Willowleaf Lane

After another moment of hesitation, Dylan slowly rose to his feet and she felt a surge of elation that was probably completely unwarranted for such a small victory. She would take it anyway. A little fresh air and movement could only be good for her brother, though she knew he puttered around the barn and attached wood shop a little.

She walked off the porch, grateful for the old tennis shoes she kept in the back of her SUV for spontaneous exercise opportunities like this one.

She and Tucker had taken a few walks up here before, usually without Dylan, so she had a passing familiarity with some of the trails that crisscrossed the mountainside among the pines and aspens. She headed toward one she liked that wended beside a small pretty creek and, after a pause, Dylan followed her.

Tucker ambled ahead, his hound dog nose sniffing the ground for the scent of any interesting creature he might encounter.

They walked in silence for a time, accompanied by the annoyed chattering of squirrels high above them and the occasional birdsong.

She breathed in deeply of the high, clear mountain air, sweet with wildflowers and pine, feeling some of the tension of her day begin to seep away. “I can’t tell you how badly I needed this today,” she said.

“Glad I could help.” Dylan’s dry tone surprised a laugh out of her.

“It’s beautiful up here, I’ll give you that. Remote but beautiful.”

“Nothing wrong with a little seclusion,” he answered.

“I suppose.”

Dylan had always been so social, always in the middle of the action. She missed that about him.

Because of the time, only an hour or so from true sunset, and because neither of them had eaten, she decided not to push too hard. After about ten minutes, they reached a small glacial lake that blazed with reflected color from the changing sky.

“Let me take your picture,” she ordered, pulling out her camera phone.

He frowned but stood obediently enough, his hand resting on the dog’s head.

“Perfect,” she said, snapping several before he could move away. She didn’t bother asking him to smile.

Behind him, the surface of the lake popped and hissed like Pop’s cheese sauce bubbling in the pan. “Looks like the fish are jumping. Do you ever come up here and cast a line?”

She regretted the words as soon as she said them, when he shrugged his left shoulder, rippling the empty sleeve.

“Yet another skill I haven’t quite mastered with one hand and one eye.”

He could do plenty of things if he would only wear the prosthesis. She knew most of his rehab had been aimed at helping him adapt to his new reality. Since his return to Hope’s Crossing, he seemed to have resorted to only figuring out how to open another whiskey bottle.

“You will,” she answered calmly.

He didn’t answer, just gazed out at the water.

Her stomach grumbled again and she sighed. “We should probably head back.”

“Yeah. Before the mosquitoes eat us alive. It’s a little tough for me to scratch these days. Hey, how do you get a one-armed man out of a tree?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer. “You wave at him.”

He seemed to think that was hilarious and was still giving that hard-sounding laugh as he turned down the trail toward his house.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NEXT MORNING, the sun was barely a pink rim along the black silhouette of the mountains when Charlotte laced up her tennis shoes in her entryway.

Every morning it was the same. She had to force herself out of bed when what she really wanted was to curl up under her nice warm blankets, hit the Snooze on her alarm clock and capture a few more moments of bliss.

Instead, here she was in her oh-so-flattering reflective performance capris and T-shirt, no makeup, her hair yanked back into a ponytail.

She rotated her head a few times, then her shoulders to work out some of the kinks before opening the door and pushing herself outside.

Rain or shine she ran, either here or on her treadmill at home or, when she really needed motivation, at the gym.

She felt no small amount of pride at how far she had come. Even walking had felt like torture when she first started on this journey more than a year ago. With all the extra pounds she had been packing around, it had taken all her strength and will to complete a mile and a half in an hour. She had finished with twitching thigh muscles, achy calves and complete exhaustion.

After about three months of making herself walk an hour a day and increasing her pace so she was covering three to four miles, she had begun to add intervals to her workout using her cell phone as a timer, one minute of running for every two minutes she walked at a regular pace, until eventually she was jogging most of the time.

Together with a far healthier diet than the fast food and her father’s café delights she had existed on, the numbers started dropping on her scale and her clothes began to hang much looser.

After the first few moments, she discovered she actually enjoyed working out. She enjoyed being in the fresh air and the wind, and she liked taking a moment to ponder and meditate as she jogged through her beautiful surroundings. She especially savored the feeling of knowing she was doing something good and right for herself, that she was trying to repair bad habits of a lifetime.

It wasn’t yet 6:00 a.m. and most of Hope’s Crossing still slept. Here and there, a few lights were on and she could see glimpses of people moving behind curtains, the flicker of a television screen at one house, a car backing out of a driveway at another.

Even in July, the high altitude air was crisp. Tourists in her store often remarked at the temperature span. It could be mid-eighties in the afternoon but drop to just above freezing in the hours before dawn. That was good chocolate-dipping temperature. In a short time, her employees would be busy creating delicious things to sell at Sugar Rush.

She ran down the hill, past Alex’s restaurant in a renovated old fire station, then took a side street and circled around back up toward Sweet Laurel Falls.

By the time she finished the first mile, she forgot about how badly she hated working out. Who wouldn’t love this surge of endorphins, the invigorating wind in her face?

She waved to a few people she knew: Lori Kaplan, who worked the early shift in the housekeeping department at the hotel; Errol Angelo, who drove a delivery truck to Denver every morning; Linda Ng, working in her garden early. She was either trying to beat the heat of the day later or trying to get in some work before her four young children awoke and ran her ragged.

By the time Charlotte headed toward home an hour later, many more houses glowed with warm light and the sun was cresting the mountains. She would have to hurry to make it to work on time. That almond fudge wasn’t going to make itself.

Finally, muscles humming pleasantly, she turned onto Willowleaf Lane, still three blocks from her house.

Another early morning jogger ran ahead of her. He must have turned from the other direction, coming down from the bruising route up Woodrose Mountain where steep trails crisscrossed beautiful alpine terrain and offered a splendid view of the valley below.

While she did run there when she had a lot more time and energy, she preferred taking her mountain bike for those trails to cover more terrain.

She didn’t recognize the guy from the back, which wasn’t unusual. While she would venture to say she knew most of the locals, besides the ever-present tourists, Hope’s Crossing had many vacation homes and condos owned by people who only visited a few weeks a year. It was tough to build a community under those circumstances but somehow the town managed it.

She lifted the water bottle she carried at the small of her back and took a sip, her eyes on the fine physical display a half block ahead of her.

The guy was built. His legs were corded with muscle, she could tell even from here, and the soft gray T-shirt he wore molded to wide shoulders, a slim waist, tight butt....

The tingle of awareness disconcerted her, even though she had to admit she enjoyed the little spice of pleasure it gave her in the gorgeous morning.

Still, she really needed to start dating more if she could ogle a stranger jogging down the street.

It was all she could do to keep pace with him, though she was a hundred feet behind, and she was breathing hard by the time they reached her block. To her surprise, the guy headed into a house on the corner.

He must be renting the Telford place. Good. It would be nice to see someone living there again. Empty houses were never good for a neighborhood and the house had sat vacant for six months. Likely due to the soft long-term luxury rental market she had heard Jill Sellers complain about a few weeks earlier when she had stopped into Sugar Rush for more of the custom-wrapped chocolates she handed out to her clients.

As she approached the edge of the property, she noticed the man had stopped near the porch steps for some after-run stretching. She wondered idly if there was a Mrs. Studly Jogger. Not that it was any of her business.

Just as she reached the mailbox, he turned his face in her direction and she felt as if one of those early morning gardeners had just swung a shovel hard into her stomach.

Spence Gregory. Here. On Willowleaf Lane, in all his sweaty, muscled glory.

That thought barely had time to register—along with the far more horrifying realization that he must be the one renting the Telford house—before her feet became as tangled up as her brain.

She wasn’t quite sure how it happened, only that she hadn’t been paying a bit of attention to where she was running. She must have stepped off the curb or something. How fitting. One moment she was running along minding her own business, admiring a well-built man who just happened to cross her path, the next she was lying in the gutter.

Pain exploded from her ankle, racing up her leg with hot, angry ferocity, but it was nothing compared to the sheer, raw humiliation of tripping over her two feet, right in front of Spencer Gregory.

She wanted to die. She wanted to slither down that storm grate and just disappear.

Spence.

Of all people.

Fudge.

She could only pray he hadn’t noticed the idiot woman who had just made a fool of herself in front of him. That fleeting forlorn hope was dashed when she spied him trotting toward her, concern on his features.

“Oh, wow. Are you okay? That was quite a tumble.”

No, she wasn’t okay. She was mortified. Even worse, this was far from the first time she had ever made a fool of herself around him. The reminder of all her other little humiliations seemed to parade across her memory in all their delightful glory.

How many times had she tripped up the stairs at Hope’s Crossing High School when he said hello to her on his way down the other way? Or spilled her drink when he slid into the booth across from her at Center of Hope Café?

Once, she had ridden her bicycle into a fence just because he had happened to drive past and wave at her.

She wasn’t normally a graceless person. Witness that she’d been working out for more than a year without incident until this morning.

Now Spence had only to look at her and she was twelve again, dropping her ice cream cone down her shirt when he had smiled at her at the county fair.

Apparently, her old habits didn’t just die hard, they went down kicking and screaming and then resurrected themselves at the least opportune moment.

“Charlotte!” he exclaimed when he came close enough to recognize her. “I thought that was you but I wasn’t sure.”

She could feel her face heat. “Oh, it’s me,” she muttered.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

You. You happened.

“I’m not sure. I think I just came down on the edge of the curb and lost my balance.”

“I’m so sorry. Here. Let’s get you back on your feet.”

He held a hand out and she eyed it balefully, even though she knew she didn’t have a choice but to accept his help. She gripped his hand and told herself she was completely imagining the spark arcing between them.

He reached his other hand beneath her elbow and helped her up. When she put weight on her ankle, that pain roared through her again and she would have slid back to the ground if not for his supporting hold.

“Ow,” she said in a small voice, when what she really wanted to do was burst out into tears. Having six older brothers had taught her early to man up and hide her tears until she was in the safety of her bedroom or they would freak out and not let her play with them anymore.

“Did you break something?”

Wouldn’t that just be her luck? “I don’t think so. I just twisted my ankle.”

“That scrape looks nasty.”

The pain from the ankle had been so overwhelming, she had hardly noticed the abrasion on her palm but now she could see blood was beginning to seep around the edges of the tiny embedded pebbles. She must have thrown out a hand to catch herself as she went down.

Stirring fudge would certainly be more of a challenge with a big, ungainly bandage on her hand.

“Let me help you inside, and I can take a better look at that ankle and clean off the scrape. I have no idea where the bandages might be in the house but I can probably find something.”

“That’s not necessary. My house is just there.”

She pointed to her whimsical little cottage, tucked amid the trees.

“Great house. I noticed it when we were house shopping yesterday.”

“I like it.” Until you moved in down the street, anyway.

“This seems like a pretty nice neighborhood.”

Again, until you moved in. “It is. There’s a good mix of vacation homes and year-round residents.”

She couldn’t believe she was standing here calmly talking real estate with Spence while her ankle breathed fire up her leg and her palm sizzled along with it.

She was beginning to feel a little light-headed.

“The town has certainly changed since I lived here,” he went on. “I barely recognized some of these neighborhoods when the agent was taking us around yesterday.”

“It’s grown, hasn’t it. Will you excuse me?”

Hoping she didn’t pass out, she shifted in the direction of her house. The thirty feet between them seemed insurmountable, as tough as the 10K she ran with Alex in the spring.

She took a step away from him but made it no farther and would have fallen again if he hadn’t rushed forward and absorbed her weight into his solid bulk.

“You need to see a doctor for that.”

He was warm. Incredibly warm. And how was it possible he still smelled good after jogging? She caught a hint of laundry soap from his T-shirt and some kind of sexy citrus and musk aftershave.

“I only twisted an ankle. Not the first time. Once I ice it and take some weight off, it will be fine.”

She hoped. She did not have time for this. She managed to extricate herself from his arms and hobbled another step. By sheer force of will, she managed to remain upright, though it took every ounce of strength.

She made it maybe four steps before she heard a muffled curse.

“You’re as stubborn as ever, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.

“I’m talking about the girl who once insisted on going on a six-mile bike ride with Dylan and me, not once mentioning she had walking pneumonia.”

“I don’t remember that,” she lied.

“Funny, I have a vivid memory of it. You just about passed out before the end of it.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have time to stand around reminiscing with you but I’ve got to change and get to work. See you later.”

She gave what she hoped looked like a jaunty wave and not a dyspeptic robotic one and started toward her house, willing down the pain with every step and trying to figure out how she would squeeze in an appointment with Dr. Harris that morning.

After just a few more steps, her ankle gave out, and she had to grab hold of a convenient aspen sapling for support.

Next moment, Spence swore again under his breath—a surprisingly mild oath for a man who had spent ten years as a professional athlete. Suddenly her feet were swept out from under her, and she was lifted into the air quite effortlessly.

Oh, fudge. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath, cradled tight between hard arms and an even more solid chest, but she did her best to gather the scattered corners of her brain.

“Put me down! This is ridiculous. I can walk.”

“Maybe. But I would hate to see you do more damage to that ankle by putting weight on it if you’ve seriously injured it.”

He wasn’t even breathing hard. Eighty pounds ago, he probably would have needed a couple teammates to help carry her down the street.

“I’m not going to hurt my ankle. Please. Put me down.”

He smelled even better up close. Some small, stupid part of her wanted to lean her head on his shoulder and just inhale his warm neck, right there below his rugged jawline.

“You’re tight as a drum. Relax. I’m not going to drop you.”

“So you say,” she muttered. Her insides seemed to flutter and dance and everything girlie inside her hummed to life.

How could she possibly be attracted to him, after everything? It completely belied logic. It was only situational attraction, she told herself. He was big and muscled and she couldn’t help being aware of the heat and scent of him.

Nobody except her brothers had ever lifted her up, and even they hadn’t done it in years.

“How long have you lived here?” he asked in a conversational tone, as if they were sitting on counter stools at the café passing the time.

She really, really hoped none of her neighbors were awake and gazing out their window at the morning view. This wouldn’t exactly be easy to explain, how she found herself in the arms of the town’s most notorious former denizen.

On the other hand, she would look even more foolish if she put up a fuss and tried to wriggle out of his arms, onto legs she wasn’t entirely certain would support her.

Only two more houses to go and then she would be home.

“Three years,” she finally answered.

She ought to leave it at that—her life was none of his concern, thank you very much—but with nerves bubbling through her like fine champagne, she couldn’t seem to keep from jabbering.

Maybe it was the way the sunlight glinted gold in his hair or the play of those muscles against her, but her voice sounded husky and strained.

“After I graduated from Colorado State, I came back to town with a degree in business and a master plan of taking over the café from my dad eventually. I tried working as his manager but he wasn’t in a big rush to retire, and I discovered I wanted to build something of my own.”

“You have,” he answered. “I had a piece of your peanut butter fudge last night. It was just about the best thing that’s ever crossed my lips.”

She knew perfectly well she shouldn’t have this little burst of pride at his words. What did she care what Spence thought of her store and her product?

Oh, why did her house feel like it was so far away, like they were swimming through miles and miles of melted chocolate to get there?

“Pop always told me that, when you find something you’re good at, you should throw your whole heart into it.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “Good man, your dad.”

She had a vivid memory of sitting at a corner booth at the café with Spencer doing homework. She had probably been twelve, he had been sixteen, and his mom had showed up drunk for the dinner shift, as usual. This time, she started talking smack to one of the customers who complained she got his order wrong and then had turned on Dermot when he stepped in to help.

Instead of firing her, like he probably should have done years earlier, Dermot had, in his quiet, effortless way, calmed the situation with the customer, directed Billie to his office and brought her a big pot of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.

Meanwhile, Spence had sat at their booth, his head almost buried in the book he was supposed to be writing a report about, but she hadn’t missed his red ears and the tension in his shoulders.

Her father had adored Spence like one of his own boys. Just a few months after his mother had died of acute liver poisoning, Spence had signed with the Pioneers, and Dermot had been as proud and excited as if Spence were his son.

And when Spence had been embroiled in scandal and controversy, Dermot had followed the news with a baffled, hurt sort of disbelief that had broken her heart, though he had clung to baseless faith.

If she hadn’t already despised Spence by that time, she would have hated him for that alone.

The reminder helped her rein in her wayward hormones. “Okay,” she said abruptly, the moment he crossed from the sidewalk in front of her neighbor’s property to her own. “We’re here. You can put me down anytime now.”

He gave a short laugh, enough to make his chest move against her shoulder, but kept walking up the path to her porch. “Is your house locked? I can help you inside.”

She could hear a car approaching at the other end of the street, and she just wanted this to be over before someone saw. “I’m fine. Please put me down now.”

It must have been the please that finally did the trick. He carried her up the steps then lowered her gingerly to her feet. She braced one hand on the wall and with the other pulled the key out of its zippered pocket of her capris.

“Thank you,” she said shortly. She should say something more but for the life of her she couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t sound ridiculous.

“You’re welcome. Consider it my neighborly duty. Are you sure you don’t need me to help you inside, maybe tape it up for you?”

Oh, she could just imagine him kneeling at her feet, his big hands warm on her bare skin as he wrapped it. “I should be fine.”

He looked big, muscular. Gorgeous.

“Give me a call if you need a ride to the doctor. I guess you know where I live.”

“I’ll do that,” she lied as if she didn’t have a dozen friends and family members she could call, people she would be far more likely to turn to in times of trouble than Smoke Gregory.

He stood and watched as she fumbled through unlocking the door. Already, the acute pain of her ankle injury had begun to fade to a dull, insistent throb. She figured that was a good thing but it still made it a challenge to enter her house with any degree of dignity.

When she made it through the doorway, she turned around and gave him a little one-finger wave then closed the door firmly.

When she knew she was out of sight, she sank onto the conveniently placed bench in her entry and pressed a hand to her foolish heart.

Of all the rental properties in Hope’s Crossing, why on earth did he have to pick the one just a few hundred feet from hers? She would be aware of him all the time now. Every time she drove down the street and passed his house, she would wonder if he was home, what he was doing, how he smelled....

If she wasn’t careful, she was afraid she would turn into that fifteen-year-old again, a crazy stalker girl with a crush on the sexiest boy in town.

No problem. She would just have to make sure she was very, very careful.

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