Tags:
Fiction,
General,
Suspense,
Romance,
Contemporary,
Mystery & Detective,
American Mystery & Suspense Fiction,
Women Sleuths,
Man-Woman Relationships,
Religious - General,
Christian fiction,
Religious,
Christian,
ROMANCE - - SUSPENSE,
Fiction - Romance,
Romantic Suspense Fiction,
Single Mother,
American Light Romantic Fiction,
Sheriffs,
Christian - Suspense,
Christian - Romance,
Cold cases (Criminal investigation),
Single mothers,
Single Fathers,
Wyoming
took pity on him. “You know what? I’ve got a pitcher of lemonade up in the fridge at the lodge,” she said. “I’ll bet you and your dad would enjoy some. Could you run up and get it?”
He nodded and took off so fast that Janna laughed. “I’m not sure carpentry is his cup of tea.”
“And now that he’s escaped, I’m probably not going to get him back anytime soon.” Michael frowned at her, though she caught a twinkle in his eye. “Sooo…want to help me get these cupboard doors off?”
“My pleasure.” She picked up a screwdriver and started at one end of the row of cupboards, while he started at the other. “I enjoyed watching you work with Ian,” she said after a few minutes.
Michael deftly released a warped door from its rusted hinges and set it on the floor. “I figure it might help with his dexterity and the strength in his hands. It might even be a creative outlet someday. He…lost a bright future in that accident.”
“Future?” Curious, she looked down the row of cupboards at him.
He worked on another hinge, his grip on the screwdriver turning his knuckles white. “Ian was something of a prodigy. At sixteen his acrylics hung in a Chicago gallery, and two sold for five figures. Just before the accident, he was accepted into one of the most selective art schools in New York.” Michael’s voice roughened. “I suppose he didn’t mention it, though. The whole situation is still hard on him.”
“But he still has that talent. It’s innate, isn’t it? If he tries—”
“He can barely write. Trying anything beyond that just fills him with rage, and now he’s refusing to continue therapy.” Michael braced his palms on the counter and bowed his head. “It breaks my heart to see it, because there’s not a thing I can do for him except pray—and so far, those prayers haven’t been answered.”
Ian strode back to the lodge, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his eyes still burning from the frustration of trying to awkwardly wield that stupid screwdriver.
His fingers curled around the old knife that he still carried in his pocket every day, and he jerked it out, tempted to throw it way out into the woods where Dad would never see it. But after being a huge disappointment—a failure—in so many ways, what would one more thing matter? Ignoring Dad’s orders to stay near the lodge that day was nothing compared to everything else Ian had done.
Trudging up the front steps of the lodge, he jerked open the screen door and stalked inside after the lemonade Janna wanted. He paused, uncertain where to look. In the big kitchen meant for the restaurant area? The private quarters?
The old lady, Claire, stuck her head out of a hallway leading to the family quarters, glared at him and slammed the door shut…so that probably wasn’t an option.
From over by the fireplace, Rylie looked around the edge of a big leather chair. Her face brightened. “Ian! You did come!”
Guilt slithered through his stomach at her obvious joy. He hadn’t come to see her once since she’d gotten hurt…but maybe it was that same feeling of guilt that kept him away. If he hadn’t selfishly hurried up the trail and left her behind, nothing bad would have happened.
It was just one more time that he’d been a total jerk and caused someone a lot of pain.
“Uh…hi.” He lifted a shoulder, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place. “Your mom said I should come get some lemonade.”
Rylie’s face fell. “Oh.” She pointed toward the double doors leading into the restaurant. “It’s probably in the big kitchen. Go through there.”
Feeling even worse, he tried to think of something else to say. Everyone here had to hate him, after he had so thoughtlessly left Rylie on the trail.
He made himself cross the room. “So…whatcha doing?”
“Nothin’.” She gave a weary sigh and closed the oversize spiral notebook laying in her lap. “It’s sorta boring, ’cause I’m not good on my
Laura Martín
Adair Hart
Mallory Hart
The Medieval Murderers
Margaret Gregory
Mike Sacks
Muriel Jensen
Heather Graham
Cydney Rax
Simone Sowood