Chapter Four
Holding on to the turquoise silver cuff was a risk, and an unprofessional one at that. He wasn’t a psychopath; he didn’t take trophies. He’d stolen from people he knew before—acquaintances, friends and, even in moments of desperation or weakness, family.
Attachments meant nothing in this business but trouble. Yet he’d chosen Zephyr Gallery knowing it belonged to Sassy Colton. Knowing full well he had unfinished business with her.
He’d thought the years since he’d last seen her would have cooled the resentment.
He ran his thumb over the cuff’s rounded edge and felt the pleasant stir in his belly, the one he’d felt when he’d spotted it in that shaft of moonlight on her desk.
The job had been to leave everything as it was. No sign of a break-in. No forced entry. No indication that he’d been there at all.
And yet he’d known as soon as he’d laid eyes on the bracelet that it was hers and he wanted it.
He’d lifted the piece like an amateur thief with no street cred. Like an idiot who never considered the consequences. Who chased the thrill and nothing else.
He didn’t make mistakes. He hadn’t. Not in years. So much was riding on his presence here in Dark Canyon. He couldn’t afford complications.
His old feelings for Haseya Colton would not be his downfall. He’d come too far for that.
He set the cuff down and ignored the tingling at the tips of his fingers he always felt when he fondled the piece.
He pried on the black nitrile gloves, one finger at a time.
On jobs, he used them in place of latex because they were less likely to transfer the natural oils of his skin or sweat onto anything he touched.
Thanks to the mistakes of his youth—when he’d chased thrills and danger like a kid possessed—his prints were in the system.
He could leave none behind during tonight’s visit to the gallery.
There would be no need to visit her office upstairs, no reason to touch anything that belonged to her or smell her scent on the air.
He only needed to access the back half of the lower floor. That would be the safest place for the transaction to take place during the Coltons’ famous silent auction in a few weeks.
He would leave his feelings for Haseya Colton at the door. He hadn’t come this far to allow her to lead him down a path of disaster once more.
* * *
“That dog can’t be here.”
Nick dropped his hand from the handle of the door leading into River House, a long-term care facility just outside Dark Canyon. The man sitting on a nearby bench frowned so deeply that the lines cut sharp diagonals across his pale cheeks. He raised a arthritic finger to the leash in Nick’s hand.
At the end of the leash, Riot’s perked ears lowered a fraction. He gave a whine, looking from the man to Nick and back again, waiting for instruction.
“Mr. Kincaid,” the nurse said as she approached the bench with a cluster of wildflowers clutched in her hand. She extended them to him, gently wrapping his fingers around their stems. “That’s Riot. He’s the therapy dog that goes round residents’ rooms.”
“What for?” Mr. Kincaid asked, narrowing his eyes on Riot distrustfully.
In response, Riot plopped onto his rear and hung his tongue out of the side of his mouth, as if he were trying to look as harmless as possible.
Nick petted his boxy head. “He’s a real people person,” he explained to Mr. Kincaid patiently. “He likes being around everyone and meeting new people.”
“What if he jumps on them?” Mr. Kincaid asked. “People fall down all the time in there.” He jerked his thumb to the building at his back. “My neighbor broke three ribs last week just getting out of bed.”
“He’s well trained,” Nick assured him. “He’s got his certifications.
He’s been volunteering here and at other homes for years and he’s never jumped on anyone.
Never so much as barked at anyone, either.
” Nick had been as surprised as everyone else when he’d discovered Riot’s knack for comforting people, particularly the sick and elderly.
“Is he clean?” Mr. Kincaid asked, the edge of suspicion in his voice undiluted.
“He just had a bath yesterday,” Nick replied. “No fleas or ticks, the groomer assured me. And he’s up-to-date on all his vaccinations.”
The nurse gauged Mr. Kincaid’s pinched expression. “Would you like to pet him?”
Mr. Kincaid’s lips pursed as he and Riot engaged in a stare down. Despite the man’s unwelcoming facade, Riot’s tail wagged happily against the sidewalk.
“Oh, hell, why not?” Mr. Kincaid muttered.
Nick exchanged a smile with the nurse. Carolyn, he recalled. He whistled to Riot, who rose to all fours and followed Nick to Mr. Kincaid’s side, where he sat again.
“Don’t be shy,” Carolyn prompted when Mr. Kincaid only stared at the animal. “My favorite spot is behind his ear.”
“His, too,” Nick noted.
Mr. Kincaid lowered his blue-veined hand to the back of Riot’s head. Riot tilted his ear into Mr. Kincaid’s receiving palm and gave a low groan as the touch morphed slowly into a caress.
Nick fought to keep his lips from twitching when moments later Mr. Kincaid raised the opposite hand to Riot’s other ear and Riot’s foot tapped against the ground in answer.
A quiet, high-pitched sound rose from Mr. Kincaid’s throat. Laughter, Nick realized with a start. His face hadn’t transformed with humor, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. “You like that, do you?”
Again, Riot answered for himself by laying his snoot on Mr. Kincaid’s thigh.
“He’s not a purebred,” Mr. Kincaid observed.
“No,” Nick admitted. It was a common question. “I found him while hiking Dark Canyon several years ago.”
“I had a mutt once,” Mr. Kincaid said, running his hand almost absently down Riot’s back.
“Ugly-looking thing. Best companion I ever had. Old boy outlived my first marriage. Went with me everywhere, even to church. He and I met when we ran across each other one day. He was living rough out near Elephant Hill. You know it?”
Nick nodded. “I do.”
“Sometimes I think he found me when I needed him,” Mr. Kincaid mused. “Not the other way around.”
Nick looked to Riot’s close-lipped smile. “I know exactly what you mean, sir.”
Carolyn’s hands were folded in her lap as she watched Mr. Kincaid’s face. “Would you like to see Riot when he comes back next week?”
“Suppose I wouldn’t mind it,” Mr. Kincaid said almost ruefully as he smoothed the fur on Riot’s face. He glanced up at Nick. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Nick,” he said, extending his hand. “Malone.”
“Malone,” he repeated. “You aren’t related to Margot?”
“She’s my mother,” Nick said.
“She has the room across the hall from mine,” Mr. Kincaid noted. “Sweet lady.”
“Riot and I think so, too,” Nick said.
Carolyn chuckled as she reached out to pet Riot. “She tells everyone that Riot here is her ‘granddog.’”
“Granddog.” Mr. Kincaid gave another one of his quiet, high-pitched laughs. “You’re here to see her then.”
“How has she been?” Nick asked, directing the question to Carolyn.
Her smile melted a few degrees. “She’s missed you.”
Nick felt a sharp stab of regret. “Is it a bad day?”
“She had PT this morning,” Carolyn explained, “so she’s a little tired.”
“Riot and I won’t wear her out too much,” Nick promised.
“I won’t keep you,” Mr. Kincaid said as he gave Riot a final pat between the ears.
“We’ll see you next week, Mr. Kincaid,” Nick replied, then clucked his tongue. Riot lifted his head from Mr. Kincaid’s pant leg and followed Nick inside.
Reilly Porter, River House’s administrator, greeted both man and dog with a broad grin. “I was wondering when you boys would show up today.”
“Ms. Porter,” Nick said with a nod, folding the end of the leash around his hand. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, just fine,” she said. “Have either of you had a chance to rest since you got back from canyon lands?”
“For the most part,” Nick fibbed. When they’d finally returned home from the hiking trail, Nick had had only enough time to shower, change and guzzle another jug of water before meeting Sassy for dinner at the Sauce Spot.
He’d returned late and found Riot exactly where he left him, curled up in a nest of throw pillows in his favorite spot on the couch, chasing z’s to the tune of raucous snores.
They’d gone to bed shortly after. However, Nick had slept fitfully, his mind on everything he needed to do before he went back to work.
“I thought we’d start today with the patients who aren’t able to leave their rooms. Then Riot can socialize more freely with others in the activity room. ”
“We’ve got the chairs set up already,” she explained, pulling her sweater closed tight over her generous bosom as she led him down the hall to the suites. “You’ll want to see her first.”
His mother. “Yes.”
“She missed you two,” Ms. Porter noted.
“I hear that,” he said, trying to swallow the heavy well of guilt. Had his mother watched the calendar in her room, counting the days until his return? Or had his trip slipped her mind, leaving her with the vague sense of absence she fell victim to on days that were worse than others?
He was the child Margot Malone had thought she would never have—the one she’d wanted with all her heart and soul.
He’d arrived late, to her and his father’s surprise.
They were both in their midforties when he was born.
The pregnancy had been high-risk. Margot had admitted to coddling him often throughout the early years of his life.
If you’d waited all your life to hold your child in your arms, she’d told him often, you’d have wanted to save him from the world, too.
His father had countered Margot’s overindulgence with regular trips to Manti-La Sal National Forest. He’d been as at home in the great outdoors as he had been on the lecture circuit or in the classroom.
He’d been a kind and attentive husband. When he died, the hole he’d left in her life had been impossible to fill. Trying to step into his father’s shoes had been an exercise in futility.