlyn, and, predictably, she always did her best to sabotage any hope on their part.
It struck her that maybe she was too good at ruining relationships.
“Sorry, Father. Maybe next time?”
“And there will be a next time,” he said, his voice following her into the foyer. His statement echoed, racing along the spiral stairway that led to a higher floor. “I’ve invited Eugene to the Spenco Toy Factory opening picnic next weekend, so mind that you’re there.”
Ashlyn crossed her arms, met his stare head-on. “Let’s be honest. These things never work out. I can’t believe that, after five years, you’re still trying to set me up with the man you believe is Mr. Right for the Money.”
“You saw what happened when that whelp Nick Cassidy came in and took a bite of our holdings. I’d like your future to be secure.” Her father shut the front door behind him, blocking out the night sounds.
The Cassidy name leveled an uncomfortable silence between them, as if it were a physical reminder of Chad framing Nick for her own brother’s crime. “Please don’t bother with my future, Dad.”
He stepped into her view, stern as the suit of armor decorating the entrance to his game room.
“Sorry. Father.”
“That’s it for now.”
He hesitated, and Ashlyn knew he was dying to say something more about Sam Reno or his family before dismissing her altogether. She willed him to speak, but his hard, dark eyes erased the need.
She wondered how her father would react if she said Sam’s name, allowing it to reverberate through the mansion’s sterile halls. His name was already bouncing off the walls of her heart, every thump reminding her of a teenage boy who’d unwittingly encouraged a little girl’s innocent crush. She still remembered how he’d smiled her way one lonely night—years and years ago—making her feel special. Wanted. Even for an anonymous moment.
Instead he said, “See your mother before you retire, Ashlyn. She’s worried.”
She’s worried. If Chad had been out until the ghosting hour, if he’d been escorted home by the law, her father would’ve been frantic.
At least Ashlyn merited concern from her mother.
She tried to not let her shoulders droop as she climbed the stairs, sliding her hand along the polished cherrywood. She felt her father watching her, but she wouldn’t peek down, wouldn’t let him know that she was aware of his stare.
She moved past the wallpaper, its design showcasing half circles floating among lines and gild, the incomplete rings seemingly reaching out to connect with one another.
Her heart smarted as she glimpsed her red second-place horse show ribbons hidden behind Chad’s treasure trove of State Championship football trophies and uniform jerseys as she passed the glass-encased trophy cabinet on the second-floor parlor.
Her mother’s door revealed a crack of light around the edges. She usually didn’t stay up so late.
Ashlyn knocked lightly and entered when urged to by a wispy, Southern-genteel voice.
The stench of medicines mixed with expensive perfume assailed her. “Hello, Mother.”
Edwina Spencer shifted beneath the silken covers of her king-size bed, knocking over a glass pill jar. It clanked against other containers. “Ashlyn?” she slurred.
“It’s me.” She strolled to the nightstand, grabbing the empty jars on the way. She placed them amid half-filled atomizers and more prescription tubes. “Feeling better tonight?”
Her mother heaved a sigh, pushing back a thinning patch of blond hair from her faded blue eyes. Her brother looked more like their mother with her china-doll fragility.
“Oh, no, Lynnie. I’m awful, simply awful.”
Ashlyn recalled the sight of her mother’s shadow by the window, but didn’t comment. “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need me to get you anything?”
“Dear, that’s what the maid is for. She’ll fetch whatever I require.”
She waited for the older woman to ask where Ashlyn had been tonight, but she knew her mother wouldn’t say anything unless forced to. For as long as Ashlyn could remember, pills had helped Mrs. Spencer avoid life.
Instead, her mother played the guilt card. “I miss you when you’re not here, Lynnie.”
She’d heard these words time and again, especially when she’d been eighteen and ready to move out into the real world.
Ashlyn still recalled the new bedroom accessories she’d purchased with earnings from jewelry and sculptures she’d sold on the sly, the friends she’d made at college orientation day. But one well-thought guilt-trip from her mother had kept her home, out of the dorms, attending the local college instead.