Woodrose Mountain. RaeAnne Thayne
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Название: Woodrose Mountain
Автор: RaeAnne Thayne
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
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Brodie sighed as he headed toward his car, parked in the lot behind the Center of Hope Café. He spotted Dermot Caine, owner of the café, heading to the Dumpster out back with a garbage bag in each hand. Brodie waved and Dermot called out a greeting.
“Is it true your girl’s coming home?” the other man asked, a hopeful expression on his sunbaked features.
“That’s the plan. She still has a long way to go.” He really wished he didn’t have to add that disclaimer whenever he talked to anyone in town, but the people of Hope’s Crossing had seen enough disappointment and sorrow over the last three months. He didn’t want anyone to set unreasonably high expectations.
“You give her a big hug from me, won’t you? That little girl’s a trouper. If anything sounds good to her—one of my huckleberry pies, some of that chocolate mousse she always liked—you just say the word and I’ll personally deliver it.”
“Will do. Thanks, Dermot.” There had been a time when the owner of the diner considered Brodie nothing but a troublemaker with a chip on his shoulder. Brodie had worked hard to overcome his rep around town over the years and it was heartening to see Dermot’s concern for his daughter.
“I mean it. Everyone in town is praying for that little girl. She’s a miracle, that’s what she is, and we can’t wait to have her back.”
“I appreciate that. I’m sure Taryn does, too.”
All of Hope’s Crossing was invested in her recovery. That was a hell of a lot of pressure on a fifteen-year-old kid who couldn’t string more than a couple of words together at a time.
Brodie headed toward his SUV, a grim determination pulsing through him. Evie Blanchard was still his best hope.
He wasn’t about to give up after one measly rejection. He had never been a quitter, not in the days when he used to ski jump and had trained for the Olympics, nor in his business endeavors. He sure as hell wasn’t going to quit on his little girl.
He had failed her enough as a single father, starting with his lousy choice of her mother, who had jumped at the chance to escape them as soon as she could, leaving him with a three-year-old kid he was clueless to raise. With a great deal of help from his mother, Brodie had worked hard to give Taryn a stable life, with all the comforts any kid could want.
What he hadn’t given her was much of himself. The last few years, their relationship had been stilted and awkward, filled with fights and tantrums. He found out as she hit about thirteen that he knew diddly-squat about teenage girls and their mood swings. Somehow in all the lecturing and grounding and disappointments, he had missed the signs that Taryn had strayed dangerously off track, running with a bad crowd, drinking, even burglarizing stores.
He might have been earning a failing grade as a parent before the accident—something he was used to from his own school days—but he refused to let her down now. He was determined to find the absolute best person to spearhead her rehabilitation program on the home front. Like it or not, Evie Blanchard appeared to be that person.
So what if he found her grating and confrontational on a personal level? He was a big boy. He would get over it, especially if she could help him give his daughter her best chance at a full recovery.
CHAPTER TWO
EVIE AWOKE EARLY the next morning tired and gritty-eyed. Jacques stuck his nose into the curve of her neck and she laughed hoarsely.
“Yeah, okay. I know what you want,” she muttered. She sat up gingerly, her body aching a little from the long weekend. Jacques needed to go out and an early-morning hike up the Woodrose trail would be just the thing to shake the cobwebs away.
She dressed quickly, especially since the dog was prancing around anxiously by now, and ten minutes later she grabbed the dog’s leash and they headed out just as the sun peeked above the mountains.
By the time they reached the trailhead to Woodrose Mountain, both of them were a little more settled. The trail was wet from a predawn storm and she wondered if it were possible to become intoxicated from the scent of rain-washed sage and tart pine.
The farther she hiked up the trail, the more stunning the view. It never failed to move her. Hope’s Crossing looked small, provincial, especially with the vast shadows of mountain ranges rippling out in every direction.
The quiet stillness was a far cry from the traffic and craziness of L.A.—and she wouldn’t trade it for anything. When she arrived in Hope’s Crossing, she had been battered and lost. Somehow here in this space where she could breathe and think, she had reconnected with herself, and the aches and pains and scabs of grief and self-doubt had begun to heal.
Not completely. She sighed, lifting her face to the sun just barely cresting the mountains. Just when she thought she was finally in a good and healthy place, content with the world and her place in it, reality had smacked her upside the head like an unexpected branch stretching across her life’s trail.
Despite her exhaustion from the busy weekend, she hadn’t slept well, her dreams fragmented and jagged, a tangle of memories and ghosts. No surprise whom to blame. Brodie Thorne’s unexpected request had ricocheted through her mind all night.
She felt like a coward for saying no to him but she knew she wasn’t. It had taken great courage to walk away from a career, a home, friends she loved, in search of something she knew she could no longer find in L.A. She had worked too hard to achieve homeostasis—harmony, balance, equilibrium, whatever word fit best. Although some part of her felt guilty for saying no to him and refusing to help with Taryn’s rehabilitation, she knew it had been the most healthy answer she could have offered.
After she and Jacques had both worked out their edginess, she headed back down the mountainside, passing a couple of tourists who were obviously continental, with their walking sticks and their Birkenstocks and that indefinable élan. They greeted her in heavily accented English then said something quickly to each other in musical French, gesturing toward Jacques, with his Labrador body and his wool-like poodle coat, which she kept groomed short in the summer for his comfort. He gave them a regal nod before padding down the trail behind her and Evie smiled, rubbing his head with affection. Boy, she loved this mutt.
Back at her apartment, she spent the morning working on the instructions for a couple of bead designs she planned to submit to an industry magazine, then grabbed a quick sandwich before heading for work.
It was impossible not to compare her commute now—sixteen narrow steps down the back stairway and then through the String Fever rear entryway—to the endless lifetime she used to spend in the stop-and-go nightmare of Southern California traffic.
A teenage girl was poring over the wires, and a couple of young mothers sat in the reading corner leafing through the bead pattern books while their children explored with the toys Claire had provided in the playroom.
Evie’s employer was on the telephone in her small office. Through the open doorway, Claire Bradford waved at her as she crossed to the rack hanging behind the big worktable for the multipocketed half apron that came in so handy for holding her beading tools.
By the time she returned, Claire had finished her phone call. She glowed today, her eyes shining and her smile bright and cheerful. She wore her new happiness like a brilliant СКАЧАТЬ