The Return Of Luke Mcguire

David kept up a steady stream of chatter as they walked down the street. Luke tried to pay attention, but it was hard, back here in the place where so much of the history he’d thought was well behind him lay in wait to ambush him around every turn.

But when they encountered a group of five boys who looked about David’s age, maybe a little older, he gave himself a mental slap; there was something about this group that warned him to be alert. Not that there was anything particularly different about their looks—the haircuts, the pants like David’s and the reversed baseball caps were omnipresent these days—but there was something about the way they walked, the way they whispered among themselves, the way they looked him up and down so assessingly, that made him watchful. And also made him wonder again just what David had been saying about him.

Somehow he doubted it was that he’d taught his little brother to love to read.

Chapter 3

Amelia shelved four copies of the latest courtroom thriller, the last books in the box. That left her only two boxes to go, she thought as she stretched her back.

The door buzzer announced a customer, and she stepped out from behind the rack of books. Her heart leapt, then stilled, and for a moment she didn’t know why. When she realized it was because the man who had come in was dressed all in black, she blushed in embarrassment. When she saw that it was eighty-year-old, silver-haired Mr. Hodges, her color deepened. Thankful she could pass it off as exertion, she went to great him, wondering how on earth one sighting and one brief encounter with a man could have such an effect. This just wasn’t like her; she’d gotten over her fascination with bad boys long ago. She had taken her mother’s warnings to heart and had thought herself the better for it.

She got the autobiography Mr. Hodges had ordered from her office, where she’d set it aside when it had come in.

“Looks like a good one,” she said as she rang it up. “But I still think you should write your own, Mr. H. Nobody could top your adventures.”

She meant it, too. The man had been a bona fide World War II hero, medals and all, and after the war had become a stunt pilot of some renown. She’d seen photographs of him in his younger days, and he’d been quite the looker, in his flying jumpsuit, boots and a daredevil grin that still appeared on occasion.

“Ah, nobody’s interested in the ramblings of an old man like me.”

“That’s not true!” she protested. “I would be. Lots of folks would. I bet even Hollywood would be interested.”

Mr. Hodges chuckled. “You’re a sweetheart, Amelia. And named after one of my childhood heroes. If I were twenty years younger…”

She laughed, as the ongoing joke between them required. But there was, as always, that tug of…not sadness, but a sort of wistfulness that she had been named after the adventurous, if reckless, Amelia Earhart, yet had none of her nerve or courage.

It wasn’t until after he’d gone that Amelia wondered if it had been something more than the black clothing that had put her in mind of Luke McGuire. If perhaps that daredevil grin, and the reckless glint in the eye that went with it, hadn’t been part of it, since Luke had his own lethal version of both.

And his eyes, while blue, weren’t at all like his mother’s. Where hers were a pale, icy color, Luke’s were deep and rich and vivid, the color of water reflecting the sky on a crystal clear day. And the scar beside his left eye only added to his daring appeal. As did the earring he wore. He was—

She cut off her own thoughts, stifling a tiny shiver, irritated with herself for feeling it. David’s brother was simply a man who rode a motorcycle. He’d been dressed perfectly normally when they’d come in yesterday.

And he’d still set her pulse off on a mad race, she admitted ruefully. As if the normal clothes were a disguise, one that she could see through, down to the leather-clad biker he really was.

She wondered if Jackie Hiller had known something David didn’t when she’d told her son his brother was probably in jail.

He shouldn’t have come.

He’d suspected he would regret it before he’d even left River Park, but he hadn’t thought it would happen quite this soon.

Now that he was here, David had apparently broadcast it to the entire town. He couldn’t get angry with his brother, he hadn’t told him not to say anything, simply because he hadn’t thought of it. He was too long out of that kind of thinking.

But he was learning again fast. Every time he ventured out, he was the focus of far too many eyes. He’d dodged his mother so far, didn’t know if she even knew he was here yet—but he was sure someone would tell her soon enough, if they hadn’t already.

Heck, Mrs. Clancy had probably been on the phone immediately after this morning, he thought as he sipped at his coffee.

Just down the block from the single motel in town, where he’d taken a room, was a doughnut shop. He’d never been in there as a kid—candy had been his sugar hit of choice—so he’d hoped it might be a reputation-free zone. And it had been; the owner didn’t seem to recognize him when he ordered a simple black coffee.

And then Mrs. Clancy had arrived. Of all people.

It had taken her a moment, but he knew the instant she put it together by the way her brows lowered sharply and she pulled down her glasses to peer at him over the frames.

“You!”

He thought about trying to deny it, but it seemed pointless with David telling the world he was here.

“Good morning, Mrs. Clancy. Nice day.”

“Don’t you nice day me, you…you hooligan!”

That’s me, Luke-the-hooligan-McGuire, he thought wryly.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

He kept himself from making a comment about it being a free country, knowing it would only aggravate her. Funny, once that would have been his highest goal, to aggravate this particular woman.

“Getting coffee,” he said instead.

It seemed to aggravate her just as much. “Don’t be flippant, you know perfectly well what I meant.”

“I came to see David.”

The brows lowered even farther, and the glasses went back on her nose. “Does his mother know you’re here?”

Interesting phrasing, Luke thought. And he said with intentional emphasis, “I have no idea if my mother has any idea I’m here.”

“She isn’t going to like this.”

“That’s her problem. If she stays out of my way, I’ll stay out of hers.”

The woman’s mouth tightened, although he’d thought it was already about as sealed as her mind. “So where are you causing your trouble now? Or have you been in jail where you belong?”

Startled, he nearly splashed hot coffee on his hand. Seconds later he told himself he shouldn’t be surprised at all; what else would they think, this town that had been so damn glad to see him leave?

“I think it would take prison to satisfy you,” he said, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. “You buying doughnuts, or just entertaining the staff?”

Only then did she seem to notice the shop owner and his assistant watching them with great interest. Flustered, she gave her order and told them rather sharply to step on it, she didn’t approve of who they allowed in here. Luke turned to make his escape but stopped at the door and looked back at her. He wasn’t quite sure why he said it, but it was out before he could stop it.

“You know, you’re one of the few people in this town who has real reason to hate me, and I’m sorry for that.”

For an instant she looked taken aback, but the frown reappeared quickly. “Just leave,” she said. And with a shrug, he did; he hadn’t expected anything else.

He started down Main Street, and by the time he’d finished his coffee, it was clear that anybody who recognized him was of the same mind as Mrs. Clancy; they remembered only the worst about the kid he’d been and assumed that he’d either ended up in jail, or should have.

At first he laughed it off, but when he finally tossed his empty cup in one of the plentiful trash containers that were new since he’d lived here, he was feeling a bit beleaguered.

So let them think what they want, he told himself. They will anyway. What do you care? It’s not like you give a damn about any of them.

And the next person he came across, he would just let them think the worst. Maybe he would even help them along, fulfill their grim expectations. It was probably the nicest thing he could do for them, let them be so utterly smug about how right they’d always been about that McGuire kid, how they’d always known he would come to no good.

He heard distant chimes and reflexively checked his watch. The clock on the tower at the community center and library had been chiming the hours away for as long as he could remember. It was just after nine, and he wasn’t supposed to meet David until ten, so he continued his stroll down the street he had admittedly terrorized on occasion. He’d raced his old, beat-up Chevy up and down, radio blasting, just to see the heads turn. He’d set off cherry bombs to watch people scatter and done his share of spray-painting graffiti here and there. It all seemed pretty tame now, but fifteen years ago it had been rowdy stuff.

By Santiago Beach standards, it probably still was, he thought. What would blend into the bigger picture in a big city stood out glaringly here in the sleepy seaside village the Chamber of Commerce kept touting.

Of course, he’d taken the blame for a lot of things he hadn’t done, too, but nobody believed that. Even his mother. Especially his mother. He’d finally given up on proclaiming his innocence to her when he realized it didn’t matter what he said, that he was guilty before he even knew what he was accused of.

He shook his head sharply, trying to rid himself of the unwanted memories. He hadn’t come here for this, to wallow in old misery. He’d given that up long ago. He was here to help David, if he could. And that was what he should be concentrating on.

He just wasn’t sure how to go about it. There was no point in trying to talk to his mother; she’d never listened to him in her life. But he had to know just how bad things were for his brother.

He saw the bookstore up ahead and wondered if he’d subconsciously been heading there all along. It did make sense, he thought; the tidy Ms. Blair seemed to be the adult whom David was closest to.

Except that the store wasn’t open yet. The lights were on, but he couldn’t see anyone inside, and the sign said ten o’clock. Right when he was supposed to meet David.

He turned to look out at the street where it curved to head down to the beach and the pier, thinking. He should have asked her yesterday, except that David had never been far away. Maybe he should have set up a time to talk. Assuming she would be willing, he amended; just because she hadn’t lived here when he had didn’t mean she was immune to the horror stories that apparently were still being told about him. She might not want to—

“Luke?”

He spun around on his heel, startled. Amelia stood in the doorway, looking at him questioningly. And with only the barest trace of the apprehension he’d seen yesterday.

“You’re here,” he said, rather lamely.

“I come in about an hour before opening to get set up,” she explained. “Did you…want something?”

“Yes,” he said, oddly disconcerted. “You.”

She drew back slightly, her eyes widening. They weren’t just medium brown, he saw now in the morning light, they were a sort of golden brown, rimmed strikingly with darker brown. And he realized suddenly what had rattled him; she was wearing black and white again, as if it were some kind of uniform, but this time the pants were snug black leggings, and the white was in the form of a lightweight cotton sweater that clung gently to curves he hadn’t noticed in the tailored blouse of yesterday.

“Me?”

Her voice had a hint of a gulp in it, and he registered what he’d said. “I mean, I wanted to talk to you,” he said hastily.

“Oh,” she said, still looking and sounding a bit wary.

“About David.”

“Oh.” There was understanding in her tone this time, and he could almost see her relax slightly. “Come in, then.”

He did, noticing that she didn’t change the sign to Open but also that she didn’t lock the door behind him. He wasn’t sure if she just hadn’t thought about it, or it had been intentional. The latter, no doubt, he thought wryly. It probably meant she wanted to be able to get out, or wanted somebody else to be able to get in. In case the terror of Santiago Beach went postal on her or something, he supposed.

“I have coffee in my office,” she said as she led the way.

“Thanks,” he said, ready for the jolt of a second cup; it had been a rough morning so far. “Black,” he added as he stepped in after her.

She fussed a bit with the coffeemaker on a table in the small, windowless office, which gave him a chance to look around. The place was as tidy as he would have expected, not an easy task in a small space that had to serve various functions, he guessed. The desk was small, and after placing the phone, some in and out trays, and a computer on it, there was barely room for a writing space. There were two file cabinets behind the desk, leaving the wheeled chair a bit cramped for turning room.

But the decor was a little surprising, bright with color from various prints and posters on the walls. He would have expected book-related things, and there were a couple, but there were many more adventurous themes—skiing, mountain climbing, hang gliding—all presented in a very adrenaline-inducing way.

When she turned and handed him a mug of steaming coffee, he indicated the posters with a nod. “What you do in your spare time?”

She looked startled. “Me? Oh, no. Never.”

“Then why the wallpaper?”

“To remind me that other people do those things. I admire courage.” She said it, he realized, as if it were something to be found only in those others.

“Some would say foolhardiness,” he said; he’d heard it often enough aimed at himself.

“Yes. And I suppose sometimes it’s true. But the exhilaration must be worth it.”

“Until something goes wrong,” he said.

“Yes,” she answered simply, and glanced at the wall behind him. He turned and saw, in a direct line of sight from her desk chair, a large photograph of Amelia Earhart.

“So,” he said, turning back to her, “you’re a namesake?”

“Yes. She was a heroine of my mother’s. The name hardly fits, but it gave her pleasure to honor a woman she admired. Now, about David,” she ended briskly, clearly changing the subject. “Why don’t you sit down?”

He took the chair she indicated, an antique-looking wood affair of the kind it made him nervous to sit on. But it was surprisingly comfortable, and had a spot to set down his coffee mug on the wide, wooden arms.

“I know David wrote to you,” she said, forgoing any niceties.

He appreciated the leap, since he hadn’t known quite what to ask. “I didn’t even know he knew where I was.”

“He told me you sent him birthday cards.”

Luke nodded. “But I never put an address on them. I knew my mother would throw them away.”

She didn’t react, didn’t look shocked or surprised. He wondered if it was because she already knew his mother’s tricks, or maybe she didn’t find them presumptuous. “He must have guessed from the postmarks,” was all she said.

“That’s how he addressed it, just to me in River Park. If the place was any bigger, I might not have gotten it.”

“Where’s River Park?”

“In the Sierra foothills. Near the gold country.” He studied her for a moment. “How bad is it?”

She didn’t pretend not to understand; he appreciated that, as well. “He’s horribly unhappy over his father’s death. It’s so devastating to lose a parent at that age. And for a father and son who were so close, it must be even worse.”

“I wouldn’t know, I never met mine,” he said casually. “I don’t even know what he looked like. My mother isn’t one for family photos.”

It didn’t really bother him anymore. There had been a time when it had almost made him crazy, but that was long ago. He—

“He looks like you.”

He stared at her. He slowly set his coffee mug down. He shifted in the chair. “What?” he finally said, certain he couldn’t have heard her right.

“Or you look like him, I guess is more accurate.”

“And how the hell,” he said slowly, “would you know that?”

“Your mother told me.”

He’d made a big mistake, a huge mistake. There was no way he would get a reasonable answer about David from someone close enough to his mother that she would even speak of the loathsome Patrick McGuire. He set down his mug and stood up.

Her brows furrowed. Unlike Mrs. Clancy’s, they were delicately formed and arched. “What’s wrong?”

“When you report back to my mother, give her my love,” he said sarcastically.

“Report?” She looked genuinely puzzled. “I barely speak to her. Why would—” She broke off, as if suddenly understanding what he’d meant. She stood up, meeting his gaze steadily. “Luke, I’m not a close friend of your mother’s. I’ve only even spoken to her a couple of times. After I saw you that night, when I didn’t know it was you, I…asked her what you looked like, that’s the only reason she mentioned your father.”

It was you….

He remembered her saying it, and now this explained it. She’d somehow guessed his identity with that glimpse. He wasn’t sure how that made him feel.

“I only spoke to her this time,” she went on, “because I was worried about David.” Her mouth twisted. “She didn’t seem to care.”

“Now that’s the mother I know and love,” he quipped.

She cocked her head sideways as she looked up at him consideringly. “You don’t sound at all bitter.”

“I’m not. Not anymore. I don’t have time.”

“David said you were busy.”

He blinked. “He did?”

“I thought it was just…little brother talk about a big brother he idolizes.”

“Idolizes? He doesn’t even know me anymore.”

“But he’s built you up into an idol of mythic proportions in his mind. You’re his hero, Luke. Especially, I’m afraid, for all the trouble you got into here.”

Luke sank back into the chair. “Damn,” he muttered. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Nobody knew better than he how hard it was to get off that path once you’d started.

“He’s taken up with some new friends since his father died. They’re…”

“Troublemakers,” he supplied when she stopped. “Like me?”

“I don’t know exactly what kind of troublemaker you are,” she said, “but I do know that these boys are getting worse. They haven’t physically hurt anybody yet, but it’s only a matter of time. And David’s starting to think like them.”

He didn’t bother to disabuse her of the notion that he was still a troublemaker. He’d vowed to let the people in this town think what they would about him. It was David who mattered now.

“He gets too far down that road, it’ll be hard to stop him.”

“It’s a self-destructive path,” she said. “Who knows where he’d end up.”

Luke propped his elbows on the wooden chair arms, steepled his fingers and looked at her over the top of them. “In jail? Or worse? I believe that’s the assumption. And I should know.”

For a moment he thought she was going to ask him what he should know about, jail or assumptions. But she didn’t, and he figured she’d decided for herself. And although her quiet, reserved expression never wavered, he had little doubt as to what she’d decided, just like everybody else in Santiago Beach.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Do?” How about rattle that restraint of yours? he thought, and blinked in surprise at himself.

“About David.”

He steered his attention back in to the topic at hand. “I don’t know. Talk to him, I guess.”

She looked about to speak, then hesitated. He waited silently, wondering if she would have to be coaxed, or if just setting the lure of silence would be enough.

It was. Finally.

“I…it’s hard to get kids his age to buy ‘Do as I say, not as I do,’” she said, watching him warily.

Think I’m going to jump you for painting me with this town’s brush? he wondered.

And yet, he had to admit it stung a little, that she assumed along with the rest of Santiago Beach that he’d continued to be up to no good since he’d left. He opened his mouth, ready to tell her that he’d changed, that he wasn’t the same reprobate kid he’d been, that he’d made something of his life, that he’d—

The next person he came across, he would just let them think the worst…fulfill their grim expectations. It was probably the nicest thing he could do for them….

His own vow came back to him, made just minutes ago. And he shut his mouth. Let her think what she obviously already did. Why should she be any different?

He leaned back in the chair. Steepled his fingers again. “I’ll take that as evidence you don’t think he should come live with me.”

“Is that really what he wants?”

He shrugged. “It’s what he said in his letter. He hasn’t mentioned it since I got here.”

She studied him for a moment, still giving nothing away. Then she said quietly, “Do you want him to?”

He expelled a long, slow breath and jammed a hand through his hair. That was an answer he didn’t have. “I don’t know. Davie…well, he’s about the only good memory I’ve got from here. I don’t want him to go through the hell I did, but…my life isn’t the best for a kid. Especially a screwed-up one. I’m gone a lot, days at a time.”

If she wondered what he did that called for that, she didn’t ask. “You…could change that. Couldn’t you?”

There was something about the way she was looking at him that prodded him to say flippantly, “Go straight? Perish the thought.” Oddly, for a split second she looked hurt, and he regretted the jibe. “Look, I’m worried about him, but…”

“You don’t want the responsibility?”

She didn’t say it accusingly, merely in the tone of a normal question. Which he supposed it was. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“Then why did you bother to come?”

“Not,” he said sourly, “to be reminded at every turn what a total waste my life has been.”

“It can’t be a total waste.” Her voice was unexpectedly gentle, and it seemed to brush away his irritation. “You have a brother who adores you. That’s worth a lot.”

He couldn’t deny that.

He couldn’t deny the odd feeling that having those eyes of hers look at him with softness instead of suspicion gave him, either.

Luke walked out her door at five to ten, and Amelia was glad she had at least a few minutes before she had to open. She was going to need every one of them to recover.

She was exhausted. Just sitting there talking to Luke McGuire, pretending it was a casual conversation between two people with a common concern, had worn her out. It wasn’t her shyness, after years of work she’d overcome that to a great extent. But never in her admittedly sheltered life had she ever talked at length to a man like this one, a man with a reputation, a man with a past.

A man who was worried about his young brother, she corrected herself. A man who was honest enough to admit he wasn’t prepared to take that brother on, yet cared enough to come some distance to find out how bad things really were.

Perhaps she needed to reassess her opinion of him.

Perhaps, she thought wryly as she forced herself to get ready to open, she shouldn’t have developed an opinion of him at all before she’d met him. Although, if she’d waited until she’d first seen him, riding down the street last night, who knew what kind of opinion she would have formed.

Speaking of honesty, if she was going to match his, she had to admit that when she’d been younger and under the watchful eyes of her parents, it had been easy to suppress any of the more turbulent urges she might have had. Such as those brought on by the wilder boys in school. She was finding it much harder now to deny she found bad boy Luke McGuire fascinating and unsettlingly attractive.