Free Woodrose Mountain by RaeAnne Thayne

his throat, sharp and acrid. He hated this kid with every microcell of his heart and it took all the discipline he’d learned in his ski-jumping days to keep from grabbing the kid and shoving his face into that freezer full of ice beside the stand.
    He stepped around the side of the fake little chalet and had the tiny satisfaction of seeing the kid’s features go a little pale under his summer tan.
    “Nice bike,” he said to Charlie Beaumont, the son of a bitch who had ruined Taryn’s life.
    The kid looked as if he would rather be anywhere else on earth, as if he were tempted to climb back onto his bike and race away. Hot color washed up to replace his paleness and he didn’t meet Brodie’s gaze.
    “Mr. Thorne,” he muttered.
    Brodie could think of a hundred things he would like to say to this kid, whose position of wealth and privilege apparently led him to think he could destroy lives around him with impunity from his choices.
    Charlie’s father was the mayor of Hope’s Crossing and one of the town’s most powerful members. He was also an attorney who—along with his partners—was doing everything he could to keep his son from having to atone for his stupid choices.
    Because of this little punk, his baby girl’s life had been decimated. While he rode around town flaunting his five-thousand-dollar mountain bike and buying iced treats, Taryn was forced to endure countless procedures and shots, to be unable to communicate even the most basic of needs, to spend her days in a wheelchair when she should be dancing and running and enjoying life as a teenage girl.
    Shoving him into the freezer was too good for him.
    “Um, how’s Taryn?” Charlie finally asked.
    Brodie had to admit, the kid showed balls to pretend concern. “Do you really care? I didn’t notice you coming to the hospital anytime during the last three months.”
    At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. “I wanted to. I just…my parents, uh, didn’t think I should.”
    “Right. Wouldn’t want you to face something as inconvenient as your conscience, would we?”
    If possible, Charlie’s features turned an even deeper shade of red. Brodie would have liked to say something cutting and harsh but a family of tourists in shorts and ball caps came up behind Charlie and the moment passed. What was the point anyway? Yelling at the kid wouldn’t help Taryn and probably wouldn’t make Brodie feel any better.
    Hannah Kirk called his name just a moment later. “Here you go, Mr. Thorne. You tell Taryn we’re all praying for her, okay?”
    He forced a polite smile, biting down the urge to point out that prayers hadn’t done a hell of a lot of good so far.
    “I’ll tell her. And thank you for the shave ice. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.”
    Hannah hesitated. “Would it be okay if I stopped by to bring her another one sometime, now that she’s home?”
    It was nice of her to offer, especially as their friendship seemed to have withered away after grade school. “I think she’d like that,” he answered.
    Charlie was apparently following their conversation. “Wait. She’s home?” he asked.
    “Didn’t you see the signs all over town?” Hannah asked, with a touch of pugnacity that seemed out of character for her. “Mr. Thorne is taking her home now. That’s why he bought her a shave ice here instead of in Denver.”
    An interesting mix of emotions crossed Charlie’s features. He looked happy and miserable and wary at the same time. “So she’s okay?”
    Chief McKnight probably wouldn’t arrest him if he “accidentally” dumped a shave ice on the punk’s head, would he? “Right,” he growled. “If you call needing twenty-four-hour care, not being able to get out more than a few words, not having the motor control to feed herself this shave ice, okay, then yes. I guess she’s okay. Unlike Layla Parker.”
    It was a cruel thing to say, he knew, and he felt small for it when Charlie hissed in a breath as if Brodie had coldcocked