Книга - Her Road Home

Her Road Home
Laura Drake


It’s not in Samantha Crozier’s DNA to ignore the call of the open road. The wind in her hair and the pavement beneath her bike are all Sam needs.Until she crashes into Widow’s Grove and the arms of Nick Pinelli, that is. Nick’s gorgeous and pure temptation – one Sam is determined to avoid. But with her motorcycle totalled, she's here for a while. So she comes up with a plan to renovate an abandoned house. Once that’s done, she’s gone.But the plan quickly backfires. She can’t find any resistance to Nick’s charm. Worse, for the first time, the house she’s working on is beginning to feel like a home.Her home.And she knows that’s all because of Nick.







No white picket fences for her!

It’s not in Samantha Crozier’s DNA to ignore the call of the open road. The wind in her hair and the pavement beneath her bike are all Sam needs. Until she crashes into Widow’s Grove and the arms of Nick Pinelli, that is. Nick is gorgeous, and pure temptation—temptation Sam is determined to avoid. But with her motorcycle totaled, she’s here for a while. So she comes up with a plan to renovate an abandoned house. Once that’s done, she’s gone.

However, the plan quickly backfires. She can’t find any resistance to Nick’s charm. Worse, for the first time, the house she’s working on is beginning to feel like a home. Her home. And she knows that’s all because of Nick.


“What are you afraid of, Sam?”

Nick looked at her closely then asked softly, “Me?”

“Not you.” She felt her lips twist, but it probably wasn’t a smile. “We’ve both got things to do, Nick, and my things aren’t in Widow’s Grove. Better to just let it go.”

“Better how? Look, Sam. I know you’re going back to the road as soon as the house is done, and I have no intention of leaving Widow’s Grove, ever again.” He lifted his hand from the passenger seat, turning it palm up. “Doesn’t that make me safe?”

“Safe?” She stepped away from the car, away from him. “I don’t know that word.” She turned to trudge up the drive, hearing the throb of the car’s engine, and feeling the familiar throb of separateness in her chest.


Dear Reader,

I can’t tell you how thrilled I am. This is not only the first book I ever wrote, but my first Harlequin Superromance novel! I’m happy that a story so close to my heart found such a wonderful home.

My husband and I have ridden more than 200,000 miles together on motorcycles, and have had lots of wonderful adventures. Back when I was still riding pillion behind him, one day a dog ran in front of our bike. After a gut-clenching scare, he trotted back the way he had come, and we rode on.

But I started thinking. What if a girl, riding a motorcycle, was in an inescapable accident? Then, what if…

The idea grew into Her Road Home.

California’s central coast—the setting for my fictional town of Widow’s Grove—is one of my favorite places on the planet. I hope that the story gives you the yen to see it. If you do travel there, be sure to drop in and meet Jesse, at the Farm House Café. Then follow the road out of town. Turn in at the beautiful Victorian, sitting perched on a hill like a grande dame, holding dignified court over the tan hills.

Tell Sam and Nick I said, “Hey.”

Laura Drake

P.S. I enjoy hearing from readers. Contact me through my website, www.LauraDrakeBooks.com (http://www.LauraDrakeBooks.com).


Her Road Home

Laura Drake






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laura Drake is a city girl who never grew out of her tomboy ways, or a serious cowboy crush. She writes both women’s fiction and romance stories. She rode a hundred thousand miles on the back of her husband’s motorcycle, propping a book against him and reading on the boring stretches. Then she learned to ride her own motorcycle, and now owns two—Elvis, a 1985 BMW Mystic, and Sting, a 1999 BMW R1100. She’s put a hundred thousand miles of her own on them, riding the back roads, getting to know the small Western towns that are the settings for her books. Laura resides in Southern California, though she aspires to retirement in Texas. She gave up the corporate CFO gig to write full-time. In the remaining waking hours, she’s a wife, grandmother and motorcycle chick.


To Mom and Nancy—the unceasing wind beneath.

Anything I’m proud of I do in your name—the blame for the rest is on me.


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For Al, who pulled me out of the ditch, dusted me off and set me back on the road…and who’s been standing by cheering ever since.

I love you.

For Gary, who taught me what forever love is—and it isn’t what I thought….

For his family, who taught me what one can look like when it’s done right.


Contents

Chapter One (#ueee3d570-0e41-51b5-8280-0d904899acf6)

Chapter Two (#u89d0ac2f-1dd5-5c68-bdaa-016ab6274eb3)

Chapter Three (#uaa065fcd-0b27-5237-a20d-fe4fdd6f22c3)

Chapter Four (#ue94b2b8a-8e3a-518a-ba8d-476427573f0c)

Chapter Five (#uea179c9f-290c-5e17-9c06-e0e189a126be)

Chapter Six (#ud8bc2321-3ecc-5c66-bc81-8b8f8a14aaee)

Chapter Seven (#u711005df-05da-56b5-bb52-fd944a282cde)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE

RUNNING AWAY FROM home at twenty-eight—that’s gotta be a first.

Keeping her movements broad and slow, the motorcycle responded to Samantha Crozier’s shifting weight. Waterproof gear snugged around her, repelling the worst of the weather. Through the visor of her full-faced helmet, the world flowed past in shades of gray and the water-shattered reflections of passing cars.

Sam’s mind moved in broad sweeps, but unlike the bike, it didn’t respond well to direction, drifting onto dangerous curves that ended in blind alleys.

I’m not running. Ohio just didn’t fit me anymore. Not after Dad died. Besides, how could she become someone new while living in the same house, the same town that made her what she was to begin with?

Sam rolled her shoulders to ease the tension of the all-day rain ride. As much as she’d enjoyed her first glimpse of the Pacific, the wind had edged its icy fingers into her leathers, making her grateful to turn inland at Highway 101 past San Luis Obispo. A road sign announced Widow’s Grove in five miles.

An ominous name, but it somehow fit the rainy day. The road slipped between rolling hills covered in a grass the color of a child’s sun-bleached hair. Live oaks dotted the slopes, their gnarled branches spreading more horizontal than vertical. The trunks seemed to squat in the soil, as if cringing from an unseen force, their fallen branches a testament to the siege.

New scenery—new life. Who would she become, down the road? She wasn’t sure. Except she did know she’d be someone who spoke her mind—who said it right out loud. Someone she could be proud of. The classic road anthem, “Turn the Page,” echoed through her mind for the eight zillionth time in its tedious, endless loop.

It’s impossible to outrun your thoughts—even on a motorcycle.

Imagining a hot bowl of soup and a warm, dry bed, she crested a hill. Dammit! A line of red taillights flashed ahead. Too close. Her stiff fingers scrabbled for the brake. Fueled by panic, her muscles clamped down. The front tire locked in a skid.

Instinctively, she released the lever then reapplied it slowly, downshifting to scrub off some speed. The bumper of the blue Honda ahead grew large in her face shield. She shot a glance at the shoulder drop-off. Too fast. Her stomach dropped. She’d end up in the steep ditch for sure.

Shit!

She put her feet out to act as outriggers. Her boots slid across the wet pavement, slower, slower. She feathered the brake, applying as much pressure as possible without locking it up.

Just when she knew the bike wouldn’t stop in time, with a twisting, gut-clenching skid, it did.

Until the car behind slammed into her.

* * *

SOUND CAME BACK FIRST. Rain, pattering on the asphalt beside her head. A car engine idling. A man’s voice yelling. A siren in the distance, getting closer.

Then the pain hit. With every indrawn breath, a white blade of agony slashed her side. She flopped like a fish on the wet pavement, trying to suck in air turned liquid.

Small breaths. It wasn’t enough. Her lungs screamed for more, but when she gave in, the blade slashed again, and she writhed. Small breaths.

Focused on sucking air, the sound of running feet barely registered.

“Check his neck before you take his helmet off,” a deep voice ordered.

Although she liked the anonymity her helmet and leathers afforded her, she hated that. Why did they always assume the tall one in the biker gear was a man? Something tugged at her neck and she jerked, trying to fight off the threat to her meager trickle of air. Only one hand obeyed.

“Does your neck hurt?”

“No,” she wheezed.

“Okay. Just relax.”

Easy for him to say. He could breathe. More hands slipped beneath her neck, supporting it as they carefully pulled off her helmet. A plastic mask touched her face, covering her mouth. She opened her eyes and tried to twist away.

A baby-faced paramedic hovered over her. “This is going to help you. Don’t fight it. Just breathe.”

Oxygen hissed into the mask, smelling of metal. The cool ecstasy brushed her lips and her windpipe unlocked, allowing air to her starving lungs.

Greedy, she sucked the oxygen in, then froze as the knife plunged again. She tried once more, shallower. That worked. While she practiced breathing, the paramedic ran his hands over her, feeling for breaks. She shifted, cataloging pain: a tweak in her shoulder, a hot coal burning on the side of her knee and the knife hovering at her ribs, waiting to slice.

Overall, not bad, considering. She blinked rain out of her eyes and pulled at the mask. “Let me up.”

The paramedic again appeared over her. He pushed the mask gently back to her face. “What hurts?”

“My ribs.” Now that she could breathe, she tried lifting her arms again. An electric current shot to her collarbone. Her lips pulled back from her teeth. “And there’s something wrong with my shoulder.”

Zzzzip.

She didn’t care that she wore only underwear beneath the one-piece leather suit. Or that the rubber-gloved fingers skimming the skin of her sides were wet and cold.

“Unhh,” she grunted. He had found the spot. Poked, prodded, then moved on.

“You’ve broken your collarbone. Your ribs could be cracked, or just bruised. An X-ray will show for sure.”

“Just help me up—I have to check out my bike.”

“In a minute.” He ran his fingers under her hair, at the base of her skull. “What day is it?”

“April fifth. No, wait, the sixth?”

“Where are you?”

“In the mud, on the side of the road, in California. Now can I get up?”

He frowned. “Not unless you sign a release first.” He thrust a pen into her working hand and held up a clipboard with a damp form and tiny writing.

Painfully, she signed the form, and with help, sat up. She checked the burning on the outside of her knee—road rash. Blood trickled from a scraped hole in her leathers. Damn. The skin would heal, but those leathers had set her back three hundred bucks. Maybe they could be repaired.

The legally absolved paramedic helped her move slowly to her feet. As she came vertical, her shoulder protested, the heavy throb matching the beat of her heart. At the chunk-clunk sound of a diesel engine, she looked up. A tow truck idled on the road beyond the line of cars—and her bike.

She took a sharp breath, then grimaced. Her heart pinched. Her baby lay sandwiched between the Honda and a silver Mercedes: bars bent, headlight smashed, front fork seals blown. Brake fluid leaked like blood onto the wet road.

“Oh, no.” A hollow ache that had nothing to do with her injuries filled her chest. She laid a protective hand over it.

“Back it up.” The tow driver in a hooded windbreaker gestured to the driver of the Mercedes.

She limped to her bike. The frame didn’t look bent, but the chrome was scratched, the gas tank dented. Deep gouges marred the leather side bags, but they were intact, and her sleeping bag and duffle still sat wrapped in plastic and bungee corded to the passenger seat.

“A Vulcan 750,” the tow driver said with an in-church voice. “I haven’t seen one of these in forever.” He trailed reverent fingers over the one pristine side of her cherry-red gas tank. “What year?”

“’85.” Sam glanced to the tow truck, grateful to see it had a flatbed.

A man in a rumpled business suit jogged up and stopped, too close. “I’m so glad you’re all right. I came over the hill and you were right there. I tried to stop, but I just slid—”

She took a step back. “I didn’t think I was going to stop in time, either.”

He leaned in. “Here’s my cell number and my insurance information.” He handed her a business card with writing on the back. “Do you live around here? Let me drive you home. Or do you need a room for the night?”

Her eyes skittered away. “I’m just passing through. I’m fine. I don’t need your help.”

The man’s face showed shock at the harshness of her voice. He looked her over, then shrugged and walked away. She turned to the tow driver’s raised eyebrow and curious look. Heat pounded up her neck to flood her face.

Well, screw him, too.

The EMT stepped in front of her. “Look, I either have to take you to the hospital, or you have to sign another waiver.”

“I think my ribs are just bruised.” If she kept her breaths shallow, the pain only throbbed in cadence with the lugging truck engine. But the collarbone was another story. No longer distracted by the damage to her bike, the pain from her own damage cranked up.

“You really should let me take you in. Do you feel dizzy? Weak?”

“Not dizzy. I’m sure the weakness is from the adrenaline hangover. I’ve got to see to my bike, then find someplace to stay.”

The tow driver said, “You go ahead to the hospital. I’ll get her on the truck.” When Sam opened her mouth to protest, he held up his hands. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

He looked at the bike, then back at her. “We mostly work on foreign cars. But I’m a bike mechanic, and take a few in on the side. If you’d like, I can try to track down parts for you.”

The sign on the tow truck’s passenger door read Pinelli’s Repair and Tow.

“Or I can haul her wherever you’d like. Just let me know.”

She looked him over. Tall as she, with dark hair that was combed back on the sides and curling onto his forehead. He had a classic ’50s bad-boy look. A cigarette pack would look right, rolled in the sleeve of the white uniform shirt peeking from beneath his windbreaker.

She remembered his light touch running over the gas tank as if it were a rare piece of art. “Are you in Widow’s Grove?”

“Yep. Just off Main, near downtown.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm, reached into a pocket, and handed her a business card. His open smile told her he knew he was being judged. He put out his hand. “Nick Pinelli.”

With only a slight hesitation, she shook it with her left hand. “Samantha Crozier.”

He noticed her wince. “You’re lucky you were ejected.”

She shuddered, imagining her legs taking the blow the bike had taken. “My body may not agree, but I’m with you.”

Man, this is going to be a hassle. But the pain was already wearing her down, and she didn’t want to imagine what the night would be like without painkillers. “Would you grab my stuff out of the saddlebags?” At his nod, she followed the paramedic to the back of the ambulance.

* * *

AT THE EMERGENCY ROOM, the paperwork took longer than the examination. X-rays showed a clean break in the collarbone, but luckily, the ribs were only bruised, albeit badly. By the time she walked out to the taxi they’d called for her, the drizzle had thinned to a fine mist.

As she eased in, the cab cocooned her in warmth and the smells of oily rags and old heater. She put her scratched helmet and bag of essentials on the seat, then snapped herself into the seat belt, ducking under the harness to avoid having it touch her shoulder.

The cabbie settled into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and dropped the clipboard into a holder on the dash. He checked his mirror, waiting for a break in traffic. “Where do you want me to drop you?”

“Can you recommend a hotel in Widow’s Grove?” She thumbed open the bottle of pills and, after reading the label, popped two and dry swallowed them.

He looked over his shoulder, then back to the mirror. “Are you looking for a room, or a bed-and-breakfast for a king’s ransom?”

She smiled for the first time in what seemed like days. “Do I look like a B-and-B kind of girl to you?”

He shot her an assessing glance. “I’ve got just the place.”

They rode two miles to the turnoff in silence, then slowed at the main street of town. The view made her forget the pain.

Wow. This is how to treat cottage architecture with respect.

Neat Victorian facades lined both sides of the street. She recognized Gothic Revival and Queen Anne styles, among others. Each house sported gingerbread scrollwork, and intricate spandrels above porches displayed traditional strong colors: green, maroon, yellow, or blue.

Sam looked around as they drove through downtown, wishing she had access to her camera. On the right, they passed a yellow, single-story adobe building with leggy wildflowers in the yard. The sign over the door said Santa Inez County Grange Building. From its look, she thought it probably housed the county library.

They idled at a four-way stop where a tall flagpole graced the center of the intersection. She couldn’t read the weathered bronze plaque on the concrete base, but imagined it stood in memory of the founding of the town, or of its brave departed soldiers.

She glanced up the cross street lined with beautiful bed-and-breakfast hotels. Although the architecture had a Victorian flavor, they were spanking new. It reminded her of Main Street in Disneyland, everything so perfect and “in period” that it flirted with parody.

Nestled between them were antiques stores, art galleries and souvenir shops. The rain-drenched streets were deserted. They rolled through the intersection, past an empty coffee shop. White wrought iron tables dotted the patio, and a flock of small sparrows, looking as bedraggled as she felt, took shelter under the bright umbrellas. The entire town seemed like a carnival after hours—without the crowds it seemed pointless and lonely.

A half mile farther, the cab pulled in a graveled drive just past a sign for Raven’s Rest, a cluster of tiny wooden cabins, their heyday probably dating to the ’60s. Huge pines hovered over them, branches resting on moss-covered roofs. Each cabin had a small porch with a rusting metal chair that had once been white.

The driver glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “It doesn’t look like much, but it’s clean and safe.”

“No, this is good.” She unbuckled the belt, and bent carefully to retrieve her saddlebags.

She paid the driver from her dwindling wad of bills. “Can you tell me how far I am from Pinelli’s Repair?

“It’s less than a mile from here. Just turn left at Hollister. Nick’s is a block down.”

“Thanks.”

The taxi backed out, then pulled onto the road. The rain began again, this time more of a cold, soaking mist. The office seemed a distant island in a vast sea of wet gravel. She almost sighed, but caught herself in time. She trudged, helmet and suitcase banging her leg, the pain in her ribs and shoulder pounding.

A buzzer sounded as she opened the creaking door and squeezed into a tiny office. Grumbling emanated from the recesses of the cabin, something to do with idiots out in bad weather. The curtain behind the desk whisked aside, and Sam faced...well, the first thing that came to mind was...a troll.

Old and stooped, the man had scraggly gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail. He wore a misshapen moth-eaten cardigan over a white shirt tinged yellow. A pair of Marine spit-shined wing tips peeked from under sagging pants at least a size too large. It took Sam several seconds to make out his words, as he was in need of an entire set of teeth.

“Lordy, whaddya have here?”

She could’ve asked the same question. “I’m looking for a room for the night.”

“Well, you’re in luck, missy. I have one left.” Faded blue eyes twinkled beneath grizzled eyebrows. “Forty-five dollars a night. No wild parties, no men and no room service.”

Sam barked a surprised laugh, then winced. Reaching for her credit card, she said, “And here I had my heart set on champagne and cabana boys.”

He turned the register for her to sign. “You look a bit like a drowned rat, but I guess you’ll do.”

“Do you know where I can get something to eat nearby?”

“The Farm House Café, just up the street. Not fancy, but good home cooking.” He pushed the key across the desk. “You can have our executive suite.”

“The Jacuzzi’s fired up, right?” She opened the door, and his laughter followed her into the drizzle.

Luckily, he’d put her in a cabin close to the office. She put down her stuff and unlocked the door. A frayed chenille spread covered the swaybacked iron bed, and an old-fashioned radiator squatted under the window. Inside, she dropped the bags and crossed to the tiny bathroom. The pitted stainless steel hardware gleamed in the stark light of a bare lightbulb.

Sam turned the shower on full force and gingerly peeled off the sling and her damp clothes while waiting for the water to heat. She glanced into the mirror, flecked with black spots, and winced. A lump and an angry red impression of the bike’s handlebar stretched from just below her sternum to her side. A purple goose egg rode her left collarbone. Damn. That was going to hurt for real tomorrow. She stepped into the hot shower, letting the stinging spray do its magic on her aching body.

Oh, heaven. Now if only the leprechaun at the front desk would just grant me room service...

Ten minutes later, when her body had stopped screaming demands and her bones felt soft and liquid, she stepped out of the shower. She wrapped the thin hotel towel around herself and walked the few steps to the bed.

She was hungry, but knew she was in no shape to walk anywhere tonight.

Lifting the covers, she gently burrowed in, shivering at the chilled touch of fresh sheets. She carefully rolled onto her uninjured side, creating a comfortable nest.

It looked like she’d be here awhile, and that suited her fine. The siren call of the open road had pulled her this far, but her travel account had reached warning levels. She’d need to find a job, but she was too tired to think about that now.

Her body relaxed and her exhausted brain drifted to the refrains of her road song and the sound of rain, dripping from the pines onto the roof.

Maybe this time she’d gone far enough, fast enough, to outrun her own guilty shadow. She sure hoped so, because she’d flat run out. Run out of time. Run out of money. And she’d run out of land to feed her restless front tire.


CHAPTER TWO

SAM JERKED AWAKE and in her panic, forgot. The ninja dagger plunged. She froze, panting in shallow rabbit breaths. Her heart slammed her ribs, which set them to throbbing.

Morning light slanted onto the bed through the white curtains. The nightmare seemed to drift on the dust motes. In the dream the cellar walls had transitioned to dirt. The rough cave opening had been only a darker shadow. Something had waited. Something that hammered her with soul-withering terror.

It’s not real. It is not real. She knew the mantra would calm her, if she kept at it long enough.

Her nightmares weren’t normal. She knew that. They washed her nights in an ugliness that lingered, the residue clinging to the inside of her skull. It leached out, leaving greasy stains on each new day.

When her lungs no longer begged for oxygen, she tried to roll onto her back and reach for the amber plastic pill bottle. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Her ribs’ painful response was only the high soprano in the operatic chorus of her body’s pain. Waiting until the wailing quieted to a whimper, she tried again. Slowly. That worked better. She swallowed the pills, grateful for the little white dots that promised relief.

Relaxing onto the pillow, she panted, waiting for the medicine to kick in. She glanced at the bedside alarm clock and did a double take. She hadn’t slept until nine o’clock in years.

Her mind worried at the edges of the dream, like a tongue on a broken tooth. But after a few minutes, her relentless antsiness kicked in; so long a part of her, it had melded to the myelin sheath covering her nerves. She moved, so gently, so slowly, that her medicine-lulled body only creaked. Easing herself to a sitting position, she slipped her forearm into the sling, and buckled it. She felt like the Tin Man, left out in the rain.

“Where is Dorothy, with that damn oilcan?”

She ran her fingers gently over the bruise on her chest. It felt swollen. She lifted her hand to the lump on her collarbone, and winced at her own touch. She had broken a collarbone before, thanks to a fall from a ladder; she knew a sling, Motrin, painkillers and time were the only cures.

Sam squinted through the worn, lacy curtains to the sun-splashed gravel parking lot. Evergreen boughs danced on the wind. Leaning over, she eased the window open a crack. A pine-scented breeze as clean as innocence and welcome as absolution swirled in, cooling her sweaty face.

“It’s a physical impossibility to be in a bad mood on such a gorgeous morning.” With hope that saying it would make it so, she stood and shuffled like an invalid to the bathroom.

After spending too much time dressing, she grabbed her helmet on the way out the door. It would be useless to her for a while; it belonged with the bike. She stepped out into the perfect day and pulled the door closed behind her. Yesterday’s rain clouds had scrubbed the sky to Alice blue, leaving only a few puffy white ones behind. The sun flashed off quartz in the gravel, and in a pasture across the lot, the breeze led the live oats in a stadium wave.

She set off for the road. Between the distraction of the day and the sun on her shoulders, Sam’s body eventually warmed up, walking fast enough to outpace a one-legged octogenarian. After a while, she came upon a bright red farmhouse on the left, a sign proclaiming it the Farm House Café that the old man had recommended.

Her belly sounded a rumbling timpani.

“Hang in there. Food’s coming.” Pushing the glass door to the café open, she was hit by the chatter of conversation, dishes clattering and the heavenly smell of bacon.

A blonde wielding a tray of dirty plates swished by. “Sit anywhere, honey. I’ll be right with you.” She had a tiny, pretty face, big hair piled in a riot of curls and perfect red fingernails. The white waitress uniform fit her busty stature as if she’d been dipped in it.

Sam eased herself onto a stool at the linoleum-covered bar that stretched the length of the room. Pretending to look at the menu, she studied the homey atmosphere. Customers filled the red vinyl booths, everyone talking at once. Small farm implements hung on the wall. Some of them, she could actually identify: a hand plow, butter churn, an oxen yoke. An old potbellied stove squatted in the back corner on a wood floor worn silver-gray with use.

The waitress appeared on the other side of the counter, coffee carafe in hand. “Sorry to make you wait, sweetie, this place goes nuts this time of day.” Her head cocked. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“Nope, just passing through. This is a great place. Warm and cozy.”

“Why, thank you, sweetheart. We’re not fancy like some of those new places, but we try. I’m Jesse Jurgen, and that huge hunk of man behind me is my husband, Carl.” Sam looked through the serving window. A blond giant filled it, looking like a modern-day Norse god, his white T-shirt riding high on heavily muscled biceps. He waved a spatula in greeting.

“What can I get you, sugar?”

“That bacon smells wonderful. Could I get some scrambled eggs and sourdough toast to go with it?”

“Sure you can. You want coffee?”

“You bet.” Sam closed the menu. “What’s with all the bed-and-breakfast places downtown? They look new.”

“Oh, they’re new, all right.” The blonde pulled a coffee cup from under the counter and poured. “This has been ranch country for a hundred years, until some smart guy discovered the land hereabouts was perfect for growing grapes. Now we’ve got vineyards coming out our ears. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve been known to sidle up to a nice glass of Zin now and again, but—”

The man a few seats down the bar broke in. “Oh, come on, Jesse. You can’t complain about the business all those tourists have brought in.”

“I’m not complaining, Hank, God knows. But this used to be such a sleepy town. You should see this place on a summer weekend now. The tourists swarm like termites.”

“I can see why.” Sam sipped her coffee.

“Can you believe there’s a limousine service in town that will drive people to wine tastings? What will they think of next?” Jesse grabbed the coffeepot and swished around the bar. “I’m coming, Oscar. Hold your water.”

“CaliFornication,” said the older man on Sam’s right.

“Sorry?”

“CaliFornication. You know, like the song. It’s when you take a beautiful state and screw it up with too many people, too many houses, too many—”

“Don’t listen to Don. He’s just a bitter old man.” A man on Sam’s left leaned in. “This is God’s country.”

“At least so far.” Jesse had returned and put a full plate in front of Sam. She stared at the sling, then the helmet. “Did you ride a motorcycle here?”

“Well, I tried to.” Sam grimaced, then took a bite of fluffy egg.

Sam could see puzzle pieces fall into place and the woman’s carmine lips opened. “You’re the motorcycle chick. The one who got hit last night!”

Sam had heard of small-town jungle drums, but had never been the source of their pounding before. “Yep, that’s me. Motorcycle chick.”

“I mean that with respect. I’d love to ride myself, but I’m a hazard on the road as it is.” She frowned down at Sam. “Are you sure you’re all right? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

“Been there. Done with that.” Sam stuck her knife in a mason jar of what looked like homemade strawberry preserves and slathered it on her toast. “I’ll be fine.”

The woman looked unconvinced, but asked, “Where are you coming from, honey?”

“Ohio, originally.”

The blonde’s brown penciled-on eyebrows scrunched. “You mean you rode a motorcycle out here from Ohio? All by yourself? Lord, weren’t you scared? How long have you been traveling?”

Sam began to recognize that if you wanted to talk with Jesse, rather than listen, it would require using large amounts of duct tape. “I left Colorado two months ago, but it’s been six years since I left where I grew up in Ohio. People have been great, for the most part, and I’ve seen more beautiful country than I knew existed.”

“Well, I’m impressed. I’d never have the guts to do something like that.”

Sam’s mind skipped to the day ahead. Once she’d checked on the bike and picked up a rental car, she planned to cruise around and look for a job. “Can you tell me which direction is best to see some of the country?”

Eavesdropping diners tossed out suggestions.

“Zaca Station Road is real pretty.”

“Yeah, but Foxen Canyon is better. The wineries are beautiful.”

“They just repaved Calle Bonita.”

As a heated discussion broke out, Jesse leaned over. “Oh, just head out of town and take any old road. It’ll wind around and give you a pretty good lay of the land.”

As Sam ate, the café got busier. Overall-clad farmers, who clearly owned their booths, spoke of yesterday’s rain. A gaggle of teenagers bolted food while chatting loudly.

Sam ate her last bite of toast, grabbed her helmet and scouted the counter for her bill. Not seeing one, she walked to the cash register to pay for her meal.

Jesse stood behind the register. “That’ll be eight twenty-three.”

“I looked for the bill, but—”

“Oh, we don’t mess with those things here.” Jesse hit a button, and the drawer popped open.

“But how do you know how much to charge?” She handed over a ten.

“I just figure it in my head, silly.”

“Tax and all?” Sam glanced at the dining area. “And you remember what everyone ordered, and what it costs?” There must have been twenty-five people here, and it had been more crowded when she came in. There was more to this blonde than big hair.

The waitress smiled. “That’s easy. It’s not like riding a motorcycle across country. Now, that’s hard.”

Shaking her head, Sam tottered out the door to track down her motorcycle.

* * *

“YOU NEED TWENTY-TWO foot-pounds at eighty degrees, then eighty degrees again.” Nick leaned on the torque wrench, demonstrating. “Now, you—”

Next to him, his mechanic, Tom, made a low, quiet whistle through his teeth. Nick looked across the engine of the BMW M-Class to the windowed wall of his reception area. The blonde biker stood checking out his photo collection, one hand in the back pocket of her jeans, the other in a sling. He couldn’t blame Tom; she was a bombshell. Six feet tall, mostly legs. Lean, but the snug T-shirt didn’t hide her long, capable biceps. Or the nice set of headlights.

He straightened, pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his hands. Her features suggested innocence, but her full lower lip and the woman’s awareness in her green eyes would set a man’s pants on fire. Unforgettable. He sighed. Nick had no time for a come-n-go biker chick, even a stunning one.

It wasn’t like he’d never asked a woman out before. Just not in recent memory. The business came first. Yeah, but the business is secure, and growing. That excuse isn’t going to work forever.

When he’d been in L.A., getting his mechanic’s license, he’d torn through the ranks of local single women. He’d had a high time. But Nick was still recovering from the fall off those dizzying heights. Since he’d come home to stay, things were more complicated.

In high school, good girls didn’t date hand-me-down guys like him. Oh, sure, there was curiosity in their aloof glances, but between his grease-stained fingernails, out of fashion clothes and their daddies’ admonishments, a glance was all he got.

To be fair, he couldn’t blame them. After his life exploded, he’d done his damnedest to live down to those low expectations.

Besides, women tended to shy from men with murder in their family tree.

“Man, it’s tough to be the boss.” Tom jerked on the torque wrench.

“Watch what you’re doing, or you’re gonna strip that head.” Nick stepped around the car and walked to the office.

“How are the ribs?”

Her look shifted as he approached, going from zero to redline the closer he got. Realizing his gaze had wandered, Nick parked his eyes on her face. “You like my bikes?”

She turned back to his collection of glossy supersport photos. “Do you race?”

“No, those are bikes I wrenched on. It’s kind of a hobby of mine.” He crossed to the computer at the counter. “Riding never interested me. I just love trying to pull one more ounce of horsepower out of those sweet, compact engines.” He jiggled the mouse to wake the screen. “I found you a new headlight and some fork seals online, but I wanted your okay to order them. After all, you were a captive customer last night. My rates are comparable with others in the area, but if you want to check around...”

Her studied gaze raked the reception area as she crossed the room and placed her beat-up helmet gently on the glass display counter. “You’d need to understand, I want only original parts used.”

He nodded.

“I’d love for it to be done quickly, but I understand that the parts may be hard to find. I won’t be here long, so I may need to leave it with you.”

He nodded again.

“I’ll be calling you, for weekly updates.”

“Or I can call you.”

Seconds ticked by as she studied his face. “I’ll trust you.”

Something about the tilt of her head told him she hadn’t trusted him, before she walked into the shop.

“I’ll take good care of your baby, you don’t have to worry.”

“I’m glad to know it. Now, do you know where I can rent a car?”

“Nope. But I can loan you one.”

* * *

SAM FOLLOWED NICK around the outside of the shop to a ramshackle one-car garage. Leafy vines climbed the warped, weathered walls as Mother Nature reclaimed her territory. “My insurance will cover a weekly rental,” Sam said.

The old, spring coil door squealed as he lifted it. He turned to her and gestured to the car parked inside.

Sunlight filtering through the gaps in the boards shone off bright yellow paint. And green paint. And neon-orange glow paint. The...thing consumed the entire floor space.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to rent this.” There was a note of pride in his voice.

“No shit,” she whispered.

He jogged around, opened the driver’s door, started the engine and rolled the convertible monstrosity into the yard. She recognized the old Volkswagen Thing; a cross between a dune buggy, military vehicle and a Beetle—and none of those models should have been allowed to breed.

If that weren’t enough, the eye-popping yellow paint was festooned with cartoon flowers, peace signs and rainbows in garish colors. It looked like the artist had dropped acid.

He shut down the engine and sat with a smug smile, clearly awaiting effusive acclaim.

She gulped, imagining all eyes following her as she drove around town. “I couldn’t.” Sam believed that your ride was an extension of your personality. Her Vulcan showed one side of her, her Jeep, another. She’d made snap judgments about people based solely on what they drove, and most of the time, they proved correct.

Her? Drive this—abomination? No, really, I couldn’t.

He hopped out and gently closed the door. “The nearest car rental is Santa Maria, thirty miles that way.” He pointed northeast. “So I offer my customers loaners, no charge.” He patted the garish fender. “All of them are out right now, but hey, since you trust me with your baby, I’ll trust you with mine.”

She didn’t owe him anything. She opened her mouth to decline, wondering if it would be too rude to ask him for the Yellow Pages to look up another shop.

But he worked on race bikes. She wasn’t going to find a more experienced mechanic. She couldn’t insult him. He sat there, beaming like a little boy offering her his prettiest marble.

The universe must be trying to keep me humble. Well, she’d just keep her head down and let her hair hide her face. It wasn’t like anyone in town knew her, anyway. She swallowed. “Thanks.”


CHAPTER THREE

A HALF HOUR LATER, top down, she scuttled through the weekend-busy town. She idled at the four-way stop at its center, feeling like she was sitting in a display window. Naked.

Hunching her shoulders, she peeked from behind her hair curtain. Reactions from the strolling tourists ranged from smiles of recognition to baffled expressions. The distinctive chug-whine of the old VW engine caught even more attention when she accelerated through the intersection. Maybe her bad-boy mechanic could get her bike back to her quick, or another loaner would get returned and she could swap.

Look on the good side. In the meantime, this beats walking.

She took the turnoff at Foxen Canyon, just because she liked the name. The sun warmed her shoulders and the wind tore through her hair. The radio played a perfect road song: Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car.”

The road wound between hills in sweeping, perfectly canted curves. This drive would be great on a motorcycle. She tapped into the song’s rhythm, accelerating on the straights and leaning just a bit into the corners, imagining her bike beneath her. Scenery blurred to slashes of blue, green and gold, rushing past the windscreen. The wind softened the engine’s whine and carried the scent of freshly turned soil. Small champagne bubbles of joy rose in her chest to explode in her brain.

Topping a rise, a vineyard stretched ahead, rows precision straight. She passed a tasting room, a low adobe-style building with a broad, shaded porch. The winery was a sure tourist magnet. It looked like a large home, owned by people who would welcome visitors as family.

She let the road lead her deeper into the hills. Farmhouses appeared around a few bends, but for the most part, the hills stood as wild and empty as the first man who found them.

A few miles farther, she came out of the trees and saw it.

An old house, deserted and in sad disrepair, perched atop a hill overgrown with wild oats. Slowing, she pulled into the weed-choked gravel drive. The Victorian rose two stories, with a deep shaded porch dressed in broken gingerbread trim. A rounded gable graced the right front corner, the scalloped wood siding was worn and broken in places. Crossing the yard, Sam stumbled over a real estate agent’s sign buried in the tall, straw-colored grass.

She circled the building and spied an old-fashioned garage, which had likely served as a carriage house in a former life. A property line of eucalyptus trees shaded the yard and the breeze blew their dusky scent to her along with the chatter of mockingbirds.

This house had good bones, from what she could see. It would be such a blast to restore the old lady to her glory. She itched to get her tools in her hands—to fix what was wrong here—to create a home out of a wreck.

She came around the corner of the house. The view past the sagging picket fence stopped her cold. Hills dotted with live oaks rolled away to the west like waves on a golden ocean.

Just that fast, she fell in love.

After fumbling with her cell phone, she dialed Homestake Realty, the company listed on the sign.

After setting up an immediate showing, she wandered back to the porch and lowered herself to the sun-warmed steps with a sigh. Leaning against the railing, she closed her eyes. The heat eased the aches of the accident, and something inside loosened.

I’ve got to tell Dad. She actually lifted the phone, then, remembering, she let it drop to her lap.

His death hadn’t been a shock. He’d battled the cirrhosis a long time. She’d spent countless evenings at the hospital after work, watching the baseball game and sharing the news of her day until he fell asleep. But one restless night, he’d wanted to talk.

“I thank God that you’re a good girl, Sammy. I know I can’t take credit for that. Hell, you took better care of me than I ever did you.” He’d held his hand up to halt her protest. “One thing dying does is make you to take a hard look at things.”

“Dad, I don’t want to talk about this.” She’d looked away.

“You don’t have any choice, Sammy. I’m tired, and ready to join your mother. Now shut up a minute.” His voice, soft as flannel, blanketed the sting of the words. The fluorescent light above the bed blanched his normally florid face, crumbling her wall of denial. He looked like a talking corpse.

“I can’t give you any good advice, Sam. If I’d had any, I’d have made better decisions myself. But one thing I do know. Life is cold. You’ll need to build a warm corner for yourself.”

He fell silent a moment, fighting pain. She sank onto the mattress beside him to hold his hand.

“Working or not, I always paid two things—the mortgage insurance, and my life insurance, so you could have seed money to start your own business. It’s time to make your own dreams, Sam, and let me go so I can stop mourning mine.”

He’d put her hand aside and pushed himself up in bed. “Now, turn on the dang game, we’re missing the first inning.” He dashed his hand across his eyes, and they’d pretended to get absorbed in a game neither one cared about.

Three weeks later, he was dead.

Funny how she forgot that sometimes.

I miss you, Dad.

She’d drifted into a light doze when the sound of a car engine laboring up the hill roused her.

A petite blonde woman in an immaculate peach business suit and high heels alit from a new Cadillac sedan. From the looks, Homestake Realty did well. Sam glanced down at her T-shirt, jeans and motorcycle boots.

This should be interesting.

“You called about the property? I’m Honey Conklin, Homestake Realty.” She watched her footing as she navigated the yard in a vain attempt to keep her heels from sinking in. When she’d tottered close enough, the woman extended a hand with bones as thin and delicate as a bird’s.

Sam shook with her left hand. “Samantha Crozier. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

Honey stepped onto the porch, holding out her designer handbag as ballast, taking care that the heels of her pumps didn’t stick in the cracks.

“This is a lovely old home. One of our founding families built it in 1902. It sits on four acres of land, and you can see, it has a beautiful view.” She halted the pitch at the sagging screen door to search a full ring for the correct key.

When she opened the door, the house sighed the past into Sam’s face with the unique smell of sunlight, plaster dust, and old wood that was inherent in old houses. Remembering her ribs, she only took small breaths of the rare perfume as she stepped over the threshold. A staircase on her right ascended a few steps, turned at a landing and continued upward. A tall, slim etched glass window let in as much sun as the dirt would allow.

Honey led her to the left, through glass-paned double doors into a small parlor with tall windows overlooking the front porch. She prattled on, reciting the home’s selling points. Blueprints unfolding in her head, Sam tuned her out, having assessed the retail market from the picturesque town.

They proceeded to the rear of the house. On the left, in a large formal dining room, a water-stained ceiling sagged in places. Windows, with a large fieldstone fireplace between them, opened onto the covered side porch.

A small door across the hall revealed a cubbyhole area under the stairs, saved from gloom by a round, beveled-glass window. The dog-trot hallway ended in a large, dark country kitchen. The green linoleum floor was worn through in places, the old-fashioned porcelain sink chipped and badly stained. A narrow opening beside the back door led to a laundry room, where the ceiling had collapsed entirely.

Sam interrupted the woman’s chirping sales pitch. “Could I see the upstairs?”

Honey gave her a blank look, then recovered and pasted on her best sales smile. “Of course.”

Sam could almost hear her thoughts. I’m probably wasting my time.

In the long hallway at the top of the stairs, several doors opened to small bedrooms. The reason for the ceiling damage below became evident when Honey opened the door on the left. Blinding sunlight streamed through the hole in the roof. The hardwood floor had rotted and buckled.

“Don’t go in there. The floor’s not stable.” Honey pulled the door closed like a child with a messy bedroom—if you don’t see it, it doesn’t exist.

This house wouldn’t work for everyone. But a young couple could love it.

This is what Sam did. As a building contractor, flipping houses was more than a career; it was her passion.

The last door at the end of the hall opened into a large bathroom. With a black-and-white checkerboard tile floor that was yellowed and cracked. An enormous claw-foot tub took up one corner.

This is even better than it looked from the outside.

They retraced their steps to the front porch.

“How long since anyone lived here?” Sam asked, while Honey vainly attempted to remove a smear from her designer skirt.

“Almost seven years.”

“Has it been for sale all that time?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “It was in better shape then, but the owners wanted too much for it.” Her sparrow eyes brightened. “Now, of course, the area is in higher demand.”

Sam cut in before Honey could launch into a discussion of the local market.

“Okay, I get it. So, keeping in mind that the roof is a complete loss, the left half of the house is severely damaged, all fixtures need replacing, not to mention any dry rot, termite damage, or structural unsoundness I might find—how much is it?” Sam calculated the balance in her business account.

Honey seemed dazed, but rallied and quoted a price.

Sam smiled; they must be desperate to sell, given the home’s condition. Mentally decreasing the quote by twenty percent, she gave Honey her offer.

“Now, you don’t know me, but please believe me when I tell you that this is my only offer. It is contingent, of course, upon a termite and structural inspection. How long until I can expect an answer?”

Honey looked at her as if she were from a different planet.

Sam took pity. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude. I just don’t enjoy price negotiation.”

“You want it? Just like that?” Her pouty voice made it clear Sam had taken away all the fun by cutting to the chase.

“I wouldn’t put an offer on a property I didn’t intend to buy.” Sarcasm was lost on the woman, who seemed confused that the deal wasn’t proceeding according to her formula.

“I guess I could call the family when I get to the office.” Honey jotted Sam’s cell number, then wandered off through the tall grass to her car, dusty smears marring the butt of her peach skirt.

God save me from real estate agents named Honey. Sam went to investigate the carriage house.

She guessed the large structure could house six full-size cars. The large wooden door opened in a shriek of protest. Cool air washed over her. The smell of damp soil drifted from the dirt floor. She stood just inside the door, letting her eyes adjust.

A rough staircase against the wall appeared out of the gloom. She ascended it gingerly, testing the integrity of the staircase and her injured knee at the same time. The door at the top landing stood locked, so she peered through the glass panes into a large unfinished room.

Of all the homes she’d renovated, this one could be the most beautiful.

And bring in the most profit.

Roof replacement would top the long list of tasks. And the upstairs floors were so unstable it would be economically impractical to repair them. Her brain worried at the puzzle.

“Relax, Crozier, you don’t even own the thing yet.”

But I think I may have found the next dream, Dad.


CHAPTER FOUR

NICK STOOD IN Josh and Annette’s backyard, alternately flipping burgers and throwing passes to their nine-year-old, JJ. The other twin, Courtney, was in the kitchen “helping,” making cookies. He’d have to apologize for the mess when Annette got home.

He’d agreed to watch the kids for his friends’ weekly “date.” With two crazy-active children, they needed it.

“Go out long, JJ.” Nick waited, then lofted a bomb, which JJ scooted under for a neat catch. “And the crowd goes wild!” The kid’s face lit up. God, Nick loved spending time out here at the Bennetts’.

Thirty wasn’t old, but lately he’d been thinking about wanting kids. But in his mind, kids didn’t come without marriage. And marriage didn’t come without dating. He fielded the wobbly pass from Josh, and fired back a hot one. If it were up to him, he’d skip the whole dating thing. Who needed the angst, the awkwardness—the judgment? Especially given his history.

Looking back now, from the long end of the telescope, it wasn’t surprising when his home life had imploded that he’d gone a bit wild. He’d had so much anger built up and nowhere for it to go. Booze was the only antidote he’d found, and he made a career of partying for a couple of years, post high school. Thank God for friends; Jesse, Carl and several others staged an intervention, making him see where he was and where he was headed.

It actually worked for a while. He decided he wanted to be an auto mechanic, and enrolled in a school in Los Angeles. Once there, though, he’d gotten caught up in the bar scene, many days arriving for school in the same clothes he’d left in the day before.

That bender ended the day he’d woken up on someone’s floor, and had been on his way to school when a kid darted out in front of his car. He swerved, took out a parked car and a fire hydrant, but thankfully, not the child. He still woke up some nights in a puddle of sweat, dreaming of what could have happened.

Luckily, since he’d finished his class work they allowed him to graduate, though he’d spent the day of the ceremony holding down a seat in a county drunk tank. When Nick sobered up, he looked around at the jail population and had a revelation—he fit right in with the drunks and losers. His mother would have been so disappointed. Hell, he was disappointed in himself.

Nick needed a plan. By the time he’d served his six-month sentence, he had one. He left L.A. with a twelve-step card in his pocket, an idea for a business and a bad case of homesickness.

Now he needed another plan. “JJ, go get washed up. Your parents will be here in a minute, and dinner’s about ready.”

Almost all the girls he’d known in high school were married now. When he first moved back, he’d tried dating, but between the hours he had to put in with the shop and the awkwardness of discussing his past, he gave it up. He hadn’t met anyone who, an hour after spending time with them, he missed.

Time to check the cookie progress, and assess the damage to the kitchen. He turned off the grill and lowered the lid. The sound of the twins squabbling in the kitchen made him smile.

Maybe it was time to try again.

* * *

SAM CRUISED PACIFIC COAST Highway back to town, breaking into a goofy smile when she drove around a bend to see the ocean, stretching like molten metal, to the horizon. It had transformed overnight from a moody, white-capped, gunmetal gray to a California picture postcard. Foam rode the small blue rollers that combed the creamy beach sand. The ocean’s chop fractured the sunlight into blinding silver slivers.

Turning inland, the road seemed guileless in the sunshine, but as she came upon the scene of yesterday’s accident, a shudder rippled through her. Her shoulder protested with an electric arc of pain. She studied the scene, but still couldn’t see anything she’d done wrong. Even if she had seen the Mercedes, she had nowhere to go. Now it appeared the accident had led her to another job.

Sam wondered how she’d look back at her time in Widow’s Grove. Each of her project pauses on her way across country seemed like a separate lifetime—as if she’d tried on different lives, to see how they fit. When she shook her head, the thought blew away in the wind ripping through her hair. Nowhere fit. That was just the way of things. A dark wisp of the nightmare edged across her light mood. Best to keep moving.

She rolled back through Widow’s Grove. The town had morphed overnight to a sparkling jewel. Tourists wandered, ducking in and out of shops. In the park, a group in bright spandex sprawled next to their bicycles. The coffee shop did a brisk business, the umbrella’s flirty skirts flipping up in the breeze.

A picture-postcard town.

And that can only help the resale value of the house.

But time spent dreaming would be a waste if the owners didn’t take her offer. She had learned the hard way not to want things—it was less painful.

Pulling up in front of her run-down cabin, she shut down the engine and unbuckled the seat belt. She ran her hand over the sun-warmed leather seat. Someone spent a lot of time and money restoring this; even the eye-scorching yellow interior was spanking clean and perfect. Nick, obviously, but why? Clearly he didn’t take it out much. Why put good money into a garage-dweller? She stepped out of the car just as her cell phone belted out the first notes of an old Jethro Tull road song.

Her heart sped up when she recognized the soft voice on the line.

“Miss Crozier? It’s Honey, from Homestake Realty. I was able to contact the Sutton family this afternoon. I’ve been trying to get you for an hour.”

“I guess I couldn’t hear the phone for the wind.”

“Yes, well. I’ve been in touch with the family.” She hesitated. “Look, I know you don’t negotiate and I don’t mean to offend you. But the sellers find it hard to reach a consensus, and...”

From the undertone of frazzled in Honey’s voice, Sam could imagine what that conversation was like.

“The bottom line is that they won’t take less than their original asking price.”

Crap. This disappointment bit a layer deeper than most of her letdowns. She recalled the Victorian’s stately bone structure, peeking out at her from under years of neglect. Uncovering those bones would have been such a challenging project. Fun, too. She sighed.

“Ms. Crozier?”

She realized it was the second time her name had been called. “What?”

“Why don’t I call you in a couple of days? There’s no reason to make a hasty decision.”

Sam took a breath, fully intending to nix the deal. Instead, she heard herself say, “Let me think about it. I’ll call you.” She hung up, but continued staring at the phone.

This was business. Either a deal worked, financially, or it didn’t. This one didn’t. So why did it matter so much? Sure, it was a neat project, but she’d learned there were great projects scattered all across the U.S.

So what was with the soft tug in her chest?

* * *

FOR THE NEXT WEEK, Sam didn’t have much else to do but think. The rest was good for her battered body, but the forced inactivity wasn’t good for her mind. The distraction of staying busy had always been her first line of defense against dark thoughts and bad dreams. That, and traveling. Grounded and idle, they were catching up with her.

She’d taken to walking, stalking the country roads around the cabins. Something about the green rolling hills and live oaks calmed her, but today she’d gone farther than usual, and her feet dragged the dusty roadside.

In spite of repeated admonishments, her mind kept returning to the puzzle of the house. Somewhere in the country miles, she’d solved the problem. If she demolished the top floor on the water-damaged side of the house, along with the rooms below them, the entire right side would become a master bedroom loft, looking down into a huge great room. That would leave the house with only one bedroom, but what a bedroom! She imagined the fieldstone fireplace, and the firelight reflecting off a burnished hardwood floor.

There was the carriage house—the second story was one huge open room. It could be converted to guest quarters. There was enough room for two bedrooms and a bath, easy.

Damn, that would be nice. She turned in at the cabins.

But she’d done the math more than once. She’d always turned a good profit, thanks to sticking to strict budget guidelines. This one didn’t fit them.

But the location! Property values always skyrocketed near tourist towns. Maybe they hadn’t peaked yet. If she took this deal, she’d be betting on the come.

But Sam wasn’t a gambler. Gambling was for people who could afford to lose.

Screw it. I’ll just move on. After all, there would be another project down the road. She opened the hideous car’s door, gingerly lowered herself into the seat and fired it up.

Mind made up, she kicked the disappointment to a back corner of her mind. Maybe she’d head up the coast, see San Francisco. She liked the idea of working on a Victorian, and she heard they had a bunch of them up there.

I’ve got to pressure that mechanic to move faster on the bike. Without a project, she had no money coming in. She could have the Jeep sent from Telluride, but traveling was no fun on four wheels.

She turned at the Farm House Café parking lot. Listening to local gossip would be a good distraction from her thoughts. She’d just grab a cup of coffee. Her phone rang with the distinctive drum riff to “Radar Love.” Only having full use of one hand was getting old, fast. She zipped into a parking place, put the car in Park and picked up the phone.

“Ms. Crozier? It’s Honey, Homestake Realty.”

“I was going to call you, later today. I’ve done the numbers, and they just don’t add up. I’ll need to—”

“Would you still be interested if I told you the family would be willing to split the difference with you? It was a fight, but I got them to agree to accept ten percent lower than the asking price.”

Sam stepped out of the car, recalculating the spreadsheet in her head. That would work. Just.

“When can we sign papers?” She kept her voice deadpan, a hard task while grinning ear-to-ear.

“Would you like to meet me in the office in the morning, say nine o’clock?”

Sam hung up, and did a gingerly happy dance, complete with fist punch. “Unh.” Stabbing pain made her pay for forgetting her ribs. She grimaced, taking shallow breaths. But it couldn’t wipe her smile.

Sam hobbled inside, holding her ribs.

“Well, that looked like good news. I think.” Jesse stood watching, hands on hips, behind the counter. Her hair was in a different style than the last time Sam had been in, but it was just as big, and the short dress just as tight.

A book lay face down on the counter. Sam read the title. Mensa Sudoku.

“The best news. It looks like I’m going to be your neighbor for a while. I just bought the Sutton place.”

“You what? What would you want with that wreck?”

Sam’s stomach woke, growling to the delicious aroma of grilling meat and frying potatoes. “I’m a building contractor. That house has potential.”

“From what I’ve seen, the biggest potential that house has is to fall down.”

“Well, it will be a challenge, I’ll admit. My biggest to date. But I’ve renovated four other houses on my way across the country. I can handle it.”

Jesse glanced at Sam’s sling, but said nothing.

Sam claimed a stool at the afternoon-empty counter and dropped the DayGlo flower keychain on the counter.

Jesse’s penciled eyebrows shot up and she raised her head to look past Sam to the parking lot. “I heard about that.”

“Heard about what?”

“Nick must have thought a lot of you to let you borrow the Love Machine.”

“And here I thought I had the booby prize.”

Jesse’s solemn look stopped Sam midlaugh. In a quiet voice, Jesse said, “That’s his mother’s car.”

Before Sam could ask for that story, Jesse turned a sharp eye on her. “You are a surprise, sweetie. How did you ever get involved in that career?”

“I’ll tell you, if you promise to explain the math-whiz thing to me, sometime.”

When Jesse nodded, Sam picked up the menu in front of her. “My dad wanted a boy—bad. My mom was the love of his life and she died when I was born, so I was as close as he was going to get. He taught me what he loved. Growing up, partially built houses were my playground.” Sam perused the menu. “By the time I was old enough to realize that all kids didn’t spend their summers crawling around construction sites, I was hooked.”

“Well, then I’m glad you’re buying it. Fighting over the estate, the family priced it out of the market. By the time they got real, it was in such bad shape, it wasn’t worth much. I’ll bet they just jumped at the chance to unload it.”

Jesse started to fill Sam’s coffee cup, but paused, midpour, looking off with an unfocused stare. “It used to be such a beautiful thing. I went to a Christmas party there once when I was a kid. You should have seen it. White lights strung along the eaves, huge Christmas tree in the front windows. It sure was pretty.” Jesse finished pouring, then raised her voice. “Hey, everybody—this is Samantha, and she’s just bought the old Sutton place. I expect y’all to make her welcome.”

Embarrassed to be singled out, and unsure of her reception, Sam glanced around to see smiles and some curiosity, but none of the suspicion or animosity she expected. Being a woman, traveling cross-country on a motorcycle, she was used to people not knowing how to react to her. A few customers raised their coffee cups in salute.

Jesse smiled down on Sam. “Well, honey, anything we can do to help, you just let us know. That hunky guy in the kitchen is pretty handy. And I can help you plan the housewarming!”

“Whoa up a minute, Jesse. It’ll take me close to a year to complete the renovation, since I do most of the work myself. I think it’s a little early to be planning a party.” She smiled. “But I appreciate the support. It can be hard to fit in to a new town.”

It is, usually. But a tiny dust bunny of contentment had nestled in her chest, the past few days. It felt odd there, but she thought she liked it.

* * *

SAM CONTACTED THE storage company in Telluride where she’d finished the last project and arranged for them to send her meager furnishings, the Jeep and her father’s precious tools to Widow’s Grove. She planned to bivouac in one of the rooms while she worked on the rest of the house.

One morning a few days later, she glanced out her cabin’s window to see the old manager shuffling by, huge wrench in hand. His attire hadn’t improved, except he now wore mirror-shined brogans.

Sam stepped onto the porch. “Excuse me, Mr. Raven?”

He stopped and squinted at her. Sam was relieved to see he’d put in his teeth.

“Could you tell me where I’d find a lumberyard or a hardware store around here?”

“Well, there used to be Lincoln Hardware, downtown.” He frowned, and his lip curled, just a bit. “But they cancelled Dave’s lease last year. Guess the landlord thought he’d make more money off another antique store. Now there’s just Coast Lumber, on the way to Solvang.”

Sam stepped off the porch into the morning sunshine. “Mom-and-pop yards can’t compete with the big chains anymore. But it’s the local builders that suffer, since the smaller places catered to their localized needs. The box stores couldn’t care less.”

He extended a gnarled, arthritic hand. “You’ve been here a week and a half—the name’s Tim.”

Those fingers looked painful. She shook his hand gently. “And you can call me Sam.”

“Sam it is, then. Give Coast a try, they’re better’n most. I traded with them when I had my plumbing business.” His blue eyes twinkled as he hefted the iron wrench. “That’s a’fore I retired, you see.”

Sam smiled. “Thanks, Tim.” She turned and walked to the borrowed car where it sat looking like a tavern slut in a church pew.

The drive to Solvang only took twenty minutes.

Sam had the same emotional connection with hardware stores that many women had with lingerie boutiques. She stood in the tool aisle, inhaling the clean scent of cut pine, debating the quality of power saw brands with a clerk.

She noticed a man eavesdropping. He examined a band saw, but glanced at her often. As her conversation ended, he approached.

“Excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I overheard you say you’re a contractor, starting a large project. Do you mind if I ask what it is?”

Sam eyed him. He was short and round, a fringe of dark hair around the edge of a bald head. His demeanor didn’t seem threatening, but there was no reason to announce that she’d be living alone, way out of town.

“Let me explain why I’m interested. Then you can tell me to get lost if you’d like.” His smile was harmless, anyway. “I’m Dan Porter, the shop teacher at Widow’s Grove High. I teach occupational programs to give the kids usable skills. I’m always looking for sites for my kids to get some real-world experience.” He extended a broad, hairy paw.

After a brief hesitation, Sam shook it. “So you stalk the aisles of lumber stores, springing yourself on contractors?” She smiled, imagining this little Friar Tuck in his Hawaiian shirt, stalking like a big-game hunter.

“Yeah, something like that. I’ve approached several about my idea, but haven’t had any takers yet.”

“Fear of lawsuits, right?”

“No, I’ve worked that out with insurance through the school. They just don’t want to be bothered. Not that I blame them. They’re in business to make money. But I know they’d see a benefit to their business as well as the kids if they’d give it a shot.”

That’s all she needed—a bunch of left-footed teenagers, falling off her roof. “How much experience do these kids have?”

“Some of them are really good. They’ve gotten all the classroom experience I can give them and they’re familiar with all the tools from my class.”

She thought of the deep-grunt demolition work ahead. And her damned collarbone. Much as she hated to admit it, she needed help. “I’d need a lot more information. By the way, I’m Sam—Samantha Crozier. I bought the old Sutton place outside of Widow’s Grove.”

He let out a low whistle. “Now, that is an ambitious project. Are you planning on subbing out the work?”

“I’ll do most of it myself.”

“Not for a while, you won’t.” He eyed the sling. “Why don’t you stop by the school sometime, to see our setup? You’ll get an idea of the kids’ skill levels, and I could introduce you to some of them.”

“Let me think about it.”

“I only teach shop classes, so you could stop by anytime during school hours.” He pulled a wallet from his back pocket and handed her a business card. “You have no idea what this would mean to these kids. And remember, you’d be getting young muscle, cheap!”

Sam didn’t notice the products on the shelves as she wandered the aisles. The hardware store ambiance was a soothing backdrop to the battle waged in her head. She liked working alone. The projects took longer to complete, but at the end, she could admire the quality result and know she’d left a mark on the landscape as she passed through. She’d know she was more than an anonymous biker in leathers. She liked working in peace, no one talking, interrupting or getting in the way.

Oh, sure, she usually subbed out plumbing, and an occasional electrical job. But teenagers? They were a seething batch of hormones with big feet. Unsafe, unfinished, unknown.

When she lifted her shoulders to shrug off the idea, her collarbone shot a bolt of pain down her arm.

Dammit. She didn’t have six weeks to wait to heal. Every day, money was trickling out of her account. She could hire professionals, but they came dear, and had opinions about how to do things. With kids, she could be sure it was done her way.

But was she prepared to take on a babysitting gig?

* * *

SINCE WORK COULDN’T begin on the house until the deal closed, Sam found herself once more, with too much time on her hands.

Late afternoons, she usually walked to the Farm House Café. During slow hours, she and Jesse would sit drinking coffee and “shooting the poop,” as Jesse called it. Sam got acquainted with the town through Jesse’s stories. Sam considered it research, learning more about the market without having to meet the people.

She’d also found Jesse a fascinating study in opposites; she looked like Flo, from the old sitcom, Alice. But she also appeared to be a savant with numbers, and Sam had seen enough to know that she was the force behind the diner’s popularity.

Today, she’d sat at the counter talking to Jesse long enough to get the coffee jitters.

You don’t have to like asking for help with the house; you just have to do it. “Jesse, do you know Dan Porter, the shop teacher at the high school?”

Jess refilled Sam’s cup. “Of course I do. Why?”

“I’m looking into the possibility of using a couple of his students for a couple of weeks.” She lifted her damaged arm, then winced, and put it down. “Only till I heal.”

“Oh, Dan’s one of the good guys. He got Teacher of the Year, back in ’09. Kids who aren’t going off to college need skills, to get a job. He’s helped out a bunch of them.”

The clanging of the cowbell against the glass café door brought Jesse’s head up.

“Hey, Nick.”

Sam’s mechanic sauntered to the counter. “Hey, Jesse.”

Sam leaned away. It wasn’t that he stood close. His presence itself seemed to crowd her, taking more space than his body. His scent enveloped her, an odd blend of smoky aftershave with an undertone of engine oil that shouldn’t smell pleasant, but did. He smelled like a blue-collar man. He smelled electric. He smelled like danger.

He looked down at her. Not with the “hunting coyote” look. More of a “who are you, under the Biker Chick?” look. The open curiosity seemed kind and well-meaning. She wouldn’t have trusted just a look—faces were just masks men wore. But something in his loose posture, his sincere mouth, his quiet waiting telegraphed his question; she knew it as true as the skill in her hands.

He slid onto the bar stool beside the one she’d begun to think of as hers. Her skin prickled with awareness. The hair on her arm rose, waving like a charmed snake.

God, she hated this. She lived well by herself, but every once in a great while, her traitorous body craved touch. Not a jump-in-the-sack touch. Just a simple longing for human contact that was almost stronger than her ability to quell it. It hit at random—in line at a store, she’d be suddenly and completely aware of a stranger ahead of her. Time would slow. Details would come into sharp focus: working hands with heavy-boned fingers, dark hair on a tanned forearm, set off against a stark white cotton shirt. A core-deep ache would bloom in her chest and she’d have to fist her hands to keep from reaching to touch the pale, vulnerable skin at the inside of a stranger’s elbow.

She shuddered, shivering the feeling off like a dog shakes off water.

“You know, Jesse,” Nick tipped his chin to the pie safe next to the cash register “That pie looks familiar. In fact, I think it’s the twin of the one I found on my front porch this morning.”

Jesse raised her pert nose and sniffed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Pinelli.” She turned to the kitchen window to pick up an order.

“I do appreciate it, Jess, but I’m not in high school anymore. I can cook, you know.”

Eyes straight ahead, Jesse swished by, a food-laden tray gracefully balanced on her shoulder.

“Hey, Samantha.” He turned his attention back to her. “What did the doctor say?”

She fingered her empty coffee cup. “Who needs a doctor? What I really need is a time machine to speed up the healing.”

Nick gave her the hairy eyeball. He opened his mouth, but apparently thought better of it. “I’ve been checking online parts boards every day, but nothing new has come up for the Vulcan. From the look of things, this may take a while.”

“That’s okay. As it turns out, I’m going to be here awhile.” She told him about her plan to buy, renovate and sell the house. “My Jeep will be here in a week or so, and I can return your car then.”

“No rush.” Nick pulled a menu from the stainless clip at the edge of the counter. “Did you feel like the bomb, riding around town in the Love Machine?”

Jesse walked by frowning, and gave her a barely perceptible headshake.

Sam said, “Yeah, the bomb.” Nuclear bomb.

A stout middle-aged man stopped on his way to the register, dollar bills in hand. “Hey, Nick, I thought you were coming by this morning. Are you picking up bread tomorrow instead?”

“I don’t have a car at the moment, Bert. Can I make it Wednesday?”

“Sure, that’ll work. I’ll leave the back door open at seven.”

Jesse strolled up. “Nick picks up day-old bread at the bakery and takes it down to the homeless shelter once a week.” She glanced at Sam.

Through the years, Sam had enough people try to set her up to recognize the matchmaker gleam. Sam ignored Jesse’s grin as an awful thought surfaced. “Did I take your car?”

Nick looked up. “Nah. That’s my mom’s car. I don’t own one.”

Remembering Jesse’s cue, she wasn’t going near that one. She closed her open mouth. “You run a garage that fixes cars, but you don’t own one?”

“Nope. Don’t need one, most of the time. When I do, I just use one of the shop’s loaners.”

Ah, an opportunity! “Why don’t I swap your mom’s car for another loaner? I’d hate to have something happen to—”

“Nah, you keep it as long as you need. It needs to be driven now and again.”

He snapped the menu closed and ordered a burger with fries from Jesse, then turned his attention back to Sam. “So where are you from? Originally?”

“Ohio.” Sam felt speared, by his interest and his gaze, as the moment spun out. Caffeine zinged along her nerves.

He cocked his head. “That’s odd.”

“What?” Her tone teetered on bitchy. “A woman shouldn’t ride a motorcycle? Shouldn’t be on the road, alone? Shouldn’t have a man’s job? What?”

His open smile disarmed her. “I’m just surprised anyone would want to travel so far from home.”

She examined the dregs of coffee in the bottom of her cup. “Well, not everybody grew up in Mayberry, Opie.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t sound happy. “And not everywhere that looks like Mayberry, is.”

Hmm. Maybe, like Jesse, there was more to Nick than bedroom eyes and a great smile. “So, tell me how a guy who doesn’t own a car came to own a tow and repair shop?”

“I’ve been a mechanic for a long time. I came into some money about eight years ago.” His eyes sidled away. “I bought the shop from Bud Proctor, who was retiring. I added towing—” he looked up, and winked at her “—and wrenching on injured classic babies, which I do for pure love.”

Damn, he’s good-looking. But it was his focused interest that made her hop from the stool and make a hasty exit.


CHAPTER FIVE

TWO WEEKS LATER, Sam packed her belongings. After extracting a promise from Mr. Raven to visit her, with new house keys tucked in her pocket, she drove to the house. Pulling into the driveway, she stared at it. Her house. For a while, anyway. She pictured it complete—a stately grande dame, holding dignified court over the tan hills that bowed at her feet.

She was itching to get back inside, to see if her idea of a loft would really work.

Her fingers ached for her tools as she looked forward to mindless hours spent restoring a windowsill, to listening to the old house whispering its secrets.

Why this house should stand out from her other projects, she couldn’t say. Perhaps the secret would be revealed in the renovation.

Sam gathered as much stuff as she could with one hand, navigated the weed-choked sidewalk and climbed the steps to the front porch. She looked out over the sleepy hills. Puffs of eucalyptus-scented breeze touched her face and fat honeybees droned in the overgrown shrubbery at her feet. No traffic noise, no human voices—only the sounds of spring, and the countryside drowsing in the heat. Sam closed her eyes, feeling the edges of the hole in her chest where the restlessness usually lived. Peace stole in. Her mind quieted.

“Come on, Crozier, start hauling ash.” Realizing that her father’s words were literal in this case, she smiled, dropped her stuff, unlocked the door, and went in search of a broom. She was attempting to clean out the pieces of ceiling in the dining room with one hand and a sling, when the sound of a large truck laboring up the hill disturbed the quiet.

She walked to the front parlor and looked out the tall front windows to see a moving van towing her Jeep, turn in the drive. She directed the men to put her single bed in the front parlor, along with her boxes of clothes and sundries. Most of her furniture would go into storage for the duration of the renovation.

Last off the truck were her red toolboxes. After rolling them into the kitchen, the movers left. For a half hour, Sam indulged herself, pulling and closing the long flat drawers, hefting mallets, rearranging hardware, stroking her father’s antique hand plane. The world tilted to a more familiar axis and the ground settled under her feet. Traveling was fun, but nowhere was home until her tools arrived.

I so miss you, Dad. With a last lingering caress, she closed the drawer and got to work.

She spent the rest of the weekend settling in. After driving the Love Machine to town for much-needed supplies, Sam did a good cleaning of the bathroom, the kitchen and front parlor, her chosen bedroom for the duration of the remodel.

Surveying the roof, she judged the framing solid, but everything else would go—from the sheathing out. She took measurements and visited the lumber company to order supplies. Her body hurt just imagining the labor involved. She pictured herself, on the roof, trying to tear off sheathing with one hand.

Dammit! She liked working alone. Liked knowing at the end of a job that the satisfying result was hers alone. Others may not realize after Sam had moved on, that the mark left behind was hers, but she’d know. And that had always been enough.

But wanting didn’t make it so. Given her injuries, she’d have to get help. She’d curse the accident, but if not for that, she wouldn’t have found this great house. Reluctantly, she decided to stop by the high school on Monday.

You can always bite the bullet and pay through the nose for professionals if students turn out to be a hairball idea.

Nursing a cup of coffee on her porch after dinner, Sam imagined pioneer wagons carrying tired families coming over the hills. How would they have felt, after facing unbelievable hardships on their way west, seeing this beautiful land for the first time? The view from her porch probably hadn’t changed much since then, and she liked that.

The self-satisfied purr of an expensive engine disturbed her reverie. A sleek black Mercedes convertible slowed, and then pulled into her drive. Her muscles snapped to attention like guard dogs on a leash.

Probably a lost tourist. She set her cup down.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and smoothed his hair before climbing from the car’s cream leather interior, a bottle of wine in his hand tied with a blowsy scarlet bow. Squinting into the low sun, Sam recognized the man who’d hit her motorcycle that day in the rain. She stood.

He found the edge of the sidewalk in the weeds and, head down, followed the trail in the tall grass. As he neared, he looked up with a broad smile. “I’m here to officially welcome you to Widow’s Grove.”

She felt the house’s empty rooms at her back. “How did you know where I live?”

“Well, now, that tells me that you didn’t grow up in a small town. When I heard a biker chick bought the old Sutton place, I knew it had to be you.” Smiling, he bowed over the bottle of wine like a maître d’, awaiting a diner’s approval.

Sam tucked her good hand in her back pocket. “Thank you. But I don’t drink.” She did, but she wasn’t telling him that.

His smile went a bit stale. “That’s okay. You can save it for your housewarming.” He extended his hand. “We never had the chance to be properly introduced. The name’s Brad Sexton.”

Not knowing what else to do, she took his hand and gave it a quick shake. “Samantha Crozier.” She let go. He didn’t.

“I just wanted you to know how very sorry I am for the accident.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then let go. His bored-with-my-life, family-man eyes took a tour of her body. “You look like you got the worst of it.”

She wrapped her good hand around the arm in the sling, covering her chest. “I’m fine.”

He glanced up at the house. “I used to play in this place as a kid. Sure looks different than I remember.”

Sam studied his faded-handsome face. He looked like a former high school quarterback, gone to seed. Middle-age thickness had crept up from his waist to his heavy jowls. Age and easy living had begun to assault the skin at his neck.

But his eyes, when he glanced back to her, seemed innocuous. “Mind giving me a tour?”

Her shoulder muscles tightened as the sound of “no” moved from her brain to her lips. She’d always been a lousy judge of character—trusting those she shouldn’t, and spurning offers of friendship from well-meaning people. It was as if some internal compass constantly pointed her in the wrong direction.

But Brad didn’t see her hesitation, because he’d turned and walked through the open front door.

“Hey!” Shrugging off the ice-water trickle of déjà vu at the back of her neck, she hurried inside.

She stepped to the doors of the front parlor and pulled them closed, hiding the tortured pillows and rumpled sheets of her narrow bed. When she turned back to Brad, there was a flash of something at the back of his eyes. Something oily. Her stomach twisted, remembering that her closest neighbor was a quarter mile away.

Maybe it was just her uneasy brain, superimposing the past on the present.

He walked to the stairs. “Donny Sutton and I used to slide down these banisters.” He patted the newel post. “I remember when his mother ordered that window.” He tipped his chin to the ornate fleur-de-lis etched in the tall glass window at the stair landing. “His dad bitched up a storm about it. Must’ve cost a pretty penny, even back then.”

When he bent to place the wine on the top step of the landing, a late afternoon sunray caught his diamond-studded wedding ring and threw dancing sparks up the shadowed wall of the staircase.

“I want to thank you for this. It’s not often you get to walk into your past.” His face formed a mask of sincerity.

Maybe it wasn’t a mask. Maybe she was wrong, this time.

“Could I see the upstairs? Donny and I spent a lot of time in his room, conspiring on world domination.”

“Um. I guess.”

He stepped back, gesturing for her to lead. She pictured him watching her butt as she climbed, and waved him on ahead.

“Old man Sutton died about ten years ago, and his wife, two years later.” His voice echoed in the narrow space as he turned at the landing and started up. “Donny and his sisters have fought over this place ever since.”

Sam stayed well back, not wanting to watch his pudgy rear end struggle up the stairs, but not able to stop herself. On her way by, she grabbed a screwdriver from the window ledge and slipped it in her back pocket. The weight of it there somehow felt right.

He was huffing by the time he reached the top landing. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this....” He wandered down the hall, opening doors as he went.

“Don’t go in that one!”

He stood at the doorway of the ruined room. “Wow. Donny sure would be pissed to see his room now.”

He wandered down the hall. Sam closed the door to the room.

“Oh, my God.” His voice echoed from the large bathroom at the hall’s end.

Sam hurried, wondering if he’d hurt himself on something. She had liability insurance, but sure didn’t want to have to use it.

He stood in the center of the bathroom, pointing. “The black-and-white checkerboard tile, the old claw-foot tub, the light fixtures. It’s all the same!”

She touched the scarred molding of the doorway. “I’m going to keep it as original as I can.”

He took a step closer.

Even without looking, she felt the brush of his glance, against her skin.

“Can you imagine the hours Donny spent in here as a teenager, whacking off?”

At the low, creepy tone, her head jerked up, though she knew what she would see. The concentrated, unfocused stare. Ruddied cheeks. His lips glistening, as if he’d just licked them.

She stood in flash-frozen shock, her heart fluttering in scared-rabbit beats. Not again.

His eyes roamed, lingering, as if he already possessed her. He addressed her breasts. “You know, I’ve got money. You could have a sweet deal, here.”

Shaking her head, she took a step back.

His pudgy fingers, reaching to touch, shattered her taut stillness. She ran.

Her feet pounded a hollow beat on the old wood of the hall. Halfway down the stairs, a knife of pain in her ribs forced her to stop. Her chest and shoulder screamed, but her lungs trumped everything. She leaned over, taking small breaths, trying not to throw up.

She hadn’t heard him coming, but he was there, hands all over her. Her body jerked away in an involuntary spasm and she stumbled to the landing, her brain spinning in freewheeling panic. Random thoughts pinged inside her skull. Snips of memories. Nothing useful.

Off balance, she threw out her good arm to keep from plunging headfirst into the wall. She spun to face what would come next.

A small voice whispered, You knew you’d end up here again. The forgotten-familiar weakness of lassitude pulled at her. Give up. You know it’ll go easier if you do.

The smell of nightmare-sweaty sheets drifted from the open collar of her shirt. The stench of fear.

He must have sensed victory because, face flushed and breathing heavy, he took the last step to the landing.

Sam stepped back. He’s stronger. No one is going to believe—her back hit the wall. Something clinked and bumped her butt.

Triumph-laced adrenaline zipped through her, cutting off the little girl’s whisper midsentence. Jerking the forgotten screwdriver from her back pocket, she held it in front of her like a madman in a slasher film. “Get. Out.”

His flat shark eyes gauged her resolve. “Now, you don’t want to be that way.” He reached out a hand, but jerked it back when she thrust the screwdriver at the exposed veins of his wrist.

“You’ve totally misunderstood my intentions. I don’t mean to hurt you.” His lips peeled back from his teeth, but it wasn’t a smile. “Unless you want me to.”

Her stomach heaved in a hot, greasy wave. “This may not kill you, but it could take out an eye.” The blades of rage in her throat made the words come out ragged, torn.

He hesitated, absently touching the skin of his forearm. His fingers stroked the hair, smoothing it in gentle circles.

He was imagining stroking her—Sam knew it as clearly as if she’d read his mind.

And maybe she had.

Their heavy breathing echoed loud in the hushed stairwell. Time spun out to a thrumming wire of tension. The tension sprung from different sources, with different motivations, but it paired them in a dark dance—one they both knew.

Sam stood, waiting for his next move.

Brad sighed, his lips twisting into an entitled pout. Straightening, he sucked in his gut and hiked the waist of his expensive dress slacks. “The guys at the club told me a biker chick had to be a lesbian.”

“Get the hell out of my house.” She pointed the screwdriver down the stairs. “Now.”

“Guess I lost that bet.” Hands raised, he eased past her, not turning his back until he was out of range. He took the last three steps to the entryway.

Sam followed him, screwdriver at ready. “The only thing I sleep with is a snub-nosed Colt.” He stepped through the open door. “You ever come back here, you’ll find out its sex.”

“Shit, I knew better.” He walked through the door, then turned and looked down his patrician nose. “Stray dogs may be fun to play with, but they’ve got no manners.” He shot his cuffs, squared his shoulders and walked down the porch steps.

Gravel shot from the tires as he backed out. When he hit the asphalt, the car surged and fishtailed, tires squealing for purchase.

Still shaking, Sam watched from the top step of the porch. What was it about her that made men think they could get away with that shit? There must be some kind of mark on her forehead that only perverts could see—something that told them it was safe to approach. Many times, she’d studied her face in the mirror, trying to make it out. But she only saw what everyone else did—cursed, unwanted beauty.

The car disappeared over the hill. She waited until the sound faded, then her knees gave out and the screwdriver fell from her hand. Clinging to the support post, she sank onto the wooden step. Shivers ran from her neck through her body in pulsing, shivery spasms. She hunched over her knees, staring at the ground, her thoughts years away.

Some untold time later, she stood, rubbed her sore buns, straightened her shoulders and went back to work. Mulling over the past was a waste. If you never put it down, you wouldn’t stand a chance at moving beyond it. Just because that philosophy hadn’t worked to date, didn’t mean it never would.

She couldn’t afford to contemplate the alternative.


CHAPTER SIX

NICK LOOKED UP from the computer screen. The late afternoon splashed window-shaped sunshine over his polished waiting room floor. No new Vulcan parts for sale. Hell, there had to be junked Kawasakis all over the country—just his luck they’d be owned by the technologically challenged.

Not that it would break his heart to see the biker chick as a fixture around here.

Gold hair, full lower lip, her long and elegantly boned face. He liked her small shoulders and long legs, in denim. But even a killer body could easily be dismissed, once you had an eyeful. Instead, Nick’s attention snagged on the air of mystery that surrounded her like a gossamer shawl. It was more than her odd career and her mode of transport. He sensed she had walls. He got a vague sense of them from her conversation, but their true magnitude lay in what she didn’t say.

Intriguing. He thought about calling her. But with what? Non-progress on her bike?

Wake up, dude, you’re dreaming. She’d made it clear she was gone as soon as the remodel of the Sutton place was complete. And he was in Widow’s Grove to stay.

But regardless of the facts, Samantha Crozier remained a puzzle his brain wouldn’t put down. He wasn’t even sure why he’d offered her his mother’s car, that first day. He hadn’t had that car out except to keep the battery charged since—well, since forever.

Sure, she was gorgeous, but it was more than that. Other beautiful women had needed loaners and it never occurred to him to offer them his mother’s car. He sensed that Sam didn’t need help often, and wouldn’t have asked for it if she did. That made him want to help.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening. He sat up straight and watched his puzzle walk in, a neon daisy keychain dangling from her fingers.

“I’ve brought the Love Machine home.”

“Hey, Sam.” Nick ripped off his horn-rimmed glasses, stuffed them in the lap drawer and slammed it closed. “Good timing. I’m starving. Want to go to lunch?”

She walked to the desk and dropped the key in his hand. “Sorry, I can’t. I’ve got to get back to work at the house.”

He snatched his blue jacket from the back of the chair. “Come on, Sam, let me take you to lunch.”

“Thanks, but I’m just walking down to Jesse’s. She’ll run me home.”

There were those walls again. “Oh, come on. Carl is a great cook, but aren’t you tired of eggs and burgers by now?”

“No. Thanks, but no.” She turned for the door.

There had to be a way around her walls without pulling a muscle climbing. “You don’t want to pull Jesse away from work to drive you home, do you?”

She winced. “I’ll just call a cab.”

He strode across the room, pulled the glass door open and held it. “Don’t be silly. I know a place that serves killer crab.” He yelled, “Tom, I’m going to lunch. Hold the fort.”

She stood there, waffling.

“Sam.” He stood, watching her. “It’s just lunch. Promise.” What had made this woman so wary? Well, he intended to find out. She was like no other beautiful woman he’d ever met.

“Thanks. I guess that would be fun.” Her smile transformed her from worried waif to magazine model.

He walked ahead to open the passenger door of the Love Machine for her, then trotted around the car, opened the door and settled into the driver’s seat. “Glad you left the top down. It’s a perfect day for a ride.”

It was, too. Nick cranked a rock ’n roll station, and they cruised through town. He drove, one hand on the wheel, the other hung over the door, waving every few feet to a pedestrian who hailed him, feeling as if he were chauffeuring the homecoming queen in a parade.

Springsteen’s “Pink Cadillac” blared as they turned onto Pacific Coast Highway. Sam kept the beat with her hand on the car door, singing in what he supposed she meant as harmony, but wasn’t, quite. Well, thank God, she isn’t perfect.

The smell of hot sand and salt whipped by on the wind, and Sam pulled her hair back to keep it out of her eyes. She laughed, looking like a carefree teen playing hooky.

Ten minutes later, they passed a sign welcoming them to Pismo Beach. The town looked like a throwback to the ’60s, when surfers were gods and before the term yuppie had been coined. The small, gaudy painted stucco buildings held an odd charm, and the Love Machine fit right in.

He pulled off PCH and parked in front of Dougie’s Place, a long, flamingo-pink building sprawled at the edge of the surf, like a fat, bikini-clad woman.

He held the thick metal front door for her. “Don’t judge it by the exterior. They have the best seafood for fifty miles.”

“If you say it, I believe it. I think.” She ducked under his arm.

A jukebox belted out the Beach Boys in the corner, and the bar stretched along the wall to the left. Behind the bar, where a mirror would normally reflect liquor bottles, stood a saltwater fish tank, stretching the entire length of the back wall. It was brightly lit from above, but the back had been blacked out, so the exotic fish stood out in bold relief. Schools of small bright yellow, red and blue fish darted around the huge tank like pennants fluttering in the wind.

He led the way past the bar to a dining area, where empty tables sat, dressed in red-and-white checked tablecloths. She followed him down a step to the patio. A glass wall blocked the wind coming in from the ocean side. Red and white umbrellas touting Mexican beer shaded glass-topped tables. The patio extended to the high tide point of the surf, the waves nearly lapping its base.

“Oh, I take back everything I was thinking. This is even better than the California I heard about, back in Ohio. How did you find this place?”

“It’s a closely guarded secret. The outside is to discourage tourists, I think.”

* * *

HE LED SAM to an unoccupied sun-filled corner. At a square table he pulled out a chair facing the ocean, and settled her into it before taking the one alongside. The waitress arrived, wanting their drink order.

She ordered a glass of the house Chablis without ever pulling her eyes from the long low waves combing the beach.

He took the proffered menus and ordered a Coke, thinking how pretty her hair looked, glinting platinum in the sun. With a bit more tan, she could pass for a vacationing movie star.

“Can you give me your mother’s address, Nick? I’d like to send her a little thank-you, for the use of her car.”

To avoid her look, he opened a menu and scanned it. “My mother died, fifteen years ago.”

“Oh,” She sounded like she’d stepped in a hole. “Nick, I’m so sorry.” Her fingers touched the back of his hand. Long, elegant fingers. Soft skin. Touching him. He kept his eyes on the menu.

Don’t drag out the dirty laundry basket. Not on a first date. When he fisted his hand, her fingers hovered for a moment, then withdrew. For the best. He didn’t want her sympathy. Besides, sympathy evaporated fast given the blowtorch of his past. “It happened a long time ago. Do you want to try the crab?”

“Sure. But you’ll have to show me how. I’ve never had the guts to tackle those leg-cracker things.”

He glanced up to see if she was joking. “You’re not going to tell me you’ve never eaten crab?”

“Give me a break. Ohio isn’t exactly Mollusk Mecca, you know.”

“I guess not.” He gathered the menus, trying to hide a smile. “Crab is a crustacean.”

She waved a hand. “Whatever.”

Time to test those walls. “What’s Ohio like?” It was a bonus that he got to watch that gorgeous mouth move.

“Just about as different from this as you can get.” She looked out at the sea, squinting a bit in the glare. “California is like a teenager, all brash and full of energy. Ohio is a middle-class, middle-aged grown-up. Flat, staid and earnest.”

“Your family still there?”

She stopped, just long enough for him to realize he’d never seen her still. “My mom died when I was born. My dad died six years ago.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

“I was first, and only.” She pulled a strand of wind-blown hair away from her lips. “But my mom was it for him—he never remarried. So he had to make do with me.” She smiled. “It was lucky for me, though. In the summer he had to take me to work with him, and I learned my love of building from him. If there had been a brother, Dad probably wouldn’t have thought to teach me.”

He ignored the heat in his chest, warmed by the smile that wasn’t meant for him. “Sounds like a fun childhood.”

Her smile faded. “It sounds that way, doesn’t it?”

When the waitress interrupted, he ordered for them. She asked if Sam wanted another glass of wine. Sam looked down as if surprised to find the glass empty. She shook her head, and the waitress left.

Sam folded her arms on the table. “What about you? Where did you come from?”

“Right here, in Widow’s Grove. I thought you knew.”

She looked him full in the face, eyes round in shock. “Jesse said something about it, but I thought she was kidding. You’ve never lived anywhere else? Ever?”

“Well, my trade school and internship was in L.A., but I scooted back here as soon as I could.”

Her lips quirked. “Homesick?”

He thought about the jail cell that had been his home for six months. “More than you can imagine. Like every other teenager from a small town, I couldn’t wait to blow this place. But L.A. didn’t suit me. Too many dazzling lights. Too many people. Too many bars.” He took a sip of Coke to make himself shut up, and kicked the laundry basket full of past to a dark corner. “Why did you leave home?”

She looked out to sea so long he thought she wouldn’t answer. Maybe he wasn’t the only one with an overflowing basket.

“About a month after Dad died, I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee. You know how when you’re thinking, you don’t see what you’re looking at?”

She couldn’t have seen his nod.

“When I came to, I was staring at the kitchen cabinets. I really saw them. The white paint was dingy, and worn around the handles. The section over the counter actually sagged in the middle. I looked around the room. The linoleum was worn almost through, in places. The porcelain sink was rust-stained and the white tile on the counters was chipped.”

He knew she wasn’t seeing the waves she focused on.

“So I wandered to the living room. It was so weird. This was the house that Dad and I had worn for years, like a pair of well-loved slippers. On the other hand, I saw the house as a professional. What a disaster! How could we not have noticed that?

“Anyway, I figured I owed it to the old girl to spruce her up. I quit my job to work on the house. I needed a goal. I was kinda lost after Dad....” She shook her head, a sad ghost of a smile lifted a corner of her mouth. “By the end of the year, that house was a jewel. Walk-in closets, bay windows, curved archways. Man, that was a sweet place.”

He watched emotion flick across her face, sensing this woman didn’t divulge her past often. Or easily. “Why did you leave?”

She shrugged. “When I finished the renovation, I realized the house wasn’t mine anymore. I could just see a young mom, cooking dinner in the kitchen....”

“And so?”

“So, I contacted a real estate agent about selling. The offer that came in floored me. It started me thinking. Maybe I could make a living renovating houses and reselling them. I looked for another run-down house, but then I realized—it wasn’t only my house that didn’t fit me. Ohio didn’t, either.” She straightened the silverware in front of her. “Maybe it never had.”

When the server brought their meal, he wanted to shoo her away, afraid Sam would abandon her story. The girl must have sensed it, because she laid out the plates and left with only a smile.

Sam sat straight and put her napkin in her lap. “So I hit the road. I saw a lot of the country, and took on projects in places I liked: Florida, Texas and the last in Colorado.” She looked from him to the plate. “So here I am, on the California coast, with a plateful of crab and no skills for eating it.”

He flexed his knuckles. “Ah, but you are lucky enough to be dining with a master crab cracker.”

Through the meal, they discussed getting-to-know-you topics: music, food, movies, books. They lingered, talking long after the dishes had been cleared. He’d had female friends, but he’d never felt this relaxed on a first date. Hell, on any date.

Sam’s nostrils flared, taking in the salt air. “It never occurred to me that I’d live within driving distance of the ocean. Do you ever get tired of the view?” She leaned back in the chair and crossed her legs, her hair lifting on a stray breeze.

He couldn’t pull his eyes from those long legs. “No, and I don’t think I ever will.”

At his reverent tone, her brow furrowed. Turning her head, seeing his smile, her eyes narrowed.

Wrong move, Slick.

Her face settled into tight, polite lines. “Well. Just look at the sun—what time is it?”

“I don’t know, Sam. Does it matter?” Note for the future—don’t gawk.

If there was a future.

She tossed her napkin on the table, scooted her chair back and reached for her small slouch purse. “I need to get back. I’m right in the middle of a big project.” She opened her purse and pulled out some bills.

He rolled on one hip and pulled his wallet. “I’ve got it.”

“I’ll pay for my own, thanks.” Her formal tone matched the cool in her eye.

He knew better than to argue with that tone. Damn. He’d known she had strong boundaries; he should have known better. But she’d been so relaxed, and he’d been enjoying himself so much that he let himself forget.

Now he may have blown his chance with the most interesting woman he’d met in eons. Idiot. No wonder you’re alone on Friday nights.

* * *

SAM KEPT QUIET on the way back to the house. This was a bad idea. You knew it.

Just loosen up a bit, the little girl whispered in a singsong voice.

If you loosen up, stuff is going to fall out.

Sam gathered her hair into a ponytail with her fist, pulling tight the tender hairs at the nape of her neck. Maybe the pain would wake her up. She’d been in denial. The nightmares were the rumble of thunder, signaling an approaching storm. Now was the time to hunker down—find some shelter.

Because it’s surer than hell gonna rain bad stuff.

She snuck a glance at Nick’s profile. He looked like a bad boy thanks to an unlucky arrangement of features. But she learned today he was really just a small-town homebody. Sweet, but...

Too sweet to get sucked into the funnel cloud heading her way.

A shudder rattled down her spine. She didn’t know what was going to happen when that storm hit, but it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Nick slowed, and turned at her driveway.

She reached to the floorboard to pick up her bag, before the car stopped. “Thanks for lunch, and for the ride.”

He turned, the questions in his eyes grazing the skin of her face, as if looking for a way in. “I had a good time, Sam. It felt like I’ve known you a lot longer than I have. I’d like to find out why. Can I call you?”

So he’d felt it, too. Usually she didn’t relax so easily. Lunch with Nick had filled more than her stomach. She’d enjoyed him way too much. When had that ever happened to her? Exactly never.

But within her, a harbinger wind whipped the small hope away. She scrambled out of the car. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Besides, I’m going to be really busy.”

“What are you afraid of, Sam? Me?”

“Not you.” She felt her lips twist, but the result probably wasn’t a smile. “We’ve both got things to do, Nick, and my things aren’t in Widow’s Grove. Better to just let it go.”

“Better how? Look, Sam. I know you’re going back to the road as soon as the house is done, and I have no intention of leaving Widow’s Grove, ever again.” He lifted his hand from the passenger seat, turning it palm up. “Doesn’t that make me safe?”

“Safe?” She dropped her hands and stepped away from the car. “I don’t know that word.” She turned to trudge up the drive, hearing the throb of the car’s engine, and feeling the familiar throb of separateness in her chest.


CHAPTER SEVEN

SAM SPENT A RESTLESS night awash in dreams that were complex and dark. She’d struggle almost to the surface of consciousness, only to be pulled under by another black wave. At dawn, sleep’s undertow pushed her onto the beach of Wednesday morning. Her muscles ached, as though she’d spent the night swimming against the current.

After brewing a pot of coffee, she sat on the front steps to strategize. Once the basic task of keeping the rain out was complete, maybe she’d install a porch swing. How great would it be to sit out here in the morning, watching the cloud shadows shifting over the landscape?

Besides, a swing would add a homey touch. Make it show better.

Later that morning, she drove into the packed parking lot of Widow’s Grove High. Much as she hated it, she had to face facts. She needed help.

The school was a cluster of single-story stucco buildings connected by covered walkways, outlined in flowerbed borders. Her alma mater in Ohio had been a stone block prison in comparison. Heading for the large double doors, she wondered if things would have been better if she’d attended a school like this.

Yeah, right. Like pretty scenery would have changed anything. Now, if you’d never met Mr. Collins, that would have made a difference.

She opened the heavy glass door and stepped into the past.

Amazing how all state-run learning institutions smelled the same: a mixture of old library books, decades of cafeteria food, dust and teenage hormones. She checked in at the office and received directions to the shop classroom.

Sam forced her shoulders back and her chin up, reminding herself that she was no longer a gangly, scuttling misfit. Strange how walking the halls brought back the sharp-edged emotions that memories themselves did not. A tall, awkward, tomboy from the wrong side of town might have skated under the radar of the cool girl clique—if she hadn’t had the audacity to be friends with their boyfriend pool.

Clllannnggg! At the bell, the cavernous hall became a flash-flood river of students. They wore cutting-edge fashions, piercings and blatant attitude. The girls chattered behind their hands about the boys, who postured in studious disregard. Exotic fragrances competed with sweet, immature ones, combining in a miasma of perfume and teenage sweat. Raucous laughter echoed off the cinder block walls and every voice ratcheted decibels, competing. Sam breathed in the youthful energy, the air fairly crackling with a potent mix of potential and angst.

It was one of those rare times when she stood at the edge of a double-sided mirror: on one side was the awkward teen outcast, on the other, a grown woman. A professional. A contractor.

An emotional mess.

She found the correct room number and dropped out of the flow of students.

Maybe so. But at least in one aspect of her life, she’d achieved her dream. A rare bubble of pride rose in her chest.

Dan Porter stood at the front of the classroom in dress slacks and a blue collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

“Samantha. You came!” His tone told her he hadn’t been at all sure she would. He hurried over on stubby legs to pump her hand.

The front of the large room was a typical classroom, with chairs in rows facing a blackboard. The back transitioned to a wood shop, with high ceilings and windows marching down one side.

“Class is about to start. Do you have the time to sit in? It would give you an idea of the kids’ knowledge levels. At the end, would you mind talking a bit about what you do for a living? I try to remind them that there will be life after high school. Or am I asking too much?”

Sam chuckled. “What would I expect from a man who prowls home improvement stores, springing on unsuspecting contractors? I’d be happy to talk, but I’m not ready to commit to hiring them.”

“That’s fair enough.”

She slid into a chair at the back as the bell rang. Several students slipped in as Dan closed the door. Sam was gratified to see both sexes represented; she’d been the only girl in her shop classes. The boys had accepted her, once they realized that she took it seriously. The girls weren’t as forgiving.

Dan began the class by asking them to recite the rules.

Smart way to get the kids to buy in to safety.

“I want to introduce Samantha Crozier, a local contractor.”

Heads turned, chairs squealed and the heavy regard of a tough audience settled on Sam. She sat still, squirming relegated only to her stomach.

“Ms. Crozier is going to speak with us at the end of class. You’re free to work on your individual projects, now. Anyone has questions, come see me.”

Sam followed the noisy crowd to the business side of the shop.

Wandering past the floor saws, she stopped to talk to several students. Their projects ranged from simple bookshelves to birdhouses.

One boy was using power tools to carve a long chunk of cedar. Tall and lanky, stringy black hair obscured most of his pale face. Clad totally in black, he had a safety pin through his eyebrow and homemade tattoos etched the backs of both hands. He ignored her, concentrating on his intricate work with a scroll saw.

When he paused, Sam asked, “What is it?”

“A sign for a band I know.”

Gothic letters spelling “Long Goodbye” stood in bold relief, an elongated dragon winding through them.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Huh.”

“Do you want to work in wood as a career?”

“Dunno.”

“You should think about it. You have talent.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

The buzz of the electric router made further conversation impossible—though conversation seemed too ambitious a word. She moved to the next station.

At the end of class, Sam spoke for ten minutes about the building trade and the future of the industry.

When she was done, Dan spoke up. “We’ve got a few minutes for questions. This is your chance, people. Do you have anything you’ve wondered about the career that Sam could answer?”

The blonde girl in the front row raised her hand. “Have you run into prejudice, being a woman contractor?”





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