Damn Nic and Mom for practically forcing the two of them to be alone. A while back, this would have been the same sneaky maneuver Cassy might have done on Nic. Now she understood her sister’s pissy attitude any time Cassy did something so stupid. From the kitchen, she could hear her sister and mother brightly chatting about the possibility of Nic being pregnant with a girl this time. Con wasn’t back from the store, and Liam was jabbering and playing with his toys on a blanket. Cassy focused on her nephew, letting his baby talk calm her.
Her parents were thrilled to know a new baby was on the way. Watching Pop actually hug Nic was surreal for Cassy. For as long as she could remember, she hadn’t seen her father show any kind of affection toward his oldest daughter. None. The hesitant, almost fumbling way he did it today was enough proof for Cassy that old dogs couldn’t learn new tricks. Pop was putting on a show.
“Cassandra, look at me.”
The command raked across her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard. Lips pursed and eyes narrowed, she flicked her gaze from Liam to the man across from her. Pop had attempted a more relaxed position, his elbows braced on his knees, leaning forward in the chair, but his long career as a regimented marine officer did little to soften his posture. He still retained the groomed goatee and neatly trimmed hair, both fully gray now. His piercing hazel eyes had once held adoration for his youngest daughter; now, all she saw was uncertainty, a trait that was not becoming of a man like William Rivers.
Cassy pried her grip from the sofa arm and placed her clasped hands in her lap. “I’m not one of your men to order around.”
He sighed and looked at the floor for a moment before locking gazes with her once more. “Cassy, I’m trying very hard to understand why.”
“Why what?”
“What did I do wrong? Help me understand.” He emphasized the last three words.
Swallowing, she looked away. With a shake of her head, she shoved to her feet. “I’m not doing this here.” She turned to exit the living room.
His grasp on her elbow prevented her from leaving. “There is no other place to go or a better time.”
“Actually”—she removed his hand from her elbow—“there is, and when the time comes, I’ll let you know.” Once more, she turned her back to him and stepped forward.
“When you were a little girl, you used to run to me with open arms, squealing, ‘Pop-Pop.’”
His statement made her freeze. Her stomach quivered, the ridiculous reaction she got every time he tried to open this door. Heart heavy in her chest, she stiffened. Don’t let him see it.
“Before everything fell apart, you would talk with me … would rely on me for advice. How do I get that back?”
Cassy squeezed her eyes shut, which forced the tears to spill free. “I don’t think you can.” She hurried out of the room before he could say another word or stop her.
“Nic, I can’t do this a minute more.” Cassy grabbed her coat from the back of a kitchen chair and rammed her arms into the sleeves. “I’m sorry, I’m going home.”
“Cassy,” Mom pleaded.
“Mom, don’t.” She hated the way her voice cracked. She shook her head and barreled out of the house, never giving Pop a backward glance.
She had the door to her truck open when another hand appeared and shoved it shut. Anger flared through Cassy, red and hot, and she spun on the one who would thwart her attempt to flee. Nic, bundled in her coat, arms crossed, and stubborn written all over her face, blocked the door—and Cassy’s escape.
“Nic, get out of my way.”
“If you won’t talk to him, at least talk to Emma.”
Cassy huffed. “No. I know exactly how it’ll end up—with me and Pop ‘attempting’ to work this out. Face it, there is no going back.”
“You don’t know that. Cass. If he and I can come to some semblance of a normal father-daughter relationship, you can, too. You don’t have years of abandonment to overcome.”
“Just years of lying. At least you had the truth in front you; what he did to you was all laid out before you. How can I trust that he ever truly loved me when he couldn’t even love his oldest child? He blamed you for the death of your mother and then pinned the deaths of those men on you to save his own career. There are many things I can forgive, but not that.” Cassy swiped the tears from her cold cheeks. “I’m not ready for this.”
Nic reached for her, and Cassy avoided the contact.
“It’s been two years since you learned the truth, Cassy. How long will you continue to keep distance between you and The General?”
“That’s rich, coming from you. It took, what, like twenty-some odd years for you and he to face the music? And you had to almost die for him to admit he was wrong.”
“I won’t argue with you.” Nic shook her head. “We’re more alike than anyone wants to admit. Bullheaded Riverses. Go home. If this is what you want, I’m not standing in your way anymore.” With that, she backed away from the truck.
Cassy jumped at the chance to leave unscathed. She climbed into the cab and started the engine, and while she gave it a few minutes to warm up, she stared at her sister through the window. Nic’s breath billowed in front of her, as if she’d sighed. Bowing her head, she turned and returned to her warm home. Cassy tracked Nic’s progress, her gaze landing on the older version of herself standing on the stoop. Mom, not wearing a coat, hugged herself and remained motionless, her attention clearly fixed on the truck.
A tangled mess of sorrow, irritation, and regret choked Cassy. Angered by her weakness, she rammed the gearshift into reverse and backed out of the drive. The tires spun in the snow until they grabbed traction. Biting her lip to prevent the tears from spilling, she forced herself to maintain control of the vehicle as it hurtled down the long drive. She met Con—returning from the store—as he crossed the bridge and then swept past him.
Home wasn’t that far from Nic and Con’s place, so Cassy was there in moments. As she pulled into her drive, she discovered a car blocking her parking spot. A familiar, government-issued car.
Parking her truck behind the car, trapping the vehicle in her drive, she killed the engine. The driver emerged from within the car and turned to face the still blazing headlights. Seeing Boyce standing there, gloved hand gripping the top of the door frame, seemingly staring past the glare of the lights, she realized one cold, hard truth.
As long as she tried to be Supergirl, Boyce would always be her Kryptonite.
Chapter Fifteen
Boyce closed the car door when Cassy emerged from her truck. Maura O’Hanlon’s parting words as he left The Killdeer Pub rang in his head: “Tread carefully when it comes to stepping in the middle of a family squabble.” The Irishwoman spoke from experience.
“You’re like an annoying door-to-door salesman who can’t take a hint and get lost.”
Love you, too. Boyce wanted to say it, but he nixed the retort. “Word is that one of my ancestors took a liking to a carpetbagger. Must be in my blood.”
“Boyce, I’m not in the mood to spar with you tonight. Just leave.”
The tremor in her voice pierced him. Whatever had occurred between her father and her was having an emotional impact of the likes Boyce hadn’t seen in Cassy before. He moved toward her. “Sorry, sweet pea, but it appears that you’ve blocked me in.”
“I’ll move ... ” She reached for the door handle.
Boyce’s hand shot out of its own accord, and he grasped her coat sleeve, turning her back to face him. “I’m not letting you drive me away. Not tonight.”
“Damn stubborn fool. I don’t want you here. I’m tired of being hurt, by you, by my father, by everyone.”
He cupped her face—sensing, more than feeling, her resistance faltering—and locked gazes with her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Why are you even here?”
“I came to ask you in person, because it wasn’t a request I wanted to make over the phone, if you’d allow me to escort you to the Murdoch Christmas party
tomorrow evening.”
Her features scrunched in confusion. “How do you know I’m going?”
“Newspaper was very detailed on past attendees. I made the assumption that, you making an appearance in the past, you were asked to join in again this year.”
“What’s your angle in all this?”
“Purely investigative.”
She shook free of his hold, grasping his wrists and bringing his hands down. “You want me to take you to a party being held by the former sheriff of McIntire County so you can snoop?”
“Exactly.”
“Why?”
“I can’t explain.”
She scowled. “Oh, can the ‘classified’ BS.”
“I’m serious, I can’t explain.” Boyce flipped their hold and managed to clasp her hands in his. “It’s more of a nagging thought than an actual, solid lead. I want to scratch this itch and see where it leads.”
“And in the meantime, you just happen to be scratching another itch by hanging on my skirt tails in the hopes of seeing what I’m wearing under it all?”
“Why does every conversation with you turn to me being some sort of sex-deprived pervert?”
“Maybe because that’s how our relationship went.” Cassy sighed, freeing her hands and moving past him. “I’ll think about your request and give you an answer tomorrow. I left the keys in the truck; you can move it to leave.” She stomped up the two front steps.
“Cassy?”
She hesitated before unlocking the door.
Bolstered by her response, Boyce pressed forward. “What was it your father did to you that made you draw a line in the sand?”
Slowly, her head turned, and she looked back over her shoulder. “He lied to me. He lied to me for a very long time. And I don’t like being lied to.” With that, she unlocked the door and entered her home.
Boyce remained there, standing in the freezing cold, staring at the closed door as regret for all the ways he’d wronged her ate away at his mind.
• • •
Cassy gaped at the vintage 1950s-style party dress hanging on her bedroom door. The dress was made of emerald-green velvet, with a winged-shaped bust and a detachable capelet that went over her shoulders. A pair of black pumps sat on the floor under the dress. She swallowed. She’d seen this dress hanging in one of the specialty shops on the square. An admirer of most things 1950s, she’d commented on the beauty of the dress to Maura O’Hanlon a few weeks ago as they’d strolled around the square after the city lit up the bandstand and park with Christmas lights. On a deputy’s salary, Cassy couldn’t justify purchasing the dress to wear only once.
Carefully fingering the heavy velvet, she blinked back the sheen coating her eyes. Boyce hadn’t come just to request a party invitation—he’d made certain she couldn’t say no. He’d spoken with Maura; it was the only explanation for this dress in her home. Cassy huffed. The doors had been locked, so he’d also either borrowed a key from someone or picked the lock to get inside.
She didn’t know whether she should be furious with him for breaking into her home, glad he’d eased the burden of her finding something to wear for the party, or suspicious of his motives. She backed away from the outfit and headed into the kitchen.
Too many events were occurring at the same time, making her mind a jumble of thoughts and frustration at her inability to sort everything out. She needed to talk through all of this. With someone she could trust to give her solid advice.
Pop had been her go-to when she needed to talk, and he always knew what to say to help her figure out her problems.
Was Nic right? Was she being bullheaded and keeping her distance over a small problem that could easily be worked out? The Rivers clan was a stubborn bunch; William Rivers’s streak was legendary in the Marine Corps. And it was that very problem that had led them all to this point.
But it was easier to solve her dilemma of the next twenty-four hours. She’d walked away from Boyce determined to reject his request to join her based on the sheer fact that it meant she could keep the distance between them as far as possible. But the party dress—and knowing his ploy had the desired effect—was beginning to change her mind. Sneaky bastard.
A tepid smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Fine, she’d take him. However, he could stew all night over whether she’d made up her mind yet, or if she’d rejected his present. One thing was certain, though—she couldn’t let him work his charm on her.
No matter how romantic or sweet his gesture, Boyce Hunt was still a flight risk that Cassy wasn’t about to be burned by, again.
Chapter Sixteen
Showered and dolled up in the dress, her hair swept up into a French twist and a dazzling gem-studded silver necklace around her neck, Cassy donned her thick, white dress coat. She grabbed the black clutch she’d buried in her closet after a previous party and the large, brightly wrapped Lego kit she was donating and then stepped outside. After locking the door, she turned and froze.
“A gentleman always escorts his companion to an event,” Boyce said and held out his hand. “He doesn’t allow her to drive herself.”
His long, black, wool coat gaped to reveal a black tie and starched white dress shirt under a black suit jacket. Her mouth went dry. When he wore a nice suit—even though suits were his constant wardrobe for the job—Cassy felt the need to devour him like a decadent chocolate dessert. A knowing smile appeared as he beckoned her to take his hand.
Working up enough saliva to rehydrate her mouth, she slipped her hand into his and allowed him to escort her to his sedan. Once she was seated—placing her gift in the back where she spotted another large present—he closed the door and rounded the front of the car. Cassy shivered with anticipation. She hoped she didn’t live to regret agreeing to this.
Gripping the clutch in her hands, she stared out the window as Boyce backed out of the drive and turned toward the Murdochs’ home. The silence between them was interrupted by a soft, smoky voice singing “The Christmas Song.” Boyce was playing his favorite female jazz artist, one Cassy had taken a liking to as well. The green and red of the dashboard lights cast a warm glow on his features. She saw the slight lift to the corner of his mouth.
Oh, he knew how to play on the whole southern charm. Cassy’s gaze returned to the dark, snowy landscape.
“Learn anything new in your murder case today?” Boyce asked.
“No.”
“Did you check on the lead Liza and I gave you?”
“Yep, and nothing.”
The jazz singer’s sultry version of “White Christmas” drifted between them.
“How is Deputy Nash doing?”
Cassy sighed, enjoying how her breath fogged the window. “He’s on restricted duty.”
“Have you talked to anyone about what happened?”
This time she glared at him. “Let’s dispense with all the formalities here. You’re not a psychiatrist, and I’m not going to discuss this any further. You might think you know me well enough, but you don’t, so stop trying. We’re going to this party so you can have your fun, and I’m fulfilling my obligations for the department. That’s the end of it. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
Cassy spent the rest of the drive letting the music mellow her and put her in a festive mood. By the time Boyce had parked along the long, paved drive among the trucks, SUVs, and cars of the earlier arrivals, she was ready to put on a good show. Before she could step out of the car, Boyce’s hand landed on her thigh. She stiffened at his intimate touch; her stomach twisted into knots.
“I’m not being a busybody; I’m truly concerned for you.”
“Yeah, well ... ” She slipped out from under his touch and opened the door. Stepping carefully to ensure she didn’t slip and fall on the packed snow, she moved to the backseat and withdrew her gift. She trod with measured steps around the front of the car, meeting up with Boyce.
He offered his arm, and after a moment of hesitation, she took it and allowed him to guide her up th
e drive to the porch. A tidy line of large terracotta pots filled with pinecones, pine boughs, and shiny, red ornament balls marked the path along the sidewalk, up the steps, and wrapped around the edge of the porch. White lights twisted around garland provided a welcoming touch, and a large wreath made of mistletoe berries adorned the door. Laughter and Christmas music floated through the wood paneling.
Boyce pressed the doorbell, and they stepped back to wait. The door swung open, and warm air laced with the scents of cinnamon, cloves, and roasted turkey buffeted Cassy. She grinned at the bearded, jolly man wearing a dark brown suit and a Santa hat.
“Cassy! Welcome.” Eli Murdoch ushered her and Boyce inside. “Let me take your coats.”
She felt Boyce assist her in removing her coat. He handed both to Eli, who hung them in a large hall closet festooned with garland, red ribbon, and white lights. The decorations continued along the staircase railing and over the doorway leading into the large living-room area where the other partygoers were chatting and snacking on the finger foods and sweets from the long buffet. One of many trees scattered throughout the house stood tall and proud next to the large windows looking out at the Murdochs’ cattle pasture, where Eli kept his prized Scottish Highland cattle. The furniture had been cleared out to make room for all the extra bodies that would fill up the house.
“The box for the gifts is in the dining room.” Eli pointed down the brightly lit hallway. “Ginny has mulled cider and some of her treats in there, too. Help yourself.”
The doorbell rang again, and Eli shooed them off as he greeted the new arrivals. Cassy led the way down the hall, her heels clicking against the shiny wooden floors.
“This is quite the house,” Boyce commented.
“Eli had it built while he was still sheriff. According to Con, it was a big deal, and the next year when he had competition for the sheriff’s seat, his opponent made it sound like Eli was building this fancy house on the backs of the McIntire County taxpayers. Eli made his financials public, and it shut his opponent down.” She placed her gift on top of the growing tower. “Do you want some cider?”
Born to Die Page 11
