Ranch At River's End

Angry tears stung her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. No one besides her aunt and uncle knew what Christopher had done—or at least she’d thought so. The local news had covered the story on all channels, but as a minor, Chris’s name had been left out, both on television and in the newspapers.

But why else would someone paint the word on their garage door?

Who would be so quick to judge her and her son with such hatred? Her landlord would be livid. And here she’d always thought of the little Colorado mountain town of River’s End as peaceful, welcoming.

“Holy crap!” Christopher exclaimed. His face clouded over. “I told you we shouldn’t have moved here.”

Darci only shook her head. She went inside the house and put her cowboy hat on the closet shelf, then changed into a faded old shirt before going back outside. She entered the garage via the side door and rummaged through some boxes she hadn’t yet unpacked, Chris tagging at her heels. Tears stung her eyes. She would not let some stranger’s horrible actions get to her.

“Paint thinner, paint thinner…” she mumbled. Had to be here with the other odds and ends she’d brought with her for household repairs. There.

Darci lifted the container from the box, along with some clean rags and a pair of rubber gloves. She’d have to make a trip to the hardware store and get a can of matching yellow paint to completely obliterate the word. Suddenly she felt angry, and that anger was directed at Christopher.

Her own child had made her life a living hell, and she’d had enough. Every penny of her small nest egg was meant to carry her and Chris along until she had a steady paycheck coming in. And now because of her son’s stupid actions and some hateful vandal, she had to waste money on paint for what had been a perfectly fine garage door just this morning. Who had had the nerve to do this in broad daylight anyway?

Biting her lip to keep her tears and frustration at bay, Darci tossed the rag at her son. “Here. Clean that off.”

“Why do I have to clean it?”

“Maybe because you’re the reason for it,” Darci snapped, then took a deep breath at the stricken look on her son’s face. “Chris, I’m sorry. Christopher!” But he was already pushing his way through the screen door to the house, letting it slam behind him. “Chris!”

He ignored her. Since his father had left a year ago, Christopher had changed from a quiet boy who loved to read, hike and skateboard to a troublesome young man Darci barely recognized as the child she’d given birth to. These past couple of days, he’d seemed more like his old self again, settling in to their new home better than she’d hoped—or so she’d thought.

Silently, Darci berated herself for directing her anger at him. He was still her son. She got to work with the rag and paint thinner. To her surprise, Christopher came back outside with a larger rag in his hand.

“I’m sorry, Chris,” she repeated. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. I just can’t believe trouble has followed us here so fast.”

“It’ll never stop,” Chris said, his face nearly as red as the paint he viciously scrubbed. “I made one dumb mistake, and now—”

“It will stop,” Darci said. It had to, or she’d lose her mind. “We have to believe that. It’s just going to take a little time.”

He grunted. “I doubt that.” He indicated the smeared graffiti. “No one wants us here. We could move to China and everybody would still hate me.”

“No one hates you,” Darci said, wishing she could believe her own words. For one moment, Christopher looked like the little boy she used to cradle in her lap when he skinned his elbow riding his bicycle. “People are afraid of what they don’t understand, and sometimes they react in inappropriate ways.”

“Now you sound like Dr. Kingsley.” That was Chris’s psychologist in Northglenn, who’d referred them to Nina Drake.

“Hey, don’t forget you’ve got me. And Aunt Stella and Uncle Leon.” Darci’s father had left her mother when Darci was a child, and her mother hadn’t been a very good grandmother to Christopher. But then, she lived in California and mostly only saw him on the occasional holiday. Likewise, his father’s parents were too busy with their fishing business for Chris. “Now come on, let’s not let some jerk spoil our weekend.”

Darci worked beside the son she loved, no matter what he’d done. She hated having to uproot him from everything familiar. From the place where he’d lived most of his life…from the people he knew…

The move hadn’t been any easier on her than it had on him. But what choice did she have?

No one in the Denver area wanted a kid in their neighborhood who had taken a realistic-looking gun to school and terrified a cafeteria full of students.

CHAPTER THREE

JORDAN DRAKE SLOWED his SUV as he passed the pale yellow house in the middle of his quiet, tree-lined block. The house had been vacant up until a few days ago, but now a petite woman with short blond hair and a young boy were busy scrubbing what looked like graffiti from the door of the attached garage.

Darci? Unlikely. But as she turned in profile, he recognized her—and that was her little red Chevy parked in the driveway. He’d had no idea she lived down the street from him.

He frowned at the graffiti. They’d already wiped away part of it, but Jordan could make out what was left of the word leave.

What was that all about?

“Dad, someone moved into Mimi’s old house,” Michaela said. “Oh, my gosh, it’s the lady who helped us with our tire yesterday.”

“It sure is.”

“Dang! Someone graffitied her garage door. Who would do that in River’s End?”

“I don’t know, honey.”

Crime happened everywhere.

A sudden thought hit Jordan. When the previous tenant—Mimi Hopkins—had lived in the rental house, he’d painted that very garage door for her. In fact, he and Michaela had done the entire exterior of the house and garage for their eighty-year-old neighbor to help her save a little money. Her landlord had agreed to give Mimi a month’s free rent if she looked after the much-needed paint job.

When his neighbor had moved to the assisted-living apartments in town, Jordan had forgotten all about the half gallon of yellow paint still in his shed. Until now.

He slowed the Explorer and pulled halfway into Darci’s drive. She looked up, then laid down the rag she was holding.

He lowered the window as she approached the driver’s side door, her hand cupped over her brow to shade her eyes from the afternoon sun.

“Hi, there,” she said, then grimaced. “We had an uninvited visitor.”

“So I see. How would you like some free paint to cover that up with?”

She raised her brows. “You have some?” Then quickly added, “I’ll pay you for it.”

“No need.” He shrugged. “I painted this house for the woman who used to live here. I’ve still got about a half gallon of that pale yellow sitting in my shed. I don’t need it. You might as well put it to good use.”

She bit her bottom lip, obviously hesitant to accept his offer.

“Consider it repayment for helping me with my tire,” he said, before she could protest.

“That’s not necessary,” Darci said. “I didn’t expect any payment.”

“I know.” He smiled. “I’ll go get the paint. Be right back.” He raised the window, relishing the air conditioning as he put the SUV in Reverse. This late in the day, and the temperature was still rising. Or was it just the way he felt, being so close to Darci?

Idiot, Jordan chided himself. He hadn’t dated in so long—maybe it was Darci’s pretty, blue eyes and cute smile that was affecting him. Or the vanilla perfume she wore. He’d noticed it at the hospital and again when he’d reacted to the sound of the truck backfiring, pressing his body against hers.

She’d felt warm and soft, her smooth skin damp from the rain. Her blond hair was wet, curling a little on the ends. He’d felt a quick rush of attraction right before it was replaced by embarrassment at his overreaction to the noise.

You’re losing your mind, Drake. Just get the paint.

He told Michaela what he was doing, then walked out to the shed, feeling a strange kind of anticipation at the thought of seeing Darci again.

Chewy ran out of the doghouse to greet him, and he paused to scratch the dog behind one ear. The gallon bucket of “lemon ice” was right where he’d left it last spring, sitting on a shelf along the shed’s far wall. He wondered if Darci had a brush or roller. Probably not. Jordan gathered a paint pan, stir stick, an old screwdriver to open the lid and a clean roller, before heading back outside. He hesitated. A tarp. She’d need one to keep from splattering her driveway. Might as well bring his own along, in case she didn’t have one. He opened the driver’s door of his SUV and reached inside to flip the lever beside the seat, raising the hatch. Jordan placed the paint supplies inside, intending to return to the shed for a tarp. For a moment, he stood without moving, staring at the vast, mostly empty cargo space. His stomach churned as Sandra’s voice came to him clearly in memory.