Burn on the Western Slope (Crimson Romance) (9 page)

“Oh. No. I’m just trying to decide what to cook for dinner tonight.”

“Our potatoes and squash are on sale this week. I’ve got a good soup recipe if you want to try it.”

“Okay. I need some potatoes anyway,” she said. After loading a bag of potatoes, celery, and squash, she spotted bunches of mint. “Oh wow, you carry fresh mint?” She lifted a bunch and sniffed it before placing it in her cart. “I didn’t notice this the other day.”

“Chayton grows it indoors all year because he uses a lot in his specialty drinks. He always gives us some to sell, but we run out most of the time. It’s a popular item.”

“Cool.” She grabbed another bunch. One could never have enough mint, and it’d taste good in the soup.

“Your uncle was a huge fan of mint.” Randy’s tone of voice should not have spread chills up her arms. It was polite and normal and friendly. Nothing strange about it, but edifying in the sense she’d wanted someone to tell her about her uncle for so long.

They had something in common.

She was afraid her pause would make Randy regret his words, so she looked at him and smiled, nodded, blinked, looked down, shuffled her purse to the other shoulder, and looked at him again, all the while trying to remain composed. “Really?” she asked.

“Yep. He put it in anything. Used it like most people would use mustard or ketchup or salt and pepper. He cooked it in beans and put it with cucumbers and ranch dressing. Chayton grew it for him and the store started carrying it. Ray started a tradition around here.”

Tears feathered her lashes as she bit down on her cheek and glanced away. Her mom didn’t care for mint. Didn’t understand why she liked to add it to cucumbers and ranch dressing.

Ray would have understood. They would have laughed together. She wondered what it would have been like to sit down with Ray and share a meal, a conversation, a laugh.

“Sounds like we had a lot in common,” she said softly. Too softly to sound unruffled.

“Well, I’ll be sure to keep it in stock for you, as long as you’re here.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.” She inched her cart forward, her mind still on Ray. She feared her reaction worried Randy and didn’t want him to notice how his information affected her. “See you next time,” she added with a lighter note in her voice.

Grief washed over her. Grief at what she’d never known, would never have a chance to know. She felt close to Ray in this town, with people he loved and people who loved him. And that’s as close as she’d ever be.

She didn’t buy too many groceries because she’d have to cart them back to the condo on foot. The task was easier with Naomi. She should probably rent a car if she planned to stay much longer but wasn’t ready for that yet. Since opening a post office box was on her list of things to do, she stopped there next. It was only a block away.

The weather shifted in the few minutes she’d been inside, turning from calm and sunny to windy and gray. The sun peeped through clouds as if trying to be noticed through glacial wind. Though it wasn’t snowing, the wind shaved crumbs of snow from the ground and trees and wove it into new patches. After almost slipping on a bit of ice-covered snow, she slowed her steps and kept her body slightly bent to stabilize her. The three plastic bags of groceries encircled her wrists, the bulky coat a barrier between the sack handles and her skin.

She should definitely consider that car, even if driving in these conditions was scarier than walking.

The wind pushed against the door as she struggled to open it. The room with the post office boxes was vacant save for one man checking his box. The wind slammed the door behind her and she collapsed against the wall, steadying her stance and her breath.

“You alright?” the man asked.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s windy outside.”

“There’s a storm blowing through,” he said. “I hope it doesn’t take out our electricity like last time.”

“Me, too,” Reagan said. She had no idea what happened last time, but being without electricity didn’t sound appealing.

“After that experience, I decided to buy a small generator.”

“Probably a good idea,” she said. She noticed the locals would make small talk with anyone who would hold still. “See you later.”

She opened the door to the main post office and introduced herself. Everyone immediately gushed over her when they learned she was Ray’s niece.

“We have some mail for him,” a lady said. “But your name is listed on his box, so I believe it belongs to you now.”

Reagan was stunned to learn it would be this easy to claim his mail. He trusted her a lot by giving her access to his post office box. “Great, thanks.”

“I’m Martha,” the woman said when she returned with a stack of mail and small package. “Come back in a few days and I’ll have you another key for the box so you won’t have to come inside each time.”

“Okay. Thanks,” Reagan said.

The room with the postal boxes was empty when she stepped out. She stopped at a table and plunked down her bags, studying the package. No return address with a postmark she didn’t recognize, addressed to Ray on a typewritten label. She dropped it in a grocery bag and flicked through the other mail.

Two outdoor magazines and a bill for another. They went in the sack. A few Christmas cards addressed to Ray from people she didn’t know, she would open those later.

A letter addressed to her at Ray’s box number, another no return address. She stopped at that letter, flipping it front to back as she eyed the postmark. How had anyone known to send her mail here?

Shedding one glove to free her hands, Reagan tore into the envelope and unfolded a piece of notebook paper ripped in half. Block letters, the words written in a black marker across a half-torn page.

Death is near.

Go home.

It’s not safe for you here.

She stumbled back a few steps. The letter and envelope swished to the floor, falling face up. The large black print leered at her.

She wasn’t sure what it meant, but anger overtook fear. As she knelt to retrieve the letter, the door clanked open, hurling a chunk of frigid air that drove the paper further from her reach. In her desperate attempt to grab the paper before someone else saw it, she fell.

An elderly woman bundled in coats and scarves entered. “Oh dear, do you need help?”

“No, thanks. Just dropped my mail.” Reagan salvaged the letter and stood, urging down the panic that clawed at her throat. The postage mark on the envelope said it’d been mailed three days ago. She recognized the postmark as Florida but didn’t know which city.

Florida? Was this some kind of joke?

A cold vise clasped her heart, making it difficult to breathe. As the words began to swim in front of her, she blinked rapidly, trying to clear her muddled thinking. Who knew where she was? Who didn’t want her here?

Her mom knew where she was, only how could she know where to mail a letter? Reagan hadn’t even known her post office box number until the postmaster gave it to her.

Thrusting the mail in her grocery bags, she wrapped them around her wrists again and walked home, shuffling her feet through the icy patches of sidewalk and road. Fury built a stormy fire within her, but she managed to keep it under control by clenching her teeth and breathing heavily. By the time she returned to the condo, she was barely able to breathe. Her nose was congested, her frozen face gave her a headache, and her dazed mind left her reeling in toxic thoughts.

She dumped the bags on the table and tore off her gloves, hat, and coat, letting them fall to the floor. Flipping through the mail again, she came across an envelope addressed to her in Florida with her uncle’s return address and
Return to Sender
penned across the middle of the envelope in her mother’s familiar handwriting. She settled into the chair and tore into the card.

A Christmas card. Snow-covered pine trees etched on front, reminding her of Montana. This card was addressed to her, from her uncle, but he’d sent it in care of her mother’s address. When she opened the card, two fifty-dollar bills spilled to the floor.

Tears burned her throat. How many other cards had her mother returned, unopened, to Ray?

Her mother hadn’t wanted her to come. She’d chastised her until the day Reagan left. She knew Ray’s address. She had to be the only one who gave a damn Reagan was here and who knew Ray’s address. She could have gotten his box number from the Christmas card before returning it to him.

But why? So many questions, with no answers.

Her mom couldn’t scare her. Couldn’t manipulate her. After her parents’ divorce, Reagan had stayed in Florida because her mother needed her more. She wasn’t ready to go back. Sharon was upset that her own brother left her nothing and now wanted to control what he left Reagan by having her close, at her beck and call.

What did she expect Ray to do after she’d treated him this way? She wouldn’t even accept a Christmas card from him.

Reagan called her mom, but Sharon didn’t answer. After three calls within minutes and three messages, she laid her phone on the table and stared out the window, seeing nothing but a gray sky. A gray past. A gray future.

Her mom had kept things from her, lied to her. Made her feel guilty for wanting a brother, a sister. A family. Made her feel guilty for wanting to move after her parents’ divorce. So she’d settled. Stayed in Florida. Stayed close to a mother she thought needed her. She lost faith in herself, a future, a family of her own. And all this time, an uncle she never knew was sending her Christmas cards.

Now her mother was sending threatening letters, trying to scare her into coming home.

It wouldn’t work.

She was still sitting at the table when Naomi walked in. Naomi sighed loudly and bent to retrieve the discarded garments on the floor. Her boots clacked across the wood as she walked to the coat rack and hung everything.

Reagan didn’t move. Didn’t react.

Thoughts roiled in her mind through a black hole of indignation. She didn’t care if Naomi was upset her things weren’t in their proper place. She was so tired of trying to please others.

“Reagan?” Naomi asked, approaching her cautiously as if sensing Reagan’s mood. As she draped a hand on her shoulder, Reagan glanced up.

“Did you have fun skiing?” she snapped.

“It was okay until the weather turned. What’s wrong?”

Reagan handed her the letter, then the Christmas card. “That fell out of the card,” she said, pointing to the two fifties on the floor. Naomi bent to retrieve them, plunking the bills on the table before sitting beside Reagan.

“What is this?”

“Ray sent me the Christmas card in care of my mother, and it was returned, probably after his death. The threatening letter was addressed to me with no return address. There’s the envelope,” she said, tapping it with her index finger.

“Who … ” Naomi began, her voice trailing as if realizing who. Eyes wide, she looked at Reagan. “You think your mom sent this?”

“That’s my guess. She doesn’t want me here. She obviously never wanted me to know my uncle. I knew she was selfish, but I never realized how much until now.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little unreasonable?”

“Why?”

“Because, your mother wouldn’t send you a letter like this. Threatening you.”

“Why not? You know my mother. She would have done it to scare me. I’ve never seen her so desperate to have me stay there with her. And it’s not like it’s a threat. Whoever sent the letter isn’t threatening me. She’s just telling me it isn’t safe here. Well, she thinks anything outside her comfort zone isn’t safe.”

“What’s this?” Naomi tapped the package that sat on the edge of the table.

“I don’t know.” Reagan couldn’t summon the energy or the enthusiasm for more surprises. “You can open it.”

“It doesn’t have a return address.”

“Yeah, just like the letter.”

Naomi tore into the package. Reagan didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t help her curiosity.

“They’re socks,” Naomi said as she lifted them out of the package. “Fuzzy, sparkly socks.”

Chapter Seven

“I asked Naomi out for dinner,” Chayton told Garret as he stumbled into the condo and let his backpack crash to the floor.

“Good for you.” Garret stared at his computer, contemplating a reply to Buchanan’s request for an update on the investigation.
Need more time
. He hoped that would be enough to appease his supervisor.

“She says she has a boyfriend.”

“Really?” That was more than Garret had derived from his conversation with Reagan.

“We can be friends, but that’s it.”

Friendship wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Friends told secrets. Secrets Garret needed to appease Buchanan. But he hadn’t even tried to be Reagan’s friend. Every time he got near her, he longed to touch her in a way that wouldn’t help his investigation. Sleeping with her would mean failure, and he’d already failed Jonathan. He couldn’t fail again.

“So I agreed,” Chayton continued. “I told her that’s all I want, and I thought it’d be nice if we got together for dinner. The four of us.”

Garret swiveled his chair to face Chayton, narrowing his gaze as he braced his hands behind his neck. What was his brother up to?

“So get ready. We’re going out to dinner with Reagan and Naomi.”

“Now why in the hell would I want to do that?” he asked, but Chayton ignored him and disappeared into his room.

After their game of pool the other night, he’d danced with Reagan. When her body had been up against his like that, the last thing on his mind was being friends. Being an investigator. Being a fucking federal agent trained to defeat the worst of the bad guys but unable to do so.

It’d taken every last ounce of self-control he possessed to keep his hands off her, which was why he resorted to whiskey and pretense. So he’d downed another glass of whiskey, played pool with Andy, and did his best to ignore Reagan. Chayton had escorted the girls home so they wouldn’t have to walk by themselves, only to return to Air Dog and battle the remaining customers. After another round of whiskey for Garret, Chayton helped his drunk brother home.