Harlequin Superromance March 2014 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Secrets of Her Past\A Real Live Hero\In Her Corner (34 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
HE
FOLLOWING
DAY
Trace found Miranda during her lunch break and pulled her aside. “What the hell are you doing telling Delainey anything about me?” he asked, still angry. “She came to me saying that you'd shared personal details with her about my life, and I didn't appreciate that at all.”

“First of all, calm down,” Miranda said, unruffled by his ire and calmly continuing to enjoy her sandwich. “Yes, I talked to her, and yes, I told her some things. But I think they were things that needed to be shared for everyone's sake. You know, our family is pretty screwed up, and until I got my head on straight I was pissed off most days and blaming everyone but myself for the circumstances in my life. Don't you think it's time to let the past go?”

“You're one to talk. You've only just recently started being the kinder, gentler Miranda, so don't start preaching to me just because you've suddenly had an epiphany.”

“Well, I will preach to you because you're my brother and you're likely going to keep screwing up your life if I don't. You have unfinished business with Delainey, and until you get it figured out, your life is going to suck.”

“Who are you to judge my life? Maybe I like my life just the way that it is and I don't need my nosy little sister poking around where it's unwanted. And I definitely don't need Delainey pitying me either because she thinks she broke me when she left. I was doing just fine until she started coming around again.”

“That's a matter of opinion,” Miranda quipped under her breath, and he returned with a glare.

“Yeah, it is—mine, and I say I was doing just fine.”

“So is that what this visit is all about? You yelling at me for caring about you?” Miranda crumpled her trash, her stare just as hard. “Like it or not, we're family, and if I see an opportunity for you to get over the past, I'm going to take it.”

“How does pushing Delainey at me help the past?”

“Because when she left, you changed, and frankly I need the old you back.”

“What does that mean?”

“You promised me you'd help me with Mom and Dad, and yet you've avoided the situation since you returned from your last trip,” Miranda said, pulling no punches. “I need your help. There was a time when you would've done whatever you could to help and it wouldn't have taken strong-arming you into doing it.”

He stared, hating that she was right. “I've been busy. In case you haven't noticed, my life has been hijacked by the very person you've been trying to shove down my throat.”

“Yes, I heard. Even though Fish and Game is a separate department from Search and Rescue, it seems everyone is twittering about how lucky you are and how lucky the Search and Rescue program is to have a little unexpected cash flow. Not to mention, you're getting a nice little payday from this gig, right?” At his reluctant nod, she said, “And you're getting to hold on to your Junior Search and Rescue program, right?” Again he nodded. “Well, then I say suck it up, put a happy face on and stop being such a sourpuss about it all. So you have to deal with Delainey—something that's well overdue if you ask me—big whoop. Put your big-boy pants on and just deal with it.”

Had his little sister just schooled him? And worse, had he deserved it? Maybe. But he still wasn't happy about Miranda spilling his secrets. They were secret for a reason. “Next time you want to share life stories, keep to your own, okay?” he bit out, but his argument was losing steam. Hell, he was losing his grip on everything since Delainey came back to town. He rubbed at his forehead. “I'll stop by Mom and Dad's after work today. That work for you?”

“Fine by me, but you're on your own this time. Mom doesn't want anything to do with me right now. She's refusing to let me into the house, saying the last time I came over I picked a fight with her. It's not true but that's how she remembers it.”

“How do you remember it?” he asked, knowing Miranda and their mom had always butted heads over one thing or another.

“Talen and I came over to help her clean up. It was so bad I couldn't stay. It smelled like something had died in there, and I didn't know if it was safe for Talen—or any human being—to be in there for too long.”

“What does Dad say about it?”

“Nothing. He never goes in the house any longer. He pretty much lives in his garage.”

“Typical,” Trace muttered. “The old man is content to ignore everything around him while he does whatever the hell he wants. And before you say I've been guilty of the same thing, it's different. My life and schedule is far more hectic than Dad's.”

“I have this instinct to defend him but I can't. That's about the long and short of it right now,” Miranda agreed sadly. “Have you talked to Wade lately? Maybe if Wade came home they'd snap out of their funk.”

Trace shook his head. He hadn't talked to his older brother in a really long time. Terribly long, actually. “It's hard to coordinate our schedules,” he said. “And we're both busy.”

“Yeah, I know. But I think we really need to get him home. He needs to see what's happening, too. Besides, maybe if Wade came home...”

“We'll see,” he said, not sure having Wade return would make things better or worse. Of the conversations he'd had with his older brother, Trace knew Wade had no respect for their father since he'd started growing and selling marijuana, and the two clashed as readily as Miranda and their mother did. “Let me take a look at the situation first and then I'll give you my honest assessment.”

“Do you think you'll have time between being a movie star?”

Trace realized Miranda was teasing him, and he offered a small grin. “I guess I'll have to make time. Do you want my autograph?”

“Only if I can turn around and sell it for big money on the internet,” Miranda quipped. “I have a wedding to pay for.”

He suppressed a shudder and turned to leave. “Better you than me.”

“Maybe someday that'll change,” Miranda called after him, and he answered with a wave as he left her to enjoy the rest of her lunch break.

* * *

D
ELAINEY
SPENT
THE
morning securing her crew and getting their flights scheduled while jotting notes for the reenactment script. She still needed to hire a few actors and find a hotel because Peter had come up empty.

“I'm so sorry,” Peter said, looking wretched at having failed her, but she didn't have time to coddle anyone as panic threatened to rob her of her senses. “I tried to find a hotel with enough vacancies, but we're having a banner moose season and wouldn't you know it, all the hotels are booked solid.”

“Thank you for trying,” Delainey said, forcing a smile as she added “Find Hotel ASAP” to her to-do list. “I have twenty-four hours to find a place to house a crew of eight. At least it's not a full crew,” she said, trying to find the silver lining.

“I feel terrible,” Peter said. “I thought for sure that I could find a place. Maybe not the best of places, but a place to hole up while you're here.”

“It's okay,” she assured him, but her heart was racing. “I'll figure it out. That's what I do—I problem-solve.”

He smiled with relief and she almost wanted to slap him silly, but that was only because she was still out of sorts after her interlude with Trace and definitely confused about why she'd let it happen in the first place.

Trace was like a flu virus—she'd just have to wait out the symptoms. She stomped on any memory that dared to pop its head from her mental cache before she found herself aching for a rematch. Why did Trace know her body so well? Even after all this time, his touch still had the power to make her quake. She thought of the men she circulated around in Los Angeles and she wanted to laugh. There was a marked difference between the men who work out religiously to hone their physique and a man hewn from hard work. Delainey couldn't stand a man with soft hands. She'd discovered that fact about herself in a rather unfortunate episode that had ended with a not-so-great bridge burning.

It'd been her first big producer gig, and she'd been heady with the thrill of being in charge. She'd naively found herself flirting with a big-name actor who was known for his playboy ways. Before she knew it, they were in bed together. But the minute those soft, girlie hands had touched her skin, she'd found her desire deflating like a punctured balloon. Of course, he'd noticed that she'd gone cold and unresponsive, and he'd taken offense. Suffice to say, they would never work together again.

Delainey shook off the horrid memory and chuckled to herself. The actor had paid fanatical attention to his supplements and calorie intake so as to maintain his killer physique, but the man had never worked a hard day's labor in his entire life. Trace ate like a red-blooded American man should—if he could catch it, he could eat it. Trace could trap, fish or track anything. A warmth suffused her body and a private smile followed. Trace, for all his faults, was the sexiest man she'd ever known. And that fact had not changed.

Her cell phone interrupted her musing, and she saw Miranda was calling. They'd exchanged cell numbers after lunch, and it seemed Miranda was keeping up with her promise to keep in touch, though Delainey didn't expect a phone call so soon.

“Hey, Miranda, what's up?” Delainey answered, her mind returning to the problem at hand.

“I heard through the grapevine that you need a place for your crew to hole up for a week or two during your production. I may have what you need,” she said, and Delainey immediately perked up.

“Yeah? How so?”

“Do you remember Otter?” Miranda asked.

“Yeah, sort of. Why?”

“Well, he's been getting into real estate over the years and he just so happens to have a good-size house that just came up for rent. I'm sure if you make him an offer, he'll take it. Otter loves making a deal. I know you were looking for a hotel, but this might do in a pinch.”

“Actually, at this point, any roof over their heads is good for me. Thanks!”

“No problem.” Miranda paused before adding, “Hey, one more thing... Trace came by and he was pretty mad at me for sharing some details about his private life. My guess is that you and him talked?”

Talked? Ha. Perhaps if they'd stuck to talking, there wouldn't be this awkwardness now. But then again, maybe not. “Yeah, we talked. I hope he wasn't too mad with you.”

“Oh, he was but don't worry about that. I can handle my brother. Besides, I didn't say anything that didn't need saying. I really hope you two can work out the kinks from the past. Even if you're not meant to be together, maybe we can work toward being friends again.”

Hearing Miranda say she and Trace weren't meant to be together pinched, even if she'd been saying it for years. It was one thing to think something privately but quite another to have another agree with you. Somehow, it made her want to prove Miranda wrong.

She rubbed her forehead, wondering if she was ever going to feel normal about relationships. She'd run away from the one solid, stable romantic attachment in her life and then found every relationship since lacking. “We'll see,” Delainey said. “Trace and I have some pretty big boulders in our way.”

“Don't we all. But it can happen. You know, I carried a pretty big chip on my shoulder for a long time, but now that it's gone...it makes me wonder why I didn't chuck that thing a long time ago.”

“Well, I don't carry a chip. I don't carry anything with me that doesn't serve the moment,” Delainey said.

“That's how it may seem but we all have baggage, even if we don't realize we're still packing it around.”

“Geesh, the years have turned you into a philosopher,” Delainey teased, half joking. “What happened to my favorite ballbuster, tomboy kind of girl?”

“She grew up,” Miranda answered with a small chuckle. “But I can still shoot better than most men.”

“I believe that,” Delainey said. “I haven't shot a gun in years. I'd probably shoot my damn foot off.”

Miranda laughed. “You and Trace ought to go target shooting back behind my parents' property. Remember when we all used to do that?”

Yeah, Delainey remembered. Those were such good, innocent times. Seemed a lifetime ago. She drew a deep breath and decided to put an end to the conversation. “Listen, I have to go. I appreciate your help with the accommodations. Text me Otter's number and I'll hit him up.”

“No problem. That's what friends are for, right?”

Even friends who didn't qualify as friends anymore.
Delainey thanked Miranda again and clicked off.

Thank God for old connections. For a long moment, her gaze traveled to the scenery outside the conference window and she wondered why she'd severed ties with everyone. She'd been so stupid, so naive. And so selfish. She missed her friends, even if their lives had turned out so wildly different. Miranda had been her best friend in the entire world. And Delainey had walked away without looking back. Yet, Miranda was actively working to forgive her. Why? She couldn't fathom a reason, but she was inordinately grateful.

Was it too much to hope for Trace's forgiveness? She knew the answer, and it hurt. Trace would never forgive her. She'd taken something beautiful between them and smashed it into the ground—deliberately.

The bigger question was how could she forgive herself?

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
RACE
PULLED
UP
to his parents' place and took a moment to put himself in the right frame of mind. The happy memories of the past had been eclipsed by the reality of a family broken by tragedy, and he could no longer deny that he'd been avoiding facing the situation as it was today.

His father's garage/shed had once been his workstation where he'd created beautiful carvings for the tourist trade, but his dad had stopped the pretense of carving many years ago. Now, his father made his living selling and growing marijuana in an elaborate greenhouse operation, and it made Trace sick to his stomach to see how far his father had fallen from the morals and values he'd once had. But he wasn't here to see his dad. He needed to see if there was any validity to Miranda's claim that their mother was living in a dangerous situation.

As he walked to the house, he desperately hoped Miranda was exaggerating. But as soon as he came within a few feet of the door, his hope died under the stench that was escaping from the interior. He covered his nose. If he could smell something outside, what did it smell like on the inside?

He knocked but when no one answered, he tried opening the front door but found himself barred by something. He pushed hard and the sound of something toppling to the floor followed, but at least the door could swing open. “Mom?”

He navigated the narrow walkway that was clogged with various boxes of who-knew-what, and he immediately covered his nose as the smell nearly bowled him over. Holy hell, what was that stench? A horrid thought occurred to him. What if that smell was his dead mother buried under a wall of garbage? This was unreal. He never in a million years could've imagined that his mother had let things get to this stage, and he immediately felt guilty for ignoring Miranda's pleas for help. Clearly, their mother was a hoarder of the worst kind.

The door leading to the bedroom that had once been Simone's opened and his mother peered out, her eyes widening in distress when she saw it was Trace. “What are you doing here? You should've called. We could've met in town for lunch or something,” she said, quickly closing the door and making her way toward him. It'd been only a few months since he'd seen his mother, but in that time it seemed she'd aged tremendously. Whereas gray had peppered his mother's dark hair, now it blanketed it, and deep lines were etched into her face. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her skin tone looked sallow.

“Mom, come outside with me for a minute,” he said, concerned. “It's not sanitary in here and it's unsafe.”

At that her expression crinkled into a disapproving scowl and she crossed her arms and refused to budge. “You've obviously been talking to your sister. She's somehow gotten you to sing the same tune as her. I'm perfectly fine right where I'm at.”

“No, you're not,” he said firmly. “And you're not staying another minute in this house. What's happened here? I don't even know where to begin,” he admitted with a flush of panic. Everywhere he looked, he saw filth and clutter. His mother had always been a bit of a collector, but she'd never been dirty. He couldn't even make a path to the kitchen, which was where the smell seemed to be originating. His eyes smarted and began to burn. “Mom, outside now. If not for yourself but for me. I can't breathe in here.”

Jennelle softened and relented. “Fine. But only because it's a beautiful day and I need to water my plants,” she said. Trace didn't care what excuse got her to step outside as long as they were no longer in that toxic place. “I really wish you would've called,” she said, going to the hose and unraveling it to start watering her marigolds. “We could've eaten at that new place on Bluegill Street. I've heard it has great fish and chips.”

“Mom, I'm sorry it's been a while since I've visited and now that I'm here I have to be the jerk, but Miranda is right. That house isn't safe. What happened? It looks like a war zone. And what does Dad say about it?”

“Your dad is busy with his projects,” she answered with an evasive shrug, but Trace saw the hidden hurt hiding behind the motion. “We live separate lives.”

“Why? And since when?” Had he really been that absent in his family's life to have missed this total and complete breakdown? Simone's death had done a number on them, but he hadn't realized that the very fabric of who they were as a family was disintegrating to dust. “Mom...talk to me. You have to know that you're in trouble. That house is...not safe in any way.”

“It's just a little cluttered is all,” she said. “I have so many projects going at the same time. All I need is to prioritize a little.”

“You need a wrecking ball at this point. How do you get into your kitchen to cook your food?”

“Oh, I don't cook that much anymore. No sense in making a full meal just for me. Your father prefers his microwave meals and I enjoy a can of soup, which I can make on my hot plate. It's much better this way, actually.”

Trace couldn't wrap his head around the situation and felt a little sick to his stomach. “Mom, I can't let you stay here. Now that I've seen it...God, I don't even know where to start. I can't believe things have gotten this bad. This is borderline ridiculous. You're not blind. You have to know that you're living in a bad situation. Your health is at risk! Hell, I was in there for five minutes and thought my chest was going to cave in.”

“It's not that bad,” she scowled. “And I don't appreciate your judgment. You can't come around and tell me how to live when you haven't seen fit to visit or call. You all were cut from the same cloth. Except Simone, of course,” she added with a sniff, and Trace felt slapped.

He tried not to bristle as he said, “If Simone were here she'd say the same thing we are. In fact, she'd probably never step foot in this place again if she saw it.”

His mother lifted her chin. “My Simone would never abandon me,” she said resolutely. “I know that in my heart.”

This was a dead-end conversation, Trace realized too late. Bringing up Simone was always a land mine of heartache no matter how innocent. “Okay, Mom, I don't want to strong-arm you, but you're going to force my hand. This place needs to get cleaned up. Plain and simple. Me and Miranda will come help you. Pick the day.”

“Don't tell me what do to or how to do it, Trace Sinclair.” His mother's strident tone reminded him of when he was a boy and he'd royally screwed up. “I will live my life as I see fit, and no one is going to tell me otherwise. Next time, call before coming over.” And then she turned on her heel and returned to the wretched dump that had once been his childhood home and slammed the door. He was tempted to follow so he could pull her forcibly from the house, but he knew that was a bad idea and likely to make things worse. His gaze turned to the shed, and he strode resolutely in that direction to take things up with his father. It was time for Zed to take control of the situation before the house collapsed and buried the man's wife.

Trace didn't bother knocking and went inside. The sharp scent of marijuana permeated the hazy room, but the smell wasn't nearly half as bad as what Trace had just endured in the main house. He found his father tending to his garden, examining a leaf for some sort of imperfection. When Trace walked in, Zed looked up and for a moment stared as if he wasn't sure what to say, but when he saw Trace's expression he went back to his project with a barely audible grunt of a greeting.

“Dad, we have a situation, and I know you have to know about it,” he said, going straight to the point.

“And what might that be?” his father asked, slipping a pair of specialized goggles over his face to examine his plants more closely.

Trace tried to ignore the fact that his father was tending an illegal garden—that was a fight for another day—and focused on the immediate threat. “Mom is going to die in that house. She's trying to bury herself in crap. Have you seen the inside of your house lately?”

“That's your mother's house and I tend to leave her to her business. I suggest you do the same.”

“No, that's not going to happen,” Trace said firmly, trying to keep his anger in check. “You need to help us get Mom out of that house so we can get a crew in there to clean it up. We have to get moving before the winter sets in and we have to wait until spring.”

“And what do you propose to do with her while you're cleaning?” he asked, still absorbed in the plants.

“I don't know. Maybe she can move in here with you. I see you've turned the garage into a serviceable apartment. I'm sure if she doesn't mind the smell of garbage, she surely won't mind the nose-burning smell of marijuana. Besides, in case you've forgotten, she's still your wife and you're obligated to care for her.”

At that Zed turned a jaundiced eye toward Trace and said, “I don't need a pup like you telling me how to tend to my business.”

“I disagree,” Trace countered boldly. He'd been taught to respect his elders, but Miranda was right—things were out of hand and neither of their parents was taking care of business, which left it up to the kids to see it done. “I don't want to do this, Dad. I'm worried. Mom's living in an unsafe environment. Please tell me you care.”

“Of course I care. She's my wife,” he answered gruffly. “But your mom's a stubborn woman. I can't make her do anything she doesn't want to do, and for whatever reasons she's happy to live like she does. Hell, do you think I moved out here because I wanted to? It just sort of happened.”

“Then, make it
unhappen,
Dad,” Trace urged, seeing a glimmer of hope in his father's admission. “Maybe she just needs to know that you still care enough to put your damn foot down.”

“What she needs I can't give her,” Zed said, looking away. “Besides, she'll come to her senses on her own time. We just need to give her some space to figure things out.”

Trace's hope died as quickly as it had flared. “Dad, you're giving me no choice. I'm going to call Social Services to come out here and evaluate her living situation. You know if they come out here they're going to insist she get it cleaned up.”

“Your mother isn't going to care about a piece of paper telling her what she needs to do and what not to do. Besides, we don't need a bunch of government types traipsing in on our land. It's private property for a reason.”

Understanding dawned on Trace, and he shook his head in disgust. “The real reason you don't want anyone coming around is because of this—” he gestured to the plants “—isn't it?”

When his father refused to answer, Trace bit back an expletive. “Unbelievable. Dad...you've turned into a selfish bastard, you know that? Your wife needs you. Hell, your family needs you, and you're content to bury yourself in here. You aren't the man who raised me. The man who raised me taught me to be a man—and you aren't that person. I never thought I'd say this, but I'm ashamed of you.”

“If you've said your piece, you can go,” Zed said, but his lip trembled and Trace knew he'd hit a nerve. Good. His old man needed to hear it. Trace left before he said something he really couldn't take back, although he couldn't be sure that he hadn't already.