Whispers at Willow Lake by Mary Manners Page B

“Are you sure you don’t want—”
    “Yes, I’m sure.” She couldn’t step away fast enough. “Is that Ryder’s motorcycle?”
    “It is.” He nodded sharply. “I suppose I’ve kept it long enough. His story checked out.”
    “Just like he said it would.” Temper nipped at Ali’s throat, making her words high and sharp. “You put him in a holding cell, John. You made him spend the night. He missed Mama Stallings—he wasn’t there with her, and it was his intention to be.”
    “Sometimes even the best intentions are dashed to smithereens.” His gaze narrowed pointedly. “I was simply performing the duties expected of a police chief.”
    “You’re not the chief, John.”
    “Not yet, but I will be—soon.”
    “Ryder’s here to stay. He’s come home.”
    “We’ll see about that.” He placed the hat back on his head, pulling the brim low across his watery eyes. “Mark my words, Alison—Hawk will run again. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon. And when he does, I might decide to take you back. But on my terms—not yours. We’ll see who comes out on top.”
    “You’re wrong.” She clutched her arms over her roiling belly. “You’re not a nice man, John Larder, and I’ll never go back to you now that I know what you really are.”
    “If you say so.” He tossed the cigarette butt to the blacktop and ground the stub with the toe of his boot. “We’ll see.”
     
     
     
     

8
     
    “What are you into now?”
    Ryder glanced up to find Ali peering at him later that afternoon, one hand draped across her brow to shield her eyes from the sun. He’d been lost in his work, thankful that the task of reworking the landscaping around the inn kept his mind—and his hands—busy and out of trouble.
    “I’m dead-heading.” He sat back to swipe sweat from his face with a bandanna. The flats of wave petunias added a splash of color to perennials strategically placed along the drive and around the back of the inn.
    “Dead-heading? What’s that?”
    “I’m pulling off the shriveled buds so new ones can grow.” He demonstrated. “Sometimes you have to get rid of the old to make way for the new.”
    Ali squatted beside him, tugging a few of the dead buds loose. “It’s cathartic.”
    “Yes, it is.” He nodded toward the drive. “I see my cycle has made a return.”
    “John brought it right after you left this morning. He said he’d kept it long enough.”
    “Is that so?” Ryder reached for his water bottle. Ice clinked as he guzzled. Water dribbled down his chin, and he swiped it away with the back of his hand. “What else did he say?”
    Ali shrugged and Ryder sensed she was holding back. He’d seen the little dip of her shoulders enough times to know.
    “You can tell me anything, Ali. No more secrets.”
    “He said”—she plucked another dried bloom and then tossed it into his weed bucket as she stood—”that you’re going to run again.”
    “I’m not going anywhere.”
    “You’ve done a beautiful job here, Ryder.” She motioned to landscape timbers that spanned saw horses, waiting to be cut to size and the pile of river rock that had been delivered just that morning. A chunk of work remained, but not much compared to where he’d started. Tears filled her eyes as the next words came. “But, you’re almost finished. What will you do next?”
    Her tears did a number on his heart. “Whatever I want.”
    “And what might that be?”
    “I like this.” He shrugged and motioned toward the river rock he’d laid. “I like making something new out of what’s dead and barren. Maybe it’s my calling.”
    “And if it’s not?”
    He stood and tugged off his work gloves, wiping his hands on his jeans before reaching for hers. “Come with me.”
    “I have guests.”
    “They left for town.” He twined his fingers with hers as he tugged her along. They rounded the corner of the inn and headed toward the lake. “I saw them just a while ago. The way Mrs. Lawson went on