Allison Leigh - A Montana Homecoming

She leaned against the wall. “What do you want, Sheriff?”

He doffed his hat, balancing it on his knee. His hair was darker than it used to be. Particularly near the nape of his neck where it was cut severely short.

The last time she’d seen Shane so closely, his shoulders hadn’t been quite so wide, his chest not quite so deep, his forearms, where his white shirtsleeves were rolled up, not quite so sinewy. And his deep-gold hair had been long enough at the nape for her fingers to tangle in it.

She swallowed and looked away. Her gaze fell on his SUV. Sheriff.

She swallowed again. “I saw your father earlier. I was sorry to hear about your mother.” Holly Golightly had been his stepmother, actually, but Laurel knew he’d considered her his only mother, since his natural mother had walked out on her family when he’d been very young.

“Cancer. It was fast,” he supplied. “And a long time ago.”

“Does that make it hurt less? Time?”

His wide shoulders rose and fell. “Yeah. But it doesn’t stop us all from missing her. I moved back to Lucius when she got really bad, and decided not to leave again once she was gone.” The toe of his boot jiggled. “This place isn’t safe for you.”

She exhaled, impatience swirling through her. “I’m a big girl. I think I can avoid the bad steps until they’re fixed.”

“Who is going to fix them?”

“I will.”

His eyebrows rose. “Really.”

“Yes, really.”

“Gonna buy the lumber. Get the tools. Rebuild the supports that are rotting underneath.”

“If I have to.” She propped her hands on her hips. “Women are perfectly capable of—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He stood. “I’m not getting into that argument with you. I know plenty of women who can frame a house better than men. My point is that you’re a—”

“A what?” She angled her head.

“A third-grade teacher,” he finished mildly, and smoothly circled her wrists, turning her palms upward. “Without a single callus on these pretty hands of yours to indicate you’re accustomed to this sort of work.”

She curled her fingers into fists. He wasn’t being chauvinistic. His attitude was strictly based on what he knew—or thought he knew—of her.

“I’m perfectly capable of learning.” And hadn’t she learned her lesson where Shane Golightly was concerned?

His thumbs worked across the knobs of her knuckles. Soothing. “Of course you’re capable of learning anything. That’s not the point.”

The point. Remember the point. “This house is the only thing left of my father. Maybe I don’t want to abandon it the way he abandoned me.” She pulled her hands away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot of things to take care of this afternoon, not least of which is planning a funeral.” She reached for the screen door, turning away from him.

“Laurel.”

Why did hearing her name on his lips make her heart still skip? She didn’t want to hesitate, but she did. “What?” When he didn’t respond, she finally looked back at him.

His eyes were unreadable. His expression no more helpful. Did she even know this man anymore?

“Be careful,” he finally said.

She nodded once. “I plan to be.” Then she went inside.

The funeral service for Laurel’s father was on Friday morning, just three days after she arrived in Lucius.

Beau Golightly handled most of the details. When they’d met to discuss the service, he’d told her that Roger had left a plan a few years earlier. What hymns he wanted sung. What scripture readings.

The fact that Roger had left any sort of instructions had stunned Laurel.

He’d even prepaid for an arrangement of flowers, had prearranged his burial, had done nearly everything.

The only thing Laurel had done was purchase him a new suit, and she’d had to depend upon the funeral home director to advise her on the size.

She could have avoided that particular embarrassment if she’d only had the nerve to enter her parents’ bedroom.

But she hadn’t.

Picking out the navy-blue suit, white shirt and burgundy striped tie at the new department store on the far end of town was the most familial task she’d performed for her father in twelve years. And he had to be deceased for her to even be allowed the task.

She’d gone back to his house and had a glass of wine, after she’d delivered her purchases to the funeral home, and had felt guilty that she’d been unable to shed any tears.

She should be able to cry for her father, shouldn’t she?

Even now, sitting in the front row of the Lucius Community Church while a woman Laurel had never before met played “Amazing Grace” on the organ and Beau Golightly stood at the pulpit with his Bible in hand, and the unprepossessing casket rested ten feet away from her, Laurel wasn’t able to summon any tears.

Maybe there was still something wrong with her, after all.

There were no other mourners. She hadn’t expected there would be. Roger had worked for the town of Lucius all of his adult life. Even after the charges in her mother’s death had been dismissed against him, he’d kept his job with the town. He’d certainly never considered leaving Lucius to join her in Colorado, even though she’d asked him.

There was a small arrangement of summer flowers that had been sent by his department.

But there were no people who’d interrupted their day to attend his final service. Even the funeral home director, who was there to take care of transporting the casket, had chosen not to come in for the service but was waiting outside.

Nobody had loved Roger Runyan. Most people hadn’t even liked him. Even before that awful summer, he’d been sullen, standoffish and made it plain that he liked others as little as they liked him.

He may have begun attending church after Laurel left Lucius, but it seemed that nothing else about him had changed.

The organ notes slowly faded, and Beau gave her one of his unbearably kind looks. He opened his Bible and began to read.

Laurel closed her eyes and prayed for forgiveness. She’d loved her father, even if he hadn’t loved her.

So what was wrong with her that she couldn’t cry for him, now?

For a moment—a weak moment—she almost wished she’d asked Martin to come. Despite the way she’d left him only a few weeks earlier, he would have been here for her.

Which would have been as wrong as going through with the wedding.

A rustle sounded behind her and she glanced over her shoulder, starting as two people slid into the pew.

Evie and Stu Golightly.

She would have recognized them anywhere.

Evie, with her short, fluffy blond hair and blue eyes, and Stu, with his brown hair and eyes. He was Shane’s twin, but the resemblance between them was limited to their size and facial structure.

Evie sat forward, closing her hand over Laurel’s shoulder. “I had to find a sitter for my kids,” she whispered, “or we’d have been here on time.” She squeezed her hand a little, then sat back and pulled a hymnal from the rack on the back of Laurel’s pew and dropped it on her brother’s lap.

“I didn’t expect anyone,” Laurel whispered, feeling numb. This had to be Beau’s doing.

Evie’s smile was sympathetic and very much like her father’s. “Maybe not, but here we are.”

Beau continued reading, his voice beautiful and soothing and after a moment Laurel gathered herself enough to turn back around in her seat. Then the organist played again. The small congregation rose and sang the two hymns that Roger had requested. And that was it.

The end.

There was to be no graveside service, in accordance with Roger’s wishes, and Laurel rose as Beau stepped down from the pulpit and approached her. “Thank you.” She held out her hands to him.