the summer she turned eighteen.
Twelve years ago.
A lot had changed that summer for the Runyan family.
And for Shane.
“So,” Laurel finally said, as if she were anxious to move on from the notion of her father having discovered religion. “Your name wasn’t alongside your father’s on the sign at the church. So I guess your ministry took you elsewhere, after all.”
“I didn’t go into the ministry. Don’t know why I ever thought I could.”
Her eyes widened again at that, and for a long moment she stared at him. “You’d planned it all your life.”
“Planning doesn’t mean the same thing as having a calling.”
She finally unfolded her arms and propped one hand on the doorjamb near her shoulder, which let the lamplight behind her shine through the fine weave of her lightweight blouse. He could clearly see the outline of her bra beneath it.
“But you’re here. In Lucius. So what do you do?” she asked.
Look at you and still want. He wasn’t quick enough to cut off the realization. “I’m the sheriff,” he said.
She closed her hand over the screen door latch, that brief moment of softening, of near welcome in her demeanor drying up as surely as the grass in the yard behind him had.
“Sheriff. I see. No wonder you wanted to check things out at the Runyan place. But as you know, my father’s dead. There’s no one here anymore for the law to come after.”
Without another glance at him, she stepped back into the house and firmly pulled the screen door shut.
Then she turned away, closing the wooden door with a thud. He heard the lock sliding into place as she disappeared into the house where, twelve years ago, her father, Roger Runyan, had gotten away with killing his wife.
Laurel was shaking.
The moment the door slammed shut behind her, she reached out for the arm of the couch and shuffled around to sit before her legs simply quit functioning.
Shane Golightly.
She closed her eyes, her hand pressed against the base of her throat.
She’d known that returning to Lucius—to this house—would stir up memories. She could handle memories.
Most of them.
But why, oh why, hadn’t she prepared herself for this? Why had she let herself believe that he would’ve followed through, chapter and verse, with his long-ago plans?
Because the Shane she’d known had never deviated from his chosen course. Not ever.
Except for her. She’d definitely been off the path for Shane.
“Foolish Laurel,” she whispered aloud, and nearly jumped out of her skin at the imperious sound that drowned out her hoarse whisper.
A fist pounding on the front door.
“Laurel, open the damn door.”
Her heartbeat skipped right back into triple time. She stared at the door, half expecting it to open even though she’d flipped the flimsy lock.
“Laurel.” He’d moved to the grimy picture window next to the door and was looking in at her through the limp curtains. As if he had every expectation of her jumping right to her feet. “I’m not leaving,” he said, and he didn’t even have to raise his voice to be heard through the thin pane.
Voices had always been easily heard through the walls of the Runyan place. Particularly the raised voices.
She didn’t want to open the door. She didn’t want to see Shane. She didn’t want a lot of things, and for that reason alone, she forced her muscles into motion and rose from the couch. He moved away from the window and was standing in front of the screen again when she unlocked and pulled open the door. She leaned her shoulder against the edge of it and was glad he couldn’t see the death grip she had on the inside knob.
Weren’t sheriffs supposed to wear khaki-colored uniforms and badges in full view to warn all innocent bystanders of their position? Shane was wearing a charcoal-gray shirt, open at the throat, and blue jeans that fit entirely too well.
“I’m busy, Sheriff.”
“I could see that through the window.” His voice—droll though it was—was deeper. Everything about him seemed deeper. His gray eyes. His golden hair. His…intensity.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
It was the last question she expected. Not that she’d expected any questions from him, since she had been naive enough to believe he’d be far, far from Lucius. That had been his plan that one summer. To finish seminary and take his ministry wherever he could help people the most.
“I’m staying here,” she told him.
His mouth tightened. Then, in a clearly conscious effort, his entire expression gentled. “Do you think that’s wise?” His voice was even more gentle. More careful.
Her spine stiffened. “You needn’t speak to me like I’m deranged, Sheriff.”
“I wasn’t.” Again in a gentle, careful tone.
She understood where it came from, and why, but she still hated it. Hated that it was coming from him, most of all. “Yes, you were. Are.” She also hated the fact that she was the one sounding defensive. She swallowed and scrambled for her wits. Her composure. She was a composed woman. Had always been a composed woman.
Except for the brief time when she was more than a girl but not yet a woman and had spent more hours than she could remember in a room where there were no sharp corners.
“This is…was…my father’s home. I’m staying here. Unless there’s some law against it?”
He didn’t look pleased. “By yourself?”
“Yes,” she managed calmly.
Something in his eyes made him look even less pleased. Anyone else and she might have blamed it on the dwindling light, or on the bare bulb that would have sufficed as a porch light if it had been a higher wattage.
“Here.” He abruptly pulled out his wallet and slid a card from it. “Call me if you need anything.” He extended the business card.
She plucked the card from his fingers, careful not to touch him. “I won’t need anything,” she assured him stiffly. “But, thank you.”
“I’ll come by and check on you in the morning.”
“I don’t need to be checked on.”
“You’re not—”
“Capable enough to stay alone in the house where I grew up?” She crossed her arms. “I’m not crazy, Sheriff.”
