The Renegade (The Moorehouse Legacy #3)(20)

He glanced out the picture window. The Range Rover was parked in front of White Caps. Alongside it were two pickups and an old Trans Am.

He’d been asleep when Cassandra had arrived, and considering he’d woken up at six-thirty, he had to wonder when she’d come. He’d also missed seeing the men because he’d been in the shower.

So it was time to head over and check out the crew.

Alex drew on his jeans, pulled on his last pair of clean socks and re-secured the cast over his pant leg. He shrugged on a T-shirt and a fleece, popped his free foot into a boot and headed for the door with his cane.

Outside, the ground was frozen solid, the light snow like powdered sugar over the lawn. His breath came out in puffs of white, and the cold hit his cheeks like a slap.

He paused, measuring the sky. It was a dull, gunmetal gray. Snow was definitely coming tonight.

From the direction of White Caps, a wrenching sound cut through the still air and then something was tossed out what had been the kitchen alcove’s window. The tangle of metal bounced on the lawn. Part of the stainless steel cabinets, he surmised.

Alex went over to the house. As he walked through the back door’s plastic sheet, he took stock of the men. Four guys, all mid-to late-thirties. He was bigger than all of them, and the deference in their eyes told him they’d noticed that, too.

“Where is she?” he demanded.

“Who are you?” replied a squat guy wearing red flannel.

Alex liked the guy’s suspicion. “I’m a Moorehouse.”

“Oh…wow. You’re Frankie’s older brother. The sailor. Who was missing—”

“Yeah. Where’s Cassandra?”

“She’s upstairs.” The man pointed with his hammer.

Alex eyed the scorched ceiling and hated the thought of her standing on any of the floorboards up there.

“Thanks.”

As he used the front stairs, he could hear the men’s hushed voices. Words like “storm,” “dead” and “injured” made him hurry to get out of earshot.

When he got to the top landing, he went over and pushed open the fire doors that separated the staff quarters from where the guests stayed. Walking down a plain, unadorned hallway, he looked in each one of the rooms, not lingering. They reminded him of his sisters, his parents, himself, and he found the burned-out floors and blackened walls depressing.

Down at the end of the corridor he heard a squeak, as if a board were being pulled up.

Must be another of the crew, he thought.

He peered into one of the bathrooms, expecting to see Cassandra standing in the middle of the chaos wearing some kind of perfect outfit. And high heels.

Where was she?

He headed for the noise, opening the door to the last of the baths, the one that was directly over the damage in the kitchen. There was a guy on the floor dressed in a hooded fleece, navy parka and blue jeans. He had a crowbar wedged under a plank of hardwood and was tearing it up. A pile of boards was next to him.

“Do you know where Cassandra is?”

The guy looked over his shoulder. “Hi, Alex.”

As he frowned, Cassandra pulled off the hood. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She had no makeup on. And her cheeks were blazing from exertion.

Alex blinked a couple of times.

Then ran his eyes over the baggy pants that had faded paint splotches on them. The heavy outerwear. The scuffed work boots.

If she was lovely in couture, she was crazy attractive in work clothes. He had a sudden urge to shut the door behind him and get under all that fleece.

She smiled a little. “Do you want a tour of what I plan to do?”

Actually, he’d only come to stare the men in the face so they’d know if they made trouble for her, they were going to answer to him. With that mission having been accomplished down in the kitchen, he really hadn’t had a reason to go looking for her at all. Other than to see her.

But then he remembered.

“I’m going to Gray’s late this afternoon,” he said. “Just wanted you to know. I do my laundry there.”

“Okay. Do you want to stay for dinner?”

Uh-huh, right. As if he needed to watch O’Banyon drool all over her.

Then again, ruining the guy’s night by stealing a romantic dinner right out from under his nose had some appeal.

“Yeah, I think I will. I’ll be over around six.”

*

As darkness fell, Cassandra walked into Gray’s kitchen, grateful for the warmth and the fact that the place didn’t smell like propane.

“Libby?” she called out while peeling off layers. “I’m home.”

There was a patter of dog feet, and Ernest came down the back stairs, moving slower than usual.

“Hey, big guy.” She crouched down. “You look a little droopy.”

The retriever circled in front of her, offering a lackluster wag before he lay down and rolled over onto his back. She stroked his belly as Libby came in from the stairs.

“Hi, there!” The woman pulled on her wool coat and wrapped a scarf around her neck. “How was your first day on the job?”

“It went just fine.” Cass tried to keep her voice level. “Are you going somewhere for dinner?”

“My brother called. His wife fell down today and the two of them are in pretty rough shape. Her, for obvious reasons. Him, because he doesn’t know how to heat up a can of soup without needing a fire extinguisher. I figure, if I don’t get dinner made for them, you’ll have another charred mess of a house to work on. But don’t worry, I cooked an oven-stuffer roaster and left it in the refrigerator for you. I whipped up a salad, also.”