TABLE OF CONTENTS 1. Happy Singles Day by Ann Marie Walker 2. Big Bad Wolf by Suleikha Snyder 3. Jackson by LaQuette 4. Summer by the River by Debbie Burns 5. Yes & I Love You by Roni Loren 6. Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay by Babette de Jongh 7. The Girl with Stars in Her Eyes by Xio Axelrod 8. Winner Takes All by Sandra Kitt 9. A Wolf in Duke's Clothing by Susanna Allen 10.
A Cowboy of Legend by Linda Broday
11.
Like Cats and Dogs by Kate McMurray
12.
High Country Justice by Nik James 13.
Neon Gods by Katee Robert
CHAPTER 1
PAIGE PARKER DID NOT NEED a man. She’d just told her assistant as much, but that didn’t stop him from swiping through the photos he’d prescreened for her on some app that promised to find a date for even the loneliest of spinsters. Okay, maybe they didn’t word it exactly like that. But the home page featured a slightly overweight woman, typing on her computer while a cat sat perched on her lap. If Paige hadn’t known better, she’d have thought they snuck into her apartment to take the photo. Even the woman’s hair color was the same shade of auburn as hers. Of course, she would never have seen the site if it weren’t for her assistant, let alone opened an account. One of the hazards of having an employee with access to your driver’s license and credit card who also happened to be your meddling, though well-intentioned, best friend. Speak of the devil… He said nothing in reply to her proclamation. Instead, he merely pursed his lips into a frown. “Present company excluded,” she added. And it was true. If there
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was anything or anyone Paige couldn’t live without, it was Samuel Lee, her assistant since the first day she’d opened Chaos Control. Although she hated to admit it, her dream of running a successful life-organization company would never have been possible without his hard work and dedication. If only he would stop trying to apply those same skills to resuscitating her long-dead social life. Sammy sat a little taller in his chair. “While I appreciate the exception, what if you wanted a man with more to offer than an uncanny ability to anticipate your every need? What if you wanted a little S-E-X?” He cocked his head to one side so dramatically, his jet-black hair would have fallen across his forehead had it not been gelled to perfection. “Come to think of it, that talent would be quite handy in the bedroom. But don’t be getting any ideas.” He waved his hand in the air as if to wipe the thought from her head. “This handsome exception plays for the other team.” He tapped a few images, then swiped right. “Which leaves Mr. Rochester as the only other long-term relationship in your life, and last time I checked, dating your cat is frowned upon in most states.” “Thanks for clarifying.” Paige rolled her eyes even though she knew he wouldn’t see. He was far too busy humming over the next batch of men who had appeared on the screen. “Well?” he said without looking up. “I can have meaningless sex without being in a relationship. Men do it all the time.” Except she wasn’t. And she hadn’t. Not for a long time. He laughed a little too hard for her liking. “Right. And how’s that working out for you?”
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She straightened. “Fine.” “Fine?” Sammy knew the long hours she put in at the office, which didn’t leave much time for life’s more, um, carnal pleasures. Not unless she wanted a quickie at midnight, and to be honest, most nights she just wanted her fuzzy slippers and a glass of wine. Still, she didn’t need him to shine a light on it. Paige picked a nonexistent piece of lint off the sleeve of her ivory silk blouse. “Yes. Fine.” “What if you want more than fine? What if instead of a glass of wine and a tub of ice cream, you wanted a big O?” She felt a warm flush creep across her cheeks. What in the world was wrong with her? It wasn’t like she was a teenager. She was thirty flipping years old, and her assistant had made her blush just referencing an orgasm. He grew serious, and all at once she knew what was coming. “What if you wanted a family?” “I don’t,” she said matter-of-factly. Why was it that people assumed every woman in her thirties was pining for kids? Was it so hard to believe that someone was happy with her work and her friends? Not that she had time for many of those, come to think of it. But she had her career and Mr. Rochester, and he was always happy to see her. Well, mostly. In fact, usually only if he was hungry, but still. “Hypothetically, what if you did? Those eggs aren’t getting any younger, you know.” She frowned. Lack of desire to trade in her pencil skirts for mom jeans aside, no woman liked to be reminded of her ticking clock. Ever since her birthday, it had rolled around in her brain
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like a grenade with the pin pulled out. Even if she felt no urge to use her ovaries, the thought of them shriveling up into prunes wasn’t a pleasant one. There was still plenty of time to change her mind, and if she was suddenly hit with an inexplicable change of heart, she didn’t need a man to procreate. Well, she did, but not in the way Sammy was implying. “Hypothetically,” she said, leveling the full weight of her I’m-a-badass-businesswoman stare at him, “I could go to a sperm bank.” He raised one brow. “Uptight much?” “I just don’t need to be harassed into a dating life I neither want nor need.” It wasn’t like she didn’t know what she was missing. She’d had all that and more. Hell, three years ago she’d even had a ring and a wedding date. But then she came home early one night to find her boss/best friend riding her betrothed like a bronco at the state fair. It was one of those moments in life where you can either wither up and die or come out swinging. Paige chose the latter. She tossed him out, quit her job, opened her own company, and never looked back. Problem was, she never slowed down either. “What you need is a vacation. Someplace where you can let your hair down out of that supertight bun and cut loose a little.” Cutting loose was not in Paige’s vocabulary. Order and control were the keys to happiness. They were the principles that had guided her through life and the ones that led her to becoming a certified organization professional. “You do realize my entire existence is about the opposite?” She glanced around her immaculate office. From the bleached oak floors to the white, midcentury-modern sofa to the glossy white
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filing cabinets lining the wall beneath rows of glass shelves, everything was clean lines and clean space. Not that she didn’t enjoy color and texture. Colorful blown glass dotted the shelves, and strategically placed throw pillows in various hues of red flanked both ends of the couch. But the overall look was simple. She had certainly worked with clients who preferred things a bit more shabby chic, but when it came to her own personal taste, the expression “Less is more” fit her to a T. Less clutter, less hoarding, less crap. She reached for the mug of tea sitting on a coaster atop her desk. Like the rest of her furniture, the desk was minimalist in design, comprised only of a single piece of beveled- edge glass supported by polished chrome legs. Some might say it was impractical, but it suited her just fine. Drawers served as a means to stash items that really didn’t need to be that accessible. Her desk was a place for action items, not to stockpile Post-it notes and paper clips. “Oh!” Sammy’s exuberance should have served as a warning, but to be honest, nothing could have prepared Paige for what came out of his mouth next. “I once read this book where a woman went to a secret sex island.” Paige sputtered and coughed. “You’re joking?” she said as she wiped tea from her chin. But even as she asked the question, she knew he wasn’t. The glimmer in his eyes told her he absolutely had read a book about some erotic version of Fantasy Island, and what’s more, he’d loved every minute of it. “Total anonymity for three days.” The tone of his voice was half that of someone revealing a dark secret and half of someone
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hatching a fabulous plan. “Anything goes.” His fingers flew across the tablet screen. “I wonder if a place like that actually exists.” “Let me save you some time. No way.” His shoulders sagged. “How about Vegas then? It’s a bit of a cliché—what happens there stays there and all that—but desperate times call for mediocre measures.” “You’ve lost your mind.” Paige rounded the desk and tugged his shirtsleeve. “Now get out of my office so one of us can actually get some work done.” His sad-puppy eyes nearly broke through her resolve, but Paige held her ground, hitting him with a compliment she knew would ease the pain of being thrown out. “Nice scarf, by the way.” “Isn’t it fabulous? I got it in France last year.” His wide grin faded. “I know what you’re up to, and don’t think for a minute that you can distract me with flattery,” he said as she herded him toward the door. “I’m not letting this go. You need a vacation, Boss Lady. I’ve worked for you for nearly three years, and you’ve never taken one. Time to take off those Jimmy Choos and walk barefoot in the sand.” Paige scowled at him as she shut the door, but her confident strut slowed with each step, and by the time she’d made it back to her desk, she could do nothing but collapse into a chair that was designed for anything but lounging. Sammy was right. She needed a vacation. The days and nights had started to blur together to the point that she was seriously considering an investment in day-of- the-week underpants if for no other reason than to keep track of her personal hygiene. But there was work to be done: new clients to meet with,
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existing clients to satisfy, and an entire file of new promotional ideas that had been on the back burner so long they were no doubt starting to congeal. Not that it mattered much. Business was good. Really good. So good, in fact, that she really didn’t need to spend much time on marketing. Word of mouth was taking care of that just fine. Of course, that was only going to continue if she stopped thinking about vacations on sandy beaches where she’d have time to actually read a whole book and not just the Goodreads summary. She shook her head to clear it of the thoughts that, thanks to her assistant, had begun taking root, and booted up her laptop. But when she launched the browser, a headline caught her eye that completely distracted her from the hunt for the perfect shoe cubes. Couples Have Valentine’s Day, Single People Have SAD
The unfortunate acronym was like her own personal catnip, eliciting a curiosity that was a mixture of defensive amusement, and before she knew it, Paige had read the entire article. In the end she’d learned this: Singles Appreciation Day began as a protest to a holiday many saw as nothing more than a nod to consumerism, raking in money for jewelry stores, candymakers, and greeting- card companies, while also serving as an affront to those who were alone, whether out of choice or circumstance. The article went on to say that millions of people have begun celebrating February 15th instead, opting for shopping sprees, spa days, and even solo getaways. The author also noted that the number of divorced or
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never-married adults in the United States now exceeded those in wedlock. Paige would have taken a moment to ponder that last bit of information—not to mention how the word lock came to be synonymous with eternal love—if it weren’t for an ad promising to find her “the perfect Singles Day vacation destination” if she answered a mere three-question survey. For the most part, Paige hated the targeted marketing that popped up whenever she was online, but she had to admit, this one intrigued her. And while she doubted a rental site would know what she needed more than she did, her curiosity about what questions they would ask outweighed her disdain for falling prey to clickbait. Besides, if she was going to take a vacation, emphasis on if, what better holiday to celebrate than Singles Day, which— she glanced at the date displayed on her desk phone—was only a week away. She tapped the “Find your dream vacation now” button, which took her to the three-question survey. The first one nearly had her closing out the tab. What is your astrological sign?
Paige never understood how the date of someone’s birth was supposed to offer insight into their personality. She knew plenty of people who shared birthdays and yet couldn’t be more different if they tried. And while she did have many of the characteristics of a Capricorn—practical, stable, loyal—her ex-fiancé had been born under the same earth sign and was none of the above, especially when it came to loyalty.
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Still, in for a penny, in for pound, she thought, clicking the picture of the sea goat. She took a sip of her tea as the next question loaded. Which Disney character do you most identify with?
Paige groaned, already wondering if this meant all quiz results led to Orlando, when she suddenly realized that all of the options were female. And more than that, all of them were princesses. And not even the complete set! She scrolled through the choices in search of the fierce, gender-defying Mulan, but when she couldn’t find her on the list, had to settle for the Little Mermaid. At least she and Ariel both had red hair and loved the ocean, which was a lot more than she had in common with Snow White or Cinderella. The final question was the most difficult to answer. What annoys you the most?
The options were varied and yet, in Paige’s opinion, each and every one deserved a click: waiting in line, slow internet, screaming children, crowds, group texts, traffic. She’d finally decided on traffic when she reached another conclusion as well: she was way too uptight. Sammy’s words from not ten minutes before played through her head just as her “dream destination” loaded. “The Copper Lantern Inn” was printed in intricate scroll across the top of the screen with a quote from a magazine she’d never heard of that described it as having “one of the best beaches on the Outer Banks.”
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She snorted quietly to herself. Must have been quite the algorithm, she thought, sending her to North Carolina in the middle of February. Not exactly prime beach weather. Then again, with her alabaster skin, she wasn’t really much of a sun worshipper. Plus, the beaches would be quite empty this time of year. No crowds, no kids kicking sand or screaming because they didn’t want to come out of the water to have more sunscreen applied. Maybe it would be the ideal place for her because, aside from chilly temperatures, the place looked absolutely perfect. Cedar shingles covered what could only be described as a cross between a Victorian home and a European castle. The lawn in the front looked like something out of an old black-and-white TV show, impeccably manicured right down to the freshly painted white picket fence. But it was the photo of the rear of the house that took Paige’s breath away. Rocking chairs faced tall seagrass that swelled and dipped atop dunes that stretched along white- capped waves for as far as the eye could see. For a moment, she imagined herself wrapped up in a cashmere blanket, reading a book that had nothing to do with maximizing floor space and everything to do with escapism romance. Not that she believed in those types of happy endings, not anymore at least. But there was something about getting lost in a fictional world where love conquered all—and where the girl always came first— that she still found appealing if not a little comforting. A barefoot paradise awaits you at the Copper Lantern Inn, a quaint, castle-like beach home fit for a queen. Featuring three unique guest rooms, a common room, and a porch
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overlooking a mile of secluded beach, the Inn offers one of the best views on Aurelia Island while still being only a short bike ride from town.
Normally, the mention of self-powered transportation would have given Paige a moment’s pause, but she was far too focused on the name of the island to give much thought to the coordination it would take to maneuver a bicycle after a dinner that would undoubtedly be accompanied by a bottle of chardonnay. Aurelia. Her grandmother’s name. The woman who taught her how to play, and cheat, at Rummy 500, who reminded her to stand up straight and put her shoulders back because “If you got it, flaunt it,” and who always told her that having no man was better than the wrong man. It was a sign. It had to be. As if Granny was still looking out for her from the great, big kitchen in the sky. Paige scrolled through the room options, settling on the one in the inn’s turret, then clicked the tab that read “extras.” Champagne and roses
Nope. Romantic beachfront fire
Nope. Special occasion cake
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She was about to scroll past that one as well, then paused, a devious smile curving her lips as she imagined placing an order for a cake that read “Happy Singles Day.” Paige hit a button on her desk phone, and a moment later Sammy was standing in the doorway. “You rang?” “You could have just answered the intercom,” she said. “And miss out on a chance to add a few steps?” He held up his arm to reveal the ever-present Fitbit he wore wrapped around his left wrist. He was always on her to purchase one, telling her how they could have challenges. And while a part of her feared her competitive streak would have her walking laps around the office building, another part of her knew she spent far too much time in front of her computer. Maybe she would add one of the blasted devices to her packing list. Beaches were a great place to walk and think and kick your assistant’s ass in a virtual race. “Do me a favor and pick me up one of those tracking devices while you’re at lunch today.” She delighted in the look of utter shock that crossed Sammy’s face, knowing full well that what she was about to say next would have his jaw hitting the floor. Paige leaned back in her chair. “And clear my schedule for next week,” she said as her assistant’s mouth popped open. “I’m taking a vacation.”
CHAPTER 2
LUCAS CROFT KNEW WHEN HE was being played, which was why he would have bet his last dollar on the fact that the woman sitting across from him was about to hit him with a whopper. Lucky for her, they shared the same DNA. “Are you going to get to the point, or will there be more chitchat first?” he said. His little sister’s hazel eyes grew wide, but her feigned shock was no match for experience. Ever since they were kids, she’d been roping him into her crazy plans. He’d figured she would eventually outgrow it, but seeing as she’d just celebrated what she referred to as her twenty-ninth trip around the sun, that was looking less and less likely. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “I know you’re up to something, Smalls. Why don’t you save us both the warm-up and just spit it out.” Her face scrunched up like she’d just sucked on the lemon dangling off the side of her herbal tea. “You know I hate that nickname.”
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“And you know I hate being dragged into your plans.” Despite his best efforts to the contrary, Lucas couldn’t help the smirk of amusement that tugged at the corner of his mouth. His sister might have been a complete pain in the ass, but her heart was always in the right place. Still, her ideas were usually a little eccentric and, if they involved him, often downright wacko. Like the time when she was seven and he was ten and she hatched a plan for them to run off to Antarctica to save some rare breed of penguin. He’d been grounded for a month over that one! Or when she convinced him to help her turn the old fire station into a used bookstore. The long nights painting the walls had been bad enough, but lugging all those books was worse than even the most punishing day in the gym. Although to be fair, that idea had actually turned out fairly well. After five years, Blazing Books was staying afloat, which was more than he could say for his own business venture. Sophie lifted her chin in defiance. “Maybe I just wanted to see my big brother. Ever think of that, Mr. Smarty Pants?” Between her size—five foot two on a good day—and her pixie haircut, his sister was always being mistaken for a college student. Her insults, on the other hand, were one hundred percent middle school. Lucas’s smirk widened into a full-on grin. “You expect me to believe you closed the bookstore for an hour in the middle of the day just because you felt the overwhelming urge to buy your brother a blueberry muffin and a shot of espresso?” She squirmed in her seat, a surefire tell if there ever was one. “I know they’re your favorite. Besides, Maddie loves this place.” On instinct, Lucas’s gaze shifted to where his four-year-old daughter was busy drawing rainbows on a pint-sized chalkboard.
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As usual, she’d assembled the three stuffed animals that accompanied her most everywhere into a makeshift classroom. Lord only knew what she was teaching them today, but whatever it was had her smiling, and that was all that mattered despite the fact that they were a motley crew of fluff. There was Floppy, a long-eared rabbit from her very first Easter basket who was now missing his cotton tail; Stanley, half an avocado with a smiley face that was a gift from who else but the dork currently seated across from him; and a well-loved, pink-and-white teddy bear named Stinky. His name wasn’t actually Stinky, but that’s what Lucas had vowed to call him until Maddie relented and allowed the bear to take a bath in the “spinning machine.” “No fair using the kid to get you off the hot seat.” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “Now spill. What are you up to?” “Okay, fine.” Sophie looked down, fiddling with the spoon, the napkin, the lemon—anything to keep from meeting his stare. “I may have reactivated the listing on the rental site.” Cute little sister or not, she had no right to reactivate the listing on his now-dormant bed-and-breakfast. It might have been his business, at least at one point, but it was also his home. This was crossing the line, even for her. “Take it down.” She winced. “I already booked one of the rooms for next week.” If his daughter hadn’t been within earshot, Lucas would have let Sophie have it. As it was, he was in danger of grinding his molars into dust.
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“Look, I know you haven’t hosted guests in a while, but it will be like riding a bike. Once you get going, it will all come back to you.” There was a litany of reasons why this was a bad idea, the most glaring of which was the fact that the place wasn’t even close to being ready for guests, but he chose to focus on the most immediate one. “Maddie won’t like it.” “You don’t know that.” “She was two the last time a guest stayed in the house. She doesn’t even remember that lifestyle.” “She was almost three,” Sophie corrected. “Your daughter is a lot more open to new experiences than you give her credit for, and unlike her dad, she actually likes meeting new people.” Her words came quickly, no doubt an attempt to cut off his protests. “Besides, you don’t have to worry about Maddie. She can stay with me.” “For a whole week?” He shook his head. “No way.” His sister looked genuinely hurt. “Maddie loves spending time with me.” “Yeah, for an afternoon, maybe a day here or there, but she’s never been away from me that long.” He tried to soften his objection with a little levity. “Plus, a whole week of glitter nail polish and ice cream before dinner?” “It’s not like you won’t be seeing her every day. It’s just so you can have the flexibility to get stuff done. And you should be thanking me. If it weren’t for me, the poor thing wouldn’t have even known what a skirt was, let alone tights.” “And that would have been a bad thing?” As far as he was
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concerned, Maddie could stay a little girl in blue jeans and pigtails forever. “I’m serious, Luc. I love spending time with my niece. Plus, it’s good for her to have a female in her life, and since apparently the idea of actually asking a woman on a date is out of the question…” He shot her a look he knew could freeze lava in hell. “Not this again.” They’d been over the topic so many times he’d lost count. There weren’t many women on the island to begin with, and by the time you weeded out the ones who were too old or too young, there wasn’t much left. Not that he was in the market. Love was a four-letter word as far as he was concerned. “So help me, if you’re about to tell me yet again how much Susan at the bank thinks I look like Ryan Reynolds—” “Settle down, Cujo.” Sophie held up her hands in innocence. “I wasn’t even going to mention Susan.” She stuck her tongue out. “Personally, I think you look more like Ryan Reynolds in Deadpool, but hey, to each their own. All I’m saying is that Maddie could benefit from a week of frills and glitter.” “She’s fine. We both are.” His voice lowered. “Plus, what if she has a nightmare?” It had been months since the last time Maddie had woken screaming his name, but the sound of her little voice quivering in fear was permanently ingrained in his mind, not to mention his heart. If she woke up looking for him and he wasn’t there… “Then you can FaceTime and sing that silly song she loves, and if that doesn’t work, you could be at my place in less than ten.” Ten minutes away from a frightened four-year-old was ten minutes too long. The doctor said she would outgrow it, that
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as the memories of losing her mom faded, so would the nightmares she’d been having about losing her dad. It was a double- edged sword really. As much as he wanted his daughter to have a peaceful night’s sleep, the thought of her mother fading from her memories was almost harder to bear than Maddie’s screams. “Or I could skip the late-night ride and she can just stay home and we can forget this whole thing.” Lucas began to stand, but Sophie’s next words stopped him in his tracks. “I got double the summer rate.” “What did you just say?” “You heard me.” “How the hell did you manage that?” No one paid double the summer rate in summer, let alone the dead of winter. “I may have told her there was a man from Louisiana who came back every year to see the sea turtles.” “You spoke to her?” He wasn’t sure what made him ask because at the moment, the fact that his sister was chatting with potential customers was the least of his concerns. “We messaged through the site.” Lucas ran his hand through his hair. “Turtle season ends in August.” Her ears turned pink. Tell number two. “I may have fudged the dates a bit.” “And the place doesn’t look at all like the website photos anymore.” That was the understatement of the century. It wasn’t like he’d meant for it to get so out of hand, but after the funeral, he’d focused all his attention on Maddie. Then one day slipped into the next, and before he knew it, even he had to admit it was a mess.
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“Yeah, I may not have mentioned that either.” “What did you tell her?” “That it was tranquil.” More like deserted. “Good news is she booked the turret room,” Sophie said as if reading his mind. Not that it mattered. There was only one guest room left. The others had been…repurposed. “You know I haven’t had a booking since…” A profound sadness crept into his heart like ink seeping into parchment. “I know.” Her voice had grown softer. “But the last thing she would want is for you to lose the inn. It meant so much to both of you. And with the taxes coming due…” There it was, the truth he couldn’t deny. Death and taxes, the two inevitabilities in life. One had rocked his world, and the other was threatening to clear away the rubble. The cash from Jenny’s life insurance policy had covered their mortgage and living expenses for the last two years, but that account was dwindling quickly. He had enough for about three more months—which, if he was going to reopen, would get him to the summer season—but not for the full tax bill as well. He and Jenny had poured their hearts and souls, not to mention every dime they had, into their little beachfront castle. The thought of running it without her brought the emotions he tried his best to bury right up to the surface. But the thought of selling it—or even worse, having it taken away by the county—would be like losing her all over again. A week’s rental at double the summer rate would certainly buy him the time he needed to figure out his next steps, not to mention get his little sister off his back.
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Lucas pressed his lips into a thin line, then let out an exaggerated breath. “Fine. I’ll take the booking.” Sophie clapped her hands together. “That’s great!” “What’s great?” Maddie asked. Her dark-brown curls swayed as she skipped toward the table. “Your dad just agreed to let you sleep over at my house for a few nights.” His little girl’s eyes grew wide. “Like a slumber party?” Sophie smiled. “Exactly like a slumber party.” She cocked her head to one side. “Except it’s not much of a party if it’s only the two of us. Can you think of anyone else we can invite?” “Stanley would love to come,” Maddie said. “So would Floppy and Raymond,” she added, referring to Stinky by his given name. Shocker, Lucas thought. But there was no denying the warmth that spread through his chest at the sight of his daughter so happy. “Then definitely bring them.” Sophie pulled her niece into her lap, then turned her attention back to Lucas. “Want me to come by tonight to help you tidy the place up a bit?” It would take a hell of a lot more than a little “tidying” to make the place presentable. For a moment, he almost felt guilty about that. But then he thought about the kind of uptight woman who would pay double just to beat out some imaginary schmuck looking for turtles in winter, and all thoughts of Southern hospitality left him. “No thanks,” he said. “I am who I am. If my guest doesn’t like it”— he narrowed his eyes at his sister— “she can message her host.”
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1
THE MAN WHO SAT ACROSS from her looked like he wanted to eat her, and Neha Ahluwalia had no doubt that he could. In great big bites. Laying her to waste with swipes of his claws. Would it be kinder than what he’d done to land himself behind bars? That she had no inkling of. But she did know he was guilty. Guilty and a killer. One was a legal distinction, the other largely genetic, but they were both equally true. It wasn’t just the look in his eyes. Not just speculation or suspicion or her overactive imagination. It was the facts. Spelled out in fine print, looped in strands of altered DNA. Joe Peluso was the monster in the closet, the creature you were warned about in fairy tales…and still, somehow, not the scariest white man Neha had encountered while doing her job. What passed for humanity these days terrified her far more than the things that went bump in the night. His first trial had dominated the headlines for months. “Unknown Sniper Spurs Gangland Chaos.” “Brutal Killer Caught!” “I Did It: Queens-Born Shooter Confesses.” You couldn’t walk by a newsstand or flip past the local news without seeing Peluso’s face. His police mug shot. Broad features spattered with cuts and bruises. Ears that stuck out in almost comical contrast. He
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looked dangerous. He still looked dangerous. Like someone who would absolutely cut down four members of a Russian drug ring while they were eating dinner—leaving them facedown in their borscht—and then stab another two guys in close combat in the parking lot. “Yeah, I fuckin’ did it! Is that what you want me to say?” he’d shouted in court, according to the transcripts. “Let’s just get this bullshit over with!” What the transcripts hadn’t said was that he’d almost transformed while raging on the witness stand. It wasn’t that much of a surprise to people in law enforcement, like her—all kinds of new species had inched their way into the light since the Darkest Day in 2016, and she had more than a few in her own family—but the ripple of fur across his body, the fangs, had been enough to throw the court into a tailspin. Pun fully intended. That he’d shot people, stabbed people, but hadn’t turned berserker—hadn’t devoured his victims—had put a whole different spin on his case. Instant mistrial. Instant cover-up…at least as far as the press and the public were concerned. Neha should’ve been terrified at the prospect of this new client and of the reality of him sitting across from her right now. And, sure, maybe she’d freaked out a little that morning at the firm. She’d spilled coffee on her second-best blazer and asked her favorite senior partner to repeat himself. “I want you to sit in, Neha,” Nate had obliged. “I think you could learn a lot on this one…and I think we could learn a lot from your take. I want your profiling skills on full display.” As a junior associate, she was practically begging to log some more billable hours and hack away at her law-school debt. But the Peluso case? Not one she’d been expecting to have land on her plate. Not high on her list, since it wasn’t exactly going to help pay the bills. But she’d said yes anyway. Because how did you turn something like this down? A vigilante shape-shifter in a Sanctuary
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City? It was the kind of opportunity that could make or break her career…even if it didn’t break the bank in the process. Now here they were at the table. Her, Nate Feinberg—the first chair on the case—and his second chair and partner in defending crime, Dustin Taylor. With Joe Peluso himself staring back at them. His bruises were fresh. Probably from a recent tussle in jail as he waited for the new trial date. But everything else was the same as in his picture. His dark-brown hair chopped short in a blunt cut. A harsh-featured face only a mother could love. Those ears. And his dark, cold eyes. Meeting them, acknowledging his blatant perusal, Neha knew without a doubt that he was capable of taking lives. Professional. Efficient. Ruthless. But there was something else there, too. Not vulnerability. Not softness. Nothing like that. Just…depth? A hint of something below that chilly surface, something charismatic or compelling. A mystery waiting to be solved. Was it the monster? Or was it the man? Either way, Neha couldn’t—wouldn’t—take her eyes off him. There were too many things about him, about this case, that didn’t add up quite right. Like Peluso’s heavily redacted military files. Like how he had only gotten caught because, of all things, he’d called in a tip after his hit. A two-minute, forty-second phone call telling the cops about a shipping container full of “goods” scheduled to arrive later in the week. While one set of law-enforcement officials had tried to trace the burner-phone call and cross-referenced the security cameras and drone footage from nearby, another had intercepted the drop. The shipping container in question hadn’t been full of drugs or bootlegs or weapons. It had been full of people—mostly human women—slated for sex trafficking. Joe Peluso had cut down six criminals without blinking…but spared one thought to save dozens of lives. A man who’d clearly done his homework about the security drones that circled the city, he’d figured out their patterns. Even though they were supposedly
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on a randomizer and changed circuits every day, he had chucked all of that—risked being recorded—to make a call. What she didn’t know, and didn’t remotely understand, was why. And she hoped that the why would help them win their day in court, despite all the odds that were stacked against them. Not the least of which was the fact that this guy had taken out a bunch of Russian nationals, and all of the current president’s New York-based cronies were calling for Peluso’s head. So that the Russian government didn’t retaliate. So they didn’t lose all their cushy connections. Add in the supernatural factor—which called into question rights and personhood and whether he was even entitled to a new trial—and it was a mess. There was buzz around the firm that the rest of the senior partners had balked at Nate taking this case, fearing public backlash. “Sanctuary fucking City,” he’d reportedly said in response. “Last I checked, mobsters, pimps, and white supremacists were still the bad guys, and all Americans are still entitled to due process. No matter what’s going on in Washington with birthright citizenship and humanity verification legislation, Joseph Peluso is still a citizen.” And that was that. As long as the mayor and the governor kept fighting the dark curtain that had dropped across the United States over the past few years, the legal firm of Dickenson, Gould, and Smythe would keep holding the line. How Nate managed the other partners so efficiently was a secret well above Neha’s pay grade. And, frankly, she didn’t want to know. The enigma sitting across from them was more than enough to deal with. She just had to trust that both Nate and Dustin knew their shit. As for herself…? She’d come into law after doing a doctorate in behavioral psych. It was her job to know Joe Peluso’s shit. “Get him talking, Neha. Find out what his public defender missed. We don’t want to repeat those mistakes.” Too bad the man across the table didn’t seem particularly inclined to talk at the moment. His posture was closed-off, sullen.
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He answered questions in monosyllables. It was no wonder that first trial had been an epic disaster. Peluso screaming he did it. Gavels banging. Everybody and their mother shitting their legal briefs. The presidential cronies and right-of-center government officials calling for oversight on sanctuary-city legal procedure. That made the governors and mayors who were part of the nationwide Sanctuary Alliance push back and cite the Sanctuary Autonomy Act of 2019. All of it had kept Peluso on ice in prison for months without even a question of retrial. Nobody at DGS wanted a repeat of that three-ring circus. And on a more local level, nobody really wanted to mess with Aleksei Vasiliev, the Russian mafia vor whose underlings Peluso had eliminated so ruthlessly. Vasiliev owned a string of clubs and bars in the old-school Russian enclaves across Brooklyn and Queens, but it was fairly common knowledge that (a) they were a cover for drugs and sex trafficking and (b) he was just one cog in a larger operation run by a criminal network that both local authorities and Interpol had been watching for years. Plus (c) his potential supernatural affiliation—there was no confirmation in the legal community, but rumors had him as everything from werewolf to sorcerer. Oh, and there were also (d) his ties to several Aryan militia groups. The overlap between white supremacy and organized crime was such that the Venn diagram was practically one circle. Aleksei Vasiliev was a nightmare. It was just Neha’s luck that Joe Peluso had messed with him—and then some—by taking out a bunch of his pals. Peluso had basically kicked over six hornets’ nests. And, looking at him now, it certainly seemed like he did not give a single fuck about it. He was slouched, almost bored. Staring at the table or the wall more than paying attention to his lawyers. There was a slight tension to his shoulders, to the lines of his mouth, but that could be attributed to any number of things. A problem with authority. General surliness. Constipation. Dustin’s smooth baritone betrayed not one bit of annoyance
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that their new client wasn’t playing ball. “Would you say you were under duress when you left Queens on the night of September 14?” “‘Under duress?’ What kind of bullshit phrasing is that?” Peluso rolled his eyes. “No one forced me anywhere. Lone-ass gunman, remember?” Nate offered his most charming smile in response. “Was it a full moon?” He knew the answer to that already. The date of the hit was well documented. But he wasn’t fishing for calendar confirmation. “Were you perhaps driven by…impulses?” This, too, met with disdain. And zero acknowledgment of what Nate was referring to. “Do I look like the Weather Channel?” Peluso sneered. “The fuck do I know if it was a full moon?” Neha struggled not to laugh, to not give him the satisfaction of a reaction, and applied herself to taking notes while Nate and Dustin went over the prelims again. But mostly she just watched their client. Studied him. Recorded what questions made the veins on his neck stand out. When he clenched his fists. He didn’t like talking about his past. Bristled when asked about motive. On the surface, he seemed like the classic alpha male with authority issues. Push the wrong button and he would blow. But then you added in the shifter factor…and she was stumped. From all reports, Peluso hadn’t changed forms, or attempted to change, since his outburst in court. The medical staff at Brooklyn Detention had done as much blood work as their limited capability allowed, monitored him for weeks afterward, and only logged a few minor signs of supernatural ability. Bursts of increased aggression at certain times of the month—something she could actually relate to. But he hadn’t gone full wolf or bear or whatever he was. He’d done nothing that required putting him in solitary. Aside from being a surly asshole who clearly got in a few dustups here and there, he was a model prisoner. Not so much the model client. It was the world’s most personal Law & Order rerun—movie- star handsome Nate and suave and serene Dustin trying to get a
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bead on the chillingly charismatic killer they’d agreed to defend. The contrast was almost comical. Their suits probably cost more money than Joe Peluso would ever see. Hell, Neha knew without a doubt that their suits cost more than her entire wardrobe. They were almost incongruous in the spare, utilitarian, private visitors’ room. Two shining beacons of Armani hotness surrounded by cinder block and reinforced steel—an ad for a fashion house versus the Brooklyn House of Detention. Halfway through the meeting, she realized Peluso was looking right at her. Leaning back in the chair bolted to the floor, chained fists on the table before him like he’d been ordered to pray. There was something like a smile on his face. A glitter in the black ice- chips of his pupils. Oh. Of course. She knew what was coming. She’d worked as a grunt in the DA’s office for two years before DGS fished her out of the shallow end. This was when the client said something like “Who’s the bitch?” or “She a perk?” or “Can I see your tits?” The veritable sexual harassment buffet. She braced for it. It never came. Peluso just flicked his gaze back to Nate. “Why’s she here?” he demanded. “You trying to soften me up or something? It ain’t gonna work. I know what you think I am, but you can’t bribe me into good behavior like a dog.” He was angry. And she wasn’t sure what to unpack first—that he thought she was a bribe, or that he’d compared himself to a dog. There was definitely a chunk of the public who thought he was a rabid monster off the chain, even without knowing his true nature. There were certainly people at the firm who thought she was just a diversity hire with great legs and a pretty face—a showpiece. But he was wrong. Nate hadn’t brought her here to soften him. Just to get to him. And the fact that he’d noticed her meant she was in. She leaned forward, folding her hands on the metal table in a parody of his. “I’m here to learn, Joe,” she told him. “Nothing more, nothing less.” The skin around his left eye was black and blue. His right cheek looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to it a
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week ago. But it was his gaze she focused on, his intensity that held her fixed. Nate’s hand settled on her knee. A warning squeeze, not a stolen grope. He was in no way interested in any of her body parts besides her brain—not just because he was gay, but because he didn’t subscribe to the toxic male posturing that seemed to permeate most law firms. He’d likely brought her on board because she’d profiled his boyfriend a few months back over Friday night drinks. His now ex-boyfriend. “Tread carefully,” he was saying with the squeeze. “Tread carefully but work it.” She was thirty-five. Older than a lot of her fellow junior associates. She didn’t need the warning. She knew how to be careful. “Bullshit,” Peluso pronounced, that almost-smile returning to his face. Bizarrely, she kind of wanted to see the real thing. “It’s never ‘nothing less.’ You want something from me. And good luck with that, ’cause I got nothing to give.” He was guilty, but he didn’t seem to have any guilt. Not about what he’d done. That much was clear. And he wouldn’t stand for more bullshit. So, she told him the truth as she knew it. “Okay. Here’s the bottom line, Joe. They’re here to defend you. I’m here to break you down. Get inside your head. Find out what makes you tick.” It amused him. He tilted his head, sizing her up with his good eye. “I’d like to see you try.” The way he said it—a cocky, casual threat—should have sent a chill down her spine. It didn’t. It just got her back up. “That’s the beauty of it, Joe,” she told him. “You won’t see it. You’ll be halfway there, looking around and wondering why you told me every secret you’ve never told another soul.” She’d tried that line on a few clients here and there. Most of them laughed, because they didn’t believe her. They didn’t realize that she’d been cracking people like safes since long before
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the psych degree. When one of her older brothers had held her Malibu Barbie for ransom, she’d gotten the doll’s location out of him in four minutes. She’d been eight. People told her things. Whether they wanted to or not. People connected to her. Whether she wanted them to or not. It was a blessing and a curse. Maybe it was her supernatural gift. “You’ll give me everything,” she assured. Joe Peluso didn’t laugh off the challenge. Instead, he seemed to mull it over. His brows winged together. His eyes went distant. He interlaced his fingers, cuffs clinking against the tabletop. He watched her watch him. Nate shifted beside her, obviously unsettled by the standoff, but he wouldn’t have asked her along if he hadn’t thought she could handle it. She could handle this. She could handle him. She knew Joe was guilty…and she knew she was just that good. His new lawyers were slick talkers in expensive suits. Fine by him, since the public defender who fucked up his last trial was a dumb shitbag who couldn’t string a sentence together, much less a defense. And he knew these guys were in it for the headlines. It sure as shit wasn’t about the money, because he didn’t have any to pay them with. The woman, though, he couldn’t figure out. Secretary? Paralegal? They’d introduced her at the beginning. First name Neha, last name something with a lot of syllables. She’d spent most of the hour scribbling on a yellow pad, occasionally looking up at him and tapping her lips with her pen. They were good lips. Full. She wasn’t wearing lipstick. Someone probably told her to wipe it off before coming out to the jailhouse in case the sight of Posy Pink incited a prisoner riot. The problem was, she couldn’t wipe off that she was hot. Black hair pulled back into a prim ponytail. Huge doe eyes. Smooth brown skin. What he could see of her above the table was bangin’. Her tits looked
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like they’d be a perfect handful. Makeup or no, the woman was a total fox. Enough to start a riot all on her own. Which was why he figured it was a play. Nobody brought a beautiful woman into a prison unless they wanted something. “You’ll give me everything.” Problem was, Joe didn’t know what he had to give. Blood? Sweat? Been there and fucking done that. He had nothing left. She wasn’t going to break him. She wouldn’t even come close. But he liked hearing her say it. So serious. Intense. Like she wasn’t a Disney princess who’d stumbled into the wrong movie. Like he couldn’t snap her in half with one hand. She probably teased tigers for fun. Poked bears on Sundays after church or temple or whatever. Maybe that was why they thought she could tangle with him. Just another animal for the circus tamer. “You’re a shrink,” he concluded out loud. “I get free therapy with this gig now?” Her big, dark eyes narrowed. The fancy suits—Feinberg and Taylor—looked uncomfortable but curious. They were waiting to see how it all unraveled. He’d played worse games. Hell, he’d won a round of hoops with some punk asses in the showers last week— and his head was the ball. “I’m a lawyer,” she said, all snotty and self-assured. She thought she had him pegged already. “I also have a PhD in psychology and am here to utilize my skills as a profiler. But any official psychological evaluation you require will be handled by someone not affiliated with our firm. We don’t cross the streams. We won’t risk contaminating your defense.” Fuck. If she looked like a princess, she sounded like a phone-sex operator—all husky-voiced and pitched low for the bedroom. And Joe could imagine just how she would “contaminate” him. How she’d “utilize her skills.” That mouth on him. Sucking him down. It wouldn’t be because he was in control. No. It’d be because she set the rules. Because having him in her mouth meant she literally
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had him by the balls. He sprang wood pretty much instantly at the thought, and he was glad for ugly orange coveralls and chains. A con’s equivalent of a coat to button up over your junk. The irrational lust raged through him like someone lit him on fire, burning him down to the bone. And there was a whisper at the back of his brain, a low growl he couldn’t make heads or tails of. It didn’t make sense…but then again, not a lot had made sense since the military docs shot him up full of shifter juice. “There may be side effects,” they’d said during one of those early debriefs. “Some species have reported instances of imprinting.” The fuck was imprinting? Like he was a damn duckling except with the urge to bone a complete stranger? One thing was for sure: he couldn’t remember the last time he actually had sex. He’d killed people more recently than he’d fucked anyone…and he could just imagine what his not-so- sainted nonna, who’d spent every day in church, would say about his life choices. Fortunately, she was dead—and hopefully rotting in hell. He wondered if he needed to say all of this to this lawyer- psychologist. She’d probably find it significant that he associated his sex life, or lack thereof, with a formative female relative. The shrink he’d seen before the Corps approved his fancy upgrade and handed him over to his new unit sure had. He stared at his panel of would-be saviors until they started to fidget. It was a game of chicken he never lost. He could stay quiet for hours. Days. Years. When they started shuffling papers and making to wrap things up, he cleared his throat, tapped the table with his knuckles. The white-haired guy, Feinberg, looked up first. His sharp-dressed wingman next. The woman didn’t have to…because she hadn’t taken her eyes off him this entire time. She caught him staring and gave it right back. Fuck you, too, buddy. “Did you need something, Joe?” she wondered. He needed a lot of things. A Heineken. A decent burger. A room with an actual door. A flight outta this joint. He rattled off
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the list just for kicks. “And a 1963 Corvette Stingray. Can you get me that, too?” “Right after your trip to Disney World and a massage from a supermodel,” she said, like he’d asked for the most reasonable things in the world. Smart as a whip and cool as a cucumber, this one. But there was fire there, too. Burning close enough to the surface that it wouldn’t take much for it to rage. That interested him. More than anything had interested him in a long-ass time. “Okay, I’ll talk to you,” he told her. “Whatever you want. You and me, we’ll chat.” And maybe they’d do more than just chat. Maybe they’d get to be alone. Sitting real close as he spilled his guts to her. Braiding each other’s hair and shit…or unbuttoning each other’s buttons. He knew which option she’d prefer, and which one sounded better to him. She didn’t pick up on what he was already imagining…which was a good thing, because he’d be slapped with extra charges so fast. Whatever the opposite of “contempt of court” was. He had absolutely no contempt for this hot shrink-who-wasn’t- his-shrink whatsoever. Probably because he’d never been able to resist a woman telling him what’s what. Because it had been too long, and he’d missed someone talking to him like she saw him. Sure, she didn’t like what she was seeing, but he didn’t much like himself either. And his dick did not give a good goddamn that he was facing twenty-five to life. It only cared that he was facing someone beautiful. It only wanted to listen to that growl coming from deep inside him. He hadn’t understood the growl before, but he heard it clearly now. Saying “take” and “have” and “mine.” Imprinting. Quack, quack. His beast and his brain and his body all plotting together, because it beat the alternative: remembering why he was actually here. Of course, his brain had to go and ruin it as the lawyers walked out and he got yanked out of his chair by the guard. You really think she’s going to do more than talk to you? Knowing what you’ve done?
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Knowing what you are? You’re a killer, Joe. A thousand times over. And maybe he wasn’t all that sorry for all the things he’d done, but it was a lot to ask of anybody else. Especially a woman like the doc. Somebody with a brain and a heart and morals. Murder didn’t tend to curl a lady’s toes, did it? And shifters weren’t exactly prime dating material. Fuck. He was one deluded motherfucker, wasn’t he? She’s not for you, buddy. She’s never going to be for you. He could just imagine what Kenny would have to say about that. “Joey, since when do you have troubling getting laid? Shit, if you can’t get pussy, where’s the hope for the rest of us?” “You watch your mouth, kid,” he’d say back. “There’s more to women than pussy. Don’t disrespect ’em that way.” Kenny Castelli, the closest thing he ever had to a brother, who fucking hero- worshipped him and probably died because of it. Joe was always great at giving him advice that he’d never actually taken himself… and that Kenny didn’t take either. And now here they were. A dead man and a dead man walking. The trip back to his cell—if it could be called that when he was being shoved most of the way—stripped the rest of the swagger right out of him. Every ounce of attitude he’d displayed for Feinberg, Taylor, and the doc just faded away. He couldn’t afford to forget why he was here, a “guest” of Kings County. He’d taken human lives without an ounce of regret. Too many lives. And he wasn’t supposed to add one more spectacular body to the count.
2
HER KNEES SHOULD’VE BEEN WOBBLING when they collected their things and left the correctional facility. Her guts should’ve been in a twist. But she walked out onto Atlantic Avenue on steady legs, with a serious craving for chicken and dumplings from the soul-food place just up the block. That it still existed despite rising rents and weekly ICE and Supernatural Regulation Bureau raids was one of the world’s small miracles. “Damn, Neha! You’ve got balls!” Dustin gave a low whistle of admiration and shook his head. “Glad we brought you in on this.” “Ovaries,” she corrected. “I believe the term you’re looking for is ‘ovaries of steel.’” He laughed while Nate suppressed a smile, his eyes serious. “You did good today, Neha. Keep it up.” “Don’t worry; I will.” She was pretty confident—you didn’t get through law school without at least a little bit of a high opinion of yourself—but the validation still felt good. Papa and Ma had wanted her to go into something “safe” and high-paying, expecting her JD to land her a legal-eagle husband and not a stack of alleged criminals to defend. Now, one of their biggest nightmares was that she would pick up a man in Kings
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County Criminal Court. To be fair, they also thought that if she opted to hang her shingle out as a therapist, she’d be bound to fall in love with a patient. They watched a lot of Indian soap operas on satellite—their respite from a far-more-bonkers reality. Joe Peluso was a character they could never dream up. The basics were easy to check off. He was forty-two years old, Italian- American, with a blue-collar upbringing in Queens. What they could access of his military service record was spotless. He’d had tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan and never faced disciplinary action of any kind. He seemed like the typical white American male who liked beer and guns and his country. But there were so many unanswered questions. From what little she knew about shape-shifters, they were born, not made…and yet there was no indication that Joe’s family were anything other than human. When had he been turned and by who? Why hadn’t he killed Vasiliev’s men in his supernatural form? Why hadn’t he taken on that form during almost a year in a jail? She would have to dig for the truth…and the challenge made goose bumps break out on her skin even though it was a perfect autumn in Brooklyn. What had turned this guy into a murderer? What could they use to reduce his sentence or, miracle of miracles, put him back on the street? Yeah. Okay. Maybe they should have had a few moral qualms about setting a killer loose. But he hadn’t exactly gone after six Girl Scouts. He hadn’t committed carnage, letting his beast run wild all over New York. She was going to sleep at night by reminding herself that a few dead sex traffickers were no great loss to society. It was depressing to put it into words, but from a purely PR standpoint, they were infinitely lucky that a decent percentage of the country still believed Nazis were bad. That Joe Peluso had kind of done a public service by taking out guys who sported Wolfsangel and swastika tattoos and sold young girls into sexual servitude. There was, of course, still a percentage who thought Joe’s victims were “very fine people.” Very fine people who had cats and helped
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old white ladies across the street when they weren’t stuffing teenagers into shipping containers and yelling slurs at anyone brown. God bless America. Theoretically, you weren’t supposed to put the victims on trial. But more often than not, that was the job. Arguing why certain people deserved to live and others deserved to die. Sometimes you just had to park morality at the door and look at the shades of gray. It didn’t help that the world had changed in the past few years. Practicing law in America, practicing medicine, practicing basic humanity…none of it was like it had been when Neha was growing up. There were more shades of gray than anything else. Yeah, she would’ve made a lousy wife to a nice, well-adjusted guy her parents approved of. To that staid L-school son-in-law they were still dreaming about. Maybe she would’ve been safer, but safety was overrated. Hell, when you had darker skin—no amount of Fair & Lovely skin cream could turn her into a white girl—safety was a flat-out lie. Nate and Dustin grabbed a private car back to the office. It was only a ten-minute walk, but Neha wasn’t surprised they wanted to keep the dust off their Ferragamos…and avoid the drone sweeps that had become part of daily American life these past few years. Part of the deal that kept the Sanctuary Cities running was mandatory surveillance. The footage was flagged for criminal activity by algorithms and then pored over by a joint federal-state task force. Ostensibly impartial, the group was composed of humans and a few warlocks who’d been cleared for intelligence work. There were countless task forces and bureaus these days. They all amounted to the same thing: control. She was probably on multiple watch lists already, and her serviceable DSW pumps had seen better days and many a block. Even cell blocks. And they’d be seeing a lot of Joe Peluso in the weeks to come. She’d had a choice back in that visitation room. She could’ve
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called him “Mr. Peluso.” She’d gone with “Joe.” For all the classic reasons. It created kinship with the person, established power dynamics, blah blah blah. She also knew herself. She’d just wanted to hear how it would sound. How it would feel to call a merciless brute by his first name. It felt powerful. She felt powerful. For someone who had to speed up on the sidewalk and curl her fingers around her keys when she heard a noise behind her, that was a heady feeling. Addictive. She couldn’t do anything about the assholes on the street, or safe in their places of power, but the ones on the inside…? For just a little while, she held their fates in her hands. That was fucked up. She was aware. She’d had friends tell her that fifty percent of a psych degree was a “heal thyself ” thing. They were not altogether wrong. But she’d take empowerment where she could get it. She sure hadn’t found it with her last two boyfriends. One had kept bugging her to learn to cook saag paneer and be more Indian—a rich request from a guy named Brad who grew up in Connecticut—and the other one tried to make erotic choking a thing…a surprise thing. No thank you. She preferred to negotiate her kinky play beforehand. A man like Joe Peluso probably didn’t ask first, either, but she’d find details like that out. She had to. How he treated women would help set a baseline for how he viewed humanity in general. Mass shooters, for instance, often had a history of domestic violence. Joe Peluso didn’t—or at least he’d never been arrested for it—and one violent act didn’t necessarily mean he was a violent person overall. They needed to prove he was a victim of circumstance, or someone who had acted irrationally for the first time in his life, not point to a pattern of behavior. Ugh. Neha wasn’t sure she was up to the challenge. Human behavior was a specialty of hers. Human misbehavior was her job. Supernatural misbehavior… Well, it was about to become her new field of expertise.
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It wasn’t something little girls dreamed of. Not something she’d dreamed of. She’d wanted to be a princess or a fireman or a princess who fought fires. But she was good at this. At the mountains of paperwork and equal amounts of legwork. She wouldn’t have made it through L-school and the DA’s office otherwise. She’d make it through this case, too. Nate, Dustin, and Joe Peluso were counting on it. By the time Neha got back to the firm, it was mostly deserted. Some of the first-years were milling around. Assistants, too. But the partners were all gone. Nate and Dustin had likely turned their hired car toward the city. They loved knocking back shots with hedge-fund bros. She couldn’t say she shared the fascination. Most men of that set thought she was a ballbuster, a bitch, and had an overly high opinion of how hot she was. In a guy, that kind of attitude was just considered confidence. In a woman, it was somehow the worst thing in the world. Women needed to be modest and subservient and accommodating. Fuck that. She wouldn’t have survived long in criminal justice without some steel in her spine. She wouldn’t have made it through that first meeting with Joe Peluso either. If she were the good and sweet Neha Ahluwalia, with coconut oil braids and a terminal case of the blushes, he would’ve been the wolf to her Red Riding Hood. And, sorry, but she refused to walk through the woods unprepared. Sure, she was little bit fucked up…and she refused to be fucked over. There was nothing bearable about being in prison. Anyone who said they liked the rec room or the yard or, hell, even the three squares a day was a damn liar. The nights were the worst. Everything echoed. Joe was in a max-security unit with a bunch of repeat offenders who were looking at first or second degree and would probably end up at Sing Sing or one of the border camps
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after their trials. There were a handful of other supes on the block. A yaksha who accidentally killed someone during a bank robbery. A vamp who took out some MTA workers in a frenzy. Having a bloodier rap sheet than the rest of the pop didn’t make anybody feel all warm and fuzzy. And being a little fuzzy, or at least furry, didn’t earn any friends either. Especially with the Emergency Service Unit boys breathing down your fucking neck. You heard someone getting beat, someone crying into their pillow, someone busting a nut, and nobody looked anybody in the eye in the morning. You tried to keep out of ESU’s way but still ended up getting shoved into a wall. And a floor. And the bars of your cell. Knowing that if you let the monster out, it would just be an excuse for them to put you down. It wasn’t survival of the fittest, just survival. Joe had always been good at that. Surviving. After he enlisted in the Marines, he figured he’d get through boot camp on a prayer, but it turned out he thrived in the Corps. He made a good grunt, an even better sharpshooter. And a “truly exemplary” shifter on an elite team of military operatives. He managed to come back from multiple tours alive. He’d get through this, too. Unless he got life in prison, courtesy of the State of New York, or a death penalty courtesy of anyone who didn’t like his altered DNA. “We’re aiming for a reduced sentence,” Feinberg had told him during one of his weekly visits. “And, of course, we’re fighting for your rights as a supernatural as well. But there are no guarantees.” Joe had to admire that. No bullshit. No promises that he’d walk free. There was blood on his hands. He shouldn’t be allowed to walk free. But then again, there were a whole fucking lot of other people who shouldn’t have been on the street either. And they were all still out there—w hile he slid his arms behind his head and stared up at a concrete ceiling. Decorated with dried gum, graffiti, and hash marks no one ever bothered to scrub clean. The Brooklyn Hilton got a fancy upgrade way back in 2012, but
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it hadn’t taken long for it all to go to shit, especially with the new governor shutting down Rikers Island in 2020 and the rest of the prisons in the area still scrambling to pick up the slack. Jails were overcrowded. Everybody was overworked. Nobody was about to come by and fluff Joe’s pillows. They were too busy cursing Governor Nixon’s name and telling the mayor where to fuck off to. He was no stranger to less than five-star accommodations. He’d slept in muddy trenches. On rock and stone and concrete. Hell, he could catch a power nap standing up. When he got back stateside this last time, he’d crashed in Mrs. Castelli’s spare bedroom—his old high-school haunt—and that was like fucking luxury. After he landed a steady gig on a crew working out in Long Island City, he’d rented a cheap efficiency off the E train. Shared bathroom and a pay phone in the hall. No lease. No questions. They’d probably tossed his shit out on the curb the minute the cops took the yellow tape off the door. It’d been almost two years since he last saw that place, and he wasn’t exactly dreaming of going back. The NYPD had confiscated anything worth a damn. All he had left was himself. Stuffed into a six-by-eight cell. Sometimes they let him have books. A guy came by with a cart. Paperbacks falling apart and falling off it. He’d snagged a couple Patricia Cornwells and some medical thrillers by Tess Gerritsen. Not for nothing, but lady crime writers did love themselves some gory shit. He got creeped out—and wouldn’t that crack up the guys from his old team—but he read them anyway. Squinting at the pages in the dim light of his cell. He didn’t really sleep. Because sleeping meant letting his guard down. Because sleeping meant dreaming, and he wasn’t a huge fan of that picture show these days. He didn’t wanna see Kenny. All fresh-faced and awkward, that cowlick from when he was a toddler still sticking up at nineteen and twenty-two and twenty-six. He didn’t wanna see that fucking dive in Gravesend he’d visited a
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couple times when Kenny was on shift. With the saddest strippers he’d ever seen, making the saddest tips. Which meant even less for the bartenders. “It’s still extra money, Joey. Better money than anyplace else. Don’t ride me on this.” “You wanna work for a buncha Russian assholes, it’s your funeral, kid.” That was what he’d said. And of all the bullshit pronouncements he’d made in his life, that was the one that came true. Gravesend dug Kenny’s grave. He never should’ve left Maspeth. At least there they knew all the meth-head devils. So, no, Joe didn’t sleep. He didn’t want to see the kid he’d loved like a little brother dead on a slab, four slugs in his chest because some Russian fucknut had a grudge with another fucknut and thought a titty bar was the place to settle it. Four people had died besides the fucknuts in question. One of the girls. Two regulars. And Kenny. All of them forgotten in the twenty-four-hour news cycle. It was bullshit then and bullshit now, playing on Joe’s eyelids on a loop even though he was in another damn borough at the time. And he didn’t want to see Afghanistan either. Because that was the other option, right? The other matinee special at the Peluso Theater. All the things they’d done over there for god and country. The literal monsters they became in the name of patriotism and heroics. He could wash off the sand, wash off the blood, but there was no washing off the stain of those years, those souls. He was a damn good Marine. He fucking made corporal. He followed orders. He never missed a shot. He never left a man behind… unless it was one of the men he was putting down. He wasn’t sure that made him a good human…but they hadn’t wanted a good human, had they? They’d wanted a beast. They’d created a beast. It’s hotter than balls. Worse than a subway platform in August. And Joe has a hostile’s brains splattered all over his cammies. The ringing in his ears just won’t stop, but neither will the shells. It’s been hours, and he can’t stop tasting the meat…
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Fuck. No. So Joe turned to fantasies instead. It wasn’t always sex… No, who was he kidding? It was mostly sex. He didn’t wrap his hand around his dick, though—didn’t try to get off—because the cellblock didn’t need a show. It was just him and the double feature on his eyelids. Silent. Fists curled on the thin mattress. He remembered Tasha in the back seat of a borrowed Impala. His first. She was Kenny’s babysitter back in the day and still came around the Castellis’ house all the time. Gorgeous. Legs for miles. Then there was Mishelle, practically his common-law wife…if you didn’t count all the time he’d spent deployed. They’d had five good years together and two pathetic ones. And luckily no adorable Haitian-Italian babies to show for it. Because what kind of shit father would he have turned out to be? Thank Christ, Mishelle wasn’t tied to him and his bullshit for life. But when they were good… Yeah, they’d been pretty amazing. He could’ve happily died in her pussy. And now…? Probably in any pussy. He didn’t have a type or anything. He loved all kinds of women. Loved their minds and their bodies. Loved how they tasted and smelled. That doctor-lawyer-whatever. Neha. He knew she’d smell real good. Like that first gulp of air whenever he walked out of lockup. And she was soft under those clothes even if she pretended she was made of cast iron. She’d melt for him. Black hair all loose and wild. Honey on his fingertips and his tongue. Thighs spread. Begging. But she wouldn’t need to beg for it, not really, because he’d give it for free. While all the other dipshits at Aviation High were pressing their girls for blow jobs, Joe had learned how to make girls scream. He aced every lesson, got a 4.0 in eating out. He was a doer, Mishelle told him once. He didn’t bother protesting or arguing or trying to negotiate reciprocity, he just went for it. Why waste time when he could be knuckle-deep in a woman,
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licking her while she yanked at his hair and said his name like he was a god? If the death penalty were an option, if they gave him the chair, he knew exactly what his last meal would be. “An hour with her,” he’d say, and point to the doc.
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Chapter 1
“Aja Marie Everett, you’d better get your hind parts down here before this food you had me cook gets cold.” Had her cook? Aja rolled her eyes from the safety of her bedroom. Once finished getting dressed, she rushed into the kitchen to the stove and placed a gentle kiss on her aunt’s cheek. “Morning, Auntie. Smells like heaven in here.” Aja pulled a mug from the cabinet and poured herself a cup of coffee before sitting at the eat-in counter. As she sipped, Aunt Jo placed a piping-hot bowl of creamy grits in front of Aja. She took a long sniff of the buttery scent wafting up at her and hummed in appreciation. “I didn’t make biscuits and sausage because you said you had to get an early start.” Aja waved a hand. “This is more than fine. The girls and I have a lot on our agenda this morning.” That was especially true after yesterday’s collapsed construction scaffold. The shock of how close she’d come to being injured, or worse, made her insides quake with cold. Determined to chase the chill away, she blew on the steaming spoonful of grits and slowly slurped them into her mouth. “I swear you make the best grits in Texas, Auntie.” She let
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a satisfied moan slip, then tucked into the dish. She was halfway through her meal when she looked up and caught sight of the bright smile lighting up Jo’s face. “What are you smiling about?” “You.” The single word spoke volumes. Two years ago, Aja had run from the pain of her younger sister’s death in Brooklyn and showed up on Jo’s doorstep. It had taken three months of Jo’s tender care for her to do more than shuffle from the bed to the couch. “Helping those girls has done you a world of good, hasn’t it?” “Sure has,” Aja answered with a smile. “And if I’m going to continue to help them, I’ve got to get to my office—” “You mean that old empty barn?” Aja smiled at her aunt’s sass. It was no wonder Aja never met a smart comment she didn’t love. Sarcasm was a hereditary trait, it seemed. “My temporary office. I need to make a few calls.” “I assume to the sheriff. Has he decided to do his job yet?” Aja’s spoon was midway to her mouth when her appetite soured. She placed the utensil back in the bowl and sat up straight. Fighting on a full stomach would do terrible things to her digestion, so she pushed the unfinished meal away and decided breakfast was over. “I called him twice yesterday after the scaffolding came down. He said to make sure I wanted him to come out here, because if he does, chances are any investigation he opens will focus on the two people he believes most likely to be responsible—Seneca and Brooklyn.” Jo huffed and sucked her teeth before responding to Aja. “That no-count man is unbelievable.” Aja slumped her shoulders. “Unfortunately, I don’t have a choice but to deal with him.” “You have a choice, Aja. You’re just choosing to ignore it.”
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Aja pressed the first two fingers of her right hand to her temple and rubbed. She was about to close her eyes to give in to the soothing comfort, but the sight of her aunt fiddling with the frayed edge of a dish towel made her focus sharpen instead. Josephine Henry was the epitome of calm and collected. The only time she wasn’t was when she was up to no good. “What did you do, Aunt Jo?” By now she was nearly tearing the poor towel to shreds. “I called Ricky.” “Really, Aunt Jo?” Aja threw up her hands in defeat. “After I specifically asked you not to?” “He can help. If the sheriff won’t do his job, Ricky can make him.” As a Hays County sitting judge, he could. Aja didn’t doubt that. But having her uncle involved meant him coming in and taking over. Aja couldn’t deal with that. “You know how your brother is. He’s gonna make it worse, Aunt Jo.” “Chile, somebody seems bent on hurting, maybe even killing you. It don’t get much worse than that.” “Auntie,” Aja moaned. “He’ll fix it, chile. You’ll see.” Aja stood and walked around to her aunt. She wrapped her arms around Jo and reveled in the peace one only knew when they were surrounded by love. She may not agree with her aunt’s method of handling things, but she knew her actions came from a good place. Headed for her office, Aja stepped out onto her front porch. She closed her eyes and breathed in as much of the sweet country air as she could, then opened them again. The deep-green and earthy-brown hues covering the expanse of her land were breathtaking. Restoration Ranch, or the idea of it, had helped Aja heal when the loss of her sister made her survival in this world
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questionable. It would soon be finished. She wouldn’t let anyone keep that dream from becoming reality. “Hey, Boss.” A year of rebuilding and it was still strange to hear someone call her “boss.” Aja turned her head and watched the two women as they approached. Brooklyn Osborn had short, pixie-cut cropped dark curls and deep-brown skin with glowing honey undertones. She was a tall, fit Black woman with her lean, tight muscles on display in her A-line T-shirt and fitted jeans. The serious lines of her face were in stark contrast to the woman walking beside her—Seneca Daniels. Like Brooklyn, Seneca was a thirtysomething Black woman. But that was where their similarities ended. Seneca was average height with a curvy build and reddish-brown skin that seemed to radiate in the Texas heat. Where Brooklyn’s steps were even and methodical, Seneca waved an excited arm as she made her way from the side of the house to the front steps and climbed to greet Aja. “What’s got her so excited this early in the morning?” Aja posed the question to Brooklyn, knowing she’d get a direct answer. She didn’t mind Seneca’s round-the-mulberry-bush method of storytelling, but with her shortage of time and Seneca practically vibrating with excitement as she took her place next to Aja, Brooklyn’s straight, no-chaser reporting style was definitely the way to go. “You know it doesn’t take much to excite her. But she honestly has reason to be excited today. Let her tell you.” This was true. Seneca was the bright spot of seemingly unending joy in their makeshift family. As long as she smiled, there was always hope. Aja smiled at Seneca and gave her a reluctant wave of her hand. “G’on and tell me,” she huffed, feigning lack of interest, knowing full well the sight of Seneca clapping her hands together in excitement pretty much made it impossible to be disinterested at this point. “I don’t have all day.”
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Seneca continued to smile as warmth radiated off her and reached out to tug at the remnants of Aja’s somber mood. “While I was working on updates on some external terminals”—she took a deep breath and shared a conspiratorial glance with Brooklyn before she continued—“that contractor in Austin you contacted sent in a bid. It’s under budget, and they can start the job in the next two weeks.” Aja squealed as equal parts of relief and joy spread through her. Seneca’s announcement was a much-needed bit of good news. After Earl, their previous contractor, quit in the wake of the ranch’s latest life-threatening accident, Aja worried she wouldn’t be able to keep to schedule if it took too long to find his replacement. But Seneca, in her usual don’t-sweat-it fashion, had curated a list of contractors in the surrounding area for Aja to send queries to last night. Aja grabbed Seneca’s and Brooklyn’s hands, and they whooped and hollered in celebration. It didn’t matter that the new contractor hadn’t begun yet. Aja’s dream of Restoration Ranch becoming a road to rehabilitation was no longer on pause. “Oh my goodness,” Aja huffed. “When I sent out those blanket queries last night, I never thought we’d get a response this soon. If this crew can get started in the next couple of weeks, once we vet them, we can still open by the start of travel season.” Aja pulled the other women in for a celebratory hug before she pulled back and attempted to gather herself again. She needed to focus and stay on task. There was still a lot of work to do. “Boss? You okay?” Aja massaged the back of her neck, trying to take it all in. “I’m fine. Just…” She took a deep breath and let her lungs slowly expel it. “It’s really gonna happen, ladies. My dream hasn’t crumbled with that scaffold.” With a wide grin plastered across her face, Seneca declared, “There was never any doubt.”
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Maybe not for them, but Aja couldn’t fix her lips to tell that lie, so she quietly smiled instead as they headed toward the front door. “Go get something to eat. We’ve got a busy day ahead.” The ladies headed inside and Aja leaned on the railing, letting the good news sink in. Hope filled the center of her chest and spread through her body like the rays of the Texas sun chasing away the shadows. “It’s gonna happen.” With renewed faith that everything might turn out okay, she walked through the pasture of green grass with a little swing in her hips. Good news certainly could change the outlook of your day. “Boss…boss!” She stopped, turning to find Brooklyn running toward her. Her long legs and easy gait ate up the ground between them in a flash. “You left your phone in the kitchen.” Aja patted her back pockets, realizing Brooklyn was right. “Thank you, doll. It would’ve been hard to make all the calls I need from the barn with no landlines out there yet.” She took the phone and slid it into her pocket before turning away. “Don’t take all day in that kitchen—we got work to do. We’ll be holed up in the barn until lunch.” As she walked away, Brooklyn called, “You’re turning into a hard-ass tyrant. It’s too pretty outside to be cooped up in the barn all day.” Aja kept walking but tossed over her shoulder, “Just for that, we’ll work through lunch in the barn. How’s that for a tyrant?” She stopped for a brief second to see the scowl she knew Brooklyn was probably wearing when the sound of breaking glass pulled her attention away. Aja stepped forward when she felt the ground rumble beneath her and a loud boom cracked the air, making her eardrums vibrate painfully. Before she could cover her ears, a blast of pressure knocked her off her feet. She fought to orient herself while the smell of burning wood and smoke assaulted her. Her chest tightened with fear as she
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struggled to breathe through the soot-tinged air. She couldn’t tell up from down, and no matter how hard she tried to stand, her legs wouldn’t work. You gotta get up, Aja. She tried to summon her strength and lift her head. When she moved no more than an inch from the ground, sharp pain sliced at the top of her forehead, forcing her to press her head into the cool grass, searching for relief. The gray-black clouds of smoke hovering over her were getting fuzzy, and the only thing she could hear was ringing in her ears. Her senses were overwhelmed with panic, and she was pretty certain she was about to pass out soon. “Boss? Boss?” The sound of a voice vibrating in and out of focus—loud then soft, close then far, with a disorienting echo clanging around in her head—made it hard to tell who was speaking. “Hold on. I got you.” Strong hands hooked themselves under Aja’s arms and pulled. The dirt and rocks hidden among the blades of grass scraped against the backs of her thighs and calves through the heavy denim of her jeans. When the movement stopped, she could see sunlight breaking through the billows of black smoke, and the air didn’t smell as strongly of acrid and dense dust and ash. A fuzzy shadow edged into her line of vision. The closer it came, the sharper the image appeared, and soon Brooklyn’s cynical face was filling her sight. “Boss,” she called. “With the barn in flames, I kinda think your plans of us working all day in there are shot to shit.” Aja blinked slowly as the pins and needles of numbness prickled her extremities, marking the return of feeling in her body. “Yeah, Brooklyn.” Aja’s voice cracked halfway through the woman’s name. “I think you might be right.” She tried to take a deep breath in, but her lungs protested and she coughed, making the
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pain in her head throb harder. “But”—she coughed again—“I think there’s something much worse than the barn burning down.” “What?” Brooklyn asked. Aja took a slow breath, determined not to let it disintegrate into a coughing fit. “I think Aunt Jo is right. Someone might really be trying to kill me.”
Chapter 2
Jackson Dean made his way inside the Texas Rangers’ headquarters and headed straight for his office. It was early in the morning, and he wanted nothing more than to still be in his bed. Unfortunately, a call from his boss, Major Hargrove, had put the kibosh on that plan. He twisted the knob and switched on the light, waiting a moment for his eyes to adjust to the brightness flooding the room. He remembered how happy he had been to get an office of his own. The room was nothing much to speak of. A typical windowless space in a government building made of white concrete walls and filled with metal furniture. But no matter how bland it was, he was still proud to have his name etched on the door because it came with his promotion to team leader eight years ago. Today, it looked almost exactly the same as it had when he’d first been given the keys. But at the moment, when sleep hadn’t completely let loose its grip on him, boundless pride wasn’t the emotion he was experiencing. No, it was more like annoyance and frustration grating on his nerves at having to come in early after working in the field late last night. He dropped his bag on a nearby chair and headed straight
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for the coffee maker on top of a metal filing cabinet. Fresh, frequent, and plentiful caffeine would be the only thing to keep him from getting an insubordination write-up in his personnel file, so he opened a couple of bottled waters and poured them into the machine. A tap on his door grabbed his attention. He glanced up from it, rested his eyes on the yet-to-start-dripping coffee machine, and groaned. “Someone must want me to get a write-up.” Another tap and he pushed away from the filing cabinet and opened the door. “Morning, Jackson.” Major Hargrove didn’t wait to be invited in. He just assumed the open door was all the invitation he needed. “Thanks for coming so quickly.” “I’m still half-asleep,” Jackson groaned as he stepped away from the door and made it back to his coffeepot. “At least you had the chance to go to sleep. I’ve been up for about twenty-four hours, since I got this call just before I was about to head home yesterday.” Jackson stared through narrowed slits. Hargrove didn’t play with his time. He stayed when necessary, but he was obsessed with him and his Rangers having a clear work-life balance. Nothing kept him from punching out at six in the evening unless there was a real emergency. “You made it sound like it was life or death that I come in at”—he raised his left wrist, pretending to read the wide- faced watch there—“ass o’clock in the morning. What’s going on, Major?” His boss slid a file on Jackson’s desk and took the seat in front of it, waiting patiently for Jackson to fill the mug he’d grabbed the second the alarm on the machine told him his brew was ready. “You’re not gonna put any milk or sugar in the rotgut?” “No, sir,” Jackson replied, sitting down and taking a long, slow sip. “I like it the way it is: strong and black, just like me.”
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He took another sip before opening the file. The first thing that caught his attention was the picture of a woman in a fitted designer dress. Not that he knew fashion from foam rubber, but with the way the black material hugged her full curves, he was certain it had been made or at least tailored just for her. “I’m not gonna be ready to read this without at least another cup. Just give me the highlights. Who is she?” His boss crossed an ankle over his knee and tilted his head. “She’s the niece of a friend. A judge in Hill Country. Her property has been vandalized, and the judge needs someone to look into it.” Jackson felt his brow inching higher toward his hairline. Something about the way Major Hargrove said “someone” scratched at his bullshit meter. “What do the locals have to say about it?” Hargrove lifted an open palm before letting his hand fall back to his knee. “Not a thing. There’s some bad blood between the local sheriff ’s department and Ms. Everett.” Jackson shifted in his seat. The coffee plus his boss’s preliminary recount was starting to sketch an outline to this tale of a spoiled judge’s niece using her uncle’s connections to get what she wanted. “Anyway, the judge wants to make sure this is taken seriously. Especially since the vandalism has escalated from fence posts and a scaffold being knocked down to her barn being burned to the ground yesterday.” Jackson sat up straighter. “Anyone hurt?” “Minor cuts and bruises on Ms. Everett. Her uncle called me while she was being seen at the hospital. Asked me to get her a protective detail and send a team out to investigate.” “She pointing fingers at anyone?” Hargrove stood up and tapped on top of the beautiful woman’s picture. “Don’t know. But you can ask when she gets here. I
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assigned Jennings and Gleason to her protective detail overnight. They’re bringing her in first thing this morning so she can swear out a statement. Get your team together and figure this thing out.” He walked toward the door confident his orders would be followed. And they would be. Jackson might give his boss shit, but he always got the job done. He looked at the picture of one Ms. Aja Everett again. He ran his finger slowly over the high cheekbones that turned her eyes into barely opened slits as her wide grin smiled back at him. “Why would anyone want to harm you?”
“So what’s the plan for this case?” Jackson glared at Colton Adams over the rim of his coffee cup. It was still early—pitch-black-sky early—and Jackson hadn’t slept enough to keep a civil tongue in his head where Colton was concerned. “We need to figure out who’s trying to hurt Aja Everett.” He summarized the events as he knew them for his team. Colton stretched out in his chair facing Jackson’s desk, crossing his legs and appearing the picture of comfort. “What do we know about the victim?” “Her uncle is a friend of Hargrove’s. He gave me the highlight notes her uncle supplied.” Jackson pulled a file off his desk and handed it to Colton. “But he’s her uncle, so I’m running a thorough background check of my own. Only a few details came in yet. The rest will be forthcoming.” Colton scanned through the information before returning his attention to Jackson. “The file says she’s got two employees who did time. You looking at them for this?” “I’m lookin’ at everyone. A bold son of a bitch tried to blow up a woman on her own land yesterday. I’m looking at anyone who
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had motive and opportunity. Including the ex-cons she’s got working for her. They are potential victims and suspects. It’s up to us to figure out which.” “With only the three of us?” That question came from Storm Cordero. He was the newest member of their group. Team- centered, always there to offer help, and eager to learn, Storm had quickly become the glue that held this set together. He was also the buffer that kept two bristly personalities like Jackson and Colton from sparking to the point of combustion. “I tried to get more manpower”—Jackson sipped another mouthful of his coffee before continuing—“ but that’s a no-go. We’ll have Blaze Gleason and Kade Jennings here at the office to follow leads, get warrants, and interview the townsfolk. Since yesterday, they’ve been out on protection detail with the victim. They should be bringing her in for an official statement in an hour. So that leaves the three of us on the ground at the ranch.” Colton and Storm nodded in unison. “Good, consider yourselves briefed,” Jackson said. “Let’s get this investigation underway.” He sent up a silent prayer for quick resolution of this case while his colleagues filed out of his office. He flipped the file Colton had left on his desk and stared at the happy image of the confident woman in the picture. The idea of that beautiful smile slipping off her face because of fear weighed on him. Maybe it was that he’d assumed her complaint wasn’t a valid one the moment he discovered she was a VIP. Maybe it was the news that her property had been destroyed and she’d narrowly missed the danger. Or maybe it was the realization he didn’t believe the fearless woman full of life in that photograph should ever deserve to be afraid to walk on her land. Whatever it was, Jackson was determined to keep her safe. The best way for him to do that was to put himself between Aja Everett and whoever was after her.
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Aja sat in the back seat of the large, black SUV and focused on the scenery rushing by on the highway. The landscape was slowly turning from dirt road to paved city expressways as the vehicle ate up miles beneath its tires. By her count, they had another sixty minutes remaining of the ninety-minute trip from her small town of Fresh Springs to the big city of Austin. Her ringing phone caught her notice, drawing her back into her unpleasant reality. She took a breath, recognizing the ringtone and dreading the conversation she knew she’d be forced to have. “Morning, Uncle Ricky.” She fought to keep her voice level and light, hoping to avoid her uncle’s intense protective streak. “Morning, Aja. Did you reach Austin yet?” “No, sir. We’re about an hour out.” “Major Hargrove tells me he’s putting his best man on this. So you just g’on in there, tell ’im what’s happening, and let him find out who’s responsible for all this trouble on the ranch.” She pressed back into the soft cushion of the seat, letting her head fall against the headrest for support. “Uncle Ricky. I already know who’s responsible for the vandalism on the ranch.” “Hmmm,” he harrumphed. “We both have our theories about that.” “Brooklyn and Seneca had nothing to do with this.” “That remains to be seen.” She could hear his frustration level climbing, and she knew there were only a few moments left before he started hollering over the line. “ All we do know is someone caused a fiery explosion at your barn yesterday. When your life is in the balance, everyone is a suspect, including the two ex-convicts you have living out there with you.” “Uncle Ricky—” “You could’ve been killed.” Aja swallowed the protest on her
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tongue and let her uncle’s words sink in. He wasn’t wrong. If her employee hadn’t called her name before she reached the barn, Aja would’ve been inside when the electric wiring ignited the kerosene lamps and her barn went up in a loud burst of flames. “Dammit, Aja! Why are you so stubborn?” “Uncle Ricky, I’m fine. Yes, my barn was destroyed, but the only thing that happened to me was a cut on my head that didn’t even need stitches.” “I wouldn’t care if the only thing you got was a broken nail. You are not setting foot back on that ranch, Aja. Not until Mat gets those ex-convicts off your property and you are unenrolled from that Pathways program.” The stiffness in her uncle’s voice, coupled with the mention of Seneca and Brooklyn’s parole officer Mat Ryan, made her head throb. She called this her uncle’s “judge voice.” He’d spent so many years using it to call people to order that he foolishly believed she’d fall in line when he used it on her too. “You know I won’t agree to anything like that. I can’t leave Aunt Jo and my employees to fend for themselves on the ranch.” “No,” he replied. “I don’t want my sister in harm’s way, either, so I already moved Jo to my house. It’s a gated community with round-the-clock security. She’ll be fine, and so will you once you’re under my roof too.” She tried to shake her head, but it throbbed from the movement, so she rubbed her temple instead. “Uncle Ricky. You’re doing way too much. I don’t want all this.” “You may not want it, but it’s what’s happening. I’m only waiting for Mat to figure out what to do with the parolees you’re harboring before I send someone out there to close the ranch down.” She pulled the phone from her ear and glared at it for a long moment. “No, Uncle Ricky,” she hollered, and she immediately regretted raising her voice when the Rangers each glanced back at
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her. She quieted her voice before resuming her conversation. “I’m not gonna let you close my ranch down.” His lack of immediate response told her he was gearing up for a fight. If she knew her uncle, he was squinting over his glasses, trying to put the fear that only southern elders managed to instill into their young’uns into her, even though they were on the phone. He was good, but she was better. She managed a similar glare of her own, slowly tilting her head to keep the achy stiffness from yesterday’s drama from settling in again. “Uncle Ricky, you were the one who told me to fight for what I believed in. I believe in these women. I believe in the Pathways program. Why can’t you support my decision to help them rebuild their lives?” “Aja, you’re my niece. My only niece.” His voice cracked. Aja swallowed, trying to shove down the grief that was suddenly clawing at her. God, she still missed her sister. Yesterday morning before all hell broke loose, she’d been proud of her ability to move on these last two years. But in moments like this, when she had to deal with her grief—and her uncle’s too—A ja felt like she was right back at the start of her own personal hell. She took a deep breath, trying to desperately quiet the sad thoughts swirling in her head. “Uncle Ricky, you’ve called in the Texas Rangers against my will. I’ll go along with them investigating the vandalism because obviously things have gotten out of hand. But I am not shutting my ranch down, and I’m not abandoning Seneca and Brooklyn when they’ve done nothing to deserve it. My house, my rules. Isn’t that what you always say to me when I set foot into your place?” Aja saw the Ranger in the passenger seat sneaking a sideways glance at her. She’d deal with him when this was over. Right now, she needed to get her uncle off her back. “All right, Aja. As long as you let the Rangers do their job, I’ll back off. But if there’s any more trouble, I don’t wanna hear a damn
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thing other than the sound of your boots headed out of that place. You understand me?” “Yessuh.” She ended the call and focused her attention on the Ranger who was still trying to hide the smirk on his face. “Is there something you need to say, Ranger…Gleason is it?” He shook his head. “No, ma’am.” “You sure? The expression on your face seems to say otherwise.” He shook his head again. “No, just thinking that my boss, Ranger Dean, ain’t ready for you.” She shifted in her seat, crossing her arms as she leveled a pointed stare at him. “No man ever is.” And she doubted this Ranger Dean would be an exception to that rule. Ever since her uncle had called the Rangers in last night, she’d surmised they, like her uncle, would never look further than the obvious suspects Seneca and Brooklyn seemed. But that was all right. Aja always had a plan. She hadn’t been one of the most successful trial attorneys in New York for nothing. Her gift was always being able to outstrategize her opponents. This Texas Ranger wouldn’t be any different as far as she was concerned. She wanted this case solved, but not at her ladies’ expense. To avoid that, she’d simply have to get Ranger Dean off their scent with the same steps she used to win over unforgiving juries. Step one: Humanize the defendants. Step two: Provide an alternate version of the crime. Step three: Create a reasonable doubt the defendants could ever have committed the crime. Step four (the most important step of all): Smile and turn those that would condemn you into your advocates. Make your enemy do the fighting for you. A calm stillness spread over her and she returned to staring out the window. Brooklyn and Seneca were counting on her. She’d done this before with great success; there was no reason Aja could
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see that it shouldn’t work now when her success was more important than adding another mark in her win column. A smile crept onto her lips as her plan solidified. Aja had the perfect strategy and her secret weapon was tucked away safely in the cargo area of the SUV. I won’t let you down, ladies.
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“Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it.” —Norman Maclean
Chapter 1 The oven timer was buzzing when Josie pushed through the swinging door into the kitchen. It was hard to believe two hours had sped by since she’d placed the six trays of blueberries into the commercial ovens to dry them out. With the tea garden hosting their first wedding, there’d been no doubt it would be a whirlwind of a weekend, but Josie hadn’t expected this craziness. She’d been going nonstop since dawn, and her empty stomach was grumbling in protest. She was loading the last of the trays onto the baker’s sheet pan rack when the doorbell rang, its melodic chimes resounding through the old mansion. Leaving the oven mitt on the kitchen counter, she headed down the hall toward the front. She was almost to the door when the back screen door thwacked open. “Mooooommm! Mommy?” Zoe called, her tone brimming with the demanding urgency of a six-year-old. “Up front, babe. Someone’s here.” Josie checked out the side window before unlocking the door, proving old habits never die. She ran through a mental list of the expected guests. She’d thought everyone who was coming had arrived. The crowded back terrace certainly made it seem so. This guest was alone, and just the kind of guy whose presence instinctively stirred up female hormones. He was taller than Josie by half a foot and, judging by the fit of his jeans and black T-shirt,
2 Debbie Burns in good shape. He was older, too, but not by much, early-to mid- thirties maybe. His eyes, bright blue-green, warred for attention with a broad smile accented by the short, brown stubble on his cheeks and chin. Zoe zoomed down the hall and smacked into Josie, plastering her petite body into the back of Josie’s leg. Half-hidden, she peered around Josie’s hip at the visitor while muttering something about the two boys she’d been building sandcastles with. “Hang on a second, Zo.” Before returning her attention to the man, she ran her hand over Zoe’s long chestnut hair, her fingers raising a few of the baby-fine ends by her forehead like little exclamation points. “Hi. You’re here for the wedding?” The stranger’s easy smile widened at her question. “Well, that depends. If you’re the bride and you’re still taking offers, I could be tempted to throw my name into the hat.” Josie worked to keep her jaw from falling open. Did guys really say things like that anymore? She was a bit out of touch—by design—but she was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to. Zoe tapped Josie’s arm, demanding her attention. “Did you hear me, Mommy? Those boys aren’t sharing.” Josie scooped Zoe up at the same time the man offered his hand. “My bad, sorry.” Clearly, he’d picked up on her lack of enthusiasm for his compliment. “I’m looking for Myra Moore. I believe she’s expecting me. I’m a freelance journalist working on an article for the New York Post.” A rush of lightheadedness flooded her. A journalist? She attempted to readjust Zoe, who was too big to be held any longer, on her hip. “Why?” she managed to get out, forgetting about his white teeth and blue-green eyes. “I’m in town researching a missing person and what might be an unresolved murder. I’m hoping she can help me find the answers I’m looking for.”
Summer by the River 3 Josie’s muscles went rigid. No, no, no. Not like this. I’m not ready. Her mouth gaped, but nothing came out, and her vision went from spotty to almost completely gray. Her arm locked around Zoe’s slim torso as she struggled to remain standing and alert. Swaying, swaying. Was it the room swaying or her? She smelled the stranger closing in around her before her spotty vision could process it. The woody, sweet scent of sandalwood filled her nostrils, the one concrete thing she could process. She might as well have been a doll in The Nutcracker. She could feel Zoe sliding off her body and onto the floor and the man stepping closer, and she could hear their muffled talking but couldn’t process the words. She struggled to stay conscious—to tell him to back off—but words wouldn’t come. Then she was in his arms and he was carrying her, and her vision was clearing from gray to spotty again. The next thing she knew, Josie startled to find herself lying on the couch in the front parlor when she hadn’t even realized he’d set her down. She startled even more to find the stranger hovering over her, staring. Had she passed out? It hadn’t seemed that way, but the last couple seconds—or minutes—were disjointed. Movement in the entryway caught her attention. Zoe was pulling Myra, the tea garden’s eighty-year-old owner, into the parlor and tugging on her skirt. Myra’s faithful Corgi-Pomeranian mix, Tidbit, trailed in at her side. “You won’t believe it, Myra!” Zoe chirped. “Mommy’s eyes were fluttering like butterflies and I thought we were going to fall and this man catched her and carried her all the way over here.” Caught. The word rose to Josie’s lips reflexively, even though she couldn’t voice it. The irony didn’t escape her that she was worried about Zoe’s grammar at a time like this. Somehow, she forced herself to sit up using limbs that reacted like boiled noodles. The stranger cleared his throat and directed his words to Myra.
4 Debbie Burns “Sorry, ma’am. I let myself in. Your, uh, this woman fainted—sort of.” “Heavens.” Myra leaned over and pressed her palm across Josie’s forehead. “She’s been running herself ragged the last few days. Zoe, be a dear and get your mom a glass of water, will you?” Zoe gave Josie a questioning glance. “You’re all better now, Mom, right?” “I’m fine, baby.” Her words come out squeaky, barely audible. If Zoe had been distraught to see her collapse like that, she seemed to be processing it fine now. “Make sure nothing happens till I get back.” Then she dashed out of the room and down the hall. “You all right, Miss?” the man asked. Josie dropped her gaze to the floor and repeated that she was fine. Standing beside him, Myra offered him her hand. “I’m Myra, and this is my house. Bob phoned just now and said you’d be coming. I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.” “Carter.” The man took Myra’s arthritic hand with care. “Carter O’Brien.” “It’s nice to meet you, Carter. Once I see to Josie, I’m happy to answer your questions.” Myra sank onto the sofa next to her. Tidbit scooted back to make a running jump to clear the couch with his short legs, then nestled down between them. “You all right, dear?” “I’m fine.” Josie kept her hands folded across her lap as Tidbit sniffed her arm. How could Myra know he was coming and not tell me? Like a rabbit frozen in the grass, she waited for him to proceed with whatever devilry brought him to her doorstep. She couldn’t imagine how he knew. All she could think was it had to have been the shady man in Chicago who’d forged her and Zoe’s papers. The process had been complicated, to say the least. But Josie and Zoe Waterhill were legitimate people now. Falsified, maybe, but legitimate. They had social security numbers and birth certificates. Josie
Summer by the River 5 hadn’t been comfortable using the man's services, but she would never have been able to register Zoe for school otherwise. But what might it have cost her? Carter squatted in front of her, balancing on the balls of his feet, resting his forearms against his thighs as he eyed her in concern. “When I was growing up, I had a cousin with low blood sugar. My aunt kept orange juice on hand. It helped when she crashed. If you have any, I’d be happy to get you a glass.” “Do be a dear and try, will you?” Myra answered for her. “If Linda, the kitchen manager, isn’t in the kitchen, Zoe will show you where the glasses are kept. It’s down the hall and to the right.” He nodded and headed down the hall toward the back of the house. Josie finally noticed the gaping-open front door. His bag— most likely a laptop case—was still abandoned on the stoop. A ridiculous urge flooded her to grab it and run for the river where she could toss it into the gray-black water in hopes it might carry its secrets into the abyss. But even if her spent legs would obey, there’d be no point. Whatever information he had in there was surely backed up somewhere else. No, whatever Armageddon he was bringing was already rushing her way. Beside her, Myra swept aside a lock of her hair and brushed her thumb over Josie’s cheek. “I know what you’re thinking, Josie. I was coming inside to tell you about the call and heard him as I walked in. I’m sorry for the scare it has caused you, but you’ve got it wrong. The wind that blew him here has nothing to do with you.” Josie searched Myra’s gentle eyes for the truth since, for the first time in over five years, she found herself doubting her words.
Chapter 2 The kid was cute. And precocious. A smile tugged at Carter’s lips as she shimmied up the counter and rose onto her knees for a juice glass. She clunked it down and slid off with both feet smacking the hardwood floor at once. “My mom doesn’t like orange juice much,” she said, grabbing a gallon jug of it from inside a massive commercial fridge that was impeccably organized. She held it up for him. “I like it lots, but I can’t pour it without spilling.” Carter relieved her of the jug, poured it, and returned it to the spot on a wide shelf in front of two more gallons. The librarian had told him this place operated as a tea garden, which explained the baker’s rack filled with scones, cakes, and dried berries, the massive fridge, the abundance of juice, and five or six pounds of unsalted organic butter, among other things. “If I were to guess, I’d say you’re pretty self-sufficient, huh?” “Pretty what?” Has it been that long since you’ve been around a kid? He wracked his brain for a simpler explanation as he took in the rest of the kitchen. Aside from the telltale high ceilings, transom windows, and thick crown molding, the room, with its oversized stainless-steel appliances and quartz counters, stood apart from the rest of the ancient house. Glancing out the kitchen window, he was surprised to see thirty or so people gathered around metal dining tables with pots of tea, fancy cups on saucers, and tiers in the centers piled with slices of cake and other goodies.
Summer by the River 7 “It means you can do a lot of things for yourself,” he answered. “I start first grade on Monday,” she said, grabbing the glass of water she poured before he came in. A little sloshed over the rim and splashed on the counter. “So, I guess so.” That librarian hadn’t been kidding about this place being the real thing. Carter wouldn’t have been surprised to find the servers dressed in Downton Abbey attire instead of khakis and black T-shirts. When he’d carried Zoe’s mom, he’d noticed her shirt had a cartoonish outline of a tea bag with the words “Tea Shirt” inscribed inside. With his next question, he attempted to be quiet enough that his voice didn’t travel down the hall. The way the redhead had fainted at his words like that had sparked more than his concern. “So, your mom, has she fainted like this before?” Taking the juice, he followed her out of the kitchen. “Nuh-uh. Never.” Carter replayed the last few seconds before she fainted. He couldn’t help but feel he’d missed something. That some unusual truth was glaring him head-on and all he needed was a few more minutes to rehash it. But the sight of her as they reentered the parlor was enough to derail his concentration. She met his gaze from her spot on the couch, and her eyelids narrowed the same way pupils did when a light flicked on. Guarded or not, she was damn good-looking. There was something about her, an ageless elegance, that might be traced to generations of good breeding or simply luck of the draw. In addition to that red-gold hair, she had eyes as blue as the summer sky, and his nose still tingled with the scent of something lemony like dish soap coupled with the soft trace of perfume. But she wasn’t why he’d come here. He cleared his throat in hopes of clearing his thoughts. He offered her the juice, but when she uncrossed her arms to
8 Debbie Burns reach for it, it was obvious she was too shaky to hold it. Myra, who reminded him of an aged willow tree—tall but bent and weathered with the grace of a life well lived—took it instead. Her dog raised up on both legs to give it a sniff, then lost interest quickly. Myra suggested the kid head back outside to play. Her voice was kind but commanding enough that the girl took note and, after giving them a long look, reluctantly shuffled down the hall. Soon after, the back door banged shut. “Ms. Moore,” he began when both women directed their attention his way, “my timing may not be great, but I believe Bob told you I’m in town researching a story. I make a living as a freelance writer, but the story that brought me to Galena is a personal one.” “Is it? Well, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Mr. O’Brien, was it?” Myra didn’t wait for his confirmation. “Writers amaze me. I love to read, and I appreciate the gift of eloquence when I come across it.” “Thank you, ma’am, but that isn’t a gift I claim.” He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m a journalist by trade. The truth tends to be easily written and typically without great expression.” “If you mean that, then I daresay you’ve not come across any great truths, have you?” A laugh bubbled up his throat. “No, no great truths.” “Well, when you do, I suspect the gift of eloquence will find you.” “One can hope, Ms. Moore.” The redhead, seated beside Myra, had been listening quietly. She shot an exasperated look at the woman as if she wasn’t sold on the small talk. Myra offered a gentle shrug in reply and handed her the glass of juice. Seeming steadier, she took it and sipped tentatively. Myra pointed a bent finger his way. “Moore was my maiden name, though there are people in town, Bob included, who’ve never
Summer by the River 9 stopped calling me that.” She sat up straighter and slid her hands over her knees. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and tell me this story that brought you here in search of your great truth?” Carter followed her gaze to a desk and headed over for a wooden chair with a narrow seat that he suspected was as old as the mansion. He set it down a few feet in front of the couch and took a seat, feeling a bit like he was auditioning for a part. And, as if asserting he had a role in the decision-making, Myra’s dog, who was eyeing him curiously, let out a determined bark. “Ah, well, for starters, I’m here on a bit of a whim, researching family history. Back in the early 1900s, my family owned one of the country’s biggest tool manufacturers in the Northeast. My grandfather took over its operations after his father’s death in the late twenties. By the mid- to late thirties, the company was bankrupt, and my family’s fortune was nonexistent." A wave of apprehension washed over Carter regarding what he was about to tell Myra. “My grandfather stuck around long enough to witness the birth of my father. Then he took off and was never heard from again, leaving a destitute wife to fend for herself and her son at a time when people needed all the help they could get. No one knows what became of him. “My father had me later in life, and he’s getting up there in age,” he continued. “This last year or so, he’s become set on learning the truth behind his father’s disappearance. Recently, he uprooted a lead pointing to Galena. I’ve no idea what I can uncover for him after all this time, but I owe it to him to find out what I can.” “That’s it ?” the redhead interrupted, her voice little more than a whisper. Carter eyed her in surprise. “Sorry to disappoint. That’s about as dramatic as I get.” Myra pursed her thin lips. “Tell me your grandfather’s name, son.”
10 Debbie Burns “Myron. Myron O’Brien.” Myra pulled in a slow breath and closed her eyes, reminding him again of a willow tree just before a late fall storm. “And fate has sent you my way after all these years.” Carter shifted uncomfortably in the straight- backed chair. Knowing there was a possibility his words could cause this gentle woman pain, he chose them as cautiously as he could. “After what I showed him, your librarian believes there’s reason to think it might be my grandfather’s body that was dumped in the Galena River in 1940. The body was recovered fifty or so miles downriver from here but was in bad enough shape it was never identified. Their descriptions are a match. The man had been shot twice in the chest.” “That murder was the talk of the town for years; at least that’s how I remember it from my childhood. I was an infant at the time of the shooting, born that very year,” Myra said. “And why is Bob directing you to my doorstep?” “The, uh, victim was linked to your family—to this house. It was believed he’d been contracted to do some work here. I was hoping you may have some information about him.” “On a carpenter who worked here eighty years ago?” Carter swallowed. He’d come all this way but was close to abandoning further inquiry. Then he caught something in the old woman’s gaze, a strength—more than a strength, a challenge—and pressed forward. “I found a series of editorials published around then too. Some of them were filled with gossip about a controversial friendship between a married woman and an out-of-towner. Not just an out- of-towner. Her carpenter. The same person one of the later editorials alluded to having found his way to a watery grave. When you connect the dots, it seems as if a few people in town suspected that the woman might have been a Moore. Your mother, Bob was guessing.” “Oh, that’s enough!” the redhead blurted out, setting her juice noisily on the side table. Grabbing the arm of the couch, she pushed
Summer by the River 11 to her feet and steadied herself. “Myra doesn’t need this. Especially not today . Her friends are getting married here tomorrow, and she’s under enough stress as it is.” “Josie,” Myra said before he could reply. “Sit, dear. If this young man wants to ask questions and make inferences about my mother, it doesn’t hurt me.” When she kept standing and set balled-up fists against her hips, Myra pushed up from the couch with similar effort, only her struggle wasn’t temporary. The dog stood up on his short legs but didn’t jump down. “Sit down before you fall again, Josie. You’re shaky still. I can see it. And you,” she said, turning to him with a bright intensity in her eyes. “I’d like to see your face better, young man. Come over to the light by the window. The more I look at you, you seem familiar to me. Hauntingly so.” Surprised but agreeable, Carter allowed Myra to lead him toward the side window of the parlor, guiding him to step into the light pouring inside. She regarded him in silence for what felt like an eternity. Her eyes were a light, faded blue, and he wasn’t entirely sure if they were watery from age or if there were a few tears brewing on her lids. Finally, she gave a slight nod and patted his cheek. “Those eyes of yours are remarkable. Startling even. I’ve never seen them in color before.” Before? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.” “I knew they were light. In my youth I spent many hours wondering about their color—blue or green—but I never would have guessed such a perfect mixture of both.” She slid her hand down his arm, closing her soft, bony fingers over his wrist. “How silly any of us is to think the past is swept away. It surrounds us, just waiting for the opportunity to be let in.” “Are you saying you think his accusations are true?” the redhead—Josie—said, joining them by the side window.
12 Debbie Burns “Forgive me for being cryptic, Josie, but I spent many hours of my youth looking at this man’s picture—or an uncanny likeness of him anyway. I used to dream I’d marry someone so handsome.” Using Josie as a brace, Myra returned to the couch and smoothed her hand over her dog’s back. “When the time came, I married for sense, as was my duty. I had all but forgotten that face by then. And now that you’ve come knocking on our door, it’s as clear as if I looked at it yesterday.” “Ms. Moore, do you mind explaining?” “You have your grandfather’s eyes, of that I’m certain. For so long, I hoped to learn that man’s identity. Over the years, it became no more than a shadow of a hope. But now that shadow has come knocking. Life is funny that way, isn’t it?” She smiled. “Please, have a seat again, Mr. O’Brien.” Josie settled back on the couch, looking as pleased by the turn of events as she might over the arrival of a swarm of termites. Silence fell over the room a second time, and Carter noticed that the front door was still wide open, and his laptop case was abandoned on the stoop. He headed over and grabbed it, then shut the door. From the way Myra was running her fingers over the stitching on her skirt, he sensed she needed a moment to collect herself. “This house is remarkable.” He glanced up toward the high, molded ceilings as he sat down. “I took a couple architecture classes. I’m a fan of old Victorian mansions like this one. I’m guessing it’s mid-nineteenth century, correct?” Myra’s face lightened at his words. “You’re right on the mark. It was finished just after the Civil War. Ulysses Grant is rumored to have dined here on occasion. It’s been in my family for three generations. My husband and I ran it as a B and B for over thirty years. I shut it down after he died.” Myra paused and pursed her lips. “The gardens are still as spectacular as ever, though most of the thanks for that goes to our neighbor. He’s a retired horticulturist who doesn’t
Summer by the River 13 seem to know where his yard ends and ours begins, though I’ve had no mind to complain. He’s unofficially taken on the role of master gardener. When Josie has her legs under her, she can give you a tour.” “I’d like that.” Even though Josie had pulled a pillow onto her lap and was fidgeting with the silky frays along the side, she seemed to freeze under his direct gaze, reigniting his curiosity. “Do you like weddings, Mr. O’Brien?” Myra asked. “Ah, not particularly. Though I’ve no objection to them so long as they aren’t mine.” “How about tea, then?” “Tea? It’s tolerable when the coffee’s gone.” A short- lived smile lit Myra’s face. “Will you be in town tomorrow?” “Ah, yeah. I planned a day or two break here. I’m driving across the country.” “Wonderful. As Josie mentioned, two of my dearest friends are getting married here tomorrow. It’s all but consumed us these last few weeks. When it’s over, I’m certain I’ll have more to share with you than I do today. Everything’s a jumble now.” Carter tried not to show his disappointment as impatience bristled under the surface of his skin. His dad’s quest had rubbed off on him. Especially now that he was so close to an answer. “I’d be happy to come back once it’s over and you’ve had time for this to settle in.” “Wonderful. And where is it you’re staying?” “A hotel outside of town.” “Not a chain? With you being a fan of architecture?” “Actually, it is. I’m not big on B and Bs, with the exception of the architecture. That was all I could find in town.” “You’ll find Galena’s strongest boast is its history. Most of our original homes and buildings are still intact. And your stay won’t be the same if you aren’t in town. I suspect, if you want to understand
14 Debbie Burns your grandfather best, you’ll need to embrace this world, not simply pass through it.” Josie stopped pulling at the frayed pillow and looked at Myra abruptly. Carter held up his hands, a polite smile returning to his face. “As I said, this is a favor for my father. I’ll settle with simple facts this trip.” In reply, Myra pressed her eyes shut and kept them closed as she spoke again. “I suspect he was very much like you. Defiant, boyishly charming, and quite the chip on his shoulder. Except he carried a weight you know nothing about. And I daresay, maybe never will.” Carter kept quiet, hoping she’d offer more. To his disappointment, she didn’t. Instead, she exhaled and reached for Josie’s hand. Josie didn’t bother hiding her dislike of Myra’s idea. She shook her head abruptly. “No, Myra.” It came out as a whisper, drawing his attention even more. “It turns out we’ve readied a bedroom just for you, Mr. O’Brien. Nolan’s son cancelled yesterday. Josie, you’ll show him to it, won’t you, if you’ve gotten your legs back? I’d like to sit here and collect my thoughts. So much is coming back in a rush. I wasn’t quite prepared for it.” Josie’s cheeks flamed bright red. “Myra, we don’t even know him.” “And now we have an opportunity to do so. Carter O’Brien is welcome to stay as my particular guest. Something tells me you could use the reprieve, couldn’t you, young man?” She directed her last words his way. “I can promise you the best quiche and scones in a hundred miles, by far. And we have tea blends strong enough to suit even the most steadfast of coffee drinkers.” Beside her, Josie drummed one bare heel in rapid succession on the hardwood floor. Carter met her gaze with one that he suspected revealed a hint of his amusement over her discomfort. He had no
Summer by the River 15 idea what her story was, but he certainly wasn’t opposed to finding out while he was here. “I’ll gladly stay with your permission, ma’am. I know an opportunity when I come across it.”
Chapter 3 Most days, Myra couldn’t remember what she’d had for dinner the night before. Thanks to Carter O’Brien, memories that had been undisturbed for decades were sweeping in with a startling clarity. Myra could practically feel the floor digging into her sitz bones as she hid in her mother’s closet at age eight, a photograph clutched in her hands that wasn’t meant for her. Pressing in on the edges of this memory were others: of a father and mother who were decades apart in age but seemingly amicable toward one another; of whispers alluded to in town by the older generations but never directly addressed. Alone in the parlor with her dog curled into a ball and snoring softly beside her, Myra closed her hands over the top of her head. It wasn’t that she wanted to stop the memories from coming. They were like a tangled mess of rope. She wanted to separate them out, take her time examining them. She overheard Josie stepping out of the kitchen as Carter hauled his luggage inside and down the hall. The dear girl asked for his driver’s license the same as she would if he were checking into an operating B and B, and Carter didn’t object. Myra didn’t blame Josie for being cautious. With a past like hers, having faith in strangers would most likely remain her biggest challenge. Myra wanted to tell her not to worry, at least not to worry about the things she was worrying about this afternoon. Carter O’Brien meant no harm. Myra was certain of that much.
Summer by the River 17 But she was transfixed with the memories sweeping over her just the same as if she were riding a magic carpet and peering down at a panorama of the past. All she could do was sit still and let herself be taken away. Her eight-year-old self had found a photograph tucked inside the back seam of her mother’s prayer book, and she’d wanted a private place to examine it. It was a black and white image of a grown man, and a distinctively handsome one at that. Even as a child she’d known it. Her pulse had raced wildly as she imagined her mother, whose beauty had been the talk of the town before she’d married, with this man instead of her father. Her father’s hair had grayed at the temples, his shoulders were narrow and, in his older years, his mouth had turned down in a frown, even when he was pleased. How guilty she’d felt by the traitorous thought. She’d loved her father wildly. Born of a family from Sussex, he’d given her a lifelong appreciation for a good cup of tea just as he had a love of books. He’d not wanted anything more than living out his life quietly in this house, and he had. What secrets had been in her mother’s heart? Now, at the eve of Myra’s life, a stranger had come knocking, and the truth, if she wanted it, was most certainly hers to know.
Chapter 4 A suave and polished journalist showing up unannounced to dig up long-buried secrets wasn’t a good thing. Josie was certain of that. By the time she got the temperamental printer working and copied Carter’s driver’s license, Zoe had abandoned the sandbox and had tugged Carter outside for a tour of the two-acre grounds. As she stepped out to join them, Josie noticed most of the weekend’s guests had finished their tea, cake, and scones and were dispersing. Zoe and Carter were halfway down the hillside, and the hair on the back of Josie’s neck prickled at the sight of Zoe being so carefree with a stranger. Her feet itched to join them, but she checked herself. Certainly, there was no better place than here to give Zoe a bit of trust and see what she did with it. Josie busied herself with cleaning off the empty tables on the expansive brick patio. She smiled as she overheard Zoe. The toad abodes, butterfly boxes, and bird feeders were among Zoe’s most animated stops along the flower beds as they wound their way back up the gently sloping hillside. Out of the corner of her eye, Josie caught Zoe wrapping a small hand around Carter’s as she pointed out the spot where she was certain she caught a glimpse of a garden fairy this spring. Perhaps sensing the impropriety in the touch, Carter dropped her hand to ruffle her hair. Unabashed, Zoe found it again as soon as he was finished. Breath catching in her throat, Josie let one of the delicate cups
Summer by the River 19 clank against the spout of a kettle nearly hard enough to break it. Zoe had the most trusting nature of anyone she knew. She’s just like Sam. As they rounded the top of the yard, Carter nodded toward Josie. “Myra’s right. These gardens are spectacular.” “Thanks.” She set the packed-full busser tub on the closest table and headed over. She slipped his license out of her back pocket and offered it his way. “Would you like my card?” he asked as he tucked his license back into his wallet. “As I mentioned, I’m freelance, but you can Google me. Plenty of my work is online.” “Thanks.” It was a simple, gray-scale business card with his contact information and an image of an old-fashioned typewriter. She’d never known anyone who made their way on this earth exclusively by stringing words together, and was impressed. She was a numbers person. With numbers, she could always find her way. Words were different, complicated. Sometimes they told the truth; other times they were wickedly deceitful. “So, tell me,” he said with a lopsided grin, “was your asking for my license a formality in case I steal a few towels while I’m here, or in case I follow in my grandfather’s footsteps?” Josie fought back a laugh as his words sank in. “Around here, you never know.” Carter was boyishly charming—she’d grant him that. She bet that smile could grab attention a hundred feet away. And then there was that dimple on his right cheek. But the stubble on his face and the visible strength in his shoulders and arms belied those boyish parts, leaving her in no doubt he was a man in his prime. “Do you, uh, want to see your room?” “Sure, that would be great.” “Wait, Mom! I want to show him my castle first.” Zoe dragged him toward the back of the yard. Josie trailed after them, making
20 Debbie Burns mental notes of all the things she needed Zoe to understand before the start of school on Monday. “Which one is yours?” Carter asked. Still barefoot, Zoe hopped inside, sinking to her knees in front of the three separate mounds of sand. “Mine is the best one.” Zoe’s challenge was evident in her tone. “I’m really good at making sandcastles. I do it all the time. And those boys are new.” “Zoe,” Josie corrected her, “honestly.” Carter seemed unfazed. He knelt, sinking onto the backs of his heels. He clicked his tongue as he inspected the three distinct mounds with the rapt attention of a county fair judge. One was clearly out of the running, hardly any better than a misshapen hill. The other two were close in detail and scope. She knew Zoe’s right off by the trademark curve of the bridge and the tiny sticks she placed atop the spires. After seeming to notice the direction of Zoe’s hopeful gaze, Carter pointed to it. “This one, right?” Zoe beamed. “See, Mom? Mine is better. Those mean boys don’t know anything.” “They aren’t mean, Zoe. They’re just young, like you.” Zoe rolled her bright hazel eyes and offered a small huff. “They are too mean. You just weren’t there to see it.” Carter stood up and cleared his throat, probably a bit more amused than he wanted to show. They headed inside, with Zoe pausing to point out all her favorite places on the lower floor, such as the window seat in the breakfast room at the side of the kitchen that had a clear view of a robin’s nest. “This house is truly phenomenal,” Carter said as they ascended the massive staircase to the second floor. The stairs were wide enough for Zoe to easily walk along next to him. Josie could have, too, but she chose to take up the rear. She forced her gaze away from his fingers as they brushed the top of the mahogany banister.
Summer by the River 21 “How many rooms does the place have?” Carter tapped the rounded newel as he took in the second-floor split hallway. “Six with private bathrooms,” she answered, “plus two on the third floor that share a bathroom. There’s a family from Ohio up there this weekend, but we usually stick to the second-floor rooms. It’s too expensive to heat and cool the third floor. Your room’s down the hall. It’s a great room—a lot of space and one of the best bathrooms in the house. And a wonderful view of the gardens out back.” “Spoken like someone who knows it well.” “You could say that.” Josie opted not to add that, when it was just her, Myra, and Zoe here, she often went into that room for a soak in the oversized bathtub after Zoe was out for the night. “Nice,” he said as she swung open the door. He paused to take it in and nodded appreciatively. “They don’t make houses like this anymore, do they? Great bone structure.” “If it wasn’t for the Victorian wallpaper covering it all up, you mean?” He grinned, his teeth gleaming. “Looks like I’m in a lady’s retreat after all. Is that what happened to the guy who pulled out? He didn’t have a tolerance for lace and doilies?” “He’s mad at his father for getting married again,” Zoe piped up. “Zoe, honestly. Sometimes I think you hear through walls.” Josie shrugged. “It’s one of those weddings that’s not without a bit of controversy. They were childhood sweethearts who ended up marrying other people. Their spouses have passed away, and now they’ve found one another again.” “But Linda says they’re hurting everybody’s feelings,” Zoe added. “Acting so in looove.” She drew out the word like it was replete with cooties. Carter laughed. “Kid, you’re wise beyond your years.” Josie ran her fingers down Zoe’s hair. “So… Make yourself at home. You’re Myra’s guest. The key is on the dresser. It’s bulky to
22 Debbie Burns carry around. If you don’t want to take it with you into town, you can drop it with Myra.” He strolled over to the dresser and inspected the brass skeleton key. “No plastic cards here, huh?” “We’re all about authenticity. Oh, I almost forgot. The room was already set up before the guy and his wife canceled. In honor of the wedding, everyone’s being treated with the getaway package from back when this place ran as a B and B. That means you get homemade cookies and wine delivered each night around nine. There’s a menu on your bed for tomorrow’s breakfast. And there’s champagne in the mini fridge and some extras on the tub as well.” Her cheeks warmed involuntarily at the last bit. He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? Too bad I’m traveling alone. So, you asked for a license but not a credit card. What are you charging for this? Something tells me it isn’t enough.” “You can take that up with Myra. You’re her particular guest, after all.” She took Zoe by the hand to leave. “And you’ll just be down the hall if I have any questions about how to work the tub or anything, right?” Carter asked, the playful grin returning to his face. After that introduction of his, it didn’t surprise her that he was a flirt. “You strike me as being technologically advanced. But if you have trouble, ask your questions early. I’m off duty tonight after I deliver cookies.” He tsked. “What a shame.” Josie pulled Zoe out of the room and closed the door before the smile that was tugging at her lips broke through to the surface.
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chapter one
Sometimes Hollyn Tate pretended she was in a movie. She had the script. She knew her lines. Her curly blond hair was blown out to perfection and not frizzing like crazy in the New Orleans humidity. Her heart wasn’t pounding too hard in her chest. Her facial expressions were totally under her control and appropriate for the situation instead of her Tourette’s calling the shots. She was a confident chick in the city on the way to the rest of her life. Her big career break was just around the corner. Her gaggle of whip-smart, funny friends was texting her about meeting up for drinks and gossip after work. The future love of her life was waiting to bump into her and knock her bag out of her hand—the perfect meet-cute. She was Carrie in Sex and the City. She was Meg Ryan in anything. She was Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat in the air. She was that girl. The camera would zoom in on her as other people strolled along the streets around her, their presence only a blur in the background. This was her day. Her world. She was owning it. Hollyn tried to imagine the scene playing on a movie screen as she walked, seeing this better, bolder version of herself navigate the uneven city sidewalks with grace, the brightly painted storefronts the perfect pop of color in the background. If this woman
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bent down to snag one of the clovers pushing through the cracks in the pavement, it’d have four leaves. Hollyn tried to believe the image, believe that this woman existed. The mental movie got her through the walk to work. Sometimes. Today, the fantasy was faltering, her lack of sleep making her extra jumpy. She turned the corner, and the bright-blue, four-story WorkAround building split the sun’s morning rays, scattering the light. The converted warehouse took up the entire corner, and the sign advertising Office Space for the Creative that hung from the second-floor balcony swayed in the humid breeze coming off the Mississippi River. She took a cleansing breath and worked to unclench her fingers. Even though she didn’t get the overwhelming nausea she had suffered during her first few weeks at WorkAround, her stomach still roller-coastered and her neck muscles balled up like fists. The image of that confident, camera-ready woman slipped away from her like a rogue spirit escaping its temporary host. Another ghost haunting the streets of New Orleans. She rehearsed her plan for the morning in her head. She’d tried to memorize the people who usually worked on her floor each day so that she knew who to give a quick good morning to (those who responded with a nod and polite smile) and who to avoid (those who wanted to do the dreaded water-cooler chat—even though WorkAround would never have something as gauche as an actual water cooler). But the nature of the coworking space meant the faces were always changing. People renting hot desks on the first floor didn’t tend to last long. Those renting actual offices like hers had a little more staying power. She checked the time on her phone, comforted that it was still early and that most of the people at WorkAround wouldn’t be in for at least another hour or so. One of the perks of working
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for herself was making her own schedule. Most of her coworkers took advantage of that benefit, rolling in around nine or ten and heading straight to the in-house coffee bar where Jackee, a woman with green hair and zero customer service skills, would take your order with a grunt and unceremoniously plunk your coffee or fancy tea in front of you without a word. Hollyn loved Jackee. Coffee and no expectations. Her kind of person. She dropped her phone into her bag, and her thumb tapped each fingertip on her right hand in a familiar back- and- forth rhythm. One two three four. Four three two one. A little twinge of relief went through her at the ritual. She punched in her access code and opened the glass door, which was already covered in dewy condensation, and the blast of frigid air-conditioning hit her along with the sound of fingers on keyboards. She inhaled deeply as she stepped inside, trying to center herself. There was the scent of burnt toast in the air from someone’s failed breakfast mixed with one of the “curated” aromas that were pumped into the building to “heighten creativity and productivity”—jasmine today, from what she could tell. Lucinda, the owner of WorkAround, had the aromatherapy on some undecipherable schedule— probably in tune with the moon phases or something. Hollyn did a quick scan of the main floor. A few of the hot desks were taken—desk being a flexible word. Any flat surface with a chair or couch next to it could be rented as a hot desk. The first floor of WorkAround catered mostly to one- person operations— writers, bloggers, online shop owners, app developers. People rented desks so they didn’t have to work alone at home— or, worse, from their parents’ house— and they could socialize with others from different backgrounds and jobs. Like paying for your favorite spot at Starbucks or the library to guarantee it would be there waiting for you every day. But unlike a library, there was nowhere to hide in this setup. It
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was an extrovert extravaganza. The first floor was wide and open with high ceilings, exposed red brick, shiny ductwork, and tall windows lining the back wall. Blue, yellow, and gray couches were set up in groupings to encourage collaboration and socializing. Potted ivies and succulents dotted the tables to make the room feel less industrial. Everything was designed just so. This view was the snapshot WorkAround sold to people online. Look how modern and hip and social this place is! Why work at home when you can be part of something bigger? The photo of this floor had originally made Hollyn want to bow out of this experiment completely. She’d been ready to dismiss what her online therapist, Mary Leigh, had suggested could help Hollyn work through some of her social anxiety. At the time, Hollyn had been so freaked out that she’d barely left her house for a month, but maybe becoming a shut-in wasn’t all that bad after all. Because an open floor plan full of chatty strangers and nonstop collaboration? Hell and no and What kind of monster designed this madness? But then Hollyn had seen the private offices, had imagined working in a space so bright and modern, and had fallen in love with the idea of getting a little slice of normalcy—an office to go to each day. The price was that she had to get past this part—the good-morning gauntlet. She hitched her laptop bag higher on her shoulder, doing her finger-counting a few more times, and headed toward the coffee bar with her I’m-busy-don’t-bother-me walk—her only defense against getting pulled into anxiety- inducing small talk. She could’ve stuck earbuds into her ears, but Mary Leigh had insinuated that doing so would be cheating. As if Hollyn’s mental health was something that had an answer key. A few people smiled her way or said a generic “morning,” and she responded in kind, but she didn’t pause. Most of them didn’t really want to talk anyway, especially not this early. Eye
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on the prize, she made it to the coffee bar in the back corner of the main floor as if someone was clocking her speed. She stopped at the counter with a sigh of relief and dug in her bag for her WorkAround card, which got her two free beverages a day. A sharp bang had her attention snapping back upward. “Motherfluffer,” a female voice said through what sounded like clenched teeth. More metallic banging ensued, and Hollyn leaned over the counter to see what was going on. A woman with dark-red hair—not Jackee—was crouched in front of a low metal cabinet, her back to Hollyn, yanking at the door with a surprising amount of force, considering her small frame. “Why the hell would they lock this up? Are we really going to steal industrial- sized bags of dark roast? It’s not even that good.” Before Hollyn could back away, the woman’s head turned, and the scowl she wore brightened into a welcoming smile when she saw her standing there. “Oh! Hey, um…” The woman didn’t know Hollyn’s name. Hollyn could see her mentally searching for it. Hollyn knew hers—Andrea, goes by Andi—because she made a point to research everyone who worked on her floor. She was nosy that way. “Hollyn,” she provided after clearing her throat. Andi snapped her fingers and popped up from her crouch like a jack-in-the-box. “Right, Hollyn. Sorry. Pretty name. We must’ve never done the name thing.” She pointed to her chest. “Andi. I work a few doors down from you.” “Hi.” Hollyn shifted and fiddled with her bag, willing her facial muscles to stay smooth and relaxed. She needed coffee, not conversation. Hell, she should have a T-shirt that said that. It applied in so many situations. “Where’s Jackee?” Andi sighed dramatically and tightened her ponytail. “Gone. Apparently, she sold an educational app to a big company and did a whole Screw you guys, I quit routine last night. F-bombs were
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dropped, aprons were tossed. Somehow no one got this on video.” She rolled her eyes. “The night crew really let us down on that one. But yeah, she’s off to be some kiddie tech mogul, it seems.” Hollyn’s eyebrows lifted, and her nose scrunched a few times against her will, the fight to keep her expression under her full control failing. “I know, right?” Andi said, as if Hollyn had answered her. “I had the exact same reaction. I can’t imagine Jackee interacting with children in any way—unless it was to invite them inside her gingerbread house in the woods to go all Hansel and Gretel on them. I was half-convinced she was poisoning the coffee of anyone who didn’t tip well. But yay, good for her, rah, rah, siss boom bah and all,” she said, tone droll as she lifted her hands and shook imaginary pom-poms. “Bad news for us, though, because I can’t get to the supplies, and Lucinda is locked in her office on a conference call, so I have no idea where to find the keys.” She gave the locked cabinet a murderous look. “How am I supposed to write a new chapter and record a podcast today with no coffee?” She put her hands out to her sides with a huff. “I can’t work under these conditions!” Hollyn stared at Andi’s whirlwind of rapid-fire words and expressions. Andi was on her Avoid list for just this reason. She’d learned that podcasters wanted to chat up everybody. So. Much. Talking. Everyone was a potential guest for them to interview. It set off all of her run-and-hide instincts. Hollyn didn’t know what to say beyond, “So no coffee?” Andi gave a grim headshake. “I guess I can go to Chicory across the street, but it’s so expensive, and the owner is this creeper who’s always telling women to ‘Smile, it’s a beautiful day.’” Hollyn’s nose scrunched again, and she rubbed it, trying to quell the nervous tic that wanted to take over her muscles. “Exactly. Does he not realize how aggressive that is? First of all,
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that’s a sign of a sociopath, trying to control my behavior.” She lifted a finger like she was making a point in court. “Secondly, dude-bro, I don’t need to smile to make you feel more comfortable. I’ll smile after I get my damn overpriced coffee and get out of your tourist trap.” A laugh bubbled up in Hollyn’s throat, but it got caught and she made a weird choked sound instead. Ugh. Awkward, aisle one. Why did this have to be so hard? Why couldn’t she just have a conversation like a normal person? So much of her wanted to be able to chat with ease with someone like Andi. Why couldn’t her body and brain cooperate? Andi smirked and tapped her temple. “Sorry. Horror writer and true-crime podcaster. Everyone is a serial killer until proven otherwise.” She put her forearms on the counter and leaned closer. “But seriously, watch out for coffee-shop guy. Could have bodies in the freezer.” “Ha.” Hollyn nodded. “Got it.” “Do you want to walk over together? Safety in numbers?” Andi asked, stepping around from behind the bar. “If he tells us to smile, we can both give him our best resting bitch face.” Hollyn’s cheek muscle jumped against her will, her tics surfacing with a vengeance when she had to interact with strangers. She didn’t have resting bitch face. She had resting twitch face. But either way, she wasn’t going to walk over with Andi. Yes, she was supposed to be here to push past her comfort zone (I hear you, Mary Leigh!), but she already felt like she was walking barefoot on thumbtacks today. “Um, sorry. I really need to get to my desk. Maybe next time.” “Wow. You’re going to go without coffee?” Andi asked, blue eyes wide. “Brave woman.” “I have a Vitamin Water,” Hollyn said, awkwardly patting her bag, which clearly had no room for a bottled drink. Andi tilted her head, her dark-red ponytail tipping sideways, like she was trying to figure Hollyn out.
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Good luck with that, Hollyn wanted to tell her. “What’s your poison?” Andi asked. “I’m going over there anyway, and I can grab you something. I’ll get Lucinda to reimburse us for the coffee. We pay rent here and are guaranteed two free drinks. If she doesn’t have a barista, we get an IOU.” She pinned Hollyn with eye contact, trapping her. “I, uh…” “Café au lait, chicory coffee, cappuccino, mocha, latte, cold brew, black tea, green tea, matcha…” Andi was going to keep listing until Hollyn gave in. “Iced decaf, whole milk, one sugar.” Andi’s eyebrows lifted. “Decaf? Actual people order that?” Hollyn’s ears burned. This was why she’d picked up a coffee habit in the first place—because “normal” people drink coffee and not drinking it causes others to comment. But too much caffeine was a big no-no for her, so decaf was her only option. “I had to quit the hard stuff. It messes with my sleep.” “Ah, gotcha. My condolences,” Andi said with a smile that made the little ring in her nose glint in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. “I’ll bring your imposter coffee to your office.” Hollyn knew it was shitty to let Andi fetch coffee for her. But walking over meant more conversation, and she was already sweating and restless under Andi’s observant gaze. So, Hollyn nodded and pulled a five-dollar bill from her purse. “Thank you.” “Not a problem,” Andi said in a way that made Hollyn think she really didn’t see it as one. Andi plucked the money from her fingertips. “But if I’m not back in half an hour, call the police and tell them to look at coffee-shop guy first.” Hollyn’s lips twitched into a brief smile. “Okay. Don’t die.” “Yes. Always the number one daily goal.” Andi gave a little wave and headed to the main door, greeting people as she passed them, totally comfortable. The envy that welled up in Hollyn
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became a physical taste on her tongue. What must that be like? To move through life so at ease? To wear your personality on the outside? She shook her head and walked past the coffee bar to the stairs that led to her floor. Movie-version Hollyn would be friends with a woman like Andi. Movie Hollyn would know what to say and would be able to keep up with the rapid-fire conversation. Movie Hollyn would also go upstairs and create a chance meeting with Rodrigo, the superbuff fitness vlogger who worked down the hall. But there were no cameras, no script, and Real Hollyn just wanted to hide in her office, close her door, and get her work done. The second floor was mostly quiet when she stepped out of the stairwell. A few people had their office doors ajar, but all the glass- walled conference rooms were either dark or had closed doors, soundproofing them. One of the two podcasting studios was active, the light above the door illuminated, and both video recording spaces were occupied. Through the crack in the door, she could see Emily Vu, a productivity blogger, adjusting the lights inside to shoot a video. Hollyn shuddered. She’d feel like she was in an interrogation room under all those lights. Hollyn’s office was the last at the end of the hall of glass- walled rooms. The space was small but bright, with a big window that gave her a sliver of a view between buildings of the Crescent City Connection bridge. The soft yellow on the one solid wall was soothing, and the mid-century modern desk was so much nicer than anything she’d ever owned that she couldn’t help but run her hand over the smooth walnut every time she came in for the day. When she’d first seen the space, she’d nearly swooned. Anytime she got knots in her stomach about coming to WorkAround, she’d think about this cozy office with its pretty desk, its city view, and its cushy armchair in the corner. It was the office space she’d fantasized about when she’d worked from the beat-up thrift-store table
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in her mother’s house. The only change she would make would be doing away with the two glass walls. The wall she shared with her neighbor was frosted, but the one facing the hallway was not. If she weren’t at the end of the hall, she’d feel like a hamster in a cage. But no one came down to her end unless they wanted to go out through the back staircase to smoke or vape, and she kept her back to the door most of the time anyway. She smiled. Andi would probably tell her to never put her back to a door. Can’t see the serial killer coming that way. Hollyn flipped on her desk lamp and fired up her laptop, wishing she had a hot cup of coffee in her hand. She liked the ritual of sipping it slowly while she went through her email each morning, but the half-empty, lukewarm bottle of water she’d left behind the other day would have to do for now. She got settled at her desk and opened up her inbox. Something loosened in her body. Outside these doors, she felt like an alien trying to learn the native language. But in here, at her desk, she got to be herself. Her computer dinged with new mail. There was one nastygram from someone who didn’t like her review of their “experimental pop funk” band. She rolled her eyes at the invective. Get over it, man. The only experimental part was picking a lead singer who was tone deaf and who couldn’t stop grabbing his crotch. Two requests for dates. No, thank you, overeager strangers. A forwarded article from her mother about a new supplement she should try. Delete. And finally one with a subject line promising a once-in-a-lifetime offer. She hovered over the last email, placing silent bets before clicking it. Would it be an offer to refinance her mortgage, a secret bank account in the Bahamas, or a dick pic? She rolled the mental dice and clicked. And we have a winner!
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The screen filled with a high-definition close-up GIF of a dude inserting his penis into the toe of a black high-heeled shoe, the clip looping to give the full thrusting effect. She snorted and then tilted her head, studying the image. Since her entertainment column on the NOLA Vibe site had taken off in popularity, she received these kinds of emails often enough that she’d started to categorize them. Frat boy who drank too much and made bad choices? Lonely soul? Potential stalker? Miz Poppy, the moniker she used for her reviews of movies and local entertainment, got the gamut in her inbox. Hollyn was amazed by the assumptions people made about a person based on their cartoon avatar. The red lips, long dark hair, and tight black outfit of her cartoon alter ego got more date requests in one week than she’d gotten in her entire life. If she could live life in a cartoon world, she’d be killing it. But alas, Miz Poppy only existed in the imagination of her readers. If they knew Miz Poppy was really some chick with unruly blond curls, an even more unruly anxiety disorder, and a penchant for high-top Vans instead of high heels, they’d be vastly disappointed. Lucky for her, no one but her editor and boss at the NOLA Vibe knew who the real Miz Poppy was, which meant misguided penis guy got to keep his fantasy about Miz Poppy’s shoes. What he would not get was a reply. She lifted her hand to delete the email, but before she could, a knock sounded at her door. Her body tensed, and she automatically went into if-I-stay- still, maybe-they-won’t-see-me mode. No one ever knocked on her door. There was a Do Not Disturb door hanger that she’d bought in the French Quarter hanging off the knob. It had a picture of a voodoo doll full of pins. The message was pretty damn clear. But before she could go into full flight-or-fight mode, she remembered Andi was bringing coffee. She needed to turn around. Be a functioning human for a few more minutes.
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The glass door made a soft whooshing sound as it opened. “Um, hello?” Not Andi. The voice was male and one she didn’t recognize. She really needed to turn around now, but she could feel the electricity moving through her, her nerve endings jumping. Her fingers twitched against the arms of her desk chair, tapping the pattern. One two three four. “You ordered a coffee?” the guy said, his tone unsure. Hollyn wet her lips—get your shit together, babe—and forced herself to spin her chair to face the door. A guy she’d never seen before was standing inside her doorway, holding a cup of coffee and watching her. Her breath caught. One, because he was a stranger and in her office expecting her to speak words. Two, because, holy shit. Hot. He looked like he could be modeling for a WorkAround ad. Tall and lanky with an untucked, short-sleeved button-down and skinny jeans that said he was trying but not too hard. Square tortoiseshell glasses framing hazel eyes. And dark, shaggy hair that was just a little too long on top to be considered neat. He gave her a chagrined half smile, and his gaze traveled over her, making her insides ripple with awareness. “Whew. So she is alive,” he said. “That’s a relief.” “Excuse me?” Her throat had narrowed to the circumference of a pencil, and the words came out broken around the edges. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and his smile went full span. “Well, it would suck if on my first day at a new place, I was the one to find the body.” She was supposed to smile back or laugh or something, but as usual, her body didn’t cooperate. She didn’t do well one-on-one with any stranger, but this guy was launching her system straight to Armageddon level. Attraction was the worst. It was like detonating a bomb inside her, setting off all the most embarrassing aspects
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of her anxiety and Tourette’s. Most people got a little nervous when they were attracted to someone, but for her, it was amplified a hundred times over. She was doing everything she could to act chill, white-knuckling her neurons, but she knew it couldn’t last. She was bound to tic or say something awkward. Her tension increased—a rubber band being pulled, pulled, pulled. “Did you need something?” Inwardly, she winced at how rude it sounded. He flinched and his smile dropped a few watts. She felt a pang at the loss of it. “Uh, yeah, sorry. This woman I met downstairs, Andi, asked if I could bring you this.” He lifted the coffee like he was offering a sacrifice to the gods. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your—” His gaze flicked over her shoulder to her screen, and his eyes widened behind his glasses. “Work? Private moment with your boyfriend? Shoe-fetish research?” She closed her eyes, mortified, not even bothering to look behind her. “It’s…spam.” “Hey, no judgment. You do you, friend,” he said genially. “I was just looking for Lucinda, and Andi said you’d know where to point me.” Hollyn’s face was so hot she felt sunburned. She forced herself to meet his gaze, and fought to keep her tics at bay, hating the fear, hating this thing that took her over when she was around other people. Her fingers tapped on the arm of her chair, and she tried to breathe in the way Mary Leigh had taught her—slowly, deeply. She didn’t need to be afraid of Cute Guy. Cute Guy was just here to bring her coffee and get directions and look amazing in a pair of jeans. It wasn’t the end of days. No need to panic or stock up on canned goods. Her body didn’t get the memo, though, and she could barely get the words out. “Her office is at the other end of the hall. Last door before the big conference room. Knock first.”
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But he wasn’t looking at her. He was still staring at her computer screen, amusement dancing in his gold-green eyes. “If there’s such a thing as athlete’s foot, do you think one can…catch that in other places? I mean, maybe he should use a condom.” She glanced at the computer. “Or a sock.” The words had jumped out without her planning it, and his attention flicked to her, that infectious grin returning. “A sock.” He laughed. “Obviously. The only proper protection from a shoe.” He shook his head. “Why don’t I ever get spam that interesting? I just get offers from Russian models wanting to be my wife. They promise to”—he made air quotes with his free hand—“‘make me so happy in a special way.’ I’m assuming this means they make a kick-ass borscht.” Hollyn pursed her lips at his faux Russian accent and looked down, wanting to laugh but knowing that if she did, it would come out like a parrot squawk with her muscles so tense. “Sounds like a good deal.” “Right? I mean, the beet really is an under-appreciated root vegetable. I’m weighing all the offers carefully,” he said with mock seriousness and set the coffee on the corner of her desk, bringing the scent of his shower-fresh soap into her space. He put out his hand. “I’m Jasper, by the way.” She stuck out her hand, knowing there was no way to avoid the handshake, and his warm, confident grip wrapped around hers, sending a zinging awareness straight up her arm and spreading through her chest. His gaze met hers and held, like he was trying to see inside her head, to read her. The connection was too intense, the eye contact impossible for her to hold. Her fingers wanted to count. She quickly released the handshake. “Thanks, for uh, bringing the coffee.” “No problem.” He stepped back, giving her an expectant look, and then asked with a teasing tone, “And you are?”
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She looked down at her hands, which were clenched tightly, and she realized that she’d let this go too far. If Jasper was new here and got the impression she was someone he could chat and joke around with, she’d have to go through this rush of anxiety every damn day at work. She needed to get better with people, but she couldn’t start with someone like Jasper. That would be like deciding to learn guitar and going straight to a Jimi Hendrix song. She needed to learn her chords first. Best to cut the hot new guy off at the pass. “Busy,” she said flatly. “You—” He paused, as if checking he’d heard her correctly. “Oh, right.” She looked up, finding him frowning, and the room seemed to dim around her. He squinted like he couldn’t quite tell if she was being serious, but then he pushed his shoulders back, straightening. “Yeah, well, sorry to bother you. Good luck with your…shoe-fetish guy.” She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak. Jasper headed back toward the door, wearing the confused expression of a guy who wasn’t used to being shut down. And why would anyone shut him down? He was hot. He was funny. One of those people who was probably comfortable in any situation he walked into. He and Andi would get along great. A pinch of jealousy made her gut tighten. He stood in the doorway and jabbed his thumb to the left. “I guess I’ll go find Lucinda.” He was giving her an opportunity to make things right. To undo her rudeness. She couldn’t look him in the eye, and her urge to tic had hit the breaking point. She quickly turned her chair toward her laptop, putting her back to him. “Thanks.” Her tone was clipped, dismissive. “Sure. Okay.” There was a heavy beat of quiet as if he was
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going to say something else, and she braced herself. Some strange part of her wanted him to push back, to not let her off that easy, to not let bitch mode scare him off like it did everyone else, for him to see that she didn’t really mean it but didn’t know how else to get through this kind of thing. But then the door shut quietly behind her because what else could he possibly want to say to someone who wouldn’t even tell him her name? There. It was done. Jasper would turn into another coworker who would put a label on her—bitchy, awkward, snobby, weird, rude—one of the many adjectives that she’d been pinned with before. Didn’t matter which one he picked. This time she’d earned it fair and square, and it would keep him away. Mission accomplished. She should feel relief. She peeked back over her shoulder. The hall was empty, and she slumped in her chair. She didn’t know why she felt so disappointed. As if she would’ve done anything but cower if he had still been standing there. It wasn’t like she could morph into another person, go after him, and be all, “Oh, so sorry, Jasper. It’s just been a bad morning. You know how it is. I’m Hollyn. Thanks so much for the coffee. Why don’t I show you around the building and introduce you to a few people? After that, we can grab some lunch and you can tell me all about yourself, and then I’ll tell you why we should start up a sordid office affair and hook up in the copy room. You like Thai food? Great, let’s go.” She put her head on her desk and banged it softly. Maybe this whole WorkAround thing had been a terrible idea. Maybe Mary Leigh was wrong and had given her shitty advice. Maybe the whole online therapy business was a sham, and she was being life-coached by some nineteen-year-old operating out of her parents’ basement.
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Her computer dinged with an email notification, and she took a breath before lifting her head and clicking. The numbers were in for last week’s Miz Poppy posts and two new freelance assignments had hit her inbox. Work. The sight of it unwound some of the tension and put an end to her pity party of one. Calm. The hell. Down. Don’t catastrophize. That was what Mary Leigh would say. Okay, so she’d had a minor freak- out. Fine. She couldn’t expect perfection. She couldn’t let one embarrassing incident shake her confidence in this plan. She’d worked too hard to get to this point. This didn’t have to be a thing. Jasper didn’t have to be a thing. Look, Mary Leigh, coping mechanisms in action! Mark that in your chart and stamp it with a smiley face.
By the time lunchtime rolled around, Hollyn had tucked away the stressful morning into the let’s-pretend-this-never-happened file and was in the zone, crafting her next post. She was feeling pretty good, resolved even, until she went downstairs for decaf number two and froze a few feet away from the coffee bar. Jasper was behind the counter, pouring a cup for someone else, a blue apron tied around his waist. Her stomach sank. He wasn’t just another person renting a hot desk—someone easily avoided. He was the new Jackee. He was the new keeper of the coffee. Jasper smiled her way and lifted a hand in greeting. So freaking friendly. So damn nerd-hot. “Hola, Ms. Busy.” Smile back! Smile back! Smile back, she silently screamed at herself. Be a functioning human! Instead, a grimace pulled at her face, a yank of muscles she
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couldn’t control. His smile fell, a startled look flashing in his eyes. Then annoyance. A little part of Hollyn died inside. She turned on her heel and walked right back the way she came. In the stairwell, she leaned against the brick wall and closed her eyes, mortification bleeding through her and making her limbs tingle. No no no. She could feel the telltale signs, but it was too late to stop it. All systems had already been engaged. Hello, panic, my old friend. She mentally reset the calendar she kept in her journal where she tracked how many panic-free days she’d had in a row with the title Don’t break the chain. The chain had been broken. Again. If her mother were here, she would be shaking her head at her with that knowing look on her face. See, honey, I told you moving to the city was a bad idea. You’re not ready for this. You may never be. That’s okay. Just come home. As Hollyn’s heartbeat raced and sweat glazed her skin, all the things she’d pictured in that imaginary movie of herself melted into the ugly reality. There was no four-leaf clover for her. There was no meet- cute. Her awkwardness was not adorkable like a movie heroine. She was a goddamned disaster. This monster that clamped its hand around her throat and took control of her muscles was real and it was bigger, meaner, and more determined than ever. Maybe her mother was right. She slapped the wall with the palm of her hand and let out a sound of frustration, the noise echoing through the empty stairwell. No. She. Would. Not. Run. She loved working in her cozy office. She loved that she was finally earning her own money— even though there wasn’t much of it. She loved having the freedom to go out in the city at night instead of having to watch life go by
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through a TV screen in her small hometown. She was Miz freaking Poppy, goddammit. She was famous. You know, regionally. Microregionally. Like very micro. On the internet. She groaned at her lame pep talk, but it at least distracted her from replaying the awkward encounter with Jasper over and over in her head. This didn’t have to be a big deal. She would not let her attraction to some cute barista derail her plan. She could deal with this. He was just a guy. In a world full of them. So what if this particular one thought she was rude? It’s not like she was trying to date him. She wasn’t capable of dating anyone. In fact, she never had to speak to Jasper again. She had nothing to worry about. Everything was cool. Totally cool. Ugh. Maybe she needed to find a new office.
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Chapter 1 “I hate people.” Abby Curtis wadded up the hem of her yellow bathrobe and dropped to her knees in the ditch. A pair of green eyes stared at her from the middle of the culvert. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she called. The eyes blinked, but the kitten stayed put. Another stray dumped in front of Aunt Reva’s house, and it wasn’t going to trust humans again anytime soon. For a nanosecond, Abby thought about running back to the house to get Reva, but something told her the kitten would skedaddle the moment Abby turned her back. Reva’s dog, Georgia, a Jack Russell terrier/cattle dog mix, peered through the other side of the culvert and whined. The kitten spun around to face the dog and hissed. “Georgia.” Abby snapped her fingers. “Stay.” The frightened kitten puffed up and growled at Georgia. Abby didn’t have Reva’s way with animals. But with the little dog’s expert help, she might be able to catch the kitten without bothering her aunt, who was in the house packing for a long-postponed trip. Georgia whined again and the kitten backed up farther, her full attention on the dog. Thankful the ditch had been mowed and recently treated for fire ants, Abby eased forward onto her belly in the damp grass. She reached into the culvert, ignoring the cool, muddy water that seeped through her robe and soaked her T-shirt and panties. Shutting out images of snakes and spiders, she scooted closer and stretched out farther. Just a little bit more… Georgia seemed to know exactly what to do. She fake-lunged
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toward the kitten, who spat and hopped backward into Abby’s outstretched hand. “Gotcha!” Abby grabbed the kitten’s scruff. The kitten whirled and spun and scratched, but Abby held on, even when it sank needle-like teeth into Abby’s hand. “Shh. Shh.” Abby got to her knees and stroked the kitten’s dark tortoiseshell fur. A girl, then. Like calicos, tortoiseshell cats were almost always female. “You’re okay, little girl. You’re all right.” Abby’s robe had come open in the front, and the kitten pedaled all four feet with claws extended, scratching gouges in Abby’s exposed skin. She held on to the scruff of the kitten’s neck, crooning and humming. “You’re okay, baby.” Georgia leaped with excitement, begging to see the kitten, who continued to struggle and scratch and bite. “No, Georgia.” Abby wrapped the kitten in the folds of her robe and held it close. It calmed, but Abby could feel its body heaving with every desperate breath. “Not yet. She’s too scared.” If this catch didn’t stick, Abby wouldn’t get another chance. Abby’s fingers touched a raw, bloody patch on the kitten’s back: road rash from being thrown out of a moving vehicle. God, Abby hated people. No wonder Aunt Reva had all but turned into a hermit, living out here in the boondocks alongside the kind of people who would do this. But then, Abby had learned that evil lived everywhere—north and south, city and country. She cuddled the kitten close, even while it tried to flay her skin with its desperate claws. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you, not ever again.” She could make that promise, because she knew Reva would keep the kitten or find it an even better home. All strays were welcome at Bayside Barn. Abby herself was proof of that. Disgusted with all of humanity, Abby struggled up out of the ditch, her mud-caked barn boots slipping on the dew-wet grass. She had just scrambled onto solid ground when a Harley
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blasted past, turned in at the drive next door, and stopped just past the ditch. Uncomfortably aware that her bathrobe gaped open indecently and her hair hadn’t seen a hairbrush since yesterday afternoon, Abby hid behind the tall hedge between Aunt Reva’s place and the abandoned estate next door. Georgia clawed Abby’s legs in a “Help, pick me up” gesture. “Lord, Georgia, I can’t hold both of you.” Determined, Georgia scrabbled at Abby’s legs. One-handed, Abby scooped up all thirty pounds of the scaredy-cat dog. “It’s only a motorcycle.” The sound of garbage trucks in the distance promised an even more terrifying situation if she didn’t get the kitten into the house soon. She held Georgia in one hand and clutched the covered-up kitten with the other, jiggling both of them in a hopefully soothing motion. “You’re okay. You’re both okay.” The loud motorbike idled near the estate’s rusted-out mailbox. The rider put both booted feet down on the gravel drive. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore motorcycle leathers and a black helmet with a tinted visor. Georgia licked Abby’s chin, a plea to hurry back to the house before the garbage trucks ravaging the next block over ushered in the apocalypse. “Shh. I want to go home, too, but…” If she fled from her hiding place, the motorcycle dude would notice a flash of movement when Abby’s yellow robe flapped behind her like a flag. What was this guy doing before 8:00 a.m. parking his motorcycle in a lonely driveway on this dead-end country road? The rider got off the motorcycle and removed his helmet. His light-brown hair stood on end, then feathered down to cover his jacket collar. His hair was the only soft thing about him. From his tanned skin to his angular face to his rigid jaw, from his wide shoulders
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to his bulging thighs to his scuffed black boots, the guy looked hard. He waded through the tall weeds to the center of the easement and pulled up the moldy For Sale sign that had stood there for years. He tossed the sign into the weed-filled ditch and stalked back to his motorcycle. The beast roared down the potholed driveway to the old abandoned house, scattering gravel.
Quinn Lockhart sped down the long drive, a list of obstacles spinning through his head: 1. Cracked brick facade: possible foundation problems. 2. Swimming pool: green with algae and full of tadpoles, frogs—probably snakes, too. 3. Overgrown acreage: ten acres of out-of-control shrubs choked with vines and weeds. He’d seen all this on his first and only inspection; he knew what he was getting into. Though he had never attempted to renovate and flip a long-abandoned house before, he knew he possessed the necessary skills to do it successfully. Hell. Even JP—his ex- business-partner and ex-friend he’d known since high school— had made a fricking fortune flipping houses. If all-talk, no-action JP could do it, Quinn could roll up his sleeves and do it ten times better. The sale of this polished-up diamond would provide the seed money he needed to start his own construction business in Magnolia Bay and, maybe even more important, prove his talent to future clients. When his lowball offer was accepted, he hadn’t known whether
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to whoop or moan. The hidden gem of this dilapidated estate could only go up in value. Located on a remote back road several miles outside Magnolia Bay and an easy hour to New Orleans, the place was a rare find he wouldn’t have known about if he hadn’t been dating the local real-estate agent who helped him find an apartment here after his divorce. But the next-to-nothing price and a small stash of cash for renovations had consumed every penny of the equity he’d received in the divorce. And he still hadn’t quite convinced himself that leaving New Orleans to follow his ex and their son to her hometown was the best decision he’d ever made. He reminded himself that moving to Magnolia Bay was the only way he could spend enough time with his teenage son. After years of working more than he should and leaving Sean’s raising to Melissa, Quinn knew this was his last chance to rebuild the relationship between him and his son. Quinn was hoping they’d bond over the renovation, if he could convince Sean that helping out would be fun. So it wasn’t just a business decision; it was a last- ditch effort to be the kind of father Sean deserved. When Delia Simmons—his real estate agent—showed him this estate, a thrill of excitement and hope had skittered through him. This old place had good bones. Putting it back together again would be the first step toward putting his life back together again. And when she told him the rumor she’d heard around town that the adjacent acreage between this road and the bay might soon become available as well… Maybe it wasn’t a sign from God, exactly, but it sure lit a fire under his butt. With the right timing, he could use the money from the sale of this place to buy the strip of Magnolia Bay waterfront land that ran behind all five estates on this dead-end road. He could subdivide the bayside marshland along the existing estates’ property lines, then sell each parcel to its adjoining estate. If he had enough money, he could build nice elevated walkways from each estate to the marsh-edged bay; maybe even haul in
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enough sand to make a community beach complete with boat docks and shaded pavilions. Maybe he was dreaming too big. But he couldn’t stop thinking that with perfect timing on the sale of the estate and the availability of the waterfront land, he could make an easy-peasy fortune for not too much work. And—dreaming big again—the ongoing maintenance for five private boat docks would give him a steady stream of income doing seasonal repair work that he could depend on from here on out. Quinn parked his bike on the cracked patio around back of the sprawling bungalow-style house and killed the engine. Expecting silence, he was assaulted by a loud racket of braying, mooing, and barking. “Are you kidding me?” He walked to the hedge separating his property from the annoying clamor. When he’d toured the property with Delia, it had been as peaceful as a church. She hadn’t warned him it cozied up to Old McDonald’s farm. Or, maybe more accurately, Old Ms. McDonald’s farm. He’d glimpsed the crazy-looking woman hiding in the shrubbery with her wild mane of honey-brown hair, ratty bathrobe, and cowboy boots. How the hell would he get top dollar for a house with an eccentric animal-hoarding neighbor next door? He stalked to the overgrown hedge between the properties and bellowed at the animals. “Shut. Up.” The noise level escalated exponentially. “Fork it,” Quinn said, forgetting that without Sean here, he could’ve used the more satisfying expletive. The multispecies chorus ramped it up. Parrots screeched loud enough to make the donkeys sound like amateurs. Parrots? “What next? Lions, tigers, and bears?” Fine. He would work inside today. Quinn planned to get the pool house fit for habitation in time for Sean’s scheduled visit next weekend—unless the kid canceled again, claiming homework, football practice, school projects, whatever.
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All great excuses, but was that all they were? Excuses? Did his son really hate him so much that he never wanted to see him again? The thought hit Quinn in the solar plexus with the force of a fist. If it had been a woman treating him that way, he’d have gotten the message and moved on. But this was his son. His heart. The kid was fifteen now, so Quinn had only three years of court-mandated visitation to compel Sean to keep coming around. Three years suddenly seemed like a very short time, given all the inattention and absence Quinn had to make up for. And yet, it had to be possible for him to retrace his steps and rebuild the bridge between him and his son. Quinn was a carpenter, after all. He knew how to build anything, even a rickety, falling-apart bridge. And he would rebuild this one, no matter what it took. The fight for Sean’s time and attention generated its own list of obstacles, but Quinn had ordered the first round of obstacle-climbing tools online: 1. Cool guy furniture. 2. Flat-screen TV. 3. Premium cable and internet. 4. Xbox game system. 5. Paddleboards (secondhand). Quinn knew of only one way to close the distance between him and Sean that compounded daily—worse than credit-card debt— because of his ex-wife Melissa’s subtle sabotage. He must become the best weekend dad he could afford to be.
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“Got you another one,” Abby announced above the sound of the screen door slapping shut behind her. “Saw her run into the culvert when I took the trash up to the road.” Reva came into the kitchen, dressed in Birkenstocks and a tie-dyed hippie dress, her prematurely silver hair secured with an enormous jeweled barrette. “Oh my Lord.” She set her suitcase by the sliding glass doors and reached for the kitten. “Just this one? No stragglers?” “She’s the only one I saw, but I’ll keep a lookout in case there are others.” Reva held the kitten like a curled-up hedgehog between her palms. Her magic touch calmed the kitten, who immediately started purring. Reva closed her eyes, a slight frown line between her arched brows. “She’s the only one.” Reva opened her hazel- green eyes, her gaze soft-focused. “But kitten season has begun, and folks’ll start dropping off puppies next. Are you sure you can handle this place by yourself all summer?” No, not at all. Abby had only recently mastered the art of getting out of bed every morning. But Reva deserved this break, this chance to follow her dreams after years of helping everyone but herself. “Yes, of course I can handle it.” She glanced at the kitchen clock. “Don’t you need to leave soon?” “No hurry. My friend Heather will pick me up after she drops her kids off at school, so rush hour will be over by the time we get into the city. And the New Orleans airport is small enough that I can get there thirty minutes before departure and still have plenty of time. It’s all good.” Abby gave Reva a sideways look, but didn’t say anything. Abby knew her aunt was excited about her upcoming adventure, but equally afraid of reaching for a long-postponed dream she wasn’t sure she’d be able to achieve. She might be stalling, just a little.
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“What can I do to help you and your suitcase get out the door?” “Would you get a big wire crate from storage and set it up for this baby?” “Sure.” Cradling the purring kitten, Reva followed Abby through the laundry room to the storage closet. “Litter box is in the bottom cabinet, cubby for her to hide in is on the top shelf.” Abby hefted the folded wire crate. “Where should I put it?” Reva closed her eyes again, doing her animal communication thing. “Not a big fan of dogs—or other cats, either. Wants to be an only cat.” Reva smiled and stroked the kitten’s head. “You may have to adjust your expectations, little one, just like everyone else in the world.” Not exactly an answer, but Abby knew Reva would get around to it, and she did. “She’ll need a quiet place away from the crowd for the first few days. Let’s put the crate on top of the laundry room table.” While Abby set up the crate, Reva gave instructions. “Take her to the vet ASAP; she’s wormy and needs antibiotics for this road rash. You can use one of the small travel crates for that. But other than the vet visit, keep her in here until next week, Wednesday at the earliest. Then you can move her crate to my worktable in the den. That’ll get her used to all the activity around here. When she’s had all her kitten shots, you can let her out into the general population.” Abby put a soothing hand on her aunt’s arm. “I’ll remember.” She knew that Reva secretly thought no one else could manage the farm adequately—with good reason. This place was a writhing octopus of responsibilities. Critters to feed, stalls to clean, and two more weeks of school field trips to host before summer break. Even in summer, there would be random birthday parties and scout groups every now and then. No wonder Reva was having a hard time letting go; hence all the detailed instructions on how to
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handle the newest addition to the farm’s family. “I promise I’ll take good care of everything.” Reva gave a yes-but nod and a thanks-for-trying smile. “I’ll text you a reminder about the kitten, just in case.” Of course you will. Reva had already printed a novel-length set of instructions on everything from animal-feeding to tour-hosting to house-and-barn maintenance. Smiling at Reva’s obvious difficulty in releasing the need to control everything in her universe, Abby filled a water bowl from the mop sink and placed it inside the crate next to the food dish. “All set.” “Call me before you make that decision.” “What decision?” Reva had returned to a previous train of thought that had long since left the station in Abby’s mind. “About when to let the kitten out. She might be more squirrelly than she looks. Let me check in with her and make sure she’s ready. Don’t want to have her hiding under the couch or escaping into the woods through the dog door.” Reva paused with a just- thought-of-something look on her face. “But I’d totally trust you to ask this kitten if she’s ready to join the herd. This summer at the farm will be a good opportunity for you to practice your animal communication skills.” Right, well. Abby didn’t trust herself, even though Reva had been tutoring her since Abby first started spending summers here as a child. “I’ll call first. I’d like to keep the training wheels on a little longer if you don’t mind.” Reva laughed. “Training wheels are not necessary. You just think you need them. You’re a natural at animal communication.” Abby didn’t feel like a natural at much of anything these days. The fact that Reva trusted her to run the farm all summer attested more to Reva’s high motivation to get her license to care for injured wildlife than to Abby’s competency. Three months of an internship at a wild animal refuge in south Florida would give Reva everything she needed to make that long-deferred dream a reality. Abby was
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determined to help out, even though the responsibility terrified her. It was the least she could do. Reva tipped her chin toward the open shelves above the dryer. “Put one of those folded towels on the lid of the litter box so she can sit on top of it.” Abby obeyed, and Georgia started barking from outside. “That’s probably your ride, Aunt Reva. I’ve got this, I promise. You don’t have to worry.” She held out her hands for the kitten. Reva transferred the purring kitten gently into Abby’s cupped palms. The kitten stopped purring, but settled quickly when Abby snuggled it close. “About time for you to go, right?” Reva gave a distracted nod. “Don’t forget to make the vet appointment today. You want to go ahead and get on their schedule for tomorrow, because they close at noon on Saturdays. But call before you go. I don’t know why, but everyone at Mack’s office has been really disorganized lately. The last time I went in, they had double-booked, and I had to wait over an hour.” “I will make the appointment today, and I’ll call before I go.” “Oh, and don’t forget to drop that check off at the water department when you’re out tomorrow. Those effers don’t give you a moment’s grace before cutting off the water.” A car horn blasted outside. “I won’t forget.” Abby put the kitten in the crate and shooed her aunt out the door. “I’d hug you, but I’m all muddy.” “I know I’m forgetting something.” Reva glanced around the room one last time. “Oh well. I’ll text you if I remember.” She leaned in and kissed Abby’s cheek. “Bless you for doing this for me.” “I’m glad we can help each other. Don’t worry about a thing.” As if Reva wasn’t the one doing Abby a big favor by giving her a place to stay when even her own parents refused, for Abby’s own good. They were completely right when they pointed out that by the age of thirty-three, she should have gotten her shit together.
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After all, they’d had good jobs, a solid (if unhappy) marriage, a kid, and a mortgage by that time of their lives. It wouldn’t have helped to argue that up until the moment she didn’t, she’d also had a good job (dental office manager), an unhappy relationship (with the philandering dentist), and a kid (the dentist’s five-year-old daughter). Okay, so she didn’t have a mortgage. Points to mom and dad for being bigger adults at thirty- three. Whoopee. It was a different economy back then. After Reva left, Abby showered and dressed to meet her first big challenge as the sole custodian of Bayside Barn—ushering in three school buses that pulled through the gates just after 9:00 a.m. When the deep throb of the buses’ motors vibrated the soles of her barn boots, Abby tamped down the familiar flood of anxiety that rose up her gut like heartburn. The feeling of impending disaster arose often, sometimes appearing out of nowhere for no particular reason. Only one of the reasons she’d come to stay at Aunt Reva’s for a while. This time, though, she had reason to feel anxious. These three buses held a total of ninety boisterous kindergartners, enough to strike fear into the stoutest of hearts. Abby hadn’t forgotten Reva’s warning about the timing of her tenure as acting director of Bayside Barn. Two weeks remained of the school year, and those last two weeks were always the worst; not only did schools schedule more trips then, but the kids would be more excitable and the teachers’ tempers would be more frayed. Abby hurried to get Freddy, the scarlet macaw, from his aviary enclosure. “You can do this,” she muttered to herself, remembering the Bayside Barn mission statement that Reva made all the volunteers memorize: Bayside Barn will save the world, one happy ending at a time, by giving a home to abandoned animals whose unconditional love and understanding will teach people to value all creatures and the planet we share. If that wasn’t a reason to get over herself and get on with it, nothing was.
Chapter 2 Abby stroked Freddy’s feathers on the way back to the parking lot, soothing herself as much as him. She could do this. She had helped Aunt Reva host school field trips several times. And five seasoned helpers were here, women who knew the drill from years of experience. The choking sense of anxiety drifted down and hung like a fog, somewhere around the region of her kneecaps. With the huge parrot perched on her shoulder, Abby joined her helpers—two retirees and three student-teachers from the local college. Each wore jeans and rubber-soled barn boots; each wore a different-colored T-shirt with the Bayside Barn Buddies logo on the front. The ladies had already directed the bus drivers to park in the gravel lot between the light-blue farmhouse and the bright-red barn. Ninety boisterous kindergartners spilled out of the buses, and the donkeys brayed a friendly greeting over the barn fence. Freddy clung to Abby’s shoulder with his talons and hollered in her ear, “Welcome, Buddies!” The teachers and parent chaperones in the first bus corralled their kindergartners into small groups. The hellions that had spewed from the other two buses yelled and chased each other around the roped-off gravel parking area. Feeling more relaxed now that the field trip experience was underway, Abby gave the kids a minute to get their wiggles out, then removed a gym whistle from her jeans pocket and blew three short, sharp blasts. Everybody froze. “Listen up.” She tried to channel Aunt Reva’s stern school- teacher voice. “Before we can begin, I need each of the teachers and parent chaperones to gather the kids in your group.”
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After a bit of shuffling, the crowd coalesced into small clusters of five-or-so kids surrounding each of the adults. A small swarm of kids milled around looking worried. Abby held up a hand. “Kids who aren’t sure which group you belong to, please line up right here in front of me.” Within five minutes, every child had found the right group, and Abby’s helpers handed out color-coded stickers, badges shaped like a sheriff ’s star surrounded by the words, I’m a Bayside Barn Buddy. Abby blasted the whistle again. “Welcome to Bayside Barn. In a moment, you’ll follow me to the pavilion where we’ll watch a short video about the animals you will meet here today. Then, each group will go with the guide whose shirt matches your star. Together, you will learn and explore for the rest of the morning. We’ll meet back at the pavilion at noon for lunch, and then you’ll have another two hours of fun before you head back to school. Sound good?” Abby allowed the chorus of excited talking to continue another minute. “Okay, everyone. Follow me to the pavilion.” She led the way with Freddy on her shoulder and Georgia walking alongside. A small hand crept into hers. A tiny, pigtailed girl with brown eyes as big as buckeyes skipped beside her. Abby swung the little girl’s hand. “Hello there. What’s your name?” “Angelina. I like your bird. I ain’t never seen a bird that big. Can I hold him on my shoulder like you’re doin’?” “I’m sorry, Angelina, but that wouldn’t be safe. Freddy’s a good bird, but if something startled him, he might bite.” “Where’d you get him?” “All the animals at Bayside Barn came here because their families couldn’t keep them.” Angelina stopped skipping and tugged Abby’s hand. “My family couldn’t keep me, either. Can I come live here, too?” Abby’s heart squeezed with the familiar breathlessness of
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regret. Regret for promises she’d made to a child she had loved completely and yet failed to save. A frazzled-looking woman grabbed Angelina’s arm, mumbled an apology, and towed the child back to her group. Abby kept her eyes on the pavilion and kept walking. The fresh scratches the kitten had made on her hands and belly stung with every movement. But her small pains were worth it, since the kitten was safe and secure in the darkened laundry room with a clean litter box, a soft blanket, and plenty of food and water. Abandoned kittens could be saved. Abandoned children, not so easy.
Quinn backed out from under the kitchen cupboard and shut off the shop vac. He sat back on his heels and listened. What the hell…? He opened the sliding doors and looked across the pea-green pool water to the house next door. Over the tall hedges, he saw the tops of three school buses. School buses, parked next door? “Shit.” That would account for the high-pitched screams and squeals. What kind of place had he moved next to? Quinn clenched his jaw and pressed a thumb against his temple that throbbed as if someone had jabbed an ice pick into his head. His decision to sink every penny of his equity money into this place might have been a Very Bad Mistake. After a lifetime of following his gut and making snap decisions that often had negative (okay, disastrous) consequences, Quinn had recently promised himself that from here on out, he’d write out the pros and cons of any major decision before making it. He’d done that before buying this estate. Maybe the problem wasn’t with his decision-making process. Maybe he was just good at finding gold and spinning it into straw.
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He walked down the long gravel drive to the paved road and looked across the blacktop where a sea of yellow-f lowering vines stretched to the distant horizon. It had seemed like such a grand idea to buy the crumbling estate across from all this wild extravagance. The invasive cat’s-claw vine smothered trees and pulled down structures, creating a thriving and beautiful wasteland, the first of four selling points for the property he planned to flip: 1. Acres of yellow flowers across the street. 2. Bayside view at the back—with the potential for waterfront access. 3. Lonely country road on one side. 4. Only one neighboring property, well hidden behind an evergreen hedge. He walked past that tall hedge to get a better look at the property next door. A double-panel iron gate stood open, flanking the entrance. A thick stone pillar surrounded an oversize mailbox. Under the mailbox, a brass plaque read: Bayside Barn 8305 Winding Water Way The ice pick jabbed into Quinn’s skull again. He remembered hearing about this place when Sean’s class went here on a field trip in the third grade. Sean had come home sunburned, exhausted, and overexcited from a day at the barn and the hour-long bus ride to and from his elementary school in New Orleans. Sean had talked nonstop about the experience for the rest of the evening, then fallen asleep at the dinner table. For the rest of the month, he had galloped around the house every afternoon
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after school, waving a souvenir cowboy hat and yelling, “Go, Bayside Buddies, go!” The place next door was a damn zoo.
Reva stepped onto the horrifyingly long escalator to the ground transportation level, steadied herself as the step unfolded beneath her, then wrestled her too-big suitcase onto the step behind her as it, too, unfolded. She gripped the shuddering plastic handrail and held on, closing her eyes for a blessed moment. God, she missed her husband. Grayson had always taken charge of, well, everything. When they traveled, he was the one who made the arrangements, knew where to go and when to be there, and wrangled their luggage along the way. What the hell was she doing here, so far out of her comfort zone that her heart hadn’t stopped pounding since she left the house this morning? Did she even want to do this anymore? Without Grayson by her side, she felt untethered. Her parents were gone. Grayson’s brother, Winston, and his wife—Abby’s parents—had never warmed up to her. She and Grayson had made the decision not to have children, but to devote their lives to something larger, a mission to help animals. They’d built Bayside Barn together on the homestead he’d inherited from his grandparents. This had been their dream. But was it still hers, if it meant doing it all without him? Grayson had been a force of nature, something between an exhilarating whirlwind and an unavoidable undertow. When the neighbors next door had moved into an assisted-living facility, Grayson convinced the city council to buy the land for an animal shelter, which she and Grayson would run. But then Grayson died, and the penny-pinching mayor vetoed the plan. He didn’t see the upside of building an official animal shelter when the unofficial one at Bayside Barn worked well enough.
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Without a doubt, Grayson’s passion and vision would’ve convinced the mayor to go along. With his whiskey-colored eyes and lopsided grin, he could melt the hardest heart. God, she had loved that man. Still did, always would. He’d been gone almost two years, and Reva was still a little bit pissed off at the universe for letting Grayson’s unwavering commitment to physical fitness lead to his own untimely death. He had always teased her about her lack of interest in physical exercise and healthy eating. He’d poke her soft belly and claim that he would still love her when she got fat from lounging in the pool with a glass of wine while he swam laps. She slept in and rested her other side while he put on his running shoes and logged his five miles each day. And then came the knock on the door that woke her from a sound sleep the morning that an inattentive driver— “Hey!” A big hand gripped her arm and steadied her when the escalator steps leveled out and she stumbled over the ledge that devoured each step. Her eyes flew open and she grabbed onto a man’s hard shoulder as he dragged her and her suitcase away from the steps that were being swallowed by the floor. “Lady, are you okay?” She looked into the concerned green eyes of a very tall, very young black man. He still held onto her, and she still held onto him. In fact, she was afraid that if she let go, she might crumple down to the floor. Her ankles felt boneless; her knees felt like Jell- O. “I’m so sorry. I swear I only closed my eyes for a second. I didn’t know it would move so fast.” “No worries, lady.” His strong, reassuring grip didn’t lessen. “You look a little shaky. You okay?” She held onto his arm and took stock of herself. Steadier, she let go and stepped back. “I’m okay. Thanks for keeping me from falling on my face—or my backside.” “Lucky thing I was standing down here watching you.” He
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smiled. “Not being a creep or anything; I’m waiting for my girlfriend to come down on her way to baggage claim. I noticed you because your face looked so…peaceful, I guess…like you were thinking of something beautiful.” She felt an answering smile bloom, first in her heart, and then on her lips. “You’re right. I was.” The young man moved off to embrace his girlfriend, and Reva headed for the ground transportation exit. For the first time since she’d left the house this morning, she felt like she was doing the right thing, and that Grayson’s spirit would support her in fulfilling the dream they had shared. It was only right that Abby should come to Bayside Barn for healing and, in turn, give Reva the space she needed to find a way to move forward in her own life. In a way, Abby was the child Grayson and Reva never had. Ever since Abby had been old enough to spend the night away from home, she had spent her summers at Bayside Barn. That old homestead was in her bones, and the animals that lived there were her childhood friends. Reva knew that Abby would take care of the farm and the animals as well as Reva could. And maybe the experience would deepen Abby’s connection to the animals and allow her to practice her ability to communicate with them telepathically. Reva had shown her how, and though Abby’s parents did their best to undo that teaching, Reva knew that Abby possessed the ability. Abby hadn’t embraced her gifts yet, but one day, she would. One day, Abby would receive a communication that couldn’t be denied or passed off as her imagination. Reva wished she could do more to help Abby to recognize her abilities. But as Grayson had told her many times, “You can’t push the river.” She could only toss seeds upon the water and hope they would float to a fertile place that would support their growth. Still feeling Grayson’s presence beside her, Reva wheeled her suitcase out a set of double doors to a curbside pickup lane that smelled of car exhaust and stale cigarette smoke.
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At the preappointed spot, a spindly, bored-looking man wearing camo pants and a plain green shirt leaned against a white-paneled van. Reva had expected a vehicle with a logo for the wildlife center on the side, but this looked more like a prison van. All her insecurities and doubts about the wisdom of leaving home for so long rose up to choke her, but she swallowed them down. “Hello?” Immersed in his cell phone and his cigarette, the van guy seemed not to notice her. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, blew the smoke out sideways, then looked at her through one squinting eye. “Sorry. I’m a little hard of hearing. Come again?” She spoke a little louder. “Is this the transport van to the wildlife refuge?” “Yep, and you’re the last to load up.” He dropped his cigarette and ground it into the pavement with his boot. “You ready?” She remembered the feeling of being protected and guided by Grayson, and she pulled that feeling around her like a blanket until she almost felt as if his hand rested at her waist. “I’m ready.” The driver hauled her suitcase into the back of the van, then waited while she dug into her purse and brought out a few dollars to plunk into his palm. He pocketed the money and grinned. “Get on in.” The row seats behind the driver were all filled with college- age students, many of whom had backpacks taking up the space beside them. Reva hovered in the van’s open doorway. “Hello, everyone. I’m Reva. It’s nice to meet y’all.” A chorus of unenthusiastic “hey” and “hi” and “hello” responses were even further diminished by the fact that only one of Reva’s fellow passengers managed to look up from their cell phones. But from the middle seat, a pretty girl with purple-tipped dreadlocks waved and smiled. “Hey. I’m Dana. You can sit next to me.” Dana scooted closer to the window and stowed her backpack under the seat. Reva squeezed past the beefy guy with military- short blond hair on the end of the row to take the middle seat.
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Startled, he looked up from his phone, then smiled. “Oh, hey.” He took out one earbud and moved his long legs out of her way. Reva got settled, then held out a hand and introduced herself to each of the kids on her row. As the van trundled out of the Miami International Airport complex, the kids in the two other rows looked up from their devices and started chatting with one another. A girl from the back put a hand on Reva’s shoulder and introduced herself. A guy from the front turned around and said hi. Feeling more included, Reva relaxed. She reminded herself that kids these days used their phones as a way of coping with social anxiety the way she had once kept her nose buried in a book. Once the van passed the brightly lit streets and began to bump along dark highways and back roads toward their final destination, everyone disappeared again into their electronic devices. She turned to her own cell phone for solace as well. Hey, Abby, she typed. My flight landed safely and I’m on my way to the internship. Wish me luck! I hope everything’s going well back at the farm. How was the school tour today? How is the new kitten? Did you get an appointment at the vet’s office for tomorrow?
She hit Send, then tucked her cell phone into her purse’s side pocket. Then she stared out the window at endless pine forests until the lumbering lurch of the van lulled her to sleep.
Quinn put on his headphones, turned up the volume on his playlist, and began the painstaking process of regrouting the vintage floor tiles in the pool-house bathroom. First, he scraped out the top layer of the old grout with a grout saw—a small, handheld, inefficient tool that made his hands cramp. The whole time he did it, he fumed.
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How in the hell was he going to sell this place for a profit with a damn petting zoo next door? He might’ve just sunk a bunch of money—the last of his money, in fact—into a horrible mistake. Even after agonizing over all the potential pros and cons, he had failed to uncover a bigger con than his worst imaginings could have conceived of. He scraped grout until his knees ached from inching along on the hard floor. Then he applied new grout, using a float to smash the gritty goop into the lines and smooth it level. Why would Delia sell him this place without full disclosure of a deal-breaking drawback? Had she deliberately shown the property on a weekend knowing that weekdays sounded like schoolyard- playground mayhem all day long? He pulled out one earbud to check if the mayhem was still ongoing. Yes. The screaming went on all fucking day long. “Time for a break.” He would have to let the grout set for exactly thirty minutes before wiping off the hazy residue. His knees creaked when he stood with all the grace of an elderly monk rising from another round of useless prayers. When he reached out to steady himself on the doorframe, his fingers felt like sandpaper on the smooth painted surface. The grout had sucked all the moisture out of his skin. His hands felt—and looked—like the Sahara in dry season. He had earned a beer by the nasty green pool. Yes indeed, his crepe-dry fingers assured him, he had. But the beer he opened by the pool lacked the promise of respite, because any hope of relaxation was swamped by the happy shrieks of children running and playing next door. And, good God, was one of the little heathens climbing the hedge-covered chain-link fence between the two properties? Quinn stood and stalked to the hedge, which some grimy-faced young boy had just managed to conquer. The kid’s triumphant
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gap-toothed grin faltered a fraction when his eyes locked with Quinn’s hostile gaze. “Hello, misther,” the kid lisped as his spindly body draped over the hedge’s bowing branches. “Don’t be mad. I’m just playin’ around.” “How ’bout you just play around on the other side of the fence where you’re supposed to be? I’d hate to have to tattle to your teacher.” The kid looked over his shoulder and back again. “You don’t know my teacher.” “Wanna bet?” Quinn pulled his cell phone from his back pocket and started punching in random numbers. “I know her well enough to know that she’ll make you sit by yourself in the bus for the rest of the day while everyone else gets to have fun at the farm.” The boy’s eyes opened wide. “Please, misther. Don’t tell her. Don’t…” He backpedaled and fell off the hedge with an “Oomph.” Quinn stepped onto a sturdy low-hanging branch and looked over the hedge to make sure the kid hadn’t been hurt when he fell. Apparently not; all churning elbows and trailing shoelaces, he was sprinting back to the safety of the group. Quinn hopped off the hedge, then chuckled and took a sip of his beer. But his mirth was short-lived. If the current commotion next door was any indication, no matter how much money, time, and effort he sank into this place, the perfect buyer he had imagined would never materialize. He had thought that it would be a recently retired couple. His mind’s eye conjured the visual of a stout man who enjoyed fishing and a plump woman who enjoyed gardening. The man would launch his aluminum fishing boat from the adjacent dead-end street that ended in a cracked concrete boat ramp—or from their own private boat dock if Quinn managed to acquire the waterfront land. The woman would sit by the pool and read romance novels. She’d use a monogrammed shovel from Restoration Hardware to plant daylilies in the estate’s rich,
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well-drained soil, an ideal mix of sand and silt washed up from the bay for the last hundred years. Quinn was pretty sure that neither of those imagined retirees would be enthused about the idea of baby outlaws climbing the hedge, falling into the pool, and drowning so the kids’ parents could sue them for everything they’d worked for all their lives. He sat in the folding stadium chair and kept an eye on the empty hedge. Feeling antsy and unfulfilled, haunted by the image of the perfect retired couple and the futility of renovating a property they’d never decide to purchase, he made a quick decision. No time for making a list of pros and cons; something had to be done. It had to be done now, and it might require drastic measures.
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It isn’t where you came from, it’s where you’re going that counts. —Ella Fitzgerald
PROLOGUE. ANTONIA: 12 YEARS OLD ANTONIA BENNETTE WOKE FROM HER after-school nap to the sound of a guitar. It was coming from somewhere inside the small dressing room in the back of Ginny’s Jazz House where her mother was gigging tonight. She listened for a while, searching for something familiar amid the improvised notes, giddy with anticipation. The tenor of Mary Bennette’s prized old Gibson was unmistakable. Softer than the Fender or even her other, newer Gibson. Antonia loved the way its tone could change note to note—from the sound of water dripping from the roof when it rained to the crunch of loose pavement under her shoes. And the way her mother could make it sing, make it harmonize along with her own voice, gave Antonia goose bumps. Audiences loved Mary Bennette too. They packed small clubs in Chester, Baltimore, and even Philadelphia to hear her. Antonia’s mother was a star. After another few bars, Antonia was able to pick out the melody to Stevie Wonder’s “Happy Birthday.” Her mom had remembered and must have something special in store for her. Maybe she’d even let Antonia stay for the show and not send her off to stay with one of her play-aunts across town.
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Slipping off the tiny cot in the corner, Antonia padded around the wardrobe and into the main area. Mary Bennette sat on the edge of the old, striped sofa against the wall. Wrapped in her dressing gown, and her hair in rollers, she had the cherry-red guitar propped on her right knee, her left foot tapping along. Antonia watched her mom vamp on the melody for a while longer before finishing it off with a flourish. Then she looked up at Antonia, her dark eyes flashing. “I wondered if you was gonna sleep the whole night,” she said with a smirk. “Happy birthday, Sweet Potato.” “Thanks, Mommy!” Antonia walked over to sit on the footstool by her mother’s side. She was only allowed to call her Mommy when they were alone. In public, she was Mary. Her mother said it was better for her image, as people sometimes thought they were sisters rather than mother and daughter. Mary pursed her lips and brushed the hair back from Antonia’s forehead. “You’re practically grown. Almost as big as me.” Antonia beamed as Mary started playing a different song, one she recognized from her nightly performances. If you don’t like my ocean, don’t fish in my sea. Stay out of my valley, let my mountain be. Her mother’s voice was sweet and smoky, and Antonia loved when she sang, especially when it was just for her. She eyed Antonia. “Go get the Fender.” Antonia jumped up and went to the corner to grab the newer instrument. It was styled like the guitars from the 1940s that her mother had once shown her in photos. The body was solid wood and its body wasn’t as rounded as the Gibson, but Antonia liked its buttery finish. She was usually afraid to even breathe too close
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to Mary’s guitars, and only touched them when her mother told her to. “Go on, pick it up,” Mary commanded, and Antonia obeyed. “Bring it here. Careful, now.” Antonia gingerly carried the Fender over to her mother and sat on the stool when Mary pointed at it. “Wanna learn this tune?” “Yes!” Antonia answered breathlessly. “Please.” She placed the guitar in her lap and her mother handed her a pick, the lamplight glinting off her polished crimson nails. “Starts in F7,” Mary said. Antonia could feel her mother’s eyes on her as she positioned her fingers on the fret board. “Good, now B-flat, back to 1, then 2. Repeat that. Now go to E-flat-7.” Antonia followed her mother’s instructions, picking up the 4/4 rhythm of the song easily. She’d heard standard blues enough to understand what was expected. “Gimme that again with some feeling,” her mother instructed. “Now, where do you think it goes?” Antonia thought as she played. “To the B?” Mary’s dimples popped as her mouth curved into a grin. “Diminished B, you’re right. You sure have a good ear.” Antonia looked up at her mother. “Like you?” Mary huffed out a laugh. “Someday, maybe. Those big hands were meant to hold a guitar, though. That’s for certain.” At school, Antonia had been teased for being so tall and so developed for her age. Her hands were especially noticeable, with long, spindly fingers that looked more alien than human to her. She’d hated them until the first moment she’d picked up a guitar. “Okay, girlie, I laid out a new dress for you. Clean up and put it on. I’m on in an hour, and I need to work the room,” Mary said, setting the Gibson aside.
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“A dress?” Antonia dutifully wiped down the Fender with a cloth and put it away. “Aren’t I going to Aunt Dot’s or Aunt Jean’s?” “You’re staying with me tonight,” her mother replied as she sat in the dressing room chair. She spun to the mirror and started removing the rollers from her hair. “Ginny said since it’s your birthday, you can stay for my set tonight.” “Really?” Antonia ran toward her mother, wanting to hug her, but Mary held out a hand. “Don’t muss me up!” Antonia froze, and Mary turned back to the mirror. “You sit on the side of the stage and you don’t move, you hear me?” “Yes, I promise,” Antonia replied, eager. “Can I get a Shirley Temple?” “Only from the waitress.” “Aww, I want to order it at the bar,” Antonia complained as she slipped the dark-red cotton dress over her head. When she emerged from the fabric, Mary caught her gaze in the mirror. “What part of ‘Sit on the stage and don’t move’ did you not understand? The last time I let you do that, the club almost got shut down for serving a minor. Thank goodness the cop on duty was a fan of mine and let Ginny off the hook, or I’d have lost a string of gigs at this place.” She shook her head. “Maybe I should get Dot to watch you.” “I’ll stay put, I promise,” Antonia said, hands clasped. Mary stood and dressed, her rich brown skin perfectly complemented by the deep plum of her own dress. With her figure, her thick mane of black hair, and her pearly white teeth, she was so pretty. Antonia wanted to grow up to be just like her. “Why you standing there gawking?” Mary asked. “Grab the Fender and let’s go.” When they left the dressing room, her mother led her down the short hallway. Straight ahead lay the door to the bar. To the side, another door led to the kitchen.
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“Wait here,” Mary instructed before slipping into the main bar. It was dark, and the hall smelled like week-old garbage. Antonia could’ve sworn she saw a rat or two scurrying around in the dim light. Wearing the thin cotton dress—basically a long T-shirt—she shivered, but not from the cold. After what seemed like forever, Mary returned. She pulled back a curtain, revealing a short set of steps that led to the stage. “Get on up there, Sweet Potato.” Mary pointed, and Antonia picked her way across a tangle of cords and cables to the opposite wall. It wasn’t a big space and close enough to the kitchen that the smell of grease and smoke nearly choked her. Antonia swallowed it down, not wanting to give Mary any reason to send her away. Mary gestured toward a big black Marshall speaker. “Stay there and don’t move.” “Okay, Mommy.” She pointed a stern finger in Antonia’s face. “What’d I say?” “Sorry, Mary.” Her mother scowled but then smiled, shaking her head. “I’ll tell Corinne to bring you your Shirley Temple, but behave. This is a big night for me. There’s a man here from Atlantic City that saw my show and wants to talk.” “I will, Mom…Mary.” “Good girl.” Antonia watched from the wings as Mary worked the room. She seemed to know everyone, and everyone knew her. It was like watching a queen hold court. Men, especially, seemed to be taken with her, and she paid a few of them a little extra attention. Several waitresses wove in and out of the packed crowd, moving from table to table with trays full of drinks. One of them stopped and whispered something to Mary. Her eyes lit up and she nodded before glancing back at Antonia. Mary held up one finger and Antonia nodded.
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“You Mary’s kid?” A pale man with bulging eyes and yellowing teeth stood at the open stage entrance. He was dressed in a suit that didn’t quite fit him, but it was clean and looked expensive. He stepped closer, and Antonia gripped the edges of the amp. She realized she hadn’t answered his question. “I’m… Yes, sir.” She blinked up at him and he narrowed his eyes, deep crinkles at their corners. Was she supposed to tell people if they asked her directly? Should she have lied? “Well, now,” the man drawled. “She didn’t tell me you was so pretty.” He crouched down and Antonia moved as far away from him as she could, which earned a chuckle. “Don’t worry, darlin’, I won’t bite ya.” He flashed a broken smile. “Unless you want me to. I’m Mr. Allen.” Not knowing how to respond, Antonia looked out at the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of her mother, but she’d disappeared. Mr. Allen circled behind her, way too close for comfort. “How old are you?” “Today’s my birthday. I’m twelve.” Antonia didn’t turn around to answer him, her eyes glued to the room looking for any glimpse of her mother’s purple dress. She didn’t care if she was being rude; the man was practically breathing down her neck. Antonia could smell his cologne—and the scent, combined with the odors in the bar, was enough to make her want to gag. “No way.” His voice rumbled like a freight train. “I was about to ask if I could buy you a drink.” Antonia did turn to him then, shocked. He laughed low in his throat, and suddenly she was terrified. She’d seen men look at her mother the way he was looking at her. “Do I scare you, sweetness?” “I–I should go find my mom.” Antonia scooted forward on the speaker.
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“No need to be skittish,” he said, backing away with his hands up. “It’s all good.” “Ray.” The sound of Mary’s voice brought a wave of relief so sharp that Antonia nearly lost her breath. “I was looking for you.” Antonia got up and practically ran to her mother’s side. Mary gave her a funny look. “I was right here,” Mr. Allen— Ray— responded. “Introduced myself to your lovely little girl.” Mary cut a sharp look at Antonia. “Antonia, Mr. Allen is—” “I own a club in AC, just off the main drag,” he said, talking to Antonia. “But I also manage one of the casino lounges. I’m gonna make your mom a star.” Antonia looked at her mother. “Are we going to Atlantic City?” Ray laughed under his breath. Mary glanced at him and then back at Antonia. “I’m going, but I can’t take you with me.” For the second time that night, Antonia was breathless. “Wh-what?” “Your mom is going to be very busy—” Ray began. “Ray,” Mary cut him off. “Why don’t you go to my table? It’s the one just there.” She pointed at a table offstage and to the right. “Order whatever you want. It’s on me.” Ray eyed them both but nodded. “Don’t worry, little one. I’ll take good care of your mommy.” His smile made Antonia’s skin crawl. “What do you mean, you can’t take me with you?” Antonia asked as soon as Ray was gone. The members of Mary’s backing band for the night entered the stage and began to settle in for the show. Mary grabbed Antonia by the arm and pulled her down the steps and into the hall, checking around them before she spoke again. “This is the big break I’ve been working toward. I can’t let any…distractions get in the way.”
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“But…” Antonia’s breath hitched. This couldn’t be happening. “Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed over the PA. “Ginny’s is proud to welcome back to the stage the fabulous Mary Bennette!” “Mommy—” “We’ll talk later,” Mary snapped, her grip tightening. “If you can’t sit still and stop looking at me like I shot your dog, then go back to the dressing room and wait.” The band started the first song, Mary’s cue to go on. “Please don’t leave me,” Antonia pleaded. Mary’s expression hardened. “Go. Wait. I won’t tell you again.” She spun Antonia around and shoved her toward the dressing room before mounting the steps to the stage. “Hey, Chester!” Antonia heard her mother say to the crowd, sunshine in her voice. “How it do, how it do?”
“Oh, stop your blubbering. You’ll be fine,” her mother had said as they arrived at the bus station in Center City Philadelphia. “Besides, it won’t be forever—you can even take my old Gibson with you.” “You’re giving me your guitar?” “Hold onto it for me, and I’ll send for you both as soon as I get established,” Mary had promised. “Imagine it, Sweet Potato! My name on a billboard over I-95. Ray’s gonna make that happen. We’ll be set!” “What if Mo doesn’t want me there?” Antonia had asked. She’d been about to board a Greyhound bus bound for Bordon, Pennsylvania, a town she’d never heard of, to stay with a man she’d never met. Mary had seemed to think about it. “He probably doesn’t,” she’d said, handing Antonia her backpack. “But I’ve carried you all these years. It’s his turn.”
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Her mother had kissed her cheek, told Antonia to be good, and walked away. Antonia had fought tears the whole trip, and they threatened to spill over when the driver said they’d reached Watertown, Pennsylvania—their final destination, and the closest bus stop to Bordon. The transit station was small, dusty, and gray, but it was a welcome sight after being stuck on a bus for five hours. Antonia retrieved her mother’s guitar and her small suitcase, and looked for a taxi stand. Few others had gotten off at this stop, so it was easy enough to get a cab. “You visiting family?” The driver was chatty and had offered continuous narration as they made the trip from downtown Watertown to its outskirts. Antonia didn’t know how someone she’d never laid eyes on could be “family”. Mary Bennette was all she’d ever known. From everything Antonia’s mother had told her about Mo, she’d been lucky not to grow up around him. Didn’t stop her from shipping me off to live with him, though. What would happen to her if Mo turned her away? A heavy weight settled on Antonia’s chest, making it hard to breathe. “Kid?” “Yeah?” Antonia answered. She met his gaze in the rearview mirror. He seemed friendly enough, but she hugged her backpack to her chest and went back to staring anxiously out the window. “I asked if you traveled all by yourself?” he said. “Y- yeah.” Antonia touched the outside pocket of her bag, relieved when she felt the outline of the prepaid cell phone her mother had given her. For emergencies. “Can you put the radio on?” The driver turned the knob, and a twangy voice emerged from the speakers. “I’m bettin’ you don’t like country.”
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Antonia shrugged. “I haven’t heard much, but probably not.” “Well, I’m not listening to any rap,” the guy groused. He fumbled with the tuner until a familiar set of chords caught Antonia’s ear. “Leave that on? I love this song.” “Sure, kid.” He gave her a quick glance in the mirror. “You’re a little young to know about these guys, though, aren’t you?” Antonia stuck out her chin. “I love classic rock. And I’m not a kid.” The man chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.” They passed a quarry and a stretch of farmland that softened the gray landscape, and Antonia thought maybe living there wouldn’t be so bad. After all, it was only for a little while. But they kept driving. Past the large farmhouses and green spaces. Past the colorful barns and the roadside diner and the old- timey gas station. They drove until the streets narrowed and became uneven. Great dips in the asphalt shook the chassis, and the driver—who said his name was Arnie— would take a breath and apologize before continuing his narrative on the significance of the insignificant scenery. “This area’s where they have the farmers market.” Arnie explained that it was one of the oldest outdoor markets in the state, but to her it looked like one big dump. Wooden pallets lay stacked along the rows, topped with what looked to Antonia like garbage. Matted straw and rotting food. Not a place she’d want to visit. Despite its fresh air and open spaces, Bordon had rows and rows of boarded-up buildings and empty, overgrown lots. It wasn’t home and would never be. Home was with her mom, one hundred and fifty-three miles south. Once Mom gets everything worked out, she’ll send for me. The thought comforted Antonia a bit. Life would return to
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normal, and this ugly, broken place would be nothing but another weird story to tell the kids at school. Why not? They already thought she was pretty weird anyway. Arnie turned onto a street lined with buildings that had definitely seen better days. White vinyl siding covered most of the brick facades. On the corner sat a three-story building with a sign over the door that read MO’S TAVERN & BAR. The upstairs windows were dark. Antonia had seen plenty of places like Mo’s before. And though it was a slight step up from the crab shack she and her mom had been living above for the last few months, she’d give anything to go back there. “Here you are, young lady.” Arnie popped the trunk and got out to retrieve her stuff. She hesitated, staring at the bar from the back seat of the taxi, unsure of what she’d find when she went inside. Memories of the night before flashed through her mind, and fear had her hand tightening on the door handle. Antonia considered telling Arnie to take her back to the bus station, but she didn’t have enough money for a ticket back to Chester. After everything that had happened, she wasn’t even sure if her mom had stayed there. “Out you go,” Arnie said, opening her door. Her bags sat waiting on the sidewalk. “I’ve got time for another long-haul fare before I quit for the day.” Antonia grabbed her backpack from the back seat and stepped gingerly onto the crumbling sidewalk. The air smelled different here. Metallic. She scrunched her nose. “We’re close to the train tracks—that’s what you’re smelling,” Arnie provided. “Factories and trains. All that metal exposed to the moisture in the air means lots of rust.” Antonia’s ears perked up. “We’re near the water?” “Walk six blocks in that direction, past the abandoned train
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tracks, and you’d have to swim across Lake Tasker.” Arnie hooked his thumb toward a clump of trees in the near distance. “Not good for much more than dipping your toes in, though, unless you want to grow a third arm.” He held out his hand and Antonia looked up at him, confused. Arnie’s expression turned suspicious as he eyed the building. “You do have money, don’t you? Or do I gotta go inside?” “Oh!” Antonia reached into her book bag and pulled out one of the twenty-dollar bills her mom had given her. “Is this enough?” The cabby groaned, but took the crumpled bill. “Hardly, but I’ll cut you a break. You look like you could use one.” He shoved the cash into his pocket and rounded the car, slamming the door once he was inside. Antonia watched the cab pull away, her stomach tightening more the further the taillights got in the distance. A cloud of dust had kicked up in the cab’s wake, and she had to shield her eyes. They stung and watered—because of the dust and not because she was crying. She was twelve, not two. When the air cleared, Antonia wiped her eyes with the hem of her shirt and blinked. Wiped them again. It didn’t matter; the tears kept falling. Her mother had really shipped her off to some weird little town that looked like the set from a dusty old movie. She half expected a tumbleweed to come rolling down the street. For the first time in her life, Antonia felt truly alone. But she didn’t want to meet her father like this, wet and weepy and desperate. Antonia rifled through her backpack for something to use on her dripping nose, relieved when she found a clean napkin. Balling it up, she shoved it back inside when she was done. She fished out her brush and tried to tackle her hair, determined not to go into the bar looking like an urchin.
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“Hey.” Antonia shot up straight. Across the street, a boy stood staring at her. He wore ripped jeans and a T-shirt that read Caspian’s Ghost in faded gold letters. With long, dark hair that fell into his eyes, he looked like a rock star, like he’d stepped right off the pages of Rolling Stone. He hadn’t been standing there the whole time. Had he? “You okay?” he asked as he walked slowly across the street without even bothering to look for traffic. “I’m fine,” Antonia replied, lifting her chin. His gaze slid over her, sizing her up when he got closer. “Never seen you around her before.” Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks, and there was a small white scar across his left eyebrow. But that’s not why Antonia smiled. “Who are you, and what are you grinning at?” “Antonia Bennette,” she answered, the tight feeling in her stomach loosening a bit as she stared at the guitar strap slung across his chest and caught a peek of the lacquered wood resting against his back. “And you?” The boy stopped in front of her, his gaze landing on the guitar case at her feet. He cocked his head to the side and looked up at her from under thick lashes. The corners of his mouth lifted, one green eye squinting. “Sebastian Quigley,” he said. “Nice to meet you, Antonia Bennette.” “Nice to meet you,” she replied. “I like your shirt. They’re pretty awesome.” He grabbed the hem and glanced down as if he’d forgotten which one he’d put on that morning. “What do you know about Caspian’s Ghost?” “I know they should have won the Grammy for Best Rock Album
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this year.” This was good. This was something familiar Antonia could latch onto. She breathed a sigh of relief. Sebastian’s eyes widened excitedly. “Right? They were robbed!” “At least they picked up a bunch of new fans from their performance.” “Man, they killed it.” Sebastian gave her an assessing look. “How old are you, kid?” Why did everyone keep calling her that? “I’m not a kid, I just turned twelve.” “Well, I’m thirteen and a half,” he said sagely. “Practically an adult.” “Thirteen doesn’t mean you’re an adult, Sebastian,” she scoffed. “Just means you’re a teenager.” “Whatever,” he said dismissively. “Anyway, call me Seb. Everyone does—well, except my dad. What do your friends call you?” The question hit her like a slap, and her easy smile dissolved. Antonia didn’t have any friends. Her mother had moved them around too much. “I’m just Antonia.” “Okay, just Antonia,” Seb said with a teasing grin. She rolled her eyes but found herself relaxing again despite everything. “What does your dad call you?” Seb snorted. “Asshole.” “Oh. Well, are you one?” He tapped his chin, thinking. “What’s today?” “Tuesday,” Antonia supplied, frowning a little. “Lucky you,” Seb said, his eyes full of mischief. Reaching behind him, he pulled his guitar around—a weathered black Gibson acoustic. “I’m only an asshole on Mondays.” He began strumming softly, tuning as he played. He nodded toward the case at her feet. “You play?”
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“Yeah,” she said. “A little.” Seb strummed a few chords. “You need to tune that D.” “Yeah,” he said, turning the peg for that string. “Good ear.” The sound of laughter split the air. Antonia glanced over her shoulder to find a man and woman walking out of the bar. She caught a glimpse of its dark interior before the door shut again. “You going in there?” Seb asked, sounding skeptical. “You know that’s a bar, right?” “My…uh…my dad owns it,” Antonia replied, turning back to him. “I’m moving in, I guess.” His lips twisted into a grimace. “Bummer.” He looked up at the building and back at her. “You don’t gotta go in right away, do ya?” It only took a second for Antonia to decide. “No, not right away.” Seb’s grin made her insides go all funny. “C’mon,” he said, stowing his guitar and reaching for her suitcase. “I’ll show you where I hang out. We can jam.” At her hesitation, he paused, his brow furrowing. “Trust me?” Antonia didn’t know why, but she did trust him. She shouldered her backpack and handed him the suitcase. “Sure, but I’ll carry my own guitar.”
CHAPTER 1. A MUSTY COMBINATION OF CAKED-O N blackout paint and well whiskey filled Toni’s nostrils. The Electric Unicorn was little more than a double-wide rowhome in the Fishtown section of Philadelphia. The first floor had been transformed into a dive bar sometime during the 1960s. It wasn’t much different than the run-down places Toni had grown up around. Cheap drinks, faceless musicians, and loyal locals haunted the poorly lit tables and booths. Somehow, the Unicorn had survived the rash of gentrification that had transformed the neighborhood from a pockmarked, blue-collar holdout into a thriving hipster wonderland, complete with organic biergartens and vegan pizzerias. “Hey, Toni.” She raised her head in time to see Axel Page step into the room. He was a regular on open mic night. Axel twirled the e-cigarette in his left hand and hoisted his backpack on his shoulder with the other. “Not playing tonight?” Axel shook his head. “Nah. Can’t. I’ve got an audition for this theater gig in Old City.” “Theater?” Toni lifted an eyebrow.
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“Yeah, some sort of one-man show.” “Sounds cool.” Axel nodded. “I thought so. Listen,” he began, running long fingers through his shock of brown hair. “That asshole from last week is back.” Toni cursed under her breath. “I thought he’d been banned.” Axel grunted, his expressive blue eyes flashing. “You know Elton has a three-strike rule.” “‘Unless they get physical,’” she quoted. “Unless they get physical,” Axel echoed. “Ignore him. Okay?” Toni nodded, already backing off from her decision to try out some new arrangements. “Have a good night, Toni.” “You too.” She offered him a thin smile, her brain working overtime. Hecklers came with the territory, but Toni loved the Unicorn because they didn’t frequent the place. They weren’t encouraged here, as they were in other venues. The Electric Unicorn was a safe space. Well, usually. The multicolored lights were hot and bright in her eyes, but she smiled at the smattering of applause that greeted her introduction to the tiny stage. Toni lifted her weathered Fender and looped her guitar strap over her head. It settled into its usual place on her shoulder. She shifted it with her thumb to stop her bra strap from digging into her skin and tried to stretch the tension out of her neck. She could feel every pair of eyes on her, ready to pass judgment. On her skills. Her appearance. Her everything. Ugh. Taking a moment to collect herself, Toni stared over the heads of the patrons. She focused on the bar’s logo—a mural of an anthropomorphic unicorn rocking out on an electric guitar—and
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turned up the volume on the guitar enough to strum out a few chords and check her tuning. After a quick run to warm up her fingers, she was good to go. “Freebird!” A few patrons laughed, and Toni gave a small salute because it was such an original joke. Maybe he’d take it easy on her tonight. “You gonna play some Tracy Chapman for us? Or…or how about some Beyoncé?” he called out. “Show us some moves, sister thang!” Or not. Toni squinted in the direction of the disruption and caught the exasperated glower of Elton Pepple, the Electric Unicorn’s owner- slash-manager. His scowl, and a very stabby finger, were aimed at a guy sitting at the bar. The guy held up his hands, apparently pleading his case. Elton looked at her and shook his head. She offered him a wan smile, once again questioning why she’d accepted his offer of a residency. Oh, right. The money. There weren’t many steady gigs in Philly with a guaranteed payday. Toni knew how lucky she was, but every time she stood under the lights, they burned a little. “Now or never,” Toni muttered to herself as she stepped up to the microphone. “Uh, hey, Unicorn.” On cue, a screech of feedback burst from the speakers. Toni jumped back, shielding her eyes as she squinted in the direction of the sound board tucked in the front corner of the bar. Luca, the sound person, waved and gave her a thumbs-up. Heckler dude’s laugh rang out. Great. Not that she needed to impress him, but it would be nice to shut him up. Approaching with more caution, Toni stepped back to the mic and smiled. “Let’s try this again.” A few people laughed with her, and Toni exhaled some of the apprehension that had coiled at the base of her spine. The idea
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of performing in front of a room full of strangers always filled her with dread. Toni loved to play, and she played often—in the studio, or sometimes for a few friends. But situations like this unnerved her because, once she was under the lights, it was too easy to get caught up in it. Too easy to accept the adoration, even to expect it. Too easy to let the audience get under your skin and tear you down when things didn’t go their way. Toni took a deep breath. She was too much in her head tonight, and she didn’t want to let Elton down. She had this. “What’s up, Electric Unicorn? My name is Toni B.” “Tone-eeee!” A man yelled her name from the back of the room and lifted his glass to her. Ah, that would be Sticks, one of the Unicorn’s regulars. This place wasn’t much, but it was hers. Toni tried on another smile, which quivered at the edges. Ugh, stupid nerves. She nodded at Sticks and twisted the volume knob on her guitar up to seven with shaky fingers. Strumming a fat F-sharp chord, Toni closed her eyes and let it ring out for several seconds before stepping on the pedal of her loop station. A bass drum track she’d recorded earlier in the week thumped out a 4/4 beat, and Toni launched into the opening riff of Alice in Chains’ “Man in the Box,” a move that seemed to make Sticks sit up a bit straighter in his seat. Recording the guitar loop, she pressed the pedal again and layered another guitar part over it, something that never failed to draw the audience in. Sure enough, when Toni let her gaze sweep over the Unicorn’s crowd, many—including the heckler—were leaning forward, their heads bobbing. She had their attention. Good. Toni sang her version of the melancholic rock anthem, using the smoky quality of her voice to infuse it with a bit of soul and turning it into a pseudo torch song. By the time she finished, a few
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people had abandoned their seats altogether in favor of standing at the foot of the stage. She fought against her need to put more distance between her and these strangers, completely fine with them loving the performance. After all, it’s what she’d come to give them. But so often, people wanted more. And more wasn’t something she was willing or able to give. For the next forty-five minutes, Toni let the songs breathe for her. She let her guitar be her voice, let the music put her soul on display for a little while. And then, before she knew it, it was over. After her set, Elton was all smiles. Applause and whistles filled the air, and Toni gave the small crowd a wave. “Fuck me, little girl, you sure can play!” Elton grabbed Toni’s shoulders as soon as she stepped offstage. “I keep telling you this hole-in-the-wall is too tiny for a talent as big as yours.” “Hey! Don’t bad- mouth the Unicorn.” Toni headed back up the steps toward the club’s only storage-slash-dressing room. “This is home, you know.” Elton grinned and wrapped an arm around her shoulders for another quick squeeze. “It warms the cockles of me heart to hear you say that, love. It really does.” His grip on her tightened with his enthusiasm, and Toni couldn’t hide the grimace this time. Elton immediately loosened the embrace and let her go with an apologetic smile. Toni was not a hugger. Fortunately, Elton had picked up on that pretty quickly and had stuck to awkward back pats and shoulder squeezes since. More often than not, he refrained from touching Toni at all. She appreciated that about him, which was why she put up with his delusions about her grandeur. “I keep telling ya, you’re too good for this place,” Elton said again as he wrapped up a stray cord and set it on top of a speaker.
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“Not that I’m complaining. I love having you here, but it’s only a matter of time before you realize you’re cut out for more.” “I bet you say that to all your regular acts.” Elton opened the door to the back room. “Only the pretty ones who can shred as well as you do, darling. I swear to God, if I wasn’t watching you with me own eyes, I’d think you were a bloke.” Toni stopped and gave him a pointed look. Backing into the room, Elton held up his hands in surrender. “Now, before you go and lecture me on girl power, I’m only saying. In the twenty-three years I’ve been in the pub biz, I’ve never heard a…” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “Lady, especially one as young as you, rock as hard as you do. Except maybe that one who plays in the Lillys. Candi something or other? Now, there’s a real rock guitarist,” he gushed. “Usually, you girls only play—y’know—strummy bits.” Toni smirked. “Strummy bits?” “Quiet folk songs and the like. I can’t think of too many women that can wail.” Her jaw dropped. “Uh, Sister Rosetta Tharpe?” Tony held up a hand and started ticking off her influences. “Barbara Lynn? Lady Bo?” Elton frowned with obvious confusion. Of course, he had no idea who they were. “Sister Rosetta practically invented rock and roll,” Toni informed him. Elton looked skeptical. “Okay, how about Joan Jett?” “Ah, well, she’s an exception, isn’t she?” Shaking her head, Toni dropped onto one of the ottomans. “YouTube is your friend, Elton.” She pulled a cloth from her back pocket and began to wipe down her guitar. “Anyway, I heard the Lillys aren’t real musicians. I bet it isn’t even Candi playing on their EP. They probably brought in a bunch of hired guns.”
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“Hired guns don’t get multi-record deals with YMI Records, my dear,” Elton scoffed. “If they look like that, they do,” Toni bit back before her brain caught up. “Wait, they signed with YMI?” He walked over to the mini fridge, muttering something about Toni not keeping up with the industry, and grabbed two bottles of water. He tossed one to her, and she caught it with one hand. “Rumor has it, they were discovered in a no-name place like this,” he said. Toni wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and squared off to face him. “Yeah, well, I’m no Cinderella, if that’s what you’re trying to get at. No Prince Charmings in my future.” “Stranger things have happened,” Elton said sagely. “Not to people like me.” “Talent is talent, even when you try to hide it under a bushel,” Elton countered. Toni was over this conversation. She set the bottle aside and picked up her guitar strap to fold it. “Fancy,” Elton commented, pointing at the braided leather strap. “Looks older than you. Where’d you get it?” “It was a gift from…a guy I used to play with,” Toni said. “I thought I’d lost it, but I found it in a box the other day.” “S’nice. Can I see it?” Toni wordlessly handed it over. Forty-six inches of braided cowhide, the strap was the only thing Toni really had left of her old life—that and the 1963 Gibson ES-335 that still hung on the wall of her father’s bar. When she’d arrived in Bordon, Mo had taken one look at the guitar and ripped it right out of her hands. He called it his insurance policy. The cherry-red semihollow body was worth a nice chunk of change, and Mo seemed to think her mother owed him. Or maybe he thought Toni did.
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Toni worried he would sell Minx—the nickname she’d given the Gibson—and would sneak the old guitar out of the bar and use her to try out a new solo or work out an old one. “By the way, was that a Caspian’s Ghost song you snuck into your set tonight?” Elton handed the strap back to her. “Surprised you even know them. They’re well before your time.” “What can I say? I grew up on the classics,” Toni offered absently as she stared down at the braided leather relic that still triggered memories of rusting railroad ties, broken, weed-riddled asphalt, and…him.
A N T O N I A , A G E 1 5 —S E B , A G E 1 6 “Play that again.” “What?” Antonia continued to noodle on the guitar, a random solo from an old Ghost song. “That riff.” Seb bent his knee to turn toward her. The sun was high in the sky and danced in the highlights of his long, dark hair. Antonia stared at him. Gosh, he was pretty. “Well?” He nudged her, eyes searching her face. “That’s one of Christian K’s solos, isn’t it?” he asked, oblivious as always. Blinking, Antonia tried to focus and retrace the steps her fingers had made on the strings. Closing her eyes, she let muscle memory take over. “That right there,” Seb said after she made a simple run up the fretboard. “Play it again.” She did. “Slow it down a little.” As she did, the song coalesced into the familiar tune. Antonia opened her eyes to find Seb smiling, his gaze trained on her fingers and the guitar cradled in her hands as she repeated the phrase
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over and over, each time with more feeling than the last, recalling every bit she could of the famous solo. “Goddamn, Nia,” Seb whispered, his voice full of something like awe. His green eyes flashed up to meet hers. “That’s amazing. How do you do that? You’re…amazing.” He picked up his own guitar and nodded toward hers. “Teach me?”
Toni had thought Seb might be her Prince Charming, until he’d left town without a word. So much for their dream of getting out of Bordon together. “Those girls remind me of the Ghost a bit, actually.” Elton’s voice snapped Toni back to the present. “It’s that raw edge they have. Like they don’t give a toss what you think, they’re gonna play.” She frowned at him. “Who?” “The Lillys.” Elton gave her a quizzical look. “She may be a bit dodgy, but that Candi can play the hell out of a guitar.” “Hmmm,” Toni mused, shoving the strap, and the memories it had conjured, into her case. “If that’s true, I may have to rethink everything I thought I knew about them.” “You do have a tendency to judge a cake by its frosting,” Elton chided. Maybe he had a point. The band’s namesake, Lilly Langeland, looked more like a Nordic runway model than the lead singer of a rock band, but Toni could appreciate her raw vocals and intensity. And Candi’s flaming-pink hair and over-the-top, sexually suggestive way of playing made her something of a cliché. But if it really was her playing the more intricate songs on the band’s rough recordings, then Candi Fair, actually Candace Fairmount, socialite and heiress to one of the country’s biggest oil fortunes, might be one of the best guitarists Toni had ever heard.
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“The Lillys don’t really fit in with what YMI’s been doing lately.” “Maybe they’re hoping to return to form,” Elton replied, shrugging. “Not a bad way to start, bringing those girls on board. Introducing them—that sound—to the rest of the world.” “Huh,” was Toni’s eloquent reply. She made a mental note to take a closer listen to the Lillys. Maybe she’d incorporate one of their songs into her set. “They’ve got that it factor,” Elton proclaimed as he perched on the arm of the beat-up, mismatched sectional that occupied most of the space. “Mark my words, they’ll go far.” Better them than her. “You’re probably right, as always,” she offered begrudgingly. Elton nodded, evidently confident in his role as armchair talent scout. “You’ve got it, too, love.” Toni laid her guitar in the case and fastened it shut. Shrugging out of her denim jacket, she grimaced at the dampness in the material. She needed a shower. “Yeah, well, I’m good where I am, for now.” He looked affronted. “Why? You have everything it takes to be a star.” Toni sighed. “For the hundredth time, I’m not interested in being front and center.” “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “You’re on my stage three nights a week.” “Because I like it here,” Toni reminded him. “It’s comfortable. Like an old pair of socks.” “How flattering,” Elton deadpanned. Toni smiled and gave his arm the briefest of touches to show her sincerity. “I mean it. I don’t need throngs of adoring fans or the pressure that comes with their expectations. Fame is a…a trap.” The truth was that it terrified her. Fame was as addictive as
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XIO AXELROD
any drug. She’d seen firsthand what her mother had done in its pursuit, dragging her kid to dive bars and one-star motels. Doing anything to see her name at the top of the bill, including tossing aside her own daughter in exchange for a shot at stardom. Little Antonia had bought into her mother’s dream, but it had shattered the moment she set foot on that bus bound for Bordon. Toni wanted no part of it now. She offered Elton what she hoped was a conciliatory smile. “Not everyone wants to be a household name.” Elton gave her a begrudging nod, but Toni could see he wasn’t convinced. “If a band like the Lillys can be handed a golden ticket, why not you? Whatever you want to tell yourself, you come alive when you’re on my stage. You were born for this, my darling.” Toni shrugged. It wasn’t anything Elton hadn’t said to her before. “I do like performing,” she admitted. “But I love recording. I love arranging, producing. That’s what I want to do. In fact, I have my first big-label session coming up. And you know my goal is to own my own studio.” “One doesn’t preclude the other,” Elton said. “In fact, getting a little notoriety might help you achieve that goal. You could earn a wad of cash and use it to fuel your dreams.” “Maybe,” Toni conceded, if only to get him to back off. Having lived with a father who couldn’t have cared less what she did with her life, she’d often wished for someone who gave a damn, but Elton was a lot to take at times. “One of these days,” Elton said, “you’re going to see yourself the way I do. The way most people do when they hear you play.” He placed a gentle hand on the top of her head, giving it a light pat before dropping his arm to his side. “I only hope I’m still alive to see it.”
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“Oh, please,” Toni huffed as she got to her feet, pulling him into a quick, tight hug. “You’ll outlive us all, you silly Brit.” Elton laughed and ran a hand over the silvering coils of his once-dark-brown hair. “You’re probably right. I’m far too old and saggy to die young and pretty.”
Preorder The Girl with Stars in Her Eyes! Amazon Barnes & Noble Bookshop Books-A-Million Apple
Title:
Winner Takes All
Author:
Sandra Kitt
Agent:
Lisa Vance Aaron M. Priest Literary Agency Inc.
Publication date:
April 6, 2021
Category: Romance Format:
Trade Paper Original
ISBN:
978-足1-足7282-足1488-足7
Price:
$15.99 U.S.
Pages:
304 pages
This book represents the final manuscript being distributed for prepublication review. Typographical and layout errors are not intended to be present in the final book at release. It is not intended for sale and should not be purchased from any site or vendor. If this book did reach you through a vendor or through a purchase, please notify the publisher. Please send all reviews or mentions of this book to the Sourcebooks marketing department: marketing@sourcebooks.com For sales inquiries, please contact: sales@sourcebooks.com For librarian and educator resources, visit: sourcebooks.com/library
CHAPTER 1
F
or a moment, when the text notification lit up the screen on her cellphone, Jean Travis considered ignoring it. But it was her work phone, and the incoming message meant it was from someone official, i.e., her boss, Bradley Clark. Where are you? the message began. About to leave, she texted back, heading down the corridor toward security and the exit. Meet me at the pressroom. I’m on my way.
She knew this didn’t bode well for the end of her day and the start of her weekend. Jean’s silent response was to do as she was instructed. Brad Clark was already waiting for her when she reached the converted conference room that also doubled as the pressroom. He appeared anxious, and Jean guessed that whatever was going on was important. The door to the pressroom was open, and there was a lot of activity inside. “What’s going on?” she asked, her attention drawn to the flurry of movement, equipment, and orders coming from inside the room. “Press conference and brief broadcast in about thirty minutes,” Brad
2 SANDRA KITT
said. “The mayor agreed to the broadcast of the current lottery winners. You’re making the announcement and introducing the winners.” Jean frowned. “It’s almost six thirty…” “I know, I know. Someone dropped the ball, and everyone’s gone for the day. You have to step in and do it. Local reporters and their crews are already here. The winners are in the greenroom. We already know who they are, but this is a big deal because of the Mega Million winning ticket. It’s yuuuge…” he imitated. “Not funny,” Jean murmured, accepting several pages from him. “It’s easy, should take less than an hour. I wrote up some guidelines. Here’s a list of the current winners…” He gave Jean another page. “Make sure you emphasize that the mayor’s office wanted to share the news with people in the city, letting them know that their neighbors really do become winners. They can, too, blah, blah, blah.” Jean grinned at Brad. “Have you ever bought a lottery ticket?” “I don’t gamble,” he chortled. “My wife would kill me for throwing away money like that. Odds are too high. But…you can’t win if you don’t play. Wonder what ESPN’s gonna do now?” She was confused. “What do you mean?” “One of our winners is a TV personality…almost famous…” While he spoke Brad’s cell buzzed a notification. “I gotta take this.” “How much time before we broadcast?” Brad looked at his watch. “Down to twenty-five minutes.” “Where will you be?” “On my way home,” he smirked, walking away and reading his text. “Do whatever they need you to. Stay until it’s over. Call me if there are problems, and only if there are problems.” “Overtime, right?” “Night. Have a good weekend…” Jean watched him hurry away. She entered the pressroom to find that the reporters and film crews were pretty much set up. She then made sure the podium had a functioning mike.
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She dug out a pocket mirror, checked her lip gloss, and absently fluffed her hair, then began to introduce herself to the reporters waiting to meet the lottery winners and tape the announcements. The local networks no longer did a weekly five-minute drawing of lottery numbers. Everything was digital now, which cost less money and production time. For these occasional announcements, the winners were already known to the lottery commission. Only the public would be surprised when the names were called. Jean knew that all she had to do was interject excitement into the proceedings. She only had a minute to scan quickly through Brad’s notes, to figure out an agenda for the announcement, to fashion an introduction—something cute and humorous—so that no one would suspect this was her first time. Jean signaled to the security guard standing just outside the door. “We’re almost ready. Please bring in the guests. Tell them to take seats in the front two rows quietly.” She checked her smartphone clock. “Five minutes, okay?” she said to the waiting press crew. She glanced around to find about thirty or forty people gathered in the back of the room to witness the announcement. They were fillers, like movie extras, there to lend authenticity to the moment. No doubt many were family members and friends, but mostly they were general public who enjoyed saying I was there when, Jean guessed. She got a signal from the reporters that they were all set. Jean took up a position at the front of the space, and camera lights suddenly flashed on. Just then, a side door opened and a number of people trooped in, momentarily creating a disruption. The bright lights for the cameras prevented Jean from seeing a thing beyond the podium. Then it went quiet. “We’re live,” someone signaled. Jean smiled into the cameras and began to talk. “Hello! I’m Jean Travis, assistant director of public affairs at the mayor’s office. I’d like to…to…” She fumbled and hesitated when she was distracted by another person making what could only be described as a perfectly timed grand entrance into the room.
4 SANDRA KITT
Jean could detect a tall figure, a man, but couldn’t see much else. He managed to create a stir and a brief buzz of whispering, taking his seat. Jean tried to cover her lapse. “So much excitement,” she said with a bright smile. “Thank you for being here tonight as we recognize the latest winners in our state lottery. And, of course, everyone wants to know—and see—who will walk away with the Mega Million prize that has grown over the past two drawings when there was no winning ticket.” Jean then had a chance to catch her breath while she read an official statement from the State Lottery Commission about the rules governing the program. Her attention was briefly caught again by the latecomer, who, incredibly, appeared to be giving her a covert hand wave. She ignored it and continued. “So let’s get to it! Like all of you, I’m excited to meet the lucky ones who will walk away with checks from the State Lottery, with numbers ending in a lot of zeros.” A cheer went up through the room. One camera turned to capture the seated group demonstrating their enthusiasm. Jean smiled, and then she suddenly gasped. The list! She had not yet even looked at the winning names on the list Brad had given her. As smoothly as possible, she pulled the list from the other announcements. She briefly glanced at the names. The last name grabbed her attention. She recognized it. But from where? “And now, our winners!” Jean called the first name, including where he was from and the amount of the winnings. Shouts and applause erupted from the audience as an elderly man and woman came forward, broad smiles and clasped hand-pumps denoting their victory. Jean kissed the cheeks of the woman and man to interject a little human connection. A giant cardboard sign was passed to her, a replica of a check with the amount the couple had won. Jean asked them a few questions about how they planned to use
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their winnings. The gushing, excited reactions from the couple evoked laughter and shout-outs around the room. Then they retook their seats to another round of applause. And so it went, down the list of names for the next forty-five minutes. By the time she called the fourth winner, Jean had her comments to a science, and everything went smoothly. But there was a heightened energy and anticipation, as everyone clearly wanted to know who had won the Mega Millions. Who was going to be set for life? She looked at the name again, and recognition finally sunk in. Jean knew this name. An unexpected catch lodged in her chest. She had to quickly swallow to get her next breath. “Will Trick… Will, er… Patrick Bennett, please come to the front to accept your check.” She joined in the clapping for the winner, as she’d done for all the others. But this time she was more interested in who came forward. Out of the bright lights, a tall figure emerged. He was casually but smartly dressed in dark charcoal cargo pants, a black Henley, and a collarless, short black leather jacket. Great presence, Jean thought, keeping her attention on his approach, her smile fixed as her gaze widened with recognition. Jean reached out with her hand to touch his arm so that he’d face the camera in the right position. But he stunned her by taking hold of her hand and giving it a subtle squeeze…and not letting go. And he knew exactly how to position himself in front of a studio camera. Jean made a discreet attempt to pull free, but Patrick Bennett wasn’t having it. She gave in and tried to relax. Catching her off guard even more, he brought their clasped hands to his mouth and planted a light kiss to the back of hers. The audience loved it, cheering and whistling. Jean played it through and gave a faux blushing gaze into the cameras. “Many congratulations to…to Patrick Bennett,” she said with the right amount of enthusiasm and professionalism. “Mr. Bennett is the grand winner today of—are you ready?—seventy-five million dollars!”
6 SANDRA KITT
There were whoops and gasps, and one audacious request from a female in the back of the room. “I love you! Will you marry me? We’re already here at City Hall!” The room erupted into wild laughter. “Do it, do it, do it…” went up the boisterous chorus. Patrick Bennett, still holding Jean’s hand, raised both in a kind of victory wave. He grinned broadly but didn’t respond to the proposal. His free hand swept through his hair in a gesture that had Jean momentarily transfixed. Then she was able to extract her hand when she was handed the last cardboard check. Cameras flashed, dozens of cellphones were poised in the air, the light of their blue-lit screens scattered throughout the audience. Jean started the applause again, gazing openly at Patrick Bennett. It was an unavoidable sign of recognition between them. And then Patrick winked at her and murmured so that only she could hear, “Surprised?” The quiet drawl of his voice made her stomach tense. That word, his tone, seemed much too intimate for the setting. She couldn’t think of a thing to say. She just kept clapping and smiling. Jean was so glad when it was finally over. She made a few concluding remarks, thanking everyone for coming and congratulating the winners again. As people got up and began moving around, many, if not most, headed to surround Patrick. She was curious about the familiarity with which people approached and spoke to him, as if they knew him. She covertly watched Trick. Patrick. Jean had known him by the former moniker from the past. Trick. Jean gathered her things, absently chatting with some of the camera crew, and making arrangements with the maintenance and security staff to have the room put back to rights. She could just hear Patrick’s deep voice off to the side, the easy way he chatted with everyone, even posing for selfies, which completely mystified Jean. He didn’t know any of these people. What came across was a confidence and vibrancy to him, so unlike the other winners…just regular everyday folk who’d had a stroke of extraordinary luck. Perhaps this
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was one of the biggest, if not the biggest, moment of their lives. Patrick answered questions and accepted the good wishes of those around him with humility and a surprising grace, Jean considered. She kept stealing little glances at him, once catching Patrick doing the same to her. Her curiosity betrayed her once more. Reporters continued to ask How do you feel winning so much money? questions, looking for cute, amusing, moving quotes for their profile pieces. She thought there might be an opportunity to use some footage for promo or marketing later on from her office. The room finally began to empty out. She took a deep breath and approached the last few people, including Patrick. There was no way to leave without acknowledging him. Without remembering. Was he doing the same?
N
Patrick—formerly known as Trick—Bennett killed time letting perfect strangers take photos with him. But he was really waiting for Jean to be finished. He saw her in his peripheral vision, not wanting to be too obvious and stare. But it was her! She’d cut her hair. She used to have an incredible mass of thick, wavy hair. It was a light brown with lighter, almost blond tendrils at her hairline. Her hair had been a great accompaniment to her tawny skin, a creamy beige that could have identified Jean as almost anything nonwhite. Her eyes were exotic, a bit amber in color, and could hold a person’s gaze with cat-like intensity. Back in high school, he’d only ever seen her in pants. This was the first time he’d seen her legs! Lean and shapely below the hem of a functional black skirt that hit slightly above her knees. She was all professional, classy, and grown up. In school, Jean looked very young, very small. She was still small, but the development since he’d last seen her was decidedly fully adult. She’d become a very pretty woman. He spoke first as they stood momentarily alone near the door.
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“I sure didn’t expect to see you here,” he said with a grin. “Ditto,” Jean responded with a nervous chuckle. “I think my surprise is greater than yours. Congratulations on your big win.” He shifted his gaze, shrugged. “Yeah. Thanks.” She seemed surprised by his response, the lack of excitement. He didn’t think an explanation was necessary. Patrick quickly recovered, studying her. “So, you work here?” She nodded. “Public Affairs. I’m the assistant director.” He studied her, his grin growing wider. “I always knew you’d go on to great things.” “It’s local government. Not really great things,” Jean demurred. He didn’t answer directly, instead considering Jean as if to re- familiarize himself. He was trying to see, to hear what else may have changed about her. “How long has it been?” he asked in quiet disbelief. “Since high school. You graduated and moved on.” “Do you live in the city?” “In Brooklyn.” Patrick thoughtfully assessed her answers. Jean fidgeted, as if she was uncomfortable. Maybe she was trying to pull herself together. Did she feel odd? A little off? Like they’d fallen into the rabbit hole? He suddenly felt like the past was reclaiming them. Time was shrinking, and the strangeness of seeing each other again was fading. But neither of them could think of much more to say. The circumstances really didn’t lend themselves to chatting and getting reacquainted. And she was on the job. Jean didn’t suggest that they exchange information. Should he? “Well…it’s been…” “Real? Fun? Unexpected? Weird?” She laughed quietly. “Yes to all of the above, I think.” “Yeah, me too.” He fell into step next to her as they slowly left the room and started toward the front of the building. “I’m sorry if I
WINNER TAKES ALL 9
embarrassed you when you called my name. I couldn’t believe it was you making the announcements. To be honest, I wanted to grab you right then and there and plant one…but I thought better of it.” “Thank you,” she said, her gaze horrified by the possibility. “So I did the next thing I could get away with.” He suddenly stopped to stare down at Jean. “Did you know it was me?” “Almost right away,” Jean confessed. “But I wasn’t expecting you to hold my hand. Kiss it.” He frowned, considering. “No, you’re right. I overplayed my advantage.” “I…am…surprised to see you,” she said carefully. He grinned. “I’ll take that.” He straightened. “Are you done for the day? Headed home? To a date?” Jean raised her brows. She knew he was fishing, but she did seem pleased by his curiosity. She neither confirmed nor denied it. “I was recruited at the eleventh hour to host the announcement today. I think I’m still on call until…” “Great!” Patrick said with sudden enthusiasm. “Some of my friends are throwing an after-party. Someplace called Filmore’s.” “It’s a bistro across the street from City Hall.” “Come join us.” Jean shook her head. “Sounds like a private party.” “For me. I think I can invite who I want. I’d like you to be there. We could catch up. You can’t say no.” Jean seemed to consider what she should do. “I need to go back to my office, check for any important messages.” “Does that mean yes?” Jean smiled at his persistence. “It means maybe.” “And if you can’t?” “It was nice seeing you again, Trick.” The name no longer sounded right. It certainly no longer fit. “It’s Patrick now. Only you and a few hundred former high school classmates have ever heard anyone call me Trick.”
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“Cute in school, not so much now?” “You got it.” “Sorry I reminded you.” “Not at all. I liked it in high school. Made me stand out. I find I do much better in life when I act like an adult.” Jean laughed outright. Behind them, a maintenance worker hurried to catch up, carrying a large sheet of cardboard. He gave it to Jean. It was the giant check made out to Patrick with the amount of his winnings. She then turned to him. “This is yours. Don’t you want it?” He was actually embarrassed. “It was a great gesture but…I don’t know what I’d do with it.” “Then I’m going to leave it in my office. My boss can figure out what to do with it on Monday. You should go. Your friends are probably wondering what happened to you.” “Will you come over when you’re done?” “Maybe I’ll surprise you. Don’t you like surprises?” He shook his head. “Not really.” “Then, you’ll have to wait and see,” Jean said quietly with a parting smile.
N
Jean still felt a bit awkward with the idea of being in a social setting with Patrick. They’d never socialized in high school. And now her official City Hall duties had drifted into something else. She crossed the street to Filmore’s with that feeling of stepping back into time. Patrick was the last person on earth she would have expected to see that afternoon. Or ever. They had not seen each other since high school, and he’d been two years ahead of her. He had been a standout back then. Memorable. He didn’t have to work at it, or even accept it as his due, in her experience. But the benefits had always been great, and he seemed to enjoy every one
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of them. Patrick was always in the center of a wide circle of friends. Girls predictably trailed after him for his attention. Yes, Jean remembered ruefully, there were always a lot of girls. That his path had ever crossed with hers at all now seemed unbelievable, pure happenstance. But Trick— Patrick—had been the only white boy in school who hadn’t treated her like she was a curiosity, who didn’t ask dumb questions like “What are you? Where are you from?” By the time Jean finally left City Hall, she was experiencing equal degrees of excitement and apprehension about the party. Filmore’s was one of the local haunts frequented for lunch, birthday celebrations, rendezvous, small group meetings, and after-work drinks to chill. When she entered, the place was busy with the after-work crowd. She continued to the back room. It was a fairly small space, boisterous and lively with some twenty men and women in laughter-filled talk. Jean spotted Patrick, in the center of it all, holding court with a half-finished beer in hand.
N
Patrick saw Jean enter right away. He’d been watching for her. But, in fact, he hadn’t expected Jean to accept his invitation to come to the party being held for him. Here she was, and he felt a crazy sense of relief. He politely excused himself from several men and women who were rehashing their shock about his lottery payout. He started toward Jean, trying to interpret her calm demeanor and the wide-eyed regard with which she watched his approach. A tiny uncertainty mixed with…what? He’d only gone a few feet when he was stopped literally in his tracks. A squealing young woman had brushed past Jean and launched herself against him, locking her arms around his neck. He caught her to prevent falling off balance and carefully but firmly peeled the excited woman away. She was no stranger to Patrick, but her action was definitely over the top. They had never been that close. Two other very attractive women, flipping their hair and covertly smoothing
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down the spandex material of their form-fitting dresses, quickly crowded around him as well. Patrick finished his beer, and someone promptly passed him another. He could see that Jean felt the festive vibe of the gathering, and she grinned at the happy mood of the occasion. But she stood all alone. These people liked him. He was comfortable with them. Admired. Unable to get away from them, however, he shrugged and grinned at Jean in apology. He raised his beer bottle in greeting. And then he watched as one of his friends, a colleague, ambled over to Jean to introduce himself and chat her up. Jean laughed lightly at something he said and gave him her attention. Patrick arched a brow. Damn! Was he hitting on her?
CHAPTER 2
W
e heard you were doing some sort of press thing today, so we had to come say hello,” one of the young women said to Patrick with a coquettish smile. “Are you here alone tonight?” another woman asked him with obvious intent. He took a good swallow of his beer, noticing Jean over the raised bottle in conversation with not one but two of his guests. He shook his head. “My mother couldn’t make it,” Patrick said smoothly. The three women exchanged confused glances. “That’s not really what we meant,” the third spoke up. “I guess we’re surprised no one special came to cheer you on, help you celebrate,” she fished. “Then I’m grateful that you three are here.” In unison, the three young women giggled. The first reached out and lightly brushed her slender fingers across the back of Patrick’s hand, tilting her gaze to his. “My pleasure,” she murmured. With practiced ease, Patrick was engaging and responsive, without promising anything or showing interest in choosing among them. Finally realizing that they were going to be unsuccessful in their game plan, the women drifted away to eventually be replaced with a new round-robin of beauties vying for his attention.
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And there was Jean Travis, her laughter quietly carrying across the room. Patrick thought she was probably having a better time than he was. He recalled that Jean was less social, more cautious and quiet in high school. Especially around people she didn’t know. Never rude or indifferent, she simply withdrew. She’d never been that way with him. At least, that’s what he remembered. She was sipping from a cold glass of something, but he knew instinctively it wasn’t alcoholic. This party was a nice surprise, but he was hoping for a chance to say a proper hello, to have a conversation with her. Maybe she didn’t care to renew or rehash their past relationship. Jean had been a private person back then, but not a loner; she had her own set of friends. But there had been one topic of gossip at the time—about her background, her family. He never knew what was true and what was made up by the rumor mill. He never cared. He’d had a chance to get to know Jean a little bit. Her truth had been enough for him. “You lucky dog!” Patrick winced as a hand clapped firmly onto his shoulder and a solidly built Black man stood in front of him, blocking his view of Jean, and pumped his hand vigorously. “Hey, Pete. Good to see you, man.” “Is it too early to hit you up for a loan?” Pete laughed uproariously, his loud outburst drawing attention. Patrick grinned good-naturedly at his friend. They’d known each other since their early farm days down in the minors. “I haven’t cashed the check yet. Matter of fact, I haven’t even gotten the check.” “I can wait,” Pete responded, laughing again at his own audacity.
N
“Is there a reason why you’re not circulating?” Jean turned to a handsome Black man smiling down at her. He towered over not just her, but the two men she’d been speaking with. The
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new arrival held out a glass of wine. She hesitated, but accepted it with a careful smile. The other two men drifted away. “I’m really working. I was hoping to remain anonymous.” The man swiftly looked Jean up and down, and took a sip from his own drink. “No chance of that.” “All of you here seem to be good friends with Patrick. It’s nice that you’re helping him celebrate his lottery win.” “He’s a great guy. How often do you get to hang with a multimillionaire? Brian Abbott.” Jean took the offered hand. “Jean Travis.” “Are you also a friend?” “I’m with the mayor’s office. I handled the announcements of all the lottery winners today.” He nodded. “And you’re here for the party? Still on duty or…” He let it trail off. “Still on duty.” Jean hesitated before revealing, “Patrick and I went to the same high school.” “Interesting,” Brian murmured. “Is it? It was pure chance that we met up this afternoon.” Jean frowned. “You have history. Are you planning to catch up? Talk about old times?” Jean chuckled nervously at his innuendo. She put the wine glass down on the table. “I had no idea I’d be invited tonight, or that I’d be expected to attend. I had no idea Patrick was a winner until I called out his name today. It was a big surprise…” “I bet,” Brian demurred. He took another swig of his drink, finishing it, and glanced around the room. Jean followed his gaze. There was still a lot of drinking going on. Several die-hard women continued to eye Patrick silently, making their presence known, ever hopeful that perhaps he would still select one of them for after the after-party. Patrick finished his beer and put the empty
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bottle on a nearby table already crowded with discarded glasses. He took a just-opened bottle from a passing waiter. “This could be a while,” Brian said, turning back to her. “Can I interest you in a late dinner? We don’t have to stay here.” Jean hid her stunned surprise, quickly formulating a response that wouldn’t come across as an insult or a rejection. “Who are you, exactly?” she questioned politely. “I’m Patrick’s producer at the station.” “Station?” “Yeah. For his weekend sports wrap-up on ESPN. A local affiliate.” She shook her head. “I didn’t know. I have no idea what Patrick’s been up to since he graduated.” Brian held her gaze, grinning his interest. “Some guys have incredible luck. He wins a shit load of money, and you come back into his life.” “I don’t think I understand what you mean.” Brian pursed his lips, considering her. “I think Patrick’s been hanging out with the wrong crowd. He could do better. You are definitely a step up or, at least, in the right direction.” Jean still didn’t get it, but it didn’t matter. Seeing Patrick that afternoon was a fluke. The evening was out of the blue. Beginning and end of the story. Someone called out Brian’s name, and he turned to identify the caller. “I’ll be back,” he said. “You and I have more to talk about.” He walked away with a confident grin. “Jean?” She did an about-face to find Patrick approaching her. His walk had a natural grace and ease, athletic. He seemed in control. It wasn’t so much predatory as sexy. And then her wayward thought was distracted. How many beers did he drink? Patrick stopped in front of her. Maybe a tad too close, but with surprising concern. “Are you okay?” “Why wouldn’t I be?”
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He blindly waved a hand. “They’re all good people, some great friends. But if any of these guys…got out of hand…” Jean shrugged. “They were being friendly. Nothing more.” He chortled quietly. “That’s what you think. I shouldn’t have left you for so long.” “I’m fine. I’m actually enjoying myself. Don’t worry. I can take care of myself. I am still working. I think I made that clear a number of times.” “Well, that must have helped,” he drawled, amused. Unexpectedly, Jean found herself blushing under his regard. She’d never seen this side of Trick even in high school. Focused on her and concerned. Patrick suddenly took her arm. He let his hand slide down until he could grab her hand. Automatically Jean wrapped her fingers around his to hold on. He started walking back to center court, where most of the guests were still clustered, gently pulling Jean with him. She went willingly. “Stay with me. There are a few folks here I want you to meet.” Patrick introduced Jean to a handful of people. To a person, they were clearly curious about her, but friendly and inclusive. At some point, she felt less like she was working and more like she was part of the celebration. Jean could totally sense Patrick next to her, a little watchful. A little protective. She found it thoughtful and kind of sweet. But also bewildering. While he was still as attentive as at the start of the party, Jean could see Patrick was becoming exhausted. But as long as anyone seemed interested in chatting, he stuck with it. The trio of giddy girls had given up and left, probably hoping to salvage the rest of the night somewhere else and with someone else. Brian was in conversation off to the side but, ever hopeful, he held up a hand as if to signal Give me a minute; I’ll be right there. Jean really hoped not. He was attractive and very masculine, but a little too slick for her tastes.
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It was, incredibly, a little before 1:00 a.m. when Patrick hugged and shook hands with the final guests, and they left. The restaurant was closing for the night, the lights out in the front and tables already reset for the next day’s business. Patrick and Jean were the very last to walk out the door, and then it was locked behind them. He turned to her and shrugged his shoulders. “What can I say?” Jean smiled slightly. “You were the guest of honor. You played the role very well. Glad it’s over?” “Yes, I am,” he murmured, running his hands through his hair. An old habit. Jean watched him carefully. He wasn’t drunk. He’d walked a pretty straight line to her before, but his eyes were bloodshot. His speech was careful and measured, although not slurred. He suddenly stood still and stared at her, his brow creased. “Did Brian come on to you?” Jean chuckled. “What happens if I say yes?” “I’ll have to have a few words with him. It could involve a meeting in the parking lot after work,” he said dryly, but seriously. “Don’t. I saw it coming and warded it off.” He slumped in relief. “Good. He’s a terrific guy, but he has a two- track mind. Work and women. Not in that order.” She grinned, ignoring his comment and continuing to study him. “How much did you have to drink tonight?” “Only beer. Anything else leaves marks.” He grinned at his private joke. “Five. Six. I can make it home. I’m not drunk.” “No, I don’t think you are, either, but…” “But what?” “Well, it’s been a long afternoon and evening. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for you to get behind the wheel of a car.” “It was only seven beers.” “You said six.” “I’ve done it before.”
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“Not on my watch,” Jean said with quiet firmness. He raised his brows at her response. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but this isn’t my first rodeo.” “Okay, but it’s mine. I’m sort of responsible for you, Trick.” He leaned in to her. “Patrick.” “Sorry. Look, when my boss texted it was okay to accept your invitation and for me to be here, I understood that I was still working. I had a good time, but this was not a social evening for me.” “My party. My rules.” “I’ll put you up for the night, and you can drive home in the morning.” He silently blinked at her, trying to judge her sincerity. She could see he was momentarily without a response, but maybe was considering the offer. “Jean, you don’t have to do that. I’ll be okay. Promise.” “If I’d never met you before, I’m not sure I would even make the offer. I’m not sure how I’d handle something like this if it were anyone else. We don’t really know each other…but you’re not a stranger.” For a few moments, they stared at each other, assessing the situation in a silent standoff. Jean had surprised herself with the spontaneous offer, but she wasn’t uncomfortable having made it. Patrick’s gaze was very intense. Finally, he let out a long breath. “Okay. Okay, I accept. I can drive myself home, mind you. I think I’m relieved I won’t have to.” “You’re welcome,” Jean said easily, turning to walk ahead of him. Honestly, she just wanted to get home. Patrick’s SUV was in a guest spot in the exclusive lot designated for use by the mayor’s office. His was the only one left. Jean showed her ID to the night attendant, and Patrick clicked the door open. The headlights blinked and the car beeped twice. Then the engine started. It was a man’s vehicle with all the bells and whistles. Jean stopped by the driver’s side door and held out her hand to Patrick for the keys.
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“Oh, no. No one drives my car,” he said. She waited, hand out. “Jean…” “Keys,” she said firmly. “This is ridic—” She snapped her fingers, waiting. “Fine.” Resigned, he dropped the keys into her palm. Getting in was a challenge for her, however, the shape of the slim skirt calling for her to hitch the fabric up her thigh to give her enough room to step up on the running board. A quick glance at Patrick indicated he was enjoying the display. But once she drove out of the lot, he immediately relaxed, apparently comfortable that she could handle a big vehicle a number of sizes bigger than she was. Jean’s high-rise was on a quiet, residential, tree-lined street just on the edge of Park Slope, less than a mile from Red Hook and the feed into the East River. They found a parking spot a block away from the building. Patrick seemed fascinated with the neighborhood as he looked around, finally commenting as they approached her building. “Nice neighborhood. Seems a bit dark. There should be more streetlights. Especially when you’re coming home this late. Do you have a doorman?” “Yes, there is a doorman.” “Good,” he said, satisfied. “I’ll take up your observations and complaints with the mayor’s office,” she said. “No need to be sarcastic. Just thinking about your safety.” By the time they got into the elevator, Patrick had fallen thoughtfully silent again. She didn’t try to fill the void. Neither one of them was up for conversation. Jean unlocked the door and walked into the darkened space. Straight ahead, light from street lamps shone through the living room windows.
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She hit a wall switch, brightening the entrance. Patrick blinked and walked into the center of the room, silently looking around. She watched his reaction. “There’s only one bedroom,” she explained. She pointed to the loveseat that was positioned to divide the length of the space into two, creating a living room and dining area. “The loveseat opens out into a full bed. I’ve never slept on it, so I don’t know how comfortable it is.” Patrick looked at Jean with a tired but satisfied expression. “I’m not going to complain.” Suddenly nervous and feeling awkward, Jean began showing him around, pointing out the bathroom and kitchen. She kept up the patter while pulling out fresh linens from a narrow hall closet, finding extra pillows. Together they pulled out and made up the convertible sofa, and Jean realized that Patrick was no longer listening. They finished, facing each other on either side of the love seat, opened between them with fresh sheets. “Good night,” Jean said, turning to her bedroom. “Night,” Patrick said behind her. “You can sleep as late as you like in the morning. It’s Saturday.” “I don’t want to get in the way. You probably have plans.” Jean turned away, hand on the doorknob to the bedroom. “Wait a minute,” he called out behind her. Jean turned back as Patrick shrugged out of the leather jacket and advanced toward her, arms spread. For an instant, she was caught off guard and was cautious. Patrick pulled her into an embrace that curved her against him, but then he did nothing more than hold her close for a long moment. Jean raised her arms to circle him as well. Her sigh of pleasure was inaudible. Then he stepped back, as did she, not meeting each other’s gaze. “Thanks,” she heard as she closed the bedroom door. Jean had had a crush on Trick Bennett in high school. She had been careful not to let him know. He was so out of her league, and they
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seemed to be polar opposites, which made tutoring him so much easier than it might have been otherwise. But seeing him again was like a jump through time and space. The changes in him were dramatic and very attractive. Jean found herself responding to them. Now what?
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Title: Author: Agent:
A Wolf in Duke’s Clothing Susanna Allen Julie Gwinn The Seymour Agency Publication date: April 27, 2021 Category: Romance Format: Mass Market Paperback ISBN: 978-1-7282-3036-8 Price: $8.99 U.S. Pages: 312 pages This book represents the final manuscript being distributed for prepublication review. Typographical and layout errors are not intended to be present in the final book at release. It is not intended for sale and should not be purchased from any site or vendor. If this book did reach you through a vendor or through a purchase, please notify the publisher. Please send all reviews or mentions of this book to the Sourcebooks marketing department: marketing@sourcebooks.com For sales inquiries, please contact: sales@sourcebooks.com For librarian and educator resources, visit: sourcebooks.com/library
One February: the Season, London It was a veritable crush. In the year 1817, with the Napoleonic Wars well and truly won and the American Colonies well and truly lost, nothing less than an utter squeeze would do, not when the hostess was the Countess of Livingston and well able to put the wealth of her husband’s earldom on display. The ballroom was spacious, framed by its gilded and frescoed ceiling; impressive with its shining wall of mirrors; fragrant from the banks of hothouse flowers set about the vast space; and yet… Nothing about it was unlike any other ballroom in London, where hopes and dreams were realized or dashed upon the rocks of ignominy. Packed to the walls with the great and good of the English haute ton, the society ball was as lively and bright as any before it and any that would follow. Despite having traversed a well-trod path of lineage and reputation all their lives, the guests gave themselves to the event with an abandon that appeared newly coined. They came to the dance, and to the gossip, and to the planning of alliances and assignations with the energy of girls fresh out of the schoolroom and young lords newly decanted from Eton and Harrow. Those undertaking the lively reel threw themselves into it as though it were the first opportunity they had to perform it; the watchers congregated at the sides of the dance floor observed it as though they’d never seen such a display in all their lives. Though lit by more than two thousand candles in crystal chandeliers, shadows lurked in the farthest corners of the room; the gloom was not equal, however, to the beauty of the silks and satins of the ladies’ gowns or to the
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richness of their adornments. As the multitude of jewels and those eddying skirts caught the light, the setting looked like a dream. Unless it had all the hallmarks of a personal nightmare. Alfred Blakesley, Seventh Duke of Lowell, Earl of Ulrich, Viscount Randolf, Baron Conrí, and a handful of lesser titles not worth their salt, found the Livingstons’ ball to be an unrelenting assault of bodies, sounds, and most of all, scents. This last was a civilized term covering a broad range of aromas that encompassed the pleasant—perfumes, unguents, and those hothouse arrangements—to the less so, among them the unlaundered linen of the less fussy young bucks and the outdated sachets used to freshen the gowns of the chaperones. If he wouldn’t look an utter macaroni, he’d carry a scented handkerchief or, in a nod to the Elizabethans, an orange studded with cloves. Whilst either would save his sensitive snout from the onslaught of odors, it would defeat the purpose of his presence this evening. As usual, said presence, after an absence of five years, was causing a flurry of gossip and conjecture. With jaded amusement, the only amusement he was able to muster these days, and without appearing to do so, he eavesdropped on the far-ranging theories regarding his person that were swirling around the ballroom, much as the dancers spun around the floor itself. If the gossips only knew how acute his hearing was, they might hesitate to tittle-tattle… “My Lord, he is divine,” last year’s premiere diamond of the first water sighed. “That chiseled face, that muscular form.” Her friend, at best a ruby, fanned herself vigorously. “If only my dear Herbert would grow his hair until it touched his collar,” Diamond said. “If only my Charles would pad his jacket. And his thighs. And his bum!” Ruby laughed wickedly. “I doubt very much that there is any padding on the duke’s person,” Diamond said.
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Ruby peeked at him over her fan. “If only he would stand up with one of us so we could get a hand on those shoulders.” Two bucks of vintages separated by at least twenty years waited out the current set. “He may be among us, but he will not stay as much as an hour. My valet would thrash me did I not pass at least three hours allowing the entire ton to remark upon his prowess,” the aging young buck opined. “And yet, he is dressed to a turn, his linen pristine, his coat of the latest cut,” the actual young buck replied. “His linen may be,” scoffed his elder, “but there is something queer in the lineage.” “Lineage!” One old gent bleated to another as they made their way to the card room. “Hodgepodge more like. A ragbag of dependents of no known origin, a mishmash of retainers, a mélange of—” “Yes, yes.” His companion flourished his cane. “My own family claims quite a healthy acreage near to Lowell’s shire, and ne’er the twain shall meet, I can tell you.” “I do not take your meaning,” Gent the First said. Gent the Second put his hand on his friend’s arm and leaned in. “My nephew’s housekeeper’s brother’s wife’s granddaughter is from the neighboring village and says there is never a house party, never a ball, and never a need for outside help. And we all know what that means.” “Penury.” “Not a groat to his name.” Along the mirrored wall, an older matron rustled her organza. “He is rich as Croesus, although the origins of the fortune are suspect.” Her bosom friend gasped. “Surely it does not come from trade?” “He keeps no sheep, he tends no crops—well, he has no people to do such things. Even he is not so far gone to propriety to engage in animal husbandry firsthand.” “Some say the entirety of his holding is a gold mine, a literal gold mine.” Bosom Friend looked ecstatic at the notion.
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“Hardly,” Matron replied. “There’s not a nugget of gold on this island; the Scots mined it eons ago.” A merry widow and an ardent admirer lingered near the drinks table. “No one I know has had him, and I know everyone who has had anyone of import,” Merry grumbled. Ardent moved closer. “Is he…?” He gestured to a group of very good male friends clustered in the corner. “Quelle tragedie, if so,” said Merry. “It is true that he is seen nowhere without his steward, Bates, by his side.” “He, too, is a favorite amongst the ladies.” “No one’s had him, either.” And so the ton sups from the same old scandal broth, thought Alfred, having heard every word without having moved so much as an inch from his place near the entrance to the ballroom. No creature with hearing such as his would need to do so. The rumors and speculation built in strength the longer he did not take a wife, but it was not merely a wife for whom he searched. Searched he had, far and wide, all across Europe, as far as the Far East, a duke of the realm wandering the earth like a common journeyman—but it had to be done, for no one could find his lady for him, identify her for him, take the place of her. He found himself back in England after five years of endless travel, thwarted yet somehow not disheartened despite being here again. Here, almost to the man and woman, were the same faces he’d seen upon entering society after coming up from Oxford, faces that were beginning to resemble one another; he feared they’d all been intermarrying rather too closely for comfort. His own family line was a different breed, and to explain his clan’s uniqueness to most in this room would result in panic, fear, and an atavistic desire to obliterate any trace of him and those like him, for all time. To expose their distinction would put all under his care in the most perilous danger—a paradox, as that difference made him more powerful than any human being.
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Yet, here he was among them, bracing himself for the possibility that the one sought by him and his inner creature, his essential self was of their number. His wolf stirred within him, impatient, vexed by the delay in finding their mate, held in check when all it wanted to do was hunt and hunt until they found the one whose heart and soul called to them, belonged to them, whose presence would set things right at Lowell Hall. “Your Grace.” His steward, Matthias Bates, appeared at his shoulder. “Animal husbandry…” Alfred murmured, and Matthias gave a low laugh. Alfred regarded his closest friend and right-hand man— the perfect second-in-command, aligned with him in thought, yet with enough independence of spirit to challenge Alfred as needed. Bates stood as tall as he, at several inches over six feet, although the steward was blond where he was dark, lean where he was excessively muscular. None of the gossips had gotten around to that criticism this evening: What well-bred male of his status sought to gain such brawny proportions? “I believe the haute ton needs to stop marrying itself.” Alfred began to wander, Bates at his side. “Indeed,” Bates replied. “And it is, of course, a discussion relevant to your own situation.” A sigh soughed through Alfred’s entire being. “It is enough to make one wish to take a ship and sail far, far away—had I not already done so and visited every corner of the globe.” “There are always the Colonies.” “The United States of America,” Alfred corrected. “I am not well acquainted with any of our sort from out that way, despite their being one branch from whence we all came. My sister has not written to me of discovering such, in any case.” “One imagines such outliers to be as poor a choice as one of these women.” The air around the two men became oppressive as though all
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the heat of the room had coalesced to envelop Bates. He struggled for his next breath, and his body trembled as he fought an outside force for control of it. It did not affect Alfred, as this elemental energy generated from him; known as the dominatum, it was the ultimate expression of his power as Alpha of the Shifters of Lowell Hall. This power was his and his alone, the essence of his authority, the manner in which he held sway over the beasts within his people, the way in which he protected them from outside aggressors, and if need be, from one another. To him, it was akin to the dynamism of the Change: held entirely within and called upon with a thought. Its use was judicious, never mindless, but in this instance, it was excessive; he blamed his wolf, who was surging under his skin, seeking release. Even the slightest insult to his future mate was enough to incense them both, and at this precise moment in time, when the search looked to be a failure, he did not need the reminder that his true mate was no longer likely to be one of his kind. Bates was not the only one to experience the potency of the emanation. Though invisible to the naked eye, it had the intensity akin to a lightning strike; the ladies who had ventured closer, hoping to catch the eye of the duke, came over rather faint and repaired to the retiring room. Nor were the men unaffected: the more delicate youths swayed as though they had visited the punch bowl several times too many. Alfred’s face showed no effect or exertion but for the tightening of his jaw and an increased ferocity in his gaze. “Your Grace.” Bates managed a stiff bow and turned his head, baring the side of his neck. “I misspoke. We will welcome any female you bring to us as your bride, regardless of her provenance.” He held his posture until the pressure receded but still did not meet Alfred’s gaze. “What must be done, must be done,” Alfred said, and they continued their perambulations. “The issues that arise when lines too
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closely related produce offspring is, in the case of the ton, a weakness that expresses itself in illnesses of the body and of the mind. This is happening far too often amongst our own branches of society, and it must be addressed. The bloodlines of our…family must be strengthened, and our only hope may be found by my marrying one of ‘these.’” “Which will endow permission to do so for those among us who also wish to marry and to be, er, fruitful,” Bates replied. “Permission must be endowed sooner rather than later. Enough time has been wasted in my jaunts across the Continent. The continents, in fact. My wish to marry one of our own is not to be. I despair I have wasted time and endangered our people in doing so. I wanted my ma—my wife to be of our lineage.” “Alpha—” Bates dropped into another bow. “Alfred, that is to say, duke, Your Gr—” “Matthias.” Alfred reached out and touched his steward on the arm, bringing him back up to full height. “If a secure future for our people is achieved through marriage to a society lady, then any sacrifice will be worth the cost.” He swept his glance around the room and met a domino-effect of lowering glances. How difficult this undertaking will be, he thought, if she won’t look me in the eye… But surely the one meant for me is as strong as I, no matter her genus? “My entire existence walks this fine line between our ways and the ways of society. The paradox is that in choosing my bride from the ton, I will have to hide my true self from her, regardless of our customs.” “Impossible,” said Bates. “You will no more be able to hide your true self from your wife than the moon could fail to draw the tide.” “That sounds almost romantic, my friend,” Alfred teased. “Certainly not.” Bates’s offended expression inspired Alfred to indulge in a short bark of laughter. “It does not fall to me, thank all the Gods, to subscribe to this fated-mate nonsense.” He coughed and lowered his voice. “But the notion you could spend a lifetime
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pretending to be something you are not? The expense of energy this would require?” “I have neither the time nor the energy for romance.” Which he would feign, like it or not. His interactions with the ladies of the ton had always been marked by a social duplicity that was anathema to him: the little white lies, the sham emotions, the manners that in fact betrayed a lack of gentility and integrity. But there were far too many in his care, and they had gone too long without a strong sense of cohesion and community for him to indulge in stubbornness. He must lead the way, though it seemed unlikely he was to find happiness on his path. Happiness! Had he ever thought happiness was in his future or was his birthright? In every clan he met, of every breed, he saw what a world of difference it made when they honored the ways of their kind. When a pack or a clowder or a flock were led by an Alpha pair who were vera amorii, they thrived, and it pierced his heart with regret, even as it strengthened his resolve. His mother and father had lied about their status, claiming one another as true mates, and the reverberations of that falsehood were still serving to hurt his people and endanger their future. “I will do what is needed, whatever that may be.” He took the glass of champagne that Bates offered, and both pretended to drink. “I will find a lady before the Feast of Lupercalia, and we shall go forward from there.” “Your Grace, I must remind you of what O’Mara made plain upon our return to England. Nothing less than a love match will satisfy your people.” He sounded dubious; since puphood, Matthias had scorned the tendency of their breed to mate for life. “As well, you will have to proceed as a male of the ton and observe the customary formalities.” Alfred half listened to Bates prose on as regarded the necessity of billet doux and floral tributes and wooing and instead assessed the women who came close, but not too close, to him.
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They treated him as though he were unapproachable when all he wanted was to be approached; unlike the majority of the young aristocratic males in the room, he yearned to marry. A failed pairing could destroy the morale and robustness of a pack—he had only to look at his parents: the disaster that was their reign had all to do with disrespecting Fate and allowing their ambitions precedence. And yet, he dreaded the notion that he might not find her by the Feast day and would thus be consigned to searching one ballroom, one garden party, one Venetian breakfast after another, for another year, all in the hopes of discovering— He thrust his glass into Bates’s hand and froze, nostrils flaring. There. Where? He let his instinctual self scan the ballroom, his vision heightening to an almost painful degree even in the soft candlelight, his focus sharp as a blade. He fought to turn without the preternatural speed with which he was endowed and struggled to align the rest of his senses. His ears pricked, such as they could in this form: he heard laughter, a note of feminine gaiety that made his skin come out all over in gooseflesh, a sound that landed into the center of his heart as would Cupid’s dart. His inner self rolled through his consciousness, eager to explode into life, and he held it at bay. The set concluded; the next was to be a waltz, and the usual flutter of partnering unfolded around him. That laugh rang out again, and he turned once more in a circle, uncaring if anyone noted the oddness of his behavior. It was as if every one of his nerve endings had been plucked at once, as if a bolt of lightning were gathering its power to explode down his spine. He scented the air again, and between the candle wax and the overbearing scent of lilacs, he divined a hint of vanilla, an unexpected hint of rosemary, a waft of sweet william… “We are very near the wallflower conservatory,” joked Bates as he set their untouched glasses aside. “Shall you pluck a bloom from there?”
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Alfred held up a hand and focused on the wall of palms screening the corner in which the undesirables mingled and hid, homing in on a bouquet of fragrance he’d despaired of scenting, a combination of familiar elements he may have experienced singly but never before as one, not with such rapturous force. He turned to face the greenery; Bates moved to protect his back. He inhaled, and yes, there it was, a collection of mundane notes that combined to create a glorious symphony of attraction, desire, lust, yearning, and possibility; a concoction of lush skin, that hint of sweet william, fresh air, horses—and an excessive amount of lemon? His heart beat like thunder, and as the violins tuned for the upcoming dance and the crowd’s murmur built into a roar, he swept, heedless, through them to reach the source.
Two It looked to be a veritable crush, at least from the view behind the palms. It had taken the Honorable Felicity Templeton far longer than usual to claim her place away from the superior gaze of society. As she had resolutely edged around the dance floor, she nodded and distributed faint smiles to those who exerted themselves to obstruct her path. Did the Incomparables and Corinthians and rakes force her to arduously achieve the anonymity of the fronds out of spite? They certainly cut her, if not directly, then with just enough acknowledgement of her person to imply that her person required very little acknowledgement at all. She had held her head high as she maneuvered past the simpering maidens and their vigilant mamas; past the knowing widows and their fluttering fans; past the tabbies and the tartars and the dragons clustered in strategic positions around the dance floor so no one and nothing would escape their notice; past the leering elderly gents keen on finding their umpteenth wife; and past the young bucks who insinuated their bodies against her softer parts without fail or shame. She was no one, after all; there was no one to give redress. And yet, they gossiped about her. The ton would gossip about a fly on a wall, never mind an oddity that debuted at the grand old age of twenty and after five seasons had failed to secure an offer, much less a husband, a young woman with only an uncle and two cousins to her name—and were they first cousins? She’d best marry one of them, should they be further removed along the bloodline, as beggars could not be choosers, even if they were Cits. She had, of course, tragically lost her parents one after the other, but that didn’t excuse her sad lack of style. Her uncle, Ezra Purcell,
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must have the funds to hire his niece a decent companion. It was a scandal she went about with no companion at all! What would they say if they knew that every misstep she took was made with purpose? That she was on a mission to remain unwed? They would collapse in a heap of disbelief. Once installed in the area meant to screen the less fortunate ladies from the gaze of their betters, Felicity let down her guard, safe for the moment from the talk and the laughter and the whispers; from the overwhelming colors and scents; from the vertiginous sensation of the dancers swirling near to her and then away; and from the sensation of being surrounded, about to be drowned in humanity. She was also secure in the company of her friendship with Lady Jemima Coleman, who had run her own gauntlet to escape the protracted notice of the ton. Both had collected as many cups of lemonade as they could carry so that they might be refreshed throughout the interminable evening without needing to leave their camouflage. Felicity sipped from her second serving, cautiously. “This tastes rather unusual.” “I believe it has been concocted from actual lemons,” Jemima replied. “As well as with a touch of honey, as my grandmother used to make it.” Her robust Northumberland cadence, earthy and rough around the edges, came as something of a surprise from as petite and delicate a lady as she appeared—a surprise the year’s swains did not find enchanting. Nor did they find Felicity’s strapping, sun-kissed person to be in any way intoxicating. Standing eye to eye with most of the men of her class, Felicity was not suited to the high-waisted, wispy fashions of the day, which did not show her bosomy figure to its best advantage. The short-capped sleeves made her arms look positively muscular, and the roundness of her face was exacerbated by the severity of her topknot. Such fashionable deficits would send many a maid weeping into her pillow at night, but not she. If
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anything, she ensured that her dress and toilette were done to her disadvantage as rigorously as possible. For Felicity had a plan, a plan that would turn into a dream come true. “Do you yearn for your homeplace?” She rearranged a few fronds to shield them further from the gaze of the ballroom’s denizens. “I do not.” Jemima delicately sipped from her cup. “Most especially not since having made your acquaintance.” “We are friends, Jem, for the love of—galoshes.” “We are, we are,” Jemima replied. “And it’s grateful I am for it. I have received the welcome to be expected for a nobody from near enough to Scotland to be vulgar and uncouth, and yet it has transcended even the worst of my imaginings.” “The slightest intimation of difference sets this lot off like hounds on a hunt.” Yet, Jemima was everything Felicity herself was not, far closer to the ton’s ideal of femininity, and she couldn’t imagine why her friend had not “taken.” Fine-featured and slim yet with an ample bosom, pale-skinned, with smooth, dark-brown hair, Jemima’s appeal was perhaps undone by her gray eyes: too perceptive, too observant, and thus disturbing, as there was oh, so much required to remain unseen in high society. “I can only imagine the things they’re saying about me.” Felicity waved her cup airily toward the crowd. “‘Why, she’s as sturdy as those columns she prefers to hide behind—I wouldn’t give even the tweeny one of her gowns—that hair of hers is positively red—I do believe she has been out in the sun without her bonnet!’” She sighed. That hadn’t been as amusing as she had intended. “If they knew the truth about you, their tongues would fall out of their heads from wagging.” Jemima reached out to touch Felicity’s elbow. She was demonstrative and a frequent giver of soothing pats and bolstering squeezes. It had the desired effect. Felicity smiled and could feel the
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vitality of her vision surge through her like it was living thing, a thing that was strong of spine and stance, beautiful and glorious and fierce. The mere thought of her passion filled her entire being with life and hope and joy. “Bedamned with them,” she said, with conviction. “Your language becomes dangerously coarse these days, friend.” “Due to frequenting the stables and the sales.” Felicity smiled into her cup, hoarding the dregs of her treat. If the ton only knew how conversant Felicity was in matters regarding the stables and the horseflesh sales. What would her parents have thought, were they alive? But were they alive, she would not be on this path. She would have been brought out at the proper age of seventeen, when she was still dewy and naive; perhaps dewiness and naivety would have garnered her a decent match, but as time went on, Felicity doubted she had ever been as fetching and credulous as any of the debutantes she’d come across. Her parents’ marriage hadn’t been in the usual run of things: they had fallen in love at first sight and damned the consequences—one of which was Felicity, born rather hale and hardy for a child delivered at seven months. Had they truly known each other before they’d let their fascination for one another sweep them away from family and friends? Upon their elopement, her mother had been cut dead by her family for a time, which had amused her father, as it was the aristos who indulged in that sort of nonsense. For Felicity’s mother was the daughter of a merchant, and her father a baron, and the twain had met, heedless of all societal strictures, for better and for worse. She’d also been aware of her father’s dislike of her mother’s horse madness, of her mother’s laughing disdain of his fears, but when she’d died due to that passion, the grief proved too much for her remaining parent, and he soon followed his love to the grave. Two bereavements hard upon the heels of each other had forestalled any chance of a debut, and as the years passed and her heart
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healed, Felicity was certain she had missed her chance. It had been a dream she had shared with her mum in happier times, just before it was time for her to lengthen her skirts and put up her hair: of standing at the top of a sweeping staircase, clothed in a diaphanous, white gown, waiting to be announced, all the while turning heads and smiling down upon the beaux who swarmed to meet her as she descended. That dream was long gone. Notions of a match made locally were scotched thanks to her father’s dramatic decline into debauchery following her mother’s death, and she lost face with the neighboring gentry despite being of the highest status in the locality. Or so they were in their part of Kent, at any rate; her mother had spoken of a duchy over the border, but Father had no interest in taking hat in hand and pursuing an acquaintance. For what had the Quality ever done for their family? They had looked down upon his wife and laughed at him for daring to have wed beneath his station, choosing love and passion rather than lineage and bloodline. Ironic, then, that all that Felicity cared about now were bloodlines. For years, she’d thought her legacy consisted of a pittance doled out from her late maternal grandmother’s estate and the harem of seven high-strung mares her mother had collected. Eight years on, their blood ran true and made them difficult mounts even for the most experienced of riders. With the skills she’d learned at her mother’s knee, Felicity had such experience and also the ambition to found a line from a cross with sturdier stock under her own auspices. When her maternal uncle Ezra had inexplicably decided she would make her bow at the ripe old age of twenty and had taunted her with what he considered would be the devastating conditions of the inheritance left for her in her father’s will, she had found a new lease on life. She would focus only on her aims. She would indulge in the joy she found in those stables and at those sales, and she’d be damned if they took that away from her.
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“I learn more and more on every visit,” Felicity said. “And that scheme of yours worked a treat. I move without restriction throughout Tattersalls dressed in the widow’s weeds you created for me. No one is the wiser.” “And how does your stud?” Jemima asked, sending them off into snorts of subdued laughter. “Himself is still refusing to cover my mares.” More snorting, which in Felicity’s case ended in a frustrated sigh. “Delilah near to kicked him into uselessness.” She raised a hand. “Do not say it. I am aware that he is not entirely useful at the moment, but he is what I envisioned. His conformation, his lines, the heaviness of his bone…” Jemima once again placed a hand on Felicity’s arm, offering the comfort of a friend able to read between the lines. “You will succeed. It is a noble Undertaking, and the realization of a Dream is rarely straightforward.” A devotee of the Gothic novel, Jemima’s speech often gave the impression of being riddled with initial capitals. “The pursuance itself is an Art.” “The breeding of horses is indeed an art,” Felicity replied, “but there is science involved as well. Biology, in fact.” More snorting, this time behind their fans. “You are the true artist between us, Jem.” “If only you would accept the wardrobe I have made for you, then you would honor that art.” She plucked at the drape of Felicity’s gown, an uninspired, pale peach that clashed with her complexion. “This peau de soie has not been cut correctly, and it is puckering like a toothless old woman. And the waistline is far too high. If only you would wrap a sash around your waist, your figure would show to great advantage.” “That is not the plan, Jemima.” Felicity was gentle with her friend—dressmaking and all that went with it was the lady’s consuming passion. Jemima was a genius, and her own understated but cunning frock was a testament to her talent: despite adhering to the style of the day, Jemima’s use of fabric and embellishment
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was striking, too striking for the sticklers, who found her garb to be bordering on salacious in a way they could not articulate. “When your plan comes to fruition, you must look the part,” Jemima insisted. “In fact, you ought to look the part before it does. You must lead the way, Felicity, be the inspiration to others like you, like us. The way I would dress you…none of this straight drapery and insipid palette and fussy sleeves and lace and wisps.” She moved around Felicity like a bird of prey. “Bold blues and violets and greens, rich textures, a tight waist and deep décolletage, shawl collars and tiny diamanté buttons and ribbons threaded through, perhaps, perhaps…” Felicity was both enthralled and slightly frightened. “I do not have the countenance to carry off such a departure from the norm.” Not as regarded her figure, in any case. “I have neither the influence nor the infamy attached to my name.” “May I at least gift you with a new style of hat I have created? It would suit you down to the ground. It dips low over one eye, rather along the lines of the Paris Beau.” “A man’s hat? You shock even me, Jem.” Nevertheless, the notion thrilled her to her core. “It sounds quite dashing.” Jemima’s hands fluttered, almost dislodging her fan and reticule. “It is infinitely dashing. Yet feminine. You are my inspiration for it, Felicity, as you are both.” “I will remember you said as much, the next time I feel less than either.” She took a small notebook and stick of graphite out of her reticule. “‘Jemima insists that I am dashing and feminine.’ There. That’s on my list to remember when I am covered in muck and hay and despairing of ever getting my stud to do his duty.” “I have a notion to make a clever little holder for graphite and suchlike.” Jemima took the stick of lead wrapped in cloth and turned it around in her hands. “Something perhaps that has a chain to connect it to the notebook so it is always to hand.” “It’s only a book of my lists, but I do like to keep them near.”
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“This one is almost entirely crossed through. Is that promising?” “It is not, I’m afraid.” Felicity took back the graphite and thumbed over another page. “I have been seeking a solicitor who might review my father’s will for me, but none will consent to meet with a mere woman. Even the widow’s garb only gets me so far. And I cannot secure a response from the firm that originated the document, which is peculiar and worrying.” “Perhaps they have disbanded? Shall we hire a hackney and call upon them in person?” Felicity reached out to squeeze her friend’s hand. “Thank you for offering, but a subtle querying of my cousins has revealed the address to be in the stews, of all places. I would not risk our safety in such environs, nor can I expect my cousins to accompany me without having to explain the reason for the journey. Why would my father consult in such a low place?” She picked up another glass of lemonade. “How infuriating this is, to be so uneducated in the ways of the world. I must discover how the terms will be made good, as I am so close to my twenty-fifth birthday. It is in less than a fortnight—nine days, in fact.” “Many, many happy returns.” Jemima snapped open her fan for emphasis. “I shall accept your congratulations on the day itself, with a champagne toast to coming into my freedom and womanhood.” Felicity closed her eyes at the thrill of it. “And then I shall begin to wear those gowns of yours. I promise.” “What is the first thing on your list you will do? When the terms of the will are met?” “Which list?” Felicity laughed. “I have many, many lists.” “The whimsical one.” Jemima flapped her hands as a demonstration of frivolousness. Felicity shook her head. “I have no such list. My wishes to eschew marriage and motherhood are eccentric choices as they are.” Jemima set her delicate jaw. “Why must we choose? Why must
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we have only one thing and never the other? Why should my art and your craft preclude us from havin’ a man and wee childer?” She caught herself descending into her rustic dialect. “It is unfair. All of society’s dictates show preference for the man’s lot over the woman’s.” “I…regret I will not have a family,” Felicity said. “It was once my dream, as any girl might have. My intentions now preclude me from such, for no man would support the business ambitions of his bride. But surely your dream is not beyond the pale?” “Because it is mere fripperies and trinkets? Woman’s work?” Jemima scoffed. “I do not merely huddle on the floor with pins in my mouth. I create! And as such, I am too much for a man who seeks a broodmare. No offense intended.” “None taken.” Felicity took a turn in touching her friend’s arm. “I myself do not believe we can have both. And since we are both considered the Antidotes of the century”—at least this made Jemima smile—“we must not devote even one iota of our passion and vision to something that cannot occur. While we may not know what will happen in regard to our dreams, at least we will have the capacity to adjust and change them. People are not so easy to change. May I present as exhibits Odious Rollo and Querulous Cecil? My cousins and keepers, navigating the shoals of society with little grace and much dissipation.” It did not surprise her that Rollo had gone down the road to ruin, but that Cecil, who had once been her friend, was so lost to sober behavior…it was deeply disappointing. In their youth, their families had briefly reconciled, and they had become fast friends but had not met again until her debut. She had hoped they would renew that friendship, but Cecil’s loyalty was entirely with his father and brother, despite the ill-treatment he often received at their hands. “Neither honor me as a relation, much less a woman. I know how to school a horse,” she concluded, “but I have no idea how to deal with the likes of them.” “I am imagining them with bits in their mouths,” Jemima joked.
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Felicity let out a peal of laughter—yet another fault in the eyes of the young bucks. “Indeed! And I am holding the reins in one hand and a long whip in the other.” She laughed again, and she and Jemima toasted with their last cups of lemonade. “I often marvel that we are related,” Felicity said. “You may be of their bloodline,” Jemima said, “but you are of different stuff altogether. A weave runs true in the hands of the weaver, not in the thread or the wool.” “We will make of ourselves what we choose,” Felicity concurred, “and the dev—the doodle take the hindmost.” Suddenly, the usual murmur and shriek of the ballroom reached an almighty roar, like the sound of the sea at high tide in a hurricane, and was remarkable enough in volume to reach the ladies in their secluded corner. “Must be rather a big fish swimming about,” Felicity said, bestirring herself enough to part the fronds. “Thank heavens the supper dance is next, then I shall spirit myself away for another night. Eleven days to go…” she whispered. Jemima peeked around a palm. “Oh, dear, is that Querulous heading this way?” “Blast! No, that is Odious, about to introduce another one of his prospects.” Felicity stashed her cup in the pot of one of the palms and considered fleeing through the French doors. “I admit I yearn to waltz,” said Jemima. “If I thought you were lurking here on the fringes in order to keep me company, I should be very cross indeed,” said Felicity, yanking her gown into an even more unflattering aspect. “Perhaps it is you who are keeping me company.” Jemima waved her fan about like a tiny wing. “I have no chance of acquiring a partner. This is why it is known as yearning.” Odious and his companion went in and out of sight as they wove through the crowd, which was feverishly pairing up for the final dance before the meal.
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“It makes no sense that my cousins insist on matchmaking. They have no right to my money, so why should they be so intent upon my marriage?” Felicity groaned. “And look whom Odious is bringing me. Waltham! His nose will be level with my bosom, and he has pustules on his scalp. Rollo is a beast, if that is not an insult to beasts.” Jemima’s throaty laugh rang out, full and with an undercurrent of roughness, like the grit in an oyster crafting a pearl. Felicity found it infectious; she turned her back to laugh into the wall so she would not be perceived to be amused by her cousin’s attempt to fob her off on Waltham. As she composed herself, giggling and sighing, she turned to her fate and ended up face-first in a Cravat of Perfection.
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Author’s Note Dear Reader, I’m off on exciting adventures with a new series called Lone Star Legends. This series features some of the adult children of Sam, Houston, and Luke Legend, so you’ll still get glimpses of them and the Lone Star Ranch. It’s also a new time period. All of these will take place around the turn of the century. Things are a lot different. The country is changing so fast. Automobiles, electric lights, and reform issues pose challenges. Industrialization brings economic growth. Women are fighting for the right to vote and stand up against the sale of alcohol and inequality. Grace Legend, the daughter of Houston Legend, is right in the thick of things. She’s joined the temperance movement and is bound and determined to shut down as many saloons as she can, because she’s seen firsthand how liquor destroys marriages and families. Owner of the Three Deuces, Deacon Brannock has spent every waking moment trying to make his saloon pay off but fears the worst when he finds himself in the crosshairs of the temperance women. This is a war he has to win. Lose the saloon, and his dream of buying some land and returning to the life he loves is dead. I’m sure you have ideas about this. I can see both sides. I’ve lived with alcohol all my life and have seen how it can sometimes change a person. Yet, I also know what it’s like to be dirt poor and have a dream I couldn’t reach. I hope you enjoy this story and the rest of the series. Next up is A Christmas Cowboy Legend with Sam Legend Jr. Happy Reading, Linda Broday
One Fort Worth, Texas Spring 1899 “Destroyer of men’s souls! Beware the pitfalls of the devil’s brew!” Grace Legend held up her sign and directed her loud yells into the murky interior of the Three Deuces saloon. A gust of wind delivered the stench of the nearby stockyards up her nose and a swirl of dirt to her eyes. She blinked several times to clear the grit as the two dozen temperance women behind her took up the chant, banging drums and shaking tambourines. They sounded impressive. A surly individual went around her and reached for the batwing doors. Grace swatted him with her sign. “Get back! Back, I say. This den of iniquity is closed to the likes of you.” Built like a bull and smelling like the south end of a northbound steer, the man narrowed his gaze and raised a meaty fist. “This here’s a free country, and I can go anywhere I like.” Gunfire rang out down the street, and a woman screamed. Grace was glad she’d stuck a derringer in her pocket. This section of town saw killings every day, even though the citizens cried for someone to clean it up and make it safe. She wanted to take a step back from the surly man more than anything. She really did. He had meanness rolling off him like rancid, thick snake oil. But giving ground wasn’t in her makeup. Not today and not as long as she was alive. She had a job to do.
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Grace sucked in a quick breath, shot him a piercing glare, and parked herself across the doorway. “I bet your wife would like to know where you spend your time when you should be working. Shame on you wasting your money on whiskey.” “I earn it, and I’ll spend it however I see fit. Now step aside,” he snarled and raised a fist. “Or else what?” A voice in Grace’s head warned that this course of action could be dangerous, but she never listened to that boring bit of reason. No, she saw it as her right and duty to make a difference in the world; and make it she would. She couldn’t do that sitting on her hands like some timid toad, afraid to utter a sound. At least a half dozen gunshots nearby rent the air, and people ducked. A crowd had begun to gather and pressed close, as though sensing a free show. Some of the men got into a heated shouting match with her ladies. Before she could move, the quarrelsome fellow barreled into her, knocking her sideways. Grace launched onto his back and began whopping him with the sign. However, the handle was too long for close fighting, and none of her blows landed. Hell and damnation! She released a frustrated cry and wrapped both arms around his head. “Get off me!” he roared. “When hell freezes over, fool.” She heard a door bang and the footsteps of someone new. Masculine hands yanked the two of them apart. “Hey, what’s the meaning of this?” The voice belonged to a man she assumed to be the saloon owner. Breathing hard, she jerked at the bodice of her favorite royal- blue dress, straightening it before grabbing the immense hat that barely clung to one side of her head. She blew back a blond curl that had fallen across one eye, blocking her view. Only then did
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she get a glimpse of the gentleman whose livelihood she meant to destroy, and the sight glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. He presented quite a handsome picture with his coal-black hair and lean form. Who could dispute that? Yet, his physical attributes paled in comparison to his assertive bearing. Confidence surrounded him like music from a songbird, yet there was none of the arrogance she’d seen from others plying the same trade. A Stetson sat low on his forehead—a cowboy? Grace did a double take. Saloon owners wore bowlers, not Stetsons. She was unable to move her gaze from his piercing eyes that reminded her of smoke, shadowed by the brim of the hat. The stormy gray depths warned of the danger of crossing him. And more. Oh, my! Aware that her friends were watching, Grace took in his appearance—the silk vest of dark green belonged to a gambler. Combined with tailored black trousers, he appeared a profitable businessman, the hat aside. Until she looked at his worn white cuffs and boots in desperate need of repair. Had he spent everything on the window dressing with no thought of footwear? Her gaze rested on a well-used gun belt slung low on his hip, complete with what appeared to be a long Peacemaker. By now, most men left their firearms at home. However, having grown up with weapons of all kinds on the Lone Star Ranch, she understood the need to sometimes keep a gun handy. Although crime in the notorious area had begun to decline, running a saloon at the edge of Hell’s Half Acre was still a risky business and called for protection of some sort. She patted the small derringer in her pocket to make sure it hadn’t fallen out. “I asked what’s going on here,” the owner repeated. Smelly glared, wiping blood from his forehead. So, she did get a lick in. “This churlish fishwife assaulted me when I tried to enter, and I demand that you do something.”
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“Churlish fishwife? Why you!” Grace swung her sign again—only it caught the tall saloon owner instead, knocking him back a step. Towering head and shoulders over her, the man snatched the sign from her hand, broke it over his knee, and pitched the pieces aside. His eyes had darkened to a shade she’d never seen before and had no words to describe. “Care to explain why you’re running off my business, lady?” The question came out silky and wrapped in velvet, like her father’s did when he wanted to put the fear of God into someone. That frightened her far more than yelling. This cowboy saloon owner was someone to reckon with. Although quaking inside, Grace drew herself up and thrust out her chin, praying her group of women were behind her. Although the quiet failed to reassure her. “I’m asserting my God-given right to free speech.” “You tell him, Grace!” one of the women yelled. “Free speech about?” he snapped. “The evils of drink. It’s destroying the fabric of our society and wrecking homes.” “And it’s your duty to straighten us men out?” he barked. His dark glower shot a shiver of alarm up her spine, especially when he edged closer. Why couldn’t she have been born taller? She felt like a bug he was about to step on. He was every bit or more the height of her six-foot-three father. How come she didn’t hear a peep from her ladies? If they’d left her… She inhaled a deep breath to steady herself. “As much as I’m able. I cannot turn a blind eye to hungry kids and wives bearing the scars of abuse. It’s a sin and disgrace. I’m their voice.” She clasped her hands together to hide the tremble. Her parents—and many others—had warned that she’d go too far one day. Dance to the music, and eventually she’d have to pay the fiddler. Anger flashing from his eyes said this might be the time when she’d have to pay up.
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The belligerent clod inserted himself between them. “You gonna stand here and jaw with her all day, Brannock? Send for the sheriff. She’s breaking the damn law.” Brannock shifted his attention to the ill-humored patron, the tense set of his shoulders reminding her of a rattler coiled to strike. “You telling me my business now, Cyril? Go home. I have this under control.” “I came for my beer. You know I come every afternoon.” Brannock flicked his annoyed gaze to Grace, a noise rumbling in his throat. “The saloon is temporarily closed. You’ll have to come back.” “Just wait until the others hear about this. We’ll ruin you.” Cyril stomped away. “You’ll have to get in line!” the saloon owner shouted, then bit back a low curse and swung his icy grays on her. “I don’t want to throw you in jail, but you’ll leave me no choice if you continue down this dangerous path, Miss—” “Grace Legend.” She smiled sweetly. “I have a—” “God-given right to free speech,” he finished for her. “I heard the first time. Didn’t anyone warn you about the danger of coming here?” “I don’t listen to things of that nature.” “You may regret that one day.” His deep voice vibrated across her skin. “I have a business to run, and I intend to make money at it. Do I make myself clear?” “Perfectly.” She glanced up into those dangerous eyes, and before she could release a scathing retort, someone latched onto her arm. “There you are, sis. In trouble again, I see.” Irritated, she glanced up into her brother Crockett’s face. “Yes, here I am. I haven’t turned to a pillar of salt, landed in jail, or shot anyone.” She glanced around to find that her group of women had indeed disappeared, left her to face the owner by herself. She realized then that if she was going to do this, she’d have to do it on her own. Just as she’d usually had to.
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“The day’s young.” Crockett’s grin faded when his gaze went from her sign lying in splinters to Brannock. “I’m sorry about the mess. I’m Crockett Legend, Gracie’s brother. I hope there’s no hard feelings.” The air spewing from Brannock’s mouth said there was plenty of ill will to go around. “Keep your sister away from my saloon or I won’t be so forgiving next time.” The cowboy bit the words out like they soured on his tongue then whirled and went inside his establishment, slamming the wooden doors behind the batwing swinging ones and slid a bolt just as a woman’s scream sounded a few doors down. One of those newfangled automobiles drove by and backfired loudly. The disappointed crowd began to disperse, grumbling at the lack of bloodshed. Grace jerked her arm from her brother. “Not until I get my sign.” He bent to help. “Watch out for the sharp pieces. I don’t know why you keep getting into these scrapes. Pa’s ready to throw up his hands, and Mama’s wondering where she went wrong. Gracie, you don’t have to get on everyone’s bad side. Just do the right thing.” It irritated her that he kept referring to her babyish name. She’d long adopted the more adult Grace, yet her family refused to abide by her decision. “I am doing the right thing. I’m living my life my way, on my own terms.” She suppressed a yelp when a jagged piece of wood slid under her nail. She wouldn’t cry out. Remaining calm, she juggled what she’d picked up and pulled the fragment out, then wrapped her bleeding finger in a handkerchief Crockett quickly supplied. “Give those to me.” He took the mangled sticks from her. “What happened?” “I was marching peaceably when a man tried to prove he was boss.” As they moved down the street, she told him about the fight
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with Cyril and how Brannock had snapped the sign over his knee. “The nerve of him. He’s very ill-mannered.” Still, she grudgingly had to admit that he was also a little intriguing. He was different from the men she was used to seeing in the lower end of town. Though he was angry, he hadn’t brushed her aside like a bothersome fly and had sent the drunk on his way. “Stay away from him, sis. Deacon Brannock has a reputation for showing no mercy.” “What does that even mean?” Was he a cruel man? She didn’t feel that from him. “Do I have to spell it out? He’s ruthless. He crushes people. If a man doesn’t pay his tab, Brannock takes him into the alley and they settle up one way or another.” “How would you know?” “I hear talk.” Grace cut a glance at her looming brother, who at age twenty so strongly resembled their father, Houston. They shared not only the same dark hair and eyes, but muscular build and toughness. Houston once drove two thousand head of longhorns up the Great Western Trail, battling cattle rustlers and bad weather the entire way. Though she’d been just a babe, Grace had gone along with her mother. The harrowing stories of near-death situations were ingrained in her. She’d survived for a reason. Wasting her life in foolish endeavors like needlepoint and cooking wasn’t her idea of living a meaningful life. No, she had a purpose to fulfill—doing important work that changed lives. Grace could see Crockett doing something like that too. And succeeding. By all accounts, he made a good living as a cattle buyer and kept a home in Fort Worth as well as on the Lone Star Ranch. Her brother seemed to have a forty-year-old mind in a young body. His life was set, and Grace envied that. She moved from one thing to another, never satisfied.
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Crockett laid the mangled sign down and opened the door of his home. “Sis, you have to stop getting in these fights that you can’t win. You’re worrying the family, especially Mama.” Her parents called her their crusader, always fighting against injustice of some sort. First it was saving her baby pig from slaughter. She’d made signs and sat in its pen until her father relented. That graduated to armadillos, the favorite tree where she sat to read, children’s rights, and protesting the sale of wild horses and burros. You name it, she’d been involved. But this was different. Images of the battered women and children she’d tried to help over the past year flitted through her mind. Ava, Hilda, Beth Ann, and May. Beaten bloody and crying, but in the end staying with the only life they knew and preserving their marriage at such a great cost to them and their children. The silent face of Libby Daniels frozen in death followed the endless line of those beaten. Grace stilled, recalling her best friend who’d married a charming man with a violent side and a taste for whiskey. She and Libby had gone to the ranch school together from age six. Libby had been the daughter of one of Grace’s father’s hands and had fallen in love with a drifter Houston hired to ride fence. Less than six months after the wedding, Grace found Libby lying dead in the snow a few steps from headquarters. Her vacant eyes staring heavenward still haunted Grace’s sleep. Grace blinked hard and whispered, “I can’t stop. Lord, I wish I could, but I can’t.” Her brother put his arms around her. “I don’t understand what drives you. Go home and accept one of the dozens of marriage proposals you’ve gotten.” Not on a bet. Grace rolled her eyes. Her family was constantly trying to marry her off. On Sundays, she’d never known which cowboy would be sitting at their table, so she stayed away from the ranch as much as possible. She just couldn’t take the cowboys’ hound-dog eyes.
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She laid her head on her brother’s shoulder. “There’s more for me than marriage and kids, Crockett. I have things I have to do.” He was silent for a long moment. Finally, he let out a long sigh. “Please be careful. Promise me.” She’d finally found the one cause that lodged in her gut, that she was unable to shake. She was done with burying friends and acquaintances due to abuse. Shutting down these saloons and the flowing liquor would help save so many lives, marriages, and families. This would be her life’s calling. This would settle the restlessness in her bones and bring calm and much peace to her soul. This would define her life. “I’ll do my best.” She pulled away from Crockett and glanced through the window in the direction of the Three Deuces Saloon. Deacon Brannock didn’t scare her…that much.
Two Deacon stormed up to his quarters above the saloon. Glaring down at the street, he massaged his right hand that had gone numb during the altercation with Grace Legend. Damn his rotten luck! Why had the fight three years ago that broke his arm damaged tendons and left him in this shape? After patching him up, Doc had shaken his head and murmured that he should be grateful to have an arm of any sort hanging from his sleeve. Grateful? Deacon gave a snort of disgust. Damn this new turn of events. Just when things were finally, finally going his way, and his establishment had begun to turn a slight profit, up popped this temperance movement and the group of women determined to destroy him. He couldn’t win for losing. If this saloon went broke, he’d wind up with nothing. Deacon strode to a glass decanter on the table and poured a drink. His life seemed to always be one step forward and five back. He rolled the glass of amber liquid across his cheek. Anger rose like thick, black sludge, choking him. The Legend woman, or another like her, ignited with the need to whip the world into shape, would be back. He could lose every single thing he’d worked tirelessly for. Damn fate! When would he catch a break? The long mirror in the corner caught his reflection. Pain and anger strangled him.
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He flung the glass into the mirror, shattering both—and the image of the miserable bastard staring back at him. The door swung open, and a young woman hurried in, her eyes wide. She stood, clutching her hands over her swollen belly, as though afraid to come closer. “I heard a crash. Your arm?” “I’m fine, Leah.” The lie slid out easily enough. When she rushed forward to pick up the glass, he snapped, “Leave it.” “I don’t mind. You’ve done so much.” Deacon softened his voice. “I don’t need you to clean up after me.” Leah stretched to her full five feet. She looked more child than woman at sixteen and should still be playing with dolls. She chewed her lip. “Is it Seth? Has he found me?” “No.” “I don’t want to cause you trouble. I’ll leave before that happens.” Deacon stepped over the mess and took her arm. “I’ll hear no talk of leaving. You’re supposed to rest. Let me clean this up, and I’ll challenge you to a game of backgammon. How’s that?” Her smile tugged at the scar still healing on her cheek. “You know how I love to play. Thank you for taking me in, Deacon.” “You needed someone to care. This is little enough.” He helped her to the door to her room then returned to his black thoughts and the liquor that promised to numb him. What would happen to Leah if the temperance women closed his place down? To her child? There was more at stake than simply him and the survival of the Three Deuces. He swept up the broken glass and mopped the mess, the man in the broken mirror watching him. Maybe he should get what he could for this place and move to more peaceful climes. Only where would that be? The movement sweeping the country was happening everywhere. And Leah needed him. Her rotten husband was searching high and low and had vowed to kill her when he found her. One of
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Deacon’s regulars, Seth Pickford, was twice Leah’s age and prone to uncontrollable rages. Deacon had intervened during the last beating that had taken place in the alley behind the saloon and hid Leah upstairs. No man would beat a woman near Deacon and him not stop it. He would never tolerate wife-or child-beaters, although the law gave a man the right to do as he wished with both. A low growl rumbled in Deacon’s throat. The damn law needed to be changed. No wonder the women were up in arms. He really didn’t blame them. They took the brunt of their husbands’ drunken rages. He would like to help more women like Leah, but he didn’t want to beat a damn drum either. Still, he ran a respectable place and threw out anyone who had too much. Even so, they just went down the street to other saloons, so his efforts didn’t accomplish anything. His conscience pricked him. He could see how he added to the problem. Little he could do, though. But was that true? Hell! To close his doors would shatter his dream of bettering himself. If the women would just leave him out of their war and let him keep making a living. The broom and mop put away out of sight, he poured himself another drink and sat in thought. Despite everything, Grace Legend had piqued his interest. Her brother had called her Gracie and the storm that had built in her dark-blue eyes told him it rankled. Deacon chuckled. The pretty lady had a hell of a temper. She’d sure made Cyril toe the line—no easy task. With a cloud of honey-blond hair and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, he was sure the spitfire attracted her share of attention wherever she went. Certain kinds could be dangerous. For a moment, he felt a little protective of her until he remembered why she’d shown up at his door. The Legend name nibbled at the edges of his memory. He’d heard it before. Where? But try as he might, he couldn’t recall.
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Finally, he finished his glass and strolled down the hall to Leah’s room. Through the open door, he saw her at a small table with the backgammon board already out. She glanced up with an impish smile. “There you are. I thought you might be afraid to come. I’m going to beat you this time.” Leah’s brown eyes appeared large in her diminutive features as she studied him, reminding him so much of his little sister. It was Cass’s face he’d first seen in the alley that had sparked a fierce protectiveness. They bore a startling similarity. Leah’s hair, the color of a newly plowed field, glistened in the light from the window. She needed a woman’s companionship, not a crotchety man like him with a bum arm that didn’t work right. “You and what army?” Deacon slid into the other seat. “Prepare to lose.” Her smile faded. “Are you feeling better?” “Everything’s fine.” He arranged the fifteen playing discs in their correct places, keeping his gaze lowered. If he’d lifted his eyes, she’d have seen the chaos inside and worried. He wasn’t her problem. “You go first.” Leah rolled the pair of dice, moving her discs on the board. Although the moves made little sense, he complained that she was out for blood. As he’d intended, she giggled. Gunfire broke out down the street again. Both froze, listened for a moment, then resumed play. It was such a regular occurrence, they rarely paid it any mind. This was the price of living in what amounted to a war zone, and once darkness fell, all bets were off and you took your life in your hands. He hoped Grace wouldn’t be so foolish to still walk these streets. Hopefully, she’d go back to what seemed like a nice orderly life. He let Leah win the first game out of three, and they set the pieces up again. Deacon found it difficult to keep his mind off the silence down below and the fact that the longer his doors stayed locked, the more money he would lose. Even so, he won the second game.
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Halfway through the third, it hit him. He’d seen Houston Legend in Medicine Springs, Texas, at the trial nine years ago. Grace’s brother, Crockett’s, resemblance to Houston was strong, and Deacon figured they had to be his kids. Few others carried a name like Legend. Leah broke into his thoughts. “Your turn, Deacon.” “Right.” He rolled the dice and made his play, his thoughts returning to the man he’d looked up to back then. Without Houston, Deacon would’ve ended up in a worse mess. No question. “Your heart isn’t in this game.” Leah folded her arms across her large belly. “Tell me what’s wrong. I know something is.” Deacon blew out a breath and put his head in his hand. “Just thinking about something.” “Those women marching outside the saloon?” He jerked his head around. “I’ve warned you about opening the door.” “I didn’t. I saw it all from up here through the window curtain. Are you worried?” “Some. But my mind is on a man I crossed paths with ten years ago.” “Will he come after you, Deacon?” she asked softly. “No.” Not unless he messed with Houston’s daughter, if in fact she was. Deacon really wouldn’t relish a fight with the big, muscular rancher. “Forget them and let’s finish. I see you’re about to beat me.” The girl laughed. “For once. It’s not every day I catch Deacon Brannock sleeping.” “You haven’t won yet.” In the end, he let her win. It was only right. She had so few reasons to laugh. “Deacon, what’s going to happen when I have this baby? Who will help bring it into the world?” “I’ll get a midwife.” Dammit, he should’ve already made
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arrangements. He’d put it off due to the fact that Seth was keeping an eagle eye on the place, which prevented Deacon from leaving Leah alone. “I’ll take care of that soon. I promise.” “I’m kind of scared. Who will hold my hand?” Deacon cleared his throat and went for something light, but the words came out raspy anyway. “I will. I’ll be right here by your side.” “Like family?” “Absolutely. Don’t worry your head about anything. I’ll get you through this.” Leah blinked back tears and whispered, “Thank you, Deacon.” The truth was, she had no close family left. They all died during an epidemic, and that’s how she ended up married to Seth Pickford. The only kin she had remaining was an old maiden aunt in Atlanta, Georgia, and Leah swore that was the last place she’d go. Deacon tucked a curl behind her ear. “You’re going to be okay.” “I know. I’ll rock my baby and tell it all about my mama and papa and brothers. And I’m gonna love it and never let anyone hurt it.” In the ensuing silence, Deacon went to the window and stared out at a group of cowboys trotting down the street. They must’ve brought some cattle to the stockyards. He clenched his jaw. He’d open up for the night crowd come hell or high water. One bad day would put him under, and he meant to hang on as best he could— even by a hangnail. An idea was forming that just might work. At least for tonight. It would call for black paper and a lot of word of mouth. He’d have to find Izzy Anthony, a ten-year-old kid who often hung around. Deacon had come to care deeply for the poor urchin who had no one. Keeping to his habit of late, he scanned the lengthening shadows of the buildings across the street for Seth Pickford’s stout body. In the man’s younger days, he’d probably been all muscle,
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but thirty years of laziness and drink had turned it to flab. Deacon saw no sign of him. Or Grace Legend and her group of do-gooders. Still, it was early. “Deacon?” Leah asked. “What?” He let the curtain fall and turned. “If you close the saloon and leave here, will you take me with you?” The question jarred him, although it shouldn’t have. Leah always seemed to sense his thoughts. What would he do with her if he chose to sell out? Maybe some preacher’s wife would take her and the baby in. He could give them a little money for her keep. But take her? The inhospitable land he had in mind where a man could disappear was too dangerous. He turned, the sight of her tears twisting his heart. “Honey, I’m not going to leave unless it’s the only solution left.” He opened his arms, and she flew into them like a little lost bird. Deacon propped his chin on the top of her head, glad to have someone who gave a damn about him. Yes, they were family—all each other had.
i Crockett went back to the stockyards, and Grace flew into a tizzy making herself another sign. Her brother would have a fit that she’d gone back to the Three Deuces, but she couldn’t afford to waste any time. Tomorrow she’d give a report at the temperance meeting. She’d joined the movement several weeks ago after hearing a talk by Mrs. Carrie Nation. Oh, how the woman’s words had thrilled, and Grace knew she had to take up and carry the banner—no matter the hardships and pain—for every woman of all stations of life.
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“How much discomfort are you willing to suffer for your fellow sisters? How many slurs? How much missed sleep?” Mrs. Nation had asked. “As much as it takes to win!” came the answering shouts. This was a fight in which they had to be victorious, and there was no backing down. It consisted of a lot of aspects. Educating the world of the evils of alcohol, protecting the vulnerable women and children, equality, and the crown jewel—gaining the right to vote. A shiver raced through her at the thought of being able to cast a ballot, open up her own bank account without having her father or brother sign for her, or perhaps one day holding office. Women elected to congress could make laws and be sure they were fair for everyone, not just a few. A thrill shot through her heart. This fight was also for her eleven-year-old sister, Hannah, so she wouldn’t have to suffer the same indignities as Grace. With a strike of the hammer, she nailed the handle onto the sign, thinking about what to paint on it. What was the engrossing line Carrie had said at the last temperance meeting? Oh, yes. Living for a higher purpose is as honorable as dying for it. This was what Grace had been born to do. She knew it, and maybe Carrie Nation did too. Deacon Brannock had best take heed. She had social injustice in her sights, and she meant to make a difference. After the meeting, Mrs. Nation had pulled Grace aside and told her she was a born leader and women would follow her all the way to the finish line. Right then, Grace vowed to do her best. With the handle secured on the sign, she grabbed the paintbrush. Alcohol Destroys Families. Stop the Bleeding. Protect the Innocent. There. She stood back. Perfect. She hurried up to the room she kept while staying with Crockett and made quick work of changing clothes and fixing her hair.
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With luck, she might run into her cowboy again, and she wanted to look her best. One might never know when she’d need to. Her pulse quickened. She really shouldn’t care about her appearance, but a part of her couldn’t help acknowledging that she wanted him to see that it wasn’t just old women and spinsters who cared about this reform. If she could just convince Brannock that alcohol destroyed lives, he might listen to reason. And closing just one saloon would be a victory. Her father’s warning sounded in her head. I don’t care what cause you take up. Whatever you do, keep the family name out of your activities. I mean it. Don’t sully our name, our reputation, that we’ve worked hard to protect. Guilt crept past her zeal, and she swallowed hard. Staining the honored family name was something she swore to never do. Her grandfather Stoker had fought for Texas independence and received the land the Lone Star sat on from Sam Houston himself. Her father and uncles had fought equally hard since against outlaws, rustlers, fire, drought, and everything else to build on what her grandfather started. Now, the ranch covered six counties and measured five hundred thousand acres. Crockett was right. Darn, darn, darn! They were going to be madder than a herd of scalded cats. And disappointed in her. That was the absolute worst part. But only if they found out. Grace brightened. What would a little harmless marching do? It wasn’t like she was hurting anything. Plus, she had her battered women friends to consider. She filled her lungs with good old Texas air. This was for Libby Daniels. She’d been unable to save her friend, but she could get others out of that situation. This was only the start of something with real meaning. Her other secret, she’d guard with her life. She had safeguards
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built in to prevent the family finding out. Thank goodness, she’d taken the name of Sam Valentine for that work. Still, this cause might cost her dearly. Shaking off the niggling in her head, Grace picked up her sign and headed for the door.
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Like Cats and Dogs Kate McMurray Moe Ferrara BookEnds, LLC Publication date: May 4, 2021 Category: Romance Format: Trade Paper Original ISBN: 978-足1-足7282-足1454-足2 Price: $14.99 U.S. Pages: 336 pages Title: Author: Agent:
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CHAPTER 1 SADIE THE OFFICE MANAGER YOWLED. “I hear ya,” Lauren said absently as she leaned against the counter and looked at her phone. There was an unusually long line of people waiting for their morning coffee. Lauren was a bit of a spy in her own kingdom as she waited for her own coffee, letting customers go ahead of her as she kept an eye on her staff. She glanced at her phone and refreshed the page one more time. The photos were still right there on top. Derek and Joanna’s wedding. Derek smiling like he hadn’t in years, Joanna looking ridiculously beautiful, and Lauren wondering how Derek was happy and married now when she was single and surrounded by cats. Literally. Sadie walked up and rubbed against her leg. The little butterball of a cat had the loudest purr Lauren had ever heard, and she deployed it now, sounding like dice being rolled across a wooden table. Lauren had read recently that cats likely purred not to display happiness but rather to lure prey into a false sense of security. She leaned down and pet Sadie’s head anyway. Evan walked into the Whitman Street Cat Café, pushing
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through the second door and grinning at Lauren like he’d already had three cups of coffee. “Derek got married this weekend,” Lauren said by way of greeting. “Aw, honey, I’m sorry,” said Evan. “Anything I can do?” “Drive to New Hampshire and punch him in the face?” Evan tilted his head and seemed to consider doing just that. “As fun as that sounds, Derek is kind of a big guy. He might punch back, and I bruise like a peach.” Lauren laughed despite herself. She shoved her phone in her pocket. “I’m over it. So my ex got married? It’s fine. I’m fine.” “Attagirl.” Evan looked up at the menu like he didn’t get coffee here nearly every morning. “Not that I’m sad for the business,” said Lauren, “but where did all these people come from?” “Didn’t you hear? The Star Café closed last week.” The Star Café was a great independent coffee shop that had, apparently until last week, been right across the street from the Cat Café. If it had closed, that explained all the people here, the last place that served coffee between Henry Street and the subway entrance on the next block. “I’m devastated,” Evan continued. Lauren raised an eyebrow at him. “If anything, this is probably better for your health. There are only so many cups of coffee you can drink per day because you think the barista is cute before the caffeine gives you heart palpitations.” Evan sighed and leaned against the counter next to Lauren. “Pablo gave me heart palpitations.”
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“Any idea what he’s up to now?” “When I got my caramel vanilla latte on Friday, he told me he’d applied to work at that little indie bookstore a few doors down. Hope springs.” “Crazy idea, but you could, like, ask him out.” Evan gasped dramatically. “Where’s the romance in that? We’re performing an elaborate dance.” “Right.” Lauren glanced behind the counter, where Monique looked panicked as she took another order. “Maybe I should hire him.” “He makes a mean caramel vanilla latte.” A bewildered man with light brown hair walked into the café then. Lauren had never seen him before, and she would have noticed. He was so handsome, Evan sucked in a sharp breath. Lauren had sworn off men ever since Derek had announced his engagement, because she was tired of getting her heart stomped on, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look. Because this man was pretty foxy. He was tall and fit with neatly trimmed hair, a square jaw, and blue eyes that sparkled even from behind the dark- rimmed glasses he wore. “Hello,” said Evan. The man looked around. When Sadie trotted over to investigate him, he looked a little startled by her presence. “Oh,” he said, catching Lauren’s eye. “I’ve heard about places like this, but I guess it didn’t occur to me that the cats would just be…out.” “Only Sadie has free rein in the café,” said Lauren. “She’s in
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charge. She’s also terrified of cars, so she doesn’t try to escape. The rest of the cats are through that door.” She pointed. “Ah.” Lauren wasn’t really sure what to say next. Evan elbowed her, though, so she said, “Did you want to see the cats, or—” “I just need a cup of coffee for now. This place is hopping.” “Go on,” Lauren said. “I’m not in line, and you look like you’re in a hurry.” The man pulled a phone from his pocket and glanced at the time. “Yeah, a little.” He slid forward. “Thank you.” “Are you new to the neighborhood?” “Yeah. Just moved to Brooklyn a week ago, actually.” “Welcome!” He shot her a bashful half smile and nodded. “Thanks.” Monique said, “Next!” The light-haired man nodded at Lauren and then walked to the register. Victor, the other barista, must have noticed this guy was a little twitchy, probably with a job to get to—he was wearing a blue oxford shirt tucked into navy-blue slacks, the uniform of the Midtown office worker—and he grabbed the pot and poured a cup of coffee right away. Once the man paid, Victor handed him the cup and said, “Milk and sugar are at the end of the counter.” “Great.” The man took his cup. “The usual,” Lauren said to Monique now that the line had dissipated. Then she walked over to the man as he shook a sugar packet. “I’m Lauren, by the way.” The man gave her a genuine smile this time. “Caleb. Maybe
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I’ll see you around, Lauren.” Sadie meowed and sat at his feet. “And you, too, Sadie.” Handsome, and he liked the cats. No wedding ring. This had some potential. Oh, except for the part where Lauren was not dating in order to concentrate on making a fulfilling life for herself without a man. Caleb walked back outside. “Girl,” said Evan. “He was totally checking you out.” Warm excitement spread through Lauren’s chest. It had been a while since she’d met anyone who made her pulse race like this. She wondered if Caleb would come back. “Boss, your coffee’s ready,” said Monique. Lauren took it gratefully. “All right. Do you have to work today, Ev, or do you want to meet our newest resident? We’ve got a gorgeous new calico named Lucy.” “I’m meeting a client at ten, so I gotta go, but you can tell me all about Miss Lucy and report back on that tall guy over drinks tonight.” “Pop at seven?” “Perfect.” Monique handed Evan his coffee, which he took with a grin. He blew Lauren a kiss with his free hand and then walked out the door. “Come on, Sadie,” said Lauren. “Let’s get to work.”
Caleb walked out of the Cat Café, wondering what he’d just seen. For some reason, he hadn’t expected actual cats. When his new
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boss had recommended it as a place to grab coffee, he’d expected beatniks or something. There was a bar on his block called the Salty Dog that contained zero dogs, after all. But, no, the Whitman Street Cat Café was a place people went to get coffee and pastries and hang out with actual cats. The woman had been pretty nice to look at. Lauren, she’d said her name was. A little tall, with long, straight brown hair, a fringe of bangs across her forehead, and a dusting of freckles across her nose. Pretty smile. And, okay, he’d noticed her figure, too. After his recent and very messy divorce, it was nice to know that part of him hadn’t died along with his belief in happily ever after. She’d been so comfortable in the space that he figured she worked there or was at least a regular, so maybe he’d run into her again. In the meantime, though, he had to cope with his first day at the new job. Caleb strolled all ten feet from the café door to the main entrance of the Whitman Street Veterinary Clinic. A little bell rang over the door, catching the attention of the cat perched on the lap of a woman sitting in the waiting area. “Dr. Fitch!” said the vet tech at the reception desk as Caleb approached. He couldn’t remember her name at first, but then noticed she had a name tag on her scrubs identifying her as Rachel. Olivia’s weird insistence on name tags would pay off after all, because Caleb was terrible at names. Although he’d remember Lauren. No, not the time. He smiled at Rachel. “Good morning.” “I see you got coffee from the Cat Café,” she said, pointing to his cup. “The Star Café made better lattes, but they’re closed now.” Caleb took a sip of his coffee. It was pretty standard drip
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coffee, stronger than the stuff those dumb little pods at his old job made, so he was happy enough with it. “Welcome to Whitman Street,” Rachel said. “Olivia’s in her office. She told me to send you there when you came in.” “Right. And that is…” “Oh!” Rachel hopped up and led Caleb to a swinging door that he remembered led to the exam rooms and administrative offices. She held the door open and said, “Go left here, then right at the end of the hall, and Olivia’s office is right there.” “Thanks.” Olivia Ling was indeed in her office when Caleb found it. She seemed absorbed in something on her computer screen, so Caleb knocked on the doorframe. She looked up and seemed confused for a moment, but then recognition dawned. “Caleb! Please come in.” He’d already taken care of the new hire paperwork, so the main thing would be to work out scheduling and procedures. Caleb would be the fifth veterinarian on staff at a fairly busy clinic, but he was happy to work in a big office. The clinic he’d come from had been run by two people and constantly felt short-staffed. “I see you got coffee from the Cat Café.” “Oh. Yeah, you said it was the best coffee on the block.” Also the only coffee on the block, from what he could tell. “Did you talk to the manager?” “No. I got coffee.” Olivia smiled. “Well, just so you know, we have a partnership. We’re the official vet of the Cat Café, and they help us find forever homes for any cats who end up here.” That made sense. “Do they do pet adoptions?”
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“Yeah, that’s the Cat Café’s secret mission. They lure people in with coffee and pastries in hopes the customers fall in love with one of the cats and take it home.” “Sneaky.” “Anyway, scheduling.” Olivia had already explained when she expected the vets in her clinic to work—including at least one overnight per week, because this was the only animal clinic in Brooklyn that kept emergency hours. A whiteboard on the wall showed which vets were scheduled on which days. Then she took him on a chatty tour through the exam rooms. “Remind me where you worked before this?” she asked, sounding like she was trying to make conversation but probably gauging whether she could leave him alone with patients or if she needed to keep an eye on him until he adapted to her preferred procedures. “The Animal Care Clinic on 110th Street in Morningside Heights. It closed a few weeks ago.” Well, it closed because Kara had divorced Caleb, shut down the clinic, and moved to LA with her new boyfriend, but this was not information Olivia needed. “Let’s do the first patient together,” Olivia said. She grabbed a chart from the plastic holder on the door to Exam Room 1, then popped her head into the waiting room and said, “Jingles?” The woman, who’d been holding the cat in her lap when Caleb had walked in, kicked a cat carrier under the seat and carried her surprisingly placid-looking gray cat into the exam room. All right, that was how this would play out. Caleb plastered his best animal-loving smile on his face and prepared to examine this cat under Olivia’s watchful eye.
CHAPTER 2
LAUREN AND HER EVENTS MANAGER Paige sat at a table in the main part of the café, hammering out ideas for an adoption event. Lauren hoped all this extra business they’d been getting in the wake of the Star Café closing meant some of the cats would be adopted by the affluent animal lovers in this rapidly gentrifying neighborhood near downtown Brooklyn. Lauren had gone for kind of a mod look when she’d decorated the main sitting area: bright colors, mid-century modern design, a Shag-esque retro mural on one wall that depicted cats drinking coffee. She loved this space. At first, she worried she’d grow to hate the bright colors, but there was so much visual interest in the room that she never tired of looking at it. There were, of course, structures for the cats to lounge on all over the space. She’d built some of them herself, with particleboard and some lime-green carpeting she’d gotten for a steep discount. There were also bins full of cat toys—Lauren was forever picking up little fur mice and balls with attached feathers from places where people might trip over them.
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Diane breezed in with her customary cup of tea in her hand. She wore a pink caftan that flowed over her body and, without asking permission, sat at the table with Lauren and Paige. Lauren didn’t shoo her away. Diane owned the building and the Cat Café, after all. “Good afternoon, Diane,” Lauren said. “Hello, dear. This place is hopping today.” “I know. I might have to start imposing limits on how many people can sit in here at a time. Too many people stress out the cats.” One of those cats, a tortie kitten named Chloe, hopped up on the table right then and began to investigate the half-eaten muffin on Lauren’s plate. Lauren scooped her up and put her in her lap. “Have you met the new vet yet?” Diane asked. “New vet?” “The clinic hired a new vet who started there a few days ago. He’s a cutie.” Lauren laughed. Diane was pushing seventy and retired from some corporate job she didn’t like to talk about. She had used her savings and the money her late partner had left her to buy this five-story apartment building with two storefronts on the first floor: the Cat Café and the Veterinary Clinic. Olivia Ling owned and operated the vet clinic, but the Cat Café had been Diane’s idea, and she technically owned the business as well as the space. She was a hands-off owner, though, and let Lauren run the café however she liked, as long as she ran financial decisions by her, and Diane could come in for a cup of tea and some time with the cats free of charge whenever it struck her fancy. Diane reminded Lauren a lot of her own mother, although Diane was far more
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eccentric. Today, her short bleached blond hair had been styled into soft waves around her face, and she’d completed the look with a full face of makeup and purple cat-eye glasses. And she loved gossip. “I haven’t met the new vet,” Lauren said. “You should go introduce yourself! He’s working today.” Lauren caught Paige rolling her eyes just outside of Diane’s peripheral vision. Lauren had detected a bit of matchmaking fervor in Diane’s tone but chose to ignore it. “If we ever have a slow moment again, I’ll pop over and say hi.” Diane sipped her tea and looked at Lauren over the top of the cup, her eyes sparkling. “See that you do. I’ve got a feeling about this one.” Paige snorted. “The same way you had a feeling about that kid who works at the bookstore?” Lauren sighed. Diane was hit-or-miss with the matchmaking. “You don’t have to marry him,” Diane said. “Just go say hello. It’s in the best interest of your business anyway, since you will very likely be working together.” Lauren raised an eyebrow. She could still detect a bit of mischief in Diane’s enigmatic smile, but she said, “I will.” She thought of the handsome guy who got coffee the other morning. Caleb. He was really cute, and Lauren wouldn’t have minded flirting a little—no harm in that, after all—but he hadn’t been back since, at least not while Lauren had been in the café. “Is Mitch doing another one of those rescue events?” asked Diane as she leaned forward and peered at Lauren’s notes. Lauren glanced at her notes and then back at Diane. Mitch was
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an old friend of Lauren’s, and he ran an organization that trapped feral cats and brought them to the Whitman Street Veterinary Clinic to spay or neuter before either organizing adoptions with Lauren or tagging and releasing the cats back into the feral colony that lived around the Brooklyn Museum. Some cats would not make good pets, but they could be prevented from making more cats. Mitch organized events to trap untagged cats about once a month in an attempt to humanely decrease the feral cat population in Brooklyn. “They usually go out the third Thursday of the month,” Lauren said, flipping through her notes to find the printout of her calendar. “Why, do you want to go?” “No, but my niece is interested.” “Oh, great. I’ve got flyers behind the counter with all the information. Want me to get you one?” “No, that’s all right. I’ll ask Monique on my way out. I’ll also keep an eye on things here if you want to go see the new vet now. And, hello, nice to see you!” Diane reached down and pet the head of a tuxedo cat who was rubbing against her leg. “We can go over the rest of this later,” said Paige. Traitor, Lauren mouthed to Paige. Then she stood. “Fine. I’ll go say hi. Keep an eye on that stripy orange cat. His name is Houdini because he thinks he’s an escape artist.” “I’ve got this,” Diane said. “Go.”
Caleb pet the head of a French bulldog named Howard, whose tongue lolled out in appreciation. “He’ll be fine on the new diet,”
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he told the anxious pet parents. “I’ll write you a prescription for the new food. Rachel at the front desk can get you all set up with that.” “Thank you so much, Dr. Fitch,” said the wife. “I appreciate that you helped him calm down so much. His old vet made him so nervous.” “My pleasure.” With one last smile and nod, Caleb left Exam 1. Through the door to the waiting room, he heard Rachel say, “Hi, Lauren! Good to see you.” He peeked through the little window in the door. He could only see her in profile, but it was indeed Lauren from the Cat Café. She had on a boxy denim jacket that obscured her figure somewhat, with her long hair splayed out around her shoulders, and she wore a friendly smile on her face. Before he knew what he was doing, Caleb pushed through the door. On the pretense of giving Rachel the prescription for Howard’s new food, he pulled out his pad and scribbled down the patient’s name and the food he needed. He handed the slip to Rachel without really looking at her and said, “Hello again,” to Lauren. Lauren looked a little startled. Her gaze traveled over him, probably taking in the white lab coat and the name tag. “You’re the new vet.” “Uh, yes.” Rachel cleared her throat. “Lauren, this is Dr. Caleb Fitch. Caleb, this is Lauren.” Caleb couldn’t take his eyes off Lauren. It was like he’d conjured her.
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“Lauren manages the Cat Café,” Rachel said. She manages the café? “Oh,” said Caleb. “I came over to introduce myself to the new vet because we will inevitably end up working together. All cats who live in the Café come through here first. I didn’t realize you were the new vet.” Caleb didn’t know how to interpret the way she’d said you, but he said, “Great. I look forward to working with you.” She smiled, which Caleb took to mean she was pleasantly surprised, so that was something. “I mean, if I’d known, I would have given you a discount on the coffee or something.” “It’s fine, really.” “Let me make it up to you. Next time you get a break, come on over and I’ll hook you up with a cup of coffee and a pastry. We have really good blueberry scones.” Caleb recognized this as an olive branch, not a date. Which was good, because he had no business dating so soon after the divorce. “Sure, I can do that.” “Great. I gotta go, I was just coming by to say hi. So, hi! I’ll, uh, see you around, Caleb.” He and Lauren could potentially spend a lot of time together, depending on what kind of cat turnover the Café had. “How long has the Cat Café been open?” he asked Rachel after Lauren left. “About a year.” “Wow.” That was impressive for something that seemed like a fly-by-night idea. “And it’s popular?” “Yeah. Pretty popular. She’s got a good group of regular customers, mostly people who can’t have pets at home for whatever reason but want to pet some cats. It’s therapeutic.”
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“Sure.” Caleb recognized the therapeutic value of animal companions, but he still found the idea of a cat café a little silly. If one liked spending time with cats, why not just…get a cat? Caleb loved animals, though he didn’t currently have pets because Kara had gotten their mixed breed rescue dog Jimmy in the divorce. Caleb still missed that dog. And this was why he was never getting married again. He cleared his throat as Howard led his owners back into the waiting room. “Howard here needs a bag of the Pro Diet SD formula,” he said to Rachel. He gave his spiel about feeding routines and where they could order more food, and once they were gone, it hit him that, well, he had a coffee date with Lauren from the Cat Café. And he was kind of looking forward to it.
CHAPTER 3
LAUREN SIGNED THE DELIVERY SLIP for three dozen bagels she had delivered every morning from, in her opinion, the best bagel place in Brooklyn. The Café had a kitchen—the space had been a little Italian bistro before Diane had the idea for the Cat Café—but it wasn’t currently in use. Instead, they ordered their array of pastries from several local bakeries and cafés. If they were going to keep all this business after some new coffee shop inevitably opened nearby, they’d need to enhance their offerings. Something to mull over. Sadie walked over and headbutted Lauren’s leg, then sat down and meowed. “You need something, pretty girl?” Lauren asked. Sadie trotted over to the door that led to what staff referred to as the cat room, the main seating area of the café, and pawed at it. Lauren said goodbye to the delivery guy and walked over to let Sadie into the room. While she was there, she decided to check on the cats. Sadie hopped up on the sofa, where a calico named
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Sunday was curled up, napping. Sadie then acted entirely out of character and snuggled up to Sunday. Lauren’s pulse spiked; something was wrong with this cat. Sunday had acted oddly the day before, and Lauren suspected it might be a mild cold, the kind of thing that blew over in twenty- four hours. Cats tended to get more affectionate when they didn’t feel well, wanting comfort and snuggles just like people did. Lauren knelt beside the sofa and pet Sunday’s head. The little cat picked up her chin and started purring, so she was probably okay, but just in case, Lauren picked her up and carried her to the back room so that, if she was sick, it wouldn’t spread to the other cats. She didn’t want to bother whichever vet was on duty today in case it turned out to be nothing. Although she did wonder if it would be Caleb. He still hadn’t come by for his cup of coffee in the few days since she’d invited him, which she probably should have taken as a sign that he was just not that into her… Even though she didn’t want him to be into her… Well, okay, she did… But, well, love was still off the table. And it seemed ill-advised to pursue a quick roll in the hay with a guy she’d likely have to work with in the future. Sunday curled up in the cat bed. Lauren put a bowl of water and a bowl of kibble down for her. “I’ll be back to check on you soon, okay?” Sunday gave a disinterested snort, stood up, turned around, and lay back down. Lauren got pulled into helping with the rush hour crush, mostly putting pastries in paper bags while her employees made lattes and rang people up. When things finally calmed down a couple of
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hours later, she checked on Sunday, who had wandered into the curtained-off back area where litter boxes and extra food were stashed. She hadn’t touched the food but was presently squatting over a magazine that had fallen on the floor. But nothing came out. Classic sign of a UTI. “Lauren, can you come out here?” called Monique. “I need help with something.” “Hang in there, Sunday. We’ll go see the vet soon and get you some antibiotics to clear that right up.” There was finally a lull in the late afternoon, by which time Sunday seemed a bit droopy. She hadn’t eaten anything, probably because she was in pain from the UTI. Lauren grabbed a carrier and loaded Sunday into it, then took her next door. Caleb stood at the reception desk when Lauren walked in. He seemed to be chatting with Rachel, and no one else was in the waiting room. He was still as handsome as ever, his light brown hair a little disheveled today, his white lab coat fitting neatly over his shoulders. “Hi,” Caleb said, standing straight suddenly. He smiled. “Hi. I’ve got a sick cat,” said Lauren. Rachel wheeled over to a filing cabinet and said, “Which one?” “Sunday.” Rachel pulled out a file and handed it to Caleb. He said, “All right. Come on back.” Lauren followed Caleb into an exam room. He flipped through the file as Lauren took Sunday out of the carrier. Sunday was definitely sick, because she didn’t put up a fight or try to dig her claws into the floor of the carrier, as was otherwise routine. Rather
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than put her on the cold metal table, Lauren cradled Sunday in her arms and pet her head. “What are the symptoms?” asked Caleb. “I think it’s a UTI. She’s been doing that thing where she randomly squats like she’s going to pee, but nothing comes out.” Caleb looked up and met her gaze, and Lauren wondered how it was that she was talking about cat pee with a very handsome man. What wrong turn had she taken to end up here? “Anything else?” he asked. “Is she eating? Drinking water?” “No. I put water and food out for her in the back room at the café this morning, and both have been basically untouched all day.” Caleb put the file down. “Can I examine her?” “Oh. Of course.” Slowly, Lauren put Sunday down on the table. Sunday let out a little mewl of protest when her paws hit the cold metal. Caleb pet her head as he looked her over. “Hi, little girl,” he cooed. Sunday was putty. She started purring and leaning into his hand. “I’d like to run some tests,” he said. “Is that really necessary? It’s pretty clearly a UTI. Can’t you just prescribe antibiotics?” “She’s also not eating or drinking water, so there may be another underlying problem.” “Or she’s in pain from the infection. I don’t want traumatize her by putting her through a bunch of unnecessary tests.” Caleb gazed at Lauren over the top of his glasses. That was clearly a “Which one of us is the veterinarian again?” look. “Nothing invasive, just a urinalysis to confirm the UTI and a few
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blood tests to make sure nothing else is up.” He leaned down toward the table and started examining Sunday more closely. “I don’t want to tell you how to do your job—” “Then don’t.” Caleb glanced up at Lauren, then went back to examining Sunday. “But I’ve worked with probably a hundred cats in my time at the Cat Café. This is a garden-variety UTI.” “You’re probably right, but just to be safe, indulge me.” Did Caleb not get how this was supposed to work? If Olivia had been working, she would have written the scrip without all this drama. Urinary tract issues were common in cats, and Lauren had seen a dozen of them. She knew what this was. “I know you’re new here, but I don’t think I can justify the expense of unnecessary tests.” “They aren’t unnecessary. I’m trying to make sure there isn’t a worse underlying problem. If it’s not a UTI and Sunday gets sicker, then where will we be?” Lauren let out a frustrated grunt. Sunday let out another little mewl as Caleb ran his hand over her belly. He frowned. “This could be a blockage. Maybe I should do an ultrasound.” “Geez.” It was like he was deliberately challenging her now. Lauren crossed her arms, wondering if she should prepare to do battle. Caleb stood up straight again. “I mean, I only spent five years in veterinary school, and five in practice, but you run a café, so you must know better.” Lauren took a step back. She hadn’t expected the sarcasm,
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even though she knew she was poking him. Maybe he was right, but she hated to put Sunday through unnecessary tests, or to subject her bottom line at the café to a huge veterinary bill. She was willing to eat the cost for a real problem, but she could see the dollar bills floating in front of her, a lot of them, for what should have been a pretty standard course of treatment. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but—” “Could you maybe trust me? Wouldn’t you rather rule out any potential issues that could be causing this little cat worse problems that antibiotics won’t cure? Cats have short memories. Drawing a little blood will be forgotten in an hour. And an ultrasound is not invasive but will tell me if she has a blockage or anything else unusual going on. Did she use the litter box at all today?” “Not that I could tell.” “Well, then.”
Caleb felt a little bad for snapping at Lauren, but not that much, because she was getting on his last nerve. On the other hand, she looked kind of adorable when she was all angry and befuddled. Besides which, this cat probably had kidney or bladder stones and not just a “garden-variety UTI.” UTIs were usually associated with frequent urination, not no urine at all. The fact that this little cat had stopped eating was a red flag to Caleb, an indication of a more serious problem. Lauren furrowed her brow. “I’m not an idiot, you know. I’ve worked with a lot of cats over the years.”
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“I know. But I’m not an idiot either. Here, hold her on the table. Let me go get the portable ultrasound.” He could tell she was going to fight him. He was in the right here, though, and he didn’t need some café manager telling him how to do his job. Because if the cat did have some kind of stones, she was likely in pain, and Caleb needed to know exactly what was wrong so he could provide the right treatment to stop that pain. Maybe Lauren was right. But she could let him run a couple of damn tests. He walked out of the exam room and stuck his head into the waiting room. “Hey, Rachel? Can you assist me? Exam 1.” “No prob! Be right there!” He went back into the exam room and said to Lauren, “Why don’t you wait in the waiting room?” “Olivia usually lets me assist.” “She must have better insurance than I do.” “Caleb—” “Do you have to fight me on everything? I’ve done these tests three times just this week. I know what I’m doing, and you can trust me. Please wait in the waiting room. This will take ten minutes, tops.” Lauren pursed her lips and looked at Sunday, uncertainty all over her face. But she nodded and left the room, passing Rachel on her way out. Ten minutes later, Caleb had ascertained there was a bladder stone small enough to pass on its own, so there wasn’t much he could do. Usually, the treatment he preferred was blasting the stone with lasers to break it up, but he could already hear Lauren
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objecting to surgery, and it wasn’t necessary anyway. But antibiotics certainly wouldn’t do anything, so he wasn’t going to subject the cat to them. “I better go give Lauren the good bad news,” he said to Rachel, who smirked. “She means well,” Rachel said. “I’m sure she does, but I don’t enjoy people telling me what’s wrong with their cats as if they have the veterinary degree and I don’t.” Rachel filled a small bowl with water and put it on the table next to the cat, who lapped at it. Caleb took a deep breath and walked back to the waiting room. “You can come back now.” Lauren had clearly spent the last ten minutes working up a good amount of resentment toward him, and now she scowled and set her shoulders forward before marching into the exam room. “Good luck,” said Rachel under her breath. Back in the exam room, Caleb said, “She doesn’t need antibiotics. It’s a bladder stone. This one is pretty small and should pass on its own in a day or two and she’ll be back to normal. Try to make her drink as much water as possible. If you notice blood in her urine, bring her back and we’ll look into surgically removing the stone.” “Surgery?” “It’s a small stone, but it’s just big enough to block part of her urinary tract, which is why her symptoms read like a UTI. I doubt surgery is necessary. Give it a day or two, and if she’s not better, come back.”
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But rather than thank Caleb for figuring out what was wrong with her cat, Lauren continued to glare at him. “Your bedside manner leaves something to be desired.” He sighed. “What do you want from me? You marched in here and told me what you thought was wrong. I actually did the tests to find the problem. If I’d gone ahead and prescribed antibiotics without checking, she probably would have gotten better on her own, but you’d have to chase her around to shove a pill down her throat twice a day for no reason. I saved you from that. I’m the good guy here.” “Are you this charming with everyone?” He watched her pet Sunday for a moment. Sunday flopped onto her side and presented her belly to Lauren, who gasped. “Did you shave my cat?” “I had to for the ultrasound. Which is how I saw the bladder stone, by the way.” Lauren grunted and rubbed the cat’s belly. “Are you…mad I was right?” “We’re not friends, you know.” “Okay.” “I mean, you don’t need to be this frank with me. We’re basically strangers, so you could be polite. The other vets here are far more friendly. Maybe you don’t realize the vet clinic and the Cat Café have kind of a symbiotic relationship.” It felt like the moment when the sky suddenly got dark, minutes before the heavens opened and the thunderstorm began in earnest. Caleb spoke anyway. “As you so aptly pointed out, I am new here, and I’m happy
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there’s a good relationship between the clinic and the Café, but I’m also the actual veterinarian here, so I don’t need you to barge in here and tell me how to treat my patients. And I hate to point this out again, but if I’d just done what you’d said without actually examining the patient, I would have needlessly prescribed antibiotics.” “Fine, but you don’t have to be rude about it.” “I’m not, I’m…fine. Sorry. But still, you were arrogant enough to assume you knew what was best for your cat and tried to tell me what tests to run, so I’m not the only one who acted inappropriately here.” Lauren scowled again. She picked up Sunday and bundled her back into the carrier. “I misjudged you.” “How so?” “First time we met, you were just this good-looking guy in my café who needed his morning coffee, and everyone who has met you so far says you’re this great guy, but good looks are no measure of character, and you, sir, are an arrogant prick.” Caleb opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t come up with anything to say. She thought he was good looking. She also thought he was an arrogant prick. She was probably right on both counts, although he didn’t think he was arrogant so much as right. “I apologize, I do,” he said. “But I try to be passionless when evaluating a patient. I can’t assume my knowledge of the animal is enough to make a diagnosis without doing a few tests to back up or refute what I think. And cats are cute and all, but I—” “Let me guess. You’re a dog person.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “I like cats fine, but if I had to pick one or the other to have as a pet, I’d rather have a big, friendly dog.”
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Lauren snatched the cat carrier off the table as if his admission to being a dog person was the last straw. She probably lived in an apartment that had a huge cat condo in the living room with cats draped all over. He still found Lauren very attractive, but maybe he’d dodged a bullet. He walked toward the door and opened it for her. As she stormed through it, he said, “I’m sorry if I was rude, but you have to admit you could have let me do my job.” “Sure, fine. I shouldn’t have assumed.” The “I’m over this and you irritate me” was left unspoken. “I’ll see you later, Rach. And I’ll see you,” Lauren turned and pointed toward Caleb. “Much later, hopefully.” Then she turned on her heel and walked out of the clinic. “You’ve got a way with the ladies,” said Rachel. “But she… No, you know what? It doesn’t matter. Are there any appointments this afternoon?” Rachel looked at the computer. “Nothing until seven.” “Great. I’ve got some charts to finish up. I’ll be in the office. Holler if anyone comes in.” “Is this like a schoolyard thing?” Caleb paused on his way toward the back. “What?” “Did you yank on her pigtails because you like her?” “I’m a grown man.” “Uh-huh.” Rachel turned back to the computer and smirked like she knew something Caleb didn’t. Well, she could believe what she wanted. Caleb had no time for whatever flakey nonsense Lauren peddled in. Cats in cafés, and people coming to drink tea and pet them? What even was that?
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He sighed and pushed through the door to the back part of the office. Okay, sure, he liked her, and he sure had enjoyed riling her up, but they clearly had nothing in common, and she would very likely never speak to him again. Right?
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CHAPTER ONE Elkhorn, Colorado, May 1878 Caleb Marlowe watched the embers of the fire throw flickering shadows on his new cabin walls. Outside, a muffled sound drew his attention, and Caleb focused on the door at the same time Bear lifted his great head. The thick, golden fur on the neck of the dog rose, and the low growl told Caleb that his own instincts were not wrong. In an instant, both man and dog were on their feet. Caleb signaled for the big, yellow animal to stay and reached for his Winchester ’73. The .44-caliber rifle was leaning, dark and deadly, against the new pine boards he’d nailed up not two hours before. If he’d had time to hang the door, whoever was out there might have gotten the drop on him. Moving with the stealth of a cougar, Caleb crossed quickly to one side of the door and looked out, holding his gun. The broad fields gleamed like undulating waves of silver under the May moon between the wooded ridges that formed the east and west boundaries of his property. Down the slope from the cabin, by a bend in the shallow river, he could see the newly purchased cattle settled for the night. From this distance, the herd looked black as a pool of dried blood in the wide meadow. He could see nothing amiss there. Nice and quiet. No wolves or mountain lions harrying the herd and stirring them up. The only sound was a pair of hunting owls hooting at each other in the distant pines. Still, something was wrong. His instincts were rarely off, and he had a prickling feeling on the back of his neck. He levered a cartridge into the chamber.
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Caleb slipped outside into the cool, mountain air and moved silently along the wall of the nearly finished cabin. Bear moved ahead of him and disappeared into the shadow cast by the building blocking moonlight. The crisp breeze was light and coming out of the north, from the direction of Elkhorn, three miles away as the crow flies. When Caleb peered around the corner, he was aware of the large, yellow smudge of dog standing alert at his feet. Bear was focused on the dark edge of the woods a couple hundred yards beyond Caleb’s wagon and the staked areas where the barn, corral, and Henry’s house would eventually set. Bear growled low again. Caleb smelled them before he saw them. Six riders came out of the tall pines, moving slowly along the eastern edge of the meadow, and he felt six pairs of eyes fixed on the cabin. He had no doubt as to their intentions. They were rustlers, and they were after his cattle. But this was his property—his and Henry’s—and that included those steers. If they’d been smart enough to come down from Elkhorn on the southwestern road, these dolts could have forded the river far below here and had a damn good chance of making off with the herd. It must have surprised the shit out of them, seeing the cabin. “Bad luck, fellas,” Caleb murmured, assessing the situation. He needed to get a little closer to these snakes. Standing a couple of inches over six feet with broad shoulders and solid muscles, he was hardly an insignificant target, even at night. His wagon was fifty yards nearer to them, but with this moon, they’d spot him and come at him before he got halfway there. It’d take a damn good shot on horseback from a hundred and fifty yards, but they could close that distance in a hurry. And Caleb would have no cover at all. Beyond the wagon, there were half a dozen stone outcroppings, but nothing else to stop a bullet. Just then, the cattle must have smelled them too, because they started grunting and moving restlessly. That was all the distraction he needed.
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Staying low, Caleb ran hard, angling his path to get the wagon between him and the rustlers as quickly as he could. He nearly made it. The flash from the lead rider’s rifle was accompanied by the crack of wood and an explosion of splinters above the sideboard of the wagon. A second shot thudded dead into the ground a few yards to Caleb’s right. Immediately, with shouts and guns blazing, they were all coming hard. If Caleb had entertained even a fleeting thought that this might have been a neighborly visit—which he hadn’t—the idea was shot to hell now. He raised his Winchester and fired, quickly levering and firing again. The second shot caught the leader. He jerked back off his saddle and dropped to the ground like a stone. Caleb wasn’t watching. As he turned his sights on the next rider, a bullet ripped a hot line across Caleb’s gut just a few inches above his belt, spinning him back a step. Big mistake. Now he was really angry. They were not a hundred yards away, close enough that he could see the moon lighting their features. And close enough that he wouldn’t miss. Setting his feet, he put a bullet square in the face of the nearest man, taking off the rider’s hat and half his head. That was enough to give the other four second thoughts. Reining in sharp, two swung out of their saddles and dove for cover behind a pair of boulders. The other two turned tail, digging in their spurs and riding hard for the pines. Shots rang out from the stone outcroppings, and the sound of bullets whizzing through the air and thudding into the ground around him sent Caleb scurrying toward the wagon. Both of the rustlers stopped firing almost simultaneously, and Caleb knew they were loading fifteen more into their rifles. The man on the right seemed to be the better marksman. His bullets had been doing serious damage to the wagon.
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Going down on one knee between the front and back axles, Caleb slid the barrel of his rifle across the wagon’s reach. Aiming for the spot on the edge of the boulder where he’d last seen the better shooter positioned, he waited. He didn’t have long to wait. The gleaming barrel of the rustler’s rifle appeared, immediately followed by a hatless head. Caleb squeezed the trigger of the weapon Buffalo Bill himself called the Boss. The shooter’s head disappeared, and the rifle dropped into the grass beside the boulder. Before Caleb could swing his gun around, the other fellow gave up the cover of his boulder and started running for the pines, stopping only once to turn and fire a round. That was his final mistake. A flash of golden fur streaked across the field, and Bear’s teeth were in his shoulder even as he bowled the desperado to the ground. Managing to throw the dog off him as he staggered to his feet, the rustler was drawing his revolver from its holster when Caleb’s bullet ripped into him, folding him like an old Barlow knife before he fell. Caleb called off Bear and strode quickly across the field toward the pines, loading cartridges into his Winchester as he moved. He knew the place where the other two entered the forest had put a deep gulch between them and Elkhorn. So, unless they planned to ride their horses straight up the side of the ridge to the east, they’d boxed themselves in. Caleb entered the pines, listening for any sound of horse or rider. It was dark as a church here, with only a few openings where the moonlight broke through the boughs. The cool smell of pine filled his senses, and he saw Bear disappear off to the right. Since the dog was following them, he decided to track to the left. A few minutes later, his foot caught air, and he nearly went over the edge of the gulch. Caleb caught himself and peered into the blackness of the ravine. The spring melt was long over, and there
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was no sound of running water. And no sound of any riders that might have gone over the ledge either. No such luck, he thought. Working his way along the edge, Caleb soon heard the sound of low voices. “…got to go back down there. Ain’t no other way.” “I ain’t heard no shots for a while.” Caleb moved closer until he saw them standing with their horses in a small clearing illuminated by the blue light of the moon. “Maybe they killed the sumbitch.” “Maybe they did, and maybe they didn’t.” They froze when their horses both raised their heads in alarm. “What’s that?” On the far side of the clearing, Bear crept into view, head lowered and teeth bared. Before either one could draw, Caleb stepped in behind them. “Throw ’em down.” Unfortunately, some fellows never know when to fold a losing hand. One of them drew his revolver as he whirled toward the voice. Caleb’s Winchester barked, dropping the man where he stood. The other swung his rifle but never got the shot off. Bear leaped, biting down on the hand holding the gunstock. Locking his viselike jaws, the dog shook his head fiercely, eliciting a scream. Trying to yank his hand and the weapon free, the rustler stumbled and fell backward into the shadow of the tall pines, pulling the yellow dog with him. As Caleb ran toward them, he fired his rifle. The intruder twitched once and lay still. Even in the dim light, he could see the life go out of the man’s eyes. The bullet had caught him under the chin and gone straight up. “Leave him, Bear,” he ordered. The black-faced dog backed away, shook his golden fur, and stood looking expectantly at his master.
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“Done good, boy.” Caleb straightened up and, for the first time, felt the stinging burn from the bullet that had grazed his stomach. Pulling open the rent in his shirt, he examined the wound as well as he could. Some bleeding had occurred, but it had mostly stopped. Could have been a lot worse, he thought. A few minutes later, with the two dead men tethered across their saddles, Caleb led the horses single file back down through the pine forest. As they drew near the open meadow, Bear stopped short and raised his nose before focusing on something ahead. Caleb looped the reins of the lead horse over a low branch and moved stealthily forward. In the darkness at the edge of the forest, another rider— wearing a bowler and a canvas duster—was peering out at the unfinished cabin and the four saddled horses grazing in the silvery field. Caleb raised his rifle and took dead aim. “All right. Raise your hands where I can see them.” Slowly, the hands lifted into the air as Bear trotted over and sniffed at the intruder’s boot. “Start talking,” Caleb demanded. As the rider turned in the saddle, a spear of moonlight illuminated her face. A woman’s face, and a damn pretty one, at that. Caleb nearly fell over in surprise. “I was coming after you, Mr. Marlowe. But the fellows who were riding those horses beat me to it.”
CHAPTER T WO Caleb approached the woman cautiously. Right now, he was trying to ignore the empty feeling that always came after killing. And even though his instincts told him this rider had no intention of doing him any harm, he had no assurance she wasn’t packing a firearm beneath that duster. “You are Mr. Marlowe, aren’t you?” “I am. What’s your connection with those fellas, ma’am?” The rider tilted her head slightly as she considered the question. “Oh! I have no connection with them whatsoever. I was coming to find you when I saw them leaving Elkhorn ahead of me.” “And you followed?” His tone was sharp. Following six unfamiliar men in the middle of the night. She was evidently not too smart. “I heard one of them mention your name.” She matched his tone. “I figured following them would be the easiest way to get here. They did look like a rough bunch, however, so I was careful and stayed well behind them.” He wasn’t feeling any better about what she’d done but decided to let her talk. The woman wasn’t really his concern, but the sooner she had her say, the sooner he could go about his own business. He had more bodies to collect while the moon was still high. “I must admit, when they turned off the road into the pine forest some ways after leaving town, I got a bit lost. But I heard gunshots and followed the sound. I hope there was no trouble.” Depends on who you ask, he thought. Caleb eyed her horse. “Ain’t that Doc Burnett’s gelding?” “Yes, it is.” “Who are you, ma’am, and what are you doing with his horse?”
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She took off the bowler, and a thick braid fell down her back. “I’m Sheila Burnett. My father is Dr. Burnett. I know from his letters that he’s a friend of yours.” Caleb was taken aback by her words. Doc was indeed a friend of his, about the only one he’d claim as such in Elkhorn. But he’d had the impression that Doc’s daughter was a young girl living with his in-laws back East somewhere. This was a grown and confident woman. Maybe a bit overconfident. “Why the devil is your father sending you out here in the dark of night, Miss Burnett?” Perhaps his tone was too sharp still, because Bear gave him a look and then trotted off into the pines. “That’s the problem, Mr. Marlowe. He didn’t send me. I arrived on the coach from Denver yesterday to find he’s gone missing. I need your help finding him.” Caleb had seen Doc only two days ago, and he was just fine. This daughter of his couldn’t know it, of course, but the doctor often traveled away from town to look after miners and other folks who needed him. He might be on the road. Curious that the man had said nothing about the imminent arrival of his daughter, though. Caleb cradled his rifle in the crook of his arm. “Your father can take care of himself, Miss Burnett. But tell me, are you armed?” “Of course not.” She had the false confidence of a greenhorn. “Was Doc expecting you?” “In our recent correspondence, I mentioned my interest in paying him a visit.” “Was your father expecting you?” he repeated. “Not exactly. Once I decided to come, a letter would have been too slow in arriving. And as you know, the telegraph lines haven’t reached Elkhorn as yet.” Caleb shook his head slightly. An overly confident greenhorn
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with an impetuous disposition. A dangerous combination in these wild Rockies. Someone needed to explain a few things to this young woman about the dangers she’d exposed herself to, but he had six dead blackguards who’d be attracting wolves and coyotes and all kinds of undesirables before sunup. “If you wouldn’t mind moving out into the field there a ways, I’ll follow you directly. After I finish up a chore or two, I’ll take you back to Elkhorn and—” “But what about finding my father?” “We’ll talk about that after I deliver you back to town.” This woman was trouble he didn’t need. As Caleb turned to retrieve the horses and the dead men lashed to their saddles, he saw his dog trot out ahead of Doc’s daughter. “And what’s your name, fellow?” “That good boy is Bear,” Caleb called after her. “But usually he ain’t one to offer up his name to folks he don’t know.” A few minutes later, he led the two mounts out into the field to find Miss Burnett standing by her horse with Bear sitting and leaning against her leg. Not his dog’s customary response to strangers, though maybe it was because she was wearing Doc’s bowler and duster, Caleb decided. She stopped petting the dog’s head, and he heard her sharp intake of breath the moment she saw what the horses were carrying. “These men are dead?” she asked, her voice wavering. “Yes, Miss Burnett. They are.” Not an uncommon outcome for fellows like these. “You killed them?” “I did, ma’am,” Caleb replied, stopping as he reached her. “Though it could have turned out different. And that would not have been good for either you or me.” “You took their lives.” That was the same as killing, but he didn’t feel it was worth dwelling on. “They came to take mine.”
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“Are you sure that was what they intended? Did you speak to them before…before…?” She waved a hand toward the dead bodies. “There’s no before in that situation,” he said, now irritated. “You couldn’t shoot them in the leg? Or in the arm? You couldn’t stop them?” She shook her head in frustration. “Why did you have to kill them?” When someone opens fire on you in the dead of night, Caleb thought, you react or you’re dead. He bit back the lecture he was ready to deliver, reminding himself it wasn’t his job to make this woman understand the realities of frontier life. “Take a step back, ma’am, so I can finish what I have to do here.” As he led the horses bearing the corpses past her, she drew back in silent but obvious aversion. Welcome to Colorado. Four bodies lay in the field between the pine forest and the cabin. When Caleb reached the closest one, he heard a low moan coming from the inert shape. The yellow dog stood beside him, a growl emitting from his throat. “It’s all right, boy,” he said quietly. “He can’t hurt nobody.” The rustler was lying on his side, his hat and rifle strewn in the grass nearby. To be safe, Caleb knelt and moved the man’s fallen Colt .44 away from his body. “He’s alive.” The soft voice came from right behind him. For the moment, anyway. The bullet had caught the fool in the gut and doubled him over. He heard her footsteps move toward the nearby corpses. “But these men are dead,” she called out, standing over one. “You killed them. Every one of them. Five lives. Assuming this man lives.” “Would you mind helping here, Miss Burnett? Where you could be of some use?” “Of course,” she said, immediately coming to him. “How can I help? What can I do?”
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For a moment, the tone of hostility was gone. There was some of the Doc’s spirit in the woman, to be sure. “This moonlight ain’t quite bright enough for tending to this one. Could you fetch the lantern hanging by the hearth in the cabin? If you’d light it and bring it here, I’d be much obliged.” She ran off across the field, and Caleb gently turned the rustler over. Even in the dim light, it was obvious the bullet had struck him beneath the ribs and had done a great deal of damage. The man’s woolen vest was black with blood. “I’m sorry for coming after you,” the wounded man gasped, drawing Caleb’s gaze to his face. “We only planned to take the cattle.” Good thing Miss Burnett wasn’t hearing this, or she would tell him he should have handed over his herd and hidden under the wagon to avoid bloodshed. “Save your strength, fella.” “Nothing to save it for now. I know I’m a goner.” Caleb figured they were about the same age. Late twenties. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We’re gonna patch you up as best we can and then get you to town.” “Listen.” The man’s hand reached out and clutched at Caleb’s sleeve. “I ain’t made much of my life, but I still got a ma back home…Michigan…” He winced with pain and then coughed. Blood speckled his lip and chin. “And you’ll see her again.” The man was fading fast. “Inside pocket of my coat…a letter… for her. If you could send it. And let her know…” He gazed at the rustler’s face. Doc’s daughter was coming across the field, holding up the lit lantern. “I’ll do that. You just lie quiet.” The man’s face twisted, and then the light went out of his eyes. He’d be lying quiet for a long time. Caleb reached into the dead man’s coat and found the letter.
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Holding it up to the moonlight, he could see it was addressed and sealed. He frowned, slipped it inside his elk skin vest, and stood up. Sheila Burnett came close, holding the lantern high. “Is he…?” “Gone.” “Six. You killed six people tonight.” She drew back, and Caleb took the lantern from her. He watched her look around and wondered if, before tonight, she’d ever seen anyone dead, never mind six who’d bought eternity so suddenly and violently. That would be a lot for anyone to take in. “If you could help gather those horses, I’ll hoist up the bodies, and we can take them back to town.” “I’ll gather the horses for you, but I take back what I said before.” Finally, she was regaining some sense. He waited for her apology. “I think you’re a barbarian, Mr. Marlowe. And for the life of me, I can’t understand how it is that my father—a doctor, a man dedicated to saving lives—could befriend someone who takes them with no feeling of regret whatsoever.” This woman was definitely testing his patience. Not Caleb’s long suit. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “I’m simply stating facts.” “And they’re taking you down a slippery trail. You know nothing about me.” “So be it, Mr. Marlowe. I shall not need your assistance. I’ll find my father on my own.” She gave him a curt nod. “Good day to you.” “Considering the hour, miss, and the unfamiliar terrain, I’ll be taking you back to Doc’s house in Elkhorn, whether you like it or not.” His tone was hard enough to leave her no choice.
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“As you please.” She turned on her heel in a huff and stomped toward the horses. Caleb shook his head and prayed that his patience would hold out until they reached town. And for Doc’s sake, he hoped this daughter of his would keep her visit here brief.
CHAPTER THREE Doc Burnett carefully peeled away the surgical gauze he’d used to cover the woman’s wound. The operation had gone well enough, all things considered. He held the lantern up to look at the injury. The hole where the bullet entered the shoulder above the right breast was red and swollen, but it hadn’t festered yet. Still, she was not out of the woods. It had only been a few hours since he closed the wound. If her luck held, she’d live. For now. But with these killers holding Doc’s and the woman’s fates in their hands, he didn’t know for how long. The odds weren’t too good that he’d survive this either. He had a pretty fair idea what was going on. Two open Wells Fargo strongboxes sat in a corner of the one-room shack and unwanted bundles of letters lay scattered around them. Whatever gold or valuables had been in the strongboxes was gone. Doc had heard and read plenty of stories about road agents holding passengers of quality for ransom. Occasionally, the kidnap victims were even returned alive. But not often. Smith, a miner he’d only known by sight, had come after him yesterday morning with a confusing story about an accident. The man had been twitchy as a cat in a downpour, but Doc was well aware of the dangers surrounding the search for silver. Digging in the earth made men a mite strange sometimes. He didn’t hesitate. Grabbing his medical valise, he went to get his horse from the livery. Riding east, they were barely out of Elkhorn when two grim- faced gunslingers came out from behind a clump of pines. Their clothes showed the grime of long use, and their boots were scuffed and worn from the brush and brambles of the Colorado terrain.
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Each wore a brace of Remingtons on his gun belt. One man had a Winchester in his rifle scabbard. The other, a Henry. Their appearance didn’t come as a great surprise to Doc. There were always reports of road agents operating in the hills, and he never carried anything of great value, other than his pocket watch and a few dollars in his billfold. The real surprise came when, not a half hour later, one of them shot Smith dead, sending the miner tumbling into a ravine at the edge of the road. Stone-cold killers. Roughly an hour later, they left the Denver road and made their way up through the pine forests and cottonwood groves, sometimes following a rushing river or a ridge of lichen-covered rock. Several times, they passed solitary shacks by mountain streams and the ghostly gray remains of cabins clustered around the collapsed entrance of an abandoned mine. Eventually emerging from a forest of fir, Doc spotted the tall peak called Devil’s Claw. The mountain was aptly named, stretching clawlike into the blue Colorado sky. Doc knew there had been mining camps beyond the pass that led north of the Claw. Gold, mostly. But the word was that they were all pretty much deserted. He never ventured this far from Elkhorn. They rode on silently for an endless stretch. Checking his watch, he reckoned it took over eight hours for them to reach their destination, the ruins of a deserted mining camp with nearly a dozen tumbledown shacks. This camp, unlike the others he’d seen, had a makeshift corral holding a number of horses. And a well-dressed, unconscious woman, shot in the upper chest. Doc stretched his tired back and shoulders. Outside, night had fallen, and a cooking fire crackled and threw flickering light through the open door.
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The shack looked like someone had been living here. Sacks of flour and salt and dried beans in the corner. A rough bed, a scarred table, an ancient potbellied stove, and barrels for chairs completed the furnishings. Doc glanced at the outlaw leaning against the jamb. One of the other men called him Lucas. Lean and tough as buffalo tendon, he was staring at him, his dark eyes hard as coal. Including this one, Doc had seen four gang members. So far. The patient stirred, drawing his attention. She was a mature woman of quality, based on her clothing, and she was still unconscious. He held the back of his hand to her forehead. She was warm, but not dangerously so. When he first laid eyes on her, all his training and experience told him that he had one course of action. He needed to operate and get that bullet out. She’d lost a lot of blood even before he arrived, and she looked as gray as the blanket she lay on. In his medical practice in New York prior to the war, he never once treated a gunshot wound. After joining the Union Army Medical Corps back in 1861, however, he’d dug more bullets out of human flesh than he could count. By the time he was discharged, the war had destroyed the decorous sham of everyday life. Nightmares of crying men and piles of amputated limbs plagued the darkness. The carnage he saw changed him forever. Back in New York, he saw streets filled with crippled men, victims of the fighting. They were a constant reminder of the horrors of the war. In the end, it had been too much for him to bear. Secure in the knowledge that his growing daughter would be safe in the bosom of his late wife’s family, he headed west to get away from it all. But frontier life was by nature violent, and it had its own generous share of killers. These road agents were perfect examples of it. Doc reached down into his open medical valise. Pulling out his
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stethoscope, he proceeded to insert the ear pieces and position the bell-shaped head to her chest. Her heart was strong, and he could hear no fluid in the lungs. It was still early, but so far, so good. The steady footfalls of an approaching horse drew Doc’s gaze to the small window cut in the rough plank wall. “So much as a peep out of you, and you’re a dead man.” The outlaw already had his revolver out, and he positioned himself to one side of the door. Whoever was coming, he was in for an unpleasant surprise. And there was nothing Doc could do about it. “Howdy,” a voice called out from a distance. “Traveling through and seen your fire. Thought to stop. Heard there was a town down here somewheres, but ain’t found it afore the sun dropped.” Outside by the fire, one of them answered, “Don’t know nothing about no town, but you’re welcome to stop here.” “I’m grateful. Be good to get out of this saddle and stretch my—” Doc winced as two shots rang out in the darkness outside the shack. A horse whinnied and then quieted down, and then only the sound of the crackling fire could be heard. Lucas holstered his gun. That made two dead in less than two days. “When is she gonna wake up?” Doc Burnett ignored the question. “I ain’t gonna ask you ag—” “The answer is no different than the last time you asked,” Doc snapped. “I don’t know.” He adjusted the spectacles on the bridge of his nose, trying to keep his temper from boiling over. He’d seen too much death to be afraid of dying. But he had a patient to protect. Doc had already decided what the outlaws wanted. If ransom was their goal, they clearly wanted this woman conscious so they
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could glean whatever information they needed. She must be extremely wealthy or important to someone who was, he decided. Or at least, they thought so. “Lucas, come out here,” a voice called. The road agent scowled and went out the door. It was the chance Doc had been waiting for. He snatched a vial of morphine from his valise and quickly measured out a strong dose of the liquid. Before he could give it to her, though, the woman opened her eyes for the first time. Seeing the dropper descending to her lips, she raised a wavering hand to stop him. “No,” she murmured. “It’s all right,” he told her, administering the sedative. “Trust me, this is the only way to keep you alive. Sleep a while.”
CHAPTER FOUR Caleb climbed down from Pirate, his buckskin-colored gelding, and glanced up at the new sign, smartly painted and telling the world—or Elkhorn, anyway—that Malachi Rogers Livery. Horses Bought, Sold, and Boarded was a moneymaking concern. The place of business itself was sound and well-kept. It was a large, wood-plank barn with a good-sized loft space for hay. Under the beams of the loft, the left side of the building consisted of a small office space with a cot, and beyond that was a row of enclosures for oats storage. The back wall had stalls for horses, and on the right, doors opened out to a large fenced area. The owner was known in town to be a skilled blacksmith, and his forge and anvil sat under wide, overhanging eaves facing the corral. The son of Malachi Rogers himself trotted out into the moonlight, trailed by a member of the passel of cats that lived and hunted in the barn. The young man’s sleepy face brightened when he saw who it was. He occasionally helped Caleb on the ranch when he could use an extra hand. “Hullo, Mr. Marlowe.” “Gabriel.” Caleb nodded and handed him the reins of his and Doc Burnett’s mounts then gestured to the other six horses laden with dead bodies. “Need to turn these over to the sheriff. Could you run and fetch him for me?” Gabe Rogers, tall and strong and trustworthy for his fourteen years, looked wide-eyed at the corpses, at Doc’s riderless gelding, then back at Caleb. “Hope nothing bad happened to Doc’s daughter.” “Just delivered the lady to his house.” “I was a little worried about giving her his horse, it being after
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dark and all.” The boy shrugged. “She don’t seem like a woman too willing to take no for an answer.” “Stiff-necked, some might call it.” During the entire three-mile ride into town, Sheila Burnett had barely said two words, which suited Caleb perfectly fine. You could have froze a glass of whiskey solid with the looks she shot at him from time to time. “Gabe, do you recall when Doc last fetched his horse?” “Sure. He came in yesterday morning at dawn. Pa was set to put a new shoe on this one in the morning, so Doc took his dun.” “Was he alone?” “He had a miner with him.” “Know him?” The kid shook his head. “Seen him before, but I don’t recall his name. He don’t bring his horse here when he comes to Elkhorn. He must do business with them fellas at the other end of town.” Doc had been gone less than a full day. Riding out to some of the claims in the hills, seeing to a broken bone or a cut or whatever needing tending, and then riding back to Elkhorn could take at least a day. Caleb decided Miss Burnett was worrying for nothing. Hell, Doc could show up anytime. The yips and howls of coyotes hunting in the hills above the town reminded him why he was here. The sheriff. Three buildings farther along, at the corner of Main Street and an alley, lamplight spilled out the front window of the jail. He ran a tired hand on the back of his neck. “Fetch Horner. I’ll wait here for you.” Gabriel ran off to do as he was told, and Caleb tried to turn his mind to other things and not let his history with Elkhorn’s new sheriff further ruin what had already been a dismal night. His gaze wandered to the lot between the hardware store and the butcher shop. Stacks of new lumber glowed white in the light of the moon dropping low in the west. Elkhorn was growing by
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leaps and bounds. Buildings were springing up faster than corn in June. Looking down Main Street, he noted the town now had two hotels for overnight visitors and one taking guests solely on an hourly basis. They all seemed to be doing brisk trade. Across the way, a handful of men were standing around jawing in front of the Belle Saloon. With the front doors wide open, he could see the whiskey and the brandy were flowing, the card tables were full, and the dice tables were crowded with miners falling over themselves looking for a reason to be back working their claims in the morning. He knew most of them would wake up with empty pockets, a pounding head, and a sick feeling that they’d surrendered the rewards of all their digging without so much as a fight. With the silver mines producing nearly instant fortunes, the men working them were looking for any way they could find to blow off steam, as the riverboat fellas say. And there were people arriving in town on a daily basis. Bounty hunters, outlaws, traveling salesmen, and folks just looking for whatever job they could get their hands on. Between them and the miners and the wagons pushing west toward Mormon country and far off California, Elkhorn’s streets were constantly filled with the worn, the tired, and the hopeful. Caleb’s attention fixed for a moment on a building across from the jail. It too had a smart, important-looking sign, illuminated by a flaring streetlamp in front. H. D. Patterson, Justice of the Peace, and below it in smaller letters, Land and Mine Sales, Side Door. Here, Judge Patterson’s clerks handled all of the local area’s legal business. And this was where, four months ago, Caleb had bought his spread outside of town. Caleb knew he should be grateful that Elkhorn was doing so well. He and Henry planned on raising their cattle to feed these hungry miners and townsfolk. Already, though, he was feeling
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the hot breath of civilization on his neck. Three miles downriver might not be far enough. Shaking off those dark thoughts, he glanced at the dead rustlers he’d brought in. He hadn’t recognized any of them, but now that the weather was good, there were plenty of drifters in the area, too ornery to prospect and too lazy to find honest work. Caleb looked at the fellow who’d given him the letter. He’d have to come back into town to mail it when Red Annie O’Neal was due to come through. She was the only star route carrier for the postal service that he’d trust with a letter. He’d heard too many stories of mail and parcels getting lost with Wells Fargo and the other overland stagecoach lines. He figured this knothead surely wouldn’t begrudge him a few days to send it off. The sound of ragged coughing drew his attention back toward the jail. Sheriff Grat Horner was still strapping on his Remingtons as he came out onto the street. Unfortunately, he’d known Horner in an earlier life, and the man barreling toward him hadn’t changed much since the last time they met. Beneath the same droopy, chaw-stained moustache, those wobbling bulldog jowls hung a little lower, maybe. Nearly as tall as Caleb, he was twenty pounds heavier, at least. And the blackguard loved to throw that weight around. Horner hadn’t been wearing the tin star back then. Like too many men of his ilk, though, he knew that being the law in a town flowing with silver or gold gave a clever man plenty of opportunities for putting some of it in his own pocket. And it appeared this miserable bastard was living high off the hog here. To be sure, he was dressing better. But those fancy new boots, gold brocade waistcoat, and new black suit didn’t add a lick of value to him. The burly lawman cleared his throat and spat without breaking stride. Two of Horner’s no-account deputies followed close in his
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wake. Gabriel trailed them, and he seemed to be looking a little anxious. This was not gonna be pretty, Caleb thought. He unfastened the leather thongs securing his twin Colts. A couple of years ago, it had been Caleb wearing the star, and Horner had been working as muscle for a rancher up near Greeley. The man talked himself up for being quick on the draw, but he was one of those fellows who’d sooner shoot you in the back as try you in a fair fight. Though he couldn’t prove it, Caleb knew of at least one homesteader up there who found that out the hard way. The farmer made the fatal error of putting down stakes on land claimed by Horner’s employer. Caleb found the unarmed man facedown in his newly tilled field, his mule also shot dead in his harness for good measure. He tracked the gunmen right to the ranch, and he and Horner came near to shooting it out. But the rancher intervened. The man’s defense and the fifteen hired guns pointing at Caleb convinced him that, if he pushed it any further, there was little likelihood of getting out of there alive. When he got back to town and suggested pursuing the matter with a posse of deputies, he was met with a marked lack of enthusiasm. That was the day he decided it was time to take up a different line of work. When Caleb eventually found his way to Elkhorn, he heard right off that the town was looking to establish some semblance of order. There was no law officer, and the miners were raising hell in town. Somehow, they needed to contain the chaos. Caleb had different plans and wanted no part of it. But not long after, he was surprised to see Grat Horner tipped back in a chair in front of the jail, a star on his lapel and his feet up on a barrel. The fact that this low-down, poor excuse of a hound dog was their newly minted sheriff only proved that Elkhorn was desperate. Watching Horner now, Caleb was already sorry he hadn’t left
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the rustlers up in the ravine for the wolves. Of course, it would have been a little difficult with Doc’s daughter harping at him. But the last thing a man wanted was to give a snake like Horner a chance to get at him. “Busy night, Marlowe?” the sheriff said, gesturing toward the bodies. “Not my choice.” “Who are they?” “Just six upstanding citizens out for a moonlit ride, I guess.” Horner glared and spat in the dirt again. “You don’t know ’em?” Caleb shook his head. “Came for my cattle. Didn’t expect to see me out there, I’d say.” “Didn’t expect to end up dead, neither…I’d say.” “We all end up dead, sooner or later, Sheriff. You should know that.” Horner’s eyes narrowed and then flicked for a moment to the two gleaming pistols holstered at Caleb’s hips. These were new guns. Colt Frontiers. Caleb was not one to change with every newfangled thing that came along. But a gun dealer in Denver had convinced him that the action and balance and precision of the weapons were as good or better than his old Peacemakers. And since it used the same .44–40 bullet as his Winchester rifle; carrying only one type of ammunition was a convenience he’d appreciate. Caleb had tried them out, and they were smooth and accurate. So he bought them. So far, he hadn’t killed anyone with them. But the night was still young. “I hear you own a stake a few miles out.” Caleb said nothing in response. It wasn’t a question. For the past few months, they’d been two mountain rams circling each other. Each one knew the other was around, encroaching on his territory. Each keeping his distance, knowing it was inevitable they’d be locking horns.
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Horner spat, wiped tobacco juice from his chin with a big hand, and waved at the dead rustlers. “So you hold that it was self- defense. Any witnesses?” Caleb decided to keep Doc’s daughter out of it, not that she’d be much help. “My dog.” “You ain’t wearing a star no more, Marlowe.” “And that one you’re wearing don’t mean nothing to me, Horner.” The sheriff ’s eyes narrowed. “You’d best get used to it. Cuz like it or not, I’m the law in this town.” “And there’s a snake in every woodpile.” Behind Horner, the two deputies edged away from the sheriff, making room for any gunplay that might develop. “You keep poking that woodpile,” Horner growled, “and you’re gonna find there’s a rattler in it.” As the two men stared hard at each other, Caleb knew he could drop all three. From the Badlands to the Black Hills and beyond, it was known how fast and how deadly he was. Then the sheriff blinked. “Lucky for you I don’t rile easy, Marlowe.” “Blessed,” he said dryly. Horner turned his head and barked at his deputies, “See what those boys have on ’em. The judge’ll want something to put on them death certificates.” The two men moved around Caleb toward the dead men. “Well then, I’ll leave you to it.” “Not so fast. That don’t mean this is over. I can’t just turn you loose.” Caleb frowned. “Why?” “I don’t decide who’s at fault.” “Who decides?” “Judge Patterson.” “Then I’ll come back in the morning and talk to the judge.”
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“Nope. You ain’t going nowhere, Marlowe, until he says you can go.” Without looking, Caleb knew the deputies had their pistols trained on his back. If he drew, he’d be painting Main Street with their blood. But Gabriel Rogers was standing too close to the line of fire behind Horner. “I’ll be at the Belle,” he growled. “No, you won’t. You’ll be enjoying the hospitality of my jail tonight. Now, slowly unbuckle them Colts.”
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Title: Author: Agent:
Neon Gods Katee Robert Laura Bradford Bradford Literary Agency Publication date: June 1, 2021 Category: Romance Format: Trade Paper Original ISBN: 978-足1-足7282-足3173-足0 Price: $14.99 U.S. Pages: 384 pages This book represents the final manuscript being distributed for prepublication review. Typographical and layout errors are not intended to be present in the final book at release. It is not intended for sale and should not be purchased from any site or vendor. If this book did reach you through a vendor or through a purchase, please notify the publisher. Please send all reviews or mentions of this book to the Sourcebooks marketing department: marketing@sourcebooks.com For sales inquiries, please contact: sales@sourcebooks.com For librarian and educator resources, visit: sourcebooks.com/library
1
PERSEPHONE
“I REALLY HATE THESE PARTIES.” “Don’t let Mother hear you say that.” I glance over my shoulder at Psyche. “You hate them, too.” I’ve lost count of the number of events our mother has dragged us to over the years. She’s always got her eye on the next prize, on the newest piece to move in this chess game only she knows the rules to. It might be easier to stomach if most days I didn’t feel like one of her pawns. Psyche comes to stand next to me and bumps me with her shoulder. “I knew I’d find you here.” “It’s the only room in this place I can stand.” Even though the statue room is the very essence of hubris. It’s a relatively plain space—if shining marble floors and tasteful gray walls can be called plain—filled with thirteen full-body statues arranged in a loose circle around the room. One for each member of the Thirteen, the group that rules Olympus. I name them off silently as my gaze skips over each one—Zeus, Poseidon, Hera, Demeter,
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Athena, Ares, Dionysus, Hermes, Artemis, Apollo, Hephaestus, Aphrodite—before turning back to face the final statue. This one is covered in a black cloth that pours over it, spilling down to pool on the floor at its feet. Even still, it’s impossible to miss the wide-set shoulders, the spiky crown that adorns his head. My fingers itch to grab the fabric and rip it away so I can finally see his features once and for all. Hades. In a few short months, I’ll have won my freedom from this city, will have escaped, never to return. I won’t have another chance to look on the face of Olympus’s boogeyman. “Isn’t it weird that they never replaced him?” Psyche snorts. “How many times have we had this conversation?” “Come on. You know it’s weird. They’re the Thirteen, but really they’re only twelve. There’s no Hades. There hasn’t been for a very long time.” Hades, the ruler of the lower city. Or at least he used to be. It’s a legacy title, and the entire family has long since died out. Now, the lower city is technically under Zeus’s reign like the rest of us, but from what I hear, he doesn’t ever set foot on that side of the river. Crossing the River Styx is difficult for the same reason leaving Olympus is difficult; from what I hear, each step through the barrier creates a sensation like your head will explode. No one voluntarily experiences something like that. Not even Zeus. Especially when I doubt the people in the lower city will kiss his ass the same way everyone in the upper city does. All that discomfort and no payoff? It’s no surprise Zeus avoids the crossing
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just like the rest of us. “Hades is the only one who never spent time in the upper city. It makes me think he was different than the rest of them.” “He wasn’t,” Psyche says flatly. “It’s easy to pretend when he’s dead and the title no longer exists. But every one of the Thirteen is the same; even our mother.” She’s right—I know she’s right—but I can’t help the fantasy. I reach up, but stop before my fingers make contact with the statue’s face. It’s just morbid curiosity that draws me to this dead legacy, and that’s not worth the trouble I’d be in if I gave in to the temptation to snatch the dark veil away. I let my hand drop. “What’s Mother up to tonight?” “I don’t know.” She sighs. “I wish Callisto was here. She, at least, gives Mother pause.” My three sisters and I all found different ways to adapt when our mother became Demeter and we were thrust into the shining world that exists only for the Thirteen. It’s so sparkling and extravagant that it’s almost enough to distract from the poison at its core. It was adapt or drown. I force myself to act the part of the bright and sparkly daughter who is always obedient, which allows Psyche to play it cool and quiet as she flies under the radar. Eurydice clings to every bit of life and excitement she can find with a borderline desperation. Callisto? Callisto fights Mother with a ferocity that belongs in the arena. She will break before she bends, and as a result, Mother exempts her from these mandatory events. “It’s better that she’s not. If Zeus makes a pass at Callisto, she might try to gut him. Then we’d truly have an incident on our hands.”
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The only person in Olympus who murders without consequence— allegedly— is Zeus himself. The rest of us are expected to uphold the laws. Psyche shudders. “Has he tried anything with you?” “No.” I shake my head, still looking at Hades’s statue. No, Zeus hasn’t touched me, but at the last couple events we’ve attended, I could feel his gaze following me around the room. It’s the reason I attempted to beg off tonight, though my mother all but dragged me out the door behind her. Nothing good comes from gaining Zeus’s attention. It always ends the same— the women broken and Zeus walking away without so much as a bad headline to tarnish his reputation. There was exactly one set of charges officially leveled against him a few years ago, and it was such a circus that the woman disappeared before the case ever went to trial. The most optimistic outcome is that she somehow found a way out of Olympus; the more realistic is that Zeus added her to his alleged body count. No, better to avoid him at every turn. Something that would be significantly easier to do if my mother wasn’t one of the Thirteen. The sound of heels clicking smartly against the marble floors has my heartbeat picking up in recognition. Mother always strides like she’s marching into battle. For a moment, I honestly consider hiding behind the covered statue of Hades, but I discard the idea before Mother appears in the doorway to the statue gallery. Hiding would only delay the inevitable. “There you are.” Tonight she’s wearing an deep-green gown that skims her body and feeds into the whole earth-mother role
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she’s decided best fits her branding as the woman who ensures the city doesn’t go hungry. She likes the people to see the kind smile and helping hand and ignore the way she will happily mow down anyone who tries to stand in the way of her ambition. She pauses in front of the statue of her namesake, Demeter. The statue is generously curved and wearing a flowing dress that melds with the flowers springing up at her feet. They match the floral wreath circling her head, and she smiles serenely as if she knows all the secrets of the universe. I’ve caught my mother practicing that exact expression. Mother’s lips curve, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes as she turns to us. “You’re supposed to be mingling.” “I have a headache.” The same excuse I used to try to get out of attending tonight. “Psyche was just checking on me.” “Mm-hmm.” Mother shakes her head. “You two are becoming as hopeless as your sisters.” If I realized that being hopeless was the surest way to avoid Mother’s meddling, I would have gone with that role instead of the one I chose. It’s too late to change my path now, but the headache I faked is becoming a real possibility at the thought of going back to the party. “I’m going to cut out early. I think this might evolve into a migraine.” “You most definitely are not.” She says it pleasantly enough, but there is steel in her tone. “Zeus wants to speak to you. There’s absolutely no reason to make him wait.” I can think of half a dozen off the top of my head, but I know Mother won’t listen to a single one. Still, I can’t help but try. “You know, he’s rumored to have killed all three of his wives.”
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“It’s certainly less messy than a divorce.” I blink. I honestly can’t tell if she’s joking or not. “Mother…” “Oh, relax. You’re so tense. Trust me, girls. I know best.” My mother is likely the smartest person I know, but her goals are not my goals. There’s no easy way out of this, though, so I obediently fall into step next to Psyche and follow her out of the room. For a moment, I imagine I can feel the intensity of Hades’s statue staring at my back, but it’s pure fantasy. Hades is a dead title. Even if he wasn’t, my sister is probably right; he’d be just as bad as the rest of them. We leave the statue room and walk down the long hallway leading back to the party. It’s like everything else in Dodona Tower—large and excessive and expensive. The hallway is easily twice as wide as it needs to be, and each door we pass is at least a foot taller than normal. Deep-red curtains hang from the ceiling to the floor and are pulled back on either side of the doors—an extra touch of extravagance that the space most certainly didn’t need. It gives the impression of walking through a palace, rather than the skyscraper that towers over the upper city. As if anyone is in danger of forgetting that Zeus has styled himself as a modern-day king. I’m honestly surprised he doesn’t walk around with a crown that matches his statue’s. The banquet room is more of the same. It’s a massive, sprawling space with one wall completely taken up with windows and a few glass doors leading out to the balcony that overlooks the city. We’re on the top floor of the tower, and the view is truly outstanding. From this point, a person can see a good portion of the upper city and the winding swath of blackness that is the River Styx. And
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on the other side? The lower city. It doesn’t look all that different from the upper city up here, but it might as well be on the moon for all that most of us can reach it. Tonight, the balcony doors are closed tight to avoid anyone being inconvenienced by the icy winter wind. Instead of the view of the city, the darkness behind the glass has become a distorted mirror of the room. Everyone is dressed to the nines, a rainbow of designer gowns and tuxes, flashes of horribly expensive jewels and finery. They create a sickening kaleidoscope as people move through the crowd, mingling and networking and dripping beautiful poison from painted-red lips. It reminds me of a fun-house mirror. Nothing in the reflection is quite what it seems, for all its supposed beauty. Around the remaining three walls are giant portraits of the twelve active members of the Thirteen. They’re oil paintings, a tradition that goes back to the beginning of Olympus. As if the Thirteen really do think they’re like the monarchs of old. The artist certainly took some liberties with a few of them. The younger version of Ares, in particular, looks nothing like the man himself. Age changes a person, but his jaw was never that square, nor his shoulders that broad. That artist also depicted him with a giant broadsword in his hand, when I know for a fact this Ares won his position by submission in the arena—not in war. But then, I suppose that doesn’t make for as majestic an image. It takes a certain kind of person to gossip and mingle and backstab while their likeness stares down at them, but the Thirteen is filled with monsters like that. Mother cuts through the crowd, perfectly at ease with all the
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other sharks. With nearly ten years serving as Demeter, she’s one of the newest members of the Thirteen, but she’s taken to moving in these circles like she was born to it instead of elected by the people the same way Demeters always are. The crowd parts for her, and I can feel eyes on us as we follow her into the brightly colored mix. These people might resemble peacocks with the way they go the extra mile for these events, but to a person, their eyes are cold and merciless. I have no friends in this room—only people who seek to use me as a stepping stool to claw their way to more power. A lesson I learned early and harshly. Two people move out of my mother’s way, and I catch a glimpse of the corner of the room I do my best to avoid when I’m here. It houses an honest-to-gods throne, a gaudy thing made of gold and silver and copper. The sturdy legs curve up to armrests and the back of the throne flares out to give the impression of a thundercloud. As dangerous and electric as its owner, and he wants to be sure no one ever forgets it. Zeus. If Olympus is ruled by the Thirteen, the Thirteen are ruled by Zeus. It’s a legacy role, one passed from parent to child, the bloodline stretching back to the first founding of the city. Our current Zeus has held his position for decades, ever since he took over at thirty. He’s somewhere north of sixty now. I suppose he’s attractive enough if one likes big barrel-chested white men with great boisterous laughs and beards gone winter-gray. He makes my skin crawl. Every time he looks at me with those faded blue eyes, I feel
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like I’m an animal at auction. Less than an animal, really. A pretty vase, or perhaps a statue. Something to be owned. If a pretty vase is broken, it’s easy enough to purchase a replacement. At least it is if you’re Zeus. Mother slows down, forcing Psyche back a few steps, and takes my hand. She squeezes hard enough to convey her silent warning to behave, but she’s all smiles for him. “Look who I found!” Zeus holds out his hand, and there’s nothing to do but place mine in his and allow him to kiss my knuckles. His lips brush my skin for the barest moment, and the small hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I have to fight not to wipe the back of my hand on my dress when he finally releases me. Every instinct I have is screaming that I’m in danger. I have to plant my feet to prevent myself from turning and running. I wouldn’t make it far anyway. Not with my mother standing in the way. Not with the glittering crowd of people watching this little scene play out like vultures scenting blood on the wind. There’s nothing this lot loves more than drama, and making a scene with Demeter and Zeus will result in consequences I don’t want to deal with. At best, it will anger my mother. At worse, I run the risk of being a headline in the gossip mags, and that will land me in even more hot water. Better to just ride this out until I can escape. Zeus’s smile is a touch too warm. “Persephone. You look lovely tonight.” My heart beats like a bird trying to escape its cage. “Thank you,” I murmur. I have to calm down, to smooth my emotions out. Zeus has a reputation as the kind of man who enjoys the distress of anyone weaker than he is. I won’t give him the satisfaction of
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knowing he scares me. It’s the only power I have in this situation, and I refuse to relinquish it. He moves closer, edging into my personal space, and lowers his voice. “It’s good to finally have a chance to speak with you. I’ve been trying to corner you for the last few months.” He smiles, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s enough to make me think you’re avoiding me.” “Of course not.” I can’t edge back without bumping into my mother…but I put several seconds of serious consideration into that option before discarding it. Mother will never forgive me if I make a scene before the all-powerful Zeus. Ride it out. You can do this. I dredge up a bright smile even as I begin chanting the mantra that’s gotten me through the last year. Three months. Just ninety days between me and freedom. Ninety days until I can access my trust fund and use it to get out of Olympus. I can survive this. I will survive this. Zeus practically beams at me, all warm sincerity. “I know this isn’t the most conventional approach, but it’s time to make the announcement.” I blink. “Announcement?” “Yes, Persephone.” My mother edges in close, shooting daggers from her eyes. “The announcement.” She’s trying to beam some knowledge directly into my brain, but I have no idea what’s going on. Zeus reclaims my hand and my mother practically shoves me after him as he starts for the front of the room. I shoot a wild look at my sister, but Psyche is just as wide-eyed as I feel right now. What’s going on?
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People fall silent as we pass, their gazes a thousand needles against the back of my neck. I have no friends in this room. Mother would say it’s my own fault for not networking the way she’s instructed me to time and time again. I tried. Really, I did. It took all of a month to realize that the cruelest insults come with sweet smiles and honeyed words. After the first lunch invitation resulted in my misquoted words being splashed across the gossip headlines, I gave up. I will never play the game as well as the vipers in this room. I hate the false fronts and slippery insults and knives hidden in words and smiles. I want a normal life, but that’s the one thing that’s impossible with a mother in the Thirteen. At least, it’s impossible in Olympus. Zeus stops at the front of the room and snags a champagne glass. It looks absurd in his large hand, like he’ll shatter it with one rough touch. He raises the glass and the last few murmurs in the room fade away. Zeus grins at them. It’s easy to see how he holds such devotion despite the rumors that circulate about him. The man practically has charisma oozing from his pores. “Friends, I haven’t been completely honest with you.” “That’s a first,” someone says from the back of the room, sending a wave of faint laughter through the space. Zeus laughs along with them. “While we are technically here to vote on the new trade agreements with Sabine Valley, I also have a little announcement to make. It’s long past time for me to find a new Hera and make our number complete again. I’ve finally chosen.” He looks at me, and it’s the only warning I get before he speaks the words that light my dreams of freedom on
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fire so completely I can only watch them burn to ash. “Persephone Dimitriou, will you marry me?” I can’t breathe. His presence has sucked up all the air in the room, and the lights flare too bright. I teeter on my heels, only keeping my feet through sheer force of will. Will the others fall on me like a pack of wolves if I collapse now? I don’t know, and because I don’t know, I have to stay standing. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My mother presses into me from the other side, all bright smiles and joyful tones. “Of course she will! She’ll be honored to.” Her elbow digs into my side. “Isn’t that right?” Saying no isn’t an option. This is Zeus, king in everything but name. He gets what he wants when he wants it, and if I humiliate him right now in front of the most powerful people in Olympus, he’ll make my entire family pay. I swallow hard. “Yes.” A cheer goes up, the sound making me dizzy. I catch sight of someone recording this with their phone and know without a shadow of a doubt that it will be all over the internet within an hour, on all the news stations by morning. People come forward to congratulate us—really, to congratulate Zeus—and through it all he keeps his tight grip on my hand. I stare at the faces that move in a blur, a tidal wave of hate rising in me. These people don’t care about me. I know that, of course. I’ve known that since my first interaction with them, since the moment we ascended to this vaulted social circle by virtue of my mother’s new position. But this is a whole different level. We all know the rumors about Zeus. All of us. He’s gone through three Heras—three wives—in his time leading the Thirteen.
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Three dead wives, now. If I let this man put his ring on my finger, I might as well let him put a collar and leash on me, too. I will never be my own person, will never be anything but an extension of him until he grows tired of me, too, and replaces that collar with a coffin. I will never be free of Olympus. Not until he dies and the title passes to his oldest child. That could be years. It could be decades. And that’s making the outrageous assumption that I’ll outlive him, instead of ending six feet under like the rest of the Heras. Frankly, I don’t like my odds.
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THE PARTY CONTINUES AROUND ME, BUT I CAN’T FOCUS ON anything. Faces blur, colors meld together, the sound of gushing compliments are static in my ears. A scream is building in my chest, a sound of loss too big for my body, but I can’t let it escape. If I start shrieking, I’m certain I’ll never stop. I sip champagne through numb lips, my free hand shaking so badly that the liquid sloshes around in the glass. Psyche appears in front of me as if by magic, and though she’s got her blank expression firmly in place, her eyes are practically shooting lasers at both our mother and Zeus. “Persephone, I have to go to the bathroom. Come with me?” “Of course.” I barely sound like myself. I almost have to pry my fingers from Zeus’s, and all I can think about are those meaty hands on my body. Oh gods, I’m going to be sick. Psyche hustles me out of the ballroom, using her voluptuous body to shield me, dodging well-wishers as if she’s my own personal security. The hallway doesn’t feel any better, though. The
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walls are closing in. I can see Zeus’s imprint on every inch of this place. If I marry him, he’ll put his imprint on me, too. “I can’t breathe,” I gasp. “Keep walking.” She rushes me past the bathroom, around a corner, and to the elevator. The claustrophobic feeling is even worse when the doors close, trapping us in the mirrored space. I stare at my reflection. My eyes are too large in my face, and my pale skin is leached of color. I can’t stop shaking. “I’m going to be sick.” “Almost there, almost there.” She practically carries me out of the elevator the second the doors open, taking us down another wide, marbled hall to a side door. We slip into one of the handful of courtyards that surround the building, a little bit of carefully curated garden in the midst of so much city. It’s dormant now, dusted with the light snow that started to fall while we were inside. The cold cuts through me like a knife, and I welcome the sting. Anything is better than being up in that room for another moment longer. Dodona Tower is in the very center of downtown Olympus, one of the few pieces of property that is owned by the Thirteen as a whole, rather than any one of the individuals, though everyone knows it’s Zeus’s in every way that counts. It’s a grand skyscraper that I used to find almost magical when I was too young to know better. Psyche guides me to a stone bench. “Do you need to put your head between your knees?” “It won’t help.” The world won’t stop spinning. I have to… I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I’ve always
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seen my path before me, stretching out through the years to my ultimate goal. It’s always been so clear. Finishing my master’s degree here in Olympus, a compromise with my mother. Wait until I turn twenty-five and gain my trust fund, and then use the money to break free of Olympus. It’s hard to fight your way through the barrier that keeps us separate from the rest of the world, but it’s not impossible. Not with the right people helping, and my money ensures that will be the case. And then I’ll be free. I can move to California to do my PhD at Berkeley. A new city, a new life, a fresh start. Now I can’t see anything at all. “I can’t believe she did this.” Psyche starts pacing, her movements short and angry, her dark hair so like our mother’s swinging with each step. “Callisto is going to kill her. She knew you didn’t want any part of this, and she forced you into it anyway.” “Psyche…” My throat feels hot and tight, my chest tighter yet. As if I’ve been impaled and am only now noticing. “He killed his last wife. His last three wives.” “You don’t know that.” She answers automatically, but she won’t quite meet my gaze. “Even if I don’t… Mother knew what everyone believes he’s capable of and didn’t care.” I wrap my arms around myself. It does nothing to quell my shakes. “She sold me to cement her power. She’s already one of the Thirteen. Why isn’t that good enough for her?” Psyche perches on the bench next to me. “We’ll figure out a way through this. We just need time.”
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“He’s not going to give me time,” I say dully. “He’s going to push the wedding through just like he pushed the proposal.” How long do I have? A week? A month? “We should call Callisto.” “No.” I nearly shout the word and make an effort to lower my voice. “If you tell her now, she’ll come straight here and make a scene.” When it comes to Callisto, that might mean yelling at our mother…or it might mean taking off one of the spike heels she favors and trying to stab Zeus in the throat. There would be consequences either way, and I can’t let my older sister bear the burden of protecting me. I have to figure my own way through this. Somehow. “Maybe making a scene is a good thing at this point.” Bless Psyche, but she still doesn’t understand. As daughters of Demeter, we have two choices—play within the rules of Olympus or leave the city behind entirely. That’s it. There is no bucking the system without paying the cost, and the consequences are too severe. One of us stepping out of line will create a ripple effect impacting everyone connected to us. Even Mother being one of the Thirteen won’t save us if it comes to that. I should marry him. It would ensure my sisters remain protected, or as near to it as is possible in this pit of vipers. It’s the right thing to do, even if the very thought makes me ill. As if in response, my stomach surges and I barely get to the nearest bushes in time to be sick. I’m vaguely aware of Psyche holding my hair away from my face and rubbing my back in soothing circles. I should do this…but I can’t.
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“I can’t do this.” Saying it aloud makes it feel more real. I wipe my mouth and force myself to stand. “We’re missing something. There’s no way that Mother would send you into a marriage with a man who might harm you. She’s ambitious, but she loves us. She wouldn’t put us in danger.” There was a time when I agreed. After tonight, I don’t know what to believe. “I can’t do this,” I repeat. “I won’t do this.” Psyche digs through her tiny purse and comes up with a stick of gum. When I make a face at her, she shrugs. “No use getting distracted by puke breath while you’re making life-changing statements of intent.” I take the gum and the peppermint flavor does help ground me a bit. “I can’t do this,” I repeat again. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” She doesn’t tell me how impossible this situation is going to be to get out of. She also doesn’t list all the reasons fighting it will never go my way. I’m just a single woman against all the power Olympus can bring to the fore. Stepping out of line isn’t an option. They’ll force me to my knees before they let me go. Getting out of this city was already going to take every resource I had. Getting out now that Zeus has claimed me? I don’t know if it’s even possible. Psyche takes my hands. “What are you going to do?” Panic bleats through my head. I have the budding suspicion that if I walk back into that building, I’ll never walk back out again. It feels paranoid, but I’d felt weird about how furtive Mother was acting for days now and look how that turned out. No, I can’t afford to ignore my instincts. Not any longer. Or maybe my fear is
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clouding my thoughts. I don’t know and I don’t care. I just know I absolutely cannot go back. “Can you go get my purse?” I left both it and my phone upstairs. “And tell Mother that I don’t feel so well and that I’m going home?” Psyche is already nodding. “Of course. Anything you need.” It takes ten seconds after she’s gone to register that going home won’t solve any of these problems. Mother will just come collect me and deliver me back to my new fiancé, trussed up if necessary. I scrub my hands over my face. I can’t go home, I can’t stay here, I can’t think. I shove to my feet and turn for the entrance to the courtyard. I should wait for Psyche to get back, should let her talk me down into something resembling calm. She’s just as cunning as Mother; she’ll come up with a solution if given enough time. But letting her get involved means running the risk that Zeus will punish her alongside me the second he realizes I desperately don’t want his ring on my finger. If there’s a chance to spare my sisters from the consequences of my actions, I’m going to do it. Mother and Zeus will have no reason to punish them if they had no part in helping me defy this marriage. I have to get out and I have to do it alone. Now. I take one step, and then another. I almost stop when I come even with the thick stone archway leading out onto the street, almost let my rising reckless fear fail me and turn back to submit to the collar Zeus and my mother are so keen to put around my neck. No.
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The single word feels like a battle cry. I surge forward, past the entrance and out onto the sidewalk. I pick up my pace, moving at a brisk walk and turning south on instinct. Away from my mother’s home. Away from Dodona Tower and all the predators contained within. If I can just get some distance, I can think. That’s what I need. If I can get my thoughts in order, I can come up with a plan and find a way out of this mess. The wind picks up as I walk, cutting through my thin dress as if it doesn’t exist. I move faster, my heels clicking along the pavement in a way that reminds me of my mother, which only serves to remind me of what she’s done. I don’t care of Psyche is likely right, that Mother undoubtedly has some scheme up her sleeve that doesn’t put my head on a literal chopping block. Her plans make no difference. She didn’t talk to me, didn’t give me the benefit of the doubt; she simply sacrificed this pawn to get access to the king. It makes me sick. The tall buildings of downtown Olympus do a bit to cut off the wind, but every time I cross a street, it barrels down from the north and whips my dress around my legs. It feels extra icy coming off the water of the bay, so cold my sinuses hurt. I have to get out of the elements, but the thought of turning around and walking back to Dodona Tower is too awful to bear. I’d rather freeze. I laugh hoarsely at the absurd thought. Yes, that’ll show them. Losing a few toes and fingers to frostbite will definitely hurt my mother and Zeus more than it hurts me. I can’t tell if it’s panic or the cold making me loopy. Downtown Olympus is just as carefully polished as Zeus’s tower. All the storefronts create a unified style that’s elegant and
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minimalist. Metal and glass and stone. It’s pretty, but ultimately soulless. The only indicator of what kind of businesses are contained behind the various glass doors are tasteful vertical signs with the business names. The further from the city center, the more individual style and flavor seep into the neighborhoods, but this close to Dodona Tower, Zeus controls everything. If we marry, will he order clothes for me so that I fit seamlessly in with his aesthetic? Supervise my hair stylist visits to mold me in the image he wants? Monitor what I do, what I say, what I think? The thought makes me shudder. It takes me three blocks before I realize my footsteps aren’t the only ones I hear. I glance over my shoulder to find two men half a block back. I pick up my pace, and they match it easily. Not quite trying to close the distance, but I can’t shake the sensation of being hunted. This late, all the shops and businesses in the downtown area are closed. There’s music a few blocks away that must be a bar still open. Maybe I can lose them in there—and get warm in the process. I take the next left turn, aiming in the direction of the sound. Another look over my shoulder shows only a single man behind me. Where did the other one go? I get my answer a few seconds later when he appears in the next intersection from my left. He’s not blocking the street, but every instinct I have tells me to stay as far away from him as possible. I veer right, once again heading south. The further I get from the center of downtown, the more the buildings begin to break away from the cookie-cutter image. I
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begin to see trash on the street. Several of the businesses have bars on their windows. There are even a foreclosure sign or two taped to dirty doors. Zeus only cares about what he can see, and apparently his gaze doesn’t stretch to this block. Maybe it’s the cold muddling my thoughts, but it takes me far too long to realize that they’re driving me to the River Styx. True fears clamps its teeth into me. If they corner me against the banks, I truly will be trapped. There are only three bridges between the upper city and the lower city, but no one uses them—not since the final Hades died. Crossing the river is forbidden. If legend is to be believed, it’s not actually possible without paying some kind of terrible price. And that’s if I even managed to reach a bridge. Terror gives me wings. I stop worrying about how much my feet hurt in these ridiculously uncomfortable heels. The cold barely registers. There has to be a way to get around my pursuers, to find people who can help. I don’t even have my fucking phone. Damn it, I shouldn’t have let emotions get the best of me. If I’d just waited for Psyche to bring me my purse, none of this would be happening… Would it? Time ceases to have meaning. The seconds are measured in each harsh exhale tearing itself from my chest. I can’t think, can’t stop, am nearly sprinting. Gods, my feet hurt. At first, I barely register the rushing sound of the river. It’s almost impossible to hear over my own ragged breathing. But then it’s there in front of me, a wet, black ribbon too wide, too fast to swim safely, even if it were summer. In the winter, it’s a death sentence.
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I spin around to find the men closer. I can’t quite make out their faces in the shadows, which is right around the time I realize how quiet the night’s gotten. The sound of that bar is barely a murmur in the distance. No one is coming to save me. No one even knows I’m here. The man on the right, the taller of the two, laughs in a way that has my body fighting off shudders that have nothing to do with the cold. “Zeus would like a word.” Zeus. Had I imagined this situation couldn’t get worse? Foolish of me. These aren’t random predators. They were sent after me like dogs retrieving a runaway hare. I hadn’t really thought he’d stand idly by and let me escape, had I? Apparently so, because shock steals what little thought I have left. If I stop running, they will collect me and return me to my fiancé. He will cage me. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that I won’t get another opportunity to escape. I don’t think. I don’t plan. I kick off my heels and run for my life. Behind me, they curse, and then their footsteps pound. Too close. The river curves here, and I follow the bank. I don’t even know where I’m headed. Away. I have to get away. I don’t care what it looks like. I’d throw myself into the icy river itself to escape Zeus. Anything is better than the monster who rules upper city. Cypress Bridge rises up in front of me, an ancient stone bridge with columns that are larger around than I am and twice
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as tall. They create an arch that gives the impression of leaving this world behind. “Stop!” I ignore the yell and plunge through the arch. It hurts. Fuck, everything hurts. My skin stings as if being scraped raw by some invisible barrier, and my feet feel like I’m sprinting on glass. I don’t care. I can’t stop now, not with them so close. I barely notice the fog rising around me, coming off the river in waves. I’m halfway across the bridge when I catch sight of the man standing on the other bank. He’s wrapped in a black coat with his hands in his pockets, fog curling around his legs like a dog with its master. A fanciful thought, which is only further confirmation that I am not okay. I’m not even in the same realm as okay. “Help!” I don’t know who this stranger is, but he’s got to be better than what pursues me. “Please help!” He doesn’t move. My steps falter, my body finally beginning to shut down from the cold and fear and strange slicing pain of crossing this bridge. I stumble, nearly going to my knees, and meet the stranger’s eyes. Pleading. He looks down at me, still as a statue draped in black, for what feels like an eternity. Then he seems to make a choice: lifting a hand, palm extended toward me, he beckons me across what remains of the River Styx. I’m finally close enough to see his dark hair and beard, to imagine the intensity of his dark gaze as the strange buzzing tension in the air seems to relax around me, allowing me to push through those final steps to the other side without pain. “Come,” he says simply.
NEON GODS
25
Somewhere in the depths of my panic, my mind is screaming that this is a terrible mistake. I don’t care. I dredge up the last bit of my strength and sprint for him. I don’t know who this stranger is, but anyone is preferable to Zeus. No matter the price.
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