“Nope, like a bicycle. Two wheels, pedals, chain. The whole bit.”
“Cops don’t ride bicycles.”
“Maybe not in Hope’s Crossing. It doesn’t make a lot of sense here. But in a city without a lot of snow, a bike is a great way to get around quickly.”
“Especially downhill.”
“True enough.” Riley smiled. “When you’re chasing a bad guy running down the street with some lady’s purse, you don’t always have time to stop and take your bike into a shop. We often had to fix our own rides on the fly.”
“Do you still like to ride a bike?”
He thought of his three-thousand-dollar mountain bike currently taking up space in the spare room at his rented house. One of the main reasons he’d decided to take the job—besides his burnout in Oakland—had been the recreational opportunities that abounded in Hope’s Crossing. In the summer a person could find world-class climbing, hiking, biking, fishing. And of course the winter featured challenging downhill skiing and cross-country trails.
So far, he had been too busy to enjoy any of it, a pretty sorry state of affairs.
“I’ve got a bike at home. Maybe when you get the cast off you can show me if there are any new trails around here since I was a kid.”
“Sure, that would be fun,” Owen said as he pushed open his front door. Claire’s droopy-eyed dog greeted them with a polite bark and a sniff at their wet shoes.
“Hey, Mom. I’m home. Where are the bandages?”
There was a pause of about five seconds, before he heard Claire’s voice growing louder as she approached them. “In the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, right where they’ve always been. Why do you need a bandage?”
She came from the kitchen on the last “bandage,” without the wheelchair, he was happy to see. She walked on crutches that had been rigged up to compensate for her cast, with a little platform to rest her arm. She wore a flowery cotton dress, a pale lavender this time that made him think of a meadow full of wildflowers.
She stopped in the doorway with an almost comical sort of double take. “Riley! Oh! Hello.”
He looked at her mouth and suddenly couldn’t remember anything but that shock of a kiss. When he dragged his gaze away to her eyes he saw the memory of it there, in the slight widening of her pupils and the sudden flush on her cheekbones.
“Hi,” he said stupidly, unable to think of another damn thing to utter. His mind seemed filled with remembering the softness of her skin, the springtime taste of her, her tiny ragged breaths against his mouth.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “And why does my son need a bandage? Owen, why are you covered in mud? And blood, apparently.”
The boy grinned. “I crashed my bike in a stupid puddle and flipped over the handlebars. It was awesome.”
She looked at her son as if he was some strange exotic creature. A clone fighter himself or something. Because she’d never been an eight-year-old boy, she probably didn’t grasp the particular nuances of the situation and how very cool it could be to endo your ride.
“Awesome,” she repeated.
“Yeah, like something on the X-Games. You should have seen it.”
“True story,” Riley put in. “A genuinely spectacular crash.”
She looked from one to the other. “You’re both insane.”
Riley met the kid’s gaze and they shared a grin. When he turned back to Claire, she was shaking her head, but he thought she looked more amused than annoyed.
“And how exactly were you involved in this, Chief McKnight?”
He offered what he hoped was an innocent smile. It had always worked on his sisters, anyway. “Only an eyewitness, I swear.”
She raised an eyebrow and he was compelled to come clean. “Okay, I think I might have distracted him from paying as much attention as he probably should have to the road when I honked and waved.”
“It wasn’t your fault. It was that stupid pothole’s fault.”
“Something you can be sure I will be bringing up with the city council in the interest of public safety, of course.”
“He says he can fix my bike, Mom. We won’t have to take it to Mike’s Bikes. Cool, huh?”
She smiled. “Frosty.”
Riley gestured to her crutches. “Are you supposed to be walking around? Last I heard, I thought the docs wanted you to use the wheels for a while yet.”
She looked slightly guilty. “I tried. I really did. But I got so sick of it. I kept banging into doors and I felt trapped, not being able to tackle even a step. At my last appointment, I made Dr. Murray fix me up with crutches. It’s still not easy to get around and most of the time in the house I end up using that office chair to roll from room to room, but it’s better than trying to maneuver the stupid wheelchair.”
Riley could completely relate. When he’d been shot in the leg a few years back—a minor injury from a drug bust that had gone south, which he had decided not to share with his mom and sisters for obvious reasons—he had lasted about three days on sick leave before he’d been hounding his lieutenant to let him back on the job.
“So you’re feeling better?”
“Much. I’m going a little stir-crazy, if you want the truth. I need to get back to the bead store.”
“Hey, Mom, I’m starving. What smells so good?”
The house did smell delicious, the air rich with something Italian, full of tomatoes and garlic, basil and oregano.
“Your sister’s making dinner. It should be ready soon, but we need to clean up that mud before you can eat, young man.”
“And I still need a bandage.”
“Right.” She made a move as if to pivot, but Riley stopped her.
“You need to sit down. Point me in the right direction of your first aid supplies and I can take care of it.”
“I’m fine. You don’t have to…”
He cut her off. “Bathroom, you said, right? I’m on it. Owen, see what you can do with some paper towels to wipe off the mud, okay?”
He headed into the same room where he’d washed up after he had hauled away her branches the other day, a clean, comfortable space with textured walls painted a rich Tuscan gold and umber.
After grabbing a box of bandages off the shelf and some antibiotic ointment, he followed the sound of voices to the kitchen. He found Owen recounting his fall all over again, this time to his sister who was standing at the stove wearing a red-checkered apron and stirring something in a stockpot on the stove.
“Wow.
