Finding Hope (Nugget Romance 2) Page 12

  Now those fantasies would feel like a farce. Like an unreturned schoolgirl crush—silly and desperate.

  She continued to eat lunch with the others, chatting and pretending to have a good time. The only person more miserable than she was Justin, who didn’t even try to pretend. He popped in a pair of earbuds and separated from the group to eat alone.

  Just like Emily, he was probably counting the minutes until he could bolt from this cozy summer soirée and partake in his own private pity party.

  Russ Johnson was back in town. Clay had been eating dinner at the Ponderosa and it had taken all of his self-discipline not to slam the prick’s head against the wall.

  If he hadn’t been with Lauren, he probably would have. Johnson had sat in a corner booth, cowering and drinking Glenfiddich like it was water. Apparently he was still a cowardly drunk.

  Clay wondered why he’d come back in the first place. Stupid question. There could only be one reason. And he suspected if anyone would know the details it would be Nugget’s police chief—or his innkeeper wife.

  He checked the south pasture for strays on his way to the square, then headed directly to Rhys’s office. When he got there, Connie was making her world-class coffee and fixed him a cup. Rhys, a former Houston narcotics detective, had once told him that police stations were notorious for bad coffee, but Nugget PD had the best roast in the Sierra.

  “Hey.” Rhys waved him back. He had his feet up on the desk and was eating an egg sandwich from the Bun Boy. “That was nice on Saturday.”

  Clay nodded. “Thanks for taking the kids last night.”

  “Lauren leave this morning?”

  “Yeah. She’s got a busy week.”

  Rhys gave him sharp perusal. “Is there something going on there?”

  “Maybe.” Clay took a seat. “Too soon to tell. But the lady’s smokin’ hot. She runs eight miles a day, has climbed Everest and . . . you saw her in a bikini.” Unlike Emily, who’d worn that dowdy smock over her suit all day. “You know why Russ Johnson is in town?”

  Rhys looked surprised. “I wasn’t aware he was.”

  “He ate at the Ponderosa last night. I assumed he’d be staying at the Lumber Baron.”

  Rhys picked up the phone and dialed. “How you feeling, sugar?”

  Clay paced the office while Rhys finished his conversation. When he got off the phone he said, “Technically, for privacy reasons, Maddy can’t divulge who her guests are. But I’d say it’s a pretty good guess he’s got a room there.”

  “You think something’s going on with Sierra Heights?”

  “I don’t know, but I know who will. Let’s take a walk next door.”

  Clay got up, drained the last of his coffee, and followed Rhys over to Owen’s. For as long as Clay could remember, the barbershop had always been the central meeting place for the town’s power brokers, a contingent of cantankerous old men nicknamed the “Nugget Mafia.”

  They liked to think they ruled the roost, but more important they were the biggest gossipmongers in town. That’s why he knew he could count on Rhys to be discreet. Either these guys knew something, in which case they’d be talking a blue streak, or they didn’t. If not, no need to tip them off. Jennifer had caused enough controversy; there was no reason to start tongues a-wagging all over again.

  When they walked in, the usual crowd, including Mayor Dink Caruthers, sat in waiting chairs, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper. The place hadn’t changed in Clay’s thirty-seven years. Same red, white, and blue barber’s pole, black-and-white tile floor, and stainless steel and leather chair. Same Josey Wales poster, featuring Clint Eastwood.

  “Hey, boys,” Owen said as he wrapped a hot towel around Earl Miller’s face. The owner of the Nugget Feed Store was a regular and one of the mafia.

  “You got time for a trim?” Rhys asked, and glanced at his hair in the mirror.

  “I’ve got time for you, Chief. This one’s on the house.”

  Rhys started to object, but Owen stopped him midstream. “This has nothing to do with you being the police chief. This is quid pro quo for your wife sending me business. The woman’s got me so busy, I’m gonna have to hire help.”

  “What about Darla? I thought she was moving back to Nugget,” Clay asked. Owen told anyone who would listen that his daughter, who attended beauty school in Roseville, was coming back to take over the family business.

  “The girl’s flighty.” Owen cleaned the chair when he finished with Earl and told Rhys to hop up. “You fellows hear about this young buck who’s interested in buying the Gas and Go? Denny says the kid’s legit. He’s already packing up to move to one of those senior retirement resorts near Henderson. The boy wants to turn the place into a custom shop for motorcycle gangs.”

  “Not too short,” Rhys said as Owen snapped a cape around him. “From what Maddy tells me, the kind of bike Mr. Parks is planning to build is more likely to appeal to bankers than to Hells Angels.”

  “I don’t know,” Dink piped in. “You see that Harley he rides around on?”

  “It’s a Ducati,” Rhys said. “Made in Italy.”

  Neither Dink nor Owen seemed impressed. “I saw that little sister of yours having lunch with the guy over at the Bun Boy.”

  “Lina’s been filling in for Maddy over at the inn,” Rhys said. “She was probably showing him around town. It wouldn’t hurt you guys to be a little friendlier, either. That’s the only damn gas station in town and half the time it’s closed. Imagine the convenience of actually being able to fuel up here, instead of having to drive all the way to Graeagle?”

  The men reluctantly nodded their heads, but Owen had to have the last say. “I hear he’s up from LA—probably a damn Dodgers fan. Now, that sweet little cookbook writer living over at your place, Clay, she’s the kind of people we want living here in Nugget.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?” Clay leafed through a two-year-old Sports Illustrated.

  “Keeps to herself,” Owen continued. “Doesn’t come through here wanting to change everything, like some people I know.”

  Clay assumed Owen was talking about Maddy. The town had been less than enthusiastic over her inn, afraid that it would turn Nugget into an overbuilt tourist trap. “Weren’t you just saying how the Lumber Baron packs them in here?”

  Rhys laughed. “What else is going on around town that we don’t know about, Owen?”

  “The Ponderosa girls are having that weirdo, Colin Burke, build them some fancy mansion outside of town. No telling who will move in upstairs from the bowling alley.”

  “Old news,” Clay said, feigning boredom.

  “I’ll tell you what would be news,” Owen said. “If someone could find out the deal with that Colin fellow. Let me tell you, that boy is loco in the cabeza. I’ve seen him circle the Ponderosa four or five times before working up the nerve to go inside. You reckon he served time in one of those loony bins?”

  “I don’t think he’s crazy,” Clay said. “Just shy. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Owen brushed the hair off of Rhys’s neck with a fat brush. “You wanting a trim too, Clay?”

  “I’m good. You just trimmed me a week or so ago.”

  “How’s that boy of yours?” Owen asked, and Clay bristled. He didn’t like that Justin had made a name for himself as a troublemaker. When push came to shove, people in Nugget took care of each other, but they had no qualms telling it like it is.

  Until Jennifer and Justin, no one had call to whisper anything untoward about the McCreedys. Justin was just a boy, going through particularly difficult growing pains. But it embarrassed Clay that his late wife had besmirched his family’s good name. “They’re both real good. Thanks for asking, Owen.”

  “You bet. It’s a shame Tip didn’t make it to see them grow. Now there was a fine man. Raised you up real good.”

  “Yes, he did,” Clay said.

  Clay, disappointed that the barbershop had turned out to be a dead end, waited for Rhys to square up—the police chief refused
to take freebies.

  The bastard Russ must be keeping a low profile if even Owen and Dink hadn’t noticed he was back. It was a far cry from the way he’d initially rolled into town. Loud and bombastic, boasting of how he’d turn Nugget into the next Lake Tahoe. The only person who hadn’t hated him on sight had been Jennifer.

  “Well, that was a waste of time,” Clay said as he and Rhys walked back to the police station.

  Rhys caught his reflection in one of the storefront windows. “I wouldn’t say a total waste. I got a good-looking haircut. You want to grab some lunch?”

  “Nah, I need to get back to the ranch. The boys are riding fences and I don’t like to leave them too long.”

  “Okay. But step into my office for a few minutes.” They passed Connie’s desk and she handed Rhys a stack of pink message slips.

  He put them on his desk and motioned for Clay to take a seat. “Tell Justin the truth, Clay. It sounds like he already knows most of it anyway. With Russ being back, it’s bound to stir up old shit and Justin should get the details from you. Not through the grapevine, or from the likes of that little monster, Sean. Maybe you should talk to Cody too.”

  Clay took off his hat and scrubbed his hand through his hair. “So you don’t think he’s just passing through?”

  “No, I don’t. My gut tells me he’s here to finally resolve the Sierra Heights situation—either dealing with new investors or he’s got a prospective buyer on the hook. The place is a damn hundred-million-dollar white elephant, and my hunch is that it will take him some time to sort out the problems. Since the accident, he’s let the place go to hell.”

  Rhys got up and leaned against the corner of the desk so he could speak in a low voice. “If you need to kick his ass, I understand. But I would appreciate it if you did it in another jurisdiction so I don’t have to arrest my best friend. But, honestly, I don’t think you putting that man in the hospital will help your sons. Not that I know anything about fatherhood—yet. Shep wasn’t exactly a role model. But if it were me, I’d get over my pride, talk to the boys, and take them on a nice vacation before school starts. Hopefully, by then Russ will be gone and any noise that arises over his return will have blown over.”

  “This is more than my pride,” Clay said angrily. “You think I care that she was sleeping with the guy? I couldn’t even look at the woman, let alone touch her. As far as I’m concerned, that sumbitch killed my sons’ mother. At the very least he just sat there, doing nothing, while she killed herself.”

  “And that’s on his conscience,” Rhys said. “Your responsibility is to make sure Justin and Cody have all the support they need. They’re not going to get that if you beat the crap out of the guy and wind up in jail.”

  “I can’t believe he ran from here with his tail between his legs, hiding for more than a year, then just waltzes back like nothing ever happened.” Clay stood up and put his hat back on. “I’ll take your advice under consideration.”

  “Don’t make me come bail you out in the middle of the night. I’ve got a baby on the way.”

  “You won’t have to bail me out,” Clay huffed. “Kiss Maddy for me.”

  He drove home thinking about what Rhys had said. A vacation wasn’t a bad idea. The last one they’d taken together had been to Disneyland when Justin was eight and Cody five. The navy had arranged for pilots who had flown in Operation Swarmer to be reunited with their families for a weekend at the Magic Kingdom. Jennifer had made sure to turn the outing into an absolute disaster, throwing temper tantrums, accusing him of ignoring her, and getting even by flirting with every man from his squadron.

  When he turned up McCreedy Road, he saw the boys on horseback. They were in the south pasture, practicing their roping on a fence post. Growing up in San Diego, they’d only ridden sporadically. But since moving to the ranch, the boys had become naturals. Like they were born in the saddle.

  He pulled off to the shoulder, got out of the truck, and rested his arms on top of the fence to watch them for a while. Engrossed in their practice swings, they didn’t notice him standing there.

  When he got home, he’d dig out the old mechanical steer Tip had taught him on. It had probably been collecting dust all these years in one of the haylofts. The boys would get a kick out of practicing on the dummy.

  In the meantime, he couldn’t resist. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and recorded a video of Justin and Cody lassoing the post. Cody finally caught sight of him and the two boys came loping over.

  “What are you doing, Dad?” Cody asked.

  “I’m watching you. You two are looking good.” Clay held up the phone. “Recorded it for posterity.”

  “Let me see.” Cody hung off his mare, viewing Clay’s screen.

  Justin tried to act uninterested, but he strained his neck trying to get a look at the replay.

  “You finish your chores?” Clay asked.

  Justin nodded. “Can we practice some more?”

  “You’re not hungry for lunch?” The boys shook their heads. “Okay. Be careful. Don’t tie hard and fast or you’ll wind up on your butts. Better to dally. But watch your thumbs.” He’d taught them various roping techniques last summer and the lessons had obviously stuck, because they untied their ropes from their saddle horns and wound them around instead.

  “See you later.” He hopped back into his truck and headed for the hay barn, hoping to find that dummy steer.

  Just as he got down from the cab, he heard loud cackling and clucking coming from the chicken coop. Coyotes and raccoons tended to be nocturnal, but he jogged over to investigate the racket. Maybe a stray dog had gotten into the henhouse. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  But it was Emily. She was smack dab in the middle of the run, surrounded by a flock of Rhode Island Reds pecking at her jeans and fussing. Petrified would be the only way to describe her.

  “Held hostage by a bunch of birds, huh?” He stifled a chuckle.

  “Can you get me out of here?”

  “What’s it worth to you?”

  She took her eyes off the chickens long enough to cast him a dirty look. He opened the gate, went inside, and shooed the hens away.

  “You know you’re bigger than them, right?”

  “I think they’re rabid.” Emily bolted for freedom.

  “Nah. They just think you’re here to feed them.” Clay picked up one of the hens and brought it to her. “Come here, city girl. Put your hand out.”

  Emily shook her head and backed away.

  “Don’t tell me you’re chicken?” He tugged on her hand, turning it face up and let the bird peck her palm. “See, doesn’t hurt.”

  “What about twenty of them doing that? You could’ve found me dead in the pen, with my eyes jabbed out.”

  “You’ve got a rich imagination there, woman. Next time, just pretend to kick at ’em. They’ll scatter in a hurry.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” she said.

  “You run out of eggs?” He went inside the coop and fished through the nesting boxes. “How many you need?”

  “Three, please.”

  He grabbed a mesh basket off a hook and filled it with five—all he could find. “Here you go. What you making?”

  “I’m trying out a couple of quiche recipes for the book.” She turned up her face apologetically. “They take a lot of eggs.”

  “What’s here is yours. Any of those quiches ready to eat? I’m starved.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll bring some over for you and the boys.”

  “Nah, they’re out riding. Why don’t I just come over and save you the walk?”

  “Uh . . . okay,” she said.

  He got the impression she didn’t want company. At least not his company. And for some crazy reason that only made him more determined to spend time with her. He swiped the egg basket from her hand and led the way to the barn.

  When they got inside, the smells coming from her kitchen made him salivate. He watched her bend over to pull something from th
e oven, and even through the most ill-fitting jeans he’d ever seen, managed to trace the outline of her pert butt. He also liked the way she’d pulled her hair back into a ponytail. It highlighted the delicate features of her face.

  Emily set them both places at the table. On a plate she put three different wedges of quiche, herbed potatoes, and a scoop of fruit salad. It looked pretty as a magazine picture, but not the hearty kind of food he usually ate.

  “I made fresh lemonade. Would you like a glass?” she asked.

  He’d have preferred a beer, but said, “Sounds great,” and watched her fix a smaller plate for herself. No wonder the woman was so puny.

  Emily got the drinks and when she sat down, he tucked into his meal. Despite being what he called rabbit food, the quiche melted in his mouth. Holy hell, it was good.

  “Damn, woman, you can cook.”

  Those baby blues of hers, usually desolate as an ice storm, glittered like sapphires from the compliment. And in that instant he couldn’t tear his eyes off of her. He just stared until she turned away.

  “I’m trying to decide which one to put in the book. So if you have a favorite—”

  “I like this one.” He pointed with his fork, hoping to break the tension. “Don’t be embarrassed, Emily. I was just noticing how pretty you are when you light up like that. Most of the time you look sad. I understand why. But when you’re in the kitchen . . . like last time . . . making the cupcakes—” Clay took a breath. “Yeah, I’m making this worse, aren’t I?”

  She surprised him by laughing. “Probably a good time to change the subject.”

  He whipped out his cell phone. “Check this out.”

  She came around to the other side of the table and watched the video he’d just shot of the boys roping. “They’re amazing.”

  “Cody’s got some work to do on his technique, but that boy is fearless. Look at him go. And Justin. Okay, I’m biased, but the kid’s a natural.”

  “Can you do that?” she asked.