The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing

by Rhodan, Rhea

  How could she have been so thoroughly delusional? She would have liked to blame the Crossing for setting her up for the fall, but it was her gullible heart that endangered the Crossing, not the other way around. Besides, the Crossing’s power was impersonal. Blaming it would be as ridiculous as blaming the rain for making her cold and wet.

  So she chose to rake herself over the coals for wearing a pair of new super-cute, super-high-heeled shoes in this weather. She couldn’t run, couldn’t roll, and her feet already hurt. She was soaked to the skin. The wind-driven rain had turned biting. This bus stop was without a shelter or one of those little heaters. It didn’t even have a bench. It was Sunday, which meant the next bus could be an hour away.

  The physical suffering suited her mood just fine, a sort of penance. The inactivity didn’t. She squeezed her eyes shut, visualizing her warm, cozy, comforting apartment, without the few clothes and overnight accoutrements Clint had begun leaving around. Maybe if she tried hard enough, wanted it badly enough, she could teleport there in spite of being nowhere near the Crossing and too far from Clint.

  Eyes shut, she concentrated as hard as she could until another car drove by and splashed a gasp out of her.

  She needed to get away from here. If she walked along the street until a bus came, Clint might find her first and attempt to charm his way back into her illusions with his warm truck and that kind mask he wore. And if he didn’t come looking for her, she’d be afraid it was because he was injured, or he was done with her now that he was certain she wouldn’t sell the Crossing. Better not to know. Better not to think about Clint MacAllen at all.

  There wasn’t a bus in sight on this ugly street. The entrance to a sprawling park was a block away, though. Walking barefoot on the grass would be preferable to pavement. Cutting through the park would solve the other issue, as well.

  Making a decision felt good, even a simple one. She yanked off her ruined shoes and peeled down the soggy white lace socks. Tossing the sad mess into the overflowing trash can on the corner, she started walking.

  Everything was about the Crossing and her daughter now. It had to be.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Clint was damned tired of the sound of his windshield wipers slapping. All the songs on the radio irritated or depressed him. He’d driven up and down every street with or without a bus stop within several miles of the mall. Where the hell was she? He still couldn’t believe she’d been able to run away from him so fast in the crazy heels she’d been wearing.

  It took longer than it should have to figure out why she’d been so upset. He gave himself a break for being a little freaked out himself. The lightning that struck the tree had come out of nowhere. It’d been awfully close too, as had the mangled oak itself. It was a wonder none of the lower branches had struck him when he jumped back to avoid the trunk.

  As long as it had taken him to get there, when the realization came, it hit him hard. J. Milton must be the developer who was pushing for Dr. Buchanan’s property. In Cayden’s eyes, they were the root of all evil. For Chrissake, she was convinced Dean had hired someone to kill her.

  Clint slapped the dashboard. The real hammer was she evidently believed he’d been using her.

  As wonders went, the lightning and the tree missing him were nothing compared to the miracle his working with Dean hadn’t come to light before today. If it had, he’d never have had a chance with Cayden. He would never have known how soft and warm her skin was, how intoxicating her earthy scent could be, how crazy she could make him. Fate was either laughing at him or torturing him, or both.

  Right now, the only thing that mattered was finding her and making her understand he’d had no idea the Cumberlands’ next project involved her grandmother’s property. Hell, he hadn’t even known about the second project when he’d signed on for the mall with J. Milton. The whole thing was an unfortunate coincidence, that’s all. Maybe he could work it out for the best, plead her case to Dean, design the project around the property or something.

  Clint widened his spiraling search until he found himself on Cayden’s street. The rain hadn’t let up a bit the entire hour he’d been out driving. Cayden hadn’t brought her new umbrella-cum-foil. She’d be soaked by the time she got home.

  Intercepting her before she’d had too long to entrench herself against him would have been better. Now, he’d have to go to the apartment and either wait for her to arrive, madder than a wet hen, or walk in the door to find her that way. Come hell or high water though, he had to find a way to reason with her.

  As he neared her building, something about it drew his attention from the speech he’d been preparing. Like the other warehouses in the neighborhood, a window ledge ran straight across the front of it. Unlike the other buildings, the molding over Cayden’s ledge was decorative. Odd, he’d never noticed that detail before. As he got closer, the rain distorted his view less, and the nature of the “decoration” became clear. The uniform dark shadows he’d thought created by perforations in the ledge were, in fact, birds.

  Crows. There had to be at least fifty of them perched on the ledge, lined up like gargoyles outside a cathedral. All the glistening black heads turned eerily in unison toward his approach. He slowed the truck, not sure whether to be impressed or creeped out. In any case, no way was he was stopping. He watched in his rearview mirror as their heads turned together to follow his progress. When he passed the building, one crow peeled off from beneath Cayden’s apartment window.

  Having a pretty good idea which crow it was, Clint punched the gas. Unluckily, the traffic light ahead turned from yellow to red.

  It wasn’t a particularly large bird bomb, or even particularly raspberry-colored, but the aim was unmistakably accurate. In spite of the rain, Clint hit the window button.

  Nevermore’s voice screeched through the opening. “Clueless bastard. No key.”

  “Okay, I am a clueless bastard. I didn’t know, all right! What do you mean, no key?”

  Two shady-looking characters huddled on the street corner looked up from what was likely a drug deal, eyeing Clint as if he were the one with a serious problem. The damn bird hadn’t bothered to answer. But when Clint checked the key chain dangling from the ignition, his key to Cayden’s was no longer on it.

  Alone in his cold bed that night, with the aid of the better part of a six-pack followed by a few fingers of scotch, Clint finally fell asleep.

  Fragments of half-remembered voices and images swirled around him in a gray slow-motion cyclone. An old man’s voice, a young man’s voice, a woman’s voice, sexy and warm. The men argued. The woman said, “You find lots of things hard to believe. Doesn’t make them any less real.” A scratchy voice wove through it all, saying “clueless bastard” over and over.

  A copper ring, a signature in blood-red ink, his truck covered in pink bird shit, a campfire surging out of control, a tattoo of an oak tree—its branches swaying, leaves fluttering—on skin so pale it glowed, a hundred crows’ eyes following him.

  Though the elements were familiar, he couldn’t quite place them. Then he was in a glade on a hill, the earth throbbing beneath him. A whiff of cool grass and fresh air. The whirling intensified, making it impossible to tell up from down. A wave of vertigo slammed into him. The old man said, “It’s your choice.” His finger itched. An orange-haired baby boy cried for his mother. Clint’s own mother telling someone about a dream. A thunderous crack, an oak tree falling.

  Clint woke, gasping for air, pushing at a tree trunk that wasn’t there. He was in his own bed. It was still dark. The sheets were soaked from the cold sweat drenching his body. He pushed himself up and took a deep breath.

  That had been one hell of a nightmare.

  The thought pealed like an echo. He scrambled to remember, clutched at remnants of a dream dissolving into mist. All he was left with was a lurking sense of menace, the god-awful taste of
half-digested pizza in his mouth—he hadn’t eaten any pizza tonight, had he?—and another killer headache.

  On his way to the bathroom, he stopped at the slightly open window to scowl at a black feather. Damn crows were everywhere.

  He filled the glass at the sink and took a few sips. When he looked into the mirror, he jumped. One side of his face was bathed in the eerie blue light of his electric toothbrush, the other in the red light from the razor’s recharging stand. His familiar reflection had been replaced by the image of someone he didn’t know and never wanted to meet. The man’s eyes were soulless, his lips twisted in a hideous grin.

  Clint brought a hand to his face to reassure himself. His lips were pursed, not spread. But when he moved his hand, his reflection broke into a maniacal laugh.

  He screamed and jerked.

  And found himself in bed, damp sheets sticking to him, sour breath scorching a parched throat. Christ almighty.

  The echo was stronger this time. The pounding in his head reverberated and grew. He clutched it in both hands and staggered into the bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet, groping for the aspirin bottle without opening his eyes, shook a few out, popped them in his mouth, and drained the glass of water sitting on the sink.

  It hit him after the last swallow. He’d hadn’t turned on the water, couldn’t have filled the glass. No matter what kind of shape he’d been in last night, he’d never have left it sitting there half full and gone to bed. Never. So…

  The hard edge of the toilet seat on his boxer-covered ass jarred him. Heedless of not having lowered the lid, Clint put his head between his knees and worked to keep the aspirin from making a return trip.

  “Been celebrating all weekend? You’re looking a little rough around the edges this morning.” Dean Cumberland’s bright orange hair and gleaming teeth burned Clint’s eyes.

  A lot rough around the edges would be a better description. Though he’d kept the aspirin down—not that it had helped with his headache—he’d been unwilling to risk any solid food or a second cup of coffee before the painful drive to J. Milton’s Long Meadow office. Just his luck, to be out of Cayden’s headache tea now.

  Dean spoke into his command center. “Say, sweets, it seems Mr. MacAllen made it past you without getting any of your coffee, which he appears badly in need of. Bring a cup right away, won’t you?”

  Dean flashed him another blinding smile and ran a hand through his wiry hair. “I called you in because it’s time to involve you in the new project. I hope you’re ready.”

  Was he? Now that he knew exactly where the convention center was going to be built, Clint wasn’t sure he was.

  His first concern was preventing Dean from becoming aware of his relationship with Cayden. He had no intention of allowing himself to be put in the position she mistakenly thought he was in, and he knew Dean well enough to know he’d try. Clint was in no mood to be pushed, so he’d have to act surprised at the big revelation.

  The other problem was that his mind had been burping up images and impressions of his nightmare with the same regularity his stomach had been bringing up the acid it had caused. The combination wasn’t just physically uncomfortable; it felt ominous, as though he were riding the edge of something much more than it seemed. More even than his relationship with Cayden.

  When “sweets” glided in, her deep bow included a partly-buttoned blouse offering him a view along with the coffee. A view Clint had no interest in. He took the cup and mumbled “thanks” into it.

  After the door closed behind her, Dean grinned. “Must be some new girl you’ve got if you can’t scare up any appreciation for Sweets. I know you can’t be that hung-over.”

  Once again, Clint was reminded Dean was a whole lot sharper than he looked. So he offered the important little man behind the desk nothing more than a casual shrug. He sipped the hot coffee, wishing like hell Dean would drop it. The direction of the conversation was too risky for his comfort and impaired abilities this morning.

  “Hmm. Not going well, either, is it?”

  So much for wishing. Clint favored direct action anyway. “Why don’t you distract me with those details you promised me?”

  For some reason, Dean wasn’t ready to let it go. “I can’t imagine a man such as yourself having trouble acquiring female companionship. Why settle for just one? Especially one who’s not making you happy. Toss her back. There’s plenty more where she came from, I say.”

  “Not like her, there isn’t.”

  Clint couldn’t believe those words had left his mouth. He wanted to hit himself over the head with a blunt instrument. Bad enough to be discussing his personal life with Dean Cumberland, but to discover the truth of his statement here and now, out loud, was unbearable.

  “Listen, Clint, I need you in top form, not distracted by girl problems.” Dean shook his head. “Honestly, you’re the last man I expected this sort of thing from.”

  Clint’s jaw tightened. “I’d say I appreciate your concern, except I don’t. As I’ve told you before, leave my business to me. That’s why you hired me, right?”

  Dean held up his hands in mock surrender. “My, we are touchy this morning, aren’t we? Thing is, I’m having a little party Friday night and I need you there. Among the lovely ladies present will be one it wouldn’t hurt our business to pamper.

  “Like you need my help to schmooze.”

  “I contracted you due to many of your attributes, some of which you don’t appear to be aware of.”

  Okay, that was disturbing, even if he only inferred what Dean meant by “pampering” an influential woman and ignored the creepy feeling there was more to it. He shook his head. Too much time with Cayden and her spooky crow had made him paranoid.

  “You’re not shaking your head ‘no,’ are you?” Dean’s voice was smooth, his expression anything but demanding.

  Clint said, “Sounds fun,” even though he couldn’t think of one thing he’d rather do less. He knew himself to be a stubborn man. How did Dean always seem to manipulate him so easily?

  “Good.” If Dean noted his irritation at the matter-of-fact nod and triumphant smirk, he didn’t show it. He simply opened the large file sitting on the desk, rotated it, and pushed it toward him. “This is it, my friend.”

  Clint took his time turning the first couple of pages, steeling himself, guarding his expression. “So, East Granby. Nice area. Why the big secret? Are you finally letting the cat out of the bag because you’ve completed all of the land purchases?”

  “We’re down to a single stubborn holdout. Buchanan’s Crossing.”

  Good, Dean hadn’t lied. Bad, Cayden’s grandmother was alone in her resistance. “You must mean this property here, off Exit 40.” Clint tapped the fold-out map with studied nonchalance. “I don’t see anything labeled Buchanan’s Crossing, though.” An alarm bell clanged from somewhere deep, aggravating his headache. He blamed it on his conscience, which was probably complaining about deceiving Dean.

  “Yes. It’s owned by an unreasonable old hag. Fortunately for us, she’s taken quite ill.”

  Clint covered his flinch by snapping the map open. “Wouldn’t that hold things up?” He kept his eyes on the map, hoping his gaze was sufficiently thoughtful.

  “Quite the opposite. Let’s just say I’m very good at convincing people. The old woman was an aberration. With her out of the way, there won’t be any great difficulty in persuading her family to part with it, one way or another.”

  Clint had no doubt Dean would get what he wanted. He’d experienced the man’s uncanny ability in that department once already today. But he had to try, for Cayden, for Dr. Buchanan, for his own peace of mind. He studied the map in earnest.

  “You know, this particular parcel isn’t crucial to the development. We could work around it. Why not leave the old lady in peace? I’m sure her family
has plenty else to worry about right now.”

  “We could do that.” His piercing blue eyes glinted. “However, the workaround would eat up all the money set aside to make it a green build, along with the extras you negotiated. Of course, you could fudge on quite a bit of it. No one would ever need to find out.” His smile stretched tight over his teeth. “Your call.”

  Clint swallowed the bile trying to escape his stomach while an almost-remembered whisper of his nightmare drowned in his headache. “Are you absolutely certain about the numbers?”

  “I’m growing weary of having to reassure myself of your loyalty. This project is of great importance to J. Milton. If we can’t build the convention center here, we would sustain an unmitigated loss.” He paused. “As of course would Green Man. For someone who’s been in business for a while, you don’t seem to have mastered the art of compromise very well.”

  Shit. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he fudged on the green aspect of the design. Which meant either Cayden and her grandmother lost the land, or he lost Green Man, and all of his people lost their jobs.

  “Ask yourself this, my friend. Is one old woman’s stubbornness worth all of the good you could do making a convention center this size green? Or all of the environmentally positive projects Green Man could do in the future? The financial security of your crew? It’s a pretty small sacrifice for a much greater good, wouldn’t you say?”

  Clint scratched his ring finger. What could he say?

  “You’re right.” He shrugged outwardly, inwardly praying there was something he could still do for Cayden. “How are you going to do it, if you can’t convince the family to sell?”

  “Ever hear of ‘rezoning’ or ‘eminent domain?’ I hope so. Because you’re going to help me make the case why it’s necessary for the town of East Granby to grant it for us.”