Cold Comfort (15 page)

As she entered the kitchen area, Spike appeared, winding around her feet. She put the coffee on and set the oven to heat the cornbread, then fed the cat. While the coffee perked, she checked the fire. During the night it burned down to a few glowing coals, and the cold seeped into her body. She separated a couple of the smaller logs from the stack Ray left and put them on the fire, hoping they'd catch. Her house had small coal-burning fireplaces, and wood fires were new to her.

Now that it was morning, she wondered about this house, what she could see. Last night's rain blocked everything—they could be next door to a subdivision for all she knew. She pulled back the rough homespun curtains and raised her hand to shield her eyes against the bright light. The rain had stopped. Huge old trees glistened under a layer of ice, dark sentinels in the wide slope of frozen lawn. Beyond, water spanned the horizon. The early sun reflected off the ice-laden trees and sparkled on the water, creating a diamond-bright landscape.

A boat appeared on the horizon.
The James River
?
We didn't drive far enough to reach Chesapeake Bay.
She knew
most of the York River shore was federal land. Not a house in sight, nothing except a pier and large boathouse off to the left.
Caulking hull
s, he'd said,
chopping wood.
She crossed the room to the window near the door and saw more yard and big trees with woods in the background. Off to one side was a huge stack of firewood. He'd been telling the truth.

An empty ache in her stomach sent her back to the kitchen.

With the innate sense of timing hungry men seemed to have, Riley surfaced the moment she took the cornbread from the oven. As breakfast went, it wasn't much. She poured two mugs of coffee and handed him a chunk of the cornbread. "I had no idea you were the artist. Your work is powerful, beautiful but restless. It draws me in—I feel it." She picked up a canvas of a moonbow above a small sailboat struggling against dark, heavy seas. Looking into it, she could feel the wind, the tension, the hope promised by the faint light.

"Thanks." He glanced at the Romanian painting, now in front of the stack, but didn't comment. He dismissed the subject, saying, "Good cornbread. Sorry there's nothing else in the house."

He clearly didn't want to talk about his paintings, and judging by the brief frown, Romania must be painful for him. Searching for a safe topic, she said, "I need to get some cookies at the bakery on the way in this morning
—
if we can get out."

"We'll try."

She put the mug down on the table and folded her arms. Whatever he found yesterday, it wasn't good news. He would have told her right away. She had to ask. "What happened in Charleston? Did you find my father's family?" After all the years with no contact and no interest, she didn't think of them as
her
family.

"Yes, I talked with Keith, Daniel's brother. Their parents died a few years ago."

"What did he say?" She sensed he was holding back, didn't want to tell her what he learned. "Do you think he could be involved in this?"

"No. He's a nice, ordinary guy, and there's no money or anything going on. He hoped you're doing well, said he remembered you as a nice little thing, polite, pretty."

"And? Riley, whatever it is, I have to know." She steeled herself.

He pushed the hair away from her face, cupped his hand against her cheek. "Daniel's last leave ended in mid February before you were born. They don't believe you're his child."

Blood drained from her head. She blinked to clear her vision and counted. She counted again, using her fingers to be sure. The truth slammed into her. Ten and a half months, and her mother said she came early. She pressed her hands to her stomach. Daniel Spencer wasn't her father.

"I'm sorry, Claire."

"Whose child am I?" She rose and walked over to the window, wrapping her arms around herself. "Couldn't there be a mistake? Maybe she went to visit him in Germany and didn't tell anyone. Maybe I—I don't know." But she knew it was true. All the vague doubts about her birth returned like the tide, and her dreams slipped away like castles in the sand. She didn't realize she was crying until the sharp crystal landscape dissolved into a watery blur.

Riley's arms slid around her, and she leaned back against his solid comfort. When she could speak past the hard lump in her throat, she turned to him. "So who am I? Did they know?"

"No, but he did tell me someone else asked about you recently, a man in Charleston."

"Who? Why? My father?" Hope and fear warred in her heart. Riley must have felt the sudden thumping in her chest because he tightened his arms around her.

"I doubt it." He repeated the description. "Probably too young. Keith guessed early fifties. The guy gave his name as Joseph Applegate. Does that mean anything to you?"

"No." She became aware of herself, clutching Riley's arms, drawing on his strength, and stepped away. Whatever, the problem belonged to her, and she needed to deal with her shattered illusions on her own. She couldn't let herself depend on Riley emotionally. She wiped away her tears with the red sleeve. "Oh," she said, gazing at the soggy wool. "Your robe."

"A gift. I never wear it."

"A gift?"

"From my mother. She won't mind."

"Your mother?" She sounded like a parrot.
Concentrate, Claire.

"Yes. Contrary to popular belief, I have a mother."

His mother. The robe slipped from her mind. Claire barely heard him. She felt betrayed, abandoned in high seas. "Why didn't my mother tell me? I would have understood."

"I don't have any answers. I wish I did."

Sniffing again, she nodded and forced her feelings aside
—
she'd have to think about her mother and Daniel later. It wasn't Riley's problem. She took a deep breath and closed off the pain. Right now, she needed to find out why someone wanted her dead. "Is there any way to find out who my father is?"

"We can try. Maybe Blanche left some records somewhere." He moved past Claire to the window. "The sun will be out today, and the roads will be cleared in another hour."

"Good. Mistletoe will be a madhouse. I need to get in early." She started for the bedroom to put on yesterday's clothes. "Can we swing by my house so I can change?" she said over her shoulder. She slipped into the icy bathroom to dress, glad she didn't have to shower here. She wanted to get home.

"Okay. I doubt if I could keep you away from the store, but I'll be with you every minute. I think these guys are getting desperate. Time is important to them."

She yanked her dress off the shower rod and paused, rested her forehead against the cold tile for a minute.
She didn't need to trip over Riley all day in the shop, have him scare her customers, snarl at the men, but he'd be there no matter what she thought. He was wonderful in many ways—she thought of the warm comfort he'd offered just now—but he reminded her of the Rottweiler she'd thought about. The scene with Lloyd, the way he glared at people—his protective instincts could get out of hand if she let them. Part of it, she figured, pulling the dress over her head, was that he didn't believe she could take care of herself. She reached behind and yanked up the zipper. Of course she couldn't defeat someone in hand-to-hand combat, but there were ways to avoid those situations—especially now that she was alert to the possibilities. She fished a brush out of her handbag and snapped it through her hair, making it crackle, but she stayed away from the stitches. She didn't plan to discuss everything with Riley—he'd issue commands and they'd argue, and she had no intention of letting him direct her every move. Since Riley'd put her on the right track—she shied away from Blanche's perfidy—she had her own ideas of where to go next.

McClellanville. Dr. Clary, who'd delivered her. She needed to see him. She opened the door and stepped out, gestured toward the bathroom. "All yours." She sat by the fireplace to wait.

He came out of the bedroom in minutes with wet hair, buttoning a plaid wool shirt over a white T-shirt. She guessed the leather strap across his chest was a gun holster. Her stomach flipped. "Do you really think they'll come to the shop?"

"Not unless they have to." He left the shirt hanging out over his pants.

"You don't think anything could happen to Mary and Damien, do you?" Horror leached the blood from her brain.
No!
She had to get to the bottom of this. It couldn't continue.

"If they show up, I want you to hit the floor and roll under anything handy. Just do it fast."

Chapter 11

Claire and Riley arrived first. Mary and Damien got to the shop a few minutes later, and Denise, the pretty blonde part-timer, arrived just before the store opened. Claire stood back and listened while Riley explained. There could be a problem, he said, and if he yelled, they should drop to the floor and tell any customers nearby to do the same. Denise asked a few questions but opted to stay and work when Claire gave her a choice. The girl found it exciting. Claire, watching her, thought it was more likely Riley she found exciting.

After he went to check the front of the shop and move a couple of trees to give himself a vantage point not visible from the door, Claire spoke quietly to Denise. "This is serious. Mr. Riley's here to do a job, and although it's unlikely anyone will come in here, you don't want to be in the way if they do."

Chastened, the girl nodded. It turned out Denise didn't have time to think about Riley. Damien opened the door to a small crowd of people. Busy was an understatement for Saturday at the shop. Claire tucked McClellanville in the back of her mind, like saving a new book to be brought out when she had time to savor it.

* * *

At noon, Riley called the café to order hamburgers. He and Damien disappeared into the back and ate, but the women only popped in for an occasional bite. After his hasty lunch, Riley dutifully went back into the store.

Because he wanted to stay near the front, he asked Damien to bring the stock out to him. The first few times the boy handed him a box of ornaments and returned to the stock room, Riley didn't know what to do with them. Denise made her way over to show him, and Riley found himself placing delicate ornaments on trees when eager customers plucked the originals like ripe plums. He cursed under his breath and hung a painted gold ball on a limb. A cobalt glass bell dropped to the floor and shattered.
Shit
. This was a far cry from his usual cases. He belonged in back alleys and shipyards. He hadn't been to his family home in years, losing the habit during his years on active duty, taking care never to involve them in his sordid world of intrigue and lies, sometimes murder. Instead, he turned to painting for solace, and it had become part of him. He'd also thought he was pretty tough, able to endure pain and discomfort, until he took this job.

Another customer smiled and asked him to hand her a glittery angel from high on a tree. He fingered the outline of the Glock—
I should've shot the bastards the other night and been done with it.
The little fantasy gained in appeal with each ornament.

As far as he could tell, Claire never took a break and never stopped smiling. Once, he caught her hurling a box of broken ornaments into the back room, chanting "Damn it, damn it,
damn
it," the little tantrum her only sign of weakness. He'd laughed at her, but afterward, she returned to the floor, the gracious smile back in place.

He felt inferior by comparison. By three he was counting minutes, longing for six when Mistletoe closed. All of them, even Damien, held up better than he did. The constant confusion of excited children and shoppers gave him a headache. He almost wished one of Claire's attackers would come into the shop, just so he could chase him out into the relative calm of the streets. For a man who loved quiet and solitude, this was hell.

His condition must have been obvious. He overheard Claire whispering to Mary. "Will you call Ray to come in early? I think Riley's in serious trouble. The bad guys may be no problem, but the Christmas shoppers are about to do him in."

What could he say? She was right.

She appeared at his elbow and touched his arm. "The cavalry's just over the hill. Go wait in my office. There's fresh coffee and a bottle of aspirin, and Louie's sending over some soup."

He went. A Brahms intermezzo greeted him from the portable CD player, and the coffee smelled wonderful; the apple scent of hot cider turned his stomach. He'd just settled in Claire's chair, propped his feet on her desk, when she came in with a Styrofoam container of chicken soup. Her matter-of-fact attitude soothed him. No fuss, no hovering. She handed him the soup, turned those rich cerulean eyes on him, and left, closing the door behind her. Brahms lulled him, the aspirin eased his headache, and the soup warmed his soul. He wondered if his soul resided in his stomach. He refused to consider any other possibilities.

A few minutes later, Ray stuck his head in the door. "Stay put, man. I'm on door duty. I can stand it for an hour or two."

Riley started to protest, then thought better of it. His mother always told him to be thankful for small favors. "How do they do it? This is the longest day of my life."

Ray laughed at him. "Yeah. It's a nightmare this time of year. My nephew's an unnatural man. I think I better talk to him." He poured himself a cup of coffee and started out the door. "Even the bad guys have more sense than to compete with Christmas shoppers."