скачать книгу бесплатно
She towed in a nourishing breath. She was here for Sam. “Please don’t persuade my son to do things against my will.”
His black brows sprang. “How’d I do that?”
“By telling him to mow the grass.”
Silence. In the woods a bird trilled a minimusical.
She pressed on. “You probably think he’s old enough, that he should be a man. Well, I’ll decide when the time is right and until then I don’t want my son handling machinery.”
He gave her another long look, picked up a compact saw, flicked a switch and notched one end of the plank. When it was done, he carried the wood to the steps.
It wasn’t so much a dismissal as disinterest.
Jon Tucker simply did not care one way or another.
In all her years with Duane, she couldn’t recollect feeling as detached as Jon looked. Alone, yes. Despondent, yes. But never detached to the point where life constituted meaningless mechanical movement from one day to the next.
She drew closer, watching as he fit the board in place. “Sam’s not like other boys.”
Would he quit working and look at her? Discuss this rationally? Or—the thought nipped her mind—was he like Duane after all, harboring an inner explosive rage while on the outside he appeared calm?
Ludicrous. Jon was nothing like her dead husband. She didn’t know how or why, but she sensed a deep, agonizing pain in the man working on his house.
She started back to her yard, weighing her suspicions.
“Rianne.”
She hesitated. “Yes?”
“What’s the real reason?”
“He has a deformed hand.” Lobster claw. An informal medical label for the fusing of all fingers into one, separate from the thumb. A hideous label. But a label, nonetheless.
Something stirred in his eyes. Interest? “I hadn’t noticed.”
“He usually hides his right hand in his pocket.” When he’s around strangers.
“Do you want him to be like other boys?”
“What kind of question is that? Of course I want him to be like other boys.”
“Then let him mow the lawn.”
“That has nothing to do with—”
“It has everything to do with it. Let him be normal. He doesn’t have a disease. He has an individual hand, is all.”
An individual hand. Such an unfeigned term. Her annoyance evaporated.
He came toward her, the hammer in his tool belt softly bumping one strong thigh. Stopping within her space, he reached out and stroked her cheek with a heavy knuckle. The touch shot heat clean to her toes.
She wanted to lean toward it.
Toward him.
His hand dropped and she stood, heart thrumming, unable to move. His lips were masculine, the bottom one more supple. A corner of his mouth hitched—a smile?—then vanished.
“Boy has your eyes.”
“He looks like his father.” Abashed by her outburst, she glanced away. She didn’t want Jon Tucker assuming Duane Kirby meant anything. Anything at all.
“Still has your eyes. Same color.”
“I thought you…” What? Had no interest? Didn’t care?
“Don’t give a damn?”
Her cheeks burned.
He moved closer.
The warm morning and the heat of his body drifted over her. She wanted to scurry under the shrubbery, hide from those intense blue eyes.
“What are you really afraid of, Rianne?”
She stared at him. “Who said I was afraid?”
His eyes darkened. Without a word, he returned, lax-limbed and indifferent, to his tools and wood.
Chapter Three
“Nope.”
“Just like that—no?” Luke Tucker set down his early-morning coffee, fresh from the pot of Kat’s Kitchen. “This town needs a new police chief, Jon. Pat Willard’s let the department corrode for years. You going to sit there and take the chance one of his prodigies,” the word edged on acidic, “will slide into his shoes in September?”
Jon paused, knife and fork hovering over his open Denver sandwich, Kat’s dawn-riser special, and looked across the booth at his eldest brother. “Police work and I don’t mix.”
“Aren’t you taking this a little out of context?”
“Not as I see it.”
Luke’s mouth relaxed. “You’ve got to let go, man.”
Jon stared at his plate. The hunger grumbling in his gut dissipated. Damn. He looked forward to eating breakfast with Luke and Seth. Since he’d moved back, this was one ritual he relished, meeting with his brothers every Wednesday—hump day—for an early bite. It had started because Jon’s kitchen was a shambles. The second week they’d come because he’d needed their company. All those years away…he’d missed his brothers.
And today… Today, Seth couldn’t make the six-fifteen meet because of a job. Or, had it been a setup? Luke charming Jon into taking up the feeble torch Pat Willard would pass on?
No, Seth had too soft a heart. Especially when it involved his brothers or their alcoholic mother who still lived in the same 1920s house on the outskirts of town where they had grown up. Seth wouldn’t know an ulterior motive if it knocked him in the nose.
Nor would his little brother interfere in how Jon handled his pain.
Not like Luke. Who never wasted words or time. Good lawyer.
Jon swallowed the bite he’d been chewing before taking a sip of coffee. “I don’t need you giving me a quickie psych review on how to deal with my kid.”
“If you’re talking about your daughter, I wouldn’t dream of it. If you mean Nicky… That’s another story.”
“And none of your business.”
Hurt flickered in Luke’s eyes before he concentrated on scraping up the last of his scrambled eggs.
Jon set down his utensils with a clatter. “Look, I know what you’re trying to do, and I appreciate it. But I’ve got to find my own way with this.”
“You need to talk to somebody.” Luke held up a hand. “I know. I haven’t forgotten Seth and those school counselors. But this thing… You’re not responsible for what happened to your son, J.T.”
“Yes, I am, dammit.” At the rise of Jon’s voice, several nearby customers glanced their way. He gave them a hard look. Facing his brother, he said quietly, “Bottom line? I wasn’t there for my family. Colleen had to handle Nick’s rebelliousness alone. When I realized there were problems, I should’ve gotten off Drug Squad. But I didn’t. I liked busting down doors and grabbing bad guys too much. I wanted the rush too damn much.” He shook his head, miserable. Should’ve been there for you, Nicky.
“More coffee, boys?” a grandmotherly waitress asked. Kat, owner of the café, held a steaming carafe.
Jon shook his head, caught up in his brother’s inquisition. Caught up in memories of Nicky.
“Thanks, Kat,” Luke said and held out his cup.
Jon studied his brother. Eleven months older, he had the same rangy build as his siblings—a feature they’d inherited from their father. While Jon stood tallest at six-five, Luke didn’t seem any shorter at six-two. The man had shoulders wider than a toolshed and arms that could put a wood-framer to test. While all three brothers had received a variation of their father’s dark coloring, Luke was the only one who’d been blessed with their mother’s aesthetic, straight nose and gray eyes.
Those same eyes settled on Jon. “What?”
“How come you never married again?”
Luke looked away. “Never found the right woman.”
Ginny Keegan had been the right woman. Once. She and Luke had married in college. And divorced eight years later. Three Tuckers, three divorces. Not good odds.
“Okay,” Jon said. “Here’s the deal. I don’t ask you questions, and you butt out of my problems.”
“Circumstances are entirely different. I didn’t lose a son and blame it on my job.”
“Your job wouldn’t lose you a son,” Jon said testily.
“You think defense lawyers don’t work long hours? However, if I’d had a son—” Luke stared into his cup “—he might’ve rebelled just as well to make a point against what I stand for.”
Touché. Teenagers of men in Luke’s position were known to buckle under peer pressure. Hell, teenagers in general were considered a rebellious lot. Hadn’t he, Luke and Seth done the same once? Done whatever it took to be accepted by their pals, despite their deplorable home life?
“Look. You were a good cop, J.T.,” Luke went on. “The best. I’ve checked. You can be again.”
Jon set down his half-finished coffee, dug out some bills and tossed them on the table. “Not gonna happen. I’m setting up to make furniture for the next thirty years.”
Luke’s mouth tightened and Jon quelled a chuckle. No mistaking they were brothers. Both were face pullers when the chips toppled.
He shoved out of the booth. His house waited. “Same time next week?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He gave his brother’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Take care, bud.”
Outside, he took a long breath of warm, sunny air. Living in Misty River felt damn good. It had to. Where else could he go?
Rianne turned the ignition of her Toyota again. Click.
Of course. The old thing would have the nerve to die when she was running late for the first day of work this week. Well, bemoaning the fact wouldn’t start the car either. Thank goodness Sam had gone ahead on his bike.
“What’s the matter with the car, Mom?”
Emily wasn’t so lucky. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, the three days Rianne taught in Chinook Elementary’s library, they rode to school together. A comforting ritual after they’d moved to Misty River a year ago, when her children hadn’t established friendships yet. Then Sam met Joey Fraser who lived up the street and, for her son, going with Mom became “uncool.” But Emily still rode with Rianne.
“The battery’s probably dead, Em.” Rianne sighed. Darned old car. There goes another chunk of budget. Laughing yet, Duane?
“I thought gas made the car go,” Emily said.
Rianne patted the child’s hand, hoping to ease the disquiet she knew churned inside her daughter when things went slightly off kilter. “They both do, pooch.”
“Can you get a new one?”
“Yes, but I need to go to the Garage Center for that.”
Emily followed Rianne out of the vehicle, dark eyes big behind her glasses. “Are we gonna be late? Can I take my bike? Please? I don’t want to be late, Mom.”
“Hang on, honey.” Rianne popped the hood. “Maybe it’s something else.” Something simpler. She could hope.
Other than caked-on grime and grease, the engine appeared the same as the last time she’d seen it. Were the battery terminals more corroded? She couldn’t remember. The car was thirteen years old and, during their marriage, Duane had looked after its mechanics. How long did a battery last? Five years? Ten? The life of the car?
Why hadn’t she asked the mechanic when she’d bought new rear tires last fall?
Because you didn’t want to admit a lack of car sense to a man. Now, look where it’s got you. Late for work and Emily late for school.
She checked her watch. Eight-forty. Fifteen minutes before first bell. If they walked fast they’d make it just in time. “Get our lunches out of the car, Em. We’re walking.”
“But Mo-om, we’ll be way late.”
Rianne surveyed the engine again. “I’ll call Mrs. Sheers and tell her our problem.” Cleo Sheers was the secretary. She’d pass the message on to the principal and Beth Baker, Em’s teacher.
Emily tugged Rianne’s sleeve. “Mom,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” Looking at this mess, she knew she needed a whole new car.
“Troubles?” a low, rusty voice said.
Rianne jackknifed up, almost batting her head on the hood.
