Blue Ridge Hideaway. Cynthia Thomason

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      CHAPTER THREE

      ALONE IN THE ROOM, Dorie wondered what she was going to do if she couldn’t squeeze five thousand dollars out of these two men. Bret must have some money, especially if he owned this entire piece of property. She allowed herself to hope that he would bail his father out of this jam.

      She stifled a yawn and shook her head to clear her mind. Her brain was fuzzy from lack of sleep. She hadn’t eaten anything since this morning except for a candy bar she’d bought at the convenience store. Her bones ached from sitting behind the wheel for hours. Her emotions were frayed beyond what should have been normal even considering the abundance of stress in her life lately.

      Before leaving Winston Beach seven hours ago, she’d spent most of the morning at the attorney’s office, trying to convince him to keep working on Jack’s case. Counting on finding Clancy, she’d promised the lawyer more money soon and had finally extracted a promise from him that he would pass along the paperwork he’d accumulated to a new associate in the firm who would “revisit” the facts of the case and see what he could do. Dorie hadn’t met the associate, a man named Eric Henderson, but she had to accept Mr. Schreiber’s recommendation that this new attorney was clever and hardworking. Not to mention expensive. Waiting to hear from him only added more anxiety to an already-troubling day.

      She got up from the picnic table and rolled her shoulders to relieve tension that had left a dull ache in her neck. She walked around the room and tried to concentrate on details of the basically Spartan environment. Besides the pair of picnic tables, which took up much of the center of the space, there was one long, dark pine buffet table along the wall that flanked the kitchen door. The fireplace, almost large enough for two men to squat inside, filled much of the opposite wall. A comfortable pine-framed sofa and pair of chairs faced the fireplace, and a flat-screen television was mounted above it.

      One of the longer walls consisted mostly of windows which looked out on the screened porch. The opposite wall was lined with pine shelving. The scent of freshly milled wood was still strong in the room, suggesting the shelves were new. There was a state-of-the-art computer on a corner table.

      The ambiance of the room was masculine but peaceful, an homage to simplicity and nature. She breathed deeply, attempting to infuse her body with the tranquility of her surroundings even though there was nothing tranquil about her life now. And, as it turned out, nothing simple about what she’d come here to accomplish.

      She returned her focus to the door, walked closer and tried to hear what the men were saying. Clancy’s low, guttural mumbling was easy to identify. Dorie couldn’t tell what he was saying, but his muffled words seemed argumentative.

      The steady timbre of Bret’s voice was just as distinctive as his father’s but for a different reason. She wasn’t able to make out the specifics, but Bret seemed to be countering his father’s grumbling with rationality.

      She exhaled slowly and leaned against the door frame. She wanted to believe that Bret would devise a plan to pay her back, but her instincts warned her to remain wary. Even so, hope began a slow, steady battle with her skepticism.

      Her thoughts backtracked to when they had all entered the lodge. Bret had removed his mackinaw, hung it on a rack by the door, along with the Marlins baseball cap he’d been wearing. Maybe his cap was from Florida, but he seemed much more at home in this rugged, harsh climate.

      Dorie twisted so her shoulder was against the door, her ear close to one of the dark-stained panels. The conversation inside seemed to have reached a lull, prompting her to put even more faith in Clancy’s son. If he was reasonable, she could be, as well. She wouldn’t fall into the trap of judging all police officers by the few who’d treated Jack with such overt prejudice. That would be no more justified than watching cops judge her brother by the standards of all troubled teens.

      Yes, Bret would make this right. He would understand that his father had cheated her and, recognizing that their family honor was at stake, very well might assume responsibility for paying her the money his father owed. In a few minutes, with five thousand dollars in her pocket, Dorie could be on her way back to Winston Beach.

      * * *

      BRET PACED. It’s what he’d done back when he was on the Dade County homicide division and all the clues had been there, in front of his eyes, and he hadn’t been able to put them together. It’s what he did now when he was worried about his son, Luke, and wondered if the decision he’d made for both of them was the right one. It’s what he did when he thought of Miranda and how he could have saved her if only...

      Clancy sat at the kitchen table, his hands folded, his gaze fixed on his son. They’d discussed and argued the details of the debt, and Clancy had admitted his guilt.

      “Look, Bret, I know how you must be feeling. I screwed up again. I get that. When I’m able to put a few bucks in my pocket, the old demon comes back, and I just have to risk it on the bigger payoff.”

      “How many times are we going to have this conversation, Pop?”

      “This time is different, son. This time I really disappointed you. I’ll make it right. I’ll stay here and work on this project of yours until I pay you back the whole five grand.”

      “Pay me back? Now I’m supposed to hire you on top of everything else?”

      “You told me you were going to hire somebody. Why not me? I can work hard.”

      Bret stopped walking, turned and faced his father. Yes, he had admitted that he’d need to hire a helper to get the camp up and running in time. And his dad did have skills. “You bet you will,” he said. “I own you until this place is open and then some.”

      “Fair enough.”

      Bret stared at the door. “But what about that woman out there? What do we do about her tonight?”

      Clancy had the decency to look at least a bit guilty. He avoided Bret’s stare. “Maybe she’ll accept payments. I’ll send her a little every month until we’re square.”

      “You think that’s going to make her happy? Because I don’t. She wants the whole thing. I can’t see her leaving this mountain without the five grand.”