But today, she had the police strolling up her front walk. Or at least, the sheriff. Bryce Collins gave her a quiet smile, and she forced herself to return it. He seemed a nice enough man. Tall and broad-shouldered, his gray eyes were always calm and steady, as if he could reassure people with a simple glance. And maybe that worked on most people.
However, it wouldn’t be working on Lily. Bryce Collins was going after Mari. Making it seem to the people of Binghamton that she was actually guilty. And from what she’d heard, he should have known better. Mari and Bryce had been as good as engaged several years ago—until Mari had gone off to medical school.
And maybe Bryce was just nursing a grudge, but whatever his reason, it seemed ridiculous to Lily that he could suspect a woman he’d once loved.
“Was driving by. Saw you kick that pot,” he was saying in a soft, amused tone. “Figured you might want a little help moving it.”
Lily stared at him for a long minute. Across the street, the Johnson boys were still snapping caps, the sharp, staccato bursts of sound like an overgrown clock ticking off seconds. Kevin’s lawnmower hummed in the background, and at the end of the block a car engine revved. A perfectly ordinary summer day.
Except for the fact that she had the town Sheriff offering to play landscaper.
“Shouldn’t you be out arresting Mari or something?” she snapped and instantly regretted it. Antagonizing the man was not the way to win him over to the truth.
Bryce’s gray eyes narrowed, full lips thinned into a grim slash across his face. A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“I’m sorry,” Lily said quickly, lifting one dirt smudged hand to smooth her hair back from her face. “I tend to say whatever I’m thinking and, believe me, that’s gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years.”
His expression didn’t soften. “Can’t imagine why.” Sarcasm dripped off every word, and Lily winced.
“Right. Look.” She took a step forward, ignoring the ache in her toe. “You seem like a nice, intelligent, reasonable man…”
“But?”
“But—” Lily threw both hands high and let them slap down to her thighs “—I do not understand how a reasonable man could possibly suspect Mari of anything criminal.”
“Ms. Cunningham, I’m—”
“Lily.”
He caught himself, nodded and said, “Lily. I’m not going to discuss an ongoing investigation with you. That’s police business.”
“Investigation.” She snorted the word. “That you should be investigating Mari at all is criminal.”
He tensed and that muscle in his jaw twitched again.
“Fine,” she said, “we won’t talk about it. But you should be doing some serious thinking, Sheriff.”
Finally, a flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Is that so?”
“Yes. You should be thinking about who would want to make Mari look guilty.”
Amusement fled, and once again his gray eyes were steady and cool. He met her gaze for a long, silent moment before he said, “Trust me, ma’am. I’m doing a lot of thinking.”
Lily watched him closely. There was more here than met the eye. Despite how it might look to the rest of the town, Lily now had the distinct impression that a large part of Bryce Collins knew damn well that Mari wasn’t involved in the drug ring. His problem was, she guessed, that being sheriff, he was forced to run down every possibility.
Whether he believed it or not.
Lily nodded slowly, took a deep breath and then let it out again. “Okay, Sheriff,” she said softly, “I will trust you.”
One corner of his mouth lifted. “Thanks.”
“For now,” she added, just so he would know that if she thought he was barking up the wrong tree again, she’d be right there to tell him so.
He smiled and gave her a look of approval. And Lily thought that once this whole mess was behind them, she and Bryce Collins might be able to be friends.
“So,” he said. “You want some help moving that pot?”
They might have their differences, but Lily was no dummy. Why turn down a big, strong man when he’s offering help? “You get that pot up onto the porch—and the matching one, too—and I’ll pour iced tea.”
“You’ve got a deal.” Bryce walked to the first pot and stared down at the rioting petunias. “Look real pretty, don’t they?”
“Yes,” Lily said on a resigned sigh. “But that’s only because they don’t realize just how close death is.”
“Does anybody?”
“Guess not,” she said, shivering as a small chill crawled along her spine. “I’ll go get that tea.”
Chapter Four
Ron thought he was just a little too old to be staying up all night thinking about a great pair of legs and big brown eyes.
Apparently, though, his body didn’t agree.
Damn it, Lily Cunningham was making him nuts. And that wasn’t an easy thing to pull off. He was known throughout Kentucky as one hardheaded son of a bitch. When it came to business, Ron wrote the book on how to be focused. How to win by wearing your opponent down. How to never surrender. Never let the other guy see you sweat.
Well, he was sweating now.
And it had nothing to do with business.
Maybe it had to do with being trapped in the damn condo he’d thought was such a great idea a year ago. Smaller than the house he’d shared with Violet—the place where they’d raised their kids and laughed and loved—the condo was supposed to be easier on him. No memories to cloud his mind. No mementos of years gone by to tug at his heart and make his soul ache.
Instead, the place bugged the hell out of him.
For the exact reason that there were no memories there. It was empty. Devoid of character, charm, life. It was a place to sleep and eat and escape. It wasn’t his home. He’d lost his home when he’d lost Violet.
Grumbling to himself, Ron sipped his coffee and moved out through the French doors to the balcony leading off the small dining room. The trees were still dripping water from last night’s storm. Drops fell in a staccato rhythm from shiny green leaves and sounded like dozens of heartbeats.
How long had it been since there’d been another heartbeat in his house, he wondered. But he didn’t even have to guess. He knew exactly how long. Since Violet died ten years before.
Oh, he was no monk. He’d never been the kind of man to go for long stretches without the company of a woman. Most of his life that woman had been Violet. After she died, it had taken nearly a year for him to find the heart or the energy to seek out company. There’d been dinner dates and country weekends. But he’d never taken any of his dates to the house he’d shared with Violet. It would have seemed like a betrayal of everything they’d shared.
And once he’d moved out and sold that house—leaving behind the gardens Violet had tended with such loving care—he’d gone on as he had been. There were still dates and weekends and women. But none of them had meant enough to him to bring them into his home.
He’d never even considered it. So why, he wondered, was he imagining Lily here? He could almost see her, standing on the balcony and looking out over the forest behind the condo. If he tried hard enough, he could almost see the morning breeze lift her blond hair off the collar of the pale-green silk