point.” She smiled a little. For all his grousing about his sister, she knew Riley and Alex usually had a great relationship. Alex adored her only brother, as did all the McKnight sisters.
“You’re right. Alex has a key anyway. If it had been her, she would have dropped off the basket on the kitchen table and then started rearranging my spice cupboard and nagging me about why I haven’t replaced the saffron I bought six years ago or something.”
He smiled. “Note to self, keep Alex out of my kitchen.”
“Wise decision,” she answered.
He reached into the basket again. “Check this out. I wonder if it came from Maura’s store.”
He pulled out a small flowered bookmark with a dangly angel charm.
Claire gazed at it for an instant and then gasped as all the pieces clicked into place. “The angel! Oh, my word!”
“Angel?”
“I must have had a visit from the Angel of Hope. Darn! Now I really wish I had been able to see more than just a dark shape out there.”
Riley carefully set the bookmark back into the basket, his wary gaze trained on her like he expected her to start speaking in tongues any minute now. “You think you’ve had an angelic visitation? You haven’t been mixing that pain medication with anything, have you? Like bourbon? Or, I don’t know, maybe peyote?”
She laughed. “Really? Hasn’t anybody in town told you about our angel?”
Riley shook his head and for the first time she realized how tired he looked. His features were drawn and his eyes wore dark smudges underneath.
Between Layla’s funeral, the accident and settling into a new job, he must be exhausted and here she was dragging him out on a rainy night for the most ridiculous reason when he probably only wanted to find his bed.
“What angel?” he asked.
“It’s not important. Remind me to tell you about it sometime when you’re not so worn-out.”
“What’s wrong with now?”
“Nothing, but you look like you’re going to fall over if you don’t get some rest. This obviously isn’t a bomb or hate mail or anything. I think your work here is done, Chief. Thank you.”
“I want to hear about the Angel of Hope. How can I not? If I’ve got heavenly visitors in my town, I’d like to know.”
“I’ll tell you, but do you mind if I find a more comfortable spot first?” The chair was convenient but keeping her leg down like this was invariably painful.
He instantly looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Need a push?”
“No, I’ve got a system.”
Using her cane and her right leg, she pushed herself back into the family room, grateful for the wood floors in her old house. In the family room, she went through the laborious process of transferring to the sofa with the aid of the crutches propped beside it, feeling about a hundred years old again.
“Need help?” he asked again.
“I’ve got it.”
“Of course you do.” Somewhat to her surprise, Riley took off his coat and draped it over the back of a chair, looking as if he planned to settle in at least for a while.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shook his head, an exasperated sort of look in his eyes. “It’s freezing in here. You need a fire.”
“It’s a little tough to start one when I can’t quite muck around on the hearth,” she admitted. “I can nudge up the furnace, though.”
“The furnace won’t do you much good if the wind knocks out the power, which it probably will.”
Because she knew he was right, she didn’t complain when he headed to the lovely old mantel and grabbed kindling out of the basket on the hearth. With efficient movements, he had a little fire blazing merrily in just a few moments. Chester barely waited for Riley to stand up again before he replaced him on the hearth rug, circling his sturdy little body three or four times before settling into his ultimate comfort spot.
“Thank you,” she said when the welcome warmth began to seep into the room. “You’re right, that’s much better.”
“Just the thing on a rainy, stormy night.”
She had to agree. She had been thinking she needed to replace the drafty old fireplace with a gas insert for convenience’s sake, but there was something uniquely comforting about a wood fire.
Riley took the easy chair adjacent to the sofa. He gave a barely audible sigh and leaned back in the chair and she wondered if he’d had time to sit down all day long.
“Perfect. Okay. Now I’m ready. Tell me about the Angel of Hope’s Crossing.” He smiled slightly, that sexy little dimple in his cheek flashing at her. Her stomach dipped and fluttered and she drew in a steadying breath and told herself to stop being ridiculous.
“Here, have some fudge.”
“It’s for you,” he protested, but when she handed him a piece, he took it and popped it into his mouth. “Mmm. Okay, you’re right. Delicious. Now about the angel.”
She nibbled the edge of her own piece, letting the sweet, rich taste melt on her tongue. “Well, it all started with Caroline Bybee’s car.”
“Widow Bybee? Wow. Is she still alive?”
“Hush. She’s not that old. And she’s got the energy of a woman half her age. Haven’t you seen her garden around the corner on Blue Sage?”
“What happened to her car?”
“Well, you know she’s on a fixed income. Her husband has been gone a long time and even though she works part-time at the library, I can guess that making ends meet can sometimes be a struggle for the poor dear, especially the way property taxes keep going up.”
That was one of the problems with living in a town that had taken off as a tourist destination. People who had lived for years in their family homes often couldn’t afford to stay, not when they could make outrageous sums of money by selling their property to be turned into condos or vacation homes.
Many longtime residents had seized their golden ticket and left already, but those who considered Hope’s Crossing home and didn’t want to uproot their lives were stuck trying to find their place in the new economic reality of high taxes and tourist prices on groceries.
Add to that the fact that most of the jobs in town were relatively low-paying service-oriented positions at the resort or the other hotels that had sprung up—and the restaurants and bars that had followed—and Claire supposed it was no wonder some of the youth in town didn’t see a future for themselves here and had turned to crime.
“Caroline had that old sky-blue Plymouth she drove for years, remember?” she said. “It finally died
