Cynthia Thomason - Blue Ridge Hideaway

Dorie shifted the Ranger into Park a couple dozen feet from the structure. The man must have been oblivious to the not-so-stealthy approach of her eight-year-old truck since he didn’t interrupt his work to check out her arrival. Flecks of brown paint fluttered to the ground as he scraped a putty knife under the eaves of the building’s large screened porch.

She turned off the engine, and the truck made its customary hundred-thousand-mile wheeze, a cross between a cough and a hiccup, and Dorie held her breath. No way the man could ignore that sound.

He turned suddenly, dropped the putty knife to the tray attached to the ladder and pulled foam-covered earbuds from his ears. He peered into the window of her truck. Dorie’s gaze connected with his dark eyes, the color indistinct in the shadow of the building’s overhang. Could be deep brown or charcoal. She wondered why it mattered. He wasn’t Clancy. From the relaxed way he balanced his substantial height on the ladder, he had to be at least thirty years younger than the stoop-shouldered man she’d come to find. Gripping the mace, she exited the car and stood by the driver’s door.

“Hey, there,” the man said, his voice exhibiting neither malice nor welcome. “We’re not open yet. Not for another month.”

“Fine with me,” Dorie said. “I’m not here to take advantage of your services....” She glanced into the porch and noticed assorted outdoor furniture stacked up, apparently not in use at this time. “Whatever those services may be,” she added.

The earbuds dangling over his shoulders, he stepped down from the ladder and flicked a button on an MP3 player attached to the top flap of his jacket pocket. “Okay, then what can I help you with? You take a wrong turn?”

The sad irony of his question almost made her laugh out loud, though this guy couldn’t know the downward spiral the past six months of her life had taken.

“I’m looking for someone,” she said. “A man.”

His mouth quirked up in a little grin. “Like I said, we don’t open for more than four weeks. You might have more luck finding one then.”

She released a breath of frustration. “You don’t understand. I was told a particular man might be here. I’ve driven a long way to find him. His last name is Donovan.”

He walked toward her. A slight limp in his right leg contrasted with the fluid movement of the rest of his body. He held out his hand. “Well, then, you’re in luck, after all. I’m Donovan.”

She stared at his hand as she backed away from him. “No, you’re not Donovan.”

He dropped his hand to his side and pierced her with a sharp gaze, with eyes that she now realized were dark brown, like the color of a pinecone. His look was half puzzlement, half irritation. “I’m sorry, but you’re not likely to win this argument,” he said. “I do know my own name.”

She wasn’t handling this well. She was nervous, tired and, of all the outcomes she’d gone over in her mind during the drive from the Outer Banks, the possibility of finding two men with the same name in the same place wasn’t one of them. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m looking for Clancy Donovan. Do you know him?”

“Clancy, eh? You’re close. I’m Bret Donovan.”

He was about to speak again as a shout came from the side of the building. “I heard a car. Who...?”

Holding a scrub brush, Clancy Donovan stopped dead, dropped a bucket of murky water next to his rubber boots and gaped at Dorie. After a few seconds during which he obviously pondered the ramifications of her appearance, he said, “Oh, shoot. Dorie. How did you find...?”

She advanced on him. “You sorry son...”

“Watch your language,” Clancy said. “We’ve got a child living here.”

She pressed her lips together and did a quick survey of the property. She didn’t see a kid, but decided to try and rein in her temper, anyway.

Bret quickly blocked her path. “Luke isn’t due back until tomorrow. You know that,” he said to Clancy. Then, turning to Dorie he said, “Looks like you’ve found what you came for.”

She tried to sidestep him. He put his palms up and stepped with her, a frustrating no-win dance she didn’t appreciate. “You’re not going to keep me away from him,” she said.

While staring into Dorie’s eyes, Bret spoke to Clancy. “I take it you know this woman, Pop?”

Pop? Clancy has a son? He’d never mentioned having any family. She’d thought he was a lonely old man, a conniving lonely old man who drew unsuspecting victims into his seedy con games. At any rate, she’d never have picked this Bret fellow to be Clancy’s offspring. He was at least five inches taller than his father, and despite the catch in his walk, definitely an impressive guy. And, since everyone knew blood was thicker than water, possibly a dangerous one.

She flexed her grip around the mace and positioned the index finger of her right hand on the spray trigger in case this encounter turned into a two-against-one situation.

“He knows me all right,” she said. “Tell him, Clancy. Tell him just how well you know me.”

Bret’s face tightened into a frown of disapproval and Dorie realized how he might have interpreted her words. “Not like that!” she said. “How could you think...?”

He removed a stained Florida Marlins ball cap, pushed strands of hair off his forehead and resettled the hat low on his brow. “Let’s all calm down a minute.” He held his calloused, long-fingered hand out toward Dorie a second time. “Look, Miss...”

“My name’s Howe,” she said, keeping her hand on the trigger. “Dorinda Howe. Dorie.”

He lowered his hand again. “Dorie, I’d feel a whole lot better if you’d put away that can of pepper spray.”

She’d thought she’d concealed the canister from view. “How did you know...?”

“It’s an old habit from a previous profession. Back in those days, I never approached anyone without looking at what might be in their hands. That applies especially to unannounced visitors who seem to have a serious ax to grind about something.” He cocked his head to the side and managed a small grin. “But here’s a tip. If you want to be really sneaky with that thing, you should choose a color other than hot pink.”

Very funny. She didn’t bother explaining to him that she came from a worse-for-wear seaside village with a rowdy population and a high crime rate—a far cry from the typical Outer Banks tourist spot. Canisters of mace went fast, black being the popular seller. Maybe it was just as well he knew about her weapon. Neither of these men would try anything, knowing she could temporarily send them into fits of coughing with a couple of well-aimed bursts.

“I think I’ll hold on to it, junior,” she said. “If it’s all the same to you.”

He scowled but didn’t press her to give up her protection. “Fine, but at least put it in your pocket. I don’t want it going off accidentally.”

There was something rational and calming about the level tone of his voice, and Dorie decided to trust him that far. Besides, a damp, bitter wind had suddenly swept down from the mountaintop, and she needed both hands to zip up her parka.

Bret turned to his father. “Pop, I think you’d better tell me what’s going on.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, and glared at Clancy. “Go ahead, tell him, Pop. And while you’re filling your son in with all the details about our recent history, I’m going to be right here listening to every word just so you don’t forget to mention the exact amount of money you owe me.”

* * *

BRET HAD A bad feeling about this. In the forty-eight hours since his father had arrived without notice, nothing suspicious or sinister or even questionable had happened. Bret had allowed himself to ease into a sort of complacent acceptance of Clancy’s appearance even though gut instinct told him to keep his guard up—what he usually did when his dad was in his life. And now this—a woman about as mad as a hen in a hatbox threatening the peace and tranquility he’d come to the mountains to find. Past experience had taught him that this woman’s desperate situation, whatever the details, was probably Clancy’s fault.