LITMIR.BIZ

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somewhere else. He flipped through the paper messages as he headed back to his office, only to stop. “What’s this number?” One of these days, he needed to get the county to spring for a voice-mail system. Carla’s writing had never won any awards for legibility.

      Carla craned her neck, peering at the message. “Um, a five.”

      He nodded and started for his office again. Behind him the door jangled.

      “I’d like to make a complaint.”

      He stopped cold. Slowly turned.

      Laurel stood in the doorway. Her hair was still pinned back the way it had been in the café, but her cheeks were flushed, her golden eyes snapping.

      “Excuse me?”

      “I have a complaint.” Her voice was as crisp as her eyes.

      Carla was watching them avidly. She liked hearing gossip almost as much as she liked sharing it.

      “We’ll talk in my office.”

      “I don’t want to talk in your office.”

      “Laurel—”

      “Good heavens. You’re little Laurel Runyan. I should have recognized you the second you walked in.” Carla was around her desk in a flash. “Carla Chapman. I used to sit in a quilting circle with your grandmother. She was the oldest, I was the youngest. Neither one of us could abide any of the other women. She used to bring you with her, though. You’d sit in a corner in the quilting room with your own squares and a big ol’ darning needle and yarn. I’ve heard you’re a teacher. That’s a fine thing. Lucille would be proud. And my condolences on your daddy passing,” she added belatedly.

      Laurel looked a little dazed. “I remember the quilting circle.”

      Carla looked pleased and only slightly abashed when she caught the look Shane was giving her. She cocked her eyebrow and returned to her desk.

      Shane grabbed Laurel’s arm, ignoring the start she gave, and led her back to his office. He let go of her as soon as they entered his cubicle and flipped through the messages again without bothering to look at them. Mostly he wanted to rid his hand of the feel of her supple arm.

      “Okay, what’s the complaint?” He sat down behind his desk.

      She, however, didn’t sit. She crossed her arms, looking at him with a schoolmarm look that probably did wonders for straightening up mischievous third-grade boys.

      For a thirty-five-year-old man, it did not have the desired effect.

      “Just because you loathed my father, and dumped me the second you’d finished with me, does not give you the right to harass me about what I choose to do or not do with his house, or to dictate what I do with my time while I’m here!”

      “I didn’t dump you.” He kept his voice low. His conscience, however, was screaming at him with the ferocity of a freight train.

      Her eyes went even chillier. “There may be some things I don’t remember, Sheriff, but I remember that quite well.”

      He wished she’d sit. Or pace. Do anything but stand there the way she was, looking as cold and brittle as a narrow icicle. An icicle that could snap in two as easily as a whisper.

      “I didn’t know how much you remembered.” He’d been an ass. An ass who’d been old enough to know better than to get involved with her. Eighteen or not, she’d still been too young and innocent.

      Neither fact had stopped him back then.

      He hoped to hell he’d learned something in the years since.

      Her expression remained glacial. “Not remembering what I saw the night my mother died does not mean I cannot remember the exact details of how you dumped me an hour before it happened.” Her chin lifted a little. “Therapy,” she clipped, “does wonders for enabling a person to state…unpleasant…facts. And the unpleasant fact is that you don’t want me in Lucius at all. You probably figured that with my father’s death, your town was finally free of Runyans.”

      He leaned back in his chair. The springs squeaked slightly. “That therapy may have done you a world of good, but you are way off the mark when it comes to reading me.”

      “Really. You can’t wait for me to sell my father’s house. To dump it, really. You nearly came unglued when Evie was talking about someone—me—replacing Mrs. Cuthwater. And then this festival business? What’s the matter? Are you afraid a Runyan will bring rack and ruin to the innocent children of Lucius?”

      “No. I’m afraid Lucius will bring rack and ruin to you.” He exhaled roughly, wanting to rip out his tongue. Where the hell was his control?

      Her lips parted, and all the color drained from her cheeks.

      He went around to her, taking her arms. “Sit.”

      She shook off his hold. “I don’t need to sit.”

      An icicle. Too easily snapped in two. “Laurel, please. I didn’t intend to upset you.”

      “Of course not. Heaven forbid you upset the crazy lady. She might just lose her mind again.”

      “I never said you were crazy.” Maybe he was. Maybe that was why he sometimes still—all these years later—woke up sweating in the middle of the night with the vision of her inside that room at Fernwood, rocking herself to sleep, her eyes roiling pools of despair.

      “You didn’t have to say it,” she whispered. “When everything you do makes it obvious you think it.”

      Then she turned on her heel and walked out of his office.

      Chapter Four

      The next day, Laurel took the bus back to Lucius from Billings after returning the rental car there. Keeping it longer was simply an excuse she couldn’t afford. But standing in the depot, she very nearly changed her mind about climbing on the bus.

      Wouldn’t returning to Colorado be preferable to returning to Lucius?

      She could find another teaching position. She did have good credentials, after all. She’d left her last school on good terms. Had even helped find her replacement. She’d been planning on marrying. Martin had wanted to travel. See the world. He was forty-five and more than financially able to take an early retirement. Giving up her job had been perfectly understandable, considering the circumstances.

      There was no earthly reason why she had to return to Lucius. The junior choir would survive without her intervention. Mrs. Cuthwater could keep on substituting for third grade. Laurel could contact that attorney—Mr. Newsome—and put him in charge of disposing of her father’s house and personal effects.

      She didn’t have to go back.

      The worst memories of her life lived in Lucius.

      But so did the very best memories.

      When she went up the ramp of plywood that covered the perilous porch steps at her father’s house, she couldn’t pretend that she hadn’t chosen to return willingly.

      None of it had anything to do with Shane, of course. Heavenly days, no. Where would be the sense in that?

      Whether or not he admitted it, at worst the man thought she had a screw loose. At best he thought she needed coddling to make sure her screws didn’t come loose.

      So she unlocked the flimsy lock and went inside, leaving the door open for the fresh summer air. Even after only a half a day of being closed up, the house felt stuffy and close.

      In her marathon cleaning sessions before the funeral, she’d managed to rid the house of its suffocating layer of dust, but instead of making the house look better, she’d only managed to make its rundown condition more evident. Yes, the windows were clean and shining again, but the cracks only glistened more. Yes, the cobwebs were gone, but the walls and ceilings now screamed for fresh plaster and paint.

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