Where There’s Smoke
Doreen Roberts
To Bill,
for being there,
with all my love
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 1
The hot summer wind whistled through the sunburned grasses and blew dandelion seeds across the meadows. Plunging into the woods at the edge of Coopers Landing, it tugged mischievously at Claire Spencer’s nut brown hair and ruffled the waves that curved in an immaculate line just above her shoulders.
She smoothed the errant wisps with an impatient hand and eyed the winding trail that led through the dense trees to the Mitchells’ cabin. Her narrow skirt and high heels were not too practical for a hike through the forest, she thought ruefully.
She should have gone back to the hotel first, but she’d been halfway to Cooper’s Landing when she’d checked out the possible location site for her new business. It seemed such a waste of time to go back to change her clothes.
Now she wished she had taken the time. Her brow felt sticky in the dank heat, and the earthy smell of rotting wood greeted her as she trod carefully over a deep gouge in the heavily rutted path.
Another gust of wind warmed her face, and she shifted her purse strap higher on her shoulder. At the same time, something a little more solid hurtled across the path in front of her. Startled, she froze in her tracks.
Whatever it was had thudded into the wide trunk of a fir, and Claire stared at the object in shocked disbelief. A hunting knife, partially buried in the bark, quivered for a moment or two, then slowly let go of its hold and toppled to the ground.
A shaft of sunlight penetrated the leaves, sending a flash of light across the blade. Claire blinked, still convinced she was seeing things. Then, from behind her, a clear, young voice rang out.
“Oh, cripes, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were there.”
Claire swung around to face the anxious-looking child staring up at her. His skin had been tanned to mahogany and freckles spattered his nose. He wore denim cutoffs and a faded yellow tank top. One strap hung off his narrow shoulders, and by the way he ignored the pebbles under his bare feet, it was obvious he was used to going without shoes.
“Did you throw that knife?” Claire demanded, unwilling to reveal just how shaken she felt.
Bright-blue eyes held a hint of worry as the small head reluctantly nodded. The boy wore a baseball cap back to front, the flap shading the back of his neck. A streak of dirt marred his forehead, and his hands looked as if he’d been using them for shovels in the moist earth beneath the trees.
“I was practicing. I’m getting pretty good with them, too. ‘Cept I missed with that one. That’s how come it whizzed out over the trail.”
Claire swallowed. “How many knives have you got?”
“Four.” He jerked a grimy thumb over his shoulder. “The rest of them hit the target.”
“Don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous tossing knives around in a place where people might be walking?” Where were the parents, she wondered, who allowed a small child to play with such dangerous weapons?
“No one ever comes down this trail, ‘less they’re coming to see my dad,” the boy said earnestly.
For a moment Claire thought she was on the wrong path. Then she peered closer at the smudged face. With a swift jerk of her hand she whipped off his cap. Straight blond hair settled raggedly onto the thin shoulders, and she let out her breath in a sharp sigh. “Harrie! I didn’t recognize you.”
She swept her gaze over the child’s body. “And no wonder. What have you done to yourself?”
The concern on Harrie’s face changed to wary confusion. It had been only two years, but Claire couldn’t blame the little girl for not recognizing her. The last time Harrie had seen Claire was at Harrie’s mother’s funeral, and Harrie had been withdrawn, closed to everyone except her father.
“I’m Aunt Claire, your godmother,” she explained.
The small face broke out in a relieved grin. “Aunt Claire! You sent me all those teddy bears! They’re all over my bedroom. My dad says if you send any more he’ll have to build another room to put them in.”
Claire laughed. As a small child, her best friend had been a battered, one-armed teddy bear. Edward had gone through college with her and to the East Coast. She’d promised herself that when she could afford it, she’d buy at least a dozen more, but somehow, once her finances had improved enough for her to do that, she couldn’t bring herself to surround poor, bedraggled Edward with fluffy new teddy bears. It had seemed like an act of betrayal.
So Claire had indulged her addiction by buying the bears for her goddaughter. They had added up over the years, what with Christmas, birthdays, Valentine’s Day, Easter and just because she saw one she knew Harrie would love.
“Do you think you have room for one more?” she said, digging for the carefully wrapped box in the holdall she carried.
Harrie’s delighted expression was enough to convince her that the child shared her enthusiasm for the furry toys. Restraining the impulse to suggest that Harrie first wash her hands, Claire handed the package over. “I hope your dad won’t mind too much.”
“Nah. He doesn’t mind what I do.”
Claire watched the grimy fingers tearing the package apart. “I imagine he minds about some things.”
“Nope. I’m in charge of the house, so I do what I like. He has more important things to take care of.” Holding up the white bear dressed in its delicate pink lace dress, Harrie glowed with pleasure. “This is a real pretty bear. Thank you, Aunt Claire.”
“You’re more than welcome.” Claire hid her concern as she smiled down at the grubby child. Harrie’s words disturbed her. They had a grownup ring to them that sat all wrong on those very young shoulders, and the implication that the little girl’s supervision left much to be desired would seem to bear out the story Claire had been given.
“Where is your dad now?” Claire asked, watching with amusement as Harrie peered under the bear’s dress to check for underwear.
“At the store. He’s at the store every day.”
“And who takes care of you while he’s working?”
Apparently it was a loaded question. Harrie looked up sharply, her small mouth compressed in a thin line. The wary expression in her bright-blue eyes warned Claire to tread carefully.
“Unless of course you take care of yourself,” she added.
“My dad takes care of me,” Harrie said fiercely. “He takes very good care of me. He’s a super dad, the best dad anyone could have.”
“And what business is it of yours, anyway?” a brusque voice asked.
He’d heard them talking a few yards back and had moved silently the last few steps, curious about who it was on the trail to his cabin.
The minute he’d laid eyes on her, it was as if the past few years had never been. She looked the same as she always had. Cool, elegant and painfully appealing. He’d never touched her, except for a brief kiss on the cheek—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t thought about it.
Even now, in spite of his resentment at why she was there, he felt the same faint stirring of awareness. His anger at himself for his weakness had echoed in his voice when he’d spoken a moment ago. Bracing himself, he stepped out onto the path.
Claire hadn’t heard him come up behind her. Before she could turn around, Harrie’s face lit up and she let out a shriek.
“Daddy! Look what Aunt Claire broug
ht me. Isn’t she beautiful?”
Claire watched the tall, stern-looking man scoop the little girl up in his arms. For a moment his searching glance rested on Claire’s face, then his frown faded as he looked down at his beaming daughter.
“She sure is a beautiful bear,” he said softly. “What’s her name?”
“I haven’t decided. I need to think about it. I want to think of a really special name.”
Turner Mitchell nodded. “I think that’s an excellent idea.” He dropped a kiss on Harrie’s dirty forehead and lowered her to the ground. “Why don’t you go ahead and find a place for her in your bedroom, while I talk to Aunt Claire. Okay?”
Harrie nodded. “Okay. You won’t be long, will you?”
“I won’t be long.”
Something about the grim way he said it made Claire’s nerves jump. She watched Harrie race down the path and out of sight, before turning to face Turner Mitchell.
He hadn’t changed much in the eight years since she’d met him. Flecks of silver now frosted his dark hair at the temples, and the effects of sun and wind had tanned his skin, deepening the lines on his forehead and around his eyes. Otherwise he looked the same. Except perhaps for the hard, bitter set to his mouth.
Like his daughter, he also wore a tank top, but unlike his daughter, the thin fabric stretched taut across his chest, and Claire couldn’t help but notice the muscles rippling in his wide, bare shoulders when he’d lifted Harrie into his arms.
She had seen him only a half-dozen times. It was his direct gaze that she remembered most clearly. From the first, his silver blue eyes had seemed to pierce the armor she’d automatically created the moment Stacey Bridgemont had introduced him as the man she was going to marry.
That same intense blue gaze moved over her now, almost insolently, making her flesh tingle. He had always made her feel vulnerable, and she wasn’t sure why.
“Hello, Turner,” she murmured, unnerved to find her heart thumping against her ribs. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“What are you doing here?” He stood with his legs braced apart, hands on hips, his frayed cutoffs hugging his strong thighs and his feet thrust into leather thongs.
Framed by the thick stand of firs behind him, he looked very much as if he belonged in the forest—a little wild, a little aggressive and just a little threatening.
She made an effort to control her racing pulse. Taking it for granted his question referred to her standing on the path to his cabin, she said evenly, “I came to see Harrie, of course. She is my goddaughter, if you remember.”
Ignoring the reminder, he crossed his arms over his chest. “The Bridgemonts sent you, didn’t they?”
She could feel her gray silk shirt sticking to her back. The heat had made her feet swell, and her shoes were killing her. She longed to rip off her panty hose and let her legs breathe, and she could sense the beginning of a headache behind her eyes. Her hair, frisked by the wind, was probably a mess.
She had to call on every ounce of control she possessed to face his accusing glare with a cool, serene expression. But she had dealt with an angry man before, and she knew how to handle it. “They told me where to find you, if that’s what you mean.”
“That is not what I meant and you know it. They sent you to find out if Harrie is being mistreated. They seem to think I’m some kind of monster who doesn’t know how to take care of my own child.”
“They are Harrie’s grandparents,” Claire reminded him. “You won’t let them see her or have any contact with her. Of course they are concerned.”
“Damn right I won’t.” Turner dropped his arms. “But I’m not going to waste my time explaining it to you.”
“I’m not here to judge you, Turner.” Even as she spoke the words she knew they weren’t true. She’d felt compelled to see for herself if the Bridgemonts’ hostility toward Turner Mitchell was justified or not. She’d come prepared to rescue Harrie, if need be.
“Then you can go back and tell Pauline Bridgemont that she’s not getting her hands on my daughter. She only wants her to replace the child she lost. She doesn’t care a damn what Harrie needs or wants.”
“That’s not true and you know it.” Shocked by his bitterness, Claire felt suddenly light-headed. Although the leafy alders crowded on either side of the path, affording some relief from the burning sun, she felt as if her entire body were on the point of melting.
She didn’t remember it ever being this hot in Oregon when she was growing up. According to Pauline Bridgemont, this had been an exceptionally warm, dry July, and August promised to be even more so.
Claire had known Stacey’s parents ever since third grade. Since the day she had shared her packed lunch with the pretty little blond girl who had forgotten to bring her own.
Throughout the following years, she and Stacey had shared much more than peanut-butter sandwiches. They had survived the joys and heartaches of high school together and had applied to the same college in order to stay together. And when Claire had accepted a position in Washington, D.C. as diplomatic courier, she and Stacey had shared a long and tearful farewell.
Now, it was two years since the car wreck that had taken Stacey’s life. Claire still found it impossible to believe her lifetime friend had gone.
As she faced Stacey’s widowed husband, the trauma of that dreadful time returned in full force. Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Claire said unsteadily, “I’m sure you know that Mrs. Bridgemont is threatening to lodge an official complaint of neglect with the Children’s Services Division. If that happens, things could get very unpleasant for all of you, especially Harrie.”
Turner’s laugh was anything but pleasant. “The Bridgemonts can threaten all they like. It won’t get them anywhere. And they’ve never been amicable toward me since the day I married their daughter.”
That was true enough, Claire thought. Stacey’s parents had never considered Turner Mitchell good enough for their daughter. But then, to be fair, Pauline Bridgemont was unlikely to think anyone good enough for her daughter.
Stacey’s mother was a strong woman, opinionated and at times scathing when things didn’t suit her way of thinking. Claire didn’t give much for his chances if it came down to a fight with his in-laws.
Roger Bridgemont was a prominent lawyer in Portland, and his wife was currently running for city commissioner. At the moment Turner looked as if he didn’t have two cents to his name. He’d be up against some formidable opposition.
“The only reason they are concerned is that you refuse to let them see Harrie, for no apparent reason. If you have nothing to hide, at least let me visit with Harrie in your home. Perhaps I can persuade the Bridgemonts to drop the complaint and maybe come to a more amicable arrangement.”
“Give me one good reason why I should trust you. You’re just as likely to go back with some cooked-up story and make things worse than they already are.”
“You can trust me or not. That’s up to you. Though you should know the only thing I care about is Harrie’s well-being. And I don’t consider allowing a seven-year-old child to play with knives particularly responsible behavior.”
His scowl grew so fierce she felt a moment of apprehension. “Harrie doesn’t play with knives,” he said harshly. “I taught her to handle them in a responsible manner. She is as adept at throwing them as you are at driving a car. She plays in the woods—she needs some form of protection.”
“Protection? Why don’t you just give her a gun?”
Once more he crossed his arms over his chest in that formidable stance. “She knows how to handle those, too. Knives are less lethal. You grew up in Oregon. You know very well that out here in the woods, guns, knives and bows and arrows are a way of life.”
“I grew up in the city,” Claire reminded him. “Things were a little different there.”
“Tell me about it.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Your concern is touching. If you care that much about my daughter, where have you been the past two
years, while she’s been struggling to manage without her mother?”
Stung, Claire struggled to hold down her temper. “I have been out of the country for most of that time. A courier doesn’t spend much time at home. That’s why I quit the job.”
He raised his eyebrows, his gaze probing her face. “You quit?”
“Yes, I’m planning to move back here permanently.”
For long seconds he seemed to be struggling with mixed emotions, then his groan heightened the warm flush on her cheeks.
“Great. That’s all I need.”
He ran a hand through his hair, and she saw an almost desperate look cross his face. It caught her unawares, and she felt a tinge of compassion for him. “If Harrie is having problems, isn’t it all the more reason for her to spend time with her grandmother?” she asked gently.
“Her grandmother is her problem.” He gave her a belligerent look that made his next words painfully clear. “And she doesn’t need any more right now.”
Realizing she was getting nowhere, Claire decided it was time to make a stand. “I can tell you one thing,” she said firmly. “If you don’t let me visit my goddaughter, I shall have to assume that you do have something to hide. That will only reinforce the Bridgemonts’ conviction that Harrie is being neglected.”
His icy gaze raked her face again, while she struggled to hide the sudden heat that swept over her. The sensation had nothing to do with the midsummer sun and everything to do with the man who stood glaring at her as if she were about to cut his throat.
Eight years ago she’d flown to Oregon for Stacey’s wedding and had watched the radiant bride gaze adoringly at her handsome husband. She had done her best to ignore her attraction to him, but as she’d watched his dark head tilt toward her best friend, for the first time Claire had felt the pangs of envy.
She had returned again eighteen months later to the quiet peace of the church where Harrietta was christened. The proud, scared look on Turner Mitchell’s face when he’d held his brand-new daughter had brought a lump to Claire’s throat, and she’d had to turn away. It had been many weeks before the ache had faded.
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