Two thick steaks sat on the kitchen counter, and the green salad made with lettuce from her garden and fresh tomatoes, green peppers and slivered carrots was in the refrigerator, ready for her green goddess dressing. The recipe had been her mother’s and Carolyn hadn’t prepared it in years.

Just as she was about to put everything away and make herself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, she heard a vehicle traveling down her driveway. Walking around the house to the patio, she saw Dave’s truck.

She watched as he climbed out, noticed that he’d showered and changed clothes, wearing clean khakis and a black T-shirt. Standing beside his battered pickup, he didn’t see her at first.

“I didn’t think you were coming,” she said.

He turned to her and his smile engulfed her. “I didn’t think I was, either.”

Her heart was racing. “I’m glad you did.”

“I tried, but I couldn’t stay away.” He moved toward her then, his steps making short work of the distance. When he reached her, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to walk directly into his arms. He embraced her, holding her close.

Carolyn raised her mouth to his and brushed his lips with her own. The kiss was moist and sweet and filled with longing. Dave lifted her braid and ran his fingers down the length of it.

He kissed her again, and again. Finally, with a reluctance that equaled her own, he released her.

“I’ve got steaks ready to grill,” she told him.

“Would you like me to cook them?”

“Please.”

They dined on the patio, drank wine with their meal and savored a second glass. They talked little. It was enough just to be together. As the sun set and the deer grazed in the meadow, they held hands. Every now and then, Dave would kiss her knuckles.

“I’ve never spent time with a woman like this,” he admitted.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s difficult to explain.” He shook his head as if he hesitated to say more.

“No, tell me,” she urged.

“I should go,” he said.

An automatic protest rose to her lips, but she swallowed it and stood up with him. He kissed her, his arms tightening around her waist.

Carolyn’s body ached for him and she knew he experienced the same intense desire.

His gaze held hers, in it she read pain and regret.

“Does it bother you that I own the mill?” she asked.

“The truth is, I wish you didn’t.”

“Why?” The mill was part of who she was, her heritage. Bronson family blood flowed through that mill and she was the third generation to manage its operation. One day she’d be forced to sell it because the Bronson line ended with her, but she wasn’t ready to think about that yet. She had too many goals left to accomplish.

He shook his head again, unwilling to answer.

“It doesn’t bother me that you’re who you are,” she said, knowing she sounded defensive. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It…it doesn’t matter.” She broke away from him and carried their empty plates into the kitchen.

Dave followed with the wineglasses. He took the dishes from her and set them on the counter. Carolyn’s eyes locked with his and she nearly wept at the sadness she saw in him. Tentatively she raised her hand to his face. Her heart was pounding so hard, it felt loud enough to bring down the walls.

“I knew this wouldn’t work,” he said. “I tried to tell myself I’d do whatever was necessary to be with you. Damn the gossip, damn the speculation.”

Carolyn was afraid of where this was leading. He was going to pull up stakes and leave Colville, and she couldn’t bear it if he did. Her life had never felt empty until she’d met him. Now the emptiness was there anytime he wasn’t.

Rather than allow him to continue speaking, she slipped her arms around his neck and brought his mouth down to hers. To her surprise and delight, she met with no resistance.

Dave took control of the kiss, his desire so strong it threatened to consume her. She grabbed his shirt collar, needing an anchor, something to hold on to while her senses went wild.

She gasped when Dave released her. They stood just inches from each other, their breathing harsh and ragged.

“The truth is, Carolyn, I am who I am and you are who you are. I’m basically an itinerant laborer, while you own the most important business in the area. I live in a second-hand camper, while you live here.” He gestured around him. “People will talk. They are already. You think there’s anyone in Colville who doesn’t know about us? They all do and the things they say are going to hurt you. I won’t let that happen.”

“But—”

He gripped her shoulders to stop her. “I’ll put in my two-week notice tomorrow.”

“No!” Without a job, he’d do what he’d always done and simply drift away.

It seemed for a moment that he’d reconsider, but then he shook his head. “I’ll find another job. Somewhere else.”

“How will you support yourself until then?”

“I have very few expenses. I’ll be all right.”

“I don’t care who knows about us!”

He touched her face gently. “I care. I won’t have you talked about around town.”

She knew he meant what he said. Throwing her arms around his middle, she hugged him. “I feel so selfish and guilty for wanting to be with you.”

He stroked her hair and held her close. “I want to be with you, too. I won’t leave you yet.”

“Promise?”

She felt his smile against the side of her face. “Promise,” he whispered.

When the time came, she’d let him go; she had no other choice. But she had to believe her love would draw him back.

CHAPTER 33

Wednesday morning, Susannah found herself wishing she could leave Colville, go home, be with her husband.

She’d done a lot of thinking since she’d talked to Joe. He’d called again last night, and they’d spoken for more than an hour. He’d reminded her of her feelings earlier in the summer, of her restlessness. She’d never divulged the dreams she’d had about Jake and how the memories had returned, haunting her sleep and then later her conscience. As for Jake, she hadn’t found him and didn’t care if she ever did. He was probably living under an assumed name. It was much easier to create a false identity back in the early ’70s than it was now.

Never had she thought that in seeking Jake, she would learn what she had about her brother—if it was true. She still couldn’t make herself believe Doug had been dealing drugs. That would have devastated her father. Devastated the entire family.

She could certainly visit the sheriff’s office and ask a few questions. Although all of this happened more than thirty years ago, the county would have kept the records. Surely they’d be online.

Not wanting to interrupt Carolyn at the mill, Susannah decided to use a computer at the library downtown. She left without speaking to Chrissie. Her daughter had come home late last night. Susannah hadn’t said anything about seeing Troy with someone else; she’d sit on that for a while and learn what she could about this other woman before confronting either Chrissie or Troy.

Susannah drove to the library and logged on to the Internet. However, even with the librarian’s help, she wasn’t able to get into the Colville sheriff’s files.

Next she logged on to the local newspaper archives and did a name search for Jake Presley and found nothing. While she was there, she tried Doug’s name; what came up was the article that reported his car accident. As she read it, tears filled her eyes.

If she’d seen it years ago, she didn’t remember. The newspaper said Doug’s neck had been broken and he’d died instantly. She breathed a sigh of relief that the car hadn’t caught fire and burned. She hated the thought of anyone suffering that way. Self-consciously she reached for her purse and dug out a tissue.

Thanking the librarian for her help, Susannah left a few minutes later and crossed the street to the sheriff’s office. The woman at the front desk, all too obviously watching the clock, seemed eager for her break.

“Hello,” Susannah said as she stepped up to the counter. The clerk was young and probably didn’t remember her father, who’d retired a number of years earlier.

The clerk looked up, glanced at the clock again, and frowned. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I’d like to talk to someone about any charges filed against Doug Leary back in the early 1970s.” She looked for any sign of recognition in the other woman’s eyes but saw none.

“When exactly?” the clerk asked.

“1973.”

The woman shook her head, her short curls bouncing. “All paperwork before 1978 is stored in the basement.”

“Would it be possible to have someone get it for me?”

The clerk stared at Susannah. “You’re joking, right? We’re already short-staffed with two people on vacation.”

“But they’ll be back soon, won’t they?” Susannah pressed.

“No one’s got time to search through the archives unless it concerns a current investigation.”

“This has to do with my brother. He was killed in a car accident and I recently learned that he might’ve been in some kind of trouble. I want to know what that was about.”

Frowning, the clerk shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Greg Dalton was the sheriff in 1973, wasn’t he?” He’d been a good friend of her dad’s.

The clerk turned toward the wall, where a row of photographs was displayed. “Looks like it. That was way before my time.”

“Does he still live in the area?”

The clerk nodded and stood as another woman joined her. “I believe so. I’m taking my coffee break now. If you have any other questions I can call for a deputy—if there’s one handy.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”

All Susannah needed to do was look in her mother’s personal directory for the retired sheriff’s address. He’d played bridge with her father at least once a week for as long as Susannah could remember. She drove back to the house and, without too much difficulty, located the address—Old River Road, a couple of miles out of town.

On the off-chance that he was home, Susannah drove there, then headed down the dirt driveway with the name Dalton printed on the rural route box. When she parked in front of the house, an older woman came to the screen door, holding it open. The house was small, the lawn green and well maintained. A creek flowed along the back of the property.

“Mrs. Dalton?” Susannah asked as she climbed out of the car. She didn’t recall her first name.

“Yes. Can I help you?”

Mrs. Dalton was in her midseventies, a pleasant-looking woman with curled gray hair and a comfortably round figure.

“I’m Susannah Leary. My married name is Nelson.”

“Susannah, of course. It’s so good to see you! How’s your mother doing? I wanted to get into town to visit after your father died, but I swear there just aren’t enough hours in the day.”