CHAPTER ELEVEN
“SHE’S B-A-ACK,” Sam Porter announced.
“That so?” Rory Dalton didn’t bother to look up from under the hood of Sam’s ’66 Ford Mustang. Instead, he focused on installing the car’s new water pump.
“Yep. She’s just about to head over the bridge. Aren’t you gonna come look?”
Rory gave the wrench another twist. “I’m busy fixing your car, in case you didn’t notice. Besides, how do you know it’s her?”
“She’s driving a convertible with the top down. A white Camaro. Could be a classic.”
“No kidding.” Rory straightened and regarded his friend, who stood at the open end of Dalton’s Auto Repair. He and Sam had been buddies since they played football for Silver River High ten years ago, and both shared an interest in classic cars.
Sam laughed. “Thought that’d get your attention. Hurry up or you’ll miss her. She travels.”
Rory tossed the wrench on the workbench and trotted over to stand beside Sam. From the shop’s hilltop vantage point, he had a sweeping view of the highway leading into Idaho’s Silver River. Her car was the only one on the road. As Sam said, it was a Camaro. A ’75, to be exact, not quite old enough to be considered a classic. Still, a fine set of wheels.
The car held his interest for only a moment, and then he zeroed in on the driver: Lacey Morgan. Her long, dark brown hair swirled around her face. Sunglasses shaded her eyes, and a sleeveless top exposed her tanned arms.
Rory’s throat went dry.
Just then, she looked up to the hilltop. Rory jumped back, hoping she hadn’t spotted him. He didn’t want her to think he had the slightest interest in her return to Silver River.
Sam shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Wonder how long she’ll be here this time.”
“She never stays more than a week. Just long enough to check on her grandmother.”
“Might be longer. Remy broke her hip. She went straight from rehab to Riverview. Lacey’s here to help her get settled and to clean out her old apartment.”
“I heard about Remy’s accident. I’m sorry she’s had trouble. But how do you know so much? Or would that be violating lawyer-client confidentiality?”
Sam laughed. “Not at all. That bit of info comes from Ida Capshaw. She’s our paralegal, you know, and she plays bridge with Remy.”
“Ah.” Rory stepped forward again in time to see Lacey’s car sweep over the bridge and join the traffic on Main Street. Then a delivery truck pulled in behind her, and she was lost from his view.
He gave his head a quick shake and frowned at Sam. “Why are we standing here wasting time when there’s work to be done?”
Sam’s eyebrows peaked. “Because she’s back?”
“So? No business of mine.”
“So you keep telling me. But I have a feeling you’re in for trouble, this time. Big trouble.”
* * *
LACEY MORGAN HEADED down Main Street with the image of Rory Dalton imprinted on her mind. She hadn’t intended to look up at his auto shop when she rounded that last curve in the highway, but she had, and there he had been, gazing down at her as though he’d been waiting for her to drive by. Which was crazy. Why should he care that she’d come to town again? He knew she made the trip from Boise to Silver River periodically to visit her grandmother. When their paths crossed, they said little more than a brief “hello.”
The events of that fateful day ten years ago, just a week before they both were to graduate from Silver River High, with their whole future ahead of them—a future they planned to spend together—had ripped them apart and turned them into strangers.
An overhead banner advertising the town’s annual Silver River Days caught her eye. This year’s dates were August 10–15. She’d be long gone by then. Cleaning out Gram’s apartment and settling her into Riverview would take no more than a week, tops.
Lacey’s boss at the Boise Historical Society was generous about her visits to Silver River, and especially about the extra time she needed for this trip. Even if she’d wanted to stay for the celebration—which she didn’t—she wouldn’t ask for more time off.
Leaving the downtown behind, Lacey was soon in the country again. Rambling mountain ranges surrounded her, and here and there the river popped into view, sparkling in the sunlight.
Another mile brought the turnoff to Sophie’s Bed and Breakfast, where globe lights along the driveway guided Lacey to the Victorian-style house painted bright lavender with white trim.
She parked in the guest lot and pulled her suitcase on wheels up the flagstone walk to the porch. Several middle-aged guests sat in wicker chairs chatting and drinking iced tea. They exchanged “hellos” with Lacey as she passed by.
Inside the house, Sophie Bennett came from around the counter with arms outstretched. “Lacey! I’ve been watching for you.”
“Hello, Sophie.” Lacey returned Sophie’s hug, catching a whiff of her lilac-scented perfume.
