bit off the rest of her words—It’s all I have left of Dad. Annie wouldn’t understand that at all. She was one of the people who had hated Scott Jennings. “It’s what I have for Sierra, for her future. It’s really all I have.”
Annie exhaled. “I know, but if you think about it—”
“Annie, no, I’ve made up my mind.”
“Okay, okay, fine.” She held up her hands in a gesture of surrender. “It’s yours. You can do what you want with it, and I understand it’s all that your dad left you. Mom didn’t have anything.” Annie’s smile was fading now, and Holly never doubted that Annie blamed Scott Jennings for a lot. Then she flicked her eyes over Holly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Holly shook her head. “You didn’t. It’s not you,” she admitted.
Annie watched Holly. “Then what’s wrong?”
“Who.”
“Oh, not Travis again,” she said, with absolutely no smile now. “That crummy son-of-a—”
“It’s nothing to do with Travis.” Her ex-husband had actually left her alone since she’d returned to Silver Creek. “He’s doing his thing somewhere, and he doesn’t have time to worry about me or Sierra.”
“Then what is it?”
“Cain Stone. I just saw him.”
Annie’s eyes widened and her lips formed a perfect circle of surprise. “Where?”
“At the Inn.” Memory flashed of the moment she’d spotted him, that second when she’d realized who he was and when she’d felt all the anger she’d had for so long, about so many things. “I think he was going up to see Jack Prescott.”
Annie eyed her. “What did you say to him?”
“Nothing. I left.” She ran. “What good would it do to say anything to him? He wouldn’t care. They don’t call him ‘Stone Cold’ for nothing.”
Annie shrugged. “We never called him that, but I’m sure we called him ‘Raising Cain’ more than once.”
Holly reflected on the blue eyes—hard, cold blue eyes—of the man she’d seen today. A man who, she’d bet, never lost any sleep over the chaos he left in his wake. “I’m sure that fits, too,” she murmured.
Chapter Two
When Cain stepped into one of the most exclusive cabins at the Inn, one that was usually kept available for some of Jack’s high-profile celebrities who used the Inn to “disappear” from their hectic lives for a while, he was already wondering when he could go back to Las Vegas. The multilevel cabin, nestled in the rugged land near the ski slopes, had more than a thousand square feet but only three rooms. The bedroom took up the whole top level, with views of the ski runs and, in the distance, the resort and the town. The living area was a rambling space, with two fireplaces, three levels and supple leather everywhere. The kitchen took up almost a third of the lower level.
But he barely glanced at it. Instead, he found the phone nearest the entrance, made a few quick calls to check on business, then crossed to the windows and looked out at the late afternoon. If he had to stay, skiing seemed particularly inviting. Yet it was too late. The light was still okay, but here when the sun went down, skiing it was over for the day. He didn’t want to use the main slope, which had lights on twenty-four hours a day. No, he wanted the slope he remembered as a kid, to get the rush he remembered when he’d skied the Killer years ago.
He headed for the door. He had no idea where Jack was, so he got in his SUV and headed for the gates. Once he’d driven off the grounds of the resort, he headed south to Silver Creek. The Inn was two miles north of the main part of town, with a buffer of empty land in between.
He drove away from the world of the rich and famous to the world of Silver Creek, the town he’d grown up in. He’d never been given to nostalgia, always reasoning that you had to have good memories to indulge in that sort of thing. But at the moment, he felt an odd sense of longing to see the town again. Not the main street, but the back parts, the parts he remembered from his childhood.
He drove along the snow-lined streets at a snail’s pace. The town was overrun with the influx of skiers and with businesses catering to their needs. There were upscale restaurants, convenience stores, boutiques and supply stores that held every sort of ski product you could imagine. When he’d been here years ago, skiing had been a sport you did, usually on raw runs that you cut yourself. Now skiers lined up at the lifts, bought tickets and skied where they were told to ski.
In the old-town section, he glanced at the buildings that had been refurbished and repurposed into boutiques, ski supply places, coffee shops and souvenir corners. A few held to their origins, like Rusty’s Diner on the east side of the street, a plain place with good food and still managed by Rusty himself. Rollie’s Garage, the same garage that Rollie Senior had operated years ago was still there, now run by his son. On a side street he saw the original police station, where Joshua’s father had been sheriff all those years ago.
Although he now knew where he was going, he hadn’t realized it until that moment he saw Eureka Street. He slowed to a crawl when he approached the only building to the right. The old, two-story brick structure appeared the same, pretty much how it had when he’d been a sixteen-year-old sneaking out at dawn on a day as cold and snowy as this one.
He felt drawn back into the past, and despite the painfully new sign above the double-door entry, Silver Creek Medical Clinic, he could have been a kid again. Back then the sign over the doors had read Silver Creek Children’s Shelter—a euphemism for orphanage. He pulled onto the half-circle drive that ran past the entry. Snow was piled high on either side, but a section had been cleared to make it easy for anyone to get to the doors.
He stared at the building for a long moment, at the lights spilling out the bottom windows onto the snow and the deep shadows on either side. The place looked old and dark, the way it always had, and he barely controlled a sudden shudder. He’d thought he’d go in and find Gordie, but now he decided against it. He’d didn’t want to step onto the green tiled floors or hear the empty echo that seemed to always be in the old building. He’d see Gordie at the Inn.
He meant to drive out to the street, then go back to the Inn, but he found himself stopping at the end of the drive and looking at the school directly across the street from the clinic. His gaze skimmed the old brick building, the Christmas decorations in the tall, narrow windows of the bottom floor and two huge wreaths on the double front doors at the top of recently cleared concrete steps. The only change was the fairly new six-foot-high chain-link fence that enclosed the whole area, including the parking lot. The lot’s double gates were open, and a snowplow sat idly nearby. A fraction of the lot had been cleared before whoever drove the plow had stopped for the day.
Cain went straight across the street, through the open gates and onto the asphalt parking area. He passed the still plow and slipped into one of the few cleared parking slots, one of five or six fronted by blue signs designating the user. He felt a hint of a smile when he chose the one marked “Reserved for the Principal” instead of the one marked “Reserved for the Librarian.”
Over the school’s main doors a banner rippled in the wind, proclaiming CHRISTMAS FESTIVAL, DEC. 24, 7:00 P.M. They’d had Christmas programs when he’d been there, but he’d never had anyone to come and see
