An Old-Fashioned Romance Read online

  That night Breck lay awake for hours unable to settle her mind or her senses, which had both been so completely stirred up by Reese Thatcher that evening. Thanksgiving was all she could think about. Four days with Reese, away from the city, away from work. Could another warm, delicious kiss with him be in her future? But what then? She wouldn’t worry about what then. She’d simply worry about Thanksgiving.

  Gazing at the picture of her and Reese kissing—the photograph of her and her Highwayman hanging on her bedroom wall—Breck tried to believe that there was still hope in the world—that people could stay faithful in marriage, that nasty troublemakers like Jamie Reynolds did not make up the majority of the population. Maybe dreams could come true. Maybe.

  ❦

  Just as Reese suspected, his mother was sitting on the sofa, eyes beaming with curiosity when he arrived home after dropping Breck off at her apartment. He chuckled, for he could see that Marjorie Thatcher was near to exploding from the pressure of so many withheld questions.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Well what?” He’d toy with her a bit. It always amused him how wound up his mother got about certain things—like Christmas, new puppies, and the possibility of romance in the lives of her children.

  “Oh, don’t play dumb with me, Reese Thatcher!” she scolded. “What’s goin’ on with you and that lovely girl?”

  Reese shrugged. “What do you mean, Mom? She had a bad day at work on Monday. She’s my assistant…thought I’d take her to dinner to—”

  “She’s your assistant who had a bad day, my hind end.” Marjie wagged an index finger at her son. “You didn’t flinch once when I invited her for Thanksgiving. Day was you would’ve walked in here ranting and raving like a madman had I done that.” Again Reese shrugged. His mother continued, “And I don’t ever recall you havin’ me knit anything for a girl before.”

  “Calm down, Mom,” Reese told her, still smiling. “You’re getting all worked up over nothing.”

  Marjie sighed, defeated. Waving an arm in the air as she turned toward the guest room, she said, “Oh, you just go on ahead and act like I can’t read you like a book, boy. ’Cause I can. And that girl is on your mind.”

  “Good night, Mom,” he called after her. It was true. She could read him like a book—always had. But he wasn’t ready to tell her anything about Breck. He was still too unsettled himself. And the truth was Breck was getting deeper and deeper under his skin.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her just now. He was her boss! But he couldn’t resist her—there in that soft, furry sweater, those two little pitiful stitches on her tender, bruised cheek. Besides, he’d waited a week to kiss her again. And considering the feelings that had been rolling around in him since that night at Marcelli’s, he figured he’d done a pretty good job at keeping his hands off.

  However, four days down at his parents’ farm? Temptation would be thicker than the November fog. And Reese Thatcher knew one thing—he’d lost himself years ago, and until he was found, he’d have to avoid dragging anyone else down with him.

  As he lay in bed late that night staring out the window at the stars, he knew there was something very different about Breck McCall. For one thing, she kept distracting him from all the down and dirty cases he was working on at the office. She was like a sweet beacon of sunshine beckoning at the mouth of a dark cave of worldly sludge.

  With a heavy sigh, Reese rolled over, punched his pillow a couple of times, and mumbled, “Guess I’m going home for Thanksgiving this year.” He caught himself smiling at the thought.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “This is it!” Sherryl squealed, leaping up from Breck’s sofa like a recently released jack-in-the-box. “Home to meet the family? Oh, this is big!”

  “You guys,” Breck began. From the moment her friends had shown up for a night of silliness at Breck’s apartment—from the moment two weeks ago when she’d told them all about her dinner with Reese and his mother, her invitation for Thanksgiving—not one of them had retained a calm thread of sanity. “She was just being nice,” Breck continued.

  “A woman doesn’t invite just anybody to Thanksgiving dinner—hold on, Thanksgiving weekend—hold on, the entire four-day break. A woman just doesn’t invite anybody…and certainly not just to be nice, Breck,” Trixie interjected.

  “That’s right,” Barb agreed. “My mother-in-law still doesn’t invite me.” Everyone giggled.

  “And you’ll have to bring something as a token of your thanks,” Kay mused, frowning.

  “I’ve got it!” Sherryl exclaimed. “I’ll make an enlargement of that picture of you and Reese making out at Marcelli’s!”

  “Funny, Sherr,” Breck giggled. “Very funny.” Her friends were absolutely no help, and that’s why she loved them. Oh, they had plenty of serious talks together—heartfelt sobbing over trial and tribulations. But moments like these—moments when all care was thrown to the wind, discouragement vanquished in favor of glee and fun—those were the moments that pulled Breck through. Those were the moments she most looked forward to.

  “But, Breck,” Kay began, clasping one of Breck’s hands in her own. “Don’t you feel it? Something big is about to happen.”

  Breck inhaled a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves. She did feel it. But was it a premonition of good—or an ominous throbbing of impending disappointment?

  “You should definitely take your pumpkin flannels,” Trixie suggested.

  “Heck, no!” Barb argued. “You need something more alluring…like that flannel nightgown with the little pink sheep on it.”

  “Absolutely not!” Sherryl exclaimed. “She’ll look like a pilgrim.”

  “Well, it will be Thanksgiving weekend,” Kay pointed out.

  “Guys…no one will be seeing my pajamas while I’m there,” Breck said. Her friends exchanged skeptical glances.

  “Ten to one…they’re the kind of family where the mom makes everyone matching pajama bottoms for Christmas,” Barb said. “They probably eat breakfast in them.”

  “They’re farmers, Barb,” Breck pointed out. “They probably do two hours of chores before breakfast.”

  “Still, you can never go on the assumption that you won’t be seen in your nightwear,” Kay instructed.

  “What about those plaid ones she has?” Trixie asked. “They’re kind of silky and pretty.”

  Breck giggled and covered her face with her hands for a moment. These friends of hers were unbelievable! Here she was, on the verge of the most nerve-wracking weekend of her life, and all they could discuss was what she should wear to sleep in. Oh, how she loved them for it!

  ❦

  Oddly enough, the weeks since Reese’s mother had invited Breck to visit for Thanksgiving had passed fairly quickly. Work had gone smoothly—save the fact that Jamie Reynolds had attempted a lawsuit against Wilson Investigation. That had been quickly vanquished, however—the moment Jamie’s attorney had seen the security camera footage of her slapping Breck. Even the Allen case had simmered down for the moment. Still, there were plenty of ugly cases hitting Breck’s desk. Reese had been gone for a few days, and Breck found it much easier to work with him out of the office. He was more distracting to her than ever. Fortunately, the girls—Trixie, Barb, Sherryl, and Kay—had helped Breck to remain calm, to look to a positive outcome concerning her trip to Reese’s home.

  And now, unbelievably, here she sat, in Reese’s pickup—on her way to his family’s farm for Thanksgiving.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Breck mumbled as they hit the interstate and headed south. All at once her nerves twisted themselves into knots, and she worried she might be ill. “I think you better take me back. I’m not sure I can go through with this,” she told him.

  Reese smiled, “You’re not going skydiving, Breck,” he told her. “You’re just going to the Thatcher’s farm for Thanksgiving.”

  For a moment, Breck considered how much easier skydiving seemed. Rather a few minutes of terror than an entire wee
kend of it.

  “But this is so out of my comfort zone,” Breck explained.

  Reese chuckled. “It’s a little out of mine too…if it makes you feel any better,” he said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked. He was going home for Thanksgiving. She assumed he would be excited—view it as a holiday routine. Hadn’t he always gone home for Thanksgiving?

  “I haven’t gone home for Thanksgiving for the past two years,” he confessed.

  “What?” Breck was stunned. “Why not?” Immediately she realized she probably shouldn’t have asked the question. Most likely Reese’s reasons for not going back were personal.

  But he shrugged broad shoulders and said, “I always came up with a good excuse. At least, I thought they were good excuses.”

  “Why wouldn’t you want to go?” Breck pressed. She was too deeply interested now to worry about being considerate.

  “Honestly?” he asked. She nodded. “I think I didn’t want to be reminded how great it was.”

  Breck was puzzled. “Why not?”

  “Oh, it’s a long story,” he sighed. “And it’s…it’s…”

  “Personal?” she finished. A girl! That was what it had to be. He’d had a girlfriend, and she’d broken his heart. Breck was immediately jealous of whoever the mystery girl was. She loathed her instantly.

  “No, not really,” he said. “Just stupid.”

  “Will you tell me?” she asked. She couldn’t believe how bold she was being. But this had happened to her before. Every time she went out to El Costa Lotta to visit her cousins, in fact. Once she’d left the city, the pollution, the crowds—it was as if her soul could breathe again. She always felt free to be herself—more confident in who she was when she was away from the city.

  Reese grinned and looked at her. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course,” she confirmed. “I can’t imagine why a farm boy would rather stay in that smelly old city for Thanksgiving instead of escaping back home to family and good cooking.”

  Again he smiled. “You’re certainly chatty this morning.”

  Breck shrugged. “Well, we do have…what? Two hours to kill. You might as well tell me your deepest, darkest secrets.” She smiled at him, and he shook his head, amused.

  “Well, if you insist on being bored to tears,” he began, “I’ll confess it all to you.”

  Breck smiled, snuggled down into her coat, and anxiously waited for him to begin.

  “Okay, I’m ready,” she said.

  He chuckled, shook his head again, and turned the heater up a notch. “Okay, Miss McCall. But it’s not a happy story.”

  A bit of Breck’s enthusiasm was lost—but she was still far more than very interested.

  “Well,” he began, releasing a heavy sigh, “as you know, the grass is always greener.”

  “I know,” she said, understanding the cliché. Things often looked better, more exciting, when you looked into the neighbor’s yard.

  “When you’re young you think you know everything and associate all your troubles with the place you’re at. You know?”

  Breck nodded.

  “Well, when I was about nineteen,” he continued, “me and my friend Tom Holms were out on the snowmobiles. Just having a regular day of fun in the snow.” Reese checked his rearview mirror, and Breck looked at him, waiting for him to go on with his story. “I’d had an accident earlier in the month…ran my ride right through a barbed-wire fence, and Mom had nearly grounded me from the snowmobiles for life,” he continued.

  “One of your fifty-seven sets of stitches?” Breck prodded.

  Reese smiled, “Yeah. A big set.” He continued then, “But Tom and I were daredevils. You know how boys that age are.” Breck nodded. “Well, we were out by Simpson’s Woods, a few miles east of our old farmhouse…and all of a sudden, I hear a rifle go off.” Breck felt the hair on the back of her neck begin to prickle. She sensed this wasn’t going to be one of the more lighthearted farm boy stories that Reese probably owned.

  “It’s not that unusual to hear gunfire out there…especially during elk season. But I stopped to check on Tom anyway, and when I turned around…his ride was stalled, and he was lying facedown in the snow.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed with the unpleasant memory. “By the time I stopped and got to him, the snow around him was already red with his blood, and…he was dead.”

  Breck’s mouth gaped open in surprise. She certainly hadn’t expected such a revelation. She’d expected him to say he had become bored with farm life, had his heart broken by some girl, or something. Nothing like this.

  “Reese!” Breck exclaimed in a whisper as she looked up at him.

  “Nobody ever found out where the shot came from. It was elk season, after all, and people in town speculated that someone was out hunting, and Tom was hit by a stray shot. Or maybe some kids were messing around with guns somewhere. Either way, the sheriff’s department never did figure it all out.”

  “I’m…I’m so sorry, Reese,” Breck stammered. How did someone respond to such a story other than with an awkward apology?

  Reese shrugged. “I left home that next year…earned a bachelor’s in three years…then flushed it down the toilet and joined the Denver PD.”

  “A policeman?” Breck nearly gasped.

  Reese smiled at her. “How do you think I got on at Wilson?” he asked. “Yep…went off to become a cop to make sure that every case in the entire world didn’t remain unsolved like Tom’s.”

  Breck felt her insides begin to tremble. The thought of Reese as a policeman unnerved her somehow. “But you quit,” she offered.

  “Yeah. Mom convinced me to. She said she could see how dealing with the scum of the earth was bringing me down. Plus, she worried a lot,” he continued. “Farmers die of old age, heart attacks, or getting kicked in the head by a horse. The idea of me getting shot by a drug dealer was really causing her a lot of stress…depression. So when Mr. Wilson heard about me—that I was a good detective and how fast I had made it up the ladder—he offered me a job, and I took it.” He paused. “Still trying to save the world…but with a little less danger to my person. Easier on my mother’s nerves.”

  “Officer Thatcher?” Breck said, still stunned at Reese’s revelation.

  “Yeah,” he chuckled. “Hard to imagine?”

  “Well…sort of. Yes,” Breck admitted.

  “It wasn’t for me. Mom knew that,” he said. “It would’ve killed me one way or the other…physically or mentally.”

  Breck shivered at his statement—completely undone by the thought of Officer Thatcher being killed in the line of duty.

  “And so…there you have it, Breck McCall,” he sighed. “I got to where I just didn’t go home very often because…I felt weak when I did.”

  “Weak?” Breck didn’t understand. How could going home have made him feel weak? Strong families usually drew strength from one another.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Every time I go home, it gets harder and harder to leave. And I have to.”

  “Why?” she plainly asked. She knew she certainly wouldn’t have left if she’d grown up at El Costa Lotta.

  He smiled at her. “Boys are different than girls, Breck,” he explained. “Initially I was angry…angry about Tom being killed and no one being able to tell me why. Then I took it upon myself to save the world from unsolved crime. Turned around and I was old enough I needed to make a living somehow, and I’d fallen into a great job that let me do both.” He reached over and turned the heater down a notch. “But recently…recently I’ve been wondering if I really want to do what I’m doing.”

  Breck began to panic. Was he thinking of leaving Wilson? He couldn’t! She would die without him there!

  “So there you have it,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “My deep, dark secret.”

  “Wow,” she breathed. “That’s kind of hard for me to top.”

  He chuckled. “But you have to try. I told you one of mine. What’s yours?”

  But she co
uldn’t possibly tell him. Her deepest, darkest secret was she was falling hopelessly in love with him! More and more every day. That she could not reveal.

  “I don’t think I have one that can measure up,” she said.

  “Hey. Fair is fair. You gotta spill something,” he told her.

  Breck searched the files of her memory for something, some secret she could share. But still the only one she could think of was she was in love with her boss.

  “Come on now, Miss McCall,” he chuckled. “Pay up.”

  But try as she might, she couldn’t think of one thing, one delicious secret to share with him. “Can I have a few minutes?” she begged.

  Reese playfully glared at her. “Okay. I’ll let you off the hook. But just this once.”

  “My life just isn’t as…as…involved as yours,” she explained.

  “Sure,” he said.

  Just then something clanked in the pickup bed as they hit a bump in the road.

  “Did you pack those pies safe enough?” Reese asked, sincerely concerned. Breck smiled, amused by his infatuation with the four pumpkin pies he’d talked her in to bringing.

  “Yes. They’ll be fine,” she assured him.

  The knot of nerves began to form in her stomach again. What was she doing? She couldn’t be going home with her boss for Thanksgiving. It was too…

  “So let me tell you about the Thatcher family so that you’ll be prepared. Okay?” Reese began. He was so talkative—and Breck liked it.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Mom you’ve met,” he began, and Breck nodded. “And with Mom, or ‘Marjie,’ as she’ll have you call her for now…what you see is what you get.” He smiled. “Dad is hilarious. You’ll like him. His name is Ben, and he’s a typical farmer…hard-working, good sense of humor, and worn out by the end of the day.” Breck smiled, knowing she would like Reese’s dad for being a typical farmer. “My older sister, Katie, is married to Keith Donaldson, and they have a little girl who’s, like, about four, I think…and another one who’s, like, two.” Reese paused, pensive for a moment. “Yeah. Four and two. Their names are Lizzy and Sarah. Then there’s Bobby. He’s just under Katie and not married yet…still living with Mom and Dad. I’m next, and my little brother, Nick, is the youngest. He’s twenty by now. He lives with Mom and Dad too.” He smiled at her. “And there you go,” he said.