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and cap. His gaze traveled down the slim-fitting black jeans. Judging by her shapely legs, he would wager she had one hell of a great ass.
"I know."
His head snapped up. Busted. He was supposed to be representing the Village of Youngstown. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some kind of pervert scoping out her assets.
"I was supposed to bring snow boots but I forgot."
He glanced down at the black Converse sneakers. She turned her palms up in a what-can-I-say gesture as she backed toward his Jeep. "I'll pick up a pair while I'm here."
"That wouldn't be a bad idea." He'd dodged the bullet on that one. She didn't strike him as the type who wanted to be looked at. At least, not that way.
He rounded the hood and climbed into his Jeep. As determined as she was to stick to her own agenda and methods, she seemed reasonable enough. She had agreed to ride with him. That was a step in the right direction. "You might want to get gloves, too."
She made an agreeable sound as she settled into the passenger seat. "Definitely. Forgot those, too."
"We've set a record for snowfall this winter." He started the engine, turned up the heat, and snapped his seat belt into place. Backing out of the slot, he added, "Hopefully the weather will cooperate for the next few days."
No comment.
"Lucky for us, last night's snowstorm hit well after the collection of evidence at the scene had ended. It can make things a little tricky when the weather gets in the way."
Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.
He was done making attempts at conversation for now. He didn't doubt for a minute that she would let him know whatever was on her mind. For the time being, she appeared absorbed in taking in the details of the environment. Might as well give her the scenic tour. Through the middle of Youngstown's thriving, however small, business district and past the harbor. Across the wooden bridge that connected Route 1 to Main Street. Tourists always stopped near the bridge for pictures.
"The candles in the windows," she said, breaking her silence. "Are those for the missing girl?"
Kale considered the houses along the street, tried to see them as she would. Most of the homes along Main were historic, with the accompanying plaques boasting the names of the original owner and dates as far back as the late seventeen hundreds. Trees, even older, guarded the picket-fenced yards.
"Some," he said in answer to her question. "Others are always there in the winter." He made brief eye contact. "A number of the folks who were born and raised here choose to head for a warmer climate in the winter. It's tradition to leave candles in the windows until their return. Electric ones, of course," he added.
"To keep evil away while they're gone."
And so it began.
"I prefer to consider the candles welcoming beacons for their return."
"The wind chimes dangling from porches? The sprigs of heather and rosemary hanging over front doors?" She twisted to stare at the house on the corner they'd passed. When she resettled in her seat, she tacked on, "And the glass bottles hanging from trees."
He braked for the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and High. "The family with the ornamental bottles moved here from Louisiana after Katrina. Don't folks down there consider that art?" He shot her a look that dared her to prove otherwise.
"The bottles are for warding off evil spirits, Conner. As are the rosemary and the heather. And the wind chimes."
Hadn't they decided to call each other by their first names? "Don't you have wind chimes in New York?" Lots of homes were adorned with those accents. It didn't mean the occupants believed in witches and demons or any damned thing else.
"Face it, Conner, this is New England. The place is steeped in ghost stories with vengeful spirits."
"I guess you don't have those in New York, either." He wasn't going to argue with her. Damn straight, New England was steeped in many things, first and foremost history and tradition. He
"I know."
His head snapped up. Busted. He was supposed to be representing the Village of Youngstown. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some kind of pervert scoping out her assets.
"I was supposed to bring snow boots but I forgot."
He glanced down at the black Converse sneakers. She turned her palms up in a what-can-I-say gesture as she backed toward his Jeep. "I'll pick up a pair while I'm here."
"That wouldn't be a bad idea." He'd dodged the bullet on that one. She didn't strike him as the type who wanted to be looked at. At least, not that way.
He rounded the hood and climbed into his Jeep. As determined as she was to stick to her own agenda and methods, she seemed reasonable enough. She had agreed to ride with him. That was a step in the right direction. "You might want to get gloves, too."
She made an agreeable sound as she settled into the passenger seat. "Definitely. Forgot those, too."
"We've set a record for snowfall this winter." He started the engine, turned up the heat, and snapped his seat belt into place. Backing out of the slot, he added, "Hopefully the weather will cooperate for the next few days."
No comment.
"Lucky for us, last night's snowstorm hit well after the collection of evidence at the scene had ended. It can make things a little tricky when the weather gets in the way."
Not even a grunt of acknowledgment.
He was done making attempts at conversation for now. He didn't doubt for a minute that she would let him know whatever was on her mind. For the time being, she appeared absorbed in taking in the details of the environment. Might as well give her the scenic tour. Through the middle of Youngstown's thriving, however small, business district and past the harbor. Across the wooden bridge that connected Route 1 to Main Street. Tourists always stopped near the bridge for pictures.
"The candles in the windows," she said, breaking her silence. "Are those for the missing girl?"
Kale considered the houses along the street, tried to see them as she would. Most of the homes along Main were historic, with the accompanying plaques boasting the names of the original owner and dates as far back as the late seventeen hundreds. Trees, even older, guarded the picket-fenced yards.
"Some," he said in answer to her question. "Others are always there in the winter." He made brief eye contact. "A number of the folks who were born and raised here choose to head for a warmer climate in the winter. It's tradition to leave candles in the windows until their return. Electric ones, of course," he added.
"To keep evil away while they're gone."
And so it began.
"I prefer to consider the candles welcoming beacons for their return."
"The wind chimes dangling from porches? The sprigs of heather and rosemary hanging over front doors?" She twisted to stare at the house on the corner they'd passed. When she resettled in her seat, she tacked on, "And the glass bottles hanging from trees."
He braked for the four-way stop at the intersection of Main and High. "The family with the ornamental bottles moved here from Louisiana after Katrina. Don't folks down there consider that art?" He shot her a look that dared her to prove otherwise.
"The bottles are for warding off evil spirits, Conner. As are the rosemary and the heather. And the wind chimes."
Hadn't they decided to call each other by their first names? "Don't you have wind chimes in New York?" Lots of homes were adorned with those accents. It didn't mean the occupants believed in witches and demons or any damned thing else.
"Face it, Conner, this is New England. The place is steeped in ghost stories with vengeful spirits."
"I guess you don't have those in New York, either." He wasn't going to argue with her. Damn straight, New England was steeped in many things, first and foremost history and tradition. He
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