Sunflower Lane Read online

  “Aunt Annabelle, I wanna go back inside.”

  “Megan, I know you’re scared. But let’s just get you in the car, okay? Then I’ll finish up in the kitchen for one minute and we’ll be off to class.”

  “If I move, he’ll chase me,” the girl whispered. She clutched Annabelle’s hand more tightly. Her terrified gaze locked on the dog, who was happily jumping all around Ethan and Michelle, silly and eager to play.

  “He won’t hurt you. He’s friendly—don’t you see?”

  Her little tomboy niece, the girl who was fearless when it came to climbing to the tops of trees and jungle gyms, who loved catching lightning bugs, and wanted more than anything to sign up for softball in the fall, was trembling, and though Annabelle had never been afraid of dogs, she knew Megan’s fear was all too real.

  Something we’ll have to work on soon, she realized, making a mental note. But right now, she was pretty sure she’d left the water running in the kitchen sink and they were almost certainly going to be late for class. Again.

  Luckily the director of the community center happened to be her best friend. If it was anyone but Charlotte, she might be out on her butt. . . .

  The dog suddenly became aware of the two of them, and raced eagerly over, his stump of a tail wagging furiously, tongue hanging out. Megan screamed, shrinking against Annabelle. Even as Annabelle scooped the seven-year-old into her arms, she heard a long, low whistle.

  Then Wes’s calm, authoritative voice.

  “Hey, boy. Over here. Got a treat for you.”

  The mutt stopped in its tracks, skidding like a cartoon dog, and the next thing Annabelle knew, the animal was loping joyously toward Wes, who happened to look insanely sexy today. His long legs were encased in snug, faded Levi’s and his black polo shirt clearly revealed the bulge of rock-hard biceps.

  Annabelle tore her gaze from him, focusing instead on the mutt, who almost daintily closed his mouth around the dog biscuit Wes fed him, being very careful not to bite.

  Still, Megan clung to Annabelle’s neck, shaking with fear and pleading. “I want to go inside. Aunt Annabelle, take me inside!”

  “Sorry about this.” Wes’s concerned gaze flicked to the little girl in the ball cap. “He ran off while I was getting the ladder set up to check the roof. Guess I should’ve had him on a lead.”

  And then he strode toward Megan, speaking in the gentlest, calmest tone Annabelle had ever heard from him. “I’m real sorry he got loose and scared you, honey. He’s a friendly dog, though—he won’t hurt you. This big guy wouldn’t bite a flea, much less a ladybug.”

  He frowned as she buried her face in Annabelle’s shoulder.

  “I don’t want to be out here near that dog,” Megan whispered, her voice breaking.

  “That’s okay, Megan; you don’t have to be.” Annabelle carried her to the Jeep, calling out to the other kids to get in and buckle up.

  Slamming the door so the mutt wouldn’t be able to jump into the backseat with them, she sprinted back toward the house, past both Wes and the dog. Turned off the water in the sink, glanced around at the breakfast dishes, took ten seconds to scrub the blackberry jam from the table.

  The rest of the cleanup would have to wait. They were already much too late.

  Rushing back outside, she found Wes on the porch and the dog wandering excitedly around the front yard, sniffing and investigating.

  “There’s some poppy seed muffins and coffee over there,” she told him quickly, pointing to the small patio table in the corner with a covered wicker basket, a small coffeepot, and a very big mug sitting atop it.

  “Thanks. Sorry again he got loose. I’ll put him on a lead next time.”

  “You’re keeping him?” She stopped short at the bottom of the steps.

  “Not planning to, but . . .” He eyed the dog, still unhealthily gaunt, despite the bowl of dog food he’d gobbled down last night and another this morning. “He thinks he adopted me yesterday in town, and I don’t want to dump him in a shelter without first trying to find him a home. Is that a problem?”

  “No . . . I guess not. Not if you keep him by the cabin.” She started toward the car, trying her best not to think about all the kissing they’d done last night. “I love dogs and Ethan begs me all the time to let him get one, but Megan had a bad experience once. A friend’s puppy nipped her on the chin and she’s terrified of being bitten again. I just don’t want her to be afraid to go outside the house.”

  “I promise, he won’t be around for more than another day or two, max.”

  Even distracted by everything about him and in a hurry, Annabelle realized that the idea of taking the dog to a shelter was a last resort for big, tough Wes McPhee.

  “That should be okay. I hope you find someone to take him.” She paused a moment to smile at him before climbing into the car, then found herself flushing absurdly as all the memories of Wes holding her and kissing her last night flooded back. She felt warm all over and it sure wasn’t from the tepid morning sun.

  “Gotta go,” she called lamely through the open window, and put the car into gear.

  You’re a dork, she told herself. A dork who’s dangerously close to getting hung up on another man. The wrong man. A man who’ll be gone before the summer is half-done.

  He lifted a hand, his quick, unexpected grin lighting his face in an impossibly attractive way. “Catch you later.”

  Driving up Sunflower Lane, she peered back through her rearview mirror, pondering what those last words meant. Did he mean he’d see her later, or did he mean he’d catch her later, as if he was going to catch her in his arms again? Maybe even kiss her?

  Her heart gave a crazy little jump. What was wrong with her? This wasn’t a good idea. She shouldn’t even be thinking about getting involved with him on any level other than landlord and tenant.

  Unless it’s something totally casual and I don’t make too much of it, she thought instantly. But it had never been in her nature to have casual flings with men, or the kind of breezy short-term relationships some of her friends had managed with ease back in Philly.

  But a man like Wes could tempt a woman to change her ways.

  No strings, no heartbreak. Wasn’t that how those things were supposed to work?

  As she neared the end of the drive, she glanced in the rearview mirror again and saw him pluck a muffin from the basket. He took a bite, then broke off some more, feeding it to the dog.

  For a tough guy, Wes McPhee definitely had a soft heart.

  She had only that one brief glimpse of him before she turned the corner, but it was definitely enough to whet her appetite.

  For him? For . . . what? She didn’t know exactly.

  It was like a dance not yet choreographed. You make up the steps as you go along, try them out . . . see what happens . . .

  In all her years of training she’d learned she was good at choreography. Good at chassés, pliés, and grand jetés.

  But up until now, she’d never been good at keeping her heart in check.

  Something told her it was time to improvise.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wes spent the remainder of the morning setting the new windows in their frames, measuring and cutting replacements for the sagging floorboards, doing a thorough check of the roof. The old place could use a brand-new roof, but he’d have to settle for patching it. Putting in a new one would take longer to complete and cost Annabelle a lot more money. He didn’t want to start something he couldn’t be sure of finishing in time. The patches would be good for a while if Annabelle wanted to rent out the cabin for a year or two before investing in a new roof.

  As he carried the ladder to the narrow shed behind the cabin, he remembered how pretty she’d looked this morning. All that amazing fairy-princess blond hair twisted again into a long ponytail, making him wonder what it would look like if she let it all come tum
bling down past her shoulders. She’d been wearing cut-off jeans and a lavender tee that hugged her curves. He tried not to think about those curves.

  Or those long and shapely dancer’s legs.

  Or those crazy-hot kisses last night.

  But his mind kept going back to it, all of it.

  Annabelle had kissed him like no other woman he’d ever met. She kissed like it mattered. Like she never wanted to stop. It had stunned him a little. He’d thought she’d taste good, but hell, she’d tasted amazing. Sweet as a peach pie in July. Everything about her was amazing. That casual, natural beauty—he was pretty damned certain he’d find himself thinking about that long after he took off for parts unknown.

  Her skin smelled like sunshine and soft new rose petals—and there was no question she had a killer body. But the thing was, she’d just felt so . . . so good, so kind of right, in his arms.

  Hey, so have a lot of other women, he reminded himself, shoving the ladder into the gloomy back corner of the shed and trying to derail the track of his thoughts.

  But he kept coming back to the idea that there was something special about her. Something sweet, spiced with a kind of determined toughness. Something honest and down-to-earth, he reflected, yet casually sophisticated all at the same time.

  Something that made him want to know more . . .

  And taste more . . . and touch more . . . a whole lot more.

  But he sensed she wasn’t the type of woman to do short-term bed hops. Not with three kids under her roof and a sense of responsibility as big as the entire state of Montana.

  Annabelle didn’t roll that way, despite the two of them getting a little carried away last night. He should steer clear.

  Leaving the darkness of the shed for the sunshine, he strode to the porch and lowered his tall frame into the battered old rocker, wondering whether it would support his weight. It did, and before he knew what had happened, Treasure was there, curled up at his feet.

  “Don’t get attached, fella. I’m moving on shortly and I’m not much for having company in my passenger seat.”

  The dog ignored him, but that was okay because his cell phone rang. He looked at it and frowned.

  Walt Carruthers? What the hell . . .

  His first partner and former boss at the DEA was now on a fast track, set to lead the biggest division of the agency. The last time he’d talked to Walt, they’d been at a dusty airport in Colombia as rain hammered down, bribing and bullying their way out of the country on a battered old excuse for an airplane.

  “Shit,” he said when Walt finished talking. “Is this intel credible? Kramer’s sure he saw Rivers?”

  “Kramer positively ID’d Cal Rivers three days ago in El Salvador—the same day our man Carlos Arroyo turned up dead in an alley two miles away. Arroyo had been shot five times, then drowned.”

  Wes gritted his teeth. Grief shook through him. Carlos Arroyo had been his friend throughout his years in the DEA, and was his third in command on the DEA mission that killed Diego Rodriguez’s son.

  Shit, had Diego’s longtime hit man Cal Rivers killed him all on his own? Or was the old drug lord still alive and giving the orders? Perhaps ordering hits in revenge for his son’s death . . .

  Wes’s gut told him Diego was behind this. But there was no proof.

  “Kramer’s looking into it and we’re hunting for Rivers. Could be he’s setting up shop now for Diego—or for himself to go solo, taking over the operation. I know you’re out of it these days, Wes, but I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks, Walt. Keep me posted.” Scowling into the distance, Wes saw not the stark beauty of the Crazies rising into the clouds, but a scene of blood and carnage from his past—the night Manuel Rodriguez had been killed.

  “Will do. But . . . best you keep a lookout, Wes. If Rivers is on a payback mission, he could come for you or Rick Sutton next. You both were there when Diego’s son was killed. Who knows your location?”

  “Me, my family, and everyone in this little town. And an old buddy from the FBI.”

  “You didn’t tell anyone else where you were headed?”

  “What do you think?”

  Walt grunted. “Well, I know you’re retired, but I needed to make sure you haven’t lost your edge. Rivers and Diego—if that old bastard did survive and is running the show—will probably keep a low profile for now, but they’ll resurface as soon as they feel it’s safe. You could be next on their list.”

  Cal Rivers is still at the top of mine, Wes thought, but kept it to himself.

  A click in his ear—and his old boss was gone.

  At his feet, Treasure looked up at him and wagged his tail.

  “It sure is quiet out here,” Wes muttered, and absently stroked the dog’s head.

  Things needed to stay quiet. Which meant, right after the Fourth, and not a day longer, he’d be on his way. And make a little noise when he reached his next stop, wherever that might be.

  If Rivers wanted to come after him, that was fine with him. As long as it was nowhere near Lonesome Way—or the ranch house on Sunflower Lane.

  As the dog rested his head on Wes’s boot, he stared down at the stray. What the hell was he going to do about this dog?

  Sophie might take him, he thought hopefully.

  His sister and Rafe had a couple of dogs already. Hell, they probably wouldn’t even notice one more. Or else he might be able to get his mom and Doug Hartigan to take him in.

  Wes couldn’t accept the thought of a shelter. Treasure would have to be locked up there. And Wes had been locked up a couple of times himself. In cages, in rooms bolted shut with steel rods, in underground jails, in tiny, filthy cells where he was left for days without food, and where people had only come back to kill him.

  He’d managed to kill them instead.

  But he didn’t want Treasure locked up like that. There had to be someone in this town who’d give the mutt a real home. . . .

  Too bad Megan was scared of dogs. If she could get over the fear, she’d be a lot better off. And then Treasure could live right on Sunflower Lane with those three kids. And with Annabelle.

  He decided he’d feel a whole lot better about leaving here if Annabelle and those kids had a dog to look out for them.

  Maybe, he thought, scratching the top of Treasure’s head, there’s still a way to make that happen.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A few weeks later, Wes drove over to the Good Luck Ranch house and spent the better part of a morning visiting with his grandmother.

  He brought her an early-morning breakfast of cinnamon buns, banana nut muffins, and a fruit salad from A Bun in the Oven, and sat at the kitchen table beside her, drinking coffee and listening good-naturedly to all of the latest town gossip she’d gleaned from her friends, who stopped by daily to visit her.

  He’d been coming by every few days to hold her good hand and listen to her stories, relishing her tales of her days as a renowned horsewoman who had her pick of a dozen suitors from miles around.

  And every time, she’d squeeze his hand, peer into his eyes, and make him reaffirm his promise to stay until at least the day after the Fourth of July. He had to hand it to Gran—she was indefatigable. And Wes loved her for it.

  Today when Martha Davies and Dorothy Winston arrived for lunch and an arranged meeting regarding the agenda and marching order for the big parade, he took advantage of the opportunity to cut and run. Gran had walked him out to the porch, and waved to her friends as they arrived. But after he tipped his hat to the ladies and headed past them down the driveway to his truck, he couldn’t help hearing Martha’s excited voice carrying across the clear morning air.

  “Ava, you won’t believe who rolled into town this morning. Guess! No, you’ll never guess, not in a million years, not if I gave you a thousand hints!”

  “It’s Ben. Your Ben. Ben Adki
ns!” Dorothy interrupted impatiently. “What do you think of that?”

  There was silence. Total silence. When his grandmother didn’t answer, Wes turned and glanced back. She was seated on the porch swing, a startled expression frozen on her face. Her penetrating eyes stared into the distance with a look of shock that made him pause.

  “Did you hear me, Ava?” Dorothy settled into a chair beside her.

  “Of course she heard you,” Martha said, also taking a seat. “She has a broken wrist, Dorothy. She’s not deaf.”

  “I heard you.” Ava spoke at last. “And I’m supposed to care why?” she asked crisply.

  Ben Adkins. Wes didn’t know the name. But he’d definitely caught an odd note in his grandmother’s voice, despite the fact that her sweet, still-beautiful face was now serene, and that she hadn’t moved a muscle.

  As he stepped into his truck and accelerated down the lane, he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw her sitting in the sunshine with her friends, everything appearing normal.

  But something about the exchange stuck in his head and left him wondering just who this Ben Adkins was.

  “No need to get prickly about it,” Martha said after a prolonged silence.

  “Who’s prickly?” Ava shot back.

  “We just thought you’d want to know.” Dorothy bit her lip, concern settling into the lines of her face. “You don’t still have feelings for him after all these years, do you?”

  “What do you think?” Ava’s expression was haughty. Then she smiled. “I barely remember the boy.”

  “Well, he’s a man now. And still as good-looking—not to mention very successful! You know that chain of office supply stores—Office Super Plus?” Dorothy savored every word she spoke. “Ben just stepped down as CEO. Yep, a month ago. He retired, turned over the reins of his company to his grandson. I heard it myself from Winny Pruitt.”

  “How nice for him.” Ava spoke airily. “It’s certainly no concern of mine.”