The Third Mrs. Mitchell. Lynnette Kent

n-no adequate insulation anywhere in the complex, and the ‘new’ stove and refrigerator in the k-k-kitchen were seconds bought at a scratch-and-dent sale.” He shook his head and muttered a word under his breath—without stuttering—that described L. T. LaRue perfectly.

      Pete kept an eye on the LaRue kids while he ate. The epitome of sulky teenagers, they avoided looking at their dad when they spoke to him, which wasn’t often and only in response to a question. They appeared to be pretending that the woman sitting beside L.T. didn’t exist at all. Melanie Stewart, LaRue’s office receptionist and the focus of his midlife crisis, was barely a half a decade older than the man’s daughter. She wore her honey-blond hair piled high, put on her makeup with gusto and wore her clothes tight, displaying a set of curves that explained LaRue’s infatuation to any man with eyes in his head.

      A hand fell on his shoulder. “Hi, guys. Who won?”

      Another Saturday-morning ritual—Jacquie Archer came in for breakfast before starting her workday as a farrier. Thanks to mild weather and good terrain, the counties around New Skye were known as prime horse country, and Jacquie had a full-time job visiting stables and farms to shoe their horses.

      Pete looked up at the woman beside him. “Hey, Jacquie. The best team, of course.”

      She rolled her eyes. “There’s no ‘of course’ about it, Mitchell. You’ve been running this little tournament since tenth grade and I’ve decided the outcome just depends on who got to bed later on Friday night.” Arms crossed, she stared at them with one eyebrow raised. “Considering the four of you are bachelors with the social lives of slugs, that makes the odds practically even.” While they were still protesting, she turned on one booted heel and went to join her daughter, Erin, in the booth next to L. T. LaRue and his kids.

      “‘The social lives of slugs.’ Man, I’d call her bluff on that one.” Tommy finished his toast, then shook his head. “If it weren’t the truth.”

      “I’ve got a construction b-b-business to run. This is all the time I can s-spare.” Adam poured syrup on his pancakes. “Besides, who’s she to talk? When’s the last time we s-saw Jacquie with a d-d-d-date?”

      Pete gave it some thought. “That would be the senior prom. Remember, she left right after graduation to go up north so she could train with that Olympic rider. When she came back a couple of years later, she’d been married and widowed and had Erin.” The girl must have heard her name amidst the din, because she looked at Pete and grinned. Even wearing jeans and a T-shirt, she made him think of an elf, with her pointed chin, dark eyes and short dark curls, so different from her mother’s corn-silk blond braid.

      And so different from Kelsey LaRue in the seat behind her, who was dressed like some jailbait rock singer all the kids idolized—tight jeans, belly-baring tank top and too much makeup. As Pete let his gaze wander, he noticed L.T. pointing a finger at his kids, talking hard and getting red in the face. Before he finished, Kelsey jerked herself out of the booth.

      “I don’t give a damn about what you planned or how much money you spent.” Her voice shut down all the other noises in the diner. “If you wanted to be with me and Trace, you should’ve stayed at home. I’ll go to hell before I go anywhere with you and your…your…concubine!”

      She stomped through absolute silence to the door, flung it open with a hysterical jingle of the bell and stormed outside. Before the door could close again, Trace caught the handle and followed his sister.

      Another mute moment passed, then folks at the tables and the counter started up their conversations again, throwing a few sidelong glances at L.T. and Melanie in the process. Pete looked at his basketball buddies. “Do you suppose those kids are walking home?”

      Rob sat facing the streetside window. “Looks like it. They’re at the corner, waiting for the light.”

      “That’s no good. It’s a five-mile walk through some of the worst parts of town.” And the girl was dressed like a hooker ready for work. In those neighborhoods, there would be guys ready to take the offer, even at ten on a Saturday morning. Pete put cash for his share of the breakfast bill on the table and got to his feet. “Thanks for the game, guys. See you next week.”

      Just as he reached the door, he felt a tug on his sleeve. Abby stood behind him, holding the box with his lemon meringue pie slice. “You’re always rushing out these days. Take it easy, okay?”

      He took the box and gave her a one-armed hug. “I’ll do my best. You keep Charlie on his diet.”

      Then he went out to make sure Mary Rose Bowdrey’s niece and nephew got home safe and sound.

      CHAPTER THREE

      KELSEY DISCOVERED almost immediately that two-inch platform sandals were not designed for walking. The kind of walking she was doing, anyway—jogging across the four-lane highway outside the diner, or striding uphill on the shoulder of the road with pieces of gravel slipping underneath her arch, her toes, her heel.

      The third time her ankle turned on a rock, she kicked the damn shoe as far as it would go…across the road and into the ditch on the opposite side.

      “That was stupid.” Trace finally caught up with her. “How are you gonna walk home with one shoe?”

      She couldn’t answer, because that would mean loosening her jaw and taking her teeth out of her upper lip, which was the only thing keeping her from breaking into tears at this point. And she wouldn’t cry over him. She wouldn’t.

      Heaving a sigh, Trace crossed the road and sidled down into the ditch. As he bent to pick up her shoe, a car roared up the hill in their direction. Instead of passing by, though, the dusty red Jeep stopped right beside her, blocking Trace on the other side.

      Was she about to be abducted? In broad daylight at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning?

      She braced herself as the door opened. The guy who got out didn’t look like a pervert—he was actually pretty cute, for being so old. His hair was too short, but he had great shoulders, visible under a sleeveless navy sweatshirt, and fantastic legs. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place him.

      Then he flashed a badge. “Pete Mitchell, with the highway patrol.”

      Had her dad sent the cops after them? Typical. “Was I speeding or something?”

      The state trooper frowned at her. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be walking home on this road. Get in, I’ll give you a ride.”

      Trace came around the front of the Jeep. “Who’s this?”

      Another flash of the badge. “I’m taking you and your sister home.”

      “Yeah, right.” Kelsey took her shoe back from Trace and braced herself with a hand on his shoulder while she put it on. Thank God the ditch wasn’t filled with water. “Like we haven’t heard the drill since we were babies. ‘Don’t ride with strangers,”’ she mimicked in a falsetto tone.

      The man rolled his eyes. “I’m glad to know the message stuck. Too bad you didn’t hear about staying out of the wrong neighborhoods. This road takes you right into the worst part of town.”

      “We’ll be okay.”

      “Sure you will, ’cause you’re riding with me.”

      Kelsey crossed her arms and stared at him, hard. “No way.”

      Hands propped on his hips, Pete Mitchell shook his head. “Look, I’m a…a friend of your aunt Mary Rose. We’ve known each other a long time.” He cleared his throat. “She wouldn’t like it if I let you wander around town on foot. It’s an hour’s walk, easy, from here to your house. Just get in the car, and I’ll have you home in ten minutes.”

      A friend of Aunt M’s? Oh, yeah…this was the guy who had stopped Mary Rose in the diner Thursday after the game. They’d talked for a second, then he’d left, and Mary Rose