Blue Ridge Hideaway

Bret rubbed his hand over his neck and said, “You have to admit that I’m not responsible for my father’s mistakes.”

“What about the Donovan family honor? Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “I think our family honor, if we ever had any, went up in smoke at the craps table in Mountain City. Let me sleep on this. I’m going to try to work something out that’s fair to everyone.”

“So I’m supposed to just go away and come back tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to leave. If you attempt the drive down the mountain in the dark, you could end up wrapped around an oak tree.”

“Okay, I’ll stay. But I’m sleeping with one hand wrapped around my can of Mace.”

Bret placed his hand over his heart. “Ouch.” And then he smiled, and she felt that sense of comfort again. And she didn’t like it all that much. A girl gets to feeling too comfortable with a man, and that’s when her life starts unraveling.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever happened upon a special place, one you knew would stay in your memory forever? I had just such an experience at the Walasi-Yi Outfitters in the north Georgia Blue Ridge Mountains. A rustic building of wood and stone, the campers’ store and refuge was old, solid and welcoming. Its enduring architecture made the structure an integral part of the mountain environment.

I saw many hikers with rugged shoes, hats to shade their faces from the sun, and large backpacks. I also saw dogs with their own packs, slung like saddlebags over their backs.

The store had everything a backpacker could need. Freeze-dried foods, lightweight cooking utensils, sleeping bags, bug spray. Most hikers came for an hour or so and then continued on their way, refreshed and restocked for the rest of the journey.

I longed to place a story in this setting, and Blue Ridge Hideaway provided the perfect opportunity. I hope you will enjoy Bret and Dorie’s journey, and maybe even trek through the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains someday. If you see the Walasi-Yi, stop and visit.

I love to hear from readers. You can contact me at cynthoma@aol.com or visit my website, www.cynthiathomason.com

Cynthia

Blue Ridge Hideaway

Cynthia Thomason

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CYNTHIA THOMASON Cynthia inherited her love of writing from her ancestors. Her father and grandmother both loved to write, and she aspired to continue the legacy. Cynthia studied English and journalism in college, and after a career as a high school English teacher, she began writing novels. She discovered ideas for stories while searching through antiques stores and flea markets and as an auctioneer and estate buyer. Cynthia says every cast-off item from someone’s life can ignite the idea for a plot. She writes about small towns, big hearts and happy endings that are earned and not taken for granted. And as far as the legacy is concerned, just ask her son, the magazine journalist, if he believes.

This book is dedicated to my beloved husband,

Buddy, who walked many trails with me.

I will remember every one.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER ONE

“THIS IS IT!”

Dorie slammed on her brakes, bringing her work-weary Ford Ranger to a shuddering halt in the weeds bordering the two-lane North Carolina Route 23. “The place actually exists!”

A shaft of sunlight had managed to spear through the gloom of gray clouds, illuminating an arrow and the words The Crooked Spruce crudely painted on a roadside plaque. Another few minutes and dusk would have settled, making it likely Dorie would have missed the sign altogether.

She turned her wheel sharply to the right, grinding her front tires on the road’s gravel approach. “You’d better be here, Clancy! I didn’t drive all this way to find out I’ve been on a wild-goose chase.”

The sign nailed to a wooden post could have been constructed twenty years ago or only yesterday. The road looked as if it hadn’t been regularly navigated since...well, in a long time.

Dorie tossed aside the penciled map the clerk at the convenience store had scribbled for her twenty minutes and twelve miles ago. He hadn’t been much help, telling her he had seen the name Crooked Spruce on a small sign on a rural highway.

“No kidding, it’s a small sign,” she mumbled, starting the ascent up the mountain. When she’d asked the clerk if he’d ever been curious enough to investigate the place, he’d scratched his chin and told her to come back and tell him when she found out what it was.

Armed with this scant information, Dorie drove under the canopy of tall trees whose bare limbs waited for the first leafy buds of spring. She shivered in the skeletal shadows of branches dripping with the icy remnants of a late-afternoon shower. She’d left the balminess of a sixty-three degree day in Winston Beach, North Carolina, at noon—more than six hours ago. Here in the mountainous region of the same state, she’d had to stop and put on her parka to ward off a twenty degree dip in temperature.

Her pickup’s engine labored on the steep climb up the mountainside. And with each rounding of narrow curves, Dorie’s heart beat faster. For the half mile she’d driven so far, she’d noticed rugged pathways cut into the forest, some still patchy with snow. Perhaps cabins existed in the woods, but she hadn’t seen any sign of human life. No wonder. Who would be out on this blustery March day?

After a few minutes, another signpost loomed ahead of her. This one, obviously new and professionally constructed, arched across a substantial wooden entryway and identified her destination with two bent, short-needled trees burnt into either side of the words The Crooked Spruce Outpost.

“Clancy Donovan, it’s just like you to hide away in some backwoods place where the only living creatures who see you have four legs.” She aimed her truck into a clearing. “But you can’t hide from me now, and you’d better still have my money.”

About a hundred yards ahead, Dorie discovered a peaked-roof, two-story log building about the dimensions of a double-wide trailer. And this remote pocket of civilization included a population of at least one.

Dorie narrowed her eyes at the man perched near the top of an eight-foot ladder. Could that be Clancy? A quick appraisal of the man’s wide shoulders under his plaid wool mackinaw and his crop of thick coppery hair sticking out from a baseball cap convinced her that he wasn’t. What little hair hippie-throwback Clancy had was gray and usually tied in a leather strap at his nape.

She searched in her purse until she wrapped her hand around the container of mace she’d bought for this trip. Not that she believed she’d need it. She could handle Clancy. But the guy on the ladder was another story. Besides, a woman traveling alone should always be prepared for emergencies.

Dorie shifted the Ranger into Park a couple dozen feet from the structure. The man must have been oblivious to the not-so-stealthy approach of her eight-year-old truck since he didn’t interrupt his work to check out her arrival. Flecks of brown paint fluttered to the ground as he scraped a putty knife under the eaves of the building’s large screened porch.

She turned off the engine, and the truck made its customary hundred-thousand-mile wheeze, a cross between a cough and a hiccup, and Dorie held her breath. No way the man could ignore that sound.

He turned suddenly, dropped the putty knife to the tray attached to the ladder and pulled foam-covered earbuds from his ears. He peered into the window of her truck. Dorie’s gaze connected with his dark eyes, the color indistinct in the shadow of the building’s overhang. Could be deep brown or charcoal. She wondered why it mattered. He wasn’t Clancy. From the relaxed way he balanced his substantial height on the ladder, he had to be at least thirty years younger than the stoop-shouldered man she’d come to find. Gripping the mace, she exited the car and stood by the driver’s door.

“Hey, there,” the man said, his voice exhibiting neither malice nor welcome. “We’re not open yet. Not for another month.”

“Fine with me,” Dorie said. “I’m not here to take advantage of your services....” She glanced into the porch and noticed assorted outdoor furniture stacked up, apparently not in use at this time. “Whatever those services may be,” she added.

The earbuds dangling over his shoulders, he stepped down from the ladder and flicked a button on an MP3 player attached to the top flap of his jacket pocket. “Okay, then what can I help you with? You take a wrong turn?”

The sad irony of his question almost made her laugh out loud, though this guy couldn’t know the downward spiral the past six months of her life had taken.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A man.”

His mouth quirked up in a little grin. “Like I said, we don’t open for more than four weeks. You might have more luck finding one then.”

She released a breath of frustration. “You don’t understand. I was told a particular man might be here. I’ve driven a long way to find him. His last name is Donovan.”

He walked toward her. A slight limp in his right leg contrasted with the fluid movement of the rest of his body. He held out his hand. “Well, then, you’re in luck, after all. I’m Donovan.”

She stared at his hand as she backed away from him. “No, you’re not Donovan.”

He dropped his hand to his side and pierced her with a sharp gaze, with eyes that she now realized were dark brown, like the color of a pinecone. His look was half puzzlement, half irritation. “I’m sorry, but you’re not likely to win this argument,” he said. “I do know my own name.”

She wasn’t handling this well. She was nervous, tired and, of all the outcomes she’d gone over in her mind during the drive from the Outer Banks, the possibility of finding two men with the same name in the same place wasn’t one of them. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m looking for Clancy Donovan. Do you know him?”

“Clancy, eh? You’re close. I’m Bret Donovan.”

He was about to speak again as a shout came from the side of the building. “I heard a car. Who...?”

Holding a scrub brush, Clancy Donovan stopped dead, dropped a bucket of murky water next to his rubber boots and gaped at Dorie. After a few seconds during which he obviously pondered the ramifications of her appearance, he said, “Oh, shoot. Dorie. How did you find...?”

She advanced on him. “You sorry son...”

“Watch your language,” Clancy said. “We’ve got a child living here.”

She pressed her lips together and did a quick survey of the property. She didn’t see a kid, but decided to try and rein in her temper, anyway.

Bret quickly blocked her path. “Luke isn’t due back until tomorrow. You know that,” he said to Clancy. Then, turning to Dorie he said, “Looks like you’ve found what you came for.”

She tried to sidestep him. He put his palms up and stepped with her, a frustrating no-win dance she didn’t appreciate. “You’re not going to keep me away from him,” she said.

While staring into Dorie’s eyes, Bret spoke to Clancy. “I take it you know this woman, Pop?”

Pop? Clancy has a son? He’d never mentioned having any family. She’d thought he was a lonely old man, a conniving lonely old man who drew unsuspecting victims into his seedy con games. At any rate, she’d never have picked this Bret fellow to be Clancy’s offspring. He was at least five inches taller than his father, and despite the catch in his walk, definitely an impressive guy. And, since everyone knew blood was thicker than water, possibly a dangerous one.

She flexed her grip around the mace and positioned the index finger of her right hand on the spray trigger in case this encounter turned into a two-against-one situation.

“He knows me all right,” she said. “Tell him, Clancy. Tell him just how well you know me.”

Bret’s face tightened into a frown of disapproval and Dorie realized how he might have interpreted her words. “Not like that!” she said. “How could you think...?”

He removed a stained Florida Marlins ball cap, pushed strands of hair off his forehead and resettled the hat low on his brow. “Let’s all calm down a minute.” He held his calloused, long-fingered hand out toward Dorie a second time. “Look, Miss...”

“My name’s Howe,” she said, keeping her hand on the trigger. “Dorinda Howe. Dorie.”

He lowered his hand again. “Dorie, I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d put away that can of pepper spray.”

She’d thought she’d concealed the canister from view. “How did you know...?”

“It’s an old habit from a previous profession. Back in those days, I never approached anyone without looking at what might be in their hands. That applies especially to unannounced visitors who seem to have a serious ax to grind about something.” He cocked his head to the side and managed a small grin. “But here’s a tip. If you want to be really sneaky with that thing, you should choose a color other than hot pink.”

Very funny. She didn’t bother explaining to him that she came from a worse-for-wear seaside village with a rowdy population and a high crime rate—a far cry from the typical Outer Banks tourist spot. Canisters of mace went fast, black being the popular seller. Maybe it was just as well he knew about her weapon. Neither of these men would try anything, knowing she could temporarily send them into fits of coughing with a couple of well-aimed bursts.

“I think I’ll hold on to it, junior,” she said. “If it’s all the same to you.”

He scowled but didn’t press her to give up her protection. “Fine, but at least put it in your pocket. I don’t want it going off accidentally.”

There was something rational and calming about the level tone of his voice, and Dorie decided to trust him that far. Besides, a damp, bitter wind had suddenly swept down from the mountaintop, and she needed both hands to zip up her parka.

Bret turned to his father. “Pop, I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at Clancy. “Go ahead, tell him, Pop. And while you’re filling your son in with all the details about our recent history, I’m going to be right here listening to every word just so you don’t forget to mention the exact amount of money you owe me.”

* * *

BRET HAD A bad feeling about this. In the forty-eight hours since his father had arrived without notice, nothing suspicious or sinister or even questionable had happened. Bret had allowed himself to ease into a sort of complacent acceptance of Clancy’s appearance even though gut instinct told him to keep his guard up—what he usually did when his dad was in his life. And now this—a woman about as mad as a hen in a hatbox threatening the peace and tranquility he’d come to the mountains to find. Past experience had taught him that this woman’s desperate situation, whatever the details, was probably Clancy’s fault.

He did a quick appraisal of Dorinda Howe. She had guts even if she didn’t have the stature to back them up. At a little over five feet tall, with slim legs encased in a pair of straight jeans and most of the rest of her concealed under a hood and a light parka, she didn’t look capable of tangling with a dragonfly. But looks could be deceiving. And she did come packing mace.

He glanced up at the craggy summit of Hickory Mountain. The sun had slipped toward the valley behind them. In another ten minutes nighttime would descend on the mountainside, and this little patch of land would be about as dark as any place on earth. Bret ought to be putting his tools away and securing the property from bears and raccoons while he still had some daylight. But the normally relaxed ending of his day was obviously not going to happen.

Dorie rubbed one hand up and down her arm while keeping a tense fist near the pocket where she’d put the canister.

“You’re freezing,” Bret said. “And it’s only going to get colder. We’re supposed to dip into the upper twenties tonight.”

“Doesn’t this mountain know it’s the end of March?”

He smiled.

“Whatever. I don’t plan to be here to watch the thermometer drop,” she said through chattering teeth. She glared at Clancy. “My business shouldn’t take long.”

Bret swept his arm toward the building. “Let’s go inside. I turned the furnace off this morning since I knew I’d be outside most of the day, but I can at least start a fire while we wait for the heat to kick on again.”

She studied his face a moment before eyeing the lodge with definite longing, but she didn’t take a step. “I don’t know...”

“Look, you’ll be fine. Nobody’s going to hurt you.” He jabbed a thumb in the direction of her pocket. “If anything, we’re scared of you.”

She remained still, apparently considering his promise.

“We’ll just get out of the wind while we talk this over. Besides, I don’t know about you, but I could use a cup of coffee.”

She looked one more time at both men before nodding. “Yeah, coffee sounds good. And there’s another thing...”

“Oh?”

She pointed to the lodge he’d been working on all day. “I’m hoping you have modern facilities in there.”

Understanding her concern, he said, “All the comforts of home. Plumbing included.”

She stepped back, clearing a path for Clancy. “You go first. I don’t want you behind me.”

He frowned but moved ahead of her. “And I don’t want that can of pepper spray to come out of your pocket,” he said. He stopped at the door Bret held open and looked over his shoulder. “Don’t try using that stuff on me. My son here used to be a cop.”

As Dorie followed him inside she spared a quick glance at Bret. “A cop, eh? And while you were protecting and serving your community, how many times did you arrest your own father?”

Bret let the door shut behind him. “Never had to.” His lips curled up in a grin. “We always lived in different cities.” He started to recite directions to the bathroom, but stopped when his cell phone rang. “I’ve got to take this. It’s my son, and I don’t always get clear cell service on this mountain.”

“Sure, go ahead.”

Anxious as always to hear Luke’s voice, Bret waved Dorie to the hallway bathroom. “Hey, buddy, how’s everything going?”

In a hyper, enthusiastic voice, Luke regaled his father with the latest escapades he’d enjoyed with his cousins.

“Can’t wait for you to get home tomorrow,” Bret said. He hoped his son felt even a small percentage of the longing he himself was experiencing at seeing the boy again. They had been apart almost a week now, and to Bret, that was far too long.

“Me, too, Dad,” Luke said. “But I was wondering why Aunt Julie has to bring me home tomorrow. Why not Sunday? School doesn’t start until the next day.”

Bret hid his disappointment behind parental prerogative, stopping just short of saying, “Because I said so.”

“We talked about this already, Luke. Saturday is the day Aunt Julie can come up here, and Saturday is the day you’re coming home. Okay?”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bret disconnected and stacked logs in the fireplace. He struck a match and blew on the kindling, creating a nice start to a fire. Aware that his father was fiddling with the coffeemaker, he waited to see if Clancy would offer an explanation for Dorie’s accusation. But the only sounds in the room were the crackle of the flames and the hiss of the brewing machine.

Crouched in front of the hearth, Bret turned to his father and said, “I’d really appreciate it if, before she comes out of the bathroom, you’d tell me what you did to that woman.”

Clancy stared at him before taking a seat on a bench at one of the recently assembled wood picnic tables in the center of the all-purpose room. “Why are you assuming I did something to her?” he asked, doing his best to affect a tone of wounded feelings. “Maybe she did something to me. Maybe she showed up here on some crazy vigilante mission, and I’m caught in her crosshairs. Maybe...”

Bret stood, placed his hands on his hips, and fixed his gaze on the entrance to the hallway. “And maybe you owe her money like she said.”

Clancy threw his hands up. “I helped her, that’s what I did! She came into my place looking for a job, and I did her a good turn.”

Dorie stormed into the room, her jacket draped over one arm. “That’s how you’re telling this story? A person could end up homeless because of your good turns, Clancy. In fact, I practically have!”

She marched to the table. Wavy strands of wheat-colored hair fell to her shoulders. She raked her fingers through wispy bangs nearly covering eyes that snapped with blue fury and shoved her other palm under Clancy’s nose. “Give me my money. And don’t tell me you don’t have any of it left!”

He made a show of twisting around to reach into his back jeans pocket. When he pulled out his wallet, he withdrew some bills and crammed them into her hand.

Dorie stared at the pile. “That’s it? There can’t be fifty dollars here.”

“Fifty-two,” he said. “Take it or leave it.”

Dorie stuffed them in her pocket. She looked up at Bret who’d been watching the show with a pretty good idea of how it would end up. His expectations were right on. His father had been up to his old tricks. He’d obviously conned this woman somehow, and he’d run away to the mountains to lay low.

“Arrest your father, Mr. Police Officer,” Dorie said. “He’s a liar and a thief.”

“That may be so,” Bret said. “But I’m an ex-cop, remember? I can’t officially arrest anybody.”

“Well, you’ve got a problem then, junior. I’m not leaving here without my five grand.”

Bret looked at his dad. “Five grand, Pop?”

Clancy shrugged. “Can’t remember. Might have been.”

“So what are you two going to do about it?” Dorie asked.

Bret blew out a long breath. He was going to have to tell this woman that he wasn’t responsible for his father’s debts. And when he did, was he going to have to wrestle that can of mace out of her grip?

“Right now I’m going to put more wood on the fire,” he said, buying some time. The room was growing colder by the minute, but the chill he felt now had little to do with the plunging temperature outside.

CHAPTER TWO

WITH THE FIRE roaring nearby, a whisper of heat coming from the floor vents and her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee which Bret had refilled twice, Dorie felt a subtle hint of encouragement seep into her bones. Tension eased from her shoulders. She let out a long breath and took an even longer one deep into her lungs.

As her body let go of some of the day’s anxiety, she made a thoughtful appraisal of Bret Donovan that went beyond his obvious good looks. He had been attentive and responsive to her story. Perhaps, she almost allowed herself to believe, even a bit sympathetic. Could she conclude now that he was nothing like his father and would do the honorable thing and make amends for what Clancy had done to her?