Chapter Eleven
Carson wanted to tell Larkin about the call he’d made last night after they’d said goodnight. But things were going so well. First those amazing kisses on the porch last night. Then the fun they’d had this morning.
He could feel their connection growing. Her trust in him returning. What if she disapproved of him contacting Andrew and arranging a meeting tonight? The last thing he wanted was to upset her. But he knew he couldn’t move on without confronting his former friend.
But not saying anything turned out to be a mistake too.
He could feel her emotionally distancing herself from him as they walked the last few blocks.
Her grip on his hand loosened and then fell away entirely.
As they stomped the snow from their boots, he tried to catch her eye.
To give her a private smile before they went inside.
But she wouldn’t let him.
Inside, the fire crackled in the sitting room. Marjorie and Peter, back from their walk, had already settled down for a game of cribbage. Peter smiled and Marjorie beckoned them closer. “Come play with us.”
“Later,” Larkin said. “I’m going to check on Gran and then work on my article. I’m almost finished the first draft.”
What had happened to sitting by the fire with a hot drink? Carson watched her disappear into the library, feeling helpless. He should have just told her the truth. But it was too late now, so he might as well change into dry clothes and get back to work on Ethel’s bathroom.
Before he could get there, though, he ran into Chet, who was trying to stuff a very wriggly Robin into his snowsuit.
“We’re going to story time at the library,” Chet said. “Assuming I wrangle this cowpoke into his gear.”
“Looks like a two-man job to me. You hold him, I’ll get his legs in the suit.”
It was easier said than done, however. Robin twisted and turned, churning his arms and his legs. “Dough! Dough!”
“He means ‘let me down,’” Chet translated.
“Yeah, I got that.” Carson had one leg in, but by the time he rounded up the second leg, Robin had already freed the first one. “Dang it, he’s harder to rope than a calf.”
From behind them came the gentle sound of laughter. Then Amy stepped forward, dangling Robin’s favorite fuzzy sloth.
“Hey, Robin, do you want your Wuzzy?”
Instantly Robin stilled as he focused on the toy in his mother’s hands. He reached out his arms, and in those seconds he was distracted, Carson got both legs in the suit, leaving Chet to slide in first one arm and then the second.
With a sigh of satisfaction—or was it relief?—Chet pulled up the long zipper, fully encasing his son in downy warmth.
“Seems I was wrong,” Carson noted. “That was a two-man, one-woman job.”
“Have fun at story time.” Amy kissed first her son, then her husband, before ushering them out the door. Once they were gone, she turned to him.
“Did you and Larkin have fun on the toboggan hill?”
Carson didn’t think the question was as innocent as it sounded, but he chose to take it at face value. “Yup. Lots of snow out there and more coming.”
Amy glanced around, then in a lower voice said, “Has Larkin talked to you about that article she’s writing for the Courier?”
“The one about Bramble House?”
She nodded.
“Only in passing.” He could see that Amy was worried and suddenly he understood why. “Are you afraid she’s going to mention that incident with the pot brownies?”
“Among other things.” Amy inhaled a deep breath. “It’s been a crazy week around here. I can’t remember when so much has gone wrong in such a short period of time.”
“Murphy’s Law? It’s Christmas, you want everything to be perfect, and so of course, nothing goes to plan.”
“I hope it’s just a string of bad luck, but I don’t know. It doesn’t feel that way.”
“What other explanation is there?”
“Someone put out those brownies,” Amy said. “Maybe that same person is responsible for the other things that went wrong.”
“Wow. That’s a wild idea.”
“I know. Chet thinks I’m being paranoid. But this business means so much to me. All of us have worked so hard to gain the acceptance of the community, and our stellar reputation. But one unfavorable article in the Courier could destroy all of that.”
“Larkin wouldn’t do that to you,” Carson said. But no sooner had he uttered the reassurance than he wondered if it was true. Larkin was fair-minded, but she could also be tough. She might feel compelled to tell the truth about her week at Bramble House. But how far would she go with that?
*
Two days before Christmas, you’d think everyone would be out taking advantage of late-night shopping, but it seemed to Carson that half of Marietta was at Grey’s Saloon with him.
He’d come early, to save a private booth near the back.
Now he was on edge, nursing his Canadian whiskey, waiting for Andrew to show up.
When they were younger, he and Andrew had a lot in common.
They were both oldest sons, who grew up on ranches steeped in Western cowboy culture.
Underlying the friendship had been a fierce competitiveness.
To be the best football player, to get the highest grades, to be the toughest in the rodeo ring.
Though neither of them had gone on to rodeo professionally, they’d spent many hours training at his father’s rodeo school, where they’d fought fiercely for the best time, the highest score.
After high school, however, he and Andrew had quickly lost touch.
Andrew went to college in Seattle, while Carson opted for the University of Montana.
After graduation, Andrew had taken a job in Bozeman, while Carson had accepted his dad’s offer to take on more of a leadership role on the family ranch.
A few times he’d seen Andrew when he was home visiting his folks, but Andrew was on a new path now, one that involved the tech business, earning money, and driving fast cars.
Within a few years they’d lost touch completely, and the only news he heard about Andrew came via his mother and what she heard via the grapevine.
It was quarter after six, and Carson was beginning to wonder if Andrew would even show up when he saw a man with red hair and a beard two shades darker step in the main door.
He was dressed in tailored pants and a white business shirt.
No tie or jacket and the top two buttons of his shirt were unfastened, but he still stood out among the mostly denim-wearing crowd.
Carson stood and waited while Andrew’s gaze swept the room. When they made eye contact, Andrew nodded. Carson remained standing so he could shake Andrew’s hand. There was a slightly awkward moment when it seemed Andrew expected them to hug, but Carson broke eye contact, and sat down quickly.
“Long time, man.”
“At least five years. How’s your wife? And the job?”
“Job is good and so is Ellen.” He pulled at the collar of his shirt. “I guess I should have changed before driving here. This is a real Western bar, isn’t it?”
And what had he been expecting? A fancy wine bar with charcuterie plates? Carson didn’t say this of course. He just smiled. “Isn’t it great?”
A server came and Andrew asked a bunch of questions about the various brands of Scotch before placing his order.
Carson took a sip of whiskey, his gaze on Andrew. He let the silence stretch out, just watching as Andrew grew visibly uncomfortable. First, he shifted on the bench seat. Then he began tapping his fingers on the heavily lacquered wood table.
“What’s new with you?” Andrew finally asked. “Married?”
“Nope.”
“What brings you to Marietta?”
“My sister and her husband own a bed and breakfast in town. I’m staying with them for the holidays.”
“Your sister?” Andrew gave him a blank look.
“From a liaison my dad had before he was married. We only found out about Amy’s existence three years ago.”
“That must have been a shock. Guess your dad wasn’t so perfect after all, huh?”
The insult stung, as it had been intended to. But Carson kept his expression neutral. “Amy’s mother never told Dad about the baby. D.W. would have done the right thing if she had.”
And what would that right thing have been? If D.W. had married Amy’s mother, then Carson and his brothers would never have been born. This was a “what-if” game Carson had long realized wasn’t worth playing.
The server came with Andrew’s drink, and Andrew made a production of swirling the liquid, inhaling the aroma, and taking a taste.
“Good stuff.”
Whatever, Carson thought. He guessed the timing was right to start moving this conversation toward its intended purpose. “You’ll never guess who else is staying at my sister’s bed and breakfast for the holidays.”
“Oh?” Andrew’s interest was mild at best.
“Larkin Carrillo.”
Andrew choked on the scotch, started to cough. Carson watched, feeling the start of a slow burn of anger. The other man’s reaction said a lot. So did his eyes. They were wary all of a sudden.
When he was capable of speaking, Andrew said, “You two were good friends.”
“Yeah, but you were the one who took her to the prom.”
“That was just one night.” Andrew polished off the rest of his drink in a long swallow.
He was going to bolt if Carson didn’t talk fast.
“Maybe it was just one night, but you sure bragged about it, didn’t you?
” Andrew had made sure everyone knew that Larkin had slept with him that night.
At the time Carson had assumed he really liked Larkin.
But now he realized that it had been a game of one-upmanship for Andrew. He’d done it to spite Carson.
“Hey, we were stupid kids back then.”
“You made it sound like Larkin couldn’t get enough. But the opposite was true.” The anger was flaring inside him now. His words came out deep and hard and hot with fury. “She tried to fight you off and you forced yourself on her.”
Andrew held out his hand in a stop-right-there gesture. “She gave me mixed signals. She—”
“Like hell she did. That may be what you tell yourself so you can sleep beside your wife at night. But you raped her, asshole. That’s what you did.”
“You’re just going to take her side on this?”
Andrew was trying to look affronted, but it wasn’t working. Maybe he didn’t have enough bluster. Maybe his lying skills were rusty.
“Don’t go excusing what you did because you were young. What you did was criminal.” Carson’s hands were fists. His shoulders and back ached with the stress of holding back his urge to pulverize this man.
Calling upon every ounce of willpower he possessed, Carson left space for Andrew to explain himself. To mount whatever defense he could muster.
“I may have misread the situation,” Andrew finally said.
Carson stared hard at him until he dropped his gaze.
“Does she want to press charges?”
“She should.”
“It would ruin my marriage. Cost me my job. But she’d be in the right, I guess.” His shoulders slumped and suddenly he was a defeated man.
Carson had the power to ease his mind and admit that Larkin didn’t intend to press charges. But he wanted Andrew to suffer. Emotionally, physically, any way possible.
“What happens now?” Andrew asked.
“Now I take you out back and let my fists tell you what I think of you.”
Andrew winced, but before Carson could act on his threat, he noticed a woman entering the bar. A woman with long chestnut hair, a puffy red jacket, and a wool scarf wrapped around her neck.
Larkin was here. And he didn’t know who was in the most trouble. Andrew. Or him.