She had always been enamored with Jeff Bradford. He hated the guy for that, alone, especially because from the moment Jeff had noticed her, too, Claire had seemed completely smitten.
Even early on, she had talked about living in one of the town’s historic old brick houses, settling down and raising a family here in Hope’s Crossing.
Things hadn’t quite worked out as she planned and Riley knew a moment’s sadness for unrealized dreams. If anyone deserved the life she wanted, Claire Tatum Bradford would have topped his personal list. She’d been through hell as a kid and ought to be first in line for a happy ending.
Was she completely devastated that Bradford had moved on? Riley didn’t want to think so. He had been fourteen when his own mother disintegrated for a while after his old man walked out. He could still remember the nights he would wake up to her sobbing in the living room as they all tried to make sense of James McKnight’s sudden abandonment of his wife and six children.
Another problem he should have anticipated about moving home. Things he hadn’t thought about in years—and didn’t want to waste another moment of his life dwelling on—had a way of pushing themselves to the front of his brain. He quickly turned his attention to Claire’s son.
“Great show.” He shook Owen’s hand with solemn gravity. “Your speech was my favorite of the whole pageant.”
The boy flashed a grin at him. “Thanks. I’m super glad it’s over.”
“Me, too.” A kid with flaming red hair and freckles who had played a highly unlikely FDR in the pageant grinned at him and Riley couldn’t resist smiling back.
“This is Jordie. We’re driving him home,” Owen announced. “His mom and dad couldn’t come see the play ’cause they’re both pukin’ sick.”
His sister rolled her eyes. “Do you have to be so disgusting all the time?”
He shoved his finger in his mouth and made a retching sound until his mother gave him a stern look.
“Carrie and Don have the flu, poor things. I offered to drive Jordan to and from the pageant for them.”
That was just like her, always taking care of everybody else. Apparently that hadn’t changed. “Well, be careful driving out there. Looks like the snow’s finally started. I forgot how lovely spring can be in the Rockies.”
“I have four-wheel drive,” she said.
“Four-wheel drive won’t do diddly-squat if you hit a patch of black ice,” he said, but before she could answer, his cell phone buzzed with the urgent ringtone from Dispatch.
“Hang on, Claire. Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”
She shrugged and finished shepherding the boys into their jackets and gloves while he stepped away to answer.
“Yeah, Chief.” Tammy, the night dispatcher spoke rapidly, her words a jumble. “I just got a call from Harry Lange out on Silver Strike Road reporting a possible burglary in progress at one of the vacation homes near his place. He says the owners were just in town from California last weekend and told him they wouldn’t be back until June but he’s seeing lights inside that shouldn’t be there. He thinks it’s kids. And get this, Harry also reported they might be driving a dark-colored extended-cab pickup truck, just like our suspect vehicle from the robberies.”
“Did he get a plate?”
“No. He said he couldn’t see it from his angle in the dark and didn’t want to move in too close. What should I do? Jess is in the middle of a domestic disturbance over at the Claimjumper Condos and Marty is taking care of a fender bender out on Highland Road. Do you want me to divert one of them or call the sheriff’s department for backup?”
“I can be there faster than anybody else. Have the sheriff send a couple deputies for backup just in case.”
“Right, Chief.”
He was already heading out the door, his adrenaline pumping at a possible break in the case, when he remembered Claire and the kids.
“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ve got an emergency.”
He wasn’t sure whose eyes were wider, hers or the kids.
“Are you going to catch whoever stole my mom’s computer?” Owen asked.
“I intend to,” he vowed.
He gave one last apologetic smile to Claire, then raced out the door. Less than a minute later, he pulled out of the elementary school parking lot as fast as he dared and turned toward the canyon road that hugged the mountainside east of Silver Strike Reservoir.
As he had told Claire, the snow that had been threatening all day had begun to fall, plump fluffy flakes that might look like something off a postcard but played hell with road conditions. Welcome to April in the Rockies.
At least there was little traffic in either direction up the canyon. He was still about two miles from Harry Lange’s place when his dispatcher’s voice crackled through his radio. “Chief, be advised, suspects are believed to have left the premises of the vacation cabin and are now on Silver Strike Road, heading back toward town.”
Which meant they would be coming right at him. He might have missed catching them in the act, but he could still possibly nail them with stolen items from the vacation cabin and then link them to the Main Street break-ins.
“Ten-four, Tammy.”
He wheeled his department SUV around, grateful for all the years he’d driven the mountain back roads and byways around town. This was the only road out of Silver Strike canyon, which dead-ended at the ski resort. The suspects would have to pass him eventually on their way back to town.
He pulled into a turnoff shielded from view from the road by a large pine, then shut off his headlights and killed the engine, lurking in wait for them in the cold.
Normally he hated waiting for anything. His natural impatience, he figured, a consequence of being the youngest of six and the only boy in a house with only two small bathrooms. Seemed like he’d spent half his youth waiting for somebody to finish blow-drying hair or soaking for hours in a bathtub or writing a novel or whatever the hell they did in there.
This was a different sort of wait, just moments before he expected to apprehend a suspect, and he never minded the anticipation.
The suspects in question didn’t give him much time to savor the hunt. Only maybe a minute passed before he heard the rumble of a powerful engine in the cold night, then a dark extended-cab pickup passed him, fast enough that he could nail them for speeding if he couldn’t find any other obvious evidence of criminal wrongdoing.
He waited until they took the next curve before he pulled in behind them. He eased closer and despite the snow that seemed to have picked up in the fifteen minutes since he left the school, he had a clear view of the vehicle, a late-model three-quarter-ton Dodge Ram with a lift kit and a roll bar.
He called in the license plate, still following at a sedate pace.
“Affirmative, Chief. That vehicle is registered to…um, Mayor Beaumont.”
Oh, crap. Riley considered his options. He’d just left the mayor and Mrs. Beaumont at the Spring Fling, so neither could obviously be behind the wheel. What if their pickup had been stolen?
“Don’t the Beaumonts have a teenage son?” he asked on a hunch.
“Yeah. Charlie. Seventeen or so, and a wild one, from what my girls say.”
Charlie, you are in some serious trouble. He was close enough now that he could nail the little punk. He hit his flashing lights and accelerated.
For a moment, he thought it would be easy. After a few seconds, the pickup truck started to slow to around twenty-five miles per hour and Riley tried to focus on driving in the snowy conditions