Harlequin Intrigue, Box Set 2 of 2

by Julie Miller

  “Okay.”

  “And if...if it doesn’t come back,” she added, realizing that she needed to vocalize her greatest fear, “I’ll still move on. I know this is just a temporary stop,” she said, assuring him that she wasn’t going to overextend her welcome.

  “Great,” he said.

  She laid down her fork. “I know I’m putting you at risk by being here.”

  He sighed. “Do I look concerned about that?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe you should be,” she said. “Maybe you should just tell me to get the hell out.”

  He looked at his half-eaten lunch. “When you can cook like this? You think I’m crazy?”

  Maybe. He was inviting trouble into his life. “I just want to be clear on my intentions,” she said stiffly.

  “Crystal clear,” he said. He pointed at the bread basket. “Can you pass the rolls?”

  * * *

  AFTER LUNCH, they cleared the table. He washed and she dried the dishes. “Let’s take a look at the rest of the house,” he said.

  There was a master bedroom off to the side of the kitchen. It had also been freshly painted but there wasn’t a stick of furniture in it. The attached bath had been cleaned and emptied of all signs of Brick.

  He wondered if that had been the first thing that Chase had done. It wasn’t as if Chase didn’t have a reason to hate Brick Doogan, to want to exorcize his spirit from the premises. He’d taken the brunt of Brick’s hateful nature, protecting everyone else in the house.

  Cal had let him. And that knowledge still rubbed him raw with guilt.

  When he and Stormy went upstairs, it was easy to see that Chase had plans for the second story but had not yet had time to implement them. Bray’s room was empty save a gallon of new paint in an unopened can. He opened Bray’s closet. It was filled with old winter coats. He recognized them as coats his mother had worn over a period of many years. She’d been dead for over eight years and Brick still hadn’t done anything with them.

  Maybe he’d been sentimental. Maybe he’d simply been lazy. It didn’t matter but perhaps one of them would fit Stormy.

  Chase’s room was also empty and his closet was bare. There was a gallon of paint there, as well.

  He was starting to get the pattern. He wasn’t surprised when he opened the door to his old room and saw the gallon of paint. The bed in the middle of the room did give him pause. There was no frame. The mattress and box springs sat on the floor. Sheets and a blanket, looking freshly washed, were folded and sitting at the end of the bare mattress. He opened the closet door. Women’s clothes and men’s clothes.

  Not his mother’s or Brick’s. These belonged to Chase and Raney. He turned to Stormy. “Will any of these fit?”

  She glanced at several of the items, looking at the size tags. “Well enough,” she said. “But I hate to use someone’s things without their permission.”

  He shook his head. “Chase won’t care and while I don’t know Raney, if my brother loves her, then she’s the type who won’t care, as well.”

  She nodded. “I suppose you would like your sweatpants back,” she said.

  His sweatpants and T-shirt had never looked or smelled better. “I’m glad they served a purpose,” he said. “I’ll let you have some privacy to pick something out.” See, he could be a gentleman. Even when his libido was spiking at the mere thought of her getting naked to change clothes.

  When she nodded, he walked out of the bedroom and went downstairs. The fifth stair squeaked, the way it always had. It brought back a sudden rush of memories. Being fourteen or fifteen, waiting for his brother to come home. Hoping that Chase would get inside without Brick hearing that he was late or realizing that he’d been drinking. And he’d cringe when he heard the step squeak, wishing that Chase had been more careful, wishing that Brick slept more soundly.

  And then digging deeper under the covers when Chase and Brick would go at it. There’d be yelling and then worse when Brick stopped talking and got his point across with his hands.

  He’d just lain there. Afraid.

  And later, when he got Chase alone and begged him to be more careful, his brother had just smiled.

  He’d been such a dumb ass that he’d never even questioned why Brick went after Chase with a vengeance and left him alone. Until Brick had told him why.

  That was the day everything changed.

  But that was more than eight years ago and he needed to forget it. If not forget it, then at least get past it. That was why he had come home for Thanksgiving.

  He sat down on the couch in the living room and watched the road. There was generally little traffic on the rural road and none today. The sun was shining and made the living room, with its big windows, feel warmer than the rest of the house.

  He closed his eyes and let himself relax. He was home. For better or worse. Back in Ravesville.

  Five minutes later, he heard the upstairs bedroom door open and close. Then light steps on the stairs. He smiled when Stormy came into view.

  She’d put on a blue jean skirt, a black sweater and black knee-high boots. She had some kind of black nylons or tights on, too. She looked fabulous. Sexy.

  Maybe she should have stayed in his T-shirt and sweatpants. Married, he reminded himself. Or close to it.

  “Looks as if the clothes fit pretty well,” he said.

  “They’re wonderful. I had underestimated the psychological boost of having clothes on that actually fit.”

  Psychological boost for her maybe. Psychological torture for him. “What do you want to do with your bridal gown?” he asked, needing to quickly get his head back in the game.

  She looked startled. “I...I don’t know.”

  “I don’t think we should leave it in the SUV. If we need to abandon that vehicle quickly, I don’t want to have to deal with it.”

  She nodded. “Of course. I guess we should bring it inside.” She paused. “I don’t want it,” she added. She pointed at the brick fireplace on the far side of the room. “I suspect it would burn pretty well.”

  He stared at her. “How can you be so sure that the dress isn’t important to you, that it isn’t a good thing?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it. All I can say is that I think I would know if I was recently married. I would feel it.”

  Not the best logic he’d ever heard.

  “I’m not wearing a ring,” she said.

  He knew that. He’d checked, of course. “You don’t have any rings on. Maybe you’re the type that doesn’t like jewelry.”

  She studied her hands. She’d clipped her nails very short to repair the damage. Still, her hands were very feminine, with long, graceful fingers. When she looked up, he could see the frustration in her eyes.

  “There’s something not right about that,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “I have a ring. A favorite ring. Silver. Wide band. Heavy. I can see it. But I don’t have any idea how I got it or where it is now.” She sighed. “I swear, I want to just claw my brain apart.”

  He laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing, then, that you can’t get to it. Don’t push it. It’s something that you can remember the ring. The rest will come.” He stood up. “I’ll get your wedding dress. I don’t think we should burn it. There may be evidence on it that shouldn’t be destroyed.”

  “I guess I could hang it in the closet upstairs.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe we shouldn’t be so quick to push it aside.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.”

  “Do you know if it was a new dress or do you think it had been borrowed from someone?”

  He could tell the question surprised her. She closed her eyes. “It was hanging on a white padded hanger, the kind you might find in a wedding dress store. There are st
raps inside some dresses... I don’t know what they’re called, but you use them if you’re hanging up a dress that has a wide neckline and won’t fit on a hanger very well. Somebody had hung the dress on the hanger using those straps. They were perfectly wrapped. I never saw a tag but I think it’s very possible that it was new.” She opened her eyes. “Where are you going with this?”

  “Stores sell certain brands of clothing. Even wedding dress stores, right? By looking at the brand, do you think it’s possible that we might identify the store that it came from?”

  “Maybe. But I’m pretty sure that I didn’t go there and pick it out. They aren’t going to be able to tell me anything about me.”

  “But one of the Mercedes Men must have picked it up. They would have paid for it, maybe with a credit card. Maybe we can find out something about them.”

  “We don’t have much else to go on,” she admitted. “But where would we start?”

  “We know where you ended up. We have to work off the assumption that they didn’t get you into a wedding dress and put you on a plane. We can use my phone to search for all the bridal stores in Missouri. Then we call them to see if they carry this particular brand.”

  “That could work,” she said. “But there could be several. It’s a big state, maybe a popular brand.”

  “We’ll start with those that are closest to us. Ready to try?”

  She nodded. “If I thought standing on my head in the corner would help, I’d try that.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  According to the pink tag sewn into the back of the dress, it was a Jenna McCoy. That meant nothing to her.

  But when they searched the brand, they realized that it was carried by seventeen bridal stores in the state of Missouri. And upon further investigation, they realized that there were more bridal stores in the state that didn’t list their labels.

  It was daunting to say the least. “Seventeen that we know about,” she said.

  “Eight if we consider the major markets of Kansas City, Colombia and St. Louis. Those are the closest geographically to where you were found.”

  “Eight,” she repeated. “Do we call them and describe the dress? See if they’ve recently sold one?”

  “That might work. Maybe we could get a contact name and email address and send them a photo?”

  “I think they’re going to think we’re nuts. I can just hear them now. Hey, lady, you got the dress. Why the heck don’t you know where you bought it?”

  “I never said it was a perfect plan.”

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed. He was going for innocent and it was a look that he simply couldn’t pull off. “Let me think about this,” she said. “In the meantime, I’m going to make dessert.”

  “A real dessert?”

  He might not be able to do innocent but he could do hopeful really well.

  “You’ll see,” she said and left him alone in the living room.

  In the kitchen, she found a can of cherry pie filling and a can of crushed pineapple. She opened them, mixed them together in a 9x13 pan and spread a box of cake mix on top. She dotted it with butter she found in the refrigerator. She was just opening the oven when Cal called out, “How’s it going in there?”

  “Good. Forty-five minutes,” she said.

  “It’s been about five years since I’ve had homemade dessert. I guess I can wait a little longer.”

  He said it lightheartedly but it reminded her of the tremendous sacrifice that soldiers made. She wiped her hands on a towel and walked back into the living room. He was sitting on the couch, looking at his cell phone.

  “Thank you for your service,” she said, her tone serious. “I imagine it was difficult at times.”

  He nodded. “Sure. Difficult. Wonderful. Frustrating. Exhilarating. Any given day it was different. Sometimes any given hour. Got to see a fair amount of the world.”

  She laughed. “I’ll just bet you did.”

  “It wasn’t as hard on me as it was on the guys who had a wife and kids at home. I don’t know how they did it.”

  She shouldn’t pry. Really, she shouldn’t. “You didn’t leave anybody behind?” she asked, losing the internal battle quickly.

  “Nobody special,” he said.

  She should let it go. “What’s that they say about sailors? A girl in every port?”

  “Maybe not every port,” he said, laughing. “I was a lot of places.”

  She bet he’d broken his share of hearts.

  “You look tired,” he said gently. “Why don’t you go take a nap?”

  “I need to watch this,” she said, waving a hand in the direction of the kitchen.

  “I got this,” he said. “I’ll pull it out in exactly forty-five minutes. I promise, I won’t forget.”

  He was right about her being tired. While she’d gotten some sleep the night before, her body felt fatigued, as if she’d been running on empty for a long time.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No problem. If you’re real lucky, there will be some left when you get up.”

  She hoped so. Her appetite seemed to be coming back. She no longer felt ill, which was a huge relief.

  She walked upstairs, kicked her boots off and lay down. She should sleep when she could. She could see herself, hands on her hips, smiling at someone. First rule, sleep when you can.

  That had her practically jackknifing in the bed. First rule of what? And who the hell was she talking to?

  She took a deep breath, then another. Think, she told herself. Reason it out. What had she been wearing? Blue pants. A lighter blue button-down shirt, tucked in. Tennis shoes.

  She stared at her bare feet. She didn’t wear tennis shoes. She was sure of that. And the blue pants and shirt had been plain, almost ugly. She liked herself in the pretty linen dress better.

  She’d been giving advice. Lightheartedly. But still, she was in a position to offer advice.

  She tried to envision the room that she’d been in. Gold wall behind her. Some kind of wallpaper. That was all she could visualize.

  She lay back on the bed, all thoughts of a nap gone. Things were coming back. They were. She just hoped it was in time. She hadn’t said anything more to Cal but every time she thought of Saturday, she started to feel ill.

  She pretended to sleep for an hour before she got up and walked downstairs. She saw a ladder at the bottom of the steps. That was new.

  She found Cal in the kitchen. He had indeed pulled the cobbler out. It was nicely browned and there was a large square missing.

  “Hi,” he said. “Did you sleep?”

  “Some,” she lied. “What’s the ladder for?”

  “If the opportunity presents itself, I may tackle the painting while we’re here. The ceilings are pretty high upstairs. I’ll need a ladder for sure.”

  “That will be a nice surprise for your brother.”

  “Trust me on this,” he said, “it’s the least I can do.”

  She heard something in his tone, something that didn’t quite match the carefree phrase. It was the same thing she heard every time he talked about his brother. Anger. Maybe. Hurt. Possibly. Sorrow. Certainly sounded like it. A myriad of emotions. But whatever it was, he was still lucky.

  What she would have given to have her sister back.

  Her knees buckled and Cal caught her before she hit the floor. “What the hell?” he said.

  She ran a shaky hand through her hair. “I had a sister. She died when I was seven. She was five years older. I can see her.”

  He led her from the kitchen to the living room and sat her down on the couch. He crowded in next to her. Then he rubbed her back. Gently. “What’s her name?” he asked.

  “Mia. I called her My Mia. She was my everything.” She could feel hot tears run d
own her face.

  He gathered her into his arms. “What’s Mia’s last name?” he asked, his lips close to her ear.

  “Mia....” She closed her eyes. Damn. Why wouldn’t it come? “I don’t know,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “How did she die?”

  “I can see her. She’s running down the stairs, her backpack hanging off one shoulder. She’s late.”

  “For?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe a car accident?”

  She shook her head. “She was only five years older. If I was seven, then she was twelve. Too young to drive.”

  “Someone else could have been driving. One of your parents.”

  How horrible that would be. But that didn’t seem right. “I can remember my parents coming home, walking in the door together and telling me that Mia was dead. My grandmother was there and she was crying.”

  “Did your grandmother live with you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was her name?”

  She stared at her hands. She could see herself as a seven year old. Sitting at a table while her grandmother stood at the counter, making bread. “Nana.” She looked up.

  He was looking at her with such gentle concern that the dam, the fragile dam that she’d constructed to hold back her tears, her emotions, her ice-cold fear, dissolved and she sobbed.

  She sobbed for the sister she could not remember. She sobbed for all the other things that were out of her reach. She sobbed for the woman who had been wearing a wedding dress and nothing else in the middle of a snowstorm. She sobbed because she didn’t know if it was ever going to be better.

  He pulled her into his chest. Stroked her hair. Rocked her. Absorbed her grief. Gave her his strength in return.

  And when she couldn’t cry any more, she stopped. She felt absolutely empty.

  She pulled back and he let her go. She sank back against the couch cushions. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “You’ve probably been saving that up for a while.”

  “I hope the bank is empty,” she said, hiccuping once.

  He smiled. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”