by Jane Porter
“I’ve been telling you that for ages.”
“But of course I don’t believe you because you’re my sister and a fan of everything I do.”
“I’m a fan because you’re good, not because you’re related to me.”
“Maybe I should advertise in the Courier, and try to pick up some custom orders here and there, just for the fun of it.”
“And the income. The extra income would give you more independence. You should have your own place. A two-bedroom apartment or a little house down by the high school. You could take the second bedroom and turn it into a sewing room.”
“But Mom and Dad need someone to look after them.”
“Charity, they want your money. They don’t necessarily want you.”
Charity winced.
“I don’t mean to be harsh, but we’re terrible codependents,” Amanda added quietly. “We don’t help them by hovering over them, watching for every misstep, and it’s not healthy for us.”
“You didn’t used to feel that way,” Charity said lowly.
“Tyler has helped me with perspective. Getting married has made me look hard at the way we were raised, and just because we were raised a certain way, doesn’t make it healthy, or right.”
Charity didn’t answer.
“Come over to the salon after work Wednesday night. Let’s have a proper girls’ night,” Amanda said more gently. “It’ll be like the old days when it was just you and me against the world.”
“That would be wonderful. I’ll bring the wine. Should I also pick up some appetizers?”
“I’ve got a good bottle of red here, and we’ll just have a pizza delivered. It feels like forever since we really talked.”
“I know.”
*
Quinn spent another two days in Wyoming, visiting different ski resorts in Jackson Hole to complete his research, before packing up the rental truck and heading north to Marietta.
When he first flew into Jackson Hole, he hadn’t planned on hitting Marietta this trip, but now that he knew who Tricia was, he needed to see her and explain things. And not just to explain things. He needed to see her, period.
The fact was, he missed her. These past few days without her had been long, and boring. Little Teton lost its magic without her, and even a day trip to Jackson left him irritable. He didn’t want to wander around the town on his own. He wanted Tricia with him. He wanted her hand in his, and he wanted to make a bad joke just to see her smile.
He had a sneaking suspicion he was falling for her. More than a sneaking suspicion. He wanted her, and he sensed she was interested in him, but her fears over failed relationships made her hesitant to get too close to him.
He understood that, and respected it, appreciating her caution, but if Quinn had learned anything about life it was that fate was fickle and time was short. If he wanted something—or someone—he went after it.
Which was why he was heading to Marietta now.
*
Quinn’s big log cabin home in Paradise Valley was on the way to Marietta, and he stopped at the sprawling house to shower and shave. While standing at the living room window with its expansive views of the Gallatin Mountain range and icy Yellowstone River snaking through the valley floor, he sent a text to his brother and sister letting them know he’d just arrived in Montana, and he’d be here for the night before flying out of Bozeman tomorrow.
“Want to come over for dinner?” his sister McKenna immediately texted.
“I don’t want to put you out,” he replied. “Let’s just go somewhere easy so you can sit and relax.”
“I can do that. How about Rocco’s?” she texted back, before adding, “I know you love their gnocchi. I’ll check in with Rory, but let’s plan on me making a reservation for six?”
“Deal.” He hesitated, before texting, “Can you add one more to the reservation? I might have a plus one.”
“Is Alice with you?”
“No.”
Quinn smiled, certain he could feel his sister’s wheels turning, but he wasn’t going to mention Tricia to her, at least not yet.
In good weather, it was an eighteen-minute drive from his house to town, but the icy roads had trucks going even slower.
He exited for Main Street and downtown Marietta looked just as it always did in December. Quaint. Charming. Festive. He was sure the Marietta Stroll had just taken place this past weekend. The red brick buildings lining Main Street were still decorated with little white lights and wreaths and boughs of greenery. Marietta had been lovingly preserved, recently written up in a national magazine as one of America’s hidden gems. Marietta was a gem, too, but he had a complicated relationship with the town. Folks in small towns knew too much about their neighbors, and people in Marietta most definitely knew too much about him, and his family.
In Seattle, he’d escaped his legacy as “one of those Douglases.” On the field, no one cared about his past, and no one bothered bringing up the tragedy. The broadcasters had learned to leave it alone and the general public had forgotten that there had even been a “Paradise Valley Ranch Invasion.” It was only here, in Marietta, that people remembered. It was here that people looked at him and remembered that he had been the only one who’d survived the shooting.
Quinn spotted Marietta Travel and parked his rental car out front. Opening the door to the travel agency, his gaze swept the interior. Marietta Travel had been on Main Street for as long as he could remember and in the early days of his career, Mrs. Ferguson, the former manager, would book all his travel. He glanced around the small office with the trio of desks in the front with another desk in a glassed-in office at the back. Mrs. Ferguson had retired years ago and he didn’t recognize anyone at the desks, nor did he spot Tricia’s long blonde hair and elegant profile.
Maybe Tricia was at lunch, or maybe she was in the bathroom or a storage room. He asked for her at one of the front desks. The older woman pointed to the glassed-in office at the rear.
“That’s Tricia’s office,” the woman said. “Want me to get her for you?”
Quinn frowned as he gazed at the brunette sitting at the desk behind the glass wall. She wore her hair in a sleek ponytail and she looked to be the right age, but she wasn’t Tricia. She looked nothing like his Tricia. “Maybe I have the name wrong. I’m looking for Tricia Thorpe. She was just in Wyoming on a travel agent familiarization this past week.”
The woman’s forehead creased. “That is Tricia Thorpe. She’s our manager. But she wasn’t on a travel agent familiarization in Wyoming or anywhere else. She was here all week.”
“It can’t be. I was with Tricia at the Little Teton Resort, and Tricia is slim and blonde, with long hair, really pretty hair.”
“Oh.” The woman’s eyes widened. “Oh. I think I understand.” She rose from behind her desk, giving him a quick, sympathetic smile. “Why don’t you come with me? I’m sure, uh, Tricia can clear this up.”
He nodded grimly and followed her to the glass door.
“Can I help you?” the brunette asked, gesturing for him to take one of the two chairs opposite her desk.
“I’m looking for Tricia Thorpe,” he said.
“I’m Tricia Thorpe,” she answered with a quick smile. “And I think I know who you are. Quinn Douglas, yes?”
He swallowed around the uncomfortable lump in his throat. “Yes.”
“Are you interested in booking some holiday travel—”
“Little Teton Resort,” he interrupted, flatly. “They claim you were there this week and yet your agent up front said you’ve been here all week.”
Tricia’s smile faded. “I see.”
“Do you? Because I don’t.”
Tricia exhaled slowly. “It’s kind of convoluted.” She stood up. “Want coffee or anything?”
“No.” His arms folded across his chest. “So if you weren’t in Wyoming, who was at the ski resort pretending to be you?”
Tricia sat back down. “Charity. Charity Wright.”
&n
bsp; The name was unfamiliar. “Is she from Marietta?”
“Yes. She’s just younger than you. Do you remember Jenny Wright? She would have been your grade in school I think.”
It took Quinn a second to picture a petite, slim blonde girl with big brown eyes. “I think so.” His brow creased. “Blonde?”
Tricia nodded. “All three Wright girls are blonde and pretty. Jenny is the oldest. Amanda is the youngest. Charity is the middle sister.”
Charity Wright. He silently repeated her name. The middle Wright. And suddenly he could remember Carol Bingley, Marietta’s town gossip, making little digs about the Wright girls being all wrong. Was Charity one of those Wright girls who’d been mocked for being all wrong? “Mrs. Bingley didn’t like the Wrights, did she?” he asked abruptly.
“No.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“The family struggled. Mr. Wright was a janitor at the high school and had… problems. He was eventually fired because of those problems.”
Quinn flashed back to high school and the nice custodian who didn’t mind if the boys were in the gym shooting baskets late because it meant he could hide away in his closet and drink.
They all knew he was drinking all the time.
Quinn’s chest tightened, as air bottled in his lungs. He should have just gone back to Seattle where he was the Mariner’s third baseman. “I remember,” he said quietly.
“Charity is a really good person. In fact, she’s one of the best people I know.”
“You don’t need to defend her. I’m not mad at her. I’m trying to find her to apologize.”
Tricia suddenly looked worried. “What happened?”
“It’s between her and me. But tell me, why was she there as you? She used your name the entire time.”
“I was invited to attend the fam but I couldn’t go, and they really wanted Marietta Travel represented so I sent Charity in my place.”
“So she is a travel agent?”
Tricia shifted, uneasy. “She worked here for a summer years ago, but she’s not affiliated with Marietta Travel right now.”
“Why send her in your place?”
“Charity was having a hard time and I thought it’d be good for her to get out of Marietta for a few days and we could learn about the improvements made at the Little Teton Resort. It seemed like a win-win.”
Everything Tricia was saying lined up with what Charity had told him at the resort, which only made him feel worse.
He rose from his chair and paced the length of the small office, before going to stand at the glass window with the view of the office and the agency’s front door. “You know her well?”
“I grew up next door to the Wrights. Charity and I are still neighbors on Chance Avenue. And Jenny—the one you went to school with—married my brother Colton three years ago. So we’re not just friends, but family.”
“Is that where she is now? At her house on Chance Avenue?”
“No. She works—” She broke off, expression stricken.
“Where?”
Tricia shuffled the papers on her desk, cheeks reddening. “I think I’ve said too much as it is.”
“I want to talk to her.”
Tricia kept moving papers around before stacking them into a tidy pile. “Give me your number and I’ll pass it on.”
“I need to talk to her.”
She avoided meeting his gaze. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“No problem. I’ll figure it out for myself.” And then with a half nod in her direction he walked out.
*
Tricia called Charity’s cell phone the moment Quinn walked out of the travel agency office. The phone rang so long Tricia was afraid that it would go to voice mail, but finally Charity answered.
“Sorry,” Charity whispered. “Greg and Sam were having a conversation near my desk and I couldn’t pick up right away. Everything okay?”
“I don’t know.” Tricia hesitated. “I just had an interesting visitor. I’ll give you three guesses as to who might have stopped by to see me.”
“I don’t have time for guessing games. Why don’t you tell me,” Charity answered wearily.
“You okay?” Tricia asked. “You don’t sound very happy.”
“Greg is being exhausting. He’s constantly watching me and hovering around my desk, giving me pointless tasks… things he could easily do himself, but now won’t.”
“He’s a jerk.”
“You warned me. I didn’t listen.” Charity sighed. “Never mind all that. Tell me who came to see you.”
“Quinn Douglas.”
“Seattle Mariner Quinn?”
“The very one.”
“He wanted you to book him a trip?”
“Well, no. He said he spent last week with you at the Little Teton Resort—”
“No. It was all travel agents, thirteen women, one man, and then a sportswriter.”
“Are you sure? Because he said he’d spent the week hanging out with you. He, um, seemed to think you were me.”
Silence stretched. “What does he look like?”
“What do you mean, what does he look like? He’s gorgeous. Tall, built, really built, all body—” She broke off, hearing Charity’s faint choke. “And he’s looking for you,” she concluded.
“That makes no sense. I didn’t spend last week with Quinn Douglas.” She dropped her voice, aware that Greg was standing in his doorway watching her. Again. “My friend is a sportswriter named Douglas Quincy—oh. Oh, no.” She made a rough sound. “Douglas Quincy. That’s pretty much just Quinn Douglas backward.”
“Yep.”
Charity exhaled hard. “I can’t believe it. Quinn. Douglas. Oh dear.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It’s not. I’m just… shocked. Blown away, actually.”
“Did you two hook up? I wouldn’t blame you if you had. He is fine. Like, seriously, unbelievably fine—”
“I know what he looks like, and no, we didn’t hook up. We were just friends.”
“So why was he here in my office asking for you? Well, not you but me, because he thought you were me.”
“I don’t want to talk about him, Tricia. I went on the trip to escape heartache and, instead, I flung myself from the fire into the frying pan.”
“I thought you said nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened.” Charity’s voice rose and cracked and she made an effort to lower it. “But it didn’t mean…” She drew a slow, unsteady breath. “It didn’t mean that for a moment I didn’t kind of… care. I didn’t want to care, but you saw him. He is really handsome. And you talked to him. He is so likable. He is… was… wonderful. At least, he was wonderful until he kissed me—”
“So you did kiss?”
“Yes, just once, but it was enough for me to realize he’s trouble. Serious trouble. And I can’t do more trouble. I can’t have my heart stomped on anymore.”
“How does he kiss?”
“It doesn’t matter. He’s not for me. He’s a professional baseball player.
“He lives in Seattle. He travels all the time. And, heck, if I can’t even trust my boyfriend in Marietta to be faithful, how can I trust Quinn Douglas?”
“Quinn is a great guy.”
“Because why? All the newspapers say so? Because his fans love him?”
“We grew up with him, Charity.”
“Maybe you did, but I didn’t. And I’m not interested in him.”
“But you were at Little Teton.”
“I might have been mildly interested in the sportswriter named Douglas, not the Quinn Douglas from Paradise Valley.”
“He’s one and the same, girl.”
Silence stretched and then Charity groaned. “Did you know who he was the moment he walked in to the agency? Or did he have to introduce himself?”
“I knew who he was.” Tricia heard the soft, muffled curse at the other end of the line. “Why does it matter, Charity?”
“Because i
f I knew sports and followed sports, I would have recognized him, and none of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have spent so much time with him, and I most definitely wouldn’t have kissed him.” Her voice deepened, growing husky. “I am pathetic. I am the most useless pathetic—” She broke off, before adding faintly, “Oh, no. Tricia, he’s here. He’s here. Why did you tell him where I worked?”
“I didn’t. I swear.”
“Then how did he find me?”
“I don’t know.”
Chapter Four
It wasn’t often that Quinn Douglas felt played, but he felt a little played right now.
He’d come to Marietta thinking he was tracking down Tricia Thorpe to apologize for misleading her, and then planning to invite her to dinner with his family, and instead he was chasing a beautiful blonde receptionist named Charity Wright who had told him dozens of stories in Wyoming and now he didn’t know if any of her stories were true.
Fortunately, it hadn’t taken a lot of work to find Charity. One call to his sister McKenna and he learned where Charity worked, just two blocks north of the travel agency at Melk Realty on Main Street. Good old Main Street.
Quinn stepped inside the real estate office, and there she was at the reception desk, on the phone, looking blonde and beautiful, and guilty as heck.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said as she swiftly hung up and shoved her mobile phone into a desk drawer.
She rose from behind her desk, her cheeks dark pink. “Hello, Douglas Quincy,” she said, emphasizing the name with an extra helping of sarcasm.
The corner of his mouth pulled. Was that the best she could do? He closed the distance, ignoring Sam Melk who’d come to his doorway, and another dark haired man in a suit and tie who was filling his doorway. “You’re not Tricia Thorpe,” he said, voice pitched low to keep the others from hearing.
“And you’re not a sportswriter,” she countered defiantly.
Her fierce tone made his lips curve and, as he stood next to her desk, gazing down at her, he had this odd thought—he should keep her.
And then another odd thought. He was here because she was supposed to be his.
Quinn Douglas had never chased a woman in is life. He hadn’t needed to, and yet he thought he’d do just about anything to give Charity time to know him and trust him.