Silver River Secrets

Sam tilted his head.

“Oh, I guess I do,” Kris said.

Sam lifted the glass from Kris’s hand. “You two excuse us?”

Before either Rory or Lacey had time to respond, Sam steered Kristal toward the bar.

Rory stared after them. Thanks a lot, Sam. He turned back to Lacey, intending to say, “See you around,” but what came out was, “Sorry to hear about your grandmother’s accident. Being laid up must be tough on her.”

“It is, but she’s recovering.” Lacey shifted her feet and looked toward the door.

Okay, she’s as anxious to get away as you are. Let her go.

“She’s at Riverview now, right?” he said.

“Yes. That’s why I’m here again, helping her to move.”

“I figured that.”

Why else would she be in Silver River? Certainly not to see him. And why were they standing here making conversation, anyway?

“Your business doing well?” she asked.

“If you mean the shop, yeah, business is great.”

“Still working for your grandfather, too?”

He nodded. “Part-time.” Working for his grandfather’s real estate investment business was more an obligation—and a necessity—than a pleasure. “What about you? Still with, what? Some historical society, right?”

A smile lit up her face, the first he’d seen all evening. “Yes. The Boise Historical Society. I’m doing what I love—writing about history.”

They’d both made lives for themselves without each other. And yet, after what had happened, he should be glad they’d managed to move on.

They fell silent while the music and conversation swirled around them. Okay, now go! Then his gaze fell on her empty glass. “Looks like you’re ready for another drink.”

She frowned but said, “Why, I suppose I—”

“There you are, Rory!”

Rory looked around to see Helen Lewis hurrying along the walkway.

Helen skidded to a stop. “I’ve been looking for you. I just had to tell you how well our car runs since you gave it a tune-up. Jasper and I were about to trade it in, but not now.”

“Glad it’s working for you,” Rory said.

Helen turned to Lacey. “This man is a wonder.” She peered through her black-framed glasses. “Oh. I don’t think I know you.”

“This is Lacey Morgan,” Rory said. “Lacey, Helen Lewis. She and her husband are new in town. He works for Thompson’s Building Supply, and Helen works at the Visitor’s Center. Lacey, ah, used to live here,” he added to Helen.

Helen’s eyes widened. “I’ve heard about you. You’re the one who—”

Catching Lacey’s stricken look, he finished quickly, “Went to high school same time as I did.”

Helen frowned as she cut her gaze to Rory and then back to Lacey. “Oh. Right. You were high school buddies.”

“Buddies” didn’t exactly describe his and Lacey’s relationship back then, but he wasn’t about to correct Helen. “We were on our way to get Lacey another glass of wine.” He nodded toward the bar.

Lacey shook her head. “No, I really need to leave now. Busy day tomorrow. Nice meeting you, Helen. Good to see you again, Rory.”

The words tumbled from her mouth, and before Rory could reply, he was staring at her back as she hurried along the walk to the B and B’s door.

Helen pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh, dear, I hope I didn’t run her off.”

Rory raised a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Lacey and I were only saying hello.”

* * *

INSIDE THE B AND B, as Lacey set her empty wineglass on a table, she realized her hands were shaking. She felt queasy, too. Bad enough to have spent time talking to Rory, but then to meet a stranger who apparently knew all about her past... Too much.

Taking a deep breath, she hurried through the dining room to the stairs. She put her foot on the bottom step, but then on impulse swiveled around and marched toward the front door.

Five minutes later, she sat in her car at the entrance to the highway, waiting for traffic to clear. She rolled down the window and, along with sounds of the music from the party, the fresh air rushed in, tinged with the smell of grass and hay and the river.

Once on the highway, she pressed her foot to the accelerator, watching the speedometer inch up past the speed limit. Except for a pale glow of light lingering behind the mountains and the lights of the houses she passed, darkness covered the land.

She sped along for a few miles and then came to her senses and eased her foot off the accelerator. No point in risking a ticket. Calmer now, she loosened her grip on the steering wheel and leaned back against the seat. Putting distance between herself and the party—and Rory—was just what she needed.

And yet her thoughts lingered on their meeting. They’d exchanged more words tonight than during any other time their paths had crossed when she’d come to town. So what? Trapped by circumstances, they were only being civil to each other, exchanging small talk that didn’t mean anything. In a few days, she’d be gone again.

Meanwhile, she’d be sure to keep her distance.

* * *

LACEY SURVEYED THE array of food displayed on the B and B’s dining room sideboard, from scrambled eggs and hash browns to waffles and oatmeal and fresh fruit. She breathed in all the enticing aromas, and her stomach rumbled. After her unsettling encounter with Rory, she’d spent a restless night, but that hadn’t dulled her hunger this morning. The conversation of other guests drifted through the room. The door to the courtyard stood open, admitting a fresh morning breeze.

Sophie bustled in carrying a tray of coffee cups. “Good morning, Lacey.” She set the tray next to the coffee urn.

“Hi, Sophie.” Lacey slowly shook her head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

Sophie quirked an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“The party last night, and now this fantastic breakfast.” She made a sweeping gesture to include the sideboard.

Sophie laughed and fingered the turquoise scarf holding back her hair. “The committee prepared last night’s food, and this spread is our cook’s doing. She’s a marvel. Still, compliments are always welcome... I was glad to see you at the party,” she added, as she unloaded the cups.

“Kris caught me as I came home from Gram’s.”

“Ah, so I had a little help, did I? Well, you came, anyway. I saw you talking to Rory—” She cast Lacey a cautious glance.

Lacey picked up a plate and helped herself to the scrambled eggs. “All these years, we’ve never said much more than ‘Hi,’ and then last night we actually had a conversation. Sort of.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing.”

Lacey shrugged and added hash browns to her eggs. “I can’t imagine why. We won’t get together again.”

“You never know.” Sophie finished unloading the cups and picked up the tray. “Oh, by the way, are you going up to Restlawn to visit the graves sometime this trip?”

“Yes, I’d planned to go this morning, before I start cleaning out Gram’s old apartment.”

“Feel free to take some of the flowers in the courtyard.” Sophie gestured toward the open doors.

“Why, thanks, Sophie. That’s thoughtful of you.”

“That way, Hugh and I can pay our respects, too. He’s outside now. You can get a bucket and some clippers from him and choose the flowers you want.”

Half an hour later, Lacey found Hugh outside folding up the tables from last night’s party. Dressed in blue overalls and a white T-shirt, he looked more like the farmer he used to be than the proprietor of an elegant bed-and-breakfast.

“Looks like you’re getting your courtyard back in shape,” Lacey said.

“That was some party.” Hugh lifted his baseball cap, smoothed his gray crew cut and then settled the cap back on his head.

They chatted a bit, and then Lacey said, “I’m going up to Restlawn this morning, and Sophie said I could take some of your flowers, and that you’d have something I could put them in.”

“Sure. Wait here a minute.”

Hugh disappeared inside a toolshed, emerging a couple minutes later carrying a plastic bucket and a pair of clippers. He handed them to Lacey. “These should do the job.”

“Thanks, Hugh.”

“Take some of the pansies.” Hugh indicated the flowers clustered in one of the beds. “Your mother’s favorite.”

“They were, and I will take some.”

“Don’t suppose Rick would care what flowers you put on his grave,” Hugh said in a dry tone. “Not that he deserves any.”

Lacey dropped her jaw and stared at Hugh, his unexpected slam at her father taking her off guard. Then she lifted her chin and said crisply, “Well, I care.”

Hugh shook his head. “You’re probably the only one who does.”

CHAPTER THREE

ON THE DRIVE to Restlawn Cemetery, Hugh’s unkind remark about her father rang in Lacey’s ears. But, like many of the townspeople, he believed that Rick Morgan had, in fact, shot Rory’s father, Al Dalton, Jr., in cold blood. Standing by her father hadn’t been easy for Lacey, since the murder had resulted in her mother’s death, too. Sometimes, she had her doubts, but, oh, she didn’t want to believe he could commit such a terrible crime.

If only she could find some proof of his innocence. But little chance of that, especially now that ten years had passed.

She reached the turnoff to Restlawn and followed a narrow, winding road to the iron gates marking the entrance. Spotting the tall oak tree that shaded her grandfather’s and her mother’s graves, she pulled to the side of the road and parked. Bucket of flowers in hand, she trudged over the freshly mowed grass, breathing in the pine-scented air and listening to the twittering birds. Cemeteries always seemed so peaceful, and Restlawn was no exception.

She stopped in front of the headstones, her grandfather’s on the left, her mother’s to the right. On her grandfather’s other side, an empty plot waited for Remy.

When Lacey knelt to place the flowers in the embedded vase on her mother’s grave, she saw that the holder already contained pansies. A glance at her grandfather’s vase revealed his, too, held the delicate blossoms. They were wilted, as though they’d been there for several days.

Who had brought the flowers? Gram used to visit, but not since she’d broken her hip and been confined to her wheelchair.

A sudden unease gripped Lacey, and she glanced over her shoulder. No one was nearby, and no other cars were on the road. Still, she had a creepy feeling someone was watching her.

Lacey turned back to the graves. She thought about removing the wilted flowers but then decided to leave them. Pouring fresh water from the bucket into the vases, she added a few of the flowers she’d brought to each of the embedded vases.

She ran her fingers over her grandfather’s engraved name on the marker, Jason Carl Whitfield, remembering him as a happy man who took pride in his work as a carpenter and who doted on his wife and daughter. Lacey’s mom was spoiled and self-centered, as might be expected of one who’d been the center of her parents’ universe.

On the whole, she’d been a good mother to Lacey, though. Lacey especially remembered the bedtime stories and poetry they shared.

Lacey touched her mother’s carved name, too, and then whispered a prayer for both of them. Grasping the bucket, she stood and, still uneasy, looked around again. Seeing no one, she turned her steps toward her father’s grave, which was some distance away.

I won’t have that murderer near my family! Gram had declared.

He wouldn’t be here at all but for Lacey’s insistence. When he died in prison, she arranged to have his remains returned to Silver River and had with her own money purchased the plot and the marker. She chose an especially pleasant spot, with a nearby fountain shaded by several maple trees. But unlike her grandfather and her mother, who’d both been mourned in public services, only Lacey—and the grave digger—were present to witness Richard Mark Morgan’s burial.

As she knelt to place flowers in the vase, she saw purple-and-white pansies, the same flowers that were in her grandfather’s and her mother’s vases. Apparently, the same person had visited all three graves. Who? Someone who believed in Rick’s innocence, as she did?

Lacey added her flowers to the vase, whispering, “I still believe in you, Dad. And maybe someone else does, too.”

Before leaving the cemetery, Lacey pulled into a viewpoint overlooking the town. From here she could see Main Street, busy as usual, with vehicles and pedestrians. Beyond the business district were blocks of homes, and then the river, sparkling in the sunlight.

Sadness filled her. Silver River was a pleasant and peaceful town. She’d been happy living here until that fateful day ten years ago. Now she lived in exile. Not that she didn’t like Boise. She did. And she liked her job with the historical society. But Boise could never replace Silver River and the happiness she had known here.

* * *

RORY DROVE ALONG the highway connecting Silver River with Milton. Not that he was going all the way there. He’d turn around soon and head for Dalton Properties, where he worked most afternoons. He’d taken this long drive today to check out the overhaul he’d given the ’58 Dodge, one of his classic car acquisitions bought from a man in Fork City, who’d kept it hidden away in an old shed like buried treasure.

Rory tuned his ear to the engine, but his mind wandered to last night’s party and Lacey Morgan. They’d actually talked to each other. Their conversation had been awkward, but what did he expect?

Their encounter didn’t mean anything, though. Probably wouldn’t happen again.

Thinking of her reminded him that the turnoff to the old Whitfield farm was up ahead. The house still sat there, empty and in disrepair, a constant reminder of the tragedy. Usually, as he passed by, he gritted his teeth and stepped on the gas, eager to put the place behind him.

But today, as the turnoff approached, he found himself slowing down, and in the next moment swung the Dodge off the highway and onto the dirt road leading to the farm. He bumped along, jerking the wheel to avoid potholes and overgrowth pushing through the barbed wire bordering the road. Reaching the house, he put on the brake and gazed out the window at the two-story structure. Paint had peeled off the siding and holes dotted the roof. Ragged curtains hung in a few of the windows.

Memories flooded his mind: bringing Lacey home from school. Doing homework at the kitchen table while sampling her grandmother’s cookies. Hiking down to the river where they lazed in the sunshine or splashed around in inner tubes.

He stepped from the car and walked around to the back of the house. Beyond a stretch of overgrown grass and weeds sat a garage with the door off its hinges, a barn missing part of the roof, a couple of weathered sheds and a chicken coop. And farther yet, past a row of willow trees, a trail led to the river.

He looked up at the house’s second story, focusing on one of the windows. The window where Lacey’s father had stood when he pointed his shotgun at Rory’s father and pulled the trigger. Rory swung his gaze back around to the ground, picking out the spot where his father had died. He shuddered and felt sick to his stomach. He stood there, clenching and unclenching his fists, until he got a grip on himself. Then he marched back to his car, climbed in, slammed the door and drove off.

That house should not still be standing there, he thought, while rumbling back down the dirt road toward the highway. It should have been torn down long ago so that he didn’t have to look at it and be reminded of what had happened there. Ten years ago. Ten long years. High time he did something about that house.

* * *

BACK IN TOWN twenty minutes later, Rory parked in his reserved slot behind the Scott Building on Main Street. He sat there a moment, his mind spinning with his new plan.

A knock on the window interrupted his musings. He looked up to see Stuart MacKenzie, one of his grandfather’s employees.

Rory rolled down the window. “Hey, Stuart. Where are you off to?”

Stuart smoothed the lapels of his lightweight sports jacket. “The Cooper ranch. Old man Cooper is ready to talk business.”

Rory opened the door and stepped from the car. “Good for you. Hope you land the deal.”

Stuart grinned. “Thanks, buddy. But I’m not doing anything you can’t do—if you’d forget about your cars and tend to business here.” He nodded at the Dodge. “That is a great-looking car, though.”

Rory pocketed the keys and ran his hand along the car’s engine-warm hood. “Yeah, well, I guess restoring old cars does for me what owning land does for my grandfather. To each his own.”

“Ri-i-ght. Try telling that to A.J. When you gonna take your rightful place around here as the ‘heir apparent’?”

Rory shook his head. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Stuart laughed. “If I were a betting man, I’d bet on A.J. But I don’t want to get involved in your family feud. I’m not taking sides, either.”

Stuart headed for his car, and Rory entered the building. The smell of wax and varnish from the first floor’s furniture store drifted along the hallway. He took the back stairs to the second floor where the offices of Dalton Properties were located. His grandfather’s middle-aged administrative assistant, Sheila Cobb, sat at her desk.

“Morning, Sheila.”

“Glad you’re here, Rory. He’s been wondering.” She tipped her head toward the door to A.J.’s office just as it opened and his grandfather stepped out.

At seventy, Alfred James Dalton was as fit and trim as he’d been in his younger years, thanks in part to heredity, but also to regular rounds of golf and visits to the local gym.

A.J. spread his feet apart and propped his hands on his hips. “About time you got here.”

Rory glanced at his wristwatch. “I know, I’m a little late, but with good reason—”

“Never mind. Sheila put some new proposals on your desk. Look ’em over, and then we’ll talk.”

“I’d just as soon talk now—about something else.”

A.J. raised his eyebrows. “Hmm, all right. I’ve got half an hour until my two o’clock arrives. Come on in.”

Once in his office, A.J. pointed to a straight chair. “Have a seat.”

Rory sat, while A.J. rounded his desk and sank into a black leather chair that always made Rory think of a throne. Unable to find a chair locally that suited him, A.J. had ordered this one over the internet. When it had arrived, the delivery guys had one heckuva time getting it up the narrow stairs. But they succeeded, and there it was, and A.J. fit into it as though it were made especially for him.

A.J. opened a file folder on his desk and idly rifled the papers inside. “So, what’s on your mind?” he said without looking up.

“I want to buy the Whitfield property.”

A.J. jerked to attention. “Yeah? You know I’ve tried for years to get Remy to sell, and she’s flatly refused. What makes you think you can change her mind?”

“I’m betting she needs the money, now that she’s living at Riverview. That place doesn’t come cheap.”

“Maybe Lacey is helping out.”

“Maybe. Still—”

A.J. rubbed his jaw. “Okay, let’s say you get her to sell. What do you see happening to the property?”

“First thing is tear down the house. It’s an eyesore, and I’m sick of it. Always reminding me—”

“You think tearing it down will erase your memory of what happened there?”

“It’ll go a long way to helping.”

A.J. closed the file folder and leaned forward. “And then what? A subdivision is what I see. Ought to be enough land for fifty or sixty houses.”

Rory shrugged. “Getting rid of the house is first and foremost. You hate the sight of that place as much as I do.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

His voice cracked, and his gaze strayed to the framed photo on his desk, a picture of him with his son, Alfred James Dalton Jr., better known as “Al Jr.” Their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, big grins on their faces, they stood in front of the Ross Building, one of their many projects.

“So, what do you think?” Rory asked.

“I need to know more. You plan to use Lacey to get to Remy? Heard you two were cozying up at Sophie and Hugh’s party.”

Rory clenched his jaw. “We weren’t ‘cozying up.’ We happened to find ourselves face-to-face and exchanged a few words, that’s all. As for using Lacey, ten years ago, you told me I couldn’t have anything more to do with her.”

“That was then. This is now. That property has sat there in a time warp, and I agree with you that enough is enough. You get it and you’ll have a big bonus.”

“All right—”

“Wait a minute. I’m not letting you completely off the hook.”

Rory narrowed his eyes. “What?”

A.J. pointed a forefinger. “I need you to take more responsibility around here. This business will be yours someday, and you need to know how to run it. Stuart knows more about our operation than you do.”

Rory shook his head. They’d had this discussion before, many times. “I’m giving as much here as I can. I have my own business to run—”

A.J.’s mouth turned down. “Oh, yes. Cars again. Collecting ’em isn’t enough. You have to tinker with them, too.”

Rory pushed to the edge of his chair. “If we’re done here—”

A.J. put out a staying hand. “Not quite. Don’t forget that I own that prime piece of property Dalton’s Auto Repair sits on.”

“So?”

“So Silver River could use another motel.”

“Go ahead and sell the property.” Rory made a dismissive wave. “I can always relocate.”

“You could if you had the money. But you don’t. It’s all tied up in cars.”

Rory pressed his lips together. “Okay, we are done here.” He stood and strode to the door.

“Keep in mind what I said.”

“I’m sure you’ll be reminding me again,” Rory said as he went out the door. And again, and again.

“Get back to me ASAP about those proposals,” A.J. called after him.

* * *

IN HIS OFFICE, Rory hung his jacket on the coatrack and paused to look out the adjacent window. Instead of facing the street, like his grandfather’s office, Rory’s office looked out on the back parking lot. He didn’t care. Not even the best view in the world could make him want to be there.

His gaze landed on his Dodge, and a smile touched his lips. That was one fine car. Then he saw A.J.’s shiny new BMW, and his mouth thinned. No, his grandfather would never understand or share his love of the classics.

He turned away and crossed the room to his desk. His office had no personal touches. No photos, no certificates on the wall, nothing to identify him as the occupant. He hadn’t put down roots here, and he never would.

A.J. knew how to play the guilt game, though, making him think he should be grateful for the opportunity to take his father’s place in the company. If his father were still alive, Rory had no doubt the situation would be different. His father had understood Rory’s need to work with his hands, to create something. He was proud of Rory’s talent and never passed up an opportunity to brag about him.

But Al Jr. wasn’t alive. He was dead. Shot in the back on that fateful day when he went to see Norella Morgan.

Guilt gave way to anger. Anger at Rick Morgan, the hothead who pulled the trigger. And yet at the time, he’d wanted to stand by Lacey. He’d loved her, and planned to marry her.

But that was all over now.

Now, what he wanted most of all was to get rid of that house. Somehow, he’d find a way. Pushing aside his troubled thoughts, he sank into his desk chair. For a moment he only stared at the file folder lying there. Then he took a deep breath, opened the file and began reading.

* * *

“I VISITED THE graves at Restlawn this morning,” Lacey told Gram while they enjoyed a cup of tea on her patio. The afternoon sun had cleared the mountains and shone brightly from a cloudless sky. A brisk breeze swayed the cottonwood trees lining the riverbank. Still, the air was hot, even in the patio’s shade.

Gram smiled. “That was nice of you, dear. I’ve missed going myself.”