RaeAnne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry SummerWoodrose MountainSweet Laurel Falls

by RaeAnne Thayne

  “I’m a beader now,” she repeated. “I’ve put my former career behind me. I’ve got commitments. Besides working for Claire at the store, I’ve got several commissioned projects I’ve agreed to make, not to mention another art fair over Labor Day weekend. What you’re asking is completely impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible. That’s not just a damn T-shirt slogan.”

  He rose from the couch and moved closer to her and Evie had to fight the urge to back into the fireplace mantel. “This is my daughter we’re talking about,” he growled. “After the accident, not a single doctor thought Taryn would even survive her head injuries. When she didn’t come out of the coma all those weeks, some of them even pushed me to turn off life support. No chance of a normal life, they told me. She’ll only be an empty shell. But she’s not. She’s the same stubborn Taryn inside there!”

  His devotion to his child stirred her. She had to respect it—but that didn’t mean she had to allow herself to be sucked under by it.

  “That isn’t what I do anymore, Brodie. Perhaps her care center can recommend someone else in the area who might help you.”

  “I’ll pay whatever you want.”

  He named a figure that made Evie blink. For one tiny moment she imagined splitting the amount between the scholarship fund here in Hope’s Crossing and the charitable foundation she supported in California that facilitated adoptions of difficult-to-place special needs children.

  No. The cost to her would be far too great.

  “I’m sorry,” she said firmly. “But I’m not part of that world anymore.”

  “By choice.”

  “Right. My choice.”

  His eyes looked hard suddenly, glittering blue agate. “Does it mean nothing to you that a young girl needs your help? Taryn needs your help? You could change her life. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  Oh, he definitely didn’t fight fair. How could the blasted man know so unerringly how to gouge in just the exact spot under her heart to draw the most blood?

  She wouldn’t let him play on an old guilt that had nothing to do with his daughter. “You’ll have to find someone else,” she said.

  “What if I increase the salary figure by twenty percent?”

  “It doesn’t matter how much you offer. This isn’t about money. You should really look for someone with more experience in the Colorado health system.”

  Any politeness in his facade slid away, leaving his features tight and angry. “I told my mother you wouldn’t do it. I should have known better than to even ask somebody like you for help. I’m sorry I wasted my time and yours.”

  And the arrogant jerk raised his ugly head. Somebody like you. What did that mean? Somebody with a social conscience? Somebody who opposed his efforts to turn the picturesque charm of Hope’s Crossing into just another cookie-cutter town with box stores and chain restaurants?

  “Next time you should listen to your instincts,” she snapped.

  “There won’t be a next time. You can be damn sure of that.”

  He stalked toward the door, jerked it open and stomped down the stairs.

  After he left, Evie pressed a hand to the sudden churn in her stomach. Only hunger, she told herself. What did she expect, when she hadn’t eaten except for a quick sandwich on the road six hours ago?

  She sank down onto a chair. Not hunger. Brodie Thorne. The man made her more nervous than a roomful of tax attorneys.

  Maybe she should have said yes. She adored Katherine and owed her deeply. And Brodie was right. Despite the difference in their ages, she had been friends of sorts with Taryn, who used to frequently come into String Fever before her accident, full of dreams and plans and teenage angst.

  Evie wanted to help them, but how could she possibly? The cost would be far too dear. Since coming to Hope’s Crossing, she had worked hard to carve out a much healthier place than she had been in the day she had arrived, lost and grieving, wrung dry.

  She knew her limitations. Hard experience was a pretty darn good teacher. She threw everything inside her at her patients—her energy, her strength, her passion. She lost all sense of professional reserve, of objectivity.

  After Cassie and the emotional fallout from her death, Evie knew she didn’t belong in that world anymore, no matter whom she had to disappoint.

  * * *

  BRODIE HAD TO EXERT EVERY BIT of his considerable self-control to prevent himself from slamming the door behind him as he stalked down the stairway and back out to the garden behind her apartment.

  His temper seethed and bubbled and he wanted to rip out a flower or two. Or every last freaking one.

  Her dog—half poodle, half Labrador and all unique, just like her—woofed a quick greeting and headed for him, tail wagging. Brodie scratched the dog between the ears and released a breath, some of the tension seeping away here in the summer evening with a friendly dog offering quiet comfort.

  A little of his tension. Not all of it. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Yeah, maybe it had been stupidly shortsighted of him, but despite what he had said up there, he’d never truly expected her to say no.

  Ironic, really. He hadn’t wanted her involved in Taryn’s home-care program in the first place. He thought his mother was crazy when she first suggested it a few weeks ago, after the director of the Birch Glen rehab center had first rather gently suggested Taryn’s placement there might not be working out.

  Evaline Blanchard was a loose screw. She kept her long, blond wavy hair wild or in braids, she favored Teva sandals to high heels, she always had some sort of chunky jewelry on that she had probably designed herself. Most of the time she wore flowing, flowery sundresses as if she was some kind of Mother Earth hippie—except when she was wearing extremely skintight exercise leggings, he amended. His body stirred a little at the memory, much to his chagrin.

  He didn’t want to be attracted to Evie Blanchard. She was a bleeding heart do-gooder who seemed to spend her spare time trying to think of ways to mess with things that weren’t broken. Everything about her grated on him like metal grinding on metal.

  When she first came to town, he had entertained the idea that maybe she was some kind of grifter trying to run a con on his too-trusting mother. Really, what woman in her right mind would decide to pick up and move across three states—leaving what had apparently been a lucrative rehab therapy career—on the basis of an email friendship alone?

  Either she was the most patient shyster he’d ever heard of or she had genuinely moved to Hope’s Crossing for a new start. She had been in town a year and seemed to have settled in comfortably, becoming part of the community. His mother and all her friends certainly adored her, anyway.

  He scratched the dog one last time, then headed out the wrought-iron gate and through the alley toward Main Street.

  Evie Blanchard might not be a con artist but he still took pains to avoid her. She had a particular way of looking at a man that made him feel edgy and tense, condemned before he even opened his mouth. He knew her opinion of him. That he was a bully with a big checkbook who liked to have his way around town. He was the big, bad developer who wanted to ruin Hope’s Crossing.

  Not true. He loved this town. He had made his home here, had brought his three-year-old daughter here after his hasty mistake of a marriage had fallen apart. And now he was bringing Taryn home again to heal. Didn’t that count for something?

  Not to Evie Blanchard, apparently. She obviously disliked him intensely. It didn’t help that every time they had appeared on opposite sides of some planning commission meeting or public hearing or other, she would be giving some eloquent opposition to whatever he was working on and he would be appalled by the hot surge of completely inappropriate lust curling through his gut.

  Of course, he couldn’t tell his mother that. He didn’t even like admitting it to himself.

  He would prefer to keep a healthy distance from Evie Blanchard and her wavy blond hair and her lithe figure, which definitely filled out her tight running le
ggings in all the right ways.

  Too bad his mother had convinced him she was absolutely the best person to help his daughter right now.

  Katherine’s arguments had been persuasive, full of journal articles Evie had written a few years earlier, media reports about the amazing progress she’d made with some of her patients, even references from parents of her former clients. His mother had done her homework and had presented all her findings to him with a satisfied flourish. After reading through her dossier on Evie’s time as a physical therapist in California, he had to admit he had been impressed. Now he didn’t know if he could be satisfied with anyone else.

  Brodie sighed as he headed toward his car, parked in the lot behind the Center of Hope Café. He spotted Dermot Caine, owner of the café, heading to the Dumpster out back with a garbage bag in each hand. Brodie waved and Dermot called out a greeting.

  “Is it true your girl’s coming home?” the other man asked, a hopeful expression on his sunbaked features.

  “That’s the plan. She still has a long way to go.” He really wished he didn’t have to add that disclaimer whenever he talked to anyone in town, but the people of Hope’s Crossing had seen enough disappointment and sorrow over the last three months. He didn’t want anyone to set unreasonably high expectations.

  “You give her a big hug from me, won’t you? That little girl’s a trouper. If anything sounds good to her—one of my huckleberry pies, some of that chocolate mousse she always liked—you just say the word and I’ll personally deliver it.”

  “Will do. Thanks, Dermot.” There had been a time when the owner of the diner considered Brodie nothing but a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder. Brodie had worked hard to overcome his rep around town over the years and it was heartening to see Dermot’s concern for his daughter.

  “I mean it. Everyone in town is praying for that little girl. She’s a miracle, that’s what she is, and we can’t wait to have her back.”

  “I appreciate that. I’m sure Taryn does, too.”

  All of Hope’s Crossing was invested in her recovery. That was a hell of a lot of pressure on a fifteen-year-old kid who couldn’t string more than a couple of words together at a time.

  Brodie headed toward his SUV, a grim determination pulsing through him. Evie Blanchard was still his best hope.

  He wasn’t about to give up after one measly rejection. He had never been a quitter, not in the days when he used to ski jump and had trained for the Olympics, nor in his business endeavors. He sure as hell wasn’t going to quit on his little girl.

  He had failed her enough as a single father, starting with his lousy choice of her mother, who had jumped at the chance to escape them as soon as she could, leaving him with a three-year-old kid he was clueless to raise. With a great deal of help from his mother, Brodie had worked hard to give Taryn a stable life, with all the comforts any kid could want.

  What he hadn’t given her was much of himself. The last few years, their relationship had been stilted and awkward, filled with fights and tantrums. He found out as she hit about thirteen that he knew diddly-squat about teenage girls and their mood swings. Somehow in all the lecturing and grounding and disappointments, he had missed the signs that Taryn had strayed dangerously off track, running with a bad crowd, drinking, even burglarizing stores.

  He might have been earning a failing grade as a parent before the accident—something he was used to from his own school days—but he refused to let her down now. He was determined to find the absolute best person to spearhead her rehabilitation program on the home front. Like it or not, Evie Blanchard appeared to be that person.

  So what if he found her grating and confrontational on a personal level? He was a big boy. He would get over it, especially if she could help him give his daughter her best chance at a full recovery.

  CHAPTER TWO

  EVIE AWOKE EARLY the next morning tired and gritty-eyed. Jacques stuck his nose into the curve of her neck and she laughed hoarsely.

  “Yeah, okay. I know what you want,” she muttered. She sat up gingerly, her body aching a little from the long weekend. Jacques needed to go out and an early-morning hike up the Woodrose trail would be just the thing to shake the cobwebs away.

  She dressed quickly, especially since the dog was prancing around anxiously by now, and ten minutes later she grabbed the dog’s leash and they headed out just as the sun peeked above the mountains.

  By the time they reached the trailhead to Woodrose Mountain, both of them were a little more settled. The trail was wet from a predawn storm and she wondered if it were possible to become intoxicated from the scent of rain-washed sage and tart pine.

  The farther she hiked up the trail, the more stunning the view. It never failed to move her. Hope’s Crossing looked small, provincial, especially with the vast shadows of mountain ranges rippling out in every direction.

  The quiet stillness was a far cry from the traffic and craziness of L.A.—and she wouldn’t trade it for anything. When she arrived in Hope’s Crossing, she had been battered and lost. Somehow here in this space where she could breathe and think, she had reconnected with herself, and the aches and pains and scabs of grief and self-doubt had begun to heal.

  Not completely. She sighed, lifting her face to the sun just barely cresting the mountains. Just when she thought she was finally in a good and healthy place, content with the world and her place in it, reality had smacked her upside the head like an unexpected branch stretching across her life’s trail.

  Despite her exhaustion from the busy weekend, she hadn’t slept well, her dreams fragmented and jagged, a tangle of memories and ghosts. No surprise whom to blame. Brodie Thorne’s unexpected request had ricocheted through her mind all night.

  She felt like a coward for saying no to him but she knew she wasn’t. It had taken great courage to walk away from a career, a home, friends she loved, in search of something she knew she could no longer find in L.A. She had worked too hard to achieve homeostasis—harmony, balance, equilibrium, whatever word fit best. Although some part of her felt guilty for saying no to him and refusing to help with Taryn’s rehabilitation, she knew it had been the most healthy answer she could have offered.

  After she and Jacques had both worked out their edginess, she headed back down the mountainside, passing a couple of tourists who were obviously continental, with their walking sticks and their Birkenstocks and that indefinable élan. They greeted her in heavily accented English then said something quickly to each other in musical French, gesturing toward Jacques, with his Labrador body and his wool-like poodle coat, which she kept groomed short in the summer for his comfort. He gave them a regal nod before padding down the trail behind her and Evie smiled, rubbing his head with affection. Boy, she loved this mutt.

  Back at her apartment, she spent the morning working on the instructions for a couple of bead designs she planned to submit to an industry magazine, then grabbed a quick sandwich before heading for work.

  It was impossible not to compare her commute now—sixteen narrow steps down the back stairway and then through the String Fever rear entryway—to the endless lifetime she used to spend in the stop-and-go nightmare of Southern California traffic.

  A teenage girl was poring over the wires, and a couple of young mothers sat in the reading corner leafing through the bead pattern books while their children explored with the toys Claire had provided in the playroom.

  Evie’s employer was on the telephone in her small office. Through the open doorway, Claire Bradford waved at her as she crossed to the rack hanging behind the big worktable for the multipocketed half apron that came in so handy for holding her beading tools.

  By the time she returned, Claire had finished her phone call. She glowed today, her eyes shining and her smile bright and cheerful. She wore her new happiness like a brilliant tiara and Evie was thrilled for her. Claire was the most generous, giving woman she knew, always reaching out to lift someone else. Though she didn’t seem bitter that her ex-husba
nd had married someone ten years younger shortly after their divorce and seemed to flaunt it in her face by settling into Hope’s Crossing with his bride, Evie knew it must have stung.

  Riley McKnight made Claire happy. Everyone in town could see that, and the man plainly adored her.

  “You’re not supposed to be here for—” Claire checked her watch with its band of gorgeous pink-toned Murano art glass “—another hour.”

  Evie smiled. “I wanted to double-check the kits for my class tonight.”

  “Probably a good idea. We had a rush on last-minute sign-ups over the weekend. I think we added six more Saturday alone. Your classes are always full. Face it, honey, you’re a rock star among the beaders of Hope’s Crossing.”

  Evie laughed. “That’s something, right?”

  “I hope we’re going to have enough room at the worktable. Let me know if you think you’ll need a second one. So how was Grand Junction?”

  “Much better than I expected. So good, in fact, we’re going to have a crazy time replenishing the inventory before the last show over Labor Day weekend.”

  “I’ll put out a notice by the checkout that you’ll be taking consignment items. This is a great thing you’re doing, Evie. I can’t believe how the scholarship fund has grown in just a few months. Between the ginormous amount we collected at the benefit auction in June and the money that’s come in since then because of everything you’re doing, as well as the other fundraisers around town, we might have enough of an endowment to be able to fund a couple of scholarships a year in Layla’s memory. You’re doing a wonderful thing, Evie.”

  “I’m not doing much. You’re the one handling all the organizational legwork. Selling jewelry is the fun part.”

  “I’ve done arts-and-crafts fairs before. Parts of it are fun but it’s hard, intense work.”

  “So far I’m enjoying it. Almost done now. Only the Labor Day festival in Crested Butte.” She quickly shifted the subject. “How are the wedding plans coming?”