Sweet Surprises (4 page)

No smile. No friendly twinkle in his eye. Not a hint of the guy who'd laughed in the church parking lot.

This dude?

He looked like an older version of the demon kid who'd taken Benevolence by storm a decade ago—angry and belligerent.

It didn't bother her.

He could be as pissy and ornery as he wanted, and she was still going to give him the damn chocolate. It was the one thing she could do for Belinda, the one thing she could offer, because—God help her—she couldn't afford flowers or hair ribbons or body lotion or any of the other things she might want to give as a cheer-up gift.

“How about you tell me something else, River?” she responded, her hands settling on her hips. And, she knew, without even having a mirror in front of her, that she looked exactly like her mother did when she got on one of her rants.

God!

Not only was she back in Benevolence, she was turning into Janelle!

“What?” River asked.

“Is the chip on your shoulders as heavy as you're making it seem?”

* * *

The question surprised a laugh out of River, and he shook his head, sliding the money back into his wallet. “Probably heavier. I spent a lot of years having to accept a lot of charity. I prefer not to do it now.”

“I bet you're more than willing to give it, though. Aren't you?”

“When I can.” Every Sunday when he was in Portland, as soon as the restaurants closed, River and his executive chefs would head to the local shelter and make meals for the homeless. They provided the ingredients. No leftovers. No overstocked product. Everything River brought was fresh and high-end, because he refused to offer anything less.

“Which is probably a lot.” Brenna had her hands on her hips, her shoulders back. She looked ready to do battle, but there were circles under her eyes and a gauntness to her face that made him wonder what she'd been doing with herself for the past decade. Last he'd heard, she'd gone off to be a fashion model. She had the look of it—the racehorse lean build, the long gangly body.

Somehow, though, the idea of her strutting down runways wearing killer heels and fancy clothes didn't mesh with his memory of that little girl tugging a wagon full of books.

“Maybe,” he conceded. “When I was a kid, I promised myself that if I ever stopped needing to take other people's old crap, if I ever had the money to give someone something better, I would. Dillard taught me to always keep my promises. So, I have.”

That seemed to mollify her. Her hands slipped from her hips, and she sighed. “Dillard was a great guy. Belinda is a great lady. They did a lot for my family after my father died. The chocolate is just a gesture that says I remember and that I appreciated it.”

“I'll accept it as such,” he said, adding a formal edge to his voice that he knew she caught.

She smiled, a tired little lift of her mouth. “That's very gallant of you.”

“And,
that's
a very old fashioned word.”

“I know, and it's a shame that it is. We need a little more gallantry in the world. Then, shi—crap like stolen fudge wouldn't happen nearly as often.”

“You're a funny lady, Brenna Lamont.”

“I'm a
tired
lady. I just finished a twenty-five-hundred-mile drive from New York City.”

“In that old Chrysler?”

“I sure as heck didn't drive a brand new Jeep and then trade it in for a 1977 Chrysler New Yorker when I arrived.”

“I'll take that as a yes.”

She didn't laugh, but her smile widened. “To be fair, the car might be old, but it only had ten-thousand miles on it when I left the city. Midge bought it with insurance money after her husband passed. She lived in the city and had never learned to drive, so it was only used when one of her kids or grandkids borrowed it.”

“Midge?”

“A former neighbor. She's 94, but she acts like she's nineteen. She liked to skinny dip in the community pool. When the police were called, she refused to get out of the water and made them come in after her. I bailed her out of jail twice last year.”

“You're kidding.”

“Not a bit. Midge is a hoot, but her family finally convinced her to move to a senior center. Apparently, skinny dipping is legal there.”

He laughed. Again. How many times was that now? Two? Three?

“You laugh, but Midge made that a criteria for the move. Once her family found a place, she sold me the car. Probably to spite her son who seems a lot more interested in what he can get from her than in what he can give.”

“Sounds like a nice guy.”

“He sure as heck isn't a gallant one.” She smoothed her hair, glanced at the shop. “I'd better go lock things up. It's been a long few days, and tomorrow I start working.”

“At Chocolate Haven?”

“You sound surprised.”

“I'd heard you were working as a model.”

“I was. It got old. I had a shop in New York City for a while, but I decided to change directions. Now, I'm back in Benevolence until my grandfather doesn't need me anymore.” She said it so blithely that he knew there was more to the story.

It wasn't his business, and he didn't ask. “I'll walk you to the door.”

“The door,” she responded, “is a hundred feet away. I can walk myself.”

“I'm sure you can, but until tonight, I hadn't laughed in a month. I figure I owe you one for that.”

“Things are tough at the ranch, huh?” she asked, not arguing as he walked beside her.

“That depends on who you ask.”

“I'm asking you.”

“They're not great. I think Belinda must have been at loose ends after Dillard died. To fill the time, she's taken to offering homes to adults who don't have anywhere else to go.”

“Adults? I thought Huckleberry was a kid.”

“He's eighteen.” At least, that's what he told Belinda. River had yet to see proof of that, and he suspected the kid was a couple of years younger, a runaway who'd found a nice comfortable place to live.

“And freeloading off Belinda?”

“He wouldn't call it that. Neither would Belinda. He's got a job working as a janitor at the church. He also does odd jobs for people in the community. Belinda says he's bought groceries a few times and cooked dinner a lot. All I've seen him do is eat and make messes. If he were the only one staying there, it might not be so bad, but there are three other
guests
, and Belinda's finances can't support them all. She's used up all her savings, and she didn't pay property taxes last year. If something isn't done, she's going to lose the ranch.”

“Does she know how bad things are?” she asked, getting straight to the heart of the issue.

“She knows she's behind. She doesn't know how far. I don't want her to. Not while she's still recovering.”

“How about her guests? Do they know?” They'd reached the door, and she stopped, turning to face him. A breeze ruffled her hair, sending short strands of it across her cheeks. It was fiery red against her pale skin, and for about three seconds, he thought about brushing it away, seeing if it was as silky as it looked.

“The better question is:
do they care?
”

“You won't know unless you ask.”

“I'm too busy dealing with dozens of maintenance issues and driving Belinda back and forth to therapy to take the time to ask anyone anything.” He sounded pissed. He felt pissed.

“They say that communication is the key to successful relationships.”

“I don't want damn successful relationships with those people,” he growled. “I want them gone.”

She laughed. “Sorry, River. I can't help you with that. I can tell you one thing, though,” She opened the shop door, and he got a whiff of something chocolatey and sweet. “Belinda is lucky to have you in her corner.”

She closed the door, waved at him from behind the glass, and walked away, her slender hips swinging, her hair bouncing.

He was half-tempted to follow her.

Because it was a lot more fun to be around her than it was to be at Freedom Ranch.

He turned back to the truck, to the fudge he'd left on the seat, to the next thing on his agenda—returning to whatever new chaos he was going to find at the house.

And, there
would
be chaos.

There hadn't been one day without it since he'd arrived.

River didn't mind devoting his life to Belinda. She'd sure as hell have done it for him. She
had
done it for him. He didn't mind the time spent away from his restaurants, his coworkers, his friends. What he minded was cleaning up shit that other people left all over the house, breaking up arguments between immature kids, putting out fires before they began.

He hoped to God everyone was asleep when he got home, but the way the past few weeks had gone, he was pretty damn sure that wasn't going to be the case. Unless he missed his guess, Huckleberry would be in the kitchen rummaging for food. Angel was probably lying on the sofa, her seven-month-pregnant belly peeking out from under a threadbare T-shirt. Mack . . .

Yeah.

Mack.

No last name. Not that River had been given. Maybe forty, with burn scars on the side of his neck and a permanent frown. Mack didn't sleep in the house. Near as River could tell, he slept in one of the outbuildings. He worked, though. He'd fixed the fence in the old cow pasture, planted a garden that had filled the fridge with produce, and seemed to be working on getting Dillard's old tractor running.

River climbed into the truck and drove through town, then out onto the country road that meandered through farmland and wound its way through golden bluffs. Two miles in, and he turned onto what had once been a gravel drive. Now it was covered with grass and dirt, the sign that welcomed people to Freedom Ranch hanging listlessly from two wooden beams Dillard had planted in the ground himself.

He'd had a vision and he'd followed through on it. According to Dillard, there could never be any regret when a person did that.

He'd been the one who'd encouraged River to attend culinary school. He'd shelled out the money for River's business degree, too, and when his first restaurant had opened, Dillard had cheered louder than anyone else.

Funny how much more present Dillard's memory was on the ranch he'd loved.

River pulled up in front of the house he'd spent five years living in, all those memories washed away by the reality of what was. One of the
guests—
as Belinda insisted on calling them—had turned every downstairs light on. The living room curtains were open, and he could see Angel lying on the sofa, a can of pop on the end table nearby.

She seemed like a nice enough kid, but that's what she was: a kid about to give birth to another kid. No mention of the father. No mention of her parents. Except that they'd kicked her to the curb when they'd found out she was pregnant.

She worked. River would give her that. She had a full-time waitressing job at Carla's Diner and a part-time job cleaning houses for a few of the wealthier residents.

But when she was at the ranch, she spent her time lying on the couch, sipping pop, and scrolling through TV channels.

He grabbed the box of fudge, got out of the truck, and locked the door. Not because he was worried about a stranger taking off with the vehicle. No, he was worried about Huckleberry deciding to go for a joyride. The kid didn't have a vehicle. He hitched rides into town with Angel or bummed rides with Mack. The guy had a nice looking Chevy truck, and Belinda said he paid rent.

That's what River had wanted to ask.

Not his business. He knew it wasn't, but he'd seen the bills piled up on Belinda's desk. He knew how close she was to losing the ranch. She and Dillard had owned the place flat out, but there were property taxes to pay. She owed money for water and electricity, and she'd taken out a loan to pay for a car when her old Chevy died. She was three months behind on paying that. Or had been. River had paid off the loan, and he was working to have the tax penalties waived. If that happened, the ranch would be safe. For a while. But if Belinda was going to keep Freedom Ranch, she was going to need more than the measly Social Security checks she received monthly. Especially if she insisted on supporting other people.

He strode into the large foyer, bypassing the coatrack that still held one of Dillard's old bowler hats. A couple of dust-coated umbrellas leaned against the wall, a pair of flip-flops beside them. Probably Angel's.

The scent of fried onions hung in the air, mixing with the smell of furniture polish and floor wax. Someone had cleaned. Surprising because River hadn't seen anyone but Mack lift a finger since he'd arrived.

“Hot date?” Angel called.

“Yes,” he responded as he walked into the living room. “With the chocolate shop.”

“You got the fudge?!” Angel jumped up from the couch. Or tried to jump. She was the skinniest pregnant woman he'd ever seen, her arms and legs tiny, her hips nonexistent. Compared to that, her pregnant belly was oversized, her balance completely thrown off by it. Instead of leaping up, she lumbered, her skinny arms hugging her belly.

“Yes, and it's for Belinda.”

“I know who it's for, nimrod,” she snapped, her black hair falling lank around her face. “You're not the only one who cares about Belinda, you know!”

There were a few things he could have said. Most of them regarding the fact that none of the people who said they cared did anything to show it.