A Dream To Share (Heartland Homecoming) Page 9

  The dark-haired man turned, his steel-blue eyes sharp, incisive and sure. “If this was L.A., I’d say yes. But so far my investigation into the arson case leads me to believe it’s an amateurish, unsophisticated effort. Almost pranklike. I have no reason to think this is anything more than that. If I feel differently after I look the box over, I’ll take appropriate action. Any other questions?”

  Mark backed off. “No. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.”

  “Let’s hope so.” A brief, humorless smile touched the man’s lips.

  As Dale approached the box, Abby spoke in a subdued voice. “Dale’s an Oak Hill boy, but he was an L.A. cop for ten years before he came home. I think he spent a couple of years on the bomb-and-arson squad there. He’s very good, and he doesn’t take chances.”

  They watched in silence as Dale crouched down and scrutinized the box without touching it. Then he leaned over and sniffed. Reaching into his back pocket, he withdrew a pair of latex gloves and a box cutter. After pulling on the gloves, he eased the blade under the clear tape, slit it, then lifted the lid. A few seconds later, he stood, stepped back and motioned for Abby and Mark to join him.

  When they were still a couple of feet away, an overpowering stench brought Mark to a dead stop. Abby kept moving. She leaned over the box, peered in, and wrinkled her nose as she stepped back.

  “Did you see the note on top?” Dale asked.

  “Yes.”

  Confused, Mark edged closer to read the cryptic note, scrawled in block letters.

  THIS IS WHAT I THINK OF YOUR COVERAGE.

  “What is that smell?” He made a hasty retreat from the rancid odor.

  “Manure,” Dale replied. “Like I said—amateurish. I may be able to get some prints from the tape. Hang tight. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Manure?” Mark repeated as Dale walked around the side of the building.

  “Uh-huh. We’re in the country, remember?” Folding her arms over her chest, Abby gave him a stiff smile and transferred her attention back to the box. “I may not like his methods, but I have to admire the clarity of his message.”

  “How can you joke about this?”

  At Mark’s sharp tone, Abby’s smile evaporated, and her pale face lost even more color.

  The sheriff noticed her pallor, as well, when he rejoined them. He stopped beside her and put a hand on her arm. “You okay?”

  His gentle inquiry and the concern in his eyes didn’t escape Mark’s notice.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “I want you to be careful until we figure out who’s doing this. Don’t take any chances.”

  “I won’t.”

  After studying her for another moment, Dale went about his business. By the time he had the offending box secured inside a plastic bag and had hefted it in his arms, his muscles bunching below the sleeves of his short-sleeved shirt, the returning Gazette staff had begun wandering back to check out the excitement.

  Abby said a perfunctory goodbye to Dale, then focused on reassuring the employees as she ushered them inside. Only when all questions had been answered and concerns addressed did she turn to Mark, who stood some distance away.

  “Are you coming back in?”

  “In a minute.”

  Alone in the vacant lot, Mark took a few minutes to process what had transpired. Although the box had turned out to be harmless, he wasn’t sorry he’d insisted that Abby call the sheriff. There had been no sense taking a chance. Nor was he convinced that the perpetrator wouldn’t send another message, perhaps with more serious repercussions. That weighed on his mind.

  The easy familiarity and affection between Dale and Abby did, too. What kind of relationship did they have? He doubted it was a romantic one. Not after Abby’s reaction to his unkind jibe about cuddling up with her computer. He’d had the distinct impression that there wasn’t a man in her life.

  Then again, what did he know? In light of the evidence he’d seen today, it was possible he’d misinterpreted her reaction to his remark. Anyone could see there was a connection between her and the sheriff. And that was a good thing, he told himself. He should be happy Abby had someone in her life.

  Yet for some reason he wasn’t. In fact, the very thought that she might be involved with Dale—or with anyone, for that matter—bothered him. A lot. It was almost as if he was…jealous. He didn’t have much experience with that emotion, however. Most of the women he’d dated had meant little to him. In almost every case he’d been the one to end the relationship when he sensed that the woman was getting too serious.

  Still, he had a feeling that the resentment and possessiveness and suspicion now weaving a tangled web in his mind fit the classic description of jealousy.

  That made no sense, though. He couldn’t be jealous of Dale. That would imply he cared for Abby on a personal level.

  Mark reentered the building and returned to his financial review, determined not to let his troubling thoughts ruin his concentration. He’d always been good at putting personal issues aside and concentrating on the job at hand. It was a skill that had never failed him.

  But he soon discovered there was a first time for everything.

  Chapter Eight

  The Gazette offices were stifling.

  As Mark stepped into the foyer Saturday morning, a film of sweat broke out on his forehead. Abby must turn the air off on weekends to save on the electric bill, he speculated. Good thing he was dressed for the pickup game, in shorts and a T-shirt. Still, he didn’t intend to linger. As soon as he retrieved his errant cell phone, he was out of here.

  He’d pocketed the phone and was heading toward the front door when he heard the copy machine kick into gear. Startled, he came to an abrupt stop, then cautiously retraced his steps. When the machine came into view, he somehow wasn’t surprised to find Abby standing in front of it, her back to him. The woman seemed to live at the Gazette.

  What did surprise him was her clothes. Instead of her customary slacks and crisp blouse, she wore running shorts and a tank top that hinted at her curves. Mark couldn’t help noticing that she was soft and rounded in all the right places despite her lean physique. When she reached up to return a three-hole punch to an overhead shelf, her top crept up, revealing her trim waist—and a band of smooth skin that made his mouth suddenly go dry.

  As she gathered up her papers, Mark tried to gather up his wits. Some women might be flattered by his appreciative perusal. Abby Warner wasn’t one of them. Doing his best to act natural, he propped one shoulder against the door frame.

  “I thought I heard someone in here.” He hoped she wouldn’t notice the slight husky quality in his voice.

  She gasped and spun around, one hand flying to the large expanse of exposed skin above the edge of her tank top.

  He tried not to stare. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  “I forgot my cell phone.”

  Abby’s gaze dropped for one brief second to his muscular legs before it skittered back to his face, traversing the breadth of his broad chest en route. When she spoke, her smile looked forced and her own voice sounded a bit breathless. “I thought maybe you came in to work.”

  “It’s too hot in here for that. Though the heat hasn’t seemed to stop you.”

  Shrugging, she shuffled the papers in her hand. “I’m used to the heat. I hardly notice it.”

  Her flushed face, wiped clean of makeup by the humid air, and the damp tendrils of hair that had escaped from her ponytail and now clung to her forehead, invalidated that claim. But he didn’t press her. He was enjoying the view too much to introduce an argumentative note to their conversation.

  “So why aren’t you in Chicago this weekend?”

  Her question forced him to refocus. “I have a game this afternoon.”

  “A game?”

  “The pastor from down the street saw me shooting baskets on the church lot and conned me into taking over a boys basketball team until
the coach recovers from a broken leg.”

  “That would be Reverend Andrews.” She tipped her head. “You mean you gave up your weekend in Chicago to stay here and coach a kids’ basketball game?”

  It was no great sacrifice, as far as he was concerned. But he didn’t share that with her. “There will be other weekends. Look, I’ve gotta run. Stay cool.”

  Without giving her a chance to respond, he turned and headed toward the exit. As he pushed through the door to the lobby, he glanced back. Abby had followed him into the hall, but instead of turning toward her office, she was watching him, her expression confused. When she realized he’d caught her staring, the becoming flush on her cheeks deepened and she twirled around and moved away with a purposeful, no-nonsense stride.

  Giving him an incredible view of her trim waist and great legs.

  And making him wish he could spend the afternoon with her instead of a bunch of teenage boys.

  “Good job, guys. We’ll talk about the game in detail at practice on Tuesday, but for a first effort you should be very happy with the results.”

  The glowing faces clustered around him two hours later in the corner of the gym were all the proof Mark needed that he’d made the right decision when he’d agreed to coach the team. Not to mention the thanks of the parents, many of whom had stayed around to watch. He couldn’t remember when he’d ever felt so appreciated. Or needed.

  “Everyone have a ride home?” he asked.

  A chorus of affirmative answers came back, and then the kids started to scatter.

  “Evan! Wait up.”

  The lanky teen, his blond hair spiky with sweat after the game, slowed his retreat at Mark’s summons and turned—but he stayed where he was.

  With the ball still hooked under his arm, Mark didn’t rush to close the distance between them. This was new territory for him, and he wasn’t sure about his approach. But something was wrong with this kid. He’d only met him on Tuesday, but the boy had been eager and talented. After the impromptu tutoring session following practice, Mark had been surprised at Evan’s skill with the spin maneuver two days later. As a result, he’d expected great things from him today.

  Instead of the shining, up-and-coming star he’d expected, however, Evan had been listless and inattentive. He’d missed passes and throws that he’d nailed at the last practice. Maybe it was none of Mark’s business, but he couldn’t just let him walk away.

  “I can’t stay. I hitched a ride with Justin, and his dad’s ready to leave.” Evan edged away as Mark approached.

  “I won’t hold you up. I just wanted to ask if everything is okay. You seemed a little distracted out there today.”

  “Sorry.”

  When the boy didn’t offer anything more, Mark tried again. “Listen, if there’s a problem, I don’t mind listening.”

  Shoulders slumping, Evan shook his head and averted his eyes. “Thanks anyway. I gotta run.”

  Without waiting for Mark to respond, the boy bolted.

  “Do I detect a problem?”

  At the sound of Reverend Andrews’s voice, Mark turned. The minister had attended the game as a show of support for the boys, impressing Mark once again with his kindness and genuine caring. Maybe he could offer a clue about Evan’s problem. “Something’s eating him,” Mark said.

  “I noticed. He seemed out of it on the court today.”

  “Any idea what’s going on? I’d pegged him as one of my high-potential players, but he sure didn’t live up to that today.”

  “The family is having some problems. Evan’s father was laid off from his factory job in Rolla about ten months ago and is still unemployed. To complicate matters, Evan’s mom was severely injured in a car accident a couple of years back and has been in and out of the hospital ever since. She was re-hospitalized yesterday with chest pain, which the doctors think is related to the punctured lung she suffered in the accident.”

  No wonder Evan had been preoccupied. “How is she doing?”

  “I believe she came home this morning. It’s been hard on the kids, though. Evan is the oldest of five, and I think a lot of responsibility has fallen on him to take care of the younger ones during these crisis situations. Plus, the drain on the family finances has been severe. I’m afraid the situation may be getting desperate. The church helps, but our resources are limited. And it takes far too long to cut through government red tape to get timely assistance.” The man shook his head, his expression troubled. “It’s impossible to address all the needs out there. I wish we could do more.”

  It was hard for Mark to imagine the situation the pastor had described. By the time he was old enough to remember, his family had been well-off. The very notion of money problems was foreign to him. But he was the exception, he realized, thinking of Abby’s simple existence and the financial issues at the Gazette. Most of the world hadn’t lived the privileged life he’d enjoyed.

  “Well, putting Evan’s problems aside for a moment, I want to thank you again for stepping in,” the minister said. “It’s been a great blessing. The boys and their families are grateful, and they made a fine showing for their first attempt.”

  “Thanks.” Mark found it a bit harder to switch gears. “But we have lots of work ahead.”

  “I have every confidence in you.” The pastor extended his hand and Mark returned his firm clasp. “Now go enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Good advice. But for some reason, Mark suspected it wouldn’t be easy to follow.

  The steady, rhythmic beat of sneakers against concrete as Abby jogged down the country road was soothing, and for the first time since her encounter with Mark that morning the tension in her shoulders began to ease.

  Though she’d tried to refocus on her work after his unexpected visit, it had been an exercise in futility. After a couple of frustrating hours, she’d closed up shop for the day. And tried to deal with the questions his visit had raised.

  Like, how in the world had Reverend Andrews convinced Mark to coach the basketball team? And to give up his cherished weekends in Chicago? Weekends that surely included visits with his many female acquaintances—who called often, according to Molly.

  The Mark who had first come to the Gazette wouldn’t have done that. At least she didn’t think so. Yet in recent weeks she’d been forced to acknowledge that her original assessment of him as a slacker and playboy might have been a bit hasty—and harsh. She couldn’t fault his work ethic. He put in a full eight hours, and according to Joe he often took work back to the B and B, arriving the next morning with a list of questions he’d compiled the night before. And despite his initial resistance, he’d been a good sport about the shadowing assignment—even attending late-night press approvals when asked.

  Still, none of that explained why he was willing to take on the basketball job. Or give up his weekends.

  Even more disconcerting, however, was her growing awareness of him as more than a business associate.

  Until this morning, she’d done a good job ignoring her attraction to him. But when he’d appeared in the copy room, all muscles and masculinity, she hadn’t been able to pretend any longer. The man appealed to her. And though her experience with men was limited, she hadn’t mistaken the look in his eyes. He’d been attracted to her, too.

  Of course, it could simply be that he was stuck in the boonies and eligible females were in short supply. As the only available woman in the newsroom, it was natural that he would gravitate toward her. It didn’t mean anything except that he was bored and wanted a little female companionship.

  As for herself, she’d focused all of her energy and attention on the Gazette for ten years. There had been no time for romance—nor many potential partners, if there had been. But that didn’t mean she was immune to male charms. It was only normal that when a handsome, eligible man came along, she’d respond.

  And Mark Campbell was both handsome and eligible.

  Still, if the attraction was purely physical, she could have resisted.

  Bu
t Mark had substance. He worked hard. He’d generously offered to coach the basketball team, whatever his motivation. He treated the Gazette staff members with respect. And he seemed to care about her.

  How was she supposed to resist that?

  Yet she had to. Her parents’ marriage was all the proof she needed that a successful relationship between her and Mark was highly improbable. Their backgrounds were too different, just as her parents’ had been.

  As she drew in a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh country air, Abby wished she could have known her parents during their whirlwind college romance, when their love was fresh and new. But as far back as she could remember, their marriage had been troubled.

  It wasn’t hard to figure out why. Her mother had been the pampered daughter of a prominent banker in San Francisco, who’d grown up with the best of everything, including haute couture clothes and trips abroad. She’d hated Oak Hill’s small-town mentality, decried the lack of cultural opportunities, complained about the dearth of social events. And she’d resented her husband’s immersion in the Gazette. As the years passed, she went home—as she’d always referred to San Francisco—more and more often for visits.

  That had hurt her father, Abby knew. She’d seen the sadness—and resignation—in his eyes. Too late, he’d realized that he could never give his wife the kind of life she wanted. Content with a simple existence, he had assumed she understood that he could offer her no more than that. She, on the other hand, had pictured the San Francisco Chronicle, but had gotten the Oak Hill Gazette. She felt misled; he’d felt as if he’d failed her.

  Opposites attracting and love conquering all might sound good in romance novels, but Abby had seen little evidence of that happening in real life. Which was why she couldn’t get carried away with her feelings for Mark.

  Besides, he’d be gone in a few weeks, she reminded herself. And after he left, she could—

  All at once, the ground beneath her feet seemed to undulate and the world tilted. A wave of dizziness swept over her, and her steady gait faltered. Jolted, she jogged for a few more halting steps, until a debilitating weakness robbed her legs of their strength and she stumbled. As fear tightened her throat, she slowed to a walk, groping for a tree at the edge of the road. Clutching the trunk, she eased herself to the ground and peered at her watch.