The banister was worn smooth as silk beneath his palm. Cade had a swift mental image of his mother laughing as he and his brothers slid down into his father’s waiting arms. Joseph had caught and deposited each of them with swift efficiency, then lectured them sternly about the danger of falling. But his mouth had twitched with a smile as he warned them, just before he picked them up and packed them into the living room to wrestle in front of the fire.
The world had been a different, happier place before his mother died and Joseph started drinking.
Ten years of watching his father try to drown his grief in a bottle had taught Cade two unforgettable lessons. First, he was never getting married because a man in love could be sucked into hell if he lost the woman. And second, he was never having kids. Because what was the likelihood he wouldn’t repeat his father’s mistakes?
There are too many ghosts in this house, he thought grimly as he started down the upstairs hall.
Five closed doors lined the hallway and Cade automatically strode to the far end before turning the knob and entering the room.
He halted abruptly, his gaze slowly sweeping the room. Like the rest of the house, his childhood bedroom seemed caught in a time warp, preserved just as it was the last time he’d walked out, closed the door and left the Triple C all those years ago. Too tired to deal with the wash of emotions, he slammed the door on the sadness, regret and memories to focus on the old-fashioned brass bed, made up with fresh linens, the blankets and flannel sheets turned back invitingly. Cade dropped his duffel on the seat of a straight-backed wooden chair, unzipping the bag to pull out clean shorts and a T-shirt. He carried them across the hall and into the bathroom. Here, too, all was neat with clean towels and washcloths hung on the bar next to the sink and shower stall.
Cade stripped and stepped into the shower, letting the hot water pour over him, easing muscles that ached after the long hours he’d spent driving. He’d been on the road by 3:00 a.m. each day, taking advantage of the early morning hours and nearly traffic-free highways.
Toweling off, he slid into his shorts and shirt then went back to the bedroom. Climbing between clean sheets, he fell asleep within moments. Unfortunately, falling asleep loosened his control and memories surfaced once more. He dreamed in vivid, brilliant Technicolor and painful detail.
He was ten years old and his mother, Melanie Coulter, had won the National Arts Award for her copper and silver sculptures. He’d flown to New York City with his parents and brothers for the ceremony, his mother glowing with delight as she walked across the stage. Holding the golden statuette in her hands, she told the crowd that her inspiration came from her husband and four sons, whom she adored. Seated in the front row, Cade looked up to see the pride on his father’s face, feel the love and affection in the touch of his big hand on his shoulder. Cade couldn’t imagine ever being sad.
The dreamscape changed, flashing forward two years. Swimming in the creek, Cade and his brothers teased their mother, coaxing her to join them. They’d all swung on the rope over the creek hundreds of times, but this time it broke and Melanie fell, hitting her head on a rock.
In Cade’s dream, it happened in slow motion. And as always, he couldn’t reach her in time. The dark house, graveside service, grief and muffled sobs were followed by the sharp pain of a broken arm.
The phantom pain was so acute that Cade woke, jack-knifing upright in bed.
His heart pounded in his chest and he scrubbed his hands over his face.
“Just a dream,” he muttered aloud. He absently rubbed his bicep where the injury had long since healed.
The upper arm bone was broken when he’d stepped between his father and younger brother Eli during one of Joseph’s drunken rages. It wasn’t the first nor the only time he’d deflected his father’s anger to keep him from hitting one of his younger brothers. Cade had never understood why his father blamed his sons for their mother’s death. He only knew Joseph had plunged them all into a hellish existence when he started drinking the day they buried their mother.
And he still didn’t know, he thought grimly. And even if Joseph had known the answer, he no longer could explain.
Cade stretched out on the mattress and closed his eyes, willing himself to rest undisturbed. This time, his exhausted body took over and he fell into deep, dreamless sleep.
Mariah left for work at the Indian Springs Café before daylight the next morning; the moon rode low on the horizon and stars still glittered in the dark sky. The bunkhouse was dark but lamplight gleamed from the ranch house kitchen and living room windows.
Clearly, Cade Coulter was an early riser. She wondered how he’d spent his first night back in his childhood home after being absent for so many years. Had he felt like a stranger or had he felt welcomed by the old house? She’d grown up in a suburban rambler in a small town in Colorado. Her parents were older when she was born and sadly, she’d lost both of them before she was a senior in college. The house had to be sold to pay her mother’s medical bills. Any remnants of home were long gone.
Mariah couldn’t imagine purposely staying away from her father and a home like the Triple C for long years.
She parked down the street from the brightly lit windows of the Indian Springs Café. Shivering, she left her car, tucking her chin into her muffler and hurrying down the sidewalk. When she pushed open the café door, warmth engulfed her and she sighed with relief.
“Hi, Mariah.” Ed, husband of the café owner, Sally McKinstry, grinned at her, his deep voice booming. “Cold enough for you?”
“Too cold. When’s it going to be spring?” Mariah demanded, shrugging out of her jacket and unwinding her gray knit muffler from her throat. She tugged off the matching hat as she crossed the café to the kitchen entry. One end of the kitchen had a door that led into a small utility room where the walls were ringed with hooks. Mariah hung up her outer things, slipped her purse into a small employee’s locker and spun the dial. She took a clean white apron from the stack just inside the door and walked back into the kitchen, tying the apron strings around her waist as she moved.
Ed was just removing a tray of homemade cinnamon rolls from the oven and Mariah drew a deep breath, closing her eyes at the mouthwatering scent.
“Ed, I swear, if you weren’t already married, I’d propose if you’d promise to bake me cinnamon rolls every morning,” she told him.
He laughed, a deep merry chuckle that echoed in the room. “I’m afraid Sally would skin me alive if I took you up on that.”
Mariah took a tray of frosted rolls from his big hands. “Just my luck.” She winked and left the kitchen to join Sally behind the long counter.
“Were you flirting with my husband?” Sally asked her with a smile.
“Only because of his cinnamon rolls.” Mariah slid the tray of rolls inside the glass counter case, already nearly filled with fresh pies, cakes and Ed’s famous chocolate-caramel bars. “You were so smart to marry a man who can bake, Sally.”
“You’ve got that right.” Sally nodded emphatically, her blue eyes twinkling behind wire-framed glasses. “A husband who can cook is worth his weight in gold.”
Mariah had a swift image of Ed’s big frame and solid muscles. “I can’t afford him,” she determined. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate his bakery items,” she assured Sally.
“Lucky for you free meals are a perk of your job,” Sally told her.
The