Sweet Surprises (9 page)

“My car.”

“Is it still here?”

“I . . . don't know.”

“What color and make?” the sheriff's deputy asked.

“Dark blue Chevy Impala.”

“He drove away,” Byron offered. “Ran to the car, jumped in, and left.”

“Then he's probably back at the ranch,” the sheriff said. “How about we head out there to see what he has to say for himself? You can go on ahead. That'll give you a little time to talk to him before I get there.”

“Prepare him, you mean?”

“I don't want to cart him off to jail,” the sheriff replied. “So, if you getting there ahead of me and smoothing the road will keep him from doing something we're all going to regret, then . . . yes, prepare him.”

“Poor Mack,” Belinda said quietly, and Janelle patted her arm, all of the anger gone from her face.

“He'll be fine, dear. How about I take you over to my house? It's been months since we've had any time to talk. We women can have tea and sandwiches and catch up while the men go deal with the prob . . . find Mack.”

“I should go home,” Belinda responded.

“You should spend time with your friend,” River countered. “Let me handle this and then I'll come get you, okay?”

“I—”

“I'll go with him,” Brenna offered. “I want to let Mack know there are no hard feelings.”

“There damn well are hard feelings,” Byron muttered. “And I'm going out there to tell that young man so.”

“No. You aren't,” Brenna said. “Someone has to stay to run the shop. Don't even spend one more minute worrying about this, Belinda. Your friend is going to be just fine. Come on, River. Let's get this done.”

Before he could respond, she grabbed his hand and dragged him out the back door.

Time had not been kind to Freedom Ranch. The pretty white farmhouse Brenna had admired when she was a kid was now dingy and neglected, the porch sagging, the shutters listing at odd angles. The once lush lawn had gone dry, the grass brown and brittle. The roof looked like it needed work. So did the windows. One was cracked. The others were covered with a layer of grime.

Poor Belinda. She loved this place. It must be breaking her heart to see it this way. It was breaking
Brenna's
heart and she'd never spent more than a few hours at a time at the ranch.

River pulled up in front of the house and turned off the ignition. Silent. The same way he'd been for the entire ride.

He was angry, and she couldn't blame him. There'd been a lot of drama over nothing, and it had upset Belinda. She expected him to get out of the truck, march to the house to search for Mack without uttering one word. Instead, he speared her with a look that made her breath catch.

For a moment, she was just kind of sitting there, staring into a face that was handsome and interesting—high cheekbones, sharp jawline, dark gray eyes that had specks of silver and blue in them—and she was wondering what in the world she'd been thinking, getting in the truck with River.

“What are you going to tell the sheriff when he gets here?” River asked, the words breaking the tense silence.

“I wasn't planning on telling him anything. I answered his questions before you got to Chocolate Haven.”

“So, you weren't withholding information for Belinda's sake?”

“What good would that have accomplished? Belinda may be in a wheelchair and she may have lost some of her physical abilities, but she's a strong woman. She can handle a lot more than people give her credit for.” She reached for the door handle, ready to escape the truck and River. He was a little too intense, a little too good-looking, a little too much of everything she needed to avoid.

He touched her shoulder, his fingers skimming down her arm and resting on her knuckles. He wasn't holding her in place, but she didn't open the door.

Probably because she was an idiot when it came to men.

Obviously
, because she was.

How many years had she wasted with Dan?

How many years of her life would she never,
ever
get back? All for the sake of a guy who hadn't wasted one moment of his precious time on her?

“The sheriff is going to ask if you want to press charges. You know that, right?” River asked, his voice smooth and deep and just a little cajoling.

She'd heard the tone before. Plenty of times from Dan and other men who'd wanted one thing or another from her. She might be an idiot when it came to men, but she wasn't going to be manipulated. “If you want to ask if I'm going to press charges, just do it. I don't need to be petted and stroked into doing the right thing.”

She opened the door and hopped out of the truck, the scent of late-summer sun and dry earth filling her nose. She'd always loved it out here, just a little set apart from town and all the gossip and minidramas. There'd been days when she'd sat in the town library, a musty old book in her hands, her mind wandering to all the things she could do with her life.

It had often wandered here, to this old farm and its pretty little house on its pretty little piece of land.

The perfect place to make dreams come true.

That's what she'd thought then. Looking at it now, she was just reminded of how quickly dreams could turn into nightmares.

“You're angry,” River said as he fell into step beside her.

“No.” But she sure sounded like she was. Even she could hear the curtness in her voice.

“I wasn't trying to manipulate you, if that's what you think.”

“Does it matter what I think?” She stepped onto a wide porch that wrapped around both sides of the house. Someone had replaced several floorboards, but the swing hung from one chain, a corner of it resting on the floor.

“Yes. It matters. I didn't come to town to cause problems. I came to help Belinda. I'm not going to be able to do that if I make enemies everywhere I go.”

“Enemy is a strong word, River.”

“So is friend. I'd rather be one than the other.”

That made her smile, some of the tension she'd been feeling melting away. This wasn't her previous life; he wasn't Dan, always trying to make things work the way he wanted, always trying to convince her to give him what he thought he deserved. This was the beginning of her new start, her fresh beginning, an opportunity just waiting for her to take it.

She couldn't afford to screw that up by carrying baggage under each arm.

“Fine. We'll be friends, and for the record, I had no intention of pressing charges. Mack freaked out when he saw the knife I was holding. As soon as he realized I wasn't any danger to Belinda, he ran off. The guy must have PTSD. He needs help, not jail time.”

“For Belinda's sake, I hope you're right. She doesn't need any more trouble than she's already got.” He opened the front door, stepping back so she could cross the threshold.

The place smelled like must and age mixed with just a hint of furniture polish. The once shiny floor was scuffed and dingy from too many shoes and too many years of not being tended to. Pictures lined the walls of the large foyer, each one of a different foster child. Most of them were teen boys, the pictures spanning years from middle school through high school graduation. Some went beyond that: to college, families, children.

Brenna touched the closest one, running her finger along the dust-coated frame and wiping a smudge from the glass. It really was a shame, the mess the place had become.

“It needs a good cleaning,” River said unapologetically. “I'm working one room at a time, trying to dig out from under it. There was a hole in the roof, and that had to be the first priority. I think one of the kids tried to clean yesterday, but when a place gets this far gone, it takes a lot more than a touch-up to get the job done properly.”

“Kids? You mean Angel and Huckleberry?”

“Yeah. They may be adults, but they're kids to me.”

She touched a piece of old, peeling wallpaper. Flowers from the eighties, it looked like. Had it been that long since the house had been updated? “There's the two of them, and Mack. You said she had four guests, right?”

“You've got a good memory. Joe stays on the weekends. He's thirty-one. He lives in some kind of group home during the week and stays here Friday and Saturday nights and all day Sunday.”

“Doesn't he have family? People who would like him to be with them?”

“Belinda says he doesn't. She met him while she was teaching a painting class at the group home. One thing led to another, and now he spends every weekend here.”

“Belinda is probably the best thing that has happened to him in a long time,” Brenna said.

“Yeah, but
he's
not the best thing to happen to
her
. She's in her eighties and she deserves time to just chill out and enjoy life.”

“Who says she's not doing that? Belinda was always happiest when she had lots of people here. Remember the big parties for Halloween and Christmas? The Easter egg hunts on the front lawn? The corn maze?”

He smiled. “She really did love having this house filled with people.”

“Maybe she still does. And maybe having it empty just reminds her of all the things she used to have and doesn't anymore.” She followed him into the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, this room was spotlessly clean. Not a dish in the sink, the floor scrubbed to a high shine, the counters empty except for one plate. Two pieces of fudge lay in the middle of it, a tiny rose blossom someone must have plucked from overgrown bushes in the backyard lying right next to them.

“Huckleberry?” she asked, touching the soft petals of the rose. Once upon a time Dan had bought her roses. Beautiful, extravagant arrangements he'd have delivered to photo shoots or to the boutique. It hadn't taken her long to realize they were a show meant not for her but for others. This, though? It was lovely and simple and sweet.

“Probably,” River said with a sigh. “That kid drives me batty. Leaving messes one day and doing something like this the next. Makes it really hard to dislike him.”

“Then maybe you shouldn't,” she said.

“Stop being reasonable, red. I'm not in the mood.” He winked and stepped outside. “Mack is probably in the barn. Why don't you wait for the sheriff while I go find him?”

“I'll come with you,” she said, stepping outside, her cheeks warm from that one wink and that one word: red.

It had been years and years since anyone had called her that. Before modeling and runways and everyone in Benevolence suddenly thinking she was more than what she was, back when she'd just been a weird little kid with her nose stuck in a book, hiding away from all the sadness at home, she'd had friends who'd called her red. She'd felt like one of a group then, like someone who mattered to somebody else, and she'd loved it.

Funny how she'd forgotten that.

“I'm not going to tell you what to do or not, but we can't count on Mack acting reasonably.” River stepped through grass that had grown wild, tall blades of it twining together to make walking difficult.

Brenna picked her way through, skirting around beautiful pear and apple trees that lined the edges of the yard. A ladder leaned against one of them, a wicker basket abandoned beside it.

Someone had been picking fruit. For canning? Brenna had always wanted to learn the skill. Then again, she'd always imagined herself in a place like this, living a simple life: no glitter, no makeup, no fancy clothes and too-high shoes. No people pretending to be something they weren't to impress people who really didn't matter.

“River!” someone called, and Brenna nearly bumped into his back as he stopped short, glanced over his shoulder. She looked, too, and saw a kid with coppery hair and freckles, his skinny frame drowning in an oversized T-shirt and too-long jeans.

“Shit,” River muttered, no heat in the word or in his eyes. “Huckleberry, go in the house and stay there until I tell you different.”

“Who died and made you the boss?” the kid challenged, all arms and legs and petulant expression. “I heard something happened to Belinda. I came home to check on her.” His gaze skirted past Brenna, landed full out on River.

Obviously, the two didn't get along.

And, obviously, River was exasperated.

He looked like he wanted to pick Huckleberry up and chuck him back into the house.

“Belinda is with a friend. I need to talk to Mack. You need to give us some space.” He said it kindly enough, his words clearly enunciated.

“I will repeat my question,” the kid said, something oddly refined about his speech. “Who died—”

“How about you don't repeat the question?” River cut him off. “The sheriff is on the way and I need to make sure Mack isn't going to make an ass of himself when he arrives. The last thing Belinda needs is one of you tossed into jail.”

That seemed to seal Huckleberry's lips. He nodded, a curt, tight gesture that didn't go with his young face and gangly body. River might be right. The kid
might
be young, but he'd lived through enough for it to show in his eyes.

“What are you staring at?” Huckleberry asked, his attention suddenly on Brenna, his glare filled with fury and helplessness. Maybe he needed someone to take his frustration out on, but it wasn't going to be her.

“You. I was thinking that if you want to make yourself useful to Belinda,” she responded, “you should clean the foyer and the hallway.”

She turned away before he could respond, rushing after River. Who seemed hell-bent on getting to the barn and getting the meeting with Mack over with.

She wasn't sure what he thought he'd accomplish, but anything was better than having the guy tossed in jail.

She jogged through a wide gate that had once separated lush lawns from beautiful cornfields and pastures. Nothing remained but wilted cornstalks baked brown from the sun. The barn was just ahead, double-wide doors opening into a cavernous interior. There were horse stalls on one side, farm equipment on the other. Twenty years ago, the ranch had been bustling, every outbuilding humming with life; teenagers helping with the harvest or the planting. Now it seemed lonely, the empty stalls a reminder of the horses Dillard had once owned, the ponies he used to bring to parties and festivals.

They reached the threshold of the door, the scent of hay and dust filling Brenna's nose. River grabbed her hand when she would have walked farther into the building. “Wait here. Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“I was wrong.”

He walked deeper into the barn, dust motes dancing in the sunlight. “Mack?” he called. “You in here? The sheriff wants to talk to you. Nothing serious. Just a chat.”

Something rustled in the loft, bits of hay raining down around River and falling onto his dark hair.

He glanced up. “Do you want me to come up there or are you coming down?”

“Coming down” was the gruff reply.

The wooden beams above Brenna's head groaned as Mack made his way across the loft. Seconds later, he appeared, climbing down a rickety ladder, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

He turned as he took the last step, his gaze settling on Brenna. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He nodded, the scars on his neck and cheek deep purple and painful looking. “I'd better get on my way, then.”