It's In His Arms (A Red River Valley Novel Book 4)

by Shelly Alexander

  Lorenda turned her attention to the far side of the park, her gaze skimming along the rows of rummage-sale booths. Okay, time to find one that wasn’t overrun with shoppers. The park was crowded, but a few booths at the north end were vacant and . . . aha! She could slip behind one of the ponderosa pines at that end of the park and unload the suitcase without anyone seeing Checkers.

  She tugged the suitcase toward the rummage sale, but a thin guy with a hoodie pulled up and draped over his forehead got in her way. His hands were crammed into the pockets of the thick hoodie like he was cold. Strange. Nights were always cool in Red River, but it was a sunny afternoon in August. “Excuse me.” She tried to step around him, but he matched her step and blocked her path again, glancing at her.

  His messy black hair hung in his eyes. His face was gaunt, and the look in his eyes was disturbing because it was like he knew her even though she didn’t recognize him. Before she could maneuver around him again, he grabbed the suitcase and pushed her.

  “Ooph!” She hit the ground, and the thief darted toward Main Street.

  Bart Wilkinson, the elementary-school principal and a guy Lorenda had known since kindergarten, seemed to appear out of nowhere. “Lorenda! Are you okay?” He put an arm around her waist to help as she scrambled to her feet. Others yelled and pointed to the man as he ran with her suitcase. And Checkers.

  Her lips parted. She’d just been mugged for a dead guinea pig and worn-out kids’ clothes.

  Wasn’t the mugger going to be surprised?

  As the thief bounded past Clydelle and Francine—two senior citizens who kept the locals so far up on their toes that most of Red River might as well wear stilettos—Clydelle thumped him on the leg with her cane, and Francine took a swing at him with her purse.

  “Ow!” He dropped the suitcase but kept on running, only with a limp because of Clydelle’s handy-dandy cane. Lorenda should get one of those. Might come in useful since she was single. But in Red River, where crime was usually less than zero, who needed weapons?

  A few men took off after him, but from the side, a man came out of nowhere and tackled the mugger. The familiar build—big, broad . . . badass—made blood pound through her veins.

  A crowd swarmed the mugger and the man who had stopped him.

  Several of the ladies who had been milling around the park ran over to offer Lorenda assistance, but Bart hadn’t let her go. His arm was still firmly around her waist.

  “I’m fine,” Lorenda mumbled, trying to see through the growing crowd. Trying to step out of Bart’s hold. As nice as it was for him to help, she was fine, but he followed her step and stayed right at her side.

  “Are you okay, hon?” Her mother darted over, Trevor, Jaycee, and the puppy trailing behind with rounded eyes.

  Trevor threw his arms around her waist, which forced Bart to step back. “Are you hurt, Mom?”

  “No, sweetie. I’m okay.” She threaded an arm around his shoulder. She pulled her phone from her purse, but before she could get the sheriff’s number typed in, blue-and-red whirling lights raced around the corner. As fast as news traveled in Red River, the sheriff had probably heard about the incident before Lorenda had even hit the ground.

  “Who was that, Mom?” Jaycee said, scooping up the puppy like he was protecting it.

  She shook her head. “No idea.”

  “Here comes Grandpa,” Jaycee said around the puppy’s head as the sheriff’s car pulled up.

  “Yay! Grandpa to the rescue!” Trevor clapped with adoration.

  Sheriff Larry Lawson unfolded himself from the car. And he looked pissed. Then again, her father-in-law had looked pissed for as long as Lorenda could remember. Losing one of his twin sons to war and the other to blame and bitterness had only hardened him more. But he did love his grandsons and would do anything for Lorenda and the boys.

  “Stay back, boys.” Lorenda stepped in front of the kids like a shield.

  The crowd around the mugger parted, and Sheriff Lawson stepped into the inner circle.

  Francine used the opportunity to retrieve Lorenda’s suitcase, and Clydelle tried to poke the mugger with her cane. The sheriff scowled at her and waved them both back. Through the shuffling legs of the crowd, Lorenda caught a glimpse of the man who had tackled the thief. He had the mugger pinned to the ground with one knee. Her rescuer’s head was pitched forward as he held the squirming mugger in place with a hand pressing the weasel’s cheek into the grass.

  One of the ladies standing around Lorenda said, “Looks like you have a new hero, dear.”

  Lorenda wanted to roll her eyes, because heroes weren’t all they were cracked up to be. She craned her neck to get a better look.

  A black T-shirt stretched taut across her hero’s wide shoulders and muscled back that angled down to a trim waist and nicely broken-in Levi’s. But even hunched over, Lorenda would recognize that build anywhere. Would know the person anywhere. Had grown up with him, been sweethearts with him . . . married him.

  Her hand, still holding the phone, went to her mouth, and she stumbled toward the crowd that surrounded her supposed hero until she stood at its edge.

  The sheriff glowered down at both men. “Step back. I can handle it from here.” But her hero didn’t move until Sheriff Lawson slapped cuffs onto the thief.

  The crowd whispered and buzzed.

  “Is that . . . ?” someone said, their shocked whisper trailing off.

  “That troublemaker is back in town,” Bart said from just behind her.

  Lorenda’s heart contracted right along with her hero’s bulging biceps, which made the familiar crown-of-thorns tattoo around his upper arm flex as he straightened. Which seemed to take about a decade, because he was tall. Six three, in fact. Lorenda knew his height, his weight. His foxtroting shoe size.

  And like it was in slow motion, yet happening at the speed of light, he turned and locked gazes with Lorenda. No one else. Just her. And a familiar smile, the one that had won her heart when she was a teenager, then broken it just a few years later, made her heart thump and bump in an odd rhythm like it would stop at any moment.

  Her head told her that it was Mitchell, Cameron’s twin brother. Had to be, because Cameron was dead. Mitchell’s features were identical to Cameron’s, yet there were subtle differences she had always been able to pick out, even though no one else besides their mother could. But seeing him after so many years was like stepping back in time.

  The bright afternoon sun grew dim, and the faces around her turned fuzzy. Except for his. His was as clear as the sky. She meant to say his name—Mitchell. But when he took a step toward her, she whispered, “Cameron.”

  The last thing Lorenda remembered was his smile fading along with the sunlight, and then her world went dark.

  Chapter Two

  So, he’d already failed his first mission in Red River—don’t cause trouble.

  Mitchell Lawson cradled Lorenda’s long, lithe, and very limp body against his chest, bracing against her deadweight with a wide stance.

  Well, hell. Trouble was something that found him. Snagged him like a fishing hook and reeled him in every time. At least he was consistent.

  He lowered Lorenda to the ground, the grass cool and soft and so green under his knees. It was a good thing she’d fallen forward into his arms when she’d fainted, or she would’ve hit the ground like a nicely shaped sack of potatoes.

  Adjusting Lorenda’s back against a bent knee, he glanced around the park where he used to play with his brother. It had been bustling with activity when he pulled up on his motorcycle. Now, most everyone was rooted in place, either staring at him and Lorenda or staring at his father, who hauled the perp to his feet and hustled him toward the police car.

  His father . . . who greeted him after six long years by commanding him to “back away.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd as recognition dawned. Whispers about Mitchell’s troublemaking youth. And just as quickly as the close-knit citizens of Red River had praised him for
stopping a criminal, their looks of admiration transformed to glares of disapproval.

  Animosity hung on the summer breeze so thick that Mitchell could practically cut it with the SOG Desert Dagger strapped inside his boot. It wasn’t exactly a ticker-tape parade for a decorated war veteran. Neither was the beautiful woman in his arms whose eyes had rolled back in her head with just one look at him.

  Two little boys bounded toward them, and Mitchell froze. The resemblance to Cameron was unmistakable. For a moment Mitchell was carried back in time. Two Lawson boys who looked so much alike running through Brandenburg Park, the sweet aroma of cinnamon rolls and maple scones wafting down Main Street from the Ostergaard’s Bakery, Wheeler Peak casting a quaint shadow over Red River—all transported him back to a life before sadness and death had drowned out his innocent youth.

  Okay, maybe not so innocent. The glares shooting holes in his chest were evidence of that, but whatever. Nothing he’d done in Red River meant he deserved the carnage he’d witnessed during the long years of fighting a war.

  “Mom!” the smaller boy hollered.

  “Did Mom die?” the taller boy screamed, clutching a puppy.

  A sharp sting clawed at Mitchell’s gut. When death was the first thing to enter a little boy’s mind, it meant something. Something wrong. He’d seen it in the villages of Afghanistan more times than he cared to remember.

  An older version of Lorenda rushed forward and knelt beside them. A woman Mitchell knew well because he’d been buddies with Lorenda’s brother, Langston. “What have you done to my daughter?” Charlotte Brooks demanded.

  “Uh, caught her?” Mitchell said.

  She looked down her nose at him like he was a smart-ass.

  He was a smart-ass, but he’d just saved Lorenda. Twice. So the insinuation that he’d done something wrong, mixed with the murmurs from the crowd that grew louder by the second, were starting to tick him off.

  So mission number two—make amends with the townsfolk for all the trouble he’d caused growing up—wasn’t looking so hot either.

  “Hello, Mrs. Brooks.” Mitchell figured some good old hometown manners would go a long way in garnering some civility.

  “Mitchell.” Mrs. Brooks sniffed.

  Yep. Mission number two shot to hell.

  He sighed and looked past her to the boys. “It’s all right, guys.” Mitchell dropped his voice to a soothing lull. He had done it many times while holding the dying in his arms. Precisely why he’d vowed not to get attached to another person. It was easier to let go that way. “I promise your mom is fine.” Their worried looks didn’t ease. “She just fainted.”

  Guess seeing someone that looked exactly like your dead husband did that to a woman.

  But Lorenda had been the only person outside of their mom who didn’t have to ask which Lawson twin was which. She could tell Cameron and Mitchell apart way back when she was a scrawny kid with pigtails and Mitchell and Cameron thought girls had cooties.

  Marry the girl who can tell you apart. That’s what their mom had told them. So when Lorenda grew into a pretty young teenager, Cameron had fallen hard and eventually married her, smart guy that he was.

  It hadn’t occurred to Mitchell that Lorenda might need a little warning before he showed up in the flesh.

  He turned his stare to the flashing lights of the sheriff’s car. His father put his hand on the mugger’s head and guided him into the backseat. Then his dad opened the driver’s door and got on the radio to call it in, no doubt.

  A short guy stepped forward, with a slight spare tire around his middle and a hairline that had started to recede. “I can take her.” He looked vaguely familiar.

  “And you are?” Instinctively, Mitchell’s grip tightened around Lorenda.

  “Bart.” Small Balding Guy’s tone was clipped like he was miffed. “Bart Wilkinson. We went to school together. All of our lives.”

  Oh yeah. An odd little guy with a doting mother who cut his meat for him until he was sixteen. Because kids could be mean, he’d been nicknamed Bart the Fart after an untimely sneezing attack in the midst of a full lunchtime crowd on pinto-bean day. Lorenda, always the nice girl, had shown him compassion and stood up for him when the other kids called him Bart the Fart. And if Mitchell remembered correctly, Bart had had a crush on Lorenda ever since.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got her,” Mitchell said.

  Bart’s eyes launched grenades at him.

  Mitchell looked down at Lorenda. Her head leaned to the side, and long, flowing blonde hair fell across her cheek. He smoothed it back. Sunlight filtered through the rustling leaves of a large cottonwood and splayed across her smooth skin, which had turned a light bronze from the sun. Full pink lips. A tiny Marilyn Monroe mole just above her mouth. Her subtle perfume drifted up, just as soft and feminine as her.

  It was probably inappropriate, but a sense of protectiveness that bordered on possessive jolted through him. Because Mitchell knew what a crummy deal Lorenda and the boys had gotten from his brother.

  He gathered her closer. She was so soft. Her face so pretty. More mature than the last time he’d seen her, six years ago at Cameron’s funeral. Then again, he hadn’t stuck around long enough to form an opinion on whether or not Lorenda still looked like the young, pretty girl he’d grown up with, or the attractive young woman his brother married. Getting out of town had been his first priority, since his father blamed him for Cameron’s death.

  Mitchell was used to taking the blame. Dad had “known” that Mitchell’s hell-raising had started the fire the night he and Cameron graduated from high school. Just like Dad “knew” that Mitchell had persuaded Cameron to follow him into the military.

  The truth didn’t matter. Never had. And why should Mitchell have to convince his dad of anything? Wasn’t a father supposed to love his kids unconditionally?

  He studied his nephews while Lorenda’s slow and steady breaths ebbed and flowed.

  There was way more at stake now than just making amends. Telling the truth to clear his name would mean hurting two innocent little boys. He glanced in his father’s direction. It might also mean causing the old man to keel over, which would destroy his mother. So he’d have to find another way.

  The crowd around them kept thickening, the rummage sale and pet adoption obviously on pause.

  “Paramedics are on the way,” someone in the crowd shouted.

  Thank God. At least one person in the crowd was thinking of Lorenda’s well-being instead of trying to mow him down with dirty looks. Traditional values and old grudges ran deep in a town as small as Red River.

  “You want to take her hand, Trevor?” Mrs. Brooks said to the younger boy. “Maybe if she feels your presence, she’ll wake up quicker.”

  Trevor took a doubtful step forward and knelt next to his mom.

  “This is your Uncle Mitch.” Mrs. Brooks introduced them, an uncomfortable edge to her tone.

  The boys’ eyes went wide.

  Sirens blared from the direction of the fire station at the other end of town.

  The elderly woman who had walloped the thief with her cane lumbered over, Lorenda’s suitcase rolling behind her. “All right, people. Let’s give them some space.” She waved the crowd back a good distance with her cane.

  Another silver-haired lady—the one who had taken a swing at the bad guy with her gigantic purse—walked up.

  Ah, Ms. Clydelle and Ms. Francine. It had been awhile, but how could he not remember them? The two sisters had probably pulled far more shenanigans than he had. Which is why he’d always liked them. And made a note not to get on their bad side. They should have to register the cane and purse as lethal weapons. Maybe get a concealed carry permit.

  “Aren’t you the Lawson boy who took out my mailbox?” Ms. Francine asked.

  Dammit. Yeah, in about tenth grade. Good to know Ms. Francine didn’t show any sign of Alzheimer’s. Besides, it had been Cameron’s idea to play Mailbox Baseball, only he’d insisted on driving at the last minute and
wanted Mitchell to swing the bat.

  “How about I make it up to you?” he said. “I could mow your lawn, or fix something around your house.”

  “Will you take your shirt off?” Francine asked.

  “Shh!” Mrs. Brooks hissed, nodding toward the boys.

  Jaycee sat next to Trevor and let the puppy lick his mom’s arm.

  Mitchell leaned down and whispered into Lorenda’s ear. “Sparky.” The nickname he’d given her in junior high. Gently, he shook her, and the fond and fun memories of their friendship came flooding back. “It’s Mitchell. Can you wake up?”

  She groaned out a protest and turned her face into his chest. Her balmy breath seeped through his cotton T-shirt and into his chest to warm his heart. The feel of her in his arms was . . . amazing. The only perfect thing he could remember since he was a kid.

  “Isn’t he the one that burned down Joe’s a long time ago?” someone in the crowd said without trying to whisper.

  “Yup,” someone else agreed.

  The slam of his dad’s car door drew Mitchell’s attention. Without hesitating, his father started toward Mitchell with long, deliberate strides.

  Aaaand mission number three––mend fences with dear old dad—just went to Afghanistan in a handbasket.

  “Step away from your brother’s wife.” The sheriff reached them and spoke with the same gruff voice that used to have Mitchell shaking in his Converse sneakers.

  Funny. Not one tremor coursed through his well-worn combat boots. Oh, the razor-sharp tone still cut into him. Just not all the way to the bone like it had when Mitchell was a kid. Not after the things he’d seen in the war. After the things he’d had to do to defend his country.

  “I don’t think so.” His tone steely, Mitchell kept his expression blank, his stare level with an unmistakable challenge.

  A hush fell over the crowd, because few people defied Sheriff Lawson in these parts.

  Cameron had been compliant, submissive to his dad’s authority and bully tactics. Mitchell, not so much. Mitchell had been the jagged thorn in his dad’s side ever since he’d started walking and talking.