The Chance

Share the joys, heartbreaks, challenges and triumphs of the people who inhabit the small Oregon town of Thunder Point with #1 New York Times bestselling author Robyn Carr

With its breathtaking vistas and down-to-earth people, Thunder Point is the perfect place for FBI agent Laine Carrington to recuperate from a gunshot wound and contemplate her future. The locals embraced Laine as one of their own after she risked her life to save a young girl from a dangerous cult. Knowing her wounds go beyond the physical, Laine hopes she’ll fit in for a while and find her true self in a town that feels safe. She may even learn to open her heart to others, something an undercover agent has little time to indulge.

Eric Gentry is also new to Thunder Point. Although he’s a man with a dark past, he’s determined to put down roots and get to know the daughter he only recently discovered. When Laine and Eric meet, their attraction is obvious to everyone. But while the law enforcement agent and the reformed criminal want to make things work, their differences may run too deep…unless they take a chance on each other and find that deep and mysterious bond that belongs to those who choose love over fear.

Praise for #1 New York Times

and USA TODAY bestselling author

ROBYN

CARR

“A touch of danger and suspense make the latest in Carr’s Thunder Point series a powerful read.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Hero

“With her trademark mixture of humor, realistic conflict, and razor-sharp insights, Carr brings Thunder Point to vivid life.”

—Library Journal on The Newcomer

“No one can do small-town life like Carr.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Wanderer

“Strong conflict, humor and well-written characters are Carr’s calling cards, and they’re all present here....You won’t want to put this one down.”

—RT Book Reviews on Angel’s Peak

“An intensely satisfying read. By turns humorous and gut-wrenchingly emotional, it won’t soon be forgotten.”

—RT Book Reviews on Paradise Valley

“Carr has hit her stride with this captivating series.”

—Library Journal on the Virgin River series

The Chance

Robyn Carr

www.mirabooks.co.uk

This story is lovingly dedicated to

the caregivers of the world.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Extract from Four Friends

Extract from The Hero

One

When Laine Carrington arrived in Thunder Point, she went directly to the hill above the beach and sat in the parking lot beside Cooper’s bar. She didn’t go inside—she would do that later. She just wanted to see if the view from this perch matched the pictures she’d been sent. She let out her breath, not even realizing she’d been holding it. The vista before her was even better.

What am I doing here? she asked herself again. She’d been asking herself over three thousand miles of driving.

The view was stunning. The beach was wide and long. The huge, black haystack rocks were a powerful contrast against the gray-blue water. The mouth of the bay lay between two promontories, the Pacific stretching endlessly beyond, crashing against the giant rocks, but the water in the bay was calm.

She shivered in the cold and pulled her jacket tighter. It was late January and the damp cold caused her right shoulder to ache all the way to her elbow. She’d had surgery on that shoulder three months ago. A bullet was removed and damage repaired. Maybe it was the bullet that brought her to Thunder Point. Laine had been wounded on the job, then pulled from FBI field service and put on a desk while recovering. She wasn’t given any active cases but she had a computer—she was limited to what amounted to research and clerical work for other agents. When she realized they were going to keep her on that desk for a long time, light duty, assisting rather than leading investigations, she requested a one-year leave of absence to focus on rehab.

Rehab was an excuse. She didn’t need a year. She was close to seventy-five-percent total recovery of the shoulder and in another six months she’d be a hundred percent. But even though she was cleared for duty by the shrink, she wanted time to rethink her career path. And she was allergic to that full-time desk.

Plus, she’d had a miserable holiday visit with her father in Boston. She left angry, went back to her Virginia town house, got in touch with a Realtor in Thunder Point, where she knew a couple of people, and from emailed photos she had chosen a house to rent. A house with a view of the bay. Because Thunder Point, Oregon, was just about as far from Boston as she could get.

Her car was in the parking lot of the bar and she leaned against the hood for a long time, staring at the sea. It was overcast and cold, and there was no one on the water. It was glum, actually. But she liked cloudy or stormy days. Her mother used to call them soup days. Although her mother had been a career woman, she had loved to cook and bake and it was particularly on days like this that she’d come home from her office or the hospital early, arms filled with grocery bags, and spend a few hours in the kitchen. It relaxed her. She loved filling her family with comfort food—thick soups and stews, hearty casseroles, pastas in rich sauces and sweet, soft breads.

Laine sighed. She would never get over losing her mother. It had been five years and she still reached for the phone. Then she’d remember. She’s gone.

It was time to get to town to meet the Realtor. She got in her car, drove out of the parking lot and took the road that crossed the beach and led to the town. There was some construction on the hill—it looked like a few houses were being built on this beachfront hillside. Like Cooper’s bar, they would have the best views in the town.

She drove to the main street and parked in front of the clinic. When she got out of her car she locked it out of habit. She looked up and down the street lined with lampposts still boasting a bit of Christmas garland. Well, it was only January, she thought with a private chuckle.

Laine walked into the clinic and there, sitting behind the counter at her desk, was Devon McAllister. She rose with a wide smile on her face.

“You’re here,” Devon said in a near whisper. She came around the counter and embraced Laine. “There was a part of me afraid you wouldn’t come. That something would happen, that the FBI would have work for you...”

“Can we please not say a lot about that?”

“About what? The commune? The raid? The FBI?”

Laine couldn’t help herself, she brushed the hair back from Devon’s pretty face as if she were a little sister. Laine had taken Devon under her wing in the commune. “About all of it,” she said. “When people find out I work for the FBI they either ask me a ton of weird questions or they get strange, like they’re worried I’m going to do a background check on them or something. At least until I settle in a little bit, let’s downplay all that stuff.”

“What will you say? Because these people want to know everything about everyone. They’re nice about it, but they will ask.”

“I’ll just say I worked on a federal task force, but most of my work was just at a desk, compiling data, research, that sort of thing. Not at all a lie. And I’m on leave because of shoulder surgery.”

“Okay,” Devon said, laughing softly. “They really don’t need to know your task force was counterterrorism until you stumbled on an illegal pot farm in the middle of a cult and that you had shoulder surgery because you were shot in the line of duty.” Then she grinned.

Laine groaned. “Please, I really don’t want to sound that interesting.”

“Well, the only people who know certain details were there that night and they were briefed pretty thoroughly. Rawley, Cooper and Spencer will be very happy to see you,” Devon said. “And of course Mac knows—he’s the law around here, can’t get anything by him. I told Scott, my boss, but I can keep him quiet. He’s pretty easy to control.”

“Is that so?” Laine asked with a smile.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “In Dr. Grant’s case it has more to do with me being happy so I can keep track of all the paperwork in this clinic. He dreads things like insurance filing, especially Medicaid and Medicare. He does it when he has to and frankly, it takes him five times as long as it takes me. He’s not even very good at keeping lab work and patient files up to date.”

“You’re so different from the person I knew on the farm.”

“Actually, I was different in the commune from the person I really am,” Devon said. “This is more me. I was always a good student, a hard worker. But you are the curiosity. How did a sophisticated city girl like you manage to fit into the family like you did?”

Laine smiled, secretly proud. “Specialized training, research, good role-playing.”

“I can see that working for a couple of days, but it was over six months!” Devon reminded her.

She knew. Only too well. “Very good research and role-playing,” she said. Not to mention the fact that lives were at stake and rested on her success or failure. Laine had done a lot of undercover work over the years but her time with The Fellowship had been the longest deep-cover assignment in her career. She had requested it, thinking it would be a brief fact-finding assignment. She thought she could probably fit in, get to the bottom of what was happening there, but what was going on was quite different than what the FBI suspected. They had been looking for evidence of sovereign citizenry, tax evasion, fraud, human trafficking and possible domestic terrorism. What she found, once she was inside, was a giant pot farm fronted by a fake cult.

Laine could have left then, escaped, turned her information over to the task force and let them figure out how to proceed, how to best serve a warrant and get inside to make arrests without creating a small war. But there were women and children behind the fence that surrounded The Fellowship and the men in charge would fight back—they were armed to the teeth. So she stayed, getting as many of them out safely as she could before law enforcement breached the compound. It had been a dangerous and complex operation and in the end, she’d been shot by the cult leader, the boss. Jacob.

“Are you ready to have a little quiet now?” Devon asked.

“You have no idea,” Laine said. But she’d never actually had quiet before. The thought of whole days without plans stretching out in front of her was intimidating.

“I saw it,” Devon said. “The house you rented.”

“You did?”

“Ray Anne, the Realtor I suggested to you, told me which house it was and I peeked in some windows. It’s beautiful. So beautiful.”

“I’ve only seen pictures,” Laine replied. “I understand I was very lucky—that there’s hardly ever rental property available around here.”

“At least not real pretty rental property. This is a vacation home that for some reason the family isn’t going to be using for a while so they’re renting it.”

“Do you know them? The people who own it?”

Devon shook her head. “But I haven’t been here that long. I don’t know everyone, that’s for sure.”

Laine looked at her watch. “I better go meet Ray Anne. Want to come? See the inside from the inside?”

She grinned and nodded. “Let me check with Scott, then I’ll follow you so I can come right back.”

“Maybe I better follow you,” Laine said. “I haven’t even looked in the windows yet.”

* * *

Devon led the way to Laine’s rental. They drove down the main street, past what seemed to amount to the entire commercial district of Thunder Point, took a left and entered a residential neighborhood. A woman who appeared altogether too dressed up exited her BMW in front of a very small house that sat in the middle of about a dozen nondescript houses. The foliage and pines surrounding the little house were deep green even though it was the dead of winter. Virginia or Boston at this time of year would be covered with snow and the trees bare.

Laine was a little shocked at how ordinary and dumpy the little house looked; she had never seen a picture of the front exposure. It seemed very small. There was an ordinary white door with a diamond-shaped window in it and one front window. If this were her house she’d paint the door dark green and add identically colored shutters to that window.

Laine parked, got out and stretched a hand toward the Realtor. “Ms. Dysart?” she asked.

“Call me Ray Anne. So nice to finally meet you, Laine.” She dangled house keys. “I think you’re going to love this. Please, do the honors.”

With Ray Anne close on her tail and Devon following, Laine stepped into the small house and entered a whole new world. Right inside the front door was a spacious foyer and the house opened up before her. To her left, an open staircase and small powder room, to her right, a small and unfurnished room with louvered double doors, perfect for Laine to use as an office. Straight ahead was a great room with a large picture window. To the left of the great room was a big open kitchen with a dining area in front of a matching window. Dividing the two windows were French doors that Ray Anne immediately opened, revealing a very large deck and a view of the bay that just about knocked Laine out. She inhaled deeply, appreciatively. She walked outside to the railing and looked down—the deck sat atop a rocky hill.

“You can’t get to the beach from here,” Ray Anne said from behind her. “There really isn’t much beach—only a little when the tide’s out. You’ll have to go down the street and back through town to the marina. This is considered oceanfront. The only beachfront in Thunder Point is over there, where Cooper is building. Most of us thought there would never be any building there, but Cooper has a plan for maybe as many as twenty single-family residences. The rest of us po’ folk have to get to the beach either from his bar or the marina. This is the north promontory. Straight across there, that’s the south promontory. The previous owner, the guy who left it to Cooper in his will, had always wanted it to be a nature preserve, safe for the wildlife. Much as I’d like him to cut it up and let me sell lots for him, you have to admit it’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful,” Laine said in a breath. A few trees growing right out of the rocks and hillside below her deck reached up so that their branches brushed the railing. They needed trimming so they wouldn’t obstruct her view.

“It’s so wet and cold right now I didn’t uncover the grill or deck furniture. I thought I’d leave that to you. You might not want to sit outside in this weather.”

Laine looked around for the first time. It looked like she had a table and four chairs, a chaise and a rather large grill under the weatherproof drapes. Laine turned and went inside again, taking note of the great room, divided from the kitchen by a breakfast bar. The pictures had done the interior more credit than it deserved. There was a maroon sofa, two uncomfortable-looking rattan chairs, a nice fireplace and zero homey touches. The breakfast nook held a beat-up but large table with eight cane-back chairs. There was a short hall that led to a laundry room, pantry and interior garage door.

“Bedroom?” she asked.

“Right this way,” Ray Anne said, leading her back toward the front door and up the stairs. Laine and Devon followed along. At the top of the stairs was a set of double doors that stood open to expose a rather small but comfortable-looking master bedroom. Not a suite, but a bedroom. One queen-size bed, one bureau, one bedside table and a fireplace. But it had a triple-wide set of sliding glass doors and a small deck again with the most stunning view. Laine was drawn to it. Her eyes nearly rolled back in her head at a vision of sitting against big pillows, looking out the window at the clouds, only the fireplace lighting the room.

Falling asleep with the light of the fireplace in the room held a special appeal. Since the shooting, she’d left a light on at night. She never told anyone.

“When the weather gets exciting, watching the lightning over the bay is like a fireworks show,” Ray Anne said. “Around here, it’s all about the view. There are a lot of views in this town. Some have the view in front, some in back, some up the hill, some closer to the water, sometimes from big houses and sometimes from little ones.” Ray Anne stepped to one side. “Bath,” she said, indicating a very functional master bath, dressing area and closet. There was a glassed-in shower, large spa-style tub and wide closet with built-in drawers and shelves.

Laine merely glanced, then her eyes were drawn back to that view again. Devon was oohing and aahing over the size of the master bath and closet space.

“There are two bedrooms down the hall with a jack-and-jill bathroom dividing them. The owner has queen-size beds in each. Storage is limited. They’re small bedrooms but the sofa downstairs pulls out—the house can sleep at least eight. The owners wanted a place for their children and grandchildren to visit. Linen closet across the hall from the master. Downstairs front closet under the stairs. You have a two-car garage,” Ray Anne said as she continued the tour.

And only a few rather tacky prints on the walls, no little touches of home, no plants, of course, and the lamps had been around a long time, Laine thought.

“I had a cleaning crew come through—the carpet is shampooed, bathrooms and kitchen scoured, clean sheets on the beds, some towels on hand. The carpet is fairly new. I don’t know what your plans are for the house, but it will accommodate a large group.”

Laine looked at her in some surprise. “My plan is to live in it.”

“Oh! Wonderful! Are you planning to work around here?”

She shrugged. “I’ll probably do a little computer work. I’m actually on leave from a government job but I can do some work from here—you know, clerical stuff. I had a pretty serious shoulder surgery and with all my vacation and good benefits and—”

“I hope it wasn’t rotator cuff,” Ray Anne said, moving her own shoulder up and down. “That’s the worst! I had that surgery a few years ago and it’s hell, that’s all I can say. It’s fine now but I thought it would take forever!”

Devon met Laine’s eyes, but didn’t comment. She just stood in the master bedroom and looked out at the rock-studded bay.

Laine was thinking about other things, like what the place would feel like with a nicer sofa, with a throw on it for winter nights in front of the fire. And how about some accent tables, designer lighting, paintings on the walls, books on her own bookshelves? Her own sheets and towels and some of her favorite cookware and dishes? And her mother’s small kitchen breakfront, her treasure.

She turned to Ray Anne. “Did you ask the owners if they mind that I store their furnishings and use my own? Of course I’ll cover the cost of packing, moving and storing their things.”

“They said that’s fine as long as their things aren’t damaged.” Ray Anne shrugged. “I can’t imagine how they’d ever know if anything was damaged. This stuff is adequate but old. In fact, as long as you pay your deposit and rent on time and put the place back the way you found it when your lease is up, there are hardly any restrictions in your lease. You should read it over. You can paint as long as you either stick to the colors or return it to the original.” She wrinkled her nose. “Which appears to be renter’s white. No knocking out walls or redesigning the property.” Then she lowered her voice as if to tell a secret. “If you paint some walls, which I would do before nightfall, try not to make them too bold so you’re able to return them to their original color when you move out.”

But Laine could only think of one thing. “Let’s go take a look at that kitchen, see what the owners left for me to use until my stuff comes. The moving truck is on the way—should be here in a day or two.”

“Okay,” Ray Anne said, “but there are plenty of places in town where you can get a bite to eat until you get settled.”

Laine was already on her way to the kitchen and when she got there, she started opening cupboard doors. She found plates, a few pots, a frying pan, utensils, some kitchen linens, just the bare essentials, designed for a vacation rental. But that was all right. She closed the last cupboard door, turned and smiled at Ray Anne and Devon. “I’m good,” she said. “If you could just give me directions to the nearest grocery, I’m going to light the fire and make soup. It looks like a soup day to me.”

* * *

Eric Gentry sat at the counter in the diner having a late breakfast. Next to him was Cooper from the beach bar, doing the same. Then the sheriff’s deputy walked in. Mac pulled off his hat and took the seat beside Eric. Mac’s wife, Gina, brought him a cup of coffee. Then she leaned over the counter and collected a kiss.

“I certainly didn’t get that kind of first-class treatment,” Cooper said with a smile. “And I ordered a whole meal.”

“Yeah, buddy, the day I hear about you getting treatment like that is the day you start walking with a limp.”

Eric chuckled, but he’d never make such a remark. He and Gina had history. And he liked walking straight.

“Mac,” Gina chided with a laugh in her voice.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Mac asked Cooper. “Get sick of Rawley’s cooking out at the bar?”

“Rawley doesn’t cook,” Cooper said. “Sometimes he warms things, but that’s just sometimes.”

“Sarah says he’s a good cook,” Gina pointed out.

“Oh, he cooks for Sarah,” Cooper said of his wife. “When she wanders into the kitchen he asks her right away what she’d like. Now that she’s packin’, Rawley takes real good care of her.”

“Packin’?” Eric asked.

“Pregnant,” three people answered in unison.

“I see,” he said, sitting back and wiping his mouth on the napkin.

“Business must be good,” Mac said to Eric. “I saw a dually pulling a trailer through town, an old Plymouth on the trailer.”

“A 1970 Superbird,” Eric told him. “It’s in for a rebuilt engine, new bench seat and a refurbished dash. I think we’re going to have to refresh that roof, too. It’s the original vinyl and not going to be easy.”

“Bench seat? Not buckets?”

Eric shook his head. “Not in the Superbird. I guess if you drove one of those you got girls and if you got girls, you wanted them sitting right next to you.”

“Where’d it come from?” Mac asked.

“Southern California.”

“Someone would bring an old car up from Southern California?”

Eric sipped his coffee. “It’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar classic. The owner would bring it across six states for the right work. I’ve done a lot of work for him. He owns twenty cars. I think it’s most of his estate. He likes to do a lot of the restoration work himself and he does a great job. He doesn’t have the equipment for replacing an engine block and the car is his baby.”

“His baby?” Gina asked.

“He kisses it before he goes to bed every night. He probably treats the car better than he treats his wife.”

“Boys and their toys,” Gina said.