Atonement: The Lonely Ridge Collection

by Lyz Kelley

  Larson shriveled inward, and walked around him, ignoring Jacob’s demand. “Let’s go have some fun.” Larson pointed toward the front door. “Our limo’s outside.”

  Jacob walked to the front picture window. Sure enough, there was a man in a black suit leaning up against a stretch limo taking a smoke break.

  A burdened breath released in a fluid rush as he let his hands fall to his sides. “Tell you what. Why don’t I arrange for the driver to take these lovely ladies back to the airport so you and I can talk.” And I’ll get you sobered up.

  “Stop worrying. I’ve got everything under control.”

  Jacob lifted Larson’s arm and searched his pockets.

  “Hey.” Larson tried pushing him away. “What are you doing? Stop touching me.”

  Jacob lifted a prescription bottle of pain meds from Larson’s front pocket. “Where did you get these?”

  “I hurt my back.”

  Jacob stepped closer, looking directly into Larson’s eyes. “When?”

  Larson studied a spot on the ceiling that most likely wasn’t there, then reached to scratch his shoulder, a tell-tale sign Larson was trying to buy time to come up with another lie.

  But he couldn’t lie.

  Jacob and his buddy had spent the past ten years together. Jacob had been covering for him—he even got arrested a couple of times so Larson could avoid a probation violation. But now his patience was wearing thin.

  “Tell you what.” He pocketed the pills. “Why don’t you go upstairs, check out the place? And I’ll entertain these ladies for a few minutes.”

  “I know what you’re trying to do, man. Be cool.” Larson accused, sticking out his lower lip like a five-year-old.

  Jacob got even closer. “Is that what you using is about? Being cool? Belonging?”

  Larson stumbled backward and blinked. When Larson paled, Jacob grabbed his arm and snatched back the design boards, but Larson yanked away, knocking himself off-balance and careening to the floor. He sat wide-eyed for a moment, then started laughing—the way a person laughs when they have nothing to laugh about.

  Larson rolled onto his knees, and the redhead grabbed an elbow to help him stand, but the first effort failed.

  Jacob stepped in front of the struggling pair. “Why don’t I help you upstairs so you can sleep for awhile?”

  Larson struggled to his feet and eventually made it vertical. He waved a hand in front of his face. “I smell smoke.”

  Smoke?

  Crap.

  Jacob rushed to the kitchen, shoved his hand into the silicon mitt, and opened the oven door. Sure enough, both pizzas were singed black. Smoke billowed out of the oven, and he looked at the ceiling, hoping the smoke detectors wouldn’t go off, but his hope was smashed a second later by the blaring horns.

  Shit. Shit. Shit. That’s all he needed was a visit from the fire department.

  He punched the oven off, grabbed a dishcloth, and furiously waved the small cotton square at the ceiling. After a few dozen waves the blasted blaring stopped. He grabbed the charcoal rounds, and shoved the pans and burned pizzas into the sink, then turned on the water.

  The sound of a car’s engine starting and pulling out of the drive added another heaping layer of frustration to the mix.

  He grabbed his phone and dialed Larson, then disconnected when the phone went to voicemail. He scrolled to his friend-finder app, but Larson had blocked him, so he shot off a text to Larson’s sister and Courtney to let them both know what had happened.

  Damn you, Larson.

  Jacob leaned against the counter, hanging his head. Frustration stifled his breath.

  God, how he wished he’d never made the deal to sell his company. If he hadn’t, Larson wouldn’t have had access to wads of cash, or the time to get into trouble.

  Fear tightened his throat. If Larson didn’t get his act together, he’d be dead, and it would be Jacob’s fault.

  Jacob grabbed his rental car keys and headed for the door. Maybe Larson would have the driver stop in the little town for some snacks. It would only take a few minutes to check. Hiding a limo in a town the size of Elkridge wouldn’t be easy.

  He made his way down the hill and took a right onto Bridge Street, then a left on Main. He searched left and right, then turned on Ash. Nothing. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. When he got to the end of Ash, he turned into the parking lot of More Than Meatballs.

  His dinner was burned. And far worse, in less than a month his life had skidded completely out of control.

  Right now should have been the happiest time of his life.

  He’d achieved success.

  He had more money in the bank than he ever imagined possible.

  Yet his success had brought with it an unexpected outcome.

  The layer of gloom burdened his heart.

  He entered the restaurant and debated whether to take out or dine in. Echoes of his lonely, empty existence made him reexamine his need to eat alone. He requested a table and followed the hostess to a booth.

  He sent Larson another text and waited while the waitress brought him the requested glass of Chianti.

  He thumbed through some emails, then dropped his phone on the table to let his mind settle.

  Man, I’m tired.

  The thought barely finished when a shadow fell across the table. “Mind if I join you?”

  A tall man with a half-serious, half-friendly face hovered next to his elbow. His taupe pants and blue shirt with a sheriff’s badge attached to his shirt pocket couldn’t be a good sign. Neither could the intent look. The sheriff was definitely on duty.

  Had Larson done something stupid? One of the women? Both were possible. “Help yourself,” Jacob nodded toward the other side of the booth.

  He had nothing to hide. Though back when he was fifteen, he might have had reason to make a run for it.

  He’d hated being relocated to a new city. Cutting class, hanging out with the wrong crowd, and bending every rule he guaranteed he was on a first-name basis with the local cops. But in college, he realized he wasn’t just pissing his dad off, he was hurting himself and sabotaging his future.

  The sheriff slid into the booth and set his hat on the table. “Mr. Reyes, I’d like to introduce myself. I’m Joe Gaccione. I understand you bought the old Clairemont place.”

  “Is there a problem?” he asked, trying to read the man’s intentions.

  “I’m not sure.” He rested a forearm on the table. “A couple of months ago the FBI and DEA were here making several arrests. The town’s been pretty shaken up.” Joe paused but his eyes still gathered data. “A few hours ago, a limousine hit town and headed up to your place.”

  Ah, so?

  Jacob took a sip of his wine, letting the taste of cherry and plum swirl in his mouth before swallowing. “I can assure you, Sheriff, it’s not my intention to cause any trouble.” In fact, I’m looking for some peace and quiet.

  “Good to hear, because I got a call saying there was a limousine full of people who were being disorderly.”

  Jacob closed his eyes, working hard to avoid the anger from spilling over. “That would be my business partner,” possibly my former partner if he doesn’t straighten up. “I’m sure it’s the meds he’s taking for a back injury, but…” No. This time there would be no more buts. He wouldn’t make excuses for Larson anymore.

  “Reports say your buddy’s certainly feeling no pain. At least he wasn’t driving.”

  The drug abuse therapist warned Jacob to have patience, give Larson support and understanding without trying to be co-dependent and take responsibility for Larson’s actions. Yet how could he support Larson? Then again, how could he stand by Larson if he was intent on destroying his life?

  “At least he wasn’t driving,” Jacob concurred.

  “Drug addicts are not welcome in Elkridge. And if the dozens of arrests didn’t send a clear message, I’m not sure what will. I’m doing my best to keep this town clean.”

  Dozens of arres
ts? Wow. The stern warning came through loud and clear. “It’s a worthy fight, Sheriff, and one I appreciate you taking on.” If only every city would take up the same fight, yet in some places getting drugs was as easy as getting a gumball out of a candy machine.

  “Thank you for saying so. Drugs took the life of my brother.”

  “Did he overdose?”

  “No, a drug trafficker named Richard Clairemont murdered him. Have you ever heard the name?”

  Criminy. “Is Rachelle Clairemont his daughter?”

  “Yes, she is.” Joe leaned on his forearms. “Did she have anything to do with your business partner’s visit?” The way Joe laid out the question seemed he was more curious than accusatory. Yet he kept his eyes even and casual. Jacob got the impression the simple question had a few complexities below the surface.

  He matched the sheriff’s posture. “She doesn’t even know Larson. Why are you asking?”

  “You must have read the news.”

  Jacob’s hand-tapping stilled, and he flattened his palms on the table. “Actually, I find most news reporting outlets biased these days. If I want to know something, I ask one of my assistants to do the research rather than waste my time with colored commentary.”

  “Maybe you should take a peek now and then.” Joe scratched behind his ear.

  “If there’s a problem, Sheriff, I need to know. I’ve employed Ms. Clairemont to redecorate my home. My gut says I can trust her. Are you telling me I have another problem I need to deal with?”

  “No. No problem. I guess everyone deserves a second chance—and that includes Rachelle. She’s been through a lot.”

  “Like?”

  “Can’t say. That’s for Rachelle to tell, not me.”

  His respect for the sheriff grew. “Would you know where I could find her? I’ve tried to call, but I just get an answering machine. I want to make sure she’s okay. My friend may have scared her.”

  “Scared her? I doubt it. If what she’s been through didn’t scare her, I doubt anything you toss her way will.” Joe crossed his arms. “But you seem like a decent enough guy.” He pointed east. “If you head out of town, just past the café, you’ll see a turnoff to the left. Follow the road, and you’ll come to a couple of cabins. Take the fork to the left, and you should see her blue Mercedes if she’s home.”

  Joe slid out of the booth and waved Jacob off as he began to stand. Jacob held out his hand instead. “Thanks for the introduction, Sheriff. I appreciate what you’re doing to keep this town clean.”

  Joe nodded. “You need anything, anything at all, just reach out.”

  A few seconds later, Jacob’s meal arrived, but he was no longer hungry. All he wanted to do was find a little cabin in the woods with a golden-haired beauty inside.

  “Goldilocks.” He chuckled and wondered if she might be living with three bears.

  But he doubted it, since it didn’t seem her life had been a fairy tale.

  When he arrived in Colorado he expected to find peace and quiet. Time to work. Dream about his new game. But so far there’d been nothing but unrest.

  He hadn’t slept well.

  This morning he’d meditated and breezed through every turning point in his life. An epiphany struck. Under the surface, his father’s lack of parental affection and dismissal of his talents had poked and prodded and pushed him to be a success.

  He hadn’t forced his parents to get married just because the pregnancy stick turned blue. Nor had he asked the judge to force his father to step up and take responsibility.

  Just the opposite.

  At least his early success hadn’t derailed him as it had Larson.

  He didn’t have all the answers, but one thing was certain—he wanted to find out what happened to Rachelle Clairemont.

  Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been good.

  Chapter Seven

  Jacob walked up the warped steps and turned to study the rutted dirt drive.

  Yep, there was her car. But why was the stylish, competent woman he met, the woman who once lived in a house the size of a small castle, now living in a cabin smaller than his garage? Certainly her father’s crimes had nothing to do with her.

  He lifted his hand to knock, then hesitated.

  Rachelle opened the cabin door and tugged the edges of her knit sweater tight across her chest. “Jacob, what are you doing here?” She stuck out her foot to keep her French bulldog from dashing out of the cabin.

  He again searched the cabin’s open yard, then turned back to look in her eyes. “I came to apologize.”

  “For?” Her eyebrows popped up. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” she added softly. “Your friend is messing up. Not you.”

  Yet he was closer to Larson than anyone else in his buddy’s life, and he still couldn’t get him to listen. He didn’t like to fail—and he was failing his friend. He squeezed the back of his neck to ease the building pain. “Rachelle, I…”

  She tightened her grip on the door handle, and glanced over her shoulder, clearly uncomfortable. The worry in her eyes gave him a punch to the gut. “I should go. I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I would offer you some coffee, but the coffee maker and I don’t seem to get along very well.” She bit her lip. “But I have a couple bottles of wine I’ve been saving. Seems like today might be the right time to open one of them.”

  He eased closer. “I’d like that.” Remembering he had a to-go bag in his hand, he lifted his arm. “Since Larson ruined your dinner, I brought some penne pasta and some chicken parmesan.”

  She reached for the bags and held them up to the fading sunlight. “I see you found More Than Meatballs. It’s said Mrs. Gaccione’s Bolognese is the best around.”

  Gaccione, as in Joe Gaccione, one and the same. He’d missed the connection. That wasn’t the only connection he’d apparently missed.

  The town was even smaller than he thought. “You’ve never eaten there?”

  Her face flushed. “No. I never had the opportunity.”

  Strange. “Then I guess we’ll give the meatballs a try together.”

  He brushed by her, close enough to get a whiff of her lush, fresh, floral scent. The sweet undertones with a bold musk overlay matched her perfectly.

  She set the bags on the counter and retrieved a couple of baroque-style fine china plates befitting any formal dining room. Next she retrieved a couple of crystal glasses, classy-looking enough to be hand cut, from another cupboard. The ornate flatware set next to the plates gleamed like only sterling silver could.

  “Rachelle?”

  She kept her back turned and gripped the counter like a lifeline.

  “The sheriff stopped me in town. He told me your father murdered his brother. I suppose I could find out what happened on the internet, but I’d rather hear it from you. Would you mind telling me what happened?”

  Very slowly she turned to face him, her beautiful face devoid of color. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she struggled for a breath.

  “I…” She slumped into the chair like a rag doll.

  Like a moron, he sat there and did nothing, for a second, then swept her into his arms. He held on while the wall she had built to keep the rest of the world out cracked, then shattered into a million pieces.

  “Shhh. It’s okay.” He ran a hand up and down her back to soothe away the hurt.

  Her body vibrated with the suffering. She clung to him with everything she had.

  When her shuddering sobs eased, he loosened his grip. “Hey, where’s that take-no-prisoners woman I met the other day?”

  She swiped fingertips under her eyes. “You’re right.” She stood, straightened her sweater, and patted her hair.

  He tore a section off the paper towel roll sitting on the counter and handed her the sheet.

  “Thanks.”

  He leaned sideways to look at her face. “There’s this character in my video game called Adira Cato. She’s strong and wise, and she can pretty much kick anybody’s ass. You
remind me of her.”

  “I bet she doesn’t cry.”

  “Only because the designers haven’t been able to figure out how to simulate tears.”

  A weary smile limped into place. “Does she get to wear a cool set of armor?”

  “Of course. And she can morph into a metal lioness and leap from building to building. It’s pretty cool.”

  She nodded slowly. “But she’s not real.”

  “No, but you are.”

  She sucked in a quiet breath, and he liked the reaction. More than anything, he wanted her to believe he could take her breath away.

  Rachelle couldn’t believe she just slimed a guy she barely knew with a hard, ugly cry. She felt better, but only just.

  She looked around the room, repelled by what she saw.

  She’d worked hard every day, learning, planning, executing—and for what? To live in a room smaller than her walk-in closet through no fault of her own? Although the no-fault bit wasn’t exactly true.

  She should have found a way to escape her father long ago. But fear had always been a big part of why she never left. If she had run, she’d always live in fear of being found. Her father became more and more violent as the years progressed. Staying with him was safer than rebelling.

  Jacob shouldn’t feel sorry for her.

  Her father had twisted her into a monstrous person, a person she didn’t even recognize, was ashamed to recognize. Erik was right. She was mean to a lot of people, her way of dealing with the anger she had no idea how to control.

  Now her goal was to find a way to help the town heal. She hadn’t done a very good job yet, but she was determined to keep trying.

  “For what it’s worth, I have a friend who went through detox in Arizona last year.” She pulled on a long strand of hair, twisting and pulling the strands in a circle. “The place wasn’t cheap, but Tiffany’s been clean for a while now, and the place offers lifetime support, 24/7.”

  “How did you get her to check herself in?”

  She smoothed her hair back into place, then caught herself and left it a bit messy. “I didn’t, actually. There’s a baker here in town. She owns Dreamy Delights. You should stop in sometime.” Rachelle reached for some serving spoons. “Tiffany ran into Jenna one night at a restaurant.” Rachelle let the retold story unfold in her mind. “Tiffany doesn’t normally listen to anyone, but Tiffany said Jenna, a stranger at the time, told her exactly what she needed to hear.”