shook his head, caught up in his brother’s inquisition. Caught up in memories of Nicky.
“Thanks, Kat,” Luke said and held out his cup.
Jon studied his brother. Eleven months older, he had the same rangy build as his siblings—a feature they’d inherited from their father. While Jon stood tallest at six-five, Luke didn’t seem any shorter at six-two. The man had shoulders wider than a toolshed and arms that could put a wood-framer to test. While all three brothers had received a variation of their father’s dark coloring, Luke was the only one who’d been blessed with their mother’s aesthetic, straight nose and gray eyes.
Those same eyes settled on Jon. “What?”
“How come you never married again?”
Luke looked away. “Never found the right woman.”
Ginny Keegan had been the right woman. Once. She and Luke had married in college. And divorced eight years later. Three Tuckers, three divorces. Not good odds.
“Okay,” Jon said. “Here’s the deal. I don’t ask you questions, and you butt out of my problems.”
“Circumstances are entirely different. I didn’t lose a son and blame it on my job.”
“Your job wouldn’t lose you a son,” Jon said testily.
“You think defense lawyers don’t work long hours? However, if I’d had a son—” Luke stared into his cup “—he might’ve rebelled just as well to make a point against what I stand for.”
Touché. Teenagers of men in Luke’s position were known to buckle under peer pressure. Hell, teenagers in general were considered a rebellious lot. Hadn’t he, Luke and Seth done the same once? Done whatever it took to be accepted by their pals, despite their deplorable home life?
“Look. You were a good cop, J.T.,” Luke went on. “The best. I’ve checked. You can be again.”
Jon set down his half-finished coffee, dug out some bills and tossed them on the table. “Not gonna happen. I’m setting up to make furniture for the next thirty years.”
Luke’s mouth tightened and Jon quelled a chuckle. No mistaking they were brothers. Both were face pullers when the chips toppled.
He shoved out of the booth. His house waited. “Same time next week?”
“Yeah, sure.”
He gave his brother’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Take care, bud.”
Outside, he took a long breath of warm, sunny air. Living in Misty River felt damn good. It had to. Where else could he go?
Rianne turned the ignition of her Toyota again. Click.
Of course. The old thing would have the nerve to die when she was running late for the first day of work this week. Well, bemoaning the fact wouldn’t start the car either. Thank goodness Sam had gone ahead on his bike.
“What’s the matter with the car, Mom?”
Emily wasn’t so lucky. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, the three days Rianne taught in Chinook Elementary’s library, they rode to school together. A comforting ritual after they’d moved to Misty River a year ago, when her children hadn’t established friendships yet. Then Sam met Joey Fraser who lived up the street and, for her son, going with Mom became “uncool.” But Emily still rode with Rianne.
“The battery’s probably dead, Em.” Rianne sighed. Darned old car. There goes another chunk of budget. Laughing yet, Duane?
“I thought gas made the car go,” Emily said.
Rianne patted the child’s hand, hoping to ease the disquiet she knew churned inside her daughter when things went slightly off kilter. “They both do, pooch.”
“Can you get a new one?”
“Yes, but I need to go to the Garage Center for that.”
Emily followed Rianne out of the vehicle, dark eyes big behind her glasses. “Are we gonna be late? Can I take my bike? Please? I don’t want to be late, Mom.”
“Hang on, honey.” Rianne popped the hood. “Maybe it’s something else.” Something simpler. She could hope.
Other than caked-on grime and grease, the engine appeared the same as the last time she’d seen it. Were the battery terminals more corroded? She couldn’t remember. The car was thirteen years old and, during their marriage, Duane had looked after its mechanics. How long did a battery last? Five years? Ten? The life of the car?
Why hadn’t she asked the mechanic when she’d bought new rear tires last fall?
Because you didn’t want to admit a lack of car sense to a man. Now, look where it’s got you. Late for work and Emily late for school.
She checked her watch. Eight-forty. Fifteen minutes before first bell. If they walked fast they’d make it just in time. “Get our lunches out of the car, Em. We’re walking.”
“But Mo-om, we’ll be way late.”
Rianne surveyed the engine again. “I’ll call Mrs. Sheers and tell her our problem.” Cleo Sheers was the secretary. She’d pass the message on to the principal and Beth Baker, Em’s teacher.
Emily tugged Rianne’s sleeve. “Mom,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” Looking at this mess, she knew she needed a whole new car.
“Troubles?” a low, rusty voice said.
Rianne jackknifed up, almost batting her head on the hood.
He stood by the driver’s door, hands jammed in hip pockets. She should have guessed by Em’s behavior that her big, moody neighbor hovered nearby. What did he do, keep her under surveillance?
“Good morning.” Ungrateful thoughts weren’t her style, although hot stuff appeared to be his in those worn black jeans and that snowy T-shirt. She couldn’t take her eyes off his damp hair caught in a loose tail. Like a settler, traveling the Oregon Trail in a prairie schooner.
Clipping a nod, he stepped forward and closed the hood with a flick of the wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Driving you and your daughter to school. The battery’s done for.” He pointed his chin at the front seat. “Why don’t you get your things and I’ll start the truck.”
Not a question, a subtle command. Cops, she knew, issued directives to maintain order and stability. She, however, was not a felon nor an obnoxious bystander nor, for that matter, a wife whose independence and self-worth had been boxed into the dirt.
She was a woman standing securely on her own two feet.
About to say as much, she opened her mouth—except he was already striding for the black truck in his driveway.
“Are we going with him, Mommy?” Emily asked, pinky disappearing
