Woodrose Mountain. RaeAnne ThayneЧитать онлайн книгу.
trail would be just the thing to shake the cobwebs away.
She dressed quickly, especially since the dog was prancing around anxiously by now, and ten minutes later she grabbed the dog’s leash and they headed out just as the sun peeked above the mountains.
By the time they reached the trailhead to Woodrose Mountain, both of them were a little more settled. The trail was wet from a predawn storm and she wondered if it were possible to become intoxicated from the scent of rain-washed sage and tart pine.
The farther she hiked up the trail, the more stunning the view. It never failed to move her. Hope’s Crossing looked small, provincial, especially with the vast shadows of mountain ranges rippling out in every direction.
The quiet stillness was a far cry from the traffic and craziness of L.A.—and she wouldn’t trade it for anything. When she arrived in Hope’s Crossing, she had been battered and lost. Somehow here in this space where she could breathe and think, she had reconnected with herself, and the aches and pains and scabs of grief and self-doubt had begun to heal.
Not completely. She sighed, lifting her face to the sun just barely cresting the mountains. Just when she thought she was finally in a good and healthy place, content with the world and her place in it, reality had smacked her upside the head like an unexpected branch stretching across her life’s trail.
Despite her exhaustion from the busy weekend, she hadn’t slept well, her dreams fragmented and jagged, a tangle of memories and ghosts. No surprise whom to blame. Brodie Thorne’s unexpected request had ricocheted through her mind all night.
She felt like a coward for saying no to him but she knew she wasn’t. It had taken great courage to walk away from a career, a home, friends she loved, in search of something she knew she could no longer find in L.A. She had worked too hard to achieve homeostasis—harmony, balance, equilibrium, whatever word fit best. Although some part of her felt guilty for saying no to him and refusing to help with Taryn’s rehabilitation, she knew it had been the most healthy answer she could have offered.
After she and Jacques had both worked out their edginess, she headed back down the mountainside, passing a couple of tourists who were obviously continental, with their walking sticks and their Birkenstocks and that indefinable élan. They greeted her in heavily accented English then said something quickly to each other in musical French, gesturing toward Jacques, with his Labrador body and his wool-like poodle coat, which she kept groomed short in the summer for his comfort. He gave them a regal nod before padding down the trail behind her and Evie smiled, rubbing his head with affection. Boy, she loved this mutt.
Back at her apartment, she spent the morning working on the instructions for a couple of bead designs she planned to submit to an industry magazine, then grabbed a quick sandwich before heading for work.
It was impossible not to compare her commute now—sixteen narrow steps down the back stairway and then through the String Fever rear entryway—to the endless lifetime she used to spend in the stop-and-go nightmare of Southern California traffic.
A teenage girl was poring over the wires, and a couple of young mothers sat in the reading corner leafing through the bead pattern books while their children explored with the toys Claire had provided in the playroom.
Evie’s employer was on the telephone in her small office. Through the open doorway, Claire Bradford waved at her as she crossed to the rack hanging behind the big worktable for the multipocketed half apron that came in so handy for holding her beading tools.
By the time she returned, Claire had finished her phone call. She glowed today, her eyes shining and her smile bright and cheerful. She wore her new happiness like a brilliant tiara and Evie was thrilled for her. Claire was the most generous, giving woman she knew, always reaching out to lift someone else. Though she didn’t seem bitter that her ex-husband had married someone ten years younger shortly after their divorce and seemed to flaunt it in her face by settling into Hope’s Crossing with his bride, Evie knew it must have stung.
Riley McKnight made Claire happy. Everyone in town could see that, and the man plainly adored her.
“You’re not supposed to be here for—” Claire checked her watch with its band of gorgeous pink-toned Murano art glass “—another hour.”
Evie smiled. “I wanted to double-check the kits for my class tonight.”
“Probably a good idea. We had a rush on last-minute sign-ups over the weekend. I think we added six more Saturday alone. Your classes are always full. Face it, honey, you’re a rock star among the beaders of Hope’s Crossing.”
Evie laughed. “That’s something, right?”
“I hope we’re going to have enough room at the worktable. Let me know if you think you’ll need a second one. So how was Grand Junction?”
“Much better than I expected. So good, in fact, we’re going to have a crazy time replenishing the inventory before the last show over Labor Day weekend.”
“I’ll put out a notice by the checkout that you’ll be taking consignment items. This is a great thing you’re doing, Evie. I can’t believe how the scholarship fund has grown in just a few months. Between the ginormous amount we collected at the benefit auction in June and the money that’s come in since then because of everything you’re doing, as well as the other fundraisers around town, we might have enough of an endowment to be able to fund a couple of scholarships a year in Layla’s memory. You’re doing a wonderful thing, Evie.”
“I’m not doing much. You’re the one handling all the organizational legwork. Selling jewelry is the fun part.”
“I’ve done arts-and-crafts fairs before. Parts of it are fun but it’s hard, intense work.”
“So far I’m enjoying it. Almost done now. Only the Labor Day festival in Crested Butte.” She quickly shifted the subject. “How are the wedding plans coming?”
“Whose?”
Evie laughed. “Um, yours. What wedding did you think I meant?”
“As far as certain people are concerned, the Beaumont-Danforth nuptials are the only game in town, even though it’s still nine months away. Gen Beaumont has been in once a day, looking for that order of art glass she placed last week for the jewelry sets she’s making for her bridesmaid gifts. I keep telling her it takes two weeks for delivery but she seems to think she can make the process move faster by sheer force of will.”
“If anyone could manipulate the space-time continuum, Genevieve Beaumont would get my vote.”
Claire’s laugh had a wild edge. “I think I speak for all the merchants in Hope’s Crossing when I say how happy I will be when her wedding is a distant memory.”
Genevieve Beaumont was the daughter of the Hope’s Crossing mayor and the town’s most prominent attorney. Her society wedding had been in the works for months. It was supposed to be a lovely fall wedding, set for October, but Gen had postponed it after the tragic accident that had impacted the entire town three months earlier.
“Have you had any time to plan your own?” Evie asked.
“It’s coming. We’re looking at December now, with a small, intimate dinner and dance afterward in the Silver Strike ballroom.”
“Lovely. I can picture it now. Everything silver and white and blue, with fairy lights and acres of tulle.”
Claire’s features turned dreamy for just a moment before she shrugged. “I’ve already done the big-reception thing once. I don’t want to go overboard this time around.”
“Riley hasn’t, though.”
“He doesn’t care. He would run off to Vegas tomorrow if his mother and sisters wouldn’t kill us later.”
Evie smiled, though she was disconcerted by a sudden, completely unexpected twinge of envy at Claire’s bubbly happiness.
Where did that come