knuckles on it.
He already knew from dealing with Roger’s death that the furnishings inside the house hadn’t changed over the years. Considering the old man had rid himself of his wife, Violet, twelve years ago, Shane had been surprised Roger hadn’t done a thing to eradicate her little touches from his home. But they’d still been there. Fussy little glass lamps with beads hanging from the fading shades, bowls of dusty plastic grapes and apples, vases of unnaturally bright flowers that never needed a drop of water.
Just another thing Shane would never understand about the man.
He figured the person inside the house was the real estate agent. Only, he didn’t recognize the car, and Shane knew all the cars around his town.
All part of the job.
He knocked again. “Hello?”
“Coming.”
The voice was female.
Throaty.
Young.
He straightened and absorbed the shock of it.
He was pretty sure he recognized the voice, and it was definitely not anyone from down at Lucius Realty.
The woman neared the door, her form blurred by rusting metal mesh. The porch light flicked on. The door screeched as it began to swing open. “I’m sorry. I was in the back and didn’t hear…” The woman’s voice trailed off as Shane stepped away from the screen door enough for her to open it.
She looked up at him. Her eyes widened a little. The color in her cheeks rose, then fell.
Recognition, all right. “Hello, Laurel.”
Her lips—damn, but they looked as soft as ever—rounded into a little O. She wore a tidy white blouse tucked into a slender beige skirt. Little gold hoops hung in her ears, visible because her hair was pulled back from her face in a snug knot. She looked about as finished and polished as she’d looked ravaged and pained the last time he’d seen her.
Except for her eyes.
Her eyes looked positively shell-shocked.
And he felt like the proverbial bull in a china shop.
Then her lashes swept down for a moment, and when she looked up at him again, the shock was gone. Everything was gone. There was nothing but politeness, and for an awful moment Shane thought maybe the stories had it wrong and that Laurel Runyan had never climbed out of the pit of despair she’d been tossed into that long-ago summer when her family had disintegrated before her eyes.
“Hello, Shane. What are you doing here?” The greeting was considerably less welcoming than the light shining from the front window had been.
But at least she remembered him. That was good. He’d rather have her still hate him than be feeling the emotional numbness that had gripped her for months after that summer.
“Saw the light,” he said, looking past her into the house. But he couldn’t see hide nor hair of another person. Had she come alone to Lucius? Had she married? Did she have a little tribe of kids now? He wished he could blame the questions on simple curiosity. But nothing about Laurel had ever been simple. “Wanted to check it out.”
Her eyebrows drew together a little, and the corners of her lips lifted a little. “Check it out. For what? New church members?” Her hands lifted to her sides for a moment.
A moment long enough for him to see there was no ring. A faint tan line where one had been, though.
Recently.
“Sorry,” she went on, oblivious to his cataloging. “I gave up going to church years ago.”
He had, too. For a while.
“Thought maybe you were one of the agents from Lucius Realty,” he admitted.
“Well, as you can see, I’m not.” Her voice was still pleasant. But the edge of curiosity was still there, not quite hidden. “I…didn’t think you were still in Lucius,” she said. “I saw the sign outside your dad’s church. He’s still pastor there. And there was a name I didn’t recognize listed as the associate pastor. Um, Morrison or something.”
“Morrissey.”
She nodded and leaned slightly against the opened screen door. Her position was clear. She had no intention of inviting him in.
But she was still curious.
Hell. So was he. If he’d had any way of reaching her, any way of knowing where she was, he would have notified her himself about her dad.
“I’m sorry about your father.” He should have said that right off. No wonder he hadn’t ended up in the ministry. Unlike his father, Beau, Shane’s people skills were miserable. He took care of his townspeople’s safety. He left it to people like his father to take care of their sensibilities.
Her head tilted a little to one side, and a few strands of silky hair drifted from the knot to lie against her slender throat. Her hair was darker than he remembered. Almost the color of walnuts. Back then, it had been streaked with blond from the summer sun, a shifting mass of burnished gold that had felt like silk against his rough fingers.
“Condolences?” she asked. “I know what you thought of him. What everyone in this town thought of him.”
“He was still your father.” He wasn’t sorry about Roger. But he was sorry if the loss hurt Laurel. He was always sorry when something—or someone—hurt Laurel.
Her lips pursed a little and her lashes swept down, hiding her expressive brown eyes again. “Yes,” she murmured after a moment. “He was. Thank you.”
“If you need any help with the arrangements, just ask.”
She lifted her hand and tucked the stray strands of hair behind her ear. She pushed the screen door the rest of the way open. It was so worn, it merely settled open with a sigh and she stepped out onto the porch. Even with her high-heeled shoes—pretty for her ankles, but still a conservative tan color—she didn’t reach past his shoulder.
How could he have forgotten how small she was compared to him?
“I’m not sure my father would have wanted a religious service,” she admitted. “His lawyer, Mr. Newsome—I can hardly believe my dad had a lawyer—said he didn’t have a will when he notified me about his death. He didn’t say if Dad had specified any instructions at all. Only that he’d asked Mr. Newsome to contact me.” Her voice faltered a little. “I, um, I haven’t had a chance to go through any of Dad’s records here yet.” The prospect clearly held little appeal for her.
He couldn’t blame her. Even under the best of circumstances, such a task would be difficult. “The lawyer might not have known, but your father went to Sunday service every week. Talk to Beau. He’ll be able to help you figure it all out.”
“He went to church?”
“Regular as rain,” he assured. But he couldn’t fault her for her skepticism. Unlike Roger, who had never gone to church until after his wife died,
