Owen had stilled.
Then Signe’s eyes widened. “Oh. My. You don’t think that Casper—”
“No,” Owen snapped. “Never. We’re just trying to track down the necklace.”
“But I remember seeing Raina and Monte—”
“Can you call us if you remember anything about the necklace?” Scotty interjected before Owen completely unraveled.
Signe shot her a look, then touched Owen’s arm. “It’s good to see you again. And if you have any more questions, you can call my cell.” She reached for a napkin, pulled out her pen, jotted her number down.
Scotty wanted to raise her hand and remind the woman that she was sitting right here.
Except Owen hadn’t exactly introduced her, had he? In fact, despite her hand on his chair, he’d barely looked at her. Now he managed a smile for Signe, folded and pocketed the napkin.
Scotty dropped her possessive grip, realizing how ridiculous she must look. Especially when Signe winked at Owen again. “I’ll go check on your food.” She wiggled away.
“I’m not hungry,” Scotty said and then wanted to retract it. Wow, she sounded like a thirteen-year-old. So much for being professional.
“What? Seriously, these are awesome burgers.”
Oh, for—“Fine.”
Signe returned with the burgers. “The Blue Monkeys are playing Friday night. Maybe you could stop by?”
Scotty waited for an I’ll be off at eight, but Signe just smiled. “We really missed you around here.”
Owen gave a wan smile. “We’ll see.”
And now Scotty just wanted to go home. We’ll see? What about finding Monte’s killer? Owen wanted to hang out in a bar and listen to music?
“Try your burger—they’re awesome.” He had cut his in half, was sopping his fries through the ketchup.
She stared at her uneaten meal. “Yeah. Sure.” She took a bite, but it sat in her gut. She pushed the plate away, grabbed a napkin.
What was wrong with her? Of course Owen had friends—he grew up here. But suddenly it seemed like everyone knew an Owen she’d never met. A funny, Danny Zuko–type Owen, who charmed the ladies and made fans even of his enemies.
“What’s the matter, Scotty?” He glanced at her discarded burger.
This was what she called not getting involved? She’d deserved every drip of Casper’s sarcasm.
“When you said you were a hockey player, I don’t know, I guess I didn’t see it. Sure, I could imagine you playing hockey, but I didn’t see your life, how much of a hometown hero you were—are, still.” She looked up at him. “I don’t know this man you were, and . . . I want to. I want to know the guy you won’t talk about.”
Owen stared at her without emotion as if her words had shut him down or simply stunned him.
Then he grabbed her hand, pulled her off the chair, and threw a twenty on the bar. Turning to Scotty, he said, “You want to see the guy I left behind? Fine. C’mon.”
He pulled her out of the VFW, then dropped her hand when they reached the street, taking long strides to the pickup.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
She climbed in beside him and had barely shut the door when he roared off, turning the corner, heading up the hill.
It wasn’t until they passed the school and pulled into the community center parking lot that it clicked.
The ice arena.
Scotty scrambled out of the truck after Owen. The doors banged behind them as they entered the dark building, but he seemed to know exactly where the lights were, flicked them on and kept walking.
The lights illuminated a giant indoor rink behind glass, walled off from a carpeted warming/meeting area.
Owen walked down the ramp, opened the door, walked into the rink.
Scotty stood at the glass, watching as he stopped by a bin of skates—extras probably for free-skating times. He unearthed a pair of worn, ragged hockey skates, then sat on a bench, toed off his boots, and worked them on. He had big, confident movements as he laced up his skates, tightening them, wrapping the long laces around the top, knotting them.
When he stood, he seemed . . . bigger. Imposing. As if he’d grown five inches, his shoulders wider. She could imagine him in a uniform, extra padding under his hockey sweater, his curls hanging below his helmet, a chin strap against his trim beard.
A hockey champion.
Owen grabbed a stick from a box and kicked a nearby puck onto the rink.
Then he stepped out on the ice.
Suddenly the man she’d known on the boat vanished, and in his place appeared an athlete, graceful and strong. His body glided over the ice, his legs powerful as he circled, fast, then backward, looking over his shoulder, his strokes so utterly smooth he could steal her breath with the simple yet honed athleticism.
Owen kicked the puck around between his skates, turning like a figure skater, his partner the puck. He maneuvered it between his feet, then with his stick, flicking it around, one way, then the other. Deftly, the puck an extension of his movements.
He lined up on the opposite end of the rink and looked at Scotty. Only, no, not at her. At the net set up on her end of the rink.
His breath gathered in the brisk air of the arena—in, out, puffs of heat from his exertion.
And then he wound up and shot.
Scotty gasped as the puck flew toward her, all the way down the rink, and wanted to put her hand up to protect herself. Instead, she rested it on the glass, watching as the puck landed, bounced, then slid perfectly into the goal.
Before the shot cleared, Owen had already gone over to scoop more pucks onto the ice. He shot them where they landed, from every corner, like bullets across the ice.
Netted.
Netted.
Again, netted, the pucks landing one after another like pigeons behind the goal line.
Then he kicked a puck free and toyed with it up the ice between his feet and stick, graceful, so fast Scotty could barely keep her gaze on the puck.
He circled around the back of the net and dipped the puck in, backhanded.
Again and again he scooped up pucks, shot them into the net with finesse and deadly accuracy.
Scotty watched, seeing him now as they’d seen him, his fans. Their hometown hero. Their bright star. The one most likely to put Deep Haven on the map.
When the last shot landed, Owen drifted away, his stick across his knees. Just gliding. Silent, his breath streaming out behind him.
Then he crumpled to the ice, hung his head. Cupped his hand over his face. Was he . . . crying?
Oh, Owen. Scotty pushed out into the cool rink and stepped onto the ice, slipping her way toward him. His soft breaths echoed in the expanse of the arena, catching in the air. Her heart tore as she dropped to her knees, crawled over to him.
Not caring anymore about the stupid rules, Scotty put her arms around him, touching her head to his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Owen. I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head, looked away from her. In a voice she could barely hear, he said, “I was somebody. I was going to be somebody.”
“You still are.”
He looked at her, his eyes reddened, and she sat back on the ice, pressing her hand to his cheek. “You still are.”
“No, I’m not, Scotty. I can’t even be a dad to my kid. I can’t figure out how to get Casper out of jail. And the town is still living in the glory days. I should have never come back here.”
“You’ve only been home for one day!”
“It’s long enough to realize I’m not going to break free of this. I’ll never be—do—anything. I’m half-blind. I can’t play hockey. What am I going to do with my life?”
With a violent grunt, he pulled the eye patch off his face and flung it across the rink. “I’m so sick of wearing that. Trying to pretend it doesn’t matter. But I can’t escape it. Every time I look in the mirror, I see the fact that I screwed up my entire life.”
He looked at her then, his e
yes thick with unshed emotion. “You don’t want to know the guy I was. That guy was arrogant and idiotic, and I’m not sure I can ever escape him. You were right to walk away from me. Casper’s right. I’m only going to hurt you.”
Scotty held his face in her hands, refusing to let him look away. “I wish you could see the guy I see. The guy who works harder than everyone else. The guy who wants to do the right thing. Your mom’s right—the things you learned back when you were a superstar aren’t wasted. That guy is still inside you. I saw him every day on the boat, and I saw him when he went into the water to save me—”
“That was me being stupidly impulsive again.”
“You were being unstoppable. The guy I saw who made every shot, the guy who could probably make a hundred more—that guy is still in here. Still a superstar.”
He closed his eyes, his jaw tight. “I want to believe you; I do—”
“Then believe me.” She made a point of looking at both his eyes, even touched his scars despite his wince. “Stop listening so hard to your failures. And to the echo of a future that will never be. Live right now, be the guy I know and—”
Love. She nearly said it, and in the silence, she thought she might hear it bounce off the walls.
No, not love. It had simply been an impulse, a passionate word on her lips. She cared for him, sure, but love was . . . messy. This could be messy. She swallowed, revised. “The guy I know. Which, by the way, is better than any Danny Zuko.”
He stared at her so long she thought her heart stopped, lodged in her chest, waiting to beat again.
It did when a slow smile slid up his face. “I don’t know . . . you never really heard me sing.”
Sing? Talk about wooing her heart away from her body. “Maybe we should save that for another day. We have work to do.”
But Owen didn’t move. His gaze roamed over her, and a spark of mischief appeared in his eyes. “‘Saaandy, can’t you see I’m in misery?’” He started at almost a whisper, building into a tenor that echoed off the ice.
No, oh no. He had a nice voice, rich and sultry, and in the cavernous room it resounded like they were in an opera house, landing sweetly on the tender flesh of her heart.
Scotty found her voice, turned it hard. “Oh, for pete’s sake. Get up.” She grabbed him by the shoulder, intending to pull him up, but the ice betrayed her. She slipped, cried out, and tumbled back.
“Gotcha.”
Indeed. He’d reached out, caught her, and she landed in his arms, solid, strong around her. He settled her on his lap, and she found her arms around his shoulders. His amazing, work-sculpted shoulders.
“You okay?” he said softly, pushing her hair from her face.
“Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
He grinned. “‘We made a start; now we’re apart. There’s nothin’ left for me—’” Again with the singing, softly this time, sneaking in to unseat her.
Perfect. And when he added a waggle of his eyebrows, she nearly lost it. She pushed on his shoulders. “We’re not apart. I’m right here.”
He grabbed her hands, raised his voice. “‘I sit and wonder why-y-y—’”
Scotty rolled her eyes, too aware of his hands holding hers. She pulled out of his grip. “Fine. You’re a brilliant Danny Zuko. Can we go?”
Owen’s smile dimmed, a serious edge appearing in his eyes that had the cool air heating around her, burning through her to her core.
His gaze fell to her lips.
Yes. She caught her lip between her teeth, keenly aware of him—his hand on her back, the other touching her arm. Her hand on his muscled, too-perfect chest. The smell of the exertion he’d shown on the ice mixing with the scent of the north shore—woodsmoke, autumn, the cotton of his flannel shirt.
Kiss me. She wanted to say it, just in case he thought she was hanging on to her rules, but the words only rang in her chest along with the thunder of her pulse.
Kiss me.
Abruptly Owen drew in a long, almost-frustrated breath, and in one sleek move he pushed Scotty to her feet.
She was still catching her balance when he popped up to his skates beside her. He put his arm around her waist before she could fall. “I got you.”
Oh. Okay. She held on to his arm as he anchored her to himself, the hard plane of his body, his strong legs.
And she hoped too much that he was just getting a better angle to kiss her.
Instead, he helped her to the edge of the rink, then skated back to retrieve his eye patch before returning to the carpeted area and sinking down to untie his skates.
That was it?
Owen stood, dropping his skates in the bin. “C’mon. Casper needs us.”
Right. Of course he did.
“It smells good in here, Mrs. Christiansen. What are you making?” Scotty said as she hung up her jacket.
Owen came in behind her. “It’s banana bread. Oh, how I’ve missed that smell.”
“It’s Casper’s favorite.” Ingrid pulled the bread from the oven and set it on the cooling rack. “I’m going to wrap it up for him and bring it over to the jail later.”
“The whole thing?” Owen leaned on the counter, inhaling the smell. “Mom, please. Just one piece. Casper can’t eat the entire thing. Besides, Grace brought him cookies this morning—”
“How would you feel if you were sitting in jail, unjustly accused?” she said. “If we lived in a town with its own judicial service, he would have been out yesterday. It’s not fair we have to wait for the circuit judge to arraign him before we can bail him out. And I can’t believe I’m even saying that.”
She picked up a towel. Sighed. “This whole thing stinks.”
Now he felt like a bum. Owen slipped his arm around his mother’s shoulders. It seemed she’d gotten smaller since he’d left. “I know, Mom. You’re right. Casper will love it—all of it. And he’ll be home tomorrow.”
“You can’t really be hungry,” Scotty said, sliding onto a kitchen stool. “The girls at the coffee shop gave him a free cookie with our lattes. It seems half the town had a crush on Owen. They greeted him like a war hero.”
“Not exactly,” Owen said, but he couldn’t help but be surprised at the welcome he’d received. And not just from the handful of girls he could barely remember, but locals at Pierre’s Pizza and a number of patrons at the Java Cup, where he’d bought Scotty a pumpkin latte.
“Exactly. Signe Netterlund practically threw herself into his lap when we questioned her.”
“What—? No, she didn’t.” He shot Scotty a look.
She rolled her eyes. “Owen seems to be the town catch.”
He stared at her, incredulous. Had she completely deleted the debacle on the ice rink from her memory?
He wasn’t sure why they’d gone from sitting at the counter at the VFW, about to devour mouthwatering burgers, to her claiming she didn’t know him. She did know him—she just didn’t know how despicably far he’d fallen to get there.
You want to see the guy I left behind?
His impulses had simply taken over. He operated on a sort of furious autopilot as he drove to the ice rink, intending to show her the guy who’d had it all and lost it.
Then he’d hit the ice and everything clicked into place. He’d probably pushed himself too hard because his incision burned after so many shots on goal. But the cool breath of the rink slicking down his shirt, the delicious ache in his legs as he flew over the ice, the power in his shots . . . In those moments, he could hear the roar of the crowd and feel the sweet adrenaline that sluiced through him before a game.
As he skated, missing it had reached in and turned him inside out.
He hadn’t expected the enormity of his loss to buckle him onto the ice, but the pain had crashed over him. The taste of getting what he’d worked so hard for had turned to ash in his mouth.
Shoot, he’d even cried. Like a child.
He hadn’t heard Scotty approach until suddenly there she was, her arms around him, saving him again. Always sa
ving him, not seeing the wreck before her, but believing in some guy he barely knew.
Stop listening so hard to your failures. And to the echo of a future that will never be. Live right now, be the guy I know and . . .
He’d let the curiosity of what hung on the end of that sentence niggle at him all day.
Care for? Saved?
Love?
He shook that last word away. But it could still undo him, along with the memory of her in his arms, fitting so perfectly, her long hair down and caressing his hands, her beautiful lips parting just a little like she hoped . . .
He’d nearly chucked the rules, pulled her to himself, and dived in, slaying the image of the guy in the middle of a hockey rink, his life in debris around him.
Except that’s who he’d become, and no amount of belief or pep talking or even pretending she loved him could help him figure out how to put it back together.
Which had made him put her away from him and remind himself that he had one shot at this second chance—rescuing Casper—and he couldn’t blow it by breaking the rules.
“How was your sleuthing?” Ingrid asked, pulling out a Tupperware container.
“According to my notes, there were three restraining orders against Monte, including Raina’s. Five people who say he stole estate money from them; Rhino and Kaleigh, who have a personal complaint; and a slew of people who say Monte Riggs should have been run out of town long before he disappeared.” Scotty set the notebook she’d purchased to keep track of the names on the counter.
Ingrid moved over to peer at Scotty’s list. “Do you think any of these people might have killed Monte?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You have to have means and opportunity as well as motive. It will take a lot more digging.”
From the office, the door opened and Owen’s nephew, Tiger, barreled in. “Dad says he needs a cookie or he’ll die right now!”
He stopped when he spotted Owen, his eyes wide. “Oh.”
Owen squatted in front of him. Wow, kids grew fast. The Tiger he remembered had teeth missing, the chubby face of a kindergartner. This Tiger was taller, his big teeth coming in, his hair shorter. “I’m your uncle Owen. Remember me?”
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