the town gossips had whispered that she ran around town, causing mischief, just to get back at her family for their zealous ways.
Sam didn’t understand the concept, but it sure intrigued him.
Ashlyn continued. “To make a long story short, my family aims to get back all that they’ve lost. And I don’t care to return to those days when the Spencers ruled.”
Puzzlement shaped Sam’s frown. “Why do you cause so much trouble for that family of yours?”
She clipped a laugh. “If you’d talked to Sheriff Carson before he died, he would’ve told you that I make mischief a habit. Simple as that.”
Sam knew there was something more to it, but he doubted she’d reveal her intentions to him.
“At any rate,” she said, “I can’t stand the way some people in this town treat the Spencers like the second coming. And I don’t like how my family feels the need to own people in return.” She sat up, emphasizing the gravity of her explanation. “I’ll do almost anything to discourage this football-hero worship, this money-god thrall that my brother and father have encouraged.”
Sam wondered how her family felt about her protests. Funny, but he’d never looked at Ashlyn the way he had at Chad or her father Horatio Spencer. She’d always seemed to isolate herself. He’d never realized it until now, probably because he hadn’t cared enough to bother.
Ashlyn asked, “You know that we own the toy factory again?”
That razor sting assaulted his soul once more. “I’d heard about it.” Even if he’d moved back to Kane’s Crossing merely two months ago, folks had made sure he was caught up on all the gossip he’d missed—old and new.
“I have a bad feeling that my father’s not down for the count. He’ll take over everything again, and then Kane’s Crossing is back to the dark ages.”
Sam shook his head. “What about the citizens who own the properties now? I don’t think they’ll let that happen.”
He could feel Ashlyn’s appraisal of him, and he wondered if she knew why he’d come back to town after slinking away seven years ago, following his parents’ deaths.
“It doesn’t matter if the ‘new regime’ wants it or not. My father will be back in the game, Sheriff, buying all the properties he lost. He can’t stand the lack of power.” She clipped a laugh. “I wonder what my ancient granddad would say about all this. Founder of the town, the great Kane Spencer. You know he wanted Kane’s Crossing to be a communal area, right?”
“I didn’t know.” Sam leaned one elbow on the armrest, using the other to palm the steering wheel around a sharp corner. Casual. Be casual about this Spencer talk. “Then I guess I’ll be out of a job when your dad stretches his mighty muscles again.”
“He’d get you fired in a second flat,” she said in her colorfully blunt manner. “My family certainly holds no love for yours.”
The word “love” caught in the air, and Sam just let it hang, knowing it would always be out of his reach.
He cleared his throat. “Speaking of tender feelings, because I know how much your brother loves mine, how is Chad?”
Ashlyn’s voice seemed drained of its amused energy. “He’s hardly changed since you played football in high school. Still in Switzerland, married to a very forgiving wife. Coming back someday, I’m sure.”
Again, Sam thought about the rumors concerning Chad and Meg Cassidy. But that was tired news in Kane’s Crossing. His brother ignored it, and Sam did, as well.
“So,” she continued, switching the subject. “I know I asked before, but why did you decide to come back to town? I heard you lived in D.C.”
The new conversational topic put him on guard, not only because she’d done it so jarringly, but because he was doing his best to forget about the past.
Flashes of crying children, an explosion lighting their eyes, haunted him. Echoes of screeching tires racked his brain.
“It was time for a change,” he answered gruffly.
And she didn’t push it. She must have sensed his disquietude, because she shifted her position, turning to stare out the window at the passing night. A closed-down filling station and gnarled trees streaked past, all a part of the shaded world that probably held a lot more colors and excitement for her than it did for him.
Ashlyn watched the world go by. Kane’s Crossing and the town’s Saturday Evening Post ambience could have fooled anyone with its innocence—the pristine picket fences, the daisy-petaled flower gardens, the creaking porch swings moaning about darker stories underneath their perfect facades.
The sheriff was right. It was time for a change.
But she’d never be brave enough to take a chance, to move out of her big, expensive house to explore everything outside her gates.
It was safer at home, with her own wing of the mansion, her own studio where she could create sculptures and design jewelry without anyone to tell her it was second-rate or useless. Her self-esteem wasn’t ready to face the big, bad world. Besides, she couldn’t leave her mother, not with the way she begged her only daughter to stay by her bedside, to help her get through countless illnesses.
Sometimes Ashlyn disgusted herself. Yeah, she was Ms. Muscle when it came to tearing down signs welcoming her brother home when he’d last returned from Europe. Yet, she didn’t have the guts to admit that she wanted to help someone in need. Someone like Emma Trainor.
If she had any gumption whatsoever, she’d tell her father how much it hurt every time she came in second place to Chad. Every time he glowed when he introduced the favorite son. Every time his face fell when he introduced her, if he bothered.
Stewing about it wouldn’t help. She’d known that for years. That’s why she’d gotten into the habit of ingratiating herself with the townsfolk by poking fun at her family’s royal image, cracking jokes with the old men on the general store porch while sipping bottled sodas, running with her girlfriends in the nearby creek with her dress hiked over her knees. All so very un-Spencer-like.
What they didn’t know is how the flippancy had left her feeling a little dead inside.
“Miss Spencer?”
Sam. Sam Reno. She hadn’t forgotten he was in the same car with her. And how could she forget, with his woodsy cologne faintly lingering in the air? A mix of freshly fallen leaves and spice mingling to disturb her thoughts.
“You can call me Ashlyn,” she said, still facing the window, looking to her heart’s content at his reflection. She slowly turned to face him, cuddling into the seat, seeing if he reacted to her movements.
Of course he didn’t. Had his expression always been so stony, so devoid of animation?
She sat up a little straighter, game lost. At least she’d get a response from her father tonight, whether or not it was for the best.
He bit back his words with the tightening of his mouth, and she thought about how much moving to D.C. had changed him. His Doc Martens were too new, hadn’t been broken in just yet. The same went for his
