RaeAnne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry Summer\Woodrose Mountain\Sweet Laurel Falls (32 page)

Claire gasped. “Mother! You can't! You cherish those.”

When she was a girl, she was only allowed to even look at the antique jewelry set on very special
occasions. “I wanted to talk to you about it because, really, it's your legacy. If you don't want me to donate it, I won't.”

“It's a piece of Hope's Crossing history.”

She knew the story well. Her ancestor, Hope Goodwin Van Duran, had been the first schoolmistress when this area was just a hardscrabble mining camp. She'd fallen in love with a rough miner who had ended up owning the claim where the largest, most pure vein of silver in the entire canyon had been found. Their fortune had once rivaled any of the silver barons of the day.

Silas Van Duran had founded the town, naming it after his beloved wife. Poor investments and the depression had wiped out most of the family wealth, but out of silver mined from that original strike, Silas had commissioned a lovely necklace of fine-worked silver filigree, centered by a trio of semiprecious stones also culled from the mountains. Claire had loved the necklace. Sometimes she thought perhaps that was the inspiration for her own early fascination with jewelry and beading.

“I want to do this,” her mother said. “If it helps with the benefit, it's a small sacrifice. I think great-great-grandmother Hope would have agreed.”

The generosity seemed so unlike her mother, Claire didn't know what to say.

“Do you mind so much?” Ruth asked at her continued silence.

She felt a small pang of loss for the lovely piece, but her mother was right.

“We can place a fairly high reserve on it,” she sug
gested. “If it doesn't look as if it will exceed the reserve, you can always hold it back and possibly donate it to a museum somewhere.”

“You would know more about that sort of thing than I do,” Ruth said. “The truth is, the actual value of the necklace is not more than a few hundred dollars, at least according to the appraisal I did a few years ago.”

“But historically, it's priceless.”

“I'm hoping someone else in Hope's Crossing will think so, as well.”

“Mother, thank you.”

“Just be careful with it. Put it in a safe place until the Giving Hope benefit.”

“I will,” Claire promised as she gave her mother an impulsive hug. Ruth tolerated it for a moment, hugged her back rather awkwardly, then eased away.

“I'd better get back out,” Ruth said.

“Of course.”

Claire followed her mother out of the stockroom and watched with that amusement again as her mother gave a careful look at the few customers in the bookstore to make sure no one needed anything before she turned back to her.

“The children are with Jeff and Holly this weekend, aren't they?”

“They're going shopping for cribs, I think.” An activity Macy would love but Owen would abhor. Jeff probably would never clue in that an eight-year-old boy had zero interest in outfitting a nursery.

“Need some company? I'm supposed to go listen to some chamber orchestra concert at the resort with
Janice Ostermiller, but I can probably back out if you think you might be lonely.”

Where was
that
coming from? She'd been alone every other weekend for the past two years and her mother had never jumped to keep her company unless she needed something from Claire.

“Don't change your plans. I'm fine. The truth is, I'll enjoy the quiet. I've got plenty of work to keep me busy for the benefit.”

“Owen told me he hasn't seen the police chief around for a while.” Ruth's tone was deceptively casual. “I'm glad to hear you listened to my advice.”

And there went the warm glow from her mother's generous gesture. It fizzled and popped a forlorn little death.

She sighed, remembering the heat of his hands on her arms out on the street a short time ago, that ridiculous urge she had to just close her eyes and rest there against him for a week or two.

“I told you, Riley and I are just friends. We still are. Nothing has changed in that department.”

“Well, I don't expect he'll be around much longer.”

The thought of his leaving clutched at her heart. “Why? What have you heard?”

“Nothing. Not really. Oh, you know how people talk.”

“Excuse me, I'm looking for your regional photography section.” A man she didn't know, probably a tourist, she guessed, interrupted them before Ruth could answer, much to Claire's frustration.

“Oh, yes. Let me show you.”

“I've got to go. I'll see you later, Mom. Thank you for the donation. You can still change your mind, you know.”

“I won't,” Ruth said firmly, then headed off to help her customer.

Claire paused there for a moment in Maura's cozy, warm bookstore, then she pushed the door open and headed back out into the May sunshine.

The delicious smells of yeasty bread and something spicy and delicious emanated from the café and Claire's stomach rumbled. She needed lunch and right now the idea of the café's hot chicken salad on a croissant was close to her idea of heaven.

She pushed open the door and immediately wished she could back right out again.
I'm meeting someone for lunch or I'd offer to buy you a sandwich over at the café.

Riley hadn't mentioned that someone was a young, beautiful redhead with long fingernails and a particularly grating sort of laugh.

She wanted nothing more than to hurry right back out, but she was hungry and her foot hurt and Dermot Caine, owner and operator of the café, was greeting her.

“Claire, darlin'. Haven't seen you in here in an age!”

“Hi, Mr. Caine. Hey, can I have a chicken salad sandwich to go? I'm kind of in a rush.”

“Coming right up, doll. You sit right there and I'll have it for you quick as a wink.”

The five minutes it took him to make her sandwich were excruciating. Even though she studiously avoided
looking at Riley's booth, she couldn't help overhearing the redhead's grating laugh, with a very flirtatious edge.

Finally Dermot brought out her sandwich wrapped in a white paper bag. She paid quickly and, steeling herself, finally looked toward Riley's booth and forced a casual wave. He gave her an unreadable look but lifted a hand to return the greeting.

When she was certain she was completely out of sight of any patrons in the café, Claire sank onto a bench against the wall, one of several conveniently placed around the downtown for footsore shoppers.

She leaned her head against the sun-warmed brick and closed her eyes. She was definitely going to have to get a grip on herself. Hope's Crossing was a small town and they were bound to run into each other on a regular basis. Riley was going to date other women, there was no question about it. Claire had no claim on him—he'd made that clear—and she certainly couldn't fall apart every time she saw him with someone else.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

R
ILEY EASED HIS PATROL
vehicle into the driveway of his rental house, looking forward with great anticipation to a cold beer and the last few minutes of the NBA playoff game he'd set the DVR to record when he left home going on fourteen hours ago.

It had been a hell of a day, one that must have been designed to make him question what he was doing in Hope's Crossing. He had alienated a group of older ladies when he'd had to tell them their traveling poker game was technically illegal because Colorado didn't allow games of chance for money, especially when their stake had grown to more than a thousand dollars. He'd been off duty an hour ago when he'd seen a speeding vehicle weaving around over on Pinenut and ended up pulling over and subsequently arresting a drunk tourist going fifty-six in a twenty-five-mile zone. The guy had tried to play the “powerful friends” card, claiming his girlfriend worked in the governor's office. As if Riley cared. He hadn't cared about anything except yanking the idiot off the streets—until said idiot puked on his shoes, splattering his slacks, and Riley had been forced to change into the backup jeans and T-shirt he kept in his office.

The bright spot to the whole day, he was chagrined
to admit, had been those brief moments at lunchtime when he'd seen Claire.

He'd missed her these past few weeks. It had taken all his determination not to swing by several times after work. To resist temptation as much as possible, he'd ended up taking a circuitous route home most days, coming in from a completely different direction so he wouldn't even pass her house down the street.

As he climbed out, he thought he saw a dark blur near the garbage can next to the house. Probably those blasted raccoons that could sometimes be a problem in this area. He'd already had his can's contents spilled one night about a week earlier.

He grabbed the bag containing his disgusting slacks and decided just to chuck them rather than wash someone else's puke out. Call him fastidious, but he had his limits.

He lifted the lid, making as much noise as he could to scare away any annoying creatures, threw in the bag and closed it again. Suddenly the shape he thought he'd seen materialized into something furry heading straight at him—familiar tail wagging and ears drooping nearly to the ground.

His trespasser howled a little greeting and waddled over to him. Not a raccoon at all, but a very familiar basset hound.

A disbelieving laugh escaped him. All his determined efforts to keep away from her, and fate just kept sending a completely different message.

“You're not supposed to be here, bud.”

Chester gave what looked very much like a “Yeah,
so?” sort of look and just continued to sniff around his darkened yard.

He was probably picking up the cat living across the street that tended to make itself at home with arrogant disregard for property lines.

“Come on. We'd better get you home before the kids start to worry.”

Chester headed into his backyard and with a sigh Riley set his beer-and-basketball fantasy on the shelf for a minute and looked inside the patrol car for something he could use as a makeshift leash, finally settling on the leather belt he'd taken from his disgusting slacks earlier.

“Here, boy. Come on, Chester.”

The dog rounded the house in answer to his name. Riley quickly clipped the belt through his collar, looping it through the buckle, and headed down the street toward Claire's house.

The evening was lovely, the air cool but comfortable and scented with pine, lilacs and the early climbing roses bordering the house next door. This just might be one of the sixty or so frost-free nights the good people of Hope's Crossing could count on each year.

As he neared Claire's house, he heard her call out softly in that peculiarly pitched voice people use when they're trying to command attention but not wake up their neighbors.

“Come on, boy. Where are you? Chester! Here, boy. Come get a treat. Come on, boy.”

Riley should have been braced for the dog to lunge when he heard his name, but with no loop to hold on to, the makeshift leash slipped from his fingers. With
more speed than Riley would have ever given him credit for possessing, the dog poured on the juice and hurried to the front porch, leaving him in the dust.

“There you are,” Claire exclaimed, relief in her voice. “You scared me!”

When the dog waddled up the steps, she reached down and grabbed hold of the trailing end of the belt, frowning.

“What in the world?”

Riley sighed and stepped into the light from her porch. “Mine. Sorry. I improvised after I found him sniffing around my yard.”

“I'm sorry he bothered you,” she said. “I don't know what's gotten into him. He never runs off. I think one of the children must have left the fence unlatched and I didn't notice it in the dark when I put him out earlier. I can't believe he went all the way down the block.”

“I think the Stimsons' cat was on the prowl tonight.”

“That would explain it. Not a big cat lover, our Chester.”

“I'm afraid I'd have to agree.”

She bent down and struggled a moment to unhook the belt, hampered by the awkwardness of her cast.

“Hang on. Let me get that.”

He joined her on the porch, trying not to notice the scent of her, strawberries and springtime, or the way her white cotton blouse gaped open probably a button more than she realized, revealing a tiny hint of the lacy bra beneath.

The belt had seemed a good idea at the time, but removing it proved more difficult than he expected.
He finally knelt to the level of the dog—and within perfect view of Claire's legs beneath the knee-length flowered skirt she wore, one in a cast and the other bare and smooth. The toes of both feet had been painted a vivid, adorable pink.

He cleared his throat and yanked the belt free, looping it around his hand to keep from sliding his fingers up that delectable length of leg….

“Thank you,” Claire said again. “I'm sure he would have wandered back, but I appreciate your going to the trouble to bring him home.”

He rose. “No problem. I didn't want to risk him going into the next block and not being able to find his way.”

She studied him for a moment there and he thought he saw indecision on her features. “Want to come in for a moment?” she asked, the words tumbling over each other quickly. “Angie brought some cinnamon rolls over earlier this evening.”

“My sister Angie?”

“The Demon Seed is what I like to call her, especially when she comes bearing her cinnamon rolls. She brought a whole dozen over, but the kids are gone all weekend. If I don't find somebody to take some of them off my hands, I'm going to eat the whole pan myself.”

“That woman knows how to hold a grudge. I couldn't make it to Sunday dinner at her place last week and to pay me back, she makes you cinnamon rolls and conveniently forgets I live only at the end of the block.”

“Maybe she thinks you're able to find your own pastries,” she murmured.