Crossing Hope (Cross Creek Series Book 4) Page 2

  “Here, let me…” Marley trailed off at the same instant her brain played connect the dots with what was in front of her eyes. There was no shopping basket or cart anywhere in sight. The girl, who had been hiding behind the display, was now poised to run, her eyes darting around Marley toward the daylight at the front of the store.

  Oh, hell. “Are you stealing these groceries?” she asked, taking extra care to keep her voice soft and low. The girl was painfully thin, her arms like the branches of the saplings Owen and Marley’s middle brother, Hunter, had planted in the apple orchard a few months ago. Her shorts bore the kind of holes that weren’t a fashion statement, and her T-shirt was easily two sizes too small, a fact that was emphasized by the way she nervously tugged on its hem as she took a deep breath to answer.

  “I…”

  Something in Marley’s stare must’ve told the girl that any lie she could conjure would be worthless, because she dropped her quavering chin. “We don’t have anything to eat,” she whispered. “It’s just me and my mom, and she’s trying, but she just lost her job because of cutbacks, and”—the girl broke off with renewed panic—“You can’t tell. Please. If I get in trouble for this, the Department of Family Services will take me from her, and I’m her only family. She’s my mom. I’ll put everything back right now, I swear, but I can’t—”

  “What’s going on over here?” A guy who looked to be a little bit older than Marley had rounded the far end of the aisle, brows furrowed. His polo shirt bore The Corner Market’s logo, and the fact that the thing had a collar meant that he was—shit—likely the manager.

  “Nothing,” Marley said, trying to step in front of the backpack. “Everything’s totally fine.”

  But the manager—Travis, according to his nametag—wasn’t having it. “I heard something fall.” His eyes narrowed on the backpack Marley had no prayer of keeping from his view. “Wait a second. This bag is full of groceries.” His gaze winged to the girl, then to Marley, then back to the girl, where it hardened. “These aren’t paid for. Sierra, are you…you’re stealing.”

  Travis’s eyes were lasered firmly on the girl. And why wouldn’t they be? She was the one clutching that backpack like a life preserver in middle of a vast, deep ocean.

  But Marley understood the exact brand of panic in the girl’s stare. Okay, no, she might not have ever been hungry like that, nor had she ever stolen so much as a stick of gum from her mother’s purse in her entire twenty-five years. She did know what it was like to protect her mother, though, and to do whatever she had to in order to survive. God, it was why she was here in this Godforsaken town in the middle of the Shenandoah Valley in the first place. Her mother had begged her to come find Tobias after she’d died, and even though Marley had wanted—not a little—to say no, she couldn’t.

  Just like she couldn’t let this kid get hauled off to jail and taken away from her mother, just for being hungry and trying to survive.

  “It’s mine.”

  “I’m sorry?” Travis took a step back in surprise, but Marley countered it by moving forward and nailing him with a stare.

  “The backpack is mine,” she said evenly. “I put it down, and Sierra was just handing it to me. That’s when everything spilled out.”

  “So, you were stealing these groceries?” Travis asked, his expression taking the express route from doubt to dead-seriousness in about two seconds flat.

  Self-preservation was a strong instinct, and Marley’s was currently prickling a hot path of warning up her spine. Still, she overrode it in a breath.

  “Yep. I sure was.”

  “I have to call the police,” Travis warned, his hands finding his hips with authority. “We prosecute all shoplifters. You’re going to be arrested for this.”

  At that, Sierra let out a sound, caught somewhere between a huff of shock and a squawk of protest, and Marley’s gut bottomed out. She looked at the girl, making sure their eyes had locked good and hard before shaking her head almost imperceptibly. She already didn’t belong in this town, and she was certainly already the hottest topic for the rumor mill. Yeah, getting arrested would sting, but she’d been through worse.

  Letting this girl, who was hungry and frightened, get snapped out of her house just because she was trying to survive?

  Not going to happen.

  Marley firmed both her shoulders and her resolve, turning toward Travis with certainty. “You do whatever you’ve got to do,” she said.

  And with that, he led her to the office in the back of the market.

  2

  Greyson Whittaker could count on one hand the things in life about which he gave a rat’s ass. His family’s six hundred-acre cattle, feed, and produce farm tucked right in at the foothills of the Shenandoah Mountains headlined the list.

  No, check that. Whittaker Hollow was the list. Everything else was pretty much take it or leave it as far as he was concerned.

  Along with everyone else. Including—and especially—his old man, who just so happened to own the place.

  But since they’d lost a section of fencing at the far end of their apple orchard courtesy of the nasty thunderstorms that had blown through the area two days ago, and Jeremiah Whittaker cared far less about the farm bearing his name than Greyson did, Greyson was hauling himself to the co-op down on Town Street for the materials he’d need to repair the damage. His old man might not invest his time in anything other than being a mean old son of a bitch, a job at which he’d excelled for most of Greyson’s life and had practically earned a fucking Master’s degree in over the past nine years, but that land meant everything to Greyson.

  The way the sun spread over the hay fields on a perfect spring afternoon. The glow from that first breath of daylight hitting the dew-laced grass and lighting it up better than the Fourth of July and Christmas combined. The sweet, heady smell of freshly picked peaches, the unexplainable magic by which they tasted best with the warmth of the summer sun still clinging to their soft, velvety skin. Yeah, he thought, letting a smile slip over his mouth to replace the scowl he wore as a default. His father could hate the place as much as he wanted. He could hate Greyson, too; Christ knew they’d started covering that ground in wild and vivid detail nearly a decade ago and never looked back. But Greyson didn’t care about the rift. He didn’t care about all the barbs that had been thrown hard and stuck under his skin for so long, and he definitely didn’t care about the ones he’d learned to throw back, at his old man and pretty much everyone else. He could love Whittaker Hollow enough for the both of them, and he’d work it by himself with the cattle managers and farmhands if he had to.

  Speaking of ground they were already covering.

  Snuffing out his smile, Greyson allowed his features to harden. It didn’t matter that he didn’t care much for the people who had raised him; for his bitter old man, his disinterested mother, who had mentally checked out of her obligations to both family and farm the minute Greyson had turned eighteen, or his three older sisters who had never shown any interest in Whittaker Hollow and moved off the land as soon as they’d had the chance. He didn’t need any of them in order to do what he loved, nor what he wanted. He didn’t need any of them, period. Hard stop.

  And he liked that just fine, thanks. Relying on folks, needing them and trusting them and giving a shit, or, worse yet, letting them give a shit about him? That was just a recipe for fucking disaster, right there. Smarter to just go for the stiff-arm right from the get and keep people where they were gonna end up anyway.

  After all, everyone in Millhaven had pegged him as his father’s son decades ago. Might as well live up to that family legacy, since he sure as shit wasn’t going to prove it wrong. But it was better to push first than have to push back.

  And if there was one thing Greyson had learned the hard way, it was how to push. Fiercely and relentlessly and right in the tender spots where it hurt the most.

  Like father, like son.

  “Oh, quit whining,” he muttered under his breath, tightening
his grip on the steering wheel of the over-the-hill Chevy Silverado he’d never, ever part with. His life might not be full of family dinners or fishing trips or time around the campfire, but he had Whittaker Hollow. As long as he could work the land, he’d have all he needed.

  Thoroughly ignoring the sign that read No Parking: Loading Zone, Greyson guided his dinged and dusty truck into the stretch of space directly beside the no-frills brown clapboard building that housed Millhaven’s farming co-op. Technically, he knew he wasn’t so much bending the rules as forcing them into a full-on kink by leaving his truck here since he hadn’t come for fertilizer or feed and he wasn’t making a delivery. But he’d never been as big on the rules as he was on pushing his luck, and anyway, he was only going to be inside for five minutes—ten, tops, if Billy Masterson got to jawing from behind the counter. In a town that was roughly the size of a Saltine cracker and about as fancy, illegally parking in the loading zone for a quick run into the co-op wasn’t likely to rock anyone’s foundation. Plus, Greyson’s give-a-damn had been busted for far too long for him to care if it did.

  He adjusted his baseball hat against the ruthless midday sun and set his work boots on the pavement, aiming himself at the co-op’s front entrance. The combination of heat and humidity did its best to knock his breath from his lungs, but Greyson knew better than to sling in a deep draw of the stuff and let it punch his ticket. Inhaling on a lazy five-count, he shouldered his way past the co-op’s glass and metal doors and ambled over to the counter, where Billy Masterson stood talking to Eli Cross.

  So much for that easy fucking breath. “Billy. Eli,” Greyson gritted out, as if the latter word had tasted like dirty ashes. If there had ever been love lost between the Crosses and the Whittakers, it had been far before Greyson could remember. Or maybe the dawn of time, to hear his father tell it.

  “Greyson,” Eli acknowledged, while Billy—who could give Amber Cassidy a run for her paycheck in the gossip department if the spirit freaking moved him—didn’t even bother trying to mask the fact that he was soaking in every goddamn syllable. Funny, Eli didn’t put a whole lot of piss and wind behind the greeting like he’d done ever since they’d first tried to beat the crap out of each other nearly twenty years ago in middle school.

  Not that the guy’s newfound chill was going to stop Greyson from going on the offensive. “Thought you got too good for us simple folk and blew out of town last fall, Cross,” he said pointedly.

  Of course, Greyson—just like every other person in Millhaven with a working heartbeat—knew that Eli had left town after deciding to make a one-eighty career change from farmer to travel journalist. Like a bad penny, the guy still turned up every now and again. Usually, it was to help out at Cross Creek Farm, but in this case, his freshly minted wife was roundly pregnant. Since Scarlett was the photographer half of their nauseatingly cute journalism team, Greyson figured he was stuck with his old nemesis in town until the kid popped out.

  “I did,” Eli replied with a shrug. “But I’m doin’ some local writing and freelancing for a bit, along with helping my family out now that it’s the growing season. I’ve got some space in my schedule,” he added slowly, “if y’all want me to take a look at your website to spruce up the copy.”

  A breath of surprise moved through Greyson’s chest at the authenticity in Eli’s tone, but it only lasted for a half-second before he surrendered it to his frown. Eli might have mellowed out some since settling down with Scarlett, but he, along with his two brothers and their old man, had always thought he was so much better than everyone else. And now, as if what the Crosses needed was a story as big and happy as a Norman Rockwell painting, there was a long-lost sister in the mix. Not that anyone had seen much of her since she’d come to town late last year.

  “I don’t need any help. I’ll pass,” Greyson bit off.

  “Suit yourself.” Eli powered the words with another shrug before turning toward Billy to place an order that seemed to go on for a month. Cross Creek must be pretty flush to need that much fertilizer and feed, a fact that meant Greyson would have to bust his ass triple-time in order to keep up, let alone surpass their production. Of course, the Crosses had had the good fucking luck to expand their revenue by building an on-site store front which had opened last month. Word of mouth (AKA Billy and Amber) had it that business at Cross Creek was booming better than ever this season.

  Sure. There were three of them full-time, plus Eli, plus Cate McAllister running their books, Scarlett transforming their website into a magazine spread, and Hunter’s wife, Emerson, organizing their marketing. Goddamned Crosses. If there were three of him running Whittaker Hollow full-time, and all that extra help besides? He’d have their luck, too.

  But there had been three men in his family to run the farm once. Not that it had turned out the way any of them had thought it would.

  Banishing his crappy headspace once and for all, Greyson crossed his arms over his sweat-damp T-shirt and waited out Eli’s order. After the guy had (finally) finished and parted with an “if you change your mind about the website, just holler”, to which Greyson had simply scowled, Greyson was able to get the fencing supplies he’d come for.

  “You wanna pull around to the loading zone so we can get this stuff in your truck?” Billy asked, jerking his chin toward the side of the building.

  “Already ahead of you, dude.”

  At least there was one stroke of luck on his side. Greyson palmed his keys and headed back into the brutal sunshine, rounding the corner to where he’d left the Silverado.

  And found Sheriff Lane Atlee leaning against the driver’s side door.

  Shit. Shit. So much for luck, or anything even remotely resembling the stuff, being on his side. “Help you, Lane?”

  The guy’s white-blond brows winged high enough to breach the tops of his Ray-Bans, heading up toward the dark brown brim of his Millhaven Police Department uniform hat. “I’m pretty sure you mean Sheriff Atlee,” he said coolly. “And as a matter of fact, yes, I believe you can. Would you like to tell me what it is that you’re doing parked in this here loading zone, Greyson?”

  “Loading?” Greyson asked. But since he’d been unable to keep his tone from veering into smartass territory as he’d replied, a muscle in Lane’s jaw ticked with impatience.

  “For the last eleven—no”—Lane looked at his watch—“twelve minutes now?”

  Greyson’s gut dropped. “You’ve been standing here waiting for twelve minutes?”

  “I have,” Lane confirmed. “And in case you haven’t noticed, it’s pretty hot this afternoon.”

  “It’s June,” Greyson said, prompting Lane to push off the Silverado’s quarter panel and step forward abruptly.

  “I don’t think you want to go your usual route with me today.”

  Greyson opened his mouth to argue, but then thought better of his instincts to push. He might be ballsy to a fault, but Lane was not only built like an armored tank, he was also technically in the right.

  Time to cut bait and get back to the farm. Lord knew nothing would get done there until he did, and winning a pissing match with Lane wasn’t worth the time lost.

  “Okay,” Greyson muttered. “Can you just write me the ticket so we can both get on with it? I’ve got fences that need mending.” Not to mention a hundred thousand other chores that needed done before quitting time.

  Lane shocked the crap out of him by shaking his head, then went for a double by saying, “’Fraid not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Somewhere, in the very back hallways of his brain, it occurred to Greyson that he was arguing not getting a ticket. But Lane’s expression was just a bit too gleeful for that little jewel to mean anything good for Greyson. Especially since not only was Lane the sheriff, but he’d been Owen Cross’s best friend since long about the third grade…which was coincidentally about when the whole Cross/Whittaker rivalry had taken root in Greyson’s memory.

  “I’m not writing you a ticket,” Lane said, capturi
ng Greyson’s attention and holding it in his grip.

  Although Greyson’s next question wasn’t one he wanted the answer to, still, he had to ask. “Why not?”

  “Because,” Lane said, just in time for Billy to arrive on the loading dock with a bundle of fencing wire on his shoulder. “Writing you a ticket doesn’t seem to deter you from parking illegally.”

  “Oh, man. You parked here again?” Billy asked, and Jesus, the guy wasn’t helping.

  “Only for a minute,” Greyson snapped. “Look, Lane—”

  “Sheriff Atlee. And you can save your breath. This is the sixth parking ticket you’ve racked up this year, Whittaker.”

  A fact Greyson knew as well as Lane, because the collection of unpaid tickets had taken up residence in his glove box, not eight feet from where he currently stood. “Fine. Write it up and I’ll go down to the courthouse and pay them all, right now.” It would take time he didn’t have, not to mention money he shouldn’t lay out on anything that wasn’t related to the farm. But since it would also get him off the damned hook, he’d deal with both of those little setbacks later.

  Still, Lane wasn’t budging. “Sorry,” he said, although his smile made the word tough for Greyson to swallow. “See, Section 124 of the traffic code states that once a citizen obtains six non-moving violations, that earns said citizen a trip to jail.”

  “You’re going to arrest me?” Greyson choked. “For fucking parking tickets?”

  “Watch your mouth,” Lane flipped back, standing at full attention. “And to answer your question, yes. I am absolutely going to arrest you for fucking parking tickets.”

  Billy dropped the fencing wire to the loading dock with a thud. “You’re hauling him to jail?”

  “Yep.” Lane took the pair of shiny, silver handcuffs from his utility belt as proof, and oh, for Chrissake.

  “You don’t need to cuff me. I’m not going to fight you.” This whole thing was bullshit (okay, fine. Mostly bullshit. There were enough tickets in his glove box to wallpaper the Silverado’s back windshield), and he sure did like to push. But he knew better than to start a brawl with Lane right here on the loading dock. No matter how badly a dark little part of him wanted to.