He let his hands drop away, his fingers skimming along the firm muscles of her upper arms, the warm flesh of her wrists and palms.
“Gavin needs a distraction, something to keep his mind off Lauren and the baby,” he said, his voice just as husky as hers had been.
“Right. Sounds good.” She nearly sprinted for the door. “I’ll bring him when I come to the shop in the morning. See you then. Come on, Tiny!” she shouted, racing down the stairs, the puppy chasing after her.
He wanted to tell her to be careful, but she was moving too fast, the metal clanging so loudly that he didn’t think she’d hear.
He waited until she drove away, then closed the door and locked it. He’d finished the bid, sent it off to be read and discussed by the Portland City Council. There was more paperwork to do, but he’d had about enough of that, so he changed into running gear. The best way to refocus his thoughts was a high-level workout, and he did need to refocus.
He didn’t know what it was about Adeline, but every time he was with her he forgot all the reasons why he’d vowed to remain single. He forgot all the drama that went with relationships, all the frustration of trying to fulfill someone’s needs but never quite having what it took to do that. He forgot that he wasn’t really the kind of guy who did deep, meaningful relationships and that Adeline seemed like the kind of woman who wouldn’t accept anything less.
Yeah. When he was with her, he forgot a lot of things.
Then she left, and he remembered.
And called himself every kind of fool for ever forgetting.
He pounded down Main Street, moving through town at a steady pace. It was quiet this time of night, most of the houses dark, the streetlights illuminating the road and sidewalk. No traffic distracted from the silence, no horns honking or people laughing. No chatter or congestion, just the moonlight and the solitude, and the hard run that demanded every bit of his energy.
He didn’t realize where he was heading until he turned off Main Street and sprinted onto Highway 9. No sidewalk there, but the road was more a country lane than a main thoroughfare. Ten miles up, it spilled out onto the I-90. This section was quiet as a tomb, the pavement cracked from years of heavy use and little maintenance. The campground was a few miles ahead, a few lights gleaming through dense coniferous forest hinting at RVs that were parked for the night. Unlike the Jefferson property, Sun Valley didn’t have Spokane River frontage, but Leonard Galveston hadn’t let that keep him from creating a successful camping site there. The way Sinclair’s grandfather had told the story, Leonard had purchased the acreage for a song and a dance in the early sixties. He’d cut down a few trees, put up a sign, and the next thing the little town of Benevolence had known, they had a thriving campground just outside the town limits.
It had taken a lot more than that to make the place a success. Sinclair didn’t need to know Leonard to know that. He knew firsthand how difficult it was to build a business from the ground up. He’d scrimped and saved and worked long hours every day of the week to make his restoration business profitable. It had taken five years to earn a good living. Three more to see all his hard work come to fruition.
Maybe if his grandfather had known just how much work a business took, maybe if he’d had the ability to do more than talk about all the things he wanted, the house and property could have been the bed and breakfast that Sinclair’s grandmother had once dreamed of making it. He’d seen the plans, sketched out on little notepads that he’d found in a rolltop desk in his grandfather’s bedroom. He’d left the desk there and left the pads right where he’d found them, because there was a tiny part of him that wanted to see that dream finally come true. His grandmother deserved that. She’d worked herself to death. Literally. Holding down three jobs so that she could pay the taxes on the property, pay off debt that her husband had accrued. That was another thing that Sinclair had learned while cleaning out the house. He’d found three journals shoved between the mattress and box spring of his grandmother’s bed.
The last entry was dated a week before Maude had died of a massive stroke. Nearly three years to the day before Sinclair’s parents died in a one-car accident caused by his father’s drunk driving. Neither of Sinclair’s parents had been wearing seat belts. Both had died instantly. Like Elijah, they’d both died with dozens of unfulfilled dreams—college educations, better jobs. Things they could have achieved if they’d put as much effort into that as they had into drinking.
He frowned.
He doubted his grandfather had known about Maude’s journals.
If he had, he probably wouldn’t have cared about all the dreams and disappointments scribbled on the yellowed pages. As far as Sinclair had been able to tell, his grandfather hadn’t cared about much more than finding the next treasure that he could sell to the highest bidder.
Only all his treasures had been junk that no one wanted. Not even the junk collector in the next town over.
He shoved the memories aside, his legs burning from exertion, the muscle in his bad thigh cramping. His pace was a little too fast for the distance he needed to travel. Five miles to Sun Valley. Five miles back. An easy run, but his bum leg had been giving him problems, and if he tweaked it, he’d have to go back to physical therapy. Not something he had time for.
Not that he had time for this.
Going to check on a kid that he didn’t know and hadn’t ever met wasn’t something he should be spending any amount of time doing, but he was doing it anyway. Partially for Adeline. If he found Chase in the ’Vette, he could call and let her know that the kid was safe.
His motivation wasn’t completely altruistic, though. He wasn’t buying the story that Chase had given Adeline. Someone traveling from Ellensburg to Houston had no reason to be within walking distance of Benevolence. The quickest route would have taken Chase south. Not that Sinclair expected an eighteen-year-old to be good at navigation, but most people had a GPS on their phone and most knew how to use it.
Besides, Chase had made it from Houston to Ellensburg. He obviously knew what route to take.
So, why’d his ’Vette break down on a country highway that led to one of the smallest towns in Washington State?
That was a question Sinclair wanted an answer to.
As if it were his business. As if somehow he could make decisions for Adeline or change her mind about who she hired.
Sun Valley was just ahead, a huge well-lit sign welcoming travelers. The parking lot was as empty as it had been earlier, the only car parked there the old Corvette. A sweet ride, that car. One that had been taken good care of. The paint gleamed in the streetlight, the tire rims nearly white. Not a dent or ding on the body of the car. Sinclair had noticed that earlier. He’d also noticed the plate number. He had a friend with the state police. He might be willing to run the number. Just to make sure the car wasn’t stolen and that the kid wasn’t on the run.
He approached the vehicle cautiously. Anyone sleeping in a car would be hyperalert for danger, and the last thing Sinclair wanted was a bullet through the heart. He’d faced plenty of enemy fire, and he knew the dangers of war. He also knew the dangers of his home turf. The streets were safe enough. As long as a guy was smart.
He glanced in the passenger window. Still empty. No sign that anyone had been there since Sinclair and Adeline left. A blanket still lay on the passenger seat, a small backpack on top of it. From Sinclair’s angle, it looked pink. An odd color choice for a guy when
Sinclair was a kid, but teens nowadays weren’t as stuck on the gender-specific colors and sports and clothes. Could be Chase liked pink, or it could be the pack was another color.
Curious, Sinclair pulled out the mini Maglight he always carried, focused it on the interior of the ’Vette. Yep. Pink. The blanket was white and worn. There was nothing in the driver’s seat. The car was a coupe rather than a convertible, the back window full of what looked like stuffed animals.
Weird collection for an eighteen-year-old who owned a ’Vette.
; The pink backpack he could have chalked up to personal preference, but he didn’t know many eighteen-year-old guys who carted stuffed animals around in their Corvettes.
He walked to the back of the car, snapped a picture of the plate number, and forwarded it to his friend. If the vehicle had been stolen, Damien would know it, and he’d take care of the problem.
He shoved the phone and Maglight back into his jacket pocket, stretched a kink out of his back and kneaded the muscles in his thigh. They’d loosened up a little, but it was going to be a long run back to town.
Might as well start now.
He was halfway across the parking lot, just working up to stride, when lights flashed at the entrance of the lot, and a car pulled in.
Not just any car. A Benevolence deputy’s car. No lights flashing or sirens blaring, but Sinclair had no doubt it was there for him.
He stopped, waited as the cruiser rolled up.
It parked a few feet away, the deputy taking his sweet time getting out. By the time he did, Sinclair’s feet were frozen, his hands so cold he wanted to shove them in his pockets. He figured the deputy wouldn’t appreciate that, so he waited impatiently while the guy rounded the cruiser, his uniform hat shading his face and hiding his features.
A flashlight beam landed straight in Sinclair’s eyes.
“I got a call about someone breaking into cars. You that guy?” the officer asked, his voice vaguely familiar.
If Sinclair hadn’t been blinded by the light, he might have recognized the face. As it was, he was still freezing cold and slightly pissed, because he was pretty sure Ryder had seen his light and called the sheriff. “I was just out for a run, Deputy.”
“Running from where?”
“Town.”
“You don’t look like anyone I . . .” The deputy’s voice trailed off, and the light dropped. “Sinclair Jefferson?” he asked, a hint of surprised pleasure in his voice.
“That’s right.”
“I heard you were back in town, man! It’s been a long time.” He strode forward. Tall, lean, short-cropped blond hair, and a scar that bisected his cheek from eye to jaw.
“Jax?” Sinclair knew he sounded as surprised as he felt. Jax Gordon had moved in with his uncle and aunt during the middle of seventh grade. Sinclair had heard about him before he’d seen him, rumors of his entire family being murdered whispered through the seventh grade class for weeks before Jax had arrived. When he’d finally shown up, he’d plopped himself down at the desk next to Sinclair’s, the slash on his face still raw, the marks from the stitches visible.
He’d looked about as angry as a twelve-year-old could be, and he’d had enough attitude to keep everyone away. Even the teachers had avoided him. He’d been smart, though, studying rather than causing trouble, working in the library during recess and after school. That’s where they’d first connected. Sinclair had been hiding from the gossips who were talking about how his father had killed his mother. He’d known it was true, but he’d figured no one but his family had any right to discuss the accident. He’d also thought his mother had had some responsibility for her death. She’d been drinking too, had allowed her husband to drive, and hadn’t worn a seat belt.
It didn’t matter, though, that his parents’ stupidity had killed them. He’d felt obligated to defend what little honor the Jefferson family had. He’d already been in two fights over it, and if he got in a third, he was facing suspension. Three days home from school was a nightmare when the home you lived in had ceilings covered in mildew and stacks of moldy newspapers filling almost every surface. He’d walked into the library, found a book on architecture, and sat at an empty table. He hadn’t realized that Jax was at a desk a few feet away until he’d heard pages rustling.
They hadn’t spoken that day or the day after.
It had taken nearly a month before Sinclair was curious enough about the silent kid with the ugly scar to ask what he was reading. It had been a book about law enforcement, a huge tome that Jax had checked out of the town library and carried in his backpack every day. His father, he’d explained one day months after they’d first spoken, had been a police officer.
That was the beginning of a friendship that had lasted until they’d both left town.
“Surprised?” Jax asked, shaking Sinclair’s hand. He still had the strongest grip of any guy Sinclair knew, still had the most direct gaze of anyone he’d ever met. When he looked at a person, it was as if he saw everything, and when he finally offered someone friendship, he was loyal to a fault.
“You left town about six minutes before I did, so yeah. I guess I am surprised to see you here.”
“Left. Returned.” Jax shrugged. He’d never been much for sharing personal information. As far as Sinclair knew, he’d never confided the truth about his injury to anyone. Even Sinclair didn’t know all the details. It had been an act of revenge. Drug related. Jax’s father had been killed defending his family. That was all Jax had ever said, and Sinclair had never been the kind of person to dig for things someone didn’t want revealed. He had his own secrets and shadows, and he didn’t want anyone poking at them.
“You accomplished your goal?” he asked, because that was the only way Jax would have returned. From the time they’d met until Jax had gotten in his old Ford truck and headed to California, the one thing he’d wanted, the one thing he’d planned and dreamed and desired, was to make the person who’d killed his family pay for it. Everything—every book, every test, every long run, or weight-lifting session—was done with that in mind.
“He’s in jail,” Jax said simply. “And Aunt Vera needed help around the house after Jim’s stroke, so I decided to move back.”
“I didn’t realize Jim had a stroke.”
“Because you haven’t been over to visit them since you returned.” There was no accusation in the words, but then, Jax was never accusatory. He made statements and he let people come to their own conclusions.
Sinclair’s conclusion was that he should have visited the Gordons. They’d been good to him. He’d just been too bitter when he was a kid, too determined to get out of town and start a new life to realize it.
“How’s he doing?”
“Not bad considering he almost died.” Jax shoved his hands in his coat pockets, rocking back and forth on his toes the way he had when they were kids and he was getting ready to say something difficult. “I came back while he was in the hospital. Seemed to me that this was the right place to stay. Like you said, I’d accomplished my goal. Also got divorced along the way, so I didn’t have much holding me to San Diego.”
“You were married?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I may be damaged goods, but there are plenty of women who think I’m a pretty good catch.”
“You know I wasn’t thinking about the scar,” Sinclair said. He’d stopped thinking about it after the first few months of their friendship. After a couple more months, he’d stopped seeing it. Jax had just been Jax—driven, serious, a little too somber for most kids their age.
Sinclair had liked that about him.
Or maybe he’d just liked that they both had their hang-ups and their baggage.
“Neither was I.” Jax laughed. “You know how I am. Nose to the grindstone, oblivious to anything but the goal. Piper didn’t seem to mind until she did. By the time I realized it, it was too late.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, because there wasn’t a whole lot else he could say.
“I was too until I learned she’d been seeing my partner for a couple of months before she walked out.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah. Sucked, but at least I didn’t end the relationship thinking there was something that could be salvaged in it.” He shrugged again. “When Vera called to say Jim was in the hospital, I got on a plane and flew to Spokane. Spent three months there while Jim was in the hospital. That was six months ago.”
“And now you’re in Benevolence and planning to stay?”
“Guilty as charged.” He
grinned. “But then, I never hated this town the way you did.”
“I didn’t hate it.” Not much, anyway.
Jax laughed, the sound ringing through the quiet night. “I’m calling bullshit on that. From the day we met until the day I left town, leaving was all you ever talked about.”
“Truer words were never spoken, brother, but it was my grandfather’s house I was most interested in escaping.”
“Kind of funny that we’ve both ended up where we didn’t want to be,” Jax said. “Or maybe not funny. Maybe just . . . interesting.”
“I didn’t end up back here. I came to help my brother, and I’m leaving when I’m done.” Sinclair said, because he had no intention of sticking around, and he didn’t want to think about what it meant that he and Jax were both in Benevolence after they’d fought so hard to leave it.
“Good plan,” Jax said. “How about you come for dinner tomorrow night? We can talk about it more then. Jim and Vera would love to see you. Vera’s been talking about you nonstop since you got to town.”
“I’ll be working. I need to get my brother’s crap in order. Lauren is due to have that baby any day—”
“I’ll call bullshit on that too,” Jax said, cutting him off. “You have time, if you want to. And you owe me, since I took the rap for setting fire to that old outhouse on your granddad’s property.”
“I needed some way to force my grandfather to get our plumbing fixed.”
“And I was willing to take the fall so your grandfather wouldn’t ship you to military school. I was grounded for a month for that one, remember?”
How could he forget?
It had been a record cold winter, and Gavin had been sick for most of it. Sinclair had argued with his grandfather about the merits of having a plumber come in to fix their only functioning bathroom. His grandfather had insisted the outhouse was just fine.
It wasn’t fine when a kid the age Gavin had been had to walk a half mile in five-degree weather, but that hadn’t changed anything. Their grandfather didn’t want to spend money on indoor plumbing, and Sinclair hadn’t been able to fix the problem.
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