Paradise Peak (New Americana 5)

Travis raised his head, his gaze seeking out the large deck and wooden stairways on the other side of the stream. He spun the pen between his fingers slowly, then drew a line across the paper.

I came to Paradise Peak for you, Margaret. To see you. To beg your forgiveness. To help you in any way I can. And yes, I’d fix that stable roof for you. I’d rebuild every crumbling cabin, restone the walkways, and revive this ranch.

I’d restructure my face and change the sound of my voice if it’d leave no trace of the killer you knew in this body. I’d burn my bones and these letters to ash if the act would erase my sins, every trace of my existence from your world. I’d do all these things if they’d bring you comfort. If doing so would set you free from the pain I’ve caused.

I’ll see you again in a couple of hours. Instead of hiding these words with the others, I should tell you all of this. I should tell you that my life—however miniscule its worth—is yours in whatever way you choose to use it. But if you knew who I really am . . . If you knew I was Neil Travis Alden—the man who killed your daughter—would you even want it?

“If you’re seeking perfection,” Hannah said, “you’re never going to find it.”

She stopped mopping the kitchen floor and stared across the island at Margaret, who, bifocals perched on her nose, leaned down and pinched dough around the rim of a ceramic pie plate.

Dinner was supposed to be on the table in half an hour, but Margaret was just now cooking dessert because she’d insisted they sweep and mop the lodge’s foyer and kitchen floor prior to Travis’s arrival. As they planned to dine on the back deck, Hannah had maintained that there was a high probability the man wouldn’t even set foot inside the kitchen, and an even greater chance that if he did, he wouldn’t give a fig as to whether or not the porcelain tile gleamed.

Hannah glanced at the countertop, which housed a new glass-top stove Margaret had purchased and had installed in the lodge’s kitchen two months ago. She had to admit it was an improvement over the old-fashioned—and undependable—model they used to have. But she’d also noticed that the changes Margaret was making to the lodge and the grounds were more frequent and noticeable. It was as if she sought to transform every square inch of the property into a pristine cookie-cutter tourist attraction.

“Perfection is impossible to attain,” Hannah added, leaning on the mop handle. “You’re going to wear yourself out working on that.”

Margaret’s fingers stilled and she glanced at Hannah over the rim of her glasses. “And that is where you and I differ. I believe that if a task is done correctly at each and every step, the result will be either perfect or nearly perfect.”

“I see.” Hannah bit back a grin. “So that apple pie is going to taste different depending on how evenly balanced the edges of the crust are?”

Margaret straightened and plucked her glasses off her nose. “Of course not, but I’ll feel like a better hostess if all parts of the meal look appetizing to our guest. Delectable food should please the eye as well as the taste buds, and the atmosphere should be equally elegant—which is why I set out the formal dinnerware. Phillip and I always ate off nice china.”

“Hmm.” Hannah smiled and resumed mopping. “Then I guess you should tell Red to take the paper plates off the china, toss out the beer bottles, and turn down the honky-tonk tunes.”

Margaret’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

Hannah rubbed the mop head hard over a stubborn dirt smudge on the tile. “Just sayin’.”

Margaret spun around and, long skirt swooshing, stomped out of the kitchen, down the foyer, and to the sunroom leading to the lodge’s outdoor deck. When the door to the deck squeaked open and the loud beat of country music drifted into the kitchen, Hannah sighed, propped the mop against the kitchen counter, and followed Margaret out onto the deck.

“Turn that down!” Margaret stood by Red with her hands cupped around her mouth, shouting above the music that blared from a set of speakers on the wooden railing. Her attention darted from Red to the speakers and the two empty beer bottles surrounding one of the formal place settings.

Red, standing in front of a large fryer with a bowl of hush puppy batter in one hand and a large spoon in the other, dropped a spoonful of batter in the fryer, then asked in a raised voice, “What’d you say?”

“I said”—Margaret reached around Red and punched a button on the speakers—“turn that down!” Her shout echoed in the ensuing silence. She looked up at the clear, late-afternoon sky, smoothed a shaky hand over her hair, then, cheeks reddening, faced Red. “I meant to ask if you could please turn down the music.”

Red glanced at the speakers and grinned. “Turn it down? Or off?”

Margaret reached around Red again, fiddled with the speakers, and the music resumed—at a much lower volume. “Down, of course. I apologize for overreacting.” She walked to the table in the middle of the deck and straightened one edge of the lace tablecloth, her gaze shifting quickly when it landed on the beer bottles. “I was hoping we could use the good dishes for dinner tonight instead of paper plates. Phillip and I always ate our evening meal off formal dinnerware. Is it okay if I put the paper ones back in the kitchen?”

Red dropped another spoonful of batter in the fryer. “Sure. Only reason I brought ’em out was to save us the trouble of washing dishes later.”

“I don’t mind washing them.” Margaret removed the paper plates from each formal plate, stacked them together, and headed toward the lodge. She stopped and turned back. “Thank you for cleaning the kitchen, Hannah. I’ll finish mopping the floor after I put the pie in the oven. That way, you’ll have time to freshen up before dinner.”

Hannah glanced down at her long-sleeved shirt and jeans. There were no stains or rips in the clothing, so as far as she was concerned, she was in good shape. “No need. After we eat, I’ll have to traipse across the pasture, round Ruby and Juno up, and get them back in the stable for the night. I’ll get dirtied up all over again.”

“Yes, but wouldn’t you feel more comfortable during dinner if you showered and put on a nice blouse and skirt, maybe?” Margaret asked.

“Would I feel more comfortable wearing a skirt while I eat?” Hannah smirked. “Nope.”

Red laughed. The fryer hissed as he plopped in another spoonful of batter. “If you want Hannah to wear a skirt, you’ll have to hog-tie her and adhere that joker to her skin with duct tape.”

Margaret’s lips twitched. “It doesn’t have to be a skirt. Just something a bit nicer than jeans to make a good first impression. And I’d be happy to fix your hair if you’d like me to. I could curl the ends or—”

“No, thank you.” Hannah tightened her ponytail. “I’ve already made my first impression on Travis.” Which . . . she should’ve handled better—she could admit that now—but it was too late to change their unfriendly introduction. “And I promise I’ll wash my hands before I eat. Beyond that, I’m sorry to say, my lackluster appearance will just have to disappoint.”

Margaret studied the paper plates stacked in her hands, then said quietly, “You couldn’t be a disappointment if you tried, Hannah. You’re a beautiful girl, no matter what you have on.” She looked up and her eyes, sheened with tears, met Hannah’s. “I can’t help it. Sometimes you remind me so much of—” She waved a hand and turned on her heels. “You rest. I’ll finish in the kitchen so you can keep Red company.”