Whiskey River Runaway (Whiskey River Series Book 2)

by Justine Davis

  “We?”

  “My sister and I. I do the labor, she does the math and the paperwork.” Lately, a truckload of paperwork and other formalities, stuff that drove him crazy. Zee was pretty good at keeping a handle on it, but it was starting to overwhelm even his efficient sister. And then there was that backlog of old stuff that she hadn’t even had time to start on.

  “Lucky her.” Something in her tone made him glance at her as he drove. She hadn’t been joking. She saw him look, then shrugged. “I like numbers. They mean what they mean, and they never change on you.”

  “Fair point,” he agreed, wondering what had happened to her to make her value that so much, and if it was the same thing that had her on the run.

  They were approaching the edge of town before she spoke again. “Your sister. . .you’re close?”

  “Very.”

  “Because you work together.”

  “No. Because we’re all we had for a long time.”

  “Did you—”

  “Tell you what. I’ll trade you. I answer a question, you answer a question.”

  That shut her up. He’d expected it would; he’d guessed she didn’t want to answer any questions about herself so was trying to keep him talking. He was also surprised he’d told her as much as he had, and wondered why he had. Especially when he knew it was a trick of con artists to gather bits and pieces from people that they could later use on them. And even if she wasn’t one of those, she was scared, and scared people did things they might not normally do.

  He pulled to a halt at a stop sign, then turned his head to look at her.

  “No?” He said it with mock surprise. “Well at least give me a name to call you. Or you’ll end up being called Missy or Little Lady or some other patronizing thing you’d only tolerate from a grandparent.”

  She didn’t laugh. In fact, a look of such anguish flashed across her face that it felt almost physical even to him. As did the sharp jab of remorse; he didn’t like that his joking words had caused this. He wasn’t someone who enjoyed causing anyone pain.

  “I’d tolerate anything from my grandparents,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper and full of that same stark, wounded emotion. “And my name, ironically, is Hope.”

  And suddenly his entire perception of her shifted. Maybe he was a fool, but he couldn’t believe she was anything worse than a scared kid on the run.

  He hoped he didn’t pay too high a price for that assessment.

  Chapter Four

  Hope sat silently, staring at her hands, not even looking out the window as they approached the town square. She was embarrassed by how quickly she’d wolfed down that hamburger and fries he’d bought, and now wondering if the churning of her stomach meant she should have gone slower with the first full meal she’d had in a while.

  Or maybe it just meant she was already starting to worry about how much she owed the man beside her.

  She was startled when he suddenly spoke, in the tones of a semi-bored tour guide.

  “And on your right is the distinctive fountain and the statue of the famous—and infamous—Ronan ‘Booze’ Kelly, who founded this place in the late 1800s. His descendents still live here, and are a vital part of life in Whiskey River.”

  She gave him a sideways, puzzled glance, wondering what he was up to now. He went on as if he had a busload of tourists behind him.

  “Despite his fondness for the liquor, the name of the town—which was originally Kelly’s Crossing—didn’t stem from that, but rather an incident in 1900 when some of those barrels of whiskey tumbled into the river and broke when a bridge collapsed. To this day, Founder’s Day is marked by, among other things, floating barrels down the river.”

  “With or without the whiskey?” she asked, almost against her will.

  His head snapped around, startling her. But a smile curved his mouth, then became a grin. “I think most of it’s been consumed by the time the barrels hit the water.”

  She couldn’t help herself, she smiled back. It had to be because he had an honestly great grin. He was even better looking when he wasn’t being so serious. And suddenly what he’d said about having a knack with people seemed obvious. She was here, wasn’t she?

  It felt odd to smile, she realized. Physically odd, as if the muscles weren’t used to it any longer. Sad. She used to smile—and laugh—a lot. In her old life, that life she’d ruined by being young and idealistic and beyond stupid.

  He started to whistle as he drove. Not loud, but light and cheerful, not a song she recognized but a meandering sort of tune that seemed made up as he went along yet was surprisingly intricate. She was glad. Not just because it was nice to listen to, but because it gave her an acceptable excuse to not talk.

  When he made a turn that took them into what appeared to be a quiet, residential neighborhood, she did start to look around. This close to the center of town the houses were older, some looking like they might have been built when ol’ Booze was still running wild. And they were big, set way back from the street, on large swathes of property. But with the occasional bike or basketball hoop in evidence, they looked like homes, not mansions. Although True had said Whiskey River had its share of those, as well.

  When he pulled into a driveway at the end of the street, she turned to look at him. The whistling stopped.

  “This facilitator thing of yours must pay pretty well.”

  “More importantly, it keeps me busy,” he said. “This was our parents’ house. We divided it. Zee lives in one half, I live in the other.”

  She looked at the big, two story house again. She noticed now that there were actually two front doors, both opening onto the same wide, expansive front porch. And a second driveway that ran up past the opposite side of the house. She could see a garage around back, and guessed there was a matching one on the other side.

  “Zee?”

  “My sister.”

  “And I thought my name was. . .” She trailed off, not sure what to say about someone whose name was just the last letter of the alphabet.

  “Her name’s really Zinnia, but she hates it. Mom had a thing for the flowers.” He gestured at the bushes planted all around the foundation of the house. “It’s pretty amazing in the summer.”

  “Oh.” She wanted to ask where his parents were now, wanted to know how the house was divided into a duplex on the inside, and if he had done it, she wanted to ask why keeping busy was more important to him than making money, she wanted to ask a million things. That scared her, not just because it tacitly gave him the right to ask questions of her that she could not and would not answer, but because she hadn’t been so curious about another human being in a very long time. But what scared her most of all was that before all that, she wanted to ask if anyone lived in his half with him. Like a wife or girlfriend.

  She told herself that it was only because she wanted to be braced if there was a scene about him bringing home some strange woman. And she almost believed it.

  *

  He stood at the bathroom door, a set of clothing—a simple pair of black leggings, a T-shirt, and a pair of heavy socks—borrowed from his sister in his hands. Zee was taller than this girl, but he figured the stretchy pants would work. He set the items down on the floor.

  “Clean clothes you can borrow just outside the door,” he called out. “Then we’ll get yours washed. And there’s some shampoo and stuff here, too.”

  He heard a muffled answer that could have been thank you or go away. Since she was in his bathroom—well not his personally, that was off the master bedroom—and had gone in eagerly, he chose to believe it had been thank you.

  Zee had laughed at him when he’d asked for the clothes and any other girl stuff she might need. “Working with Kelsey must have infected you with the rescue virus. She’s got the horses covered, so you went for runaway kids?”

  “She’s hurt and obviously scared,” he said. “That’s all.”

  “And once she’s not scared and the hurt is tended, then what are
you going to do with her?”

  He hadn’t had an answer for that then, and didn’t have one now.

  So instead, while the shower ran, he settled in at his desk to make some notes about his inspection of the outside of the house, and what little he’d gotten on the inside; he’d obviously have to go back again to do a detailed inspection. Good thing Jamie had said there was no hurry. He also made a couple of calls for current prices on some building materials; the last thing he’d done was Kelsey’s house—although it seemed she wasn’t ever going to live in it after all, he thought with a smile—and it had been a pre manufactured building.

  He’d need to get going on that, too; they were going to convert the house into more of an office building, for the rescue and the youth outreach program Kelsey had started, with Deck’s help. Too bad they weren’t running another session until late spring, his squatter might be a candidate. But Kelsey wouldn’t be doing much of anything except taking care of her rescue horses and planning the wedding for a while. He knew Declan wanted to pull out all the stops for her, and it seemed the whole town was getting involved in the plans.

  Including him, he thought. Declan had surprised him, asking him to be his best man. You’re the only guy I could stand to have around enough to keep things running. I’d like you to stay around, but also as my friend.

  If he hadn’t already known what a huge step that was for the once reclusive writer, Kelsey’s smile would have told him. With Declan’s history, he never thought he would ever say the guy was a lucky man, but just watching him blossom under Kelsey’s tender care proved it. He—

  “Thank you for the shower.”

  “You’re—” He broke off in mid-sentence. Because he had swiveled his desk chair around and seen an entirely different person than the one in the stained jeans, torn T-shirt, and oversized jacket that had gone into the bathroom. “Welcome,” he finished rather lamely, and after far too long.

  For a moment she just stood there, looking at him. Dressed in Zee’s leggings, which hugged slender legs above the heavy socks. He could see the outline of the bandaging, which she’d either redone or managed to keep dry. But then his gaze swept upward, and at first all he could see was the way what he’d thought was a plain T-shirt in some sort of shiny fabric clung to her in places, where her skin must still be damp. Clung to a contour he hadn’t expected. Wisps of hair were also damp, curling around her face slightly, framing it along with the rather jaggedly cut bangs. The rest of her hair fell free now, in a long, smooth tumble down her back.

  He took all of this in, but it was in a secondary sort of way. Because the first thing that had hit him with a thud that was almost palpable was a very simple and now obvious fact. This was no kid. And he must have been blind to think she was.

  “Whose clothes are these?” she asked.

  “My sister’s. She lives in the other half.”

  “You mentioned.”

  He had. And he was still staring. Trying not to focus on the curves that T-shirt was doing nothing to disguise.

  “Thank her for me.”

  He nodded, all he could seem to manage.

  “It feels good.”

  Something entirely different than what she obviously meant slammed into his mind. He opened his mouth to answer, realized he was risking something entirely inappropriate coming out, and shut it again.

  “Are you all right?”

  That depends. “How old are you?”

  Her expression changed, became shuttered. “Why? Does it matter?”

  “I’m not sure.” Nothing less than the truth. Except it might make him feel better if he knew he wasn’t having this reaction to a kid.

  “If I tell you I’m twenty-three, will it change your mind about how I can pay you back?”

  Her tone was so bitter it quashed every earthy thought that had unexpectedly hit him. And it enabled him to get himself past the shock of realization and back in control of his power of speech.

  “No. I offered, you didn’t ask. That should never require payment. Are you?”

  She looked as if she were considering whether to believe him, then finally said, “Yes.”

  That relieved him, in ways he didn’t even want to delve into, although he felt even more foolish knowing he’d been off his guess on her age by years. Maybe he was just getting old. Didn’t they say that’s what happened, the older you got, the younger young people started looking?

  She was moving now, walking around the room, scanning, taking in, and he had the feeling she wasn’t missing much. “Where are you from?”

  “Not Texas.”

  “Narrows it down a bit,” he said dryly.

  She did not, he noted, move like a kid either. If he’d seen that before, if she hadn’t been huddled in that huge jacket he would have known instantly she was no kid. She stopped before the bookshelves on the wall beside the desk. He watched as she reached for the latest addition. Wondered how long she’d been on the run, and if she’d even heard of Declan Bolt, although he was hard to miss. And adults as well as kids—himself included—read and enjoyed the Sam Smith tales. But it didn’t seem like she’d have had much time for reading, at least not lately.

  “My Gran reads these,” she murmured. “She said there’s as much for adults as for kids in them.”

  “She’s right.” The grandparents again. And she’d said it before with longing and now with love, so it was not them she was running from.

  She tugged at the book, and it slid off into her hands. The bookmark was still in the front and as he’d half expected, she opened it. He knew what she’d see there on the title page, Declan’s personalized, handwritten thank you.

  She read it, glanced at him. “You know him?”

  “I do.”

  He thought about telling her the world-famous author lived right here in Whiskey River, but did not. He didn’t trust her that much. And everyone in town felt a little protective about the guy, especially after they’d gone through the media from around the world gathering like vultures when he’d done his first ever public book signing at Whiskey River Books last month at Christmas.

  “I’ve. . .heard of him, but I haven’t read them.”

  “You should. I think you could relate. So are you going to tell me where you’re from, Hope?”

  She gave a little start, as if she’d forgotten she’d told him her name. Which made him think she hadn’t lied about that, at least.”

  “Is answering a bunch of questions a requirement?”

  He studied her for a moment. Wondered if she was as smart as he was thinking she was. He leaned back in his chair—he’d been so dumbstruck by the realization of how wrong he’d been that he hadn’t even stood up when she’d come in, a breach of manners his mother surely would have called him on—and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what you’re willing to, and we’ll go from there?”

  She turned her head to look at him then. “All right. If you’ll answer one question first.”

  “I’m an open book,” he said.

  She pointed at the bookshelf. At the framed photograph.

  “Who is this?”

  He’d been bracing since the moment she’d put the book back and looked at the picture. Putting on the mental armor. So it was with a hard-earned steadiness that he answered her.

  “My wife.”

  Chapter Five

  That, Hope thought, she hadn’t expected. He wore no ring, and the clothes he’d given her had come from his sister, he’d said.

  She studied the picture for another moment. Blonde. Pretty. Not model pretty but a sort of girl-next-door wholesomeness. A happy smile as she looked at the photographer. Him? Probably. She looked happy. No, more than happy. Much more.

  It would be odd if she stared much longer, she told herself. But she couldn’t help it, the strangest feeling was welling up in her, a sort of questioning, wondering what it would be like to look at a man the way this woman did, as if he held the sun in one hand
and her heart in the other and she knew he would never drop either one. She couldn’t even imagine that kind of feeling.

  What kind of woman would draw a man like this? She wondered if there were children. She wondered how this woman would feel about him bringing home an injured stray.

  Most of all, she wondered where this woman was.

  On the next shelf was another photograph. Of a couple standing beside a river full of inner tubes with people sitting in them, drifting downstream on a beautiful sunny day. The water looked cool and inviting in the photograph, but at the moment the sun looked more appealing; she’d spent a chilly few nights until she’d found the house.

  It was definitely the same woman. And the man looked like the younger brother of the man who sat just a few feet away. An identical but younger brother. She noticed a digital date imprinted in the lower corner of the photograph. Six years ago. Not so long. Not long enough to have put that touch of gray just over his ears, or the worry lines around his eyes. Although he was tan, like a man who worked outdoors, so that could be—

  Abruptly she snapped herself out of the silly reverie. She was usually more aware of other things, like escape routes, and where to go next.

  Yet still she asked, “Is she going to be mad you brought home a stray?”

  “No.”

  He said it sharply, so sharply she couldn’t help turning to look at him. “She’s not allowed to get mad?”

  The man who had brought her here seemed to vanish. In place of the mildly exasperated, faintly curious and sometimes amused guy who’d convinced her to come along stood a cold, shuttered, cut off stranger. And when he stood up slowly, he seemed to tower over her even more than the nearly a foot difference in their heights.

  He is a stranger, you idiot, and you deserve this or worse for weakening and coming with him.

  “She’s dead.” His voice was as flat as the land she’d crossed to end up here.

  “Oh.”

  God, she sounded so completely stupid she couldn’t believe it. She barely managed not to turn back and stare again at the picture of that happy couple. It was him, she guessed now, not some younger brother. And whatever had happened to this woman that man clearly loved, had probably been what had made those changes in him, that made him look a decade older than the man in that image.