Raeanne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One

If Lisa Redmond hadn’t lost the baby just a few weeks after she discovered she was pregnant, Riley knew his life would have turned out completely different. He couldn’t even comprehend it. He would have married Lisa at seventeen and taken some blue-collar job around town, maybe construction or maintenance at the ski resort. They probably would have been divorced young, if statistics held true. He would have a sixteen-year-old of his own now, something he could barely comprehend. Lisa had lost the baby, miscarried at nine weeks. Her parents had sent her away to live with an aunt in Idaho for her senior year of high school and Riley had been left here to endure the small-town whispers and finger-pointing, one of the many reasons he had been quick to make his escape while he could.

The whole experience had been painful and difficult, but he knew he had been so wild and angry back then that he probably would have screwed up the kid for life.

As he listened to the thuds and thumps from some fight scene on screen, Riley thought of his own anger in his teens, how he had channeled his sense of loss and betrayal into wild drinking, partying, unprotected sex with his girlfriend.

He had been stupid and thoughtless, had hurt his mother probably even worse than his father had. Ruth was absolutely right about that.

He hadn’t known what to do with all that anger after his father abandoned the family. As the lone male in a household of women, he’d needed a father in his life, damn it. He’d needed somebody to guide him, show him to rein in his impulses, how to respect others. Instead, his father had thrown everything away so he could follow his own dreams, could move to South America and study the archaeological ruins of long-dead civilizations instead of having to face the drudgery of his everyday life as a high school teacher and administrator.

Over the years, Riley knew he’d become an expert at casual relationships. So what was he doing here, then, with a couple of kids and a woman like Claire, who was the antithesis of everything he told himself he needed all these years? He belonged in this cozy picture of domestic bliss about as well as a beach cabana on top of the quad lift at the Silver Strike. She told him outright she didn’t want a fling and he had never been able to have anything else.

He sensed her watching him. When he turned his attention, she gave him a tentative smile. He gazed at her mouth for a long moment, remembering the particular softness of it, the angle and shape, then he jerked his gaze back to the screen.

She was so lovely, bright and vibrant like sunshine bursting through the clouds on a dank and cheerless day. He always seemed to forget that until he saw her again, when he would experience that “aah” of recognition.

A vague sense of unease settled between his shoulder blades. He shouldn’t be here. He didn’t belong.

“You don’t have to stay,” she murmured and he wondered what in his body language had given away his sudden trapped restlessness.

He should have seized on the exit route she’d offered and headed back down the street to his rental house. It seemed cowardly, however, just one more McKnight who walked away to suit his mood.

“We’re almost to the end. I can’t leave yet,” he answered in the same hushed tone.

She didn’t look convinced, something else unique about Claire. Most women were only too willing to believe whatever he told them. Not her. She seemed to filter every word, every phrase, through her own internal bullshit censor. He had a feeling he’d probably set off alarm bells more than a few times in his dealings with her.

This was it, he told himself. He would watch this movie and then work on extricating his life from hers. Claire Bradford had a couple of broken limbs, an idiot of an ex-husband and two active children. She didn’t need more trouble in her world.

When the closing credits started rolling up the screen, Claire switched on the lamp beside the sofa.

“Great show. Good choice, Owen. Now it’s time for bed. Macy’s soccer game is early in the morning.”

Neither of them answered and Riley realized he hadn’t seen movement from the floor for the second half of the movie, except for Chester’s occasional twitches as he snuggled up under Owen’s arm.

“They beat you to it, apparently. I think they’re both out for the count.”

Claire shifted her body on the sofa for a better angle. She smiled a little sadly. “They look like kittens nestled together. It’s too bad the only time they get along so well is when they’re both asleep.”

“They will. My sisters and I didn’t always get along when I was a kid.”

“No, really?”

He ignored her sarcasm. “Now I find most of them fairly tolerable.”

“Something to look forward, I suppose.”

“So what now? Do you want to leave them here for the night?”

“On the floor?” She sounded appalled at the very idea and he smiled.

“My nieces and nephews prefer the floor to a bed half the time.”

“That may be, but I think they’d probably sleep better and be more comfortable in their own beds. Macy. Owen. Wake up, kids.”

Macy stirred a little but not to full consciousness. Claire repeated her name and the girl blinked her eyes for a moment, then rubbed at them blearily.

“I think I fell asleep.”

Claire’s daughter was as lovely as her mother, with Claire’s blue eyes and warm brown hair. In a few years, she was going to be a stunner. Riley only hoped Jeff Bradford was the sort of dad who could put the fear of God in all the little punks who came sniffing around.

“Sorry.” Macy yawned. “How did the movie end?”

“The same way it did the last time we watched it,” Claire murmured. “And the time before that. And the time before that.”

Macy offered up a sleepy smile as she gathered her cotton throw around her shoulders. “Maybe that’s why I fell asleep. We need to pick a movie I haven’t seen three times.”

“It was Owen’s turn and this was the one he wanted to see.”

“Only he fell asleep in the middle. Wake up, dork.”

Owen grunted in his sleep but rolled over again.

“We’ve got it, Macy. You can go on up to bed.”

Her daughter unfolded from the floor with angular grace. “Night. Love you, Mom.” She walked to Claire’s sofa and wrapped her arms around her mother’s neck.

Claire looked pleased as she returned the hug. “Love you, too, sweetheart.”

Macy gave him a sleepy smile. “Night, Chief,” she said, then headed out of the room.

“Owen, wake up,” Claire said in a slightly louder tone.

Chester opened his eyes and gave them both a bored sort of look, but Owen didn’t move.

“Come on, kiddo. Time to head up to bed.”

The basset hound gave a jaw-cracking yawn and wriggled out from under the boy’s arm and waddled over to Claire. He nudged at her arm.

“Does he need to go out?” Riley asked.

“Probably. Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

He walked to the back door, Chester on his heels. For the first time in more than a week, the night was gorgeous, clear and cloudless and glittering with stars that looked close enough to pluck with his fingers.

The dog seemed content to sniff around the fence line, checking for intruders, so after a moment of waiting for him, Riley returned to Claire and her son, who didn’t look as if he’d budged.

“No luck?”

She shook her head. “He’s renowned for sleeping through anything. Once he fell asleep on the caterpillar train at the county fair. He rode around three times before we could wake him up.”

“Want me to carry him to his bed? I’m assuming his room is upstairs.”

“It is, but let me try one more time.”

“Owen, bath time.”

The boy’s eyes blinked open blearily. “Do I have to?”

She laughed softly and something warm and dangerous twisted through Riley, tugging at him. “Not tonight. You can take a bath in the morning. Can you make it up to your room?”

“I guess.”

He yawned as big as the dog had done and climbed to his feet. “Why did you let me fall asleep in the middle of the movie?” he asked his mother in an accusatory sort of voice.

“I didn’t realize you were asleep until the movie was over. But we can watch it again tomorrow if you want.”

“Next time, wake me up,” he muttered grumpily.

“Easier said than done, kiddo.”

Owen still looked disgruntled, but he gave a halfhearted wave to Riley, then trudged up the stairs.

“I hate not tucking him in,” Claire said in the same sort of disgruntled tone. “That’s been one of the hardest things about this whole thing, but I just can’t tackle all those stairs.”

“Want me to do it?”

She looked surprised. “Do you mind? Macy usually takes care of it for me, but she’s probably already asleep.”

“I don’t mind. Why would I?”

“I usually just make sure he’s under his blankets and the night-light’s on, that sort of thing.”

“Claire, I might not have any kids, but I’m not completely helpless here. I think I can handle it.”

Color climbed her cheeks and in the low lamplight she looked warm and sweet and completely adorable. “I’m sorry. Of course you can.”

Grateful for the distraction, he headed out of the family room, stopping long enough at the back door off the kitchen to let the dog back inside before he headed up the stairs.

Owen was already in his bed, his eyes almost closed. Riley saw in the jumble of bedclothes that he wasn’t inside his top sheet, only under a quilt with cowboy hat and boot material Riley wondered if Claire had made.

His eyes widened when he saw Riley. “Hi.”

“Hey, kid. Your mom felt bad she can’t tuck you in, so I said I’d check on you. Looks like you need to get between the sheets there.”

Owen looked down. “Oh. Right.”

He quickly adjusted the situation, slithering out of one spot and into the other. “Hey, thanks a lot for fixing my bike,” he said when he was settled. “I’m super-glad we didn’t have to take it to the shop.”

“So am I. Have a good night, Owen.”

“Thanks.” He paused. “Will you leave my door open? My mom might need help in the night and I can’t hear her if it’s shut all the way.”

Riley stared at this kid with the earnest freckled face and his mother’s blue eyes, that peculiar tightness in his chest again. How many eight-year-old boys worried about their mother’s comfort in the night? He sure as hell hadn’t.

He cleared his throat. “You bet.”

“Hey, you want to play basketball sometime? I got a new hoop for Christmas, but it’s been too snowy or rainy to use much.”

“Can you do that with the cast on your arm?”

“Oh, sure. But my mom can’t and Macy would rather play soccer.”

“What about your dad?”

Owen shrugged. “He doesn’t like basketball much.”

Just another mark in the Idiot column for Jeff Bradford. “Sure. Maybe. I’ll have to check my schedule.”

Owen seemed to accept the noncommittal answer with equanimity. “Okay. See you later, Chief.”

“Bye, kid.”

He closed the door a bit and headed down the stairs, where he found Claire waiting for him in the living room, Chester at her feet.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

He should leave right now, just walk out the door without another word. This family was seeping under his skin, finding unguarded spaces to settle into. “Owen wants me to come play basketball with him sometime.”

She gave a rueful smile. “Sorry. I’m afraid he’s a little desperate for someone to play with him right now. He probably assumes because you’re male and, um, fairly athletic that you must play basketball.”

“I can try to swing by sometime. He’s a great kid.”

She was silent for a moment. “You’re really good with him and with Macy. Have you had a lot of experience working with kids as a police officer?”

More than he liked to think about, both as victims and perps. “A bit.”

“Well, you seem to know just the right things to say. I thought so the night of the Spring Fling. You’d make a really great father.”

He snorted loudly enough that Chester gave him a jowly faced scowl.

“Hooo. Wrong guy.”

“Why? Haven’t you ever thought about having kids of your own?”

The very idea made his palms itchy, clammy. “You forget. The McKnight men don’t have a great track record in the family department.”

She stared at him for a long moment, brow furrowed, then she frowned. “You are not your father, Riley.”

He shrugged. “Who’s to say I wouldn’t become like him? I’m sure when he and Mom took vows, my dad never intended to abandon his wife and six kids twenty years later to follow his own dreams.”

“It still hurts, doesn’t it?”

He opened his mouth to tell her his father had been gone nineteen years, dead for fifteen of those, and any pain had long since healed. The lie scoured his gut.

“Yeah,” he finally muttered. “Stupid, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think it’s stupid. Only sad. I miss my dad, too.”

He gazed at her, so lovely and pensive there in the low light, and he couldn’t help himself. He leaned forward and brushed his mouth over hers once, then again. She made a tiny gasping sound that sizzled through him. Oh, dangerous. Claire Bradford was a beautiful, hazardous bundle of trouble.

When he moved his mouth slightly to try pulling away in some vain attempt to regain a little sanity, she followed him, leaning forward and up as if she couldn’t bear to break the kiss. He closed his eyes, hating himself, but then he kissed her. Really kissed her. Tongue and teeth, heat and hunger.

The kiss went on and on. Just when he was about to climb onto the sofa with her, cover her body with his, reach beneath her clothing to the soft curves concealed there, a canine snort rasped through the room like someone had just fired up that chain saw again.

He froze and gazed at her, mouth swollen, eyes half-closed. She looked lush and gorgeous, so sensual that he had to move away from the sofa, out of arm’s reach, or he would have grabbed for her again.

“See that?” His voice was low, raw. “I can’t even be trusted to keep my hands off you even when we both know I’m not good for you. I take what I want, regardless of the consequences. Not so very different from my old man, am I?”

She stared at him, blinking back to reality. She gave a shuddering sort of breath, pressing fingers that trembled to her mouth, and he forced himself to look away, hating himself.

“Good night. Make sure you lock up behind me.”

He headed out her back door into the May night.

CHAPTER TWELVE

OH, IT WAS GOOD TO BE BACK.

Claire shifted position in the overstuffed burgundy tapestry chair that now had pride of place beside the antique console table holding the String Fever cash register.

She had no idea where Evie had unearthed the old chair and its matching ottoman. They had been waiting for her when she showed up a few hours earlier, plump and comfortable and exactly the right height.

From here, she could keep her stupid cast elevated yet still be part of the day-to-day action in the store. Evie had even found a little wheeled worktable that fit precisely over the arms of the chair for her laptop and whatever small bead project she might be tackling.

She listened to the chatter of a couple of customers asking Evie a question about a class on the schedule for a few weeks’ time and savored the joy of being back. She felt as if she had been freed from a long, dark winter, tossed headlong into verdant new leaves, warm sunshine, daffodils underfoot.

For the first time in three weeks, she didn’t have that little niggle at the base of her neck, that disconcerting sensation of a life spinning beyond her control. Here, she was centered, calm. She only wished she’d come in a week earlier.

The customers signed up for the class and left together and Evie returned to the inventory list they’d been going over before the women came in.

“So it looks like we’re running low on earring wires and toggle clasps.”

“Wow, already?” Claire exclaimed. “I swear, I just ordered those last week. I guess it must have been longer than that.”

Evie checked the computer. “Looks like six weeks. We had a run on both of those before Mother’s Day. I see you liked your watchband, by the way.”

Claire smile, twisting her wrist to better admire the way the recessed lights played on the gems. “You’re a sneaky thing, aren’t you? What were you doing, encouraging my son to lie to me about his whereabouts?”

Evie smiled. “Not my idea. He came up with the whole thing himself. Even picked out the spacers himself.”

“Well, thank you. It was a lovely gift.”

She’d cried buckets when she’d opened it—just as she’d cried when she opened the matching earrings and pendant Macy must have sneaked in to make. Her children knew her well. Handmade beadwork was definitely the way to her heart.

“Did you have a nice day yesterday?”

She thought of the brunch her mother had fixed, which had tasted slightly better than the crow Claire had decided to eat to ease the tension between them from their argument Friday night.

“Nice. My mom made her fantastic crepes. What about you?”

Evie smiled, though Claire thought it was slightly bittersweet and she wondered again at the past Evie never discussed. “Great. I picked up the dog I was talking about. He’s gorgeous.”

“Where is he?” she exclaimed. “Up in your apartment? You have to bring him down. I want to see! He and Chester can bond!”

“He was sleeping in his crate when I left and I didn’t want to wake him. I’ll go up in an hour or so and bring him down, see how he does in the store. I thought if you don’t mind, I’ll let him play out in the yard.”

“Of course!” One of the things Claire loved best about her store—in pleasant weather, at any rate—was the garden in the back. The fenced space was only twenty feet by twenty feet, but it had a colorful flower garden and a set of lawn furniture she’d found at a yard sale the summer before. On sunny days, the children liked to do their homework out there or play with Chester.

“This is the bolo tie clasp I was thinking about making for the next class at the art center. What do you think?”

Claire admired the cleverly constructed piece. “I think that is a fantastic idea. Maybe we can get some of the husbands involved, the ones who always sit out in their cars and listen to talk radio while their wives bead.”

Evie’s smile was mischievous. “That’s the plan. Get them hooked by making a project for themselves and then they won’t mind when their wives come to the classes in the future.”

“You’re an evil genius in the making.”

“Anything I can do to keep the classes going,” Evie said. “It’s my favorite part of the week.”

Claire completely understood. She had started the senior citizen classes shortly after she took over at the request of some of her regular customers who were looking for an excuse to gather socially while they pursued their favorite hobby. She had found the women hilarious—smart, pithy, immensely creative—and had been delighted with the response. From überwealthy older women with vast vacation homes in the area to humble year-rounders like Mrs. Redmond next door, the ongoing class had been enormously successful and Claire had loved the interaction with Hope’s Crossing’s more seasoned citizens.

After a few months, many of those who came to the Bead Babes meetings started talking about how their arthritis symptoms seemed less severe while they were beading, with increased dexterity and less pain.

With that in mind—and not without a great deal of regret—Claire decided to turn the Bead Babes group over to Evie when she came to town from Southern California a year ago. Her credentials as a physical therapist made it a logical choice.

“What about next month?” Claire asked.

Evie looked suddenly secretive. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“You can’t quit,” Claire said instantly. “I don’t care. I won’t let you. I know there’s no such thing as indentured servitude anymore, but I’ll figure out a way to make it legal again.”

Evie laughed. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere. Well, not taking a new job anyway. You know I love it here. But I’ve been kicking around the idea of going out on the summer craft show circuit. So many of our customers who bead have had their lives tangled up in the poor economy. I was thinking I could take their work out on consignment across Colorado. Charge a nominal fee to them, mainly to cover the booth costs. It’s sort of a win-win for String Fever because the beaders will buy their supplies from us, plus we can advertise at the craft fairs at the same time.”

“Evie, that’s brilliant!” Her mind raced with possible beaders who might be in need of a little extra income. Unfortunately, with the high taxes and cost of living in Hope’s Crossing, that list was longer than it should have been.

“I love this idea. Which shows were you thinking?”

“Well, because you asked,” she smiled. “I made a list.” With her usual efficiency, she pulled out a folder next to the cash register and extracted a piece of paper. “This was just a listing of all the fairs within a two-hundred-mile radius.”

“Wow! So many. I had no idea.”

“Yes, I was thinking I would start with…”

Whatever she intended to say was cut off by the melodic chimes on the door, heralding a new arrival. Chester looked up with interest, then dropped his head again when he spied Ruth.

“Hi, Mom,” Claire said.

“Oh, thank the good Lord. You’re here.”

Her heart gave a sharp kick at the urgent note in her mother’s voice and her cast nearly slid off the ottoman as she straightened in the easy chair.

“What is it? What’s wrong? Is it the kids? Did the school call you?”

Ruth’s brow furrowed. “The school? No. Why on earth would they call me?”

She ordered her breathing to slow, her shoulders to relax, the visions of mortally ill children to clear. “I don’t know. You just sounded so frantic when you came in. I assumed something was wrong with the kids.”

“Of course I was frantic. I’ve been worried sick about you! I went to your house and you weren’t there and I called your cell phone and you didn’t answer. I thought maybe you’d had to go to the hospital or something. I’m so glad I decided to check here first.”

“I’m sure if Claire had to go to the hospital, you would be the first one she called,” Evie said in her quiet, calm voice.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Ruth muttered.

Claire wasn’t so certain, either, but she decided this might not be the best time to mention that.

“I must have turned off the ringer on my phone. I’m sorry.” She pulled it out of her purse on the floor beside her and saw she had, indeed, missed six—count ’em six—calls from her mother.

“I never dreamed you were back at work. What are you doing here anyway?” Her mother went on. “You’re not at all ready to come back to work!”

Claire swallowed her sigh. “Mom, it’s been three weeks since the accident. Dr. Murray cleared me last week and even Jeff said there’s no reason I can’t return to work, as long as I take it easy.”

“Which, for you, is easier said than done. You nearly died. I would say that warrants more than a few days away from work.”

Three weeks did not a few days make—and while the accident had certainly been scary and she wasn’t at all eager to repeat the experience, her mother’s assessment was a bit of a stretch.

“I’m feeling much better now. I was more than ready to come back.”

“You’re going to be sorry. You watch. You’re going to overdo and then you’ll pay the price. You always think you can handle more than you should.”

Since when? In Claire’s view, the opposite was probably more accurate. She always feared she would crack apart under the strain of all she had to do, but somehow, despite the odds, she always managed to get through.

“I have been easing into the work, Mom. I promise. I’m hardly doing anything, just ask Evie.”