Riley eased his patrol vehicle into the driveway of his rental house, looking forward with great anticipation to a cold beer and the last few minutes of the NBA playoff game he’d set the DVR to record when he left home going on fourteen hours ago.
It had been a hell of a day, one that must have been designed to make him question what he was doing in Hope’s Crossing. He had alienated a group of older ladies when he’d had to tell them their traveling poker game was technically illegal because Colorado didn’t allow games of chance for money, especially when their stake had grown to more than a thousand dollars. He’d been off duty an hour ago when he’d seen a speeding vehicle weaving around over on Pinenut and ended up pulling over and subsequently arresting a drunk tourist going fifty-six in a twenty-five-mile zone. The guy had tried to play the “powerful friends” card, claiming his girlfriend worked in the governor’s office. As if Riley cared. He hadn’t cared about anything except yanking the idiot off the streets—until said idiot puked on his shoes, splattering his slacks, and Riley had been forced to change into the backup jeans and T-shirt he kept in his office.
The bright spot to the whole day, he was chagrined to admit, had been those brief moments at lunchtime when he’d seen Claire.
He’d missed her these past few weeks. It had taken all his determination not to swing by several times after work. To resist temptation as much as possible, he’d ended up taking a circuitous route home most days, coming in from a completely different direction so he wouldn’t even pass her house down the street.
As he climbed out, he thought he saw a dark blur near the garbage can next to the house. Probably those blasted raccoons that could sometimes be a problem in this area. He’d already had his can’s contents spilled one night about a week earlier.
He grabbed the bag containing his disgusting slacks and decided just to chuck them rather than wash someone else’s puke out. Call him fastidious, but he had his limits.
He lifted the lid, making as much noise as he could to scare away any annoying creatures, threw in the bag and closed it again. Suddenly the shape he thought he’d seen materialized into something furry heading straight at him—familiar tail wagging and ears drooping nearly to the ground.
His trespasser howled a little greeting and waddled over to him. Not a raccoon at all, but a very familiar basset hound.
A disbelieving laugh escaped him. All his determined efforts to keep away from her, and fate just kept sending a completely different message.
“You’re not supposed to be here, bud.”
Chester gave what looked very much like a “Yeah, so?” sort of look and just continued to sniff around his darkened yard.
He was probably picking up the cat living across the street that tended to make itself at home with arrogant disregard for property lines.
“Come on. We’d better get you home before the kids start to worry.”
Chester headed into his backyard and with a sigh Riley set his beer-and-basketball fantasy on the shelf for a minute and looked inside the patrol car for something he could use as a makeshift leash, finally settling on the leather belt he’d taken from his disgusting slacks earlier.
“Here, boy. Come on, Chester.”
The dog rounded the house in answer to his name. Riley quickly clipped the belt through his collar, looping it through the buckle, and headed down the street toward Claire’s house.
The evening was lovely, the air cool but comfortable and scented with pine, lilacs and the early climbing roses bordering the house next door. This just might be one of the sixty or so frost-free nights the good people of Hope’s Crossing could count on each year.
As he neared Claire’s house, he heard her call out softly in that peculiarly pitched voice people use when they’re trying to command attention but not wake up their neighbors.
“Come on, boy. Where are you? Chester! Here, boy. Come get a treat. Come on, boy.”
Riley should have been braced for the dog to lunge when he heard his name, but with no loop to hold on to, the makeshift leash slipped from his fingers. With more speed than Riley would have ever given him credit for possessing, the dog poured on the juice and hurried to the front porch, leaving him in the dust.
“There you are,” Claire exclaimed, relief in her voice. “You scared me!”
When the dog waddled up the steps, she reached down and grabbed hold of the trailing end of the belt, frowning.
“What in the world?”
Riley sighed and stepped into the light from her porch. “Mine. Sorry. I improvised after I found him sniffing around my yard.”
“I’m sorry he bothered you,” she said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He never runs off. I think one of the children must have left the gate unlatched and I didn’t notice it in the dark when I put him out earlier. I can’t believe he went all the way down the block.”
“I think the Stimsons’ cat was on the prowl tonight.”
“That would explain it. Not a big cat lover, our Chester.”
“I’m afraid I’d have to agree.”