He'd thought he'd found the perfect woman three years before. Patsy Gerrard had been attractive, witty and charming, and they had dated for just a little over a year. Their relationship had been one of the casualties of crime.
During those nightmare days immediately following his father's death and his mother's disappearance, he'd discovered that witty could be shallow, that charming could grate and what felt right through the good times often became terribly wrong during bad times.
It had been a relief when Patsy had moved on and he could give himself solely to the grief of losing his parents. But now he realized he'd been alone for too long, focused too intensely on his work and fighting loneliness during quiet moments to himself.
He pulled up in the driveway of his beautiful story-and-a-half home. The house had been his first building project and thankfully had been completed before the night of the crime.
His mother had fussed that the place was too big, too sterile for her son, and his father had explained that since Riley was a builder the house where he lived was important for future business. He'd assured his wife that it wouldn't be long before Riley would have the house filled with things to make it warm and homey. Riley knew his mother was hoping he'd find a wife to warm up the house.
It was still a cold and sterile place, Riley thought as he ran into his study and grabbed the thick file from his file cabinet. Since his father's death and his mother's disappearance, he'd done little to make the place a home. Maybe it was time, he thought.
Minutes later, as he drove to the Briarwood Truck Stop, he reminded himself that Savannah was in no position to be interested in pursuing any kind of relationship with a man. Her world had been turned upside down, her mother was missing and her father was still in a coma. The last thing on her mind would be romance.
But she could use a friend, he thought. And what better friend than a person who'd already been through the same kinds of things she was experiencing? What better friend than a man seeking answers to the same kinds of questions she had?
* * *
Savannah sat in one of the red leather booths in the Briarwood Truck Stop, toying with the silverware as she waited for Riley to arrive.
She'd hesitated before calling him, stewing it over for a full day before succumbing to desperation. It had now been almost ninety-six hours since her father had been hurt and her mother had disappeared.
Although she and her brother and sister were being kept out of the investigation loop, she knew that it had stalled and was going nowhere.
She sighed and motioned to the waitress for a refill on her coffee. She'd been living on coffee for the past three days, coffee and nerves. She'd just finished her second cup when he entered the restaurant.
Her pulse quickened slightly at the sight of him. Clad in a pair of navy dress slacks and a navy-and-white-striped dress shirt, he looked every inch a successful businessman. But as he walked toward her, she noted that he had an aura of strength, of power about him. It seemed obvious to her that he was a man confident of who he was, a man more than capable of taking care of himself.
He carried in one hand a bulky manila file and her heartbeat raced as she anticipated looking at what was inside. Since she couldn't investigate the crime that had occurred in her parents' home, she was eager to look through the files detailing the crime that had occurred in Riley's parents' home.
At least it was something to do, she thought. Glen had kept her away from work, and she had nothing to do except wait for her mother to return and wait for her father to come out of his coma. The waiting, she feared, would make her go more than a little crazy.
Looking through Riley's files, might be nothing more than a dead end, but at least it was something for her to do beside sitting idle and thinking.
"Savannah." His gaze was warm as he greeted her. He slid into the booth across from her and shoved the folder to the side of the table. "I heard there's been no change in your father's condition and you haven't heard anything about your mother. How are you holding up?"
"Okay, I guess." Her gaze shot to the folder.
He placed a hand over it and smiled gently at her. "We eat first, then you can look through it."
"I'm really not hungry," she replied.
"But you have to eat," he returned. She looked at him with a touch of irritation. She didn't need a virtual stranger telling her what to do, and she certainly didn't need a mother figure.
Again he smiled, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. "I've been there, Savannah, I know how slowly the hours can creep by while you wait for answers that make sense. I know how hard it is to sleep, how the simple act of eating doesn't seem important. But you have to keep your strength up. Your father is going to need you when he comes out of his coma and your mother is going to need you when she comes back home."
Before she could reply, the waitress appeared at their table. "I'd like a cheeseburger, fries and a soda," he said, then looked at Savannah expectantly.
His little lecture had made sense and she opened the menu and frowned at it, trying to find something that would whet her appetite, but nothing sounded the least bit appetizing. Aware of Riley's gaze on her, she closed the menu. "I'll just have the soup of the day and a dinner roll."
The waitress left, and for a moment the two of them sat in silence. As she had the last time she'd met him, she smelled his scent … clean male coupled with woodsy cologne. "Are you married, Riley?" The question surprised her. It had fallen from her lips before becoming a conscious thought in her mind.
"No. Got close once, but then the thing with my folks sort of broke us apart."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
He waved a hand and grinned. "Don't be. The biggest mistake I would ever have made in my life would have been to marry Patsy. The messiness of the crime and the fallout from my emotional craziness was just too much for her to handle. She likes things neat and tidy, and there was nothing neat and tidy about me or the situation. I'm just grateful I found out before we got married instead of after."
"Your emotional craziness … what does that mean?" she asked curiously.
"Probably what you're going through right now."
"I'm not going through anything," she said.
He lifted a dark eyebrow wryly and leaned forward. "Then, you aren't having problems concentrating? You aren't having to talk around a ball of emotion so thick in your throat it threatens to suffocate you? The little minutia of life isn't ticking you off … the laughter of strangers, the birds' chirping, the need to pay bills?"
Initially his words offended her. She felt violated, as if he'd looked into her heart, seen the anguish of her soul. Then she realized he had, in a way. He'd been through it—the pain, the uncertainty, the anger that seemed to exclude everything else in her life since the moment she'd arrived at her parents' home that night.
"You're right," she finally replied, her voice flat and hollow to her own ears. "The woman where I got my gas earlier today told me good morning, and I had the sudden urge to reach across the counter and slap her silly."
She shook her head ruefully. "I want to scream and I want to cry, and more than anything I want it all to just go away. I want my father to wake up and my mom to come back and things to go back to the way they were."
She drew a deep breath, surprised by her own outburst. "I'm sorry … I just … nobody else seems to understand what I'm going through." She stared down at the tabletop, unable to meet his gaze.
"What about your sister and brother? Surely they're going through the same things that you are. Are the three of you close?"
"We're close, but Breanna just got married and has her husband, Adam. Clay—" she frowned, then continued "—Clay is so angry right now he's not letting anyone get close to him. He's a crime-scene investigator and it's killing him that nobody will let him into the house to do his job."
He covered her hand with his own. "So, when you feel all alone and have nobody to talk to about the emotional crazies, don't hesitate to call on
me. You need to have somebody who understands what you're going through."
His hand was warm, his palm callused and strong over hers, and it felt good, which made her pull her hand away. His offer of support filled her with warmth. "And just who did you have who understood what you were going through? From what you told me a moment ago, Patsy didn't. And didn't you tell me before that you're an only child?"
He leaned back against the leather booth. "Yeah, it was just me." His blue eyes darkened to the deep shade of midnight. "I didn't have anyone to help me through it and I have to tell you there were times I wasn't sure I was going to survive it."
"How did you survive it?"
"I'm still surviving it," he replied. "It isn't as difficult as it was initially, but it's still with me … the questions, the uncertainty." He stopped talking as the waitress arrived at their table with their orders.
"I have kind of a rule about dining," he said when the waitress had left once again.
"And what's that?" The darkness in his eyes had left, and again she was struck by the beautiful blue of his eyes. She'd thought that was his appeal, what made him appear so handsome. But sitting across from him, she realized the startling color of his eyes was only part of it.
He had a firm, square chin that spoke of strong convictions and perhaps a bit of stubbornness. When he looked at her there was an attentiveness in his gaze that was both engaging and slightly provocative.
His dark hair had just enough curl and not quite enough style to keep it from falling over his broad forehead. His face and forearms were tanned, indicating a man who spent a lot of time outdoors.
"The rule is that we talk of nothing unpleasant while we eat. Unpleasantness at mealtime causes ulcers."
"Is that a medical certainty?"
He grinned, exposing his straight white teeth in a charming fashion. "That's a mother certainty. It was my mother's most strict rule and I still honor it."
"Okay," she agreed, and looked with disinterest down at her bowl of soup. It was minestrone, and nothing had ever looked less appetizing.
The silence between them stretched out and she felt the weight of it pressing against her chest. She felt as if she should say something, make some sort of meaningless small talk, but she seemed to have lost the ability.
She grabbed her dinner roll and pulled it apart and shot a surreptitious glance at Riley. He caught the glance and smiled sympathetically as if he knew idle conversation was beyond her grasp.
"It must be interesting, your work as a homicide detective," he said.
She eyed him wryly. "If the conversation is supposed to be pleasant, then it's not a great idea for me to talk about my work."
"Ah, just the opening I was waiting for. Now I get to tell you about my work." Again his charming smile. "You know how men love to talk about themselves."
The burst of laughter that escaped her lips both surprised and appalled her. How could she laugh—about anything—with the situation with her parents? The laughter died on a burst of guilt and tears suddenly stung her eyes. She stared down, fighting to get her emotions under control.
"It's all right, Savannah," he said softly. "Even though something bad has happened in your life, you've got to laugh when you get the chance. God knows it can't hurt your parents."
"Logically I know that," she exclaimed.
"Trust me, I know that you can't maintain the grief every moment of every day. It makes you a difficult person to be around." He gestured toward her soup bowl.
"Were you difficult to be around?" Dutifully, she picked up her spoon and took a sip of the soup.
He popped a French fry into his mouth and nodded. "I still have difficult days."
For the next few minutes they focused on their meals. To Savannah's surprise, the soup was quite good and awakened a hunger she hadn't realized she possessed.
"You haven't really taken the opportunity to talk about yourself," she observed as she buttered her dinner roll.
He'd nearly finished his cheeseburger and he took a sip of his soda before answering. "I decided to be kind and not bore you."
She had a feeling he was many things, but boring wasn't one of them. "Consider this an invitation to bore me."
He smiled, and again she was struck by the force of his appeal. "As you probably know from looking at my business card, I'm a builder. This spring we broke ground on my biggest project to date … my dream, really."
"And what's that?" She was always interested in hearing about other people's dreams, especially since she'd lost all of hers.
"Riley Estates," he said as if those two words explained everything.
"A development," she replied.
"More than just a development." His eyes lit with life. "It's going to be a community with amenities for everyone from the very young to the very old. Along with the new homes, I've agreed to refurbish some of the stores in downtown Sycamore Ridge to induce merchants back."
"Sounds like a big job all the way around," she observed.
"It is, but I'm hoping Riley Estates will bring people, and with people more stores will open and Sycamore Ridge will become the thriving little metropolis it once was."
"You grew up in Sycamore Ridge?"
"Born and raised there."
"Savannah?"
The deep, familiar voice came from somewhere behind her. She turned, then scooted out of the bench and hugged the distinguished-looking older man who stood near their booth. "Jacob! What are you doing here?"
"I was on my way home from one of the branch offices and thought I'd stop in here and grab a bite to eat." He squeezed her hands in his. "I can't begin to tell you how upset I've been over this thing with your mother and father. Has there been any news today?"
"None," she said as he released her hands.
"I'm offering a twenty-five thousand dollar reward to anyone with information about the whereabouts of your mother or whomever hurt your father."
"You don't have to do that," Savannah protested faintly.
His pale blue eyes radiated a combination of pain and concern. "I have to do something. Your parents were two of my dearest friends. I'm not good with anything but money."
Savannah hugged the portly man. "Thank you."
He looked at his watch. "I've got to run. I have an afternoon appointment to get to."
As he left, Savannah slid back into the booth and instantly realized she'd been rude. "I'm sorry, I should have introduced you," she said to Riley. "I wasn't thinking."
"It's all right. I recognized him. Jacob Kincaid, owner of Kincaid Banks."
"And a close friend of my parents. He's putting up a large reward for information about my mother and father."
"That's nice."
She shrugged. "We'll see. It's been my experience that rewards tend to bring out every nutcase in the county. Glen won't be overly pleased. A reward usually means more work for the people working the case. But it also sometimes takes just one tip to crack a case wide open." She eyed the manila folder he'd brought with him. "Would you mind if I took that with me?"
"Actually, I would." His gaze held an unspoken apology. "I didn't think to make copies before I left home, and I'd prefer it not leave my possession. My cop buddy left the force and if anything were to happen to these reports, I'd never be able to get copies again. You can look through them now, or if you'd prefer you can read through them at my place or yours. The other alternative is that you can get copies as soon as I have some made."
She didn't want to wait, but she hadn't really thought it through when she'd asked him to meet her here. She didn't feel comfortable reading the files now … here in a public place.
"If you don't mind … maybe you could follow me to my place," she said. "I really don't feel like we should go through it 'all here."
"I agree, and I don't mind at all following you."
Fifteen minutes later Savannah was regretting inviting him to her place. She should have just looked through the file at the truck stop.
S
he clenched the steering wheel tightly and glanced in the rearview mirror where Riley's pickup was visible. He was nice … too nice. He was attractive … too attractive.
"Don't worry, Jimmy," she whispered aloud. "No man, no matter how nice, no matter how attractive, will ever take your place in my heart, in my soul."
It was about the crime and nothing more. The crime they both had suffered explained the attraction she felt for Riley Frazier.
Once she read through his reports and files concerning the crime against his parents, then she would be done with him. Her heart would still belong to the man who'd been her soul mate from the time they'd been children.
* * *
Chapter 5
«^»
Riley thought he had no preconceptions about where Savannah lived. Still, he was vaguely surprised when she pulled into an attractive apartment complex and parked. He realized that somewhere in the back of his mind he'd assumed she was a house kind of person.
He followed her up the sidewalk to her unit, the manila folder clutched tightly in his hand.
He was glad she hadn't wanted to go over the file in the truck stop. Even though he'd read the reports a hundred times in the past two years, he still wasn't inured to the emotional assault he felt when looking at them.
"Come on in," she said as she opened the door.
"Thanks." He entered ahead of her into a small foyer. The focal point was a beautiful oil painting of bears in the wilderness. "Gorgeous art," he said.
"It's the work of a local artist. Her name is Tamara Greystone. She teaches school and paints in her spare time. Let's go into the kitchen. I'll put on a pot of coffee."
"Sounds good."
She led him through a nice-size living room decorated in earth tones. The first things that snagged his attention were the photographs. They littered the room—ones, larger ones, all framed and all of the same man.
He wasn't a particularly handsome man. Obviously Native American, his nose was a bit large and hooked, and his face was slightly chubby. But something about his eyes and his wide smile in each of the photos radiated an innate warmth and friendliness.
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