Sunflower Lane (3 page)

Damn. Obviously, talking about Annabelle Harper still made his mother uncomfortable and Wes couldn’t blame her for that. His father’s cheating with Annabelle’s aunt Lorelei, the mayor’s ex-wife, had been the final straw in Diana and Hoot’s marriage.

Hoot had been a terrible husband and a worse father, but Diana had pretty much looked the other way until Hoot’s affair with the mayor’s wife and several other women exploded through the town. Only then had Diana kicked him out. His father had been dead for years now, and his mother was happily remarried, but that didn’t mean any mention of Lorelei or anyone related to her didn’t still sting.

Maybe he should forget the Harper cabin, after all.

But the moment his mother vanished into the kitchen, and Doug escorted Gran to a comfortable wing chair in the living room, his sister zoomed back into the dining room and placed a hand on his arm.

“Don’t mind Mom and Gran,” she said in a low tone. “The two of them are just fussing over you because they’re so glad to see you. They’ll settle down in a week or so.”

“Great. I’ll be gone by then.”

“No . . . really? Wes, I was sort of hoping—”

Her voice trailed off.

He frowned. “Hoping what?”

“That you might stay a little longer. You have no idea how down Gran’s been since her fall. But she’s positively cheerful now that you’re here. Look at her—she’s smiling like a young girl. She’ll have to wear that cast for a while, and it’s going to get hot and itchy and will drive her crazy. She still gets a little dizzy sometimes from the concussion and won’t be able to cook or quilt or even dress herself without help for some time. But if you’re here, she might not mind all that so much. You always could twist her around your finger and you know it. You were her favorite.”

He started to deny this, but she cut him off. “You know it’s true. Nobody can cheer her up like you can. But maybe,” she said slowly, “you have something better to do? Somewhere to be?”

“Not exactly. But, Soph, that doesn’t mean—”

“Come on, Wes, promise me you’ll stay through the Fourth of July. Gran would get such a kick out of having you here—showing you off to all of her friends, everyone in town. You used to love that parade and the bake sale and all the food stands when you were a kid.”

“Yeah, I loved collecting spiders and eating banana popsicles twice a day back then, too, but I can live without them now.”

She grinned. “It’ll be fun. You’ll see. And by then, Gran’s cast will come off and the worst will be over. Think about it.”

“I just did. Two weeks, Soph, that’s my limit. Or else I’ll go stir-crazy.”

She shook her head at him, frowning. “You always were more stubborn even than Dad.”

“But not half as mean.”

“No. Not mean at all.” Her frown faded. She squeezed his arm and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “You’re nothing like Hoot. You never were. You’re tougher than him, stronger. You’re fifty times the man he ever was. You were never a bully, always a defender.”

“How do you know I haven’t changed?”

Looking down into her eyes, he saw warmth and love deep within them. He felt the same about her. The years and miles couldn’t ever change that.

“I know,” she said simply. “So think about staying until after the Fourth. By then I’m sure we’ll all be sick of you and more than ready to let you go.”

“Nice. Very nice, sis.”

Sophie laughed at him, and disappeared into the kitchen.

By the time Wes drove back down Daisy Lane that night, he had just about decided to camp out under the stars. Except clouds were already moving in. There’d be rain before morning. And as he turned onto Squirrel Road, he heard thunder rumble in the distance and saw a flash of lightning spark across the cloud-tinged peaks of the Crazies.

The Harper cabin might have a leaky roof and a few broken windows but it would be shelter in the storm. His mother and grandmother would have a fit tomorrow if they found out he’d slept in his truck.

There was no damn way he could take being fussed over and worried about more than two weeks. He’d rather face a gang of human traffickers. He’d be long gone by the Fourth
of July parade, but for tonight, he’d bed down in the Harper cabin.

Unless Annabelle Harper said no.

But from what he’d heard of her back in high school, that wasn’t likely to happen. According to his old friend Clay, Annabelle was the girl who didn’t say no.

As a storm blue darkness stole over the mountains, Annabelle sat on the front steps of the house she’d grown up in and sipped her coffee.

The front door stood open behind her, and only sweet, calm quiet came from inside.

She’d hear clearly through the screen door if Megan or Michelle called out for her.

Her ten-year-old nephew, Ethan, was no doubt still poring over his book. The title made her smile.
Lost Loot: The Untold Riches Hidden in the American West
.

Ethan was such a
boy.
Fascinated by a book crammed full of information on supposedly buried or hidden treasure, just waiting for him and his friend Jimmy to discover it in their own backyards.

Right.

The author, Peter Lamont, had passed through town on a book tour that took him through Montana, Wyoming,
Colorado, and Utah. He’d spoken to a packed crowd at the Lonesome Way Community Center two weeks ago. Lamont had done extensive research and had determined that a good deal of gold, cash, and jewels stolen from stagecoach holdups and bank robberies in the late 1800s were still buried where the outlaws who stole them had hidden them. The outlaws, he’d theorized, had always intended to come back when it was safe to retrieve the treasure, but most times, they’d been killed or arrested before they could do that.

Ethan and his best friend, Jimmy Collier, had listened with rapt attention—no doubt partly because both of their great-great-grandpas had belonged to the notorious Henry Barnum gang. They’d been two out of five outlaws who’d all killed one another off in Montana within months after their successful gold heist.

And with their deaths had gone the secret of what became of that massive chest of gold bars they’d snatched from a Kansas bank in 1878.

Annabelle’s great-grandfather Big Jed had been found dead—gut-shot on a rocky ledge on Storm Mountain—less than twenty miles from his cabin on Sunflower Lane. Rumor had it he’d been headed either toward or away from the hiding place of the gang’s buried gold when he was murdered.

But no trace of the gold was ever found.

Ethan and Jimmy were completely fascinated by the lore of this treasure.

Or perhaps obsessed is more like it,
Annabelle thought, taking another sip of her coffee as a breeze flitted through the trees that flanked the house, and sent her long blond curls flying.

The treasure was all the two boys talked about. After hearing Peter Lamont speak, the boys had pooled their allowance money to buy his book, and pored over it together for hours at a time. They’d made a friendship pact to search for the loot together and split it fifty-fifty when it was found.

This was Ethan’s week to keep the book, and he’d been plopped on his bed practically memorizing every map and clue and anecdote each night before going to sleep.

No doubt dreaming all night long about finding lost gold,
she thought ruefully. But anything that took his mind off losing his parents was a good thing. When she’d first moved home after Trish and Ron died, Ethan and the girls had asked her every day when their parents were coming back.

Much better to think about treasure than loss,
she thought, her own heart aching. She missed her sister so much. Tears momentarily stung her eyes. She knew Trish’s kids were suffering even more.

Annabelle had immersed the girls in art and dance classes at the community center this summer, and she’d signed them up to start Brownies in the fall. Ethan, thank heavens, had basketball camp every day along with his dreams of finding lost treasure.

She wanted each of them to hold on to their dreams as long as they could. She didn’t have many dreams these days. Only bills. She wasn’t making much teaching ballet and tap at the Lonesome Way Community Center, and her own little nest egg from her so-called dance career in LA was dwindling quickly. She wouldn’t touch any of Trish or Ron’s insurance money—that had been safely invested for Michelle, Megan, and Ethan’s college educations.

If she could just get a little bit ahead . . .

She closed her eyes, dreaming of the possibilities. First she’d hire someone to fix up the dilapidated old cabin that had been built by Big Jed, and then she could rent it out. The rental money would help her get by each month and keep all three kids, growing like weeds, in new clothes. The twins really wanted a pony, too, but there was no way that was happening for a while. Not unless . . .

She’d been turning over an idea in her head, thinking about starting a small-scale candy business. Everyone loved
her homemade chocolates. Her mother had taught her how to make them when she was in high school and in charge of the Valentine’s Day dance. Caramel truffles were her specialty. And if she could just find time to get a small-scale business going, she was sure she could earn some handy extra money making candy from home. She could make treats for birthday parties, anniversary parties, goodie bags, weddings—and maybe even sell a line of chocolates to Sophie Tanner at A Bun in the Oven bakery.

Perhaps there could even be a mail-order business down the road, she thought, her heart lifting with hope at the idea.

The only two things Annabelle liked better than dancing were reading and chocolate. And sex, of course. Not that she’d had any of that in a while . . . not since she’d left Zack.

Leaving Zack.

Hands down the smartest thing she’d done in a long time. She still winced whenever she thought about how blissfully clueless she’d been going into her marriage to Zack Craig. And how much she’d put up with before she got out.

Just about the only good thing about her marriage was the part where she’d left. Somehow she’d been dazzled by his brown-haired, blue-eyed, boy-next-door good looks. By his crinkly, attractive, nice-guy grin. By the successful ad executive career, and his careless sophistication and readiness to buy drinks instantly for a crowd of her friends.

They’d married in the month of June less than six months after they met—and she’d moved out in November. Zack hadn’t called her now—alternately begging and badgering her to take him back—in almost three months.

A record. And a relief.

With any luck, that meant he’d finally given up. If the jerk had even a tiny bit of sense, he would.

But then, she reflected, tilting her head up toward the sky as thunder boomed and a jagged streak of lightning sliced the darkness, a man who pushed his wife around and
knocked her into a wall if she even spoke to another man in an elevator, who cheated on her with an underage jailbait intern who just happened to be the niece of his firm’s marketing vice president, didn’t have much sense, did he?

And neither did the idiot who’d married him, she reflected ruefully. And then her cell phone rang.

Speak of the devil. Why wasn’t I thinking about Johnny Depp?

Her throat tightened. Reflexively she braced herself as she set her coffee cup down on the step and tugged her phone from the pocket of her white hoodie.

For months after their separation and divorce, Zack had called her almost every other day, in turns harassing her to take him back, and soulfully pleading his case. Doing his best to persuade her to give him another chance.

Like that was ever going to happen.

But one glance at her lit-up caller ID let her relax. It wasn’t Zack, thank goodness. It was her best friend, Charlotte Delaney, the petite brunette director of the community center who had never met a mojito she didn’t like.

“Annabelle!” Charlotte squealed. “Sit down! I hope you’re sitting down! I’m engaged!”

Several incoherent screams of joy followed these words. “Wait, Annabelle, talk to Tim! I have to jump and run around a little. I’m so freaking excited!”

“Charlotte! This is awesome—” Annabelle tried to get in, but Tim Deane’s calm voice interrupted her.

“Hey, Annabelle. It’s me. If my future wife doesn’t break a leg from jumping around like a lunatic, it’ll be great. She’s going nuts. She grabbed the ring right outta my hand and put it on her own finger the minute I pulled it out of my pocket.”

“That’s Charlotte for you.” Annabelle smiled on the darkened porch. “Congratulations, Tim. To both of you.”

Charlotte and Tim had been dating on and off for nearly
a dozen years. First in high school, then a breakup after a year at different colleges; then they got back together for six months, then a huge blowout that had Charlotte crying for two straight weeks. Then Charlotte got engaged to someone else, but after three months she called it off, and for the past two years Charlotte and Tim had been back together, making good and sure before they took the next step.

“You two finally figured it all out,” she began, filled with happiness for them, but suddenly it was Charlotte, not Tim, on the phone again.

“I need to freaking show you this ring!” Charlotte was talking faster than ever. “Can we come over? Tim, can we go see Annabelle? I . . . Oh, yeah, okay. You’re right. Good idea. Annabelle, we’re going to go have sex now. It’s okay, Tim. What’s wrong with you? It’s not my mom; it’s only Annabelle. She knows we have sex. Well, yes, my mom knows, too, but I wouldn’t bring it up to her and . . . okay. Annabelle, gotta go, but you’re the first to know after my mom and Aunt Susie, and I’ll tell Tess tomorrow. Tim’s going to call his brother now . . . Oh, you’re not? Okay, sex first, and calling his brother tomorrow.”

“Have fun, you two. Shower planning starts ASAP,” Annabelle managed to get in before Charlotte was laughing again and sounding breathless.

“I don’t know if I want a bridal shower. I have to check first and see if it’s bad luck.”

Then she was gone.

Annabelle rose to her feet, a smile curving her lips as she turned to go inside. She wanted more hot coffee and her mind was already whirling with ideas for shower invitations, decorations, and bags of gaily wrapped chocolate candy favors. But as her fingers touched the latch of the screen door, she heard a sound that made her turn back toward the road.

Headlights glowed along the gravel road.

A car was rolling down her out-of-the-way lane.

At this hour?

It couldn’t be Charlotte and Tim—that was for sure. And it wasn’t a car at all, she realized, peering through the darkness sliced only by the faint gleam of the moon. It was a truck. And it was coming fast.

She squashed the urge to retreat inside and lock the door, to speak through it until she found out who was here this late at night.

She wasn’t dating anyone. And she wasn’t expecting anyone at this hour.

But this is Lonesome Way,
she reminded herself.
Not Los Angeles or New York or Philadelphia. This is a very small, very safe town.

But still . . . she wasn’t exactly
in
the town; she was outside of it. Miles from another house, in a rural, fairly deserted area, and it could be anyone.

Plus, there was that hiker who’d disappeared a few weeks ago in the mountains. Sheriff Hodge had called off the search only yesterday without finding a trace of the man. No one knew what had become of him.

She drew a breath as the black truck pulled up twenty feet from her front steps, doing her best to ignore the tightening in her throat. But she did reach into the pocket of her hoodie, her fingers closing around the tiny can of Mace tucked in the folds.

A tall man swung out of the truck. Her stomach tightened as he strode toward her but suddenly she sensed something familiar about him.

Impossible to place it . . . but there was something in his walk . . . in those long, purposeful strides. He wasn’t just tall; he was big. Muscular. He moved with authority and purpose in the night and she sensed a forcefulness that went well beyond his powerful build.

He had the authoritative walk of a quarterback, she
thought. Or a Navy SEAL. His shoulders were broad, his chest sculpted beneath a white tee and an open leather jacket. His longish hair looked almost as dark as the night sky.

As he closed the distance between them, she drew the Mace out of her pocket and clenched it tightly.

“Stop right there. Who are you?”

She wasn’t afraid, not really, not with the Mace in her grip, but she felt tension whipping through her. He advanced one more step, putting him within the gauzy glow of the porch light—and suddenly she recognized him.

She dropped the Mace back into her pocket.

He looked different. Harder, rougher, and fifty times tougher than she remembered. But still . . .

She knew him. Trying to keep her face expressionless, she swallowed hard as memories rushed back.

Bad memories. High school memories.

The man approaching her porch was Wes McPhee. Sophie’s big brother. The baddest of the bad boys in Lonesome Way.

And Clay Johnson’s friend.