Willowleaf Lane

by Thayne, RaeAnne

  If she had been able to find it at all amusing, she would have laughed at the irony of her brother giving her advice on dating when he had become a virtual hermit.

  “Thanks for the vote of encouragement. Since I’m up here, I was thinking about grabbing fifteen minutes of cardio before I go home. Do you and Tucker want to come for a walk with me?”

  The dog lifted his head, perking up as much as his droopy ears and morose eyes allowed. He gave his musical wooo-wooo bark and clambered to his feet, obviously understanding the magic w-word.

  Dylan, not so much. He curled that hand on his thigh again, clear reluctance shifting across his features.

  “What about my dinner?”

  “You can eat it later.” She ignored the growl of her stomach. A few endorphins would take care of that until she could get home to her chicken breast. “Come on. We won’t go far.”

  After another moment of hesitation, Dylan slowly rose to his feet and she felt a surge of elation that was probably completely unwarranted for such a small victory. She would take it anyway. A little fresh air and movement could only be good for her brother, though she knew he puttered around the barn and attached wood shop a little.

  She walked off the porch, grateful for the old tennis shoes she kept in the back of her SUV for spontaneous exercise opportunities like this one.

  She and Tucker had taken a few walks up here before, usually without Dylan, so she had a passing familiarity with some of the trails that crisscrossed the mountainside among the pines and aspens. She headed toward one she liked that wended beside a small pretty creek and, after a pause, Dylan followed her.

  Tucker ambled ahead, his hound dog nose sniffing the ground for the scent of any interesting creature he might encounter.

  They walked in silence for a time, accompanied by the annoyed chattering of squirrels high above them and the occasional birdsong.

  She breathed in deeply of the high, clear mountain air, sweet with wildflowers and pine, feeling some of the tension of her day begin to seep away. “I can’t tell you how badly I needed this today,” she said.

  “Glad I could help.” Dylan’s dry tone surprised a laugh out of her.

  “It’s beautiful up here, I’ll give you that. Remote but beautiful.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little seclusion,” he answered.

  “I suppose.”

  Dylan had always been so social, always in the middle of the action. She missed that about him.

  Because of the time, only an hour or so from true sunset, and because neither of them had eaten, she decided not to push too hard. After about ten minutes, they reached a small glacial lake that blazed with reflected color from the changing sky.

  “Let me take your picture,” she ordered, pulling out her camera phone.

  He frowned but stood obediently enough, his hand resting on the dog’s head.

  “Perfect,” she said, snapping several before he could move away. She didn’t bother asking him to smile.

  Behind him, the surface of the lake popped and hissed like Pop’s cheese sauce bubbling in the pan. “Looks like the fish are jumping. Do you ever come up here and cast a line?”

  She regretted the words as soon as she said them, when he shrugged his left shoulder, rippling the empty sleeve.

  “Yet another skill I haven’t quite mastered with one hand and one eye.”

  He could do plenty of things if he would only wear the prosthesis. She knew most of his rehab had been aimed at helping him adapt to his new reality. Since his return to Hope’s Crossing, he seemed to have resorted to only figuring out how to open another whiskey bottle.

  “You will,” she answered calmly.

  He didn’t answer, just gazed out at the water.

  Her stomach grumbled again and she sighed. “We should probably head back.”

  “Yeah. Before the mosquitoes eat us alive. It’s a little tough for me to scratch these days. Hey, how do you get a one-armed man out of a tree?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer. “You wave at him.”

  He seemed to think that was hilarious and was still giving that hard-sounding laugh as he turned down the trail toward his house.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THE NEXT MORNING, the sun was barely a pink rim along the black silhouette of the mountains when Charlotte laced up her tennis shoes in her entryway.

  Every morning it was the same. She had to force herself out of bed when what she really wanted was to curl up under her nice warm blankets, hit the Snooze on her alarm clock and capture a few more moments of bliss.

  Instead, here she was in her oh-so-flattering reflective performance capris and T-shirt, no makeup, her hair yanked back into a ponytail.

  She rotated her head a few times, then her shoulders to work out some of the kinks before opening the door and pushing herself outside.

  Rain or shine she ran, either here or on her treadmill at home or, when she really needed motivation, at the gym.

  She felt no small amount of pride at how far she had come. Even walking had felt like torture when she first started on this journey more than a year ago. With all the extra pounds she had been packing around, it had taken all her strength and will to complete a mile and a half in an hour. She had finished with twitching thigh muscles, achy calves and complete exhaustion.

  After about three months of making herself walk an hour a day and increasing her pace so she was covering three to four miles, she had begun to add intervals to her workout using her cell phone as a timer, one minute of running for every two minutes she walked at a regular pace, until eventually she was jogging most of the time.

  Together with a far healthier diet than the fast food and her father’s café delights she had existed on, the numbers started dropping on her scale and her clothes began to hang much looser.

  After the first few moments, she discovered she actually enjoyed working out. She enjoyed being in the fresh air and the wind, and she liked taking a moment to ponder and meditate as she jogged through her beautiful surroundings. She especially savored the feeling of knowing she was doing something good and right for herself, that she was trying to repair bad habits of a lifetime.

  It wasn’t yet 6:00 a.m. and most of Hope’s Crossing still slept. Here and there, a few lights were on and she could see glimpses of people moving behind curtains, the flicker of a television screen at one house, a car backing out of a driveway at another.

  Even in July, the high altitude air was crisp. Tourists in her store often remarked at the temperature span. It could be mid-eighties in the afternoon but drop to just above freezing in the hours before dawn. That was good chocolate-dipping temperature. In a short time, her employees would be busy creating delicious things to sell at Sugar Rush.

  She ran down the hill, past Alex’s restaurant in a renovated old fire station, then took a side street and circled around back up toward Sweet Laurel Falls.

  By the time she finished the first mile, she forgot about how badly she hated working out. Who wouldn’t love this surge of endorphins, the invigorating wind in her face?

  She waved to a few people she knew: Lori Kaplan, who worked the early shift in the housekeeping department at the hotel; Errol Angelo, who drove a delivery truck to Denver every morning; Linda Ng, working in her garden early. She was either trying to beat the heat of the day later or trying to get in some work before her four young children awoke and ran her ragged.

  By the time Charlotte headed toward home an hour later, many more houses glowed with warm light and the sun was cresting the mountains. She would have to hurry to make it to work on time. That almond fudge wasn’t going to make itself.

  Finally, muscles humming pleasantly, she turned onto Willowleaf Lane, still three blocks from her house.

  Another early morning jogger ran ahead of her. He must hav
e turned from the other direction, coming down from the bruising route up Woodrose Mountain where steep trails crisscrossed beautiful alpine terrain and offered a splendid view of the valley below.

  While she did run there when she had a lot more time and energy, she preferred taking her mountain bike for those trails to cover more terrain.

  She didn’t recognize the guy from the back, which wasn’t unusual. While she would venture to say she knew most of the locals, besides the ever-present tourists, Hope’s Crossing had many vacation homes and condos owned by people who only visited a few weeks a year. It was tough to build a community under those circumstances but somehow the town managed it.

  She lifted the water bottle she carried at the small of her back and took a sip, her eyes on the fine physical display a half block ahead of her.

  The guy was built. His legs were corded with muscle, she could tell even from here, and the soft gray T-shirt he wore molded to wide shoulders, a slim waist, tight butt....

  The tingle of awareness disconcerted her, even though she had to admit she enjoyed the little spice of pleasure it gave her in the gorgeous morning.

  Still, she really needed to start dating more if she could ogle a stranger jogging down the street.

  It was all she could do to keep pace with him, though she was a hundred feet behind, and she was breathing hard by the time they reached her block. To her surprise, the guy headed into a house on the corner.

  He must be renting the Telford place. Good. It would be nice to see someone living there again. Empty houses were never good for a neighborhood and the house had sat vacant for six months. Likely due to the soft long-term luxury rental market she had heard Jill Sellers complain about a few weeks earlier when she had stopped into Sugar Rush for more of the custom-wrapped chocolates she handed out to her clients.

  As she approached the edge of the property, she noticed the man had stopped near the porch steps for some after-run stretching. She wondered idly if there was a Mrs. Studly Jogger. Not that it was any of her business.

  Just as she reached the mailbox, he turned his face in her direction and she felt as if one of those early morning gardeners had just swung a shovel hard into her stomach.

  Spence Gregory. Here. On Willowleaf Lane, in all his sweaty, muscled glory.

  That thought barely had time to register—along with the far more horrifying realization that he must be the one renting the Telford house—before her feet became as tangled up as her brain.

  She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, only that she hadn’t been paying a bit of attention to where she was running. She must have stepped off the curb or something. How fitting. One moment she was running along minding her own business, admiring a well-built man who just happened to cross her path, the next she was lying in the gutter.

  Pain exploded from her ankle, racing up her leg with hot, angry ferocity, but it was nothing compared to the sheer, raw humiliation of tripping over her two feet, right in front of Spencer Gregory.

  She wanted to die. She wanted to slither down that storm grate and just disappear.

  Spence.

  Of all people.

  Fudge.

  She could only pray he hadn’t noticed the idiot woman who had just made a fool of herself in front of him. That fleeting forlorn hope was dashed when she spied him trotting toward her, concern on his features.

  “Oh, wow. Are you okay? That was quite a tumble.”

  No, she wasn’t okay. She was mortified. Even worse, this was far from the first time she had ever made a fool of herself around him. The reminder of all her other little humiliations seemed to parade across her memory in all their delightful glory.

  How many times had she tripped up the stairs at Hope’s Crossing High School when he said hello to her on his way down the other way? Or spilled her drink when he slid into the booth across from her at Center of Hope Café?

  Once, she had ridden her bicycle into a fence just because he had happened to drive past and wave at her.

  She wasn’t normally a graceless person. Witness that she’d been working out for more than a year without incident until this morning.

  Now Spence had only to look at her and she was twelve again, dropping her ice cream cone down her shirt when he had smiled at her at the county fair.

  Apparently, her old habits didn’t just die hard, they went down kicking and screaming and then resurrected themselves at the least opportune moment.

  “Charlotte!” he exclaimed when he came close enough to recognize her. “I thought that was you but I wasn’t sure.”

  She could feel her face heat. “Oh, it’s me,” she muttered.

  “Are you okay? What happened?”

  You. You happened.

  “I’m not sure. I think I just came down on the edge of the curb and lost my balance.”

  “I’m so sorry. Here. Let’s get you back on your feet.”

  He held a hand out and she eyed it balefully, even though she knew she didn’t have a choice but to accept his help. She gripped his hand and told herself she was completely imagining the spark arcing between them.

  He reached his other hand beneath her elbow and helped her up. When she put weight on her ankle, that pain roared through her again and she would have slid back to the ground if not for his supporting hold.

  “Ow,” she said in a small voice, when what she really wanted to do was burst out into tears. Having six older brothers had taught her early to man up and hide her tears until she was in the safety of her bedroom or they would freak out and not let her play with them anymore.

  “Did you break something?”

  Wouldn’t that just be her luck? “I don’t think so. I just twisted my ankle.”

  “That scrape looks nasty.”

  The pain from the ankle had been so overwhelming, she had hardly noticed the abrasion on her palm but now she could see blood was beginning to seep around the edges of the tiny embedded pebbles. She must have thrown out a hand to catch herself as she went down.

  Stirring fudge would certainly be more of a challenge with a big, ungainly bandage on her hand.

  “Let me help you inside, and I can take a better look at that ankle and clean off the scrape. I have no idea where the bandages might be in the house but I can probably find something.”

  “That’s not necessary. My house is just there.”

  She pointed to her whimsical little cottage, tucked amid the trees.

  “Great house. I noticed it when we were house shopping yesterday.”

  “I like it.” Until you moved in down the street, anyway.

  “This seems like a pretty nice neighborhood.”

  Again, until you moved in. “It is. There’s a good mix of vacation homes and year-round residents.”

  She couldn’t believe she was standing here calmly talking real estate with Spence while her ankle breathed fire up her leg and her palm sizzled along with it.

  She was beginning to feel a little light-headed.

  “The town has certainly changed since I lived here,” he went on. “I barely recognized some of these neighborhoods when the agent was taking us around yesterday.”

  “It’s grown, hasn’t it. Will you excuse me?”

  Hoping she didn’t pass out, she shifted in the direction of her house. The thirty feet between them seemed insurmountable, as tough as the 10K she ran with Alex in the spring.

  She took a step away from him but made it no farther and would have fallen again if he hadn’t rushed forward and absorbed her weight into his solid bulk.

  “You need to see a doctor for that.”

  He was warm. Incredibly warm. And how was it possible he still smelled good after jogging? She caught a hint of laundry soap from his T-shirt and some kind of sexy citrus and musk aftershave.

  “I only
twisted an ankle. Not the first time. Once I ice it and take some weight off, it will be fine.”

  She hoped. She did not have time for this. She managed to extricate herself from his arms and hobbled another step. By sheer force of will, she managed to remain upright, though it took every ounce of strength.

  She made it maybe four steps before she heard a muffled curse.

  “You’re as stubborn as ever, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.

  “I’m talking about the girl who once insisted on going on a six-mile bike ride with Dylan and me, not once mentioning she had walking pneumonia.”

  “I don’t remember that,” she lied.

  “Funny, I have a vivid memory of it. You just about passed out before the end of it.”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have time to stand around reminiscing with you but I’ve got to change and get to work. See you later.”

  She gave what she hoped looked like a jaunty wave and not a dyspeptic robotic one and started toward her house, willing down the pain with every step and trying to figure out how she would squeeze in an appointment with Dr. Harris that morning.

  After just a few more steps, her ankle gave out, and she had to grab hold of a convenient aspen sapling for support.

  Next moment, Spence swore again under his breath—a surprisingly mild oath for a man who had spent ten years as a professional athlete. Suddenly her feet were swept out from under her, and she was lifted into the air quite effortlessly.

  Oh, fudge. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, cradled tight between hard arms and an even more solid chest, but she did her best to gather the scattered corners of her brain.

  “Put me down! This is ridiculous. I can walk.”

  “Maybe. But I would hate to see you do more damage to that ankle by putting weight on it if you’ve seriously injured it.”

  He wasn’t even breathing hard. Eighty pounds ago, he probably would have needed a couple teammates to help carry her down the street.

  “I’m not going to hurt my ankle. Please. Put me down.”