Bailey Summers twisted the faucet handle with one hand and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser with the other. She drenched the brown paper and pressed the rough cloth to her face. The realities of morning sickness certainly lived up to the legend. All she wanted was to stretch out on the floor and rest her cheek against the cool tile. This early in the day, before the bar opened, at least she knew it was clean. 
But she had a business to run and a new bartender to get acclimated. At least Tuesday was a traditionally slow night. 
No good deed goes unpunished. She could hear her mother's words as clearly as if the woman was standing beside her. God, what would her mother say when she found out what Bailey had done? She had a feeling that confrontation would be worse than morning sickness and labor combined. The situation was just so complicated. Her mother hated complications. 
Bailey wasn't a particular fan, either. 
With a sigh, she readjusted the ponytail high on her head. Now wasn't the time to think of that. She'd work it out later, maybe when her brain wasn't focused on not throwing up. She dug a pack of gum out of the front pocket of her jeans and unwrapped a piece with a grimace. The juice from the gum would only upset her stomach further, but she hadn't thought to bring her toothbrush. Taking a deep breath, she flung open the door and stepped into the hallway. 
And almost collided with a broad chest that was not supposed to be there. She put her hand out, her palm coming in contact with firm, warm flesh beneath a knit shirt. She indulged herself for a brief moment before she caught her balance and stepped back. 
Dark brows drew together over deep blue eyes rimmed with long thick lashes, and a long-fingered hand closed around her elbow. 
"You okay?" Blue Eyes asked in a husky voice. 
She nodded and took another step back, breaking his hold. This time, the pitch in her stomach had nothing to do with her morning sickness and everything to do with—wow, he was hand‐ some, dark-haired, with a lean face and a sexy mouth. 
Not to mention that chest.
Ridiculous thoughts for a pregnant woman to be thinking. "We're, ah, closed until four."
"Yeah, I know. I'm Rick Cassidy, the new bartender."
Holy hell. Well, he'll certainly bring in the women. She cast about in her brain for what her manager, Manuel, had told her about the new bartender. He had another job—one that didn't go with being a bartender. 
"You're a teacher, right? Middle school or something? Is that going to interfere with working here?" 
"I've already made arrangements on the days I need off, but the school year's wrapping up, and I'll be yours all summer." 
Those words shouldn't have affected her, being pregnant and nauseated and all, but they were accompanied by a flash of straight white teeth and a wink. She pushed aside the rise of interest. He was an employee, someone she'd be helping to train. 
And she'd heard hormones didn't kick in until the second trimester. She was barely eight weeks along. 
"Did Manuel let you in?" She looked past a broad shoulder for her manager to save her from herself. 
"The door was open, but I haven't seen him. I was back here hunting him down." 
Scowling, she brushed past Rick and headed into the main part of the building, her darling, all polished wood and brass, with a bar that wrapped around and several booths and tables across the floor. If Manuel left the door open, anyone could come in. 
She found her manager in a back booth with his tablet computer, placing the order for next week. "Your new bartender is looking for you." 
Manuel popped up off the bench to shake Rick's hand, then looked at Bailey. "You look like hell. Are you sick?" 
She hadn't told her employees her condition for the same reason she hadn't told her mother, though she expected her employees would be more sympathetic. But she didn't want to have to explain it, not yet. "I'm fine. Stomach's a little upset." She felt her face heat at the admission in front of Rick. She wasn't used to being embarrassed—or sick, for that matter. 
"Okay, well, you take it easy and I'll show Rick around." 
Oh, thank heavens. Her own hormones were messy enough without adding testosterone to the mix. "I'll grab a ginger ale and finish up here." And see if there was some stale popcorn behind the bar. Stale salty popcorn sounded really good right now. 
BY THE TIME the bar opened, she was feeling better, almost normal, and her thoughts weren't quite so focused on the life in her womb. Hell, before this started, she'd never even thought the word "womb" in regards to herself, only when saying the Hail Mary. 
Oh, her mother was going to have a fit. 
She sat at the end of the bar, near the condiments, and watched Manuel work with Rick as she nibbled at a turkey sandwich from next door. Again, Tuesday night wasn't a big test, just some people coming in after work, a few friends meeting, a couple of regulars. The test would be Thursday night when the Spurs entered the next round of the play-offs and customers came to watch on the big screen TVs set up on either end of the bar. She hadn't wanted TVs, really, but they had paid for them‐ selves within a week. Working game night would show her if Rick could keep his cool. Now he was smiling and joking and serving beer, though he'd mixed a couple of easy drinks, too, with little effort. 
Bailey noticed the women paying attention to him, watching him move with that economy of movement and easy grace. Yes, ladies, tell all your friends about Summers' hot new bartender. 
The door opened and her brother Mitch and his partner Dean walked in. Mitch's face lit up when he saw her—though he'd just been in last week—and he crossed the room to hug her, lifting her off the barstool. 
"How are you feeling?" he asked, a little too loud, with too pointed of a look at her belly. 
"Sh!" She glanced behind the bar to see if Manuel or Rick noticed, but she couldn't be sure. Rick was watching with some curiosity. She wriggled free of her brother, accepted a quick peck from Dean, tugged at the hem of her blouse and turned to Rick. "This is my brother Mitch and his partner Dean. Dean and Mitch, meet Rick, the new bartender." 
Mitch leaned forward to shake Rick's hand, and this time Bailey watched Rick closely. Since Mitch had come out seven years ago, she'd been wary of people who treated him with any kind of hesitation. But Rick gripped his hand firmly, and did the same to Dean with a nod of acknowledgement. 
"Oh, well done, Sis," Mitch murmured, elbowing her discreetly. "Not my doing. Manuel's."
"Ah, well, you can reap the benefits."
"Not for seven more months, I won't." And by then, Rick 
would be gone, no doubt, especially since he was a teacher. She didn't expect he could keep up two jobs during the school year. 
Mitch wrapped his arm around her shoulder and hugged her against his side. "Thank you for doing this for us. You have no idea what it means." 
"Of course I know what it means, or I wouldn't have done it." She pulled away from him, not wanting to discuss it here, not where they could be overheard. Her surrogate pregnancy couldn't be a secret for long, but she had a feeling she was going to get really tired of explaining it. She had never considered having a child of her own, but when Mitch and Dean decided they wanted a baby and had started thinking about surrogacy over adoption, well, she couldn't stop thinking about it. It was only nine months of her life, and then she could go back to normal. "Rick, could I get a whiskey sour and a glass of Shiraz down here? And maybe half a glass of ginger ale. No ice." 
She took her place back on the bar stool with the computer tablet. 
"Feeling okay?" Dean asked, sitting beside her and looking at her half-eaten sandwich. 
"Just wary of putting anything into my stomach I don't want to see again." 
Mitch rubbed her shoulder in sympathy. "It will pass." 
"I hope." She'd heard horror stories of women who had morning sickness all day, every day, of their pregnancy. She shiv‐ ered at the concept. 
"So what's his story?" Mitch sat on the barstool on her other side, and nodded at Rick as he walked away after serving them their drinks. 
She twisted the silver ring on her thumb. "He's my employee. Not interested in his story." 
"Liar." 
"Okay, how about my life is complicated and I'm not interested in his story." 
"Only partly true." 
Her brother knew her so well, which was why she'd agreed to carry a baby for him and the love of his life, donating her egg, so that their child would have both Dean and Mitch's DNA. That, and she hadn't been in a relationship in a couple of years and didn't have anyone in her life that would object. But she couldn't let him tease her into interest in the new bartender. Besides, what kind of man would want a woman who was about to grow as big as a house? 
She managed to steer the conversation to his day at the museum and Dean's at the bank, only interrupting them a few times to answer a phone call or fetch more chips from the back. After they finished their drinks and paid, at their insistence, she walked them to the door. 
"We decided to wait until after Mom's birthday, then tell her," Mitch said at the door. "I don't think I can keep this from her for long, but I learned my lesson when I came out just before Christmas." 
And hadn't that been the worst Christmas ever? Their very strict and religious mother had not easily accepted that her son was gay and had canceled the holiday. Bailey hadn't realized how much she valued tradition until that year. Bailey took a deep breath. Her mother's birthday was in two weeks. 
"Okay. How bad can it be?" Even as she said the words, she knew. It would be bad. 




Rick let himself into his apartment and tossed his keys on the table by the door. They slid across the surface to the floor, but he was too tired to pick them up. What had he been thinking, starting this job at the end of the school year, when he was watching the calendar as much as the kids? When his ass was kicked from weeks of testing? 
He was thinking that he needed money, a lot of it, and quick. He'd paid his way through college tending bar, and while tips hadn't been great tonight, the place hadn't been too busy, either. The couple of nights he'd checked it out before applying for the job, it had been bouncing. He'd make it up. Who needed sleep anyway? 
He headed for the shower and leaned against the tile as the water sluiced over him. A benefit of the job was the lovely owner with her long blonde hair, big brown eyes, aristocratic features and trim, athletic body. Manuel had caught him staring at that fine ass when she'd restocked the chips, and given him a definite hands-off sign. 
Of course. She was his boss, the owner. No possibilities there, but he could still enjoy. His life was too crazy now anyway. He needed the money, and he needed to stay awake in class tomorrow. Wasn't going to happen if he couldn't keep his mind off a sexy blonde with a great ass. 
After a hunt for his keys this following morning—they'd slid into the fringe of the carpet—Rick arrived at work just as the tardy bell rang. Shit, he was never late, but he wasn't going to survive the day without caffeine, so he stopped in the teacher's lounge to fill two tiny Styrofoam cups—the only ones left this late in the year, when teachers needed caffeine more—and check his box for any paperwork he needed. He tucked the accumulated papers into his messenger bag, picked up the two cups and headed for the door. 
"Hey, Rick, I've been thinking about you," Susan Torres, the journalism teacher, stopped him at the door. "How's your brother?" 
"Well, you know." Fighting depression. In constant pain. Bedridden. He didn't want to talk about his brother's accident and resulting broken back, especially to a coworker he didn't know that well. "Recovering." 
"Good. I've been praying for him and you." She placed her slender hand on his arm and let it linger. 
A coworker he didn't know that well, but who wanted to change that. She was lovely, tall and slender, long dark hair, big eyes, natural make-up. Just his type. But her timing couldn't be worse. He'd ended a long-term relationship a couple months back and started a new job. Add to that his visits to the rehab hospital and babysitting his niece and nephew so his sister-in- law could get things done. He had no time to even think about dating. He stepped back, breaking contact. "Thanks." 
"Look, if you ever want to talk, I kind of know what you're going through." 
"Yeah?" He shifted his messenger bag higher on his shoulder. He needed to get to class, but couldn't just walk away. "What happened?" "My brother drove into a low-water crossing and the car got pushed off the road. He almost drowned but was rescued. Still, he suffered some injuries, and he was never quite the same. So I kind of know. It was a while ago, and he's mostly recovered, but...it was a long road."
Long road. That sounded about right. Worse—or maybe better, who knew—Riley had two kids who needed him, and a wife struggling to make ends meet as a maid at a Riverwalk hotel. She might not even be able to hold onto that for long. Add the hospital bills to that...thus the second job. Better him than her. 
He nodded. "I'm glad he's doing better. It'll take Riley awhile, but we have hope. But right now, I've got to get to class. My kids are waiting." 
Her face fell and she stepped back, letting him pass. 
He didn't mean to hurt her, but he had no room in his life for a woman. 
BAILEY SUMMERS WAS SITTING at the bar, her head in her hands, when he walked into Summers that afternoon. 
"Still not over that bug?" he asked, and her head snapped up, her eyes wide, alarmed. 
She started to get off the stool, but her foot caught and only his quick capture of her elbow saved her from falling on her fine ass. Soft skin covered deceptively strong muscles, but he was only allowed to register that for a moment before she yanked her arm away. 
"I'm not usually so clumsy."
"I don't mind. Lets me do a good deed."
She snorted. "You're here early."
"Yeah, I came straight from school. Made more sense than 
going home and coming back." He swung his messenger bag onto the counter and sat. 
She sat, too, slowly, though, like she didn't want to. "Papers to grade? You want a Coke or something?" 
"Sure, I'll get it," he added quickly when she started to rise. "Want some more ginger ale?" 
"I have a pitcher of weak green tea back there in the fridge, if you don't mind." 
He rounded the bar and frowned at her. "Maybe you should go see a doctor. Or at least go home and get some rest. From what I've seen, Manuel can run the bar okay on his own.”
She narrowed her eyes. "Last night was a slow night. Trust me, you'll need me more the rest of the week." 
"You won't do us any good if you're sick." 
"I'll be fine," she said through her teeth as he passed her the iced tea. 
Stubborn woman. He raised his hands in surrender and stepped back. He poured his own beverage and crossed to the other side and opened his bag. 
"So I don't think I've ever met a man who was a middle school teacher and not a coach. You're not a coach, right?" 
"Nope. U. S. History."
She grimaced.
"Not a history fan?"
She shook her head.
"I love it. All that cause and effect. It's like a puzzle."
"I suppose. The kids probably love you, girls especially." "Why's that?" 
She lifted her eyebrows. "Oh, come on, now. You have a mirror." 
He laughed softly as he dug for a pen. "To middle school girls, I'm an old man. I'm in my thirties." 
"I remember crushing on a teacher when I was in middle school. Spanish. Senor Benavides. Looking back on it, it was probably more his personality than his looks. Though a lot of it was hormones. So why'd you become a teacher?" 
He shifted on the barstool to face her. "Ever have that one teacher who inspires you?" 
She shook her head. "No, not really. Other than Senor Bena‐ vides, that is." 
He chuckled. "For me, it was Mr. Hoyt. Sixth grade English, right after my dad died. I had no desire to be there, no desire to write or read or diagram sentences. I gave him hell, and he never gave up on me." 
"Not many people can say that..about many people." 
"I know. But I wanted to be someone that people could say that about, you know?" 
She made a noncommittal sound.
"What about you? What made you want to run a bar?"
"It was my uncle's. I worked here in college. He saw that I loved it, so he retired earlier than he planned and sold it to me. I'm still paying it off, by the way." 
"But it wasn't what you planned to do." 
"No, I was pre-law. I'm not really sure if my parents are more relieved that I'm a bar owner or not." 
He snorted, finally locating a pen in the bottom of his bag, which suffered from end-of-the-year-itis as much as he did. "Want to help me grade?" 
"Thanks, no. Being a teacher wasn't even in my top ten choices." 
"Summers off." 
"Working two jobs," she countered, sliding off the barstool. "I have some phone calls to make. You can hold it down out here until Manuel comes in, right?" But she didn't wait for an answer before hurrying down the hall to her office, leaving her drink behind. 

You can read the rest of What (Not) to Expect When You're Expecting, available at all retailers. 

Seven years ago, the country of Amadan in central Africa


Dr. Liv Olney didn’t want to open her eyes, though she’d not heard that sound before. She feared what she’d see in the dark stone room. She’d experienced too much terror, too much hate in the eyes of the men who held her captive.
Men who took too much enjoyment in her pain.
The scent of blood and fear filled the cavernous room. The cold permeated her bones while it numbed the cuts and burns on her skin, so she found no escape from the pain.
No escape but death.
She welcomed that over facing her captors again.
But the odd thunk she heard, the slithering sound, that was new. She opened her eyes a slit. No one had come through the door, but near the wall, in the light from the high window of the basement, a serpentine shape appeared. The light dimmed for a moment as a shadow passed over it.
A shadow.
A man’s shadow.
Her body tightened at the new threat, but she couldn’t muster the reserves to fight anymore. Maybe this man would kill her, and her ordeal would end. She was a doctor, she had catalogued every injury. She wouldn’t survive long.
The shadow disappeared as the shape lowered into the room. The unnatural silence with which he moved made her wonder if her fevered mind imagined him.
Then he turned, revealing a face streaked with grease paint. Hope surged when his whisper carried across the room, not in the French-tinged rhythm of her captors, but an American accent. The figure dropped soundlessly to the floor and moved to crouch in front of her.
A soldier, dressed in camouflage, strapped in black Kevlar. His eyes glinted in the light at his shoulder, and said her name again. She pushed herself to a sitting position, belatedly aware of her nakedness. Muttering something unintelligible, he sat on his heels and stripped off his shirt. As if anticipating her pain, he drew a breath through his teeth before he dropped the shirt over her bloody shoulders. The shirt rasped every cut on her back and neck, and the small weight was too much for her dislocated shoulder. She whimpered.
“I’m Captain Gerard Delaney. Can you walk?”
She shook her head. Even that hurt. “They burned my feet and broke my ankles.” Her voice rasped between cracked lips. She was amazed she felt such a little pain amid all the rest.
He leaned close enough and she smelled his sweat, but the kind gleam in his eyes pushed back the fear that threatened to lock her up.
“I’m going to carry you. Where else are you hurt?”
She opened her mouth to give him the highlights when the door behind him swung in. Liv cowered against the wall as her rescuer grew large and hard before her eyes. He unholstered his gun and swiveled to fire, two quick pops, then two more. Bodies dropped to the floor, guns clattering. Moving quickly, the captain crossed the room and gathered the weapons, then peered into the hallway. He dragged the bodies inside the room and closed the door.
“Gotta go,” he said, not as quiet as he strode back. “This will hurt. I’m sorry.”
He crouched again, draped her arms over his shoulders and dipped his shoulder into her middle. The pain as he lifted her into a fireman’s carry stole her breath. She fisted her hands in the sleeve of his T-shirt as if that would help her through it.
“Okay?” he asked.
What could she say? She grunted in the affirmative. He headed toward the window and the rope. Every step was excruciating as her injured midriff bounced on his shoulder.
“Watch the door.”
“Give me a gun.”
He lifted his eyebrows and glanced at her bloody hands. “Can you shoot?”
“My father insisted.” But she’d refused to carry a gun in the hospital, because she didn’t want to frighten the already-skittish patients. Her mistake.
“Can you hold a gun?”
She flexed aching palms. “I think so.”
He said nothing, just set her gently on her bottom against the wall and pressed a gun in her hand. She folded stiff fingers around the grip, keeping her attention on the door, with the three bodies shoved against it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the captain untangle a harness, his movements smooth and steady. In the hallway, footsteps pounded. She tensed, waiting for her captors to come into the room.
“This won’t be comfortable, but it’s only for a minute. My men will pull you up.”
Getting into the harness took an eternity as men pounded on the blocked door, but Liv couldn’t move faster-every action was filled with pain. The captain slid the ropes up her naked legs. He scowled at the blood that streaked them, before he snugged the knots around her butt. He pulled the shirt closer around her and buttoned two buttons, leaving her arms free so she could keep her balance and hold the gun.
“Okay?”
Her only chance for survival. She gave a short nod. He called up and the rope tightened around her. Her vision blurred as she ascended. She swayed forward and caught herself with her bad arm. Nausea swelled, but before the bile rose all the way up her throat, strong hands reached under her arms and pulled her through the window, at ground level.
She caught her breath as the other soldiers unfastened the harness. Once she was free, she rolled onto her stomach to look into the room. The pounding had increased. Her rescuer crouched, back against the wall, gun aimed at the door. He didn’t flinch when the rope dropped beside him, just reached over and wrapped his arm around it as the door flew inward.
Liv leveled the gun against the window ledge and fired at the men that burst into the room. She emptied her clip and continued pulling the trigger, ignoring the clicks that signaled the gun was spent. One soldier took the pistol from her with a smirk. She dropped her head to her arms, breathing hard, unable to erase the image of the man, one of her rapists, jerking as her bullets struck him.
“I want to go home,” she murmured as the captain climbed through the window and landed on the ground beside her. “I want to go home.”


* * *


Captain Gerard Delaney hopped to attention from the chair beside the hospital bed when General Todd Olney entered his daughter’s room. The general looked from the bed to the soldier.
“Here again?” The older man walked to the other side of the bed and folded his daughter’s hand in his.
It was odd, Del knew, that he spent his downtime visiting the young woman he’d rescued from that hellhole in Africa. Most of the time she was unconscious anyway. Best, he supposed, given the extent of her injuries. To survive what she did—well, she was tough.
She’d been the only one of the hostages who’d survived.
“Shipping out today, sir. Wanted to say goodbye.”
“Going back to Amadan?”
“No, sir, Sandaria.” The country bordered Amadan, but was no less volatile. No doctors to rescue from warlords, though.
“She’ll miss you.”
Del looked down at her swollen, bruised face. “She doesn’t know I’m here half the time.” He shifted his weight. “She’s a fighter.” He’d never forget seeing her laying on the window ledge, firing the shit out of that gun. “She’ll be all right, sir.”
The older man pressed his lips together. “I’ve got to believe that.”
“Make sure she stays out of trouble.” With a last look at the battered girl in the bed, he turned and left.
​

Don't Look Back is available at all retailers. 

The lights went out when Eden was reading the Seattle paper online. Automatically, she checked the plug on her laptop before she realized the house was silent. The television, so rarely not tuned into one twenty-four-hour news channel or another, was silent. Crazy, since today was Election Day and her father had been following the embittered campaign religiously, wondering which candidate would keep them afloat when it all went to hell. Every night, the pundits on the twenty-four-hour news stations got more intense, as if they were trying to reach through the television to make the viewers understand. Every night, her father grew quieter and quieter, and after the eleven o’clock news, he’d head to the basement to his HAM radio.
She closed her laptop and headed downstairs. Her father stood on the front porch, the door open, looking down the hill at the dark town. But he wasn’t looking at that. He was looking across the water toward the mainland, where they could usually see the glow of lights from Seattle and Tacoma.
Tonight, the sky was completely dark.
“It’s just a power outage. A storm.” Eden’s mother joined them at the door, cellphone in hand, but her tone anxious.
Her husband nodded at the phone. “Are you getting anything on that?”
Sarah McKay’s mouth tightened, and she shook her head.
Eddie McKay turned his gaze out over the water again. “It’s happened.”


* * *


Eden woke the next morning shivering under two quilts. Her father hadn’t wanted to turn on the generator yet, wanting to conserve fuel. So the power hadn’t come on.
God, she didn’t want to believe that her father was right. As much time as he’d spent training her on what to do in this situation, she’d never believed she would have to put those skills to use. She’d feared it, but never believed it.
Stomach tight, she entered the kitchen to see her parents at the table eating cereal. From the drawn look on her mother’s face and the bags under her father’s eyes, she could tell they’d not slept, or not slept well.
“I’ve called a town hall meeting for eleven,” he told her when she sat with them. “I want the two of you with me. It might get ugly and I want you close.”
Eden pulled the carton of milk toward her. It held some residual chill, but not much. She may as well use as much as she wanted. No telling when she’d get more. So she drowned her cereal in it. “Ugly? Why?”
“They’re not going to like what I have to say.”


* * *


The meeting was called to order in the tiny town hall, whose capacity, as stated on the plaque by the door, was only 100. Since the population of Pontbriand Island was over three hundred, and people were anxious, the mood in the town hall was already edgy.
“It’s finally happened,” Eddie McKay said once the meeting was called to order. “I’m not sure exactly what, if it’s war or a terror attack or just exactly what. I was on my radio last night for hours. Power is out all over the United States, but no one seems to know why. There’s plenty of speculation, of course, that I won’t go into here. Make no bones about it. The United States is under attack, and the safest place for everyone to be is here on Pontbriand Island. What I’m saying to you is, we aren’t able to contact the outside world, not at this time, anyway, aside from my HAM radio, and we won’t be leaving the island.”
That drew gasps of alarm.
“What about supplies?” someone asked.
“We’re in good shape there. I’ve been stockpiling supplies for years, ordering them online, having them delivered, buying non-perishable food in bulk every time I go to the mainland. It’s stored under city hall. We have a plan, of course, for distribution. Also, we have good crops, cattle, deer. We’ll have to be judicious there, of course, but again, I have a plan for distribution. And we’re fortunate to have the ocean. We can do our fishing on the ocean side, away from the mainland.”
“Wait a minute,” said John Rayburn, a local farmer. “I’m planning to sell my crops and cattle.”
Her father looked at him a long moment. “John, right now we’re not sure you have anyone to sell them to.”
“We can send some people to the mainland to see what’s going on,” John Rayburn said.
Her father held up a hand for calm, impossible as terror rolled through the crowd. “We cannot risk sending anyone over there. Even more, we cannot risk people thinking about this island and wanting to find refuge here. We have supplies for ourselves only. Three hundred seven and a half people live in this town.” He gave a small smile to Teresa Rose, six months pregnant. “We need to protect ourselves. I propose we put guards along the coast to watch for boats coming from the mainland.”
“And if they come? What are you proposing?” Phil Mancietti spoke up, his voice shaky.
Her father’s face grew stony. “I propose we send them on their way.”
A chill ran through Eden at his words. She couldn’t envision doing that, not to desperate people.
“I also propose that we turn off the lighthouses. They’ll only serve to remind people we are here, friend and enemy. We do not want to be remembered.”
“Some of us have family on the mainland,” said Mary Jenkins in a shaky voice. “My son is in the Navy.”
“And my daughter Kelly is in Tacoma, and Candace’s grandchildren are in Seattle and Phil’s son at Stanford, and Dr. Hoyt and his family are on a cruise in England. If they can find their way back to us, we will find a way to welcome them. But under no circumstances are we to leave this island. Is that clear?”
Eden’s heart clutched as she met her mother’s gaze. They hadn’t seen Kelly in years, weren’t even sure she was still in Washington. And now, God knew what kind of danger she was in.
The grumbles around them grew louder, vociferous, angry. “You can’t make that call for us.”
“I can, because I’m the one with the supplies. And the guns. And the plan to keep us safe against whatever this is.” He nodded toward Damien Morgan, one of the local fishermen, who signaled to a few other men and left the room. Then her father exited through the back door.
The meeting disintegrated from there, people talking among themselves, a few voices raised in anger, others in panic. The prevailing attitude was shock, not at the situation, but at her father’s handling of it. Even she, who knew her father better than anyone, who had listened to his fears, was stunned by the line he’d drawn, not allowing people from the mainland to escape to the island. She’d known he didn’t want people to leave the island, not only because he believed he could keep them safe, but because he wanted the island to keep a low profile. As shocked as she was, she couldn’t imagine how the people who knew him as their calm and reasonable mayor were seeing him now. She could see the discomfort, the disagreement in the body language of the people around her. Would there be action against him? Or would they believe he could keep them safe?
What did she believe?
She made her way through the crowd after her father. Jennifer Dodson caught her arm.
“He doesn’t mean it, does he? About not letting anyone come?”
“I don’t know. I think he’s just being cautious. I’ll talk to him.” Not that it would do any good, just yet, while everything was so new. She broke herself free and pressed through the crowd.
“Come on, dude,” one of the Rayburn’s sons said to a friend, one of the Wayne boys, she thought. “Let’s take my boat. We’ll go see what’s going on.”
The Wayne boy hesitated. “Man, no, what if Mr. McKay is right? We don’t know what’s going on over there. What if it’s war or something?”
“Then we’ll be the ones to go find out and let everyone know. Come on!”
Eden gripped the Wayne boy—Chris? Carter?—by the wrist. “You can’t do that. Give it some time. We’ll find out what’s going on. You need to listen to my father.”
The Rayburn boy intervened, breaking her hold on Chris/Carter’s arm. He towered over her, though he was ten years younger. “Just because you do everything your father says doesn’t mean all of us have to.”
Shouting outside drew her attention, but she sent one last pleading glance to the boys before hurrying out to see her father squaring off with Vince Lopez, the harbormaster. Eden pressed through the crowd to get to her father’s side. He was using the reasonable voice that got him elected as he defended his decision to have Damien and the others disable the lighthouses on the island.
“You’ll kill people!” Lopez said. “Ships will run aground on their way to the mainland. Boats will sink.”
“And if we don’t, we’ll become a target. We don’t know who the enemy is yet. We need to be safe, just like our families did in World War II. You know it’s true, Vince.”
“What if our families try to come?” Mary Jenkins said again. “How will they find us? They could be lost at sea.”
“I’m sorry, Mary,” her father said, not unkindly. “But we need to think of ourselves first. Once everything is sorted out, we can start thinking about others.”
“Easy for you to say,” Mary’s husband Robert bit out. “Our boy has done three tours. He’s a hero and deserves to come home.”
Eden read the sadness in her father’s eyes and hurried forward before he could say something he’d regret—or at least that the Jenkinses would.
“Maybe everything will come back on tomorrow,” she said soothingly. “Who knows, we may wake up to Good Morning America, and this might all be just a damaged satellite or something.” She hooked her hand through her father’s arm and drew him toward home, partly to get him away from the increasingly agitated crowd and partly to question him about his declarations.
He didn’t want to go with her. She could tell by the resistance in his arm, but he must have seen the urgency in her expression because he turned to follow.
“Dad, I know you’ve thought about this a long time and everything, but you can’t mean no one can come home.”
He gritted his teeth. “My priority is taking care of the people on this island. That means isolating us.”
“Even from our own family members?”
He stopped and looked down at her. “Eden, your sister hasn’t been home in years, hasn’t spoken to us in years. You think she’ll suddenly be in contact?”
“If she’s scared, yes. You know she’ll be scared, Dad.” She shivered just thinking about how vulnerable her sister was, on the other side of the channel. “I want to go get her.”
He started walking again. “Absolutely out of the question. There’s already unrest over there. As strong as you are, as smart as you are, I’m not sending you over there.”
“I thought you and I could go.”
He shook his head. “I can’t leave the island, and if I let you go, others will want to go, as well. I’m responsible for the safety of the people here on this island. Your sister made her choice.”


* * *


The next morning the knock on the door woke them, though Eden hadn’t been asleep long, listening to her parents fight over Kelly. Her mother’s tearful pleas had become angry and doors had slammed. Eden’s own throat tightened as she thought about how her father had hardened his heart toward his own daughter. Didn’t he worry about how afraid she was?
Curious about how could be at the house just after dawn, Eden came down the stairs to see her father open the door. She heard the words “missing” and “boat,” and her stomach dropped to see John Rayburn standing on the porch, his eyes shadowed, his shoulders bent with pain. Beside him, his wife Veronica sobbed into a handkerchief.
Oh, God, no. She gripped the rail and willed this all to be a dream.
“Rick didn’t come home after the meeting last night,” John said. “We drove all over the island because we didn’t want to think he’d be so stupid, but his boat is gone. We’re afraid he went to the mainland. He wouldn’t do something so foolish, would he?”
“Last night he and the Wayne boy were talking about it,” Eden admitted, stepping forward, a slash of pain riding through her as the Rayburns turned toward her. “I told them not to even think about it but they thought they’d go see what was going on.”
Veronica lowered her handkerchief and looked at Eden, eyes bright with betrayal. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Helplessness washed over her, settling in her stomach. “I didn’t think they’d do it,” she said. “Dad and Mr. Lopez were arguing, and I forgot. I swear, I never thought they’d really do it. They’re just boys.”
Veronica burst into tears. “And now they’ll never find their way back without the lighthouses.”
“They will. They’re smart boys. They’ll be home soon,” her father said, putting himself between her and a suddenly very angry, very big John Rayburn. “They’ll see what a mistake it was and come home. I’m sure of it.”
But they didn’t, not that night, or the next. Despite her father’s protests, another group of six men went to search for them. They didn’t return, either.
The next morning, all the boats in the harbor had been sunk.


* * *


Her father instructed Damien Morgan and his friends to patrol the side of the island facing the mainland at night, enforcing the directive that the residents kept their lights out, and to make sure no boats came from the mainland overnight. John Rayburn and Marcus Wayne joined them most nights, hoping for a sign of their sons.
Eden wanted to throw up every time she thought of how she could have prevented those young men from leaving, and the other men who’d gone to search for them, leaving families behind. What had happened? What had they found on the other side of the channel?
A few weeks after the television signal went out, the sound of a motor carried across the water, and the townspeople gathered on the shore despite the cold of the late November day. They’d fallen into routines—some the same as always, others markedly different, with no communication with the outside world—but an arriving boat caused a stir.
Damien moved to the head of the crowd, watching the boat approach, a rifle braced casually on his hip. Eden moved to stand beside him, tense with the possibility of what he might do. She’d gotten to know him better the past few weeks, since he and her father began working more closely together, and she didn’t entirely trust his judgement. He was more militant than her father, and if he had his way, she feared they’d have martial law. He glanced at her, as if he sensed her intentions, and headed toward the dock. She followed.
The approaching boat was small, but carried seven people that she could see, including three children. Too many people for a small craft crossing the expanse of water. She scanned their faces. None were familiar, not Candace’s grandchildren or Mary’s son Aaron.
Not her sister.
The newcomers powered up to the dock, looking at the sunken boats around them which had yet to be removed. They looked at Damien and his friends, armed and alert. Eden could only imagine their fear.
“What are you doing here?” Damien asked.
“We’ve come for shelter. We thought this would be a safe place,” one man said.
“We’re not taking refugees.”
“Please, we brought food to share, medicine, whatever we could manage,” one woman said, holding the smallest child against her.
“We’re not taking refugees,” Damien repeated.
Eden put her hand on his arm. “Let’s at least hear what they have to offer, and maybe they can tell us what’s going on.”
Damien looked at her a long minute, then nodded curtly before turning back to them. “Just because I’m letting you off your boat doesn’t mean you’re staying,” he cautioned them.
The pilot powered the boat to the dock, tied it up, and shut off the engine. The resulting silence was deafening. The entire town watched as the seven climbed out of the boat and made their way up the dock, the women putting their bodies between the children and the guns.
Veronica Rayburn ran forward and caught one man’s arm. “Have you seen two young boys? Two teen-aged boys, one scrawny and one a farm boy? They left here two weeks ago on a boat. We don’t know—we don’t know what happened to them.”
The man shook his head, and Eden was close enough to see his eyes were haunted.
“No, ma’am, I’m sorry.”
“Is it bad there?” someone else asked. “What happened?”
“Let’s get them to town hall and we can hear what they have to say there,” Eden said.
Damien sent Patrick, one of his friends, for her father and led the way into town. She helped herd the newcomers toward the building. The rest of the town filed in, oddly silent, anxious to hear news.
“What happened?” Eden asked the man who had piloted the boat, the apparent leader. “We haven’t had any news since early November. What caused this?”
He shook his head. “We have no communication, either, so all we know are rumors. But apparently the satellites are out. Some places are without power, but some still have it. The places that do are being overrun by people leaving the cities. There’s no gas, grocery stores are empty, so are drug stores. People are losing their tempers, fighting, turning against each other. Neighborhoods are being overrun, there are home invasions. We didn’t feel safe there anymore, and we’d been here for your fall festival in October and remembered how gorgeous and welcoming it was here. It seemed...safe.”
Terror gripped her as she pictured her sister going through that panic, that fear. Was she safe? Did she have supplies? Guilt swamped Eden as she recalled the fresh eggs she’d had for breakfast.
Eden’s father walked in then. “What skills do you have that can contribute to our community?” he asked without preamble.
The man who’d been speaking blinked. “I—I’m a lawyer.”
Eden’s father snorted. “Worthless now.”
“I’m a teacher,” the woman said, leaning forward around one of the children.
“I can fish,” the second man said, desperation coloring his voice.
“Look around you,” Eddie McKay said. “All these people can.”
“Yes, but I can provide for these people. We won’t use your supplies. We just want a safe place to stay. This is my wife and my two kids. He’s my brother. Please.”
Eddie considered, then shook his head. “No. We can’t use you. Find someplace else.”
The woman with the two kids widened her eyes. “You’d send us back? People are—people are—” She looked down at her children. “The violence is terrible. I can’t risk my children.”
“We don’t have enough supplies to shelter people who come to us. I’m very sorry.”
“The children, then. Can you take them?” she asked, her voice rising. “Please. It’s Thanksgiving. Please.”
Her words jolted Eden. She’d lost track of the days without mail and a regular schedule. How could she have forgotten Thanksgiving, when this year they had so much to be thankful for? Perhaps it didn’t seem it, but they were alive, and safe from the violence, and had plenty of stores, thanks to her father’s paranoia.
Eden knelt before her and put a soothing hand on hers. She turned to look up at her father. “Dad, you can’t. It would be heartless.”
His eyes softened when he looked at her. “I know the consequences, Eden, but we can’t afford to risk our own lives by running out of supplies. They need to go, if they can’t contribute.”
“I can do anything,” the lawyer said, his voice rising in desperation. “I can—any place you need me.”
Her father opened his mouth to say something, but John Rayburn stepped forward.
“I own a farm. My son is gone. I need an extra hand.”
“I’ll do it,” the man said, rising to his feet. “Whatever you need. Whatever you need. Thank you. Please. Please let us stay.”
Her father snorted and spun away on his heel.


* * *


That was the last time her father showed mercy. The boats came with fair regularity. Her father interviewed each—privately now, occasionally with Damien—but without the entire town watching. He sent most away, in tears and pleading, but a few were allowed to stay. A mechanic and a plumber now lived on the island with their families. The additions made the distribution of supplies decrease for every family. Since Eden was in charge of the distribution, she knew the dangers of allowing more people to stay, though sending them away made her feel less and less human each time. The stories the people told, the pleas they made to be allowed to stay, chilled her to her bones.
“Dad, we need to think about going to the mainland and try to find supplies before there are no more left,” she said one morning, entering his office.
He looked up. “We’re fine. And you’ve heard the reports coming from the people who try to come here about what it’s like over there. The supplies aren’t there, either, and it’s too dangerous to send anyone across. Already we’ve lost eight people who tried. We’re fine for now with the Rayburn and Wyatt farms, and fishing. I’m not willing to risk anyone yet.”
She was convinced he was wrong about waiting—the longer they waited, the harder supplies would be to come by. The people on the mainland would deplete them. Since they still had really no idea what had happened, they had no idea when trucks might start running again. Thank God they could supplement their supplies with fish, and almost every family now owned a couple of chickens for eggs. The time of year was wrong for growing vegetables, but carefully rationed canned goods supplemented them for now. She could see them running out of vegetables before the spring.
She hated thinking like this, hated the urge to horde. But she hated the idea of turning frightened people away. If only they had more supplies.
Her father was more likely to welcome people who came with a large stash of their own, but very few did. No one had wanted to believe this could happen.
Eden still couldn’t believe it had.


* * *


“We need to do something for Christmas,” Sarah said one evening over dinner.
They had started eating dinner just after dark to save power. Since they used the generator to cook, it made sense to make the evening stretch just a little longer before shutting it off again and going to bed.
“I don’t think anyone’s exactly in the Christmas spirit,” her husband said with a snort.
“That’s kind of my point.” Sarah set her fork down and folded her hands under her chin. “People need a reason to feel happy again. I know it’s hard, especially since so many of us are missing our loved ones. But I think it would be good for morale.”
Eddie grumbled. “We don’t have the supplies.”
Sarah sat back and looked at Eden. “Eden and I have already talked it over. We can make several dishes that will stretch what we have on hand, supplemented by some fish, and I think it would be wonderful. Very first Thankgiving-y.”
“We can’t do the boat parade or the tree-lighting ceremony. And we don’t have presents.”
“We’ll find a way.” She waited expectantly until he finally nodded.
Sarah flashed a triumphant grin at Eden. “We’ll get to work in the morning.”


Since Eden spent so much time emulating her father, she hadn’t known what a good party planner her mother was. Her mother had wanted her to join the Rainbow Girls when she was growing up, but they’d been, well, too girly for Eden. But as they planned the—Eden didn’t want to call it a party, maybe a celebration—she saw her mother put her leadership skills to use.
And having a purpose helped Sarah push aside her own mourning as she threw herself into the holiday. She recruited several women, including Mary Jenkins and Veronica Rayburn, and the new woman living with the Rayburns, Jessica Vaughn. Together, they planned a meal that would use the least amount of rations. They decorated the town square with a small tree and ornaments, but no lights. They went door to door and collected gently used toys children had outgrown to wrap and pass out. Eden stood amazed at the innovation her mother and these ladies exhibited.
On Christmas Eve, the town square was festive. The women had made candles out of cans of lard and set them on the long tables usually reserved for Fourth of July and other, warmer events. Despite the cold temperature, almost every family attended, standing in line for their servings of corn casserole and fried fish, and home fries. Not the healthiest, or the most traditional, but the recipes fed a crowd.
“Where’s the mayor?” Veronica Rayburn asked, herding the children who’d come on that first boat ahead of her in line.
Eden and her mother exchanged a look of dismay. He hadn’t been particularly in favor of this dinner, but to shun it completely....
“He’s working on town business. I’m sure he’ll come down later,” Sarah said.
But by the time everyone had been served, there was no sign of Eddie. When the reverend stood to offer a blessing and a few words about the true gift of the holiday, when he thanked Sarah and the other women for their hard work, there was no sign of Eddie.
“It’s time now to think ahead, to our new life,” the reverend concluded. “We have all lost someone, but at least we have each other.”
Eden had taken the first bite of her dinner when a cry of delight sounded from a child at the table behind her. She twisted to look as that cry was joined by others.
“Santa! Santa!”
Eden half-rose from the bench seat as, indeed, a red-suited man with a white beard strolled into town with a sack on his back. He sauntered over to the Christmas tree, where the painstakingly wrapped-and-labeled gifts were placed. The children swarmed him, and when he straightened, he winked at Eden, and her heart warmed.
She’d known her father couldn’t stay away.


* * *


A week after Christmas, gunfire on the coast awakened Eden. Bleary-eyed, she grabbed a robe, shoved her feet in her boots, grabbed her pistol from the table by the door and raced out of the house. Muzzle flares flashed from boats off-shore, answering ones from the island. Her heart pounding, she stopped short, aware she was a clear target in her white robe in the moonlight when there was no other light. She shrugged out of the robe and shivered in her T-shirt and flannel pants, but at least she blended into the darkness.
Who was down there? Her father? Damien? And who was firing on them? People they’d sent away, or people they wouldn’t allow to land? The standing order was that no one was allowed to land at night.
The firing from the island was pretty steady, as the shooting from the boats became more intermittent. Tomorrow they’d be paying kids to pick up shells so they could reload them.
Shouts could be heard from the ocean, more from the town. Eden hoped the townspeople were wise enough to stay inside, out of the line of fire. She was heading down to the shore when running feet approached. She stepped off the road, into the trees, flipping the safety off her handgun before she recognized Joey Delmar, one of Damien’s friends. She stepped in front of him, startling him so that for a moment she was looking down the barrel of his .45, before he realized who she was.
“Thank God, Eden. I was coming to your house. Your father—he’s been shot.”


* * *


Her house became bedlam as Damien and Joey carried her father inside and upstairs to his bed. Blood drenched his clothing. Eden couldn’t see where he’d been shot, or even if he’d been hit more than once. Her mother’s screams rang through the house when Damien pulled her father’s shirt open. The four men in the room and Eden stared at the damage. She didn’t see how her father was still breathing, based on the entry wounds. And she wasn’t sure exactly what to do. She’d helped her father in the vet clinic with animals who’d been struck by cars, but never bullet wounds.
“The bleeding,” she said to herself, and turned to her mother, who started, paralyzed. She grabbed the woman by the wrists and shook her. “We need towels. Lots and lots of towels.” When her mother finally nodded her understanding, Eden turned to one of Damien’s friends, Josh. “Go get Vicky.” Dr. Hoyt’s nurse, the only other trained medical person on the island. “I need her help.” But even she was unlikely to know what to do with a trauma this big.
She knelt on the edge of the bed and watched blood pump from each of the four bullet wounds with each slowing beat of her father’s heart. Her mother returned with towels and Eden pressed one to his chest, causing him to gasp in pain. The towel was drenched in moments and she replaced it with another.
And another.
And another.
Damien joined her on the bed, across her father’s body, his expression bleak, hopeless.
“Do not give up,” she said through her teeth.
Her father’s eyelashes flickered, and he looked up at her. “Eden. You have to promise me you’ll keep our town safe.”
“Of course, Dad, but you’re going to be fine. We’re going to get the bleeding stopped and the bullets out—” She swallowed the bile that rose with the lies. How would they repair the damage inside? No one had that kind of skill, and they had no place to get it done.
He grabbed her wrist with surprising strength. She looked into his eyes and saw the shadow of something lurking, something that made her want to scream just like her mother, scream until the shadow went away.
“I know I taught you better than that,” he said, his voice gruff. “I love you, Eden. I’m sorry this is the life I’m leaving for you. But I need to know you’ll carry on.”
“I will, Dad.” She cursed the tears that blurred her vision, that obliterated her view of her father as he closed his eyes and breathed his last.


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Brylie Winston gathered her clothes as quietly as possible in the darkened hotel room in Hobart, Australia, one eye on the man sprawled on his stomach in the center of the king-sized bed. Light from a part in the curtains fell over the bed, illuminating his muscled shoulders and back, jaw shaded with stubble around a sensuous mouth, and those long eyelashes that were always her downfall. Her stomach churned with regret even as her skin tingled with memories of his touch.
What had she done? She never let herself get carried away by a sexy man with a charming accent who clearly just wanted to get laid. She’d learned her lesson about that the hard way. But her gaze riveted to Marcus the moment he sauntered into the bar and when he’d approached, well, she’d been helpless. She hadn’t had sex in so long—hadn’t felt sexy in so long. She’d bought into his flirtation, his casual touches, his proximity as the bar got more crowded. She let herself be seduced, escorted here, and very, very thoroughly made love to.
Her body heated as she recalled his expert kiss, his callused hands that melted her clothes away.
And then it got good. Her body hummed with the desire for a repeat, but waking him up opened up way too many dangerous possibilities, the worst of which—more rejection. Yeah, she didn’t need that, not after New York.
Which was why she was now on the other side of the planet.
Snatching her jeans against her chest, she tried to shake some sense back into herself. She slipped into the bathroom and dressed quickly in the dark, pausing only at the odd fit of the jeans. Hoping she wouldn’t wake him, she flipped on the light to see the Levi’s tag on the back pocket. She’d grabbed his instead.
She caught sight of herself in the mirror, and her fingers went to the beard-burn at her throat before she finger-combed her rat’s nest hair. God, was that a—no, not a hickey, just a shadow. Thank God. That would hardly look professional above her chef uniform.
She turned off the light and crept back into the bedroom. He grunted and shifted in the bed, and she froze. She didn’t want conversation—she wanted last night to be a memory.
A bone-melting, no-other-man-could-live-up-to memory.
Time to go. She yanked on her own jeans, crammed her feet in her boots, felt her way across the dresser until she found her purse, and beat it out of the room.
* * *
Marcus Devlin arrived at the Hobart dock and tightened his grip on the strap of his duffel as he looked up at the Ice Queen. The Russian icebreaker had been converted to a cruise ship for people who would pay a pretty penny to see Antarctica up close. His family’s travel company had made a fortune from the greenies who wanted to see the unspoiled land, but Marcus never had the desire.
Still didn’t. But after his latest scandal, his family insisted he occupy his time in a more productive way and learn how the family business was run. Plus, sending him to the end of the earth had been an idea they’d threatened for years now, although with less specificity than this.
How was he supposed to know the asshole whose nose he broke in the bar fight was a senator’s son? Though now that he looked back on it, it explained a lot. The prick.
So, yeah, he wasn’t in jail, but Christ. He shuddered. That might almost be preferable.
He straightened his shoulders and headed up the ramp, grateful at least that this cruise ship didn’t have fancy dress dinners or balls like the other cruises his family owned. There wouldn’t be any expectation he act as someone he wasn’t.
He glimpsed a flutter of red hair below him and whipped around, wondering if it was the girl who’d slipped out of his bed this morning. The twist amused him—he was usually the one doing the sneaking. That the girl had beaten him to the punch threw him off balance.
But no, he couldn’t be that lucky. Despite her initial shyness, she’d been amazing once he got her to his hotel room, so open, and the combination had been freaking sexy. He planned to look her up when he got back into port. Of course, he hadn’t gotten her number, so it might not be easy.
He crossed the deck, wondering where the hell the pilothouse would be, if the captain was there or somewhere else. From what he’d been told, they wouldn’t be taking on passengers for a couple of hours, plenty of time for him to introduce himself to the captain, find his berth and hide for the next two weeks. He had to be on this boat. He didn’t have to like it.
That flash of red again, this time closer. He turned to follow, and damned if it wasn’t her, right here on this ship. Gorgeous titian hair pulled back in a thick, soft-looking ponytail—last night at the bar it’d been down around her shoulders, and when he’d gotten her in bed, well, it’d been—yeah, best not to pursue that. Soft white skin, full pink lips—best not to think of those, either—lush body hidden beneath layers of clothing, the sweatshirt she wore now proclaiming her “Ice Queen” when he knew she was anything but.
Right. The name of the ship. She worked here? Christ, was he her boss? A chuckle escaped, drawing her attention in his direction. She went absolutely still, then absolutely red. Desire zinged through him at that innocent blush, especially when he had intimate knowledge that she wasn’t all that innocent.
“Morning,” he said, approaching. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the rail and for a moment, he thought she considered jumping overboard to get away.
“Morning,” she replied instead, backing up.
Oh, yeah, he liked this game. Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood. “I didn’t think you’d be gone when I got up.”
“Thought you’d beat me to the punch?” she retorted with a swish of her ponytail.
Little Red had teeth. Well, he knew that, sort of, but appreciated the bite of her observation nearly as much as the scrape of her teeth on his skin. “You got me.” His gaze flicked to her breasts, and the words printed across them. “I beg to differ.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “The ship.”
“You work here?”
“I do. You’re a passenger?”
For a moment he considered saying yes, hiding who he was, but he was never very good at pretending. “I’m the youngest Devlin.”
She drew in a sharp breath, clearly recognizing the name. “You own the ship.”
“Yeah. Well. Not me.” He didn’t own much of anything, to be honest. Too much responsibility went along with that.
“We’ve never had an owner on a cruise.”
That statement, almost an accusation, intrigued him. He resisted the urge to lift his fingers to her soft cheek as he asked, “You’ve been on a lot of these?” He expected the crew to be more rugged and outdoorsy, not with a peaches and cream complexion.
“I’ve worked for you for two years.”
He grinned and rocked back on his heels, needing to get some distance from her before he did something stupid, like touch her. “Then I suppose you know where I can find the captain.”
She nodded and pointed down the deck. “He should be there in the pilothouse, the last doorway as you approach the bow.”
He stared at her. Crap. His brother Harris had told him he needed to learn the lingo, but as usual, he’d blown it off. So he did what he always did when he didn’t understand. He gave her his most charming grin. “Show me?”
She opened her mouth to protest, then apparently recalled that he was her boss. She squared her shoulders and led the way across the deck.
“So what is it you do here?” His hand tightened on his duffel as he watched the sway of her ass in those snug blue jeans. “I thought you said you were a student.”
She frowned over her shoulder. “I didn’t say that. Must have been one of your other conquests.”
Hey, that was uncalled for. He trotted up to walk alongside her. “No, you said you were a student. The name of the school sounded swank.” He sought his memory, which had admittedly been impaired last night as he drank to forget he was heading out to sea today. And to forget the pain he was leaving behind. “Culinary school. That’s it. You go to a culinary school in New York.”
“I did go. Past tense.” Her cheeks pinkened, then she slowed and turned toward an open door. “The captain is right through there.”
Marcus wasn’t ready to let her walk off yet. “Won’t you introduce me?”
She huffed an exasperated breath. “Are you going to be this difficult the entire trip?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“On you.”
She folded her arms and faced him. “So if I’m nice to you, you’ll go easy on us?”
“If you’re nice to me, I’ll go easy on you,” he corrected.
She waved an exasperated hand and pivoted to walk into the pilothouse.
The place was all polished cherry and chrome, with huge windows on all sides, and more gizmos tucked into the paneling than Marcus could name. Harris probably had fun with all this—he was a long-time geek, especially when it came to technology. A big man—and he did mean big, six-six if he was an inch, and built like Hagrid from the Harry Potter movies—turned from the controls when he heard them come in.
“Brylie!” He enfolded her in a bear hug that had her shoulders go stiff, and Marcus took a step forward to intervene, since the embrace obviously made her uncomfortable.
“Dad,” she said, breaking free.
Marcus stared. No, he couldn’t have heard that right. Not only had he slept with the chef on the cruise ship his family owned, she was also the captain’s daughter? And this guy looked like he’d throw Marcus overboard at the slightest provocation.
“Dad?” he repeated, but she didn’t meet his gaze.
So Marcus turned to the big man, whose face was hidden by hair a shade darker than Brylie’s, who had the same blue eyes. Oh, hell.
“Dad, this is Marcus Devlin. Did you know he was joining us on this cruise?”
She spoke like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and Marcus began to rethink the appropriateness of her sweatshirt.
“I had heard,” her father, the captain, said. Captain what? Marcus didn’t remember getting her last name. Hell, for half the night, he’d called her Riley. The captain thrust a hand out at Marcus. “Captain Winston. And you’ve already met my girl Brylie. Best chef you have in your fleet. Trained in New York at some of the best restaurants.”
Instead of looking proud of this accomplishment, she kept her gaze averted. She didn’t want to be here, Marcus realized. She wanted to be at one of those restaurants. So why wasn’t she?
He was a sucker for mysterious women.
“Speaking of,” she said, her voice brisk. “I need to get to the kitchen to get tonight’s dinner started. The passengers won’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Mr. Devlin’s cabin is on the way to the galley.” Her father’s voice boomed off the windows. “Why don’t you show him to the VIP Suite? I’m sure he’d like to get settled before he tours the ship.”
Her cheeks grew pink again, and she didn’t look at him, but nodded. “Of course. I’ll see you after dinner.” She stretched up to kiss the big man’s cheek, then motioned for Marcus to follow her.
“He’s going to break me into pieces, isn’t he?” Marcus asked when, instead of leading him back onto the deck, she led him through a door to an interior hallway.
“There’s no reason for him to know what went on last night.” She glanced over and he saw just the hint of a humor in those gorgeous blue eyes. “Besides, you have your name to protect you.”
Of all the beauties in Hobart, he had to seduce this one. Too soon to tell if she was going to make his trip exciting or miserable.
“Here’s your cabin.” She motioned to a door on her left. “Do you have your key card?”
He did, and fumbled for it before sliding it in the lock and swinging the door open.
“Suite,” the captain had said, but the room was half the size of the hotel room from last night. The room he stood in contained a sofa and a desk in the corner. The windows were shuttered along one wall.
“Bed and bath through there.” Brylie pointed to a door in the paneling. “Enjoy.”
“Wait.” He grasped her arm and pulled her into the room with him, then opened the door she indicated. A queen-sized bed took up most of the area, barely giving him room to walk around it. He popped open another door leading to the tiniest bathroom he’d ever seen. So much for his plan to hide out in here for the duration. He’d lose his mind. “This is the VIP suite?”
“You have complete privacy,” she said. “Most of the other passengers pay a pretty penny and still have to share a bathroom with strangers.”
“Cozy,” he murmured.
“Well, these ships are converted icebreakers, not designed like your other ships. Besides, most people don’t stay in their rooms very much. There’s a beautiful lounge up on Deck Five, where they can watch the ocean and see the icebergs and occasional wildlife. Most people come on these trips to be social.”
She was watching him with an unnerving accuracy. Did she read his mind? Or was she wondering at his real reason for being here?
“Will you take me on a tour later? After dinner, maybe?”
“I’m very busy, Marcus. We have two hundred passengers and crew, and my responsibilities lie elsewhere.”
“You don’t work in the kitchen alone, surely.”
“I have a crew,” she admitted. “But my name is at stake.”
Right. She’d play hard to get, now. So he’d play the boss card. “And I’m your employer.”
This time, she went beyond pink to red. Fury sparked in her eyes. “You have plenty of other minions to wait on you. Sir.”
“I don’t want anyone else. I want you.” He was being stubborn and unreasonable. But he wasn’t accustomed to settling.
“There won’t be a repeat of last night,” she said, her voice prim. Ice Queen, indeed.
“Why not? You had fun.”
She didn’t rise to the bait, and he hid his disappointment when she capitulated.
“Fine. At nine, after dinner, I’ll show you the ship. I won’t be free before then, so don’t ask.”
He nodded, already missing the battle. “Right. Nine o’clock, then.”
When she turned to stalk off, he determined she’d definitely be making his trip more exciting.
* * *
Brylie smacked the ladle against the side of the pot with more force than necessary, drawing the attention of her crew, and waving it off with an impatient hand.
This. This was why she didn’t make rash decisions. This was why she made plans and followed them to the letter.
This was why she hadn’t had sex in a year and a half.
How had she let herself be seduced by a handsome Aussie with stories of a carefree life, of his travels, a man living his dreams? She should have known better. But he’d made her feel desirable as a man hadn’t in years, and while part of her brain told her he probably did the same to all the girls, her neglected side bought his seduction hook, line and sinker.
Now they were stuck together on this suddenly-too-small ship for the next twenty days, and he wasn’t above using his clout—she’d slept with the owner, good Lord—to get his way.
Worse, her body remembered him all too well and wanted a replay of last night. He’d been very, very attentive. And he’d made her laugh and feel good about herself, and—feel good. Something that hadn’t happened in a long time.
Then he’d fallen asleep, and she’d been alone with her thoughts and fears and she’d beat it out of there, thinking she could put it behind her.
The only thing to do was keep him at arm's length, do what he asked for the sake of her father and her own job, but make sure he understood this was only professional.


Midnight Sun is available at all retailers!

Ellie Morgan rolled her shoulders, willing the stress away as she hurried down the street to her family’s diner. She was already late for the breakfast shift, and the excuse wouldn’t be popular.
She’d ended another relationship this morning, the most promising yet, with the high school football coach and Winchester Cove, California’s favorite son, Trey Berenger. They’d been together almost a year--a personal best--but she couldn’t deal with his self-centeredness one more day. And yes, she saw the irony there.
She’d already imagined what the gossips would say: “Just like her mother.” “Didn’t know a good thing when she had it.” “Doesn’t know what she wants.”
Well, one out of three was right. Maybe two. But she was not like her mother. And just to make damned sure she didn’t follow in her mother’s footsteps, she wouldn’t settle for less than true happiness, true love, without a doubt. Trey hadn’t been that guy. Time to move on.
“Ellie?”
The deep voice startled her. She pivoted to see Noah Weston standing by his truck on the sidewalk in front of the diner.
Noah Weston. Now there was a man who knew what he wanted, and had gone after it. He’d loved her best friend Lily for ten years, the kind of partnership that made everyone around them believe in love and happy endings--except they hadn’t gotten their happy ending. Lily had died two years ago, and Noah had just now stopped wearing his wedding ring.
He approached Ellie now, brown eyes concerned. “Something wrong?”
Damn. She used to be better at hiding her emotions. He’d known her long enough to read her, so she shifted her gaze to the fender of his truck and forced a smile that strained the muscles of her cheeks. “Nothing, just running late.”
She started to edge past him but he caught her arm, his work-roughened fingertips grazing her skin below the short sleeve of her T-shirt. Startled by the gesture, she looked up.
“Something else has you upset.”
She eased back and tucked her hair behind her ear. May as well come clean. He’d find out sooner or later. “I broke up with Trey.” She had to have imagined his sharp indrawn breath, and waited for the inevitable, “Why?” or, “I figured it would happen sooner or later.”
But he didn’t ask those questions. “You doing okay?”
The question surprised a smile out of her, since she’d fully expected to be cast as the bad guy here. “I’ll be just fine.”
“You’ve been together a year?”
“Not quite.”
He inclined his head toward his truck. “Need a hand moving out?”
Of course Noah wouldn’t judge her. Before Lily, and since, he kept to himself and appreciated people who did the same. That he’d step out of his comfort zone was because of her friendship to Lily, and to him after Lily’s death.
She backed toward the diner, some of the strain easing. The sooner she could make the complete break, the better. “Um, yeah. But aren’t you meeting Matt for breakfast?” She gestured toward the plate glass window, where his friend and daily breakfast partner, the reverend, was watching them. He probably wasn’t the only one.
“He can eat alone today.”
Now she was stalling. She dreaded telling her dad she needed to move home--again. Telling him she needed the morning off. Again. But she needed to cut ties to Trey completely. “Give me a minute. Can someone else open the store for you?”
“We don’t do much business in the morning. Go do what you need to do. I’ll wait here.” He rested against the fender, hands on his thighs.
The bell over the door announced her arrival, but everyone no doubt knew she was coming inside, anyway. They’d probably watched her conversation with Noah and wondered about it.
Marie, a five-foot-nothing, needle-thin blonde, the other breakfast waitress and her father’s right hand woman, rushed from the kitchen. Ellie braced for a scolding over her tardiness, and cut it off, not wanting another confrontation.
“Marie, I need the morning off.”
Marie sagged against the counter. “What happened? Oh, dear. I know that face. You and Trey?”
Wow, Ellie had apparently completely lost her poker face. She rocked back on her heels and folded her arms, aware of ears in the vicinity. “Um. Yeah. I want to get my things.”
Marie followed her glance and, understanding, grasped her arm and pulled her into the kitchen, where Eric was alternating between pancakes, scrambled eggs and bacon on the grill. He ignored them, as always.
“I need to move home for a few days until I find a new place.” Her stomach knotted as she said the words. She hated asking for anything, and so far she’d had to ask for two things. It wasn’t even 8:00 AM.
Marie leaned against the prep counter, the corner of her lips turned down in the disapproval Ellie had expected. “Ellie, you’re going to have to grow up sometime. You’re too restless for someone who’s thirty.”
“Well, I’m not going to settle with someone who doesn’t make me happy.” Marie was content to take a backseat to her father’s diner, to her father’s past, to his daughters, just for the crumbs he’d throw her. Ellie didn’t want to be like her mother, or Marie, either, but she would never say so to the woman who had been like a mother to her. Not wanting to pursue an argument, she sighed. “Look, if I can’t come home, I need to find another alternative.”
Marie’s mouth crimped as if regretting losing a chance to state her opinion, and she inclined her head to the closed office door. “Your father’s in there. Ask him.”
Ten minutes later, feeling like a chided twelve-year-old after lectures from Marie and her father, Ellie walked through the quiet dining room--no doubt everyone had been straining to hear what was going on. The bell over the door was still ringing in her ears when she crossed the sidewalk to Noah’s truck. He unlocked her door, held it as she climbed in, then shut it securely. She let out a long breath, let her head fall back against the seat and closed her eyes.
The truck smelled like his chocolate Labrador, Mocha, but was otherwise spotless. His personal appearance--the ever-present stubble, the untucked flannel shirts and jeans--never would have suggested a clean vehicle.
She opened her eyes when he got in and started the engine. “You could have had a four-course breakfast in that amount of time. Sorry about that.”
“No problem.”
“I’m sure everyone already knows what’s going on by the way they were looking at me. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten what it’s like, everyone looking at you.” There hadn’t been pity in the gazes in the diner, not like when her mother had run off with Marie’s husband fourteen years ago. No, this time she was the guilty one for walking away from the coach.
He’d barely shifted to third gear before they coasted to a halt in front of her house. No, not her house anymore. Trey’s house. She would miss the big deck out back, the neat little kitchen, the deep bathtub. Sad she would miss the house more than she’d miss Trey.
“You okay?” Noah waited, his hand on the handle.
“Eventually.”
“Yeah.” He blew the word out on a breath and pushed the door open.
* * *
Noah shifted from one foot to the other. This was Ellie’s home with Trey, and as often as he’d thought about her recently, he wasn’t ready for the intimacy of carrying out her personal items. He wasn’t ready to know what books she read, what movies she watched, what color toothbrush she had. All those things were better left to his fantasy life.
Everything was better left to the fantasy life that had only started to spark again the past few weeks. Yeah, he had been watching her. Ellie always had a sparkle in her eyes, a bounce in her step, a snap in her voice. So alive. The part of him that was coming alive again wanted to be around it, around her, even if she was with Trey Berenger. But his survival instincts forced him to stand back.
He’d just go through the motions of living. Less painful that way.
He didn’t know why he’d volunteered to help. Okay, yeah, he did. He’d ridden to the rescue. Only he hadn’t thought this through.
Her welcoming smile didn’t reach her pretty blue eyes. “Come on in.”
Low, comfortable couches in deep red focused around a plasma TV Trey hadn’t bought with his coaching salary. On top of being Winchester Cove’s favorite son, well, he was also their wealthiest.
“Taking the paintings?” He pointed to one in the dining room.
Her mouth turned down in an exaggerated pout. “No. Trey bought those. Like I said, I don’t have much.”
“You picked them out.” He stepped closer to the wall to decipher the artist’s signature. No luck.
“How did you know that?” Surprise brightened her tone.
What could he tell her? That he thought about her enough to know her taste? “They don’t look like something Trey would choose.”
“No.”
Just that one word sounded so deflated.
“Most of my stuff is in here.” She led the way down the hall, past the open door to the bedroom.
The bed where she’d slept with Trey was unmade, the white sheets rumpled. She’d slept with him last night, left him this morning. Noah wanted to close the door, close off the thoughts, but didn’t want her to reason out why.
She led him to a room at the front of the house. A table sat in front of the window, looking out onto the street. The curtains were pushed back. She probably enjoyed the view as she worked on--what? He scanned the room. Clearly she used it as a hobby room, only the built-in shelves that lined one wall were empty.
“We can start with these.” She pointed to some plastic totes stored against the wall opposite the shelves. “And the table. I gave Bev a call. She should be here soon and we can get started in the bedroom.”
His face heated as he bent to pick up a tote by the handles, and he was glad for an excuse not to look at her.
“This wasn’t exactly planned.” She picked up another tote with a grunt, leaning way back to compensate for the weight of what was inside.
“What’s in here?” He nodded toward his burden.
“Some books, some fabric.”
So she sewed. He looked at her jeans and fitted t-shirt. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her in anything she could have made. The tote she was carrying rattled.
“What’s in there?”
She gave the tote a little shake. More rattling. “Beads.”
Huh. “And in those?” He nodded toward others lined against the wall, stacked three high.
“Um, thread, yarn, some cross-stitch material.”
“Couldn’t settle?”
“Apparently a failing of mine.”
He opened his mouth, ready to offer to listen, when the doorbell rang. He was ahead of Ellie in the hall, blocking her path, so he opened the door.
Bev Taylor, the third corner in Ellie and Lily’s friendship triangle, stepped back in surprise. “Hey, Noah.”
“Bev.” He nodded toward the tote he carried.
“Oh. Sorry.” She scrambled out of the way, then once he passed, hurried into the house.
* * *
“What is Noah Weston doing here?” Bev demanded in a stage whisper as she rushed down the hall to Ellie’s craft room.
Ellie hefted her tote onto her hip. “He was in the diner this morning.”
“He’s in the diner every morning. You told him you needed help moving out?” Bev was incredulous.
“He volunteered.”
“Noah Weston.” Bev turned and watched him load the tote into the back of his truck. “He hardly talks to anyone but Matt since Lily died.”
“He talks to me sometimes when he’s walking Mocha on the beach.” Which had been more often lately. “Get my suitcases out of the garage, okay?”
The rumble of a truck engine rattled the window of the house when Bev left the room. Ellie walked to the door to see Trey’s truck speeding down the road. Noah, on the sidewalk, turned, too.
“Oh, no,” Ellie murmured.
Noah glanced from her to the truck as it jerked to a halt in front of the house. He placed himself between her and the sweaty man who slammed his door and stormed toward Ellie.
“We need to talk.” Trey’s face was red, his light brown hair plastered to his head from football practice, as if he’d been running drills with his team. “I thought this was just a fight, and now I hear you’re moving out?”
Noah stepped forward, hand extended, palm out. “Hold it there, Trey.”
For the first time since he’d gotten out of the truck, Trey pulled his gaze from Ellie to Noah. “What are you doing here?”
Noah took the tote from Ellie. “I think it’s clear.” He turned toward his truck.
“Him?” Trey shouted, jabbing his arm toward Noah. “You’re leaving me for him?”
“No! No, Trey, please.” Their neighbors had come out onto their porches to watch the show. No shyness in this town. No shame, except for her. She gestured toward the house and stepped back to let him in. Past him, she saw Noah watching from the tailgate of his truck. She held her hand out, motioning for him to wait. He nodded and leaned against the bumper, and she followed Trey into the house.
“Vivian Lassiter told me you were moving out, announced it in the teacher’s lounge, for God’s sake. She said she heard it in the diner.” Trey’s voice echoed off the walls. “You didn’t mention that this morning.”
“I told you it was over this morning,” Ellie shot back. “You think I’m still going to live here?”
He sighed and paced away across the room. “I thought it was a fight. I thought I’d come home and apologize and everything would be back to normal.”
“You’d apologize. That’s it?” She stepped back. What else did she want? For him to propose? Of course not. Maybe once. But she never would have done anything so melodramatic to force his hand. She was just ready for it all to be over.
He looked at her, green eyes sharp. “What would you want me to do?”
Tears clogged her throat. “I thought I wanted something more from you. But truthfully right now I don’t know what I want. I just know I don’t want to be taken for granted anymore.”
His shoulders tensed and the vein in his neck pulsed. “You don’t ask for much, do you? Why did you wait to do this now? It’s the most stressful time of year for me. I’ve got a championship caliber team, I’m just getting them going. I don’t have time to change things around for you.”
Even though she’d expected his response, it hurt to hear. “Shall I wait around for Christmas then? Maybe spring?”
He narrowed his eyes. “You know I hate sarcasm.”
Usually because he didn’t get it the first time. Ellie bit back the mean thought. This was the man she was supposed to have loved, after all. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t think you can give me what I want, even if you had time. So I need to leave. I’m sorry, Trey. I’ll be out of here in an hour.”
His jaw clenched in that stubborn way she knew so well. Hurt? Anger? A mixture of both? He stared at her for a long moment, like he didn’t know her. And that was a huge part of the problem. He didn’t, but how could he when she didn’t?
Then, with sorrow softening his expression for only a moment, he pivoted and left.
When Trey’s truck rumbled to life, Bev rushed in from where she’d been waiting in the doorway to the garage and wrapped her arms around Ellie.
Ellie dropped her head to her friend’s shoulder and burst into tears.
* * *
“Is he right?” Ellie twirled her wine glass and watched the dark red liquid coat the sides before slinking back down. She and Bev sat on the floor of Bev’s apartment, three fat flickering candles on the low oak coffee table between them. “Should I have given him more time?”
Bev set her glass on the table. “Do you want to get back with him?”
Ellie set her glass down, studied the glow of the candles through the wine. “He might change for a little while, but then he’d go back to being the same way. He’ll never love me the way Ryan loves you, or the way Noah loved Lily. Trey barely even looks at me, much less adores me. I want someone to look at me with his heart in his eyes. Remember how Noah was with Lily? I want that.”
Bev stilled across the table. “You want Noah?”
Ellie snapped her head up. “No! God. No. But when I was with him today, I was remembering how they were together, how much I wanted Trey to treat me that way, to think of me first, you know? Now I wonder if I stayed with him with that hope in mind.”
“And after Lily died, seeing Noah alone,” Bev added.
Ellie nodded. “It was scary to think of being alone.” She rubbed her forehead and leaned back against the couch. “Trey thought I was leaving him for Noah. I can’t believe he would think I’m so shallow to have someone else on the line before I leave him.”
“Well, you can kind of see it.”
“What? How?”
Bev rolled her eyes. “Noah’s good looking, if you like that scruffy outdoorsman thing he has going on. He’s a widower. You were there for him when Lily died. He’s always at the diner and he’s always looking at you.”
Heat crept up Ellie’s throat. She wanted to deny it, but more than once she’d turned to see him look away. She hadn’t thought twice of it, until now. “He is not.”
“He is. He has this--focus when it comes to you. Kinda sexy.”
“Bev, he was Lily’s husband. That would be like--”
“Like what?”
“Like dating my sister’s husband.”
Bev leaned forward. “Why are you so red? Have you thought about Noah like that?”
Flustered, Ellie tipped her glass, caught it, licked off the wine that splashed on her hand with the movement. This conversation was so wrong on so many levels. “No! I mean, yeah, I can see what you mean about him being handsome, and that look you’re talking about, that’s how he’d look at Lily and God knows I want that from someone, but no. It would be too weird. It would be betraying Lily.” Besides, if she hadn’t wanted to play second fiddle to a football team, why would she want to play it to the ghost of an adored wife?
“She’s been gone more than a year and a half.”
Ellie raised her eyebrows. “So it’s time for me to give her husband a look?”
Bev inclined her head. “It’s time for him to start looking. I just think it’s pretty clear that he’s looking in your direction.”
Ellie sucked in a breath. And she had welcomed him right into her life. Had she made a mistake?



​Something to Talk About is available everywhere!

McKenna Spencer lifted her gaze from the computer monitor. A sound bouncing off the cement walls of the basement of the Texas capitol had drawn her attention. She looked across her office at her intern, Janie, who stared at the door, shoulders tight in alarm.
“Did you hear that?” the younger woman asked.
McKenna shrugged. “There are always strange noises down here. You just notice them more at night when everyone else is gone.” But this was the only time she could get any work done in the office she shared with two other junior legislators, in the back corner of the basement. The shiny offices upstairs were reserved for committee chairs and those who’d held office for a while. Eventually she’d be up there, but in the meantime…
McKenna pushed her glasses up on her nose and turned back to the health care documents she was studying.
Another noise sounded, almost like a shuffled footstep, and the hair on the back of her neck lifted.
The cellphone on her desk vibrated. Both women jumped, Janie’s start accompanied by a small shriek. McKenna frowned and glanced at the display. A different tension ran through her as she picked up the phone. “Hi, Dad,” she answered brightly.
“McKenna, where are you?” His rough voice had a deeper edge of urgency than usual.
“At work.”
“You need to get out of there. Now.”
Alarm zinged across her nerves. Her father could be overly cautious, but he didn’t panic. As she reached for her purse, she sought her shoes under her desk with her feet. Reacting before thinking, she turned her heels over with her toes and shoved her feet in. “What is it?”
“I’m on my way. Meet me at the west entrance. All right?”
He disconnected. Just like the man, brusque and vague. But concern followed resentment. She’d heard that tone before, and he didn’t mean dally.
McKenna looked up at Janie just as the lights went out. Janie whimpered. The emergency lights kicked on, offering a dim glow. The door handle jiggled, and McKenna’s heart jumped. God, who was it? Security wouldn’t be moving so quietly, would they? They might check the lock, but then—the handle jiggled again. Every muscle in McKenna’s body wanted to freeze, but she rose on shaky legs, lifting her finger to her lips, and motioned Janie to follow her. A door led from her office to that of another junior legislator, Cynthia Trevino. They could duck in there and slip into the hall to avoid whoever was at the door. When Janie hesitated, McKenna motioned more adamantly. The girl grabbed her purse and followed.
The door handle twisted—why hadn’t they locked it when the two of them were alone in the basement office? Her father would rake her over the coals for that simple oversight—if she got out of here.
As quietly as she could, she turned the knob into Cynthia’s office, pushed Janie through, and closed it again, flicking the flimsy lock in place. Casting her gaze around the room, she looked for something to block the door. The intruder would certainly figure out where they’d gone. But she didn’t see anything she could move easily. Maybe their best bet was to bolt through the door into the hall and up the stairs to meet her father at the west entrance. She kicked off her heels and motioned Janie to do the same. The shoes would slow them down and echo on the polished concrete floors. They needed to be stealthy. She thumbed her phone to silent and wished she’d had time to tell Janie to do the same. Instead, she grasped the girl’s arm and pulled her toward the door to the hallway. The creak of the hinge echoed through the basement. McKenna’s muscles tightened as she prepared to drag Janie to safety.
Her pulse jolted when the handle to the connecting door rattled insistently. The locked door wouldn’t buy them much time. The intruder might figure out they were passing through this office and cut them off in the hall. They had to hurry.
“Run for the stairs at the west end as fast as you can,” McKenna told the frightened intern. “Don’t stop running until you get outside. I’ll be right behind you. Go!”
Janie nodded and tore off. McKenna chanced one glance over her shoulder at the door, which was no longer rattling, and tucking her bag to her side, raced after Janie.
She was a few strides behind when Janie took the stairs, pressed hard on the door to the first floor, only to bounce back. The young woman staggered, stunned, staring at the doors. McKenna caught up with her. McKenna, too, pushed against the door and felt the resistance. Not locked, but blocked. She peeked through the slight crack she made between them. Something had been wrapped around the handles to keep them closed. To trap the two of them down here.
Terror kicked in. The intruder was between them and the other stairwell, and she already heard him moving down the hall toward them. And the elevator...well, they had no electricity. They had to either run past the man, or hide. Heart racing, she scanned the small hallway in front of her. The likelihood of one of those doors being unlocked was slim, but they were sitting ducks on the stairs.
She clasped Janie’s arm and tugged her down the steps. They had the advantage. They knew this place better than their pursuer. The women ducked into a recessed doorway, using shadows and the carved oak to hide them. McKenna’s hands shook. As quietly as she could, she twisted the knob, and hit resistance. Locked, of course.
The decorative carvings dug into her palm as she twisted with all her strength, but couldn’t pop the lock. One option remained. She lifted her King Ranch bag and punched it through the frosted glass window. The tinkling of falling glass was muffled by carpet on the other side, but no doubt the intruder had heard. McKenna reached through, a sharp edge slicing her forearm, and unlocked the door.
“Be careful of the glass,” she said, her mouth close to Janie’s ear before she shoved the girl through, closed the door as quietly as she could. She crouched below it, listening as her mind whipped through their options.
The intruder would see the broken window in a matter of moments. Footsteps quickened on the stairs. The doors rattled as he tested to see if they’d gotten through.
Then footsteps descended.
McKenna wedged a leather desk chair against the door, found Janie’s hand in the dark—God, couldn’t the girl sob later?—and headed back into the recesses of the office. Another door was there, this one unlocked. McKenna shoved Janie through and scrambled after her, closing the door with a click as the other door opened.
Seconds away. She had seconds now. She motioned Janie to hide in the corner as she curled her hands around a golfing trophy and rose, legs shaking, the trophy cocked like a baseball bat as the door handle turned.
The man who slipped through the door braced his gun in front of him, clearly trained as he swept the room, searching for her.
With all her strength, she brought the trophy up below his gun arm. He swung toward her, blocking the trajectory, closing one rough hand about her wrist. A squeal escaped as he pushed her backward, against the wall. The trophy fell to the carpet with only a glancing blow to his leg, and he pinned her with his body.
His breath gusted over her ear as he bent his head to whisper, “I work for your father. I’m Ethan Riggins. The code is paintbrush.”
Relief shimmered through her even as the pulse in her wrist drummed against his palm. Years ago, her father, a counterterrorist agent, had insisted she have a code word so she could know for sure when he was sending someone to help her. She’d thought him paranoid at the time but had given the name of her favorite Texas wildflower, and had never had to use it until this minute. Now, she was glad of it.
“Are they still—?” The question froze on her lips when she saw a shadow move behind him. “Janie, no!”
Too late, her assistant swung the three-hole punch down, hitting Riggins above the ear. He sagged against her for a moment, then shot a hand out and snatched the weapon from the trembling girl.
“You’re safe now. Safe.” He tried to straighten and staggered a bit. “I wish I could say you hit like a girl.” When he lifted a hand to his head, McKenna caught the coppery scent of blood. “Your father is waiting. We should go.”
She took a step back and nodded, then let him lead the way out of the office.
* * *
The coffee in the cardboard cup shimmered, not quite splashing over the edge as McKenna sat on the edge of the gurney in the ER. She hadn’t wanted to come, not for herself, but her father had insisted and no one argued with John Klein.
The nurse checking her blood pressure glared at the cup, but didn’t say anything.
Three men had been in the capitol building, but no one knew why. Her father and Riggins had disabled them and come for her. Presumably the three men would be interrogated but whether they revealed why they’d been after her remained to be seen.
Janie was being treated for shock in another room. McKenna had received eight stitches on her forearm where she’d cut it on the broken glass of the door, and Riggins was off somewhere getting stitches of his own for the blow Janie had delivered to his head.
And now her father was spouting off something about her getting out of town.
“I can’t.” Though, God help her, she would if she could. One man, she might have been able to take out on her own, but three, no way. “The bill on children’s health care goes for a vote next week.” The one she’d spent months in office writing. The one she still needed votes for.
“To hell with that.” His tone sharpened as he turned on her. “Three men came after you in the capitol building. They’re not messing around. Staying in Austin is ridiculous.”
“People are counting on me.” She thought of the young mother, Eva DeChant, with whom she’d been working. The woman needed assistance to help her care for her baby with a heart problem, and McKenna’s bill would help her get it.
“You won’t be any good to them dead.”
“Who are they?” Clearly he knew, if he’d called to tell her they were coming.
His lips thinned. “Do you think if I knew, they’d still be a danger to you? You have to give me time to find out. You can give the bill to someone else.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t work like that. If I don’t get it passed this time, I have to wait until the next session before I can bring it before the legislature again. Some of these families can’t wait that long.”
“Your life is more important.” He set his jaw.
Matching his expression, she squared her shoulders, not dropping her gaze. “No. It’s not.”
“Stubborn girl.”
“Wonder where that trait came from.”
He braced his hands on the end of the gurney. “I told you not to work in the public eye. Sooner or later someone was bound to connect you with me. You could have gone into teaching or health care if you wanted to help people.”
McKenna’s vision blurred with anger. They’d had this argument too many times to count. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gone into counterterrorism if you wanted to have a family.”
His head snapped back and he blanched. The hit was a little more direct than she’d intended.
“I’m sorry you’re in danger. Keeping you safe is the most important thing. Please, McKenna, leave town for a while.”
“Dad, I can’t. Look, I promise to be aware. I won’t work late nights anymore. I’ll go home before dark and stay there. Just a week.”
“It’s a ridiculous risk. We’re talking about your safety here.”
She curled her fingers around the edge of the gurney and leaned forward. “We’re talking about single mothers about to lose their homes because they’re caring for critically ill children.”
He stepped back and held up a hand. “Don’t go into your spiel with me. If you do this, you have to promise to do everything I tell you.”
McKenna drew in a breath. She’d grown up with her father’s military precision. She didn’t know if she could promise, in good faith. But she also knew if she didn’t promise, he’d likely haul her out of here over his shoulder and hold her someplace he thought was safe.
“I promise,” she said on a sigh.
“The first thing is, you’re going to have a bodyguard.” He gestured to Riggins, who’d rounded the curtain, touching the gauze above his ear gingerly.
“Oh, Dad, no,” she protested, avoiding looking at the man who’d come to her rescue. How had her father anticipated her decision so easily? Now she was going to have someone following her around every minute of the day. For a moment, she considered how hard it would really be to hand off this bill to someone else and go into hiding, just to avoid this lack of privacy.
“This is Ethan Riggins. I trust him with my life. More importantly, I trust him with your life.”
McKenna looked up at the solemn-faced man with narrow features, a tight mouth and eyelashes that belonged on a supermodel over midnight blue eyes. McKenna was five ten, the same height as her dad. Riggins towered over both of them.
“You will listen to what he says as if you’re listening to what I tell you to do.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know how well that always works.”
Her father snorted, the closest sound to a laugh he ever made. “Ethan is going to take you to the Four Seasons tonight so I can check out your house and make sure it’s safe.” He held up a hand as she opened her mouth to protest. “I’ve got the room already. It’s a suite, so you’ll have your privacy.” He extended a finger in her direction before she got out the first syllable. “It’s this way or I’m taking you out of town.”
McKenna looked from her father to Riggins, whose face betrayed no emotion. Her shoulders tightened at the thought of spending time with this robot.
“Will he listen to me?” she asked, bracing her weight on her hands and staring at the man who did not return her gaze. “Will he meet my schedule? Will he talk?”
Riggins cut his gaze to her, his lips thin. “I’ll make every effort to do what you need, but my priority is to keep you safe.” He turned to the nurse, who had been listening with interest—and staring at him. “Is she ready to go?”
“Take her,” the nurse said with a wave of her hand.
The sound of quick footsteps approaching had her father and Riggins moving shoulder to shoulder to form a wall in front of her. Heart pounding, she stretched to see around them.
And recognized the blond-tipped curls of her boyfriend Nick Stanley.
“Dad, it’s okay.” She rested her hand on her father’s shoulder. “It’s Nick.”
John didn’t relax, but grumbled as he stepped aside to allow Nick to reach her.
His green eyes were troubled, the hollows beneath shadowed. “I got here as soon as I could. Are you okay?” He curved his hands on the sides of her face and looked into her eyes, searching for harm.
Accepting Nick’s affection in front of her father made her uncomfortable. She lowered her head, breaking contact. “I’m fine.”
He glanced at the nurse for verification and she nodded. He turned to her father, who betrayed no emotion. McKenna knew he didn’t like Nick, thought he was too soft. But a major aspect of Nick’s appeal to her was that he was nothing like her father.
“Can you come home?”
She went tense. They didn’t live together, hadn’t even slept together, but his words sounded too intimate in front of her father.
John addressed Nick for the first time. “She’s not going home.”
She touched her father’s arm to calm him. “Dad.” She addressed Nick. “Dad thinks it’s best if I go to a hotel while he makes sure my place is safe.”
“A hotel? A public place?” Nick’s eyebrows winged up. “After what happened tonight, do you think that’s the place to be?”
John drew in a sharp breath through his nose, unaccustomed to his decisions being questioned, especially by a man he didn’t respect.
“This is Ethan Riggins,” McKenna continued in a calm tone. “He’s my—bodyguard.”
Nick’s lips twitched in surprise as he looked up at the tall, solemn man. “You do that kind of work often?”
“I do a lot of security work,” Riggins replied.
“Well, I’m invested in McKenna’s safety.”
“As am I.” John’s voice was a low warning rumble. Did Nick hear it? It raised the hair on the back of McKenna’s neck.
“Yes sir, but she’d be perfectly safe at my place.”
John was not a big man, but he squared his shoulders to face off with her boyfriend. “I don’t think you’re the right person to judge. She’s going to a hotel with Mr. Riggins, and she will be back at work in the morning. Now you’ve made sure she’s safe, you’ve seen it with your own eyes, so you can go home.”
“Dad, will you give us a minute?”
Her father hesitated, then nodded to Riggins. Once John and Riggins moved away, she took Nick’s hand. “Thank you for being here.”
He stroked her hair. “I’ve told you not to stay so late.”
“You know better than anyone it can’t be helped sometimes.” Nick worked for the state agriculture office and put in long hours himself.
“Tell the bodyguard to take a hike and come home with me.”
She smiled. He’d never asked her that before, always very conscious of their positions and public lives. “I made a deal with my father, and it will make him feel better. Go home, get some sleep and I’ll see you in the morning.”
He hesitated, like he was going to argue, but didn’t. Another way he wasn’t like her father. “All right.” He kissed her softly, lingering, as if aware her father was watching and he wanted to send a message. “Call me if you need me, no matter what time.” He walked out, having to take an extra step to edge around Riggins, who didn’t move out of his way.
As he walked away, she wondered who had let him know she was here.
Riggins returned to her side. “If you’re ready to go, ma’am.”
Ma’am? Oh, this was going to be fun.
* * *
The suite her father had reserved for her was in a hotel overlooking Lady Bird Lake in the center of Austin. McKenna crossed the room to the window to see lights from the city reflecting off the surface of the water. Behind her, Riggins inspected the suite, nearly as silent in his movement as he’d been on the drive over. She couldn’t decide if she preferred for him to be silent so she didn’t have to think of anything to say, or if she’d rather have him talk, at least a little.
Her father had thought of everything, had even packed a bag of her clothes and toiletries for her. She was afraid to see what he might have included, but she certainly wanted to get out of these clothes, smelling of fear and stained with the blood from her arm and from Riggins’s head wound.
“You did good.”
Riggins’s voice from the doorway of the bedroom made her jolt.
She turned to see him standing there, solemn, arms folded over that broad chest. “What?”
“I know what you did at the capitol, how you protected your friend. That took some quick thinking.”
Mimicking his stance, she planted her feet, though she was so tired she could barely form thoughts. “My father trained me well.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen men trained to deal with it every day fall apart. You did good.”
She didn’t want to analyze why his words rubbed the wrong way. “How many stitches?”
He touched the gauze. “Six. I’ve had worse.”
No doubt, if he was anything like her father.
“Yes, well, I’m going to shower and go to bed. I have to be back at work in three hours. Let’s see if your training has prepared you for that.”
She closed the bedroom doors in his face and sank to the bed, finally giving in to the tremors of fear and exhaustion, and wishing she had someone to hold her.


Guarded Hearts is available at all retailers! 
​

The lunch rush was dying down at the Coyote Moon on the square of Evansville, Texas. Even the sheriff and the mayor had abandoned their usual table and headed back to work. Cassidy Simon balanced three salads and carried them to the table of women by the front window. The scent of hair product overwhelmed the usual aroma of grilled steak and fried, well, everything.
“Cassidy, have you been to Liz’s new salon?” Heather Saldana asked as she scraped some of the olives to the side of her salad.
Since Cassidy’s hair was twisted into a claw clip on top of her head, Cassidy would have to say Heather knew she hadn’t.
“No, is it nice?” she asked, just to make conversation. Every penny she had was either put back into the RV park she’d built on her land to house the oilfield guys, or tucked into her escape fund. No way was she spending it on herself in a salon.
“Oh, it’s great. She’s made it really luxurious. The chairs are just heaven, and she has these stones for your feet. And she hired a manicurist from Houston.” Trinity waggled her fingers at Cassidy. “Aren’t these just perfect for wildflower season?”
Her nails were decorated like tiny wildflowers, each finger a different flower. They were, admittedly, adorable. Cassidy curled her own uneven nails out of sight.
“Victor’s coming home from a hitch tomorrow and I imagine my nails are all I’ll be wearing.” Heather nudged Victoria, who laughed.
Trinity turned to Cassidy. “You should totally go, but you need to make an appointment. She’s pretty busy already. I think everyone’s just so anxious to see what she’s done with the place.”
Liz had rented the store in the center of the block on the rundown square a few months back. Her plans for a modest salon had expanded as money started pouring into the town when the men found lucrative work in the oilfields and their wives started looking to spend the money. Places like that were few and far between in Evansville, but the boom was providing opportunities no one in their quiet little town had expected. Several residents had flocked to the fields. Including Cassidy’s ex, Mason, who’d started driving trucks and left her behind.
After Cassidy made an empty promise to check out the salon, she ensured her customers had all they needed before she made her escape to the kitchen.
“Lucky you,” Carla Martinez said, looking through her lashes at the three women at Cassidy’s table.
“What? Why?”
“They may be gossips, but they’re good tippers.”
Not in Cassidy’s experience, probably because they’d all gone to school together, though Heather, Trinity and Victoria had been a couple of years older. In a school the size of Evansville High, everyone knew everyone else.
“Think they’ll tip me enough to go get wildflower nails?” Cassidy asked, forcing a light tone.
Carla rolled her eyes. “Manicured nails are wasted on you, seriously. You’d just gnaw them off.”
“That’s not fair. I don’t bite my nails.”
“You just chew on them.” Carla hefted her purse on her shoulder, her shift over. “I’m outta here. Need me to do anything else before I go?”
Knowing Carla wanted some time alone before her kids got home from school, Cassidy made a shooing motion. “Go. Enjoy peace and quiet.”
Cassidy kept an eye on her remaining table while she did her side work. Unlike Carla, she was in no hurry to get home. Her peace and quiet was here, even during the lunch rush.
The door swung open—odd this late in the day—and a man Cassidy didn’t recognize walked in. He was a big guy, not uncommon in ranching country, but what was unusual was that he was alone. For a moment, she thought he’d join Heather, Trinity and Victoria, but he chose a table closer to the pool table.
He drew the attention of the three women, who quieted, nodded in his direction and whispered.
Grateful for a distraction from her other customers, Cassidy picked up a menu and crossed to the man, who sat back in the creaking wooden chair and smiled at her. Wow. He was a cutie, blond hair sticking up just slightly as it grew out of a short cut, blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, a straight nose, a strong chin. She placed the menu on the table in front of him.
“Hey.”
His voice was gravelly, and sent skitters of awareness down her spine, reminding her how long it had been since she’d been out with anyone, had a man other than her regulars give her attention.
No, she needed to push that thought out of her head right now. She wasn’t sticking around here. Once she made her money, Evansville was going to be in her rearview mirror.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“Sweet tea?”
“Sure. I’ll be right back. Will anyone be joining you?”
“Nah, I’m on my own today.”
Something about his blue eyes was familiar, but she couldn’t place how she knew him. “I’ll go get your tea.”
After she delivered the tall glass in the textured plastic glass, she went to check on the ladies, who had shifted their chairs so they could watch the newcomer.
“Do you know who that is?” Victoria asked Cassidy, not as quietly as she probably hoped.
Cassidy shook her head as she cleared the plates from in front of the women, in a subtle effort to invite them to leave.
“That’s Grady McKenna. You know, of the McKenna ranch.”
One of the biggest ranches in South Texas, in the same family for over a hundred years. Two brothers and a sister. Now she remembered why she recognized those blue eyes. His sister, Sage, had tormented her all through high school. She didn’t remember Grady at all, though she didn’t think he was much older than her.
“Grady’s the one who went into the Air Force out of high school. I didn’t know he was out, and back. And damn, he looks good.”
Heather nudged her friend. “Remember you’re engaged to my brother!”
“I can still look. It’s not like Ben doesn’t look at Cassidy’s ass every time he comes here.”
Cassidy almost dropped the dishes as all three women turned their attention from Grady to Cassidy’s ass.
“Cassidy! Phone call!” Charlie, the cook, called from the kitchen.
Her stomach clenched, and she turned, carrying the dishes back to the kitchen. She set them on the counter and frowned at the expression on Charlie’s face.
“Your mom,” he said, confirming her fear.
She took the phone, wishing it was cordless so she could have some privacy instead of being tethered to the register. “This is Cassidy.”
“Yeah, Cassidy, sorry to bother you at work.” It was Dylan Hoyt, one of the oilfield workers staying at the RV park she’d built on her land, who acted as unofficial manager when she was at the cafe. “Your mom is kind of wasted and she’s knocking on all the guys’ trailers. They worked the late shift, and they’re not so happy about it. I tried to get her back to the house, but she wouldn’t go.”
“All right. All right.” She lifted her thumbnail to her mouth, but thought about what Carla said, and lowered it again. Damn, she needed some kind of stress relief. “It’ll take me a bit to get there. I have a couple of customers right now, and Charlie’s by himself. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Charlie took the phone from her. “I’ve got it. You go on.”
Cassidy wanted to argue, to resist, because God knew she didn’t want to go home. But she couldn’t have her mother chasing off her tenants. Those guys paid her rent, and they were her ticket out of here. She had to deal with this.
“I’m sorry, Charlie.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that. Just get your guy’s order before you leave, and maybe leave a pitcher on each table. I don’t think those ladies are leaving as long as he’s here.”
He was probably right. She carried her order pad back to Grady’s table, aware he was watching her every step.
“You decide what you want?”
“Sure, I’ll take a chicken-fried steak. Haven’t had a good one in a while.”
“I heard you’re just back from the military?” She didn’t have time to engage him in conversation, but she couldn’t deny her curiosity.
He glanced toward the women at the other table, a half-smile curving his lips, letting her know he knew where she’d gotten her information. “Not just back. I mean, yeah, just back to Texas, but I was in North Carolina for a couple of months. Good to be back in Texas, though. No place like home.” He held his glass while she refilled it with tea. “You never left?”
Did he remember her? “Not yet.”
He lifted his eyebrows, but she didn’t elaborate. She couldn’t. “I need to put your order in, then I need to run. A family emergency. Charlie will take care of you. I’ll ask in advance for you to forgive him. I swear, we usually have better service.”
He smiled, white teeth flashing. “I’ll hold you to that.”
Wow. That smile lit up his whole face, and lit something deep inside her. But she didn’t linger, instead hurrying his order back to Charlie, delivering pitchers to both tables, then grabbing her purse and bolting.
The drive home over the crumbling asphalt roads took longer than usual, probably because Cassidy was dreading it so much. She turned onto the gravel road she’d just put in for easier access for the RVs, then pulled into the parking area where the guys kept their trucks. She took a deep breath and opened the car door, scanning the area for her mom.
And there she was, stumbling down the steps from a Rambler, tugging up the sagging strap of her camisole. Ah, hell, had she just gone into Chris’s trailer?
“Mom!”
Her mother twisted and fell on the gravel, then rose to her knees, tugging at the blouse again. “Cassidy! You’re home early.”
Cassidy hurried to her side to help her to her feet. “Mom, what are you doing? You know these guys work the night shift and need their sleep. You need to leave them alone.”
Angie Simon slumped against the side of the Rambler and pushed her hair back from her face. She should still be a pretty woman. She was only forty-three, but the drinking and the cigarettes had put miles on her. Apparently, though, that didn’t stop the workers from taking advantage of her advances.
“You leave me alone out here in the middle of nowhere all day long. I’m lonely.”
Cassidy had taken her mother’s car keys on purpose, because she couldn’t risk her driving into town to buy more alcohol, and then getting behind the wheel wasted. So far, she hadn’t hurt anyone, though she had two DWIs on her record.
“These are men with families, working men. They are not here to entertain you, or for you to entertain them. Where did you get the liquor?”
“Jordan was nice enough to buy me a bottle the last time he went to town. And Chris brought back some weed.”
Jesus. Thanks for the help, guys. She should let her mother bang on their trailer doors all day long. Maybe they’d supplied her in the hope she’d pass out.
Cassidy tucked her hand under her mother’s arm and guided her toward the house.
Her mother pulled away. “I don’t want to go home. Take me into town.”
“Oh, no. I have to go back to work. You need to go in the house and sleep it off. Did you take your birth control pills?” Because the last thing she needed was to raise her mother’s baby.
Angie looked affronted. “I always remember. And I use a condom, too. Can’t be too careful.”
“Too much information,” Cassidy muttered, urging her mother forward.
“You need to get a man.”
“No, I really don’t.”
“You’d relax if you got laid.”
“Mom!” But the picture that came to mind was Grady McKenna and that lazy smile. She pushed it away again. “I’d relax if you’d stop drinking and bothering our tenants. I’d relax if I could trust you to behave yourself like an adult.”
“You’re no fun,” Angie pouted.
No. No, she wasn’t. She was no fun, and she had no fun. All she wanted was enough money to maybe put her mom in rehab and get the hell out of Dodge.
She got Angie into the house and into the shower, and went to the kitchen to make coffee. While it was brewing, she searched in all the usual places for the booze and the pot. At least the house wasn’t very big, and her mother wasn’t adept at hiding things, because Cassidy found the bottle, plus a couple others, and the bag of pot. She considered the pot a moment. What was she going to do with it? Flush it, maybe. The booze was going down the drain.
Every time she did that, she winced. Even if it wasn’t her money, it was expensive. Still, she twisted off the tops, wrinkling her nose at the smell, and dumped the contents down the drain, running the water at the same time so her eyes didn’t burn from the fumes.
Once the job was done, the weed flushed and the bottles in the recycle bin, Cassidy poured a cup of coffee and set it on the table. The shower wasn’t running any longer. She headed down to the bathroom and opened the door to see her mother sitting naked on the toilet, rocking herself back and forth and sobbing.
“Oh, Mom.” Cassidy wrapped a towel around her mother’s shoulders, crouching before her at the same time. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not pretty anymore!”
“Mom, don’t be silly. You’re still beautiful.”
“When I was a girl, all the boys wanted me. I was Bluebonnet Queen. Everyone thought I was the most beautiful girl in town.”
Cassidy knew the rest of the story. Angie had let the fame go to her head, had let the boys talk her into bed, had her heart broken when Cassidy’s father denied the baby was his. Cassidy’s grandparents had helped raise her, up until the time when she was thirteen and they had had enough of Angie’s drama, left the land to Angie and Cassidy and moved to Oklahoma to be closer to Cassidy’s uncle and his nice, normal family. They spent most of their retirement in an RV driving around the country, but never back to Texas.
Angie hadn’t allowed the stigma of being a single mother in a small town keep her down. She lost her baby weight and started dating again. Cassidy wasn’t sure if she wanted a father for her baby, or if she just wanted to prove to herself that she could still get a man.
She could get a man, but not a father for her baby. Cassidy wondered how hard she tried.      
“Let’s go get you something to eat,” Cassidy said now in an attempt to stem the pity party. “Did you eat today?”
“I just want to feel pretty.”
“I know, Mom, but you can’t go to these guys. They pay us to live here, and we need that money.”
“What for? We’re not poor.”
Thanks to her grandparents, who signed over their land to her when she became of age, they didn’t have house payments, only taxes. But she’d borrowed against the land to put in the RV park, the gravel road and parking area, the hook-ups, the drainage, and the laundry hut. She owed the bank a pretty penny that she had to pay back before she could funnel serious money into her escape fund.
Her mother wasn’t privy to either concern. The land was Cassidy’s, and it was her decision. Her salvation.
“We’re doing what others are doing—taking advantage of what we can go get some of this oil money before they leave.” Or before they found more permanent housing.
She got her mother dressed and into the kitchen, made her some soup and settled her in front of an afternoon talk show before Cassidy headed back to the restaurant.
“Didn’t expect to see you,” Charlie said when she walked in. Debbie was lounging by the drink station, called into work early, though no tables were occupied.
Cassidy didn’t tell Charlie she hadn’t wanted to stay home with her mother. Instead, she said, “Put me to work.”

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The Texas Frontier, 1826


“Kit!”
    Katherine Barclay straightened from stirring the laundry in the iron pot. She swept loose tendrils of hair back from her face and schooled her features into patience before she turned to her sixteen-year-old sister-in-law. Mary ran into the yard of the garrison, not wearing a wrap to protect her from the winds sweeping across the coastal plains. The young woman was recovering from a fever and didn’t have the sense to cover her head on this frosty Texas day?
But Mary revered Kit, and while that admiration frequently tried Kit’s patience, she had to remain conscious of it. There was no living with the girl if Kit hurt her feelings.
     “What is it?” Kit asked, at the same time Mary blurted, “A man is riding this way!”
     Kit’s heart thumped. Could it be John? Had the word they’d received of his death on the Texas border been a mistake?
She tamped down that hope as she’d trained herself to do. Fear rose in its place. Only she, Mary and her mother-in-law, Agnes, remained at the garrison standing guard between the Karankawa tribe and Stephen Austin’s colony of San Felipe. The other inhabitants had fled. John had urged Kit to accompany him on his mission back to the States, but their young son, Daniel, had been sick. She’d feared traveling would make him worse. Agnes and Mary had agreed to stay with her, a fact she’d been grateful for when she received word that her husband had been killed in a skirmish with outlaws, and when she’d buried her son a week later.
    Before regret could squeeze her heart, she closed the door on it. She couldn’t dwell on the past now.  She was in charge. As much as she loved Agnes and Mary, they were too frail for this frontier life. And now their safety was threatened.  
    She released the stirring stick she’d been gripping and flexed her cold, aching fingers. “Where is this man?”
    “He’s coming from the northeast. We saw him through the window.”
    Another transgression. They shouldn’t have had the window set in the fort wall open, not when the January wind had such a bite. The last thing Kit needed was to bury her sister-in-law if she caught another fever. Kit stepped away from the laundry fire and snatched her wrap from the chair nearby. She folded the woolen fabric around herself as she headed for the steps leading to the top of the wooden cabin that sat just inside the fort wall.
    “Stay here,” she ordered over her shoulder as Mary began to follow.
    The command did no good, and the young woman trotted behind her up the steps.
    Wind whipped at Kit’s already wild hair and tore through her thin cloak and damp dress. The low gray clouds offered no hope of sun. She buried her hands in the folds of her cloak and scanned the flat horizon.
    There, astride a beautiful roan, slumped a man in a saddle, heading straight toward the garrison.
    Alarm shot through her as she realized she’d left her loaded rifle beside the chair where her cloak had been. She cursed her lack of foresight. She hadn’t expected him to be so close. 
    She whirled to run for the rifle when a movement from the man caught her eye. She turned back just in time to see him drop out of the saddle and remain motionless on the road.
    Drunk, was her first thought. Or hurt. Or sick.
    She stiffened. No more sickness. She couldn’t bear expending her energy on someone else she couldn’t help.
    She stared at the man, so still in the golden dry grass, his horse standing patiently beside him, and gnawed her lip in indecision. 
Mary gripped her arm, huddling against Kit for warmth. “What are we going to do? Just leave him out there?”
     What could she do? Bring him into the fort not knowing who he was, what his purpose was? They were three women with little means of protecting themselves against someone who meant them harm. And if he was indeed sick, could she risk the three of them contracting his illness?
    But could she just leave him out there to die? Then what? Watch carrion destroy his body? Hardly a Christian act.
    Confused and tired of making all these decisions, she crossed the yard and closed her fingers around the reassuring metal of the rifle barrel. With the gun in one hand, she tucked her arm around Mary’s shoulders. The girl shivered uncontrollably, her teeth chattering. Kit removed her own wrap and folded it about the girl. “The first thing we’re doing is getting you warm before you sicken again.” 
    That would also buy her time to think.
    Agnes waited in the doorway of the garrison commander's quarters, the rooms they had claimed for themselves when they realized no one would return to the fort this winter. The older woman hurried forward to gather her daughter, but her worried eyes sought Kit.
    “Did you see him? He’s fallen.”
    “I saw.” Kit ushered the women into the room and closed the door. Immediately, she felt warmer, but she moved to stand by the hearth anyway, arms wrapped around her middle.
    Agnes peered out the window, past the parchment paper covering it. “What are we going to do?”
    “Has he moved?”
    Agnes shook her head. “He could be dead.”
    He could be. And that left the beautiful horse, a horse they could use. If he was sick or drunk, he was hardly a threat. 
    Decision made, Kit reached into the box over the fireplace and drew out the pistol John had left her. Her fingers flexed when she opened the box, as the memory of how he’d taught her to shoot it stabbed through her heart.
Before he’d brought her to this place from her home near New Orleans, he wanted her to be able to defend herself. So he took her to an open field with this pistol and the rifle still in the yard. He’d taught her how to load each, his big, sure hands guiding hers through the motions. He’d shown her how to sight down the barrel, his arms around her, his strong chest at her back, his muscled arms along hers. She could still feel the heat of his breath against the back of her neck, the way his fingers curved around hers, his soft chuckle as she flinched at the sound. He hadn’t allowed her to back down, hadn’t allowed her to quit until she could load each gun in under two minutes. 
    Then, when her arms had trembled from lifting the heavy rifle, he’d taken her home and made love to her.
    Tears swam in her eyes. She missed him so much. It wasn’t right that she should lose them both, her husband and her son, so she had nothing left.
     “Kit?” Mary rested a hesitant hand on Kit’s arm.
     Kit drew in a deep breath, straightening her shoulders and blinking back the tears she didn’t have time to shed. She set the box on the table and tucked the heavy pistol into the pocket of her dress.
“You’re going out there?” Agnes’s strident voice rang in the small room. “What if it’s a trap? If he’s just using illness as a ruse to get in here?”
      “He has no way of knowing we’re the only three here. That’s why I fire the cannon every day, so anyone around will think the soldiers are still here.”    
    “We barely have enough food for ourselves,” Agnes pointed out.
    That was true, and their supply was dwindling.  Kit herself had only taken a small amount of porridge this morning in an attempt to make their supplies stretch. What would they do when they ran out of the oats and wheat flour they had stored in the root cellar? They’d already used the dried meat and root vegetables she’d stored. Her skills with the rifle weren’t nearly good enough to hunt, even if she were brave enough to leave the fort. She had to hope that what they had would last until spring, when they could leave this place. At least it would be warmer, and there would be more opportunities to find food. And maybe the Indians would be on the move, away from them, following the game.
    “His horse looks healthy enough.” She met Agnes’s gaze.
    “Riding him would be dangerous,” Mary asserted.
“We can butcher him,” Kit said softly, though the words pained her to say.
Mary gasped, her brown eyes opening wide.
Kit clamped her jaw and ignored the outrage. She had to. She strode through the door and tried to shut it behind her, but as usual, Mary was there, still in Kit’s wrap. Kit would need that to venture out of the fort, though the heavy cloth would limit her mobility. She picked up her loaded rifle by the barrel, pivoted and returned to the window, where Agnes watched the stranger, her body vibrating with anxiety.
Kit raised that anxiety by thrusting the rifle at the older woman. “If he makes any sudden movements when I’m out there, shoot this.”
Agnes raised her hands, palms out, and stared at the gun in horror. “I can’t shoot a man.”
Kit bit back a sigh of frustration. “You don’t have to shoot him. Just make him think you are. He doesn’t know who is in here, remember? Please, Mother. I need your help.” The last words, words she rarely spoke, dragged out of her.
Agnes must have realized what the plea cost Kit, because she pursed her lips, lowered her hands and reached for the rifle.
After a quick review of the weapon, Kit retrieved her wrap from her terrified sister-in-law and marched out of the room, hesitating only a moment at the fort’s giant wooden doors, which she hadn’t opened in weeks. Not allowing herself to think of what would happen to her family if she died out there, she tugged one door open wide enough to slip out.
The stranger was farther from the walls than she had realized. Every step away from the fort made her feel more vulnerable to Indians and outlaws. She reassured herself by remembering they hadn’t seen any of the Karankawa tribe in a week or more—the days blended together—and by pressing her hand to the gun resting heavily against her thigh in her skirt pocket. Though the land was open for miles, every brush of high grass against her skirt sent a chill of alarm through her.
She expected the horse to react to her approach, but he merely lifted his head and widened his nostrils. Her gaze returned to the man sprawled face down in the dirt, one arm pinned beneath his big body, one long leg curled out, the other straight behind him. His hat had tumbled off into the grass, revealing dark hair with a touch of red.
He was breathing. She could see the rise and fall of his back beneath the wool coat, could see the dance of dust in front of his mouth with every exhalation.
He was young, younger than John had been, close to her own age, his face long and lean and bristled with reddish stubble, his cheeks ruddy. His full lips were chapped. She knew before she reached him that he was feverish.
But he was alive. What was she to do now?

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Lori Cervantes let her mind wander on the drive to her happy place as mid-90s grunge rock pounded out of the speakers of her SUV. Since her divorce, she was used to being alone on weekends while her kids went with their dad. Now her kids were in college and off doing their own things, and Lori didn't want to sit home alone, so she headed to her little sanctuary on the San Marcos River.
Not many people knew about the little campground, populated by enormous teepees and elevated cabins, fire pits and a dock and a tire swing over the water. The campground was close to the road, and neighbors lived nearby, so it wasn’t large or fancy, but the place itself filled her soul. Some nights she’d sleep in the teepee, but tonight felt like a good night to sleep under the stars.
She turned off the highway and down the one-lane road, the stress melting away. She turned the corner, and saw a chain across the driveway leading to the campground. Frowning, she pulled up into the driveway as far as she could get, her bumper hanging out into the road a little, and she opened her door.
She stood and inspected the campground. No cars at any of the teepees, but of course it was still pretty early, and not a lot of people came here anyway. But the Adirondack chairs were tipped forward to lean against the fire pits, the swing was pulled in from the river and hung on a tree. 
The camp looked…closed.
The chain was padlocked to a pole that she didn't remember being there before. With a huff, she stepped over the chain and marched toward the office, just a room off the activity room. She didn’t get an answer when she knocked, so she walked around back to the house. Mr. and Mrs. Langston owned the place, and lived around back, so they were always available. Mrs. Langston liked to make it homey, but now no hanging baskets adorned the porch, no plants were in the stands, no wreath on the door. The house looked lonely, and a strange truck was parked in the driveway.
She marched to the door, thinking of her car parked awkwardly at the driveway, and knocked firmly. 
After a few moments, the door swung open to reveal a large man in a damp white t-shirt and jeans, wearing heavy work gloves, and with flecks of white in his dark hair. He was maybe her age, maybe a little younger, and maybe not so bad looking under that scowl.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone impatient.
“I have a reservation for this weekend. Lori Cervantes. I have the teepee farthest from the road.”
“We’re closed. You got an email and a refund.”
She forced herself not to take a step back in shock. “You’re closed? What are you talking about? It’s summer, your busy season. Why would you close?”
“It’s all in the email,” he said, and started to close the door.
She didn't know what came over her, but she stepped forward and slapped her hand against it, holding it open.
“I had a reservation. I’ve been looking forward to this all week. What is going on?”
He sighed, cocked his hip and leveled a look at her. 
“My folks retired. They’re selling the place, and I’m fixing it up. Therefore, no guests. It’s all in the email.”
“Well, I don't read my email when I’m off work,” she countered, then his words sunk in. “They’re selling? When did they decide?” She tried to remember the last time she’d been out here, but she couldn’t. She’d spent a lot of time talking to the Langstons, getting to know them, especially when she’d come out here alone. 
“I don't know, they’ve been talking about it for months. Finally decided they didn't want to do all the work this summer. My siblings and I have been trying to talk to them about it for years.”
“What are they going to do now? They’re moving completely?” She couldn't wrap her head around that. They had loved this place so much.
“They want to buy a condo at the beach, just for themselves. Retire and have a good life.”
Lori hadn’t thought about them being that old, since they were younger than her own mother. She rocked back on her heels. She was at a loss. Sure, she’d only driven an hour to come out here, but she had needed this escape after a rough week at work, making sure all the vendors were paid at the end of the school year.
“What if I help?”
“What if you what?”
“What if I help you get it ready to sell? I know how to paint, and I can clean, and, I don't know, take care of landscape or whatever you need me to do.” He appeared to be working by himself, so why wouldn't he take her up on her offer?
His frown deepened as he looked down at her. “Why would you want to do that?”
“Because I want to spend the weekend out here.” She gestured toward the river. “This place—means a lot to me. I would like to help.”
He looked her up and down, like he couldn't believe she was capable. She wanted to flex her muscles, to let him know she worked out and was more than capable of learning whatever he needed her to do.
“I don't think it’s a good idea.”
“Why? Because you want to do the work all by yourself?”
He glanced back over his shoulder into the house, and his shoulders sagged a bit. He turned back to face her. “I don't even know you.”
She stuck a hand out at him. “I’m Lori Cervantes from San Antonio. I’ve been coming out here like six times a year for the past four years. I’ve had dinner with your parents on several occasions.” She cast back in her memory for mention of their son. The Langstons had three children, but the one they talked about most often was their daughter, who lived in San Diego. “You’re Jackson? A firefighter? Or Justin, the IT guy?”
His frown morphed into surprise. “Yeah, ah. Jackson. Huh. But no, I can’t ask you to help me with this.”
“You didn’t. I offered. And if you’re selling it to someone who doesn't want to run it as a camp, this might be my last chance to stay here.”
Jackson looked at Lori for a long moment, a tiny curvy woman with jet-black hair, straight as an arrow, sweeping her shoulders. Big eyes in a tiny pixie face made her look like a doll, except he’d never seen a doll with such a stubborn expression. 
Sending her away should be easy enough. He’d refunded her money. He had no obligation to her. 
But something in her voice told him she needed this, and hell, if she knew his name, knew his job, knew his parents, maybe she did feel invested in the place.
He backed away from the door, motioning for her to enter. “You’re going to get dirty.”
For the first time, he saw hesitation in her expression. 
“Do you have a job for me…out here? I’ve, ah, I’ve been inside all week and I was really looking forward to being outside. I can run a mean weed-eater.”
He saw wariness in her eyes. Smart, actually. She didn't know him, and she probably didn't want to be alone in the house with him. 
“Yeah, I mean, sure. If you’re sure. You know how to run a weed eater?”
She lifted an arm to flex, and he felt a smile tug at his lips. 
“Let me get it for you.”
He walked past her and headed toward the garage. He lifted the door to reveal the full but mostly-neat garage, and walked over to pick up the weed-eater, leaning against the zero-turn lawnmower. Her big eyes took on a gleam as she looked at the tractor. 
“Can I do that?”
“Ah. It takes some getting used to. I don't want you to land in the river.”
“I won’t go near the river until I get used to it.”
He actually enjoyed using the mower, but mowing the property was time consuming, and her taking over would save him a bit of time, to be honest. “Let me get it out for you.”
She watched closely as he turned the key, pulled in the handles and guided the machine into the yard. Then he shut it off and hopped off.
“You have to be in the seat to get it to start,” he said, motioning for her to take his place. He tapped the key when he did. “This starts it.” He tapped the lever. “This adjusts your speed. Start slow. Pull this knob to start mowing, but maybe you should drive it around a bit first.”
Her hands rested on the bars. “And these?”
“Pull them toward you. Push to go, pull to stop, pull the right to turn right, pull left to turn left. This is a zero-turn, so it will respond as soon as you pull.”
She nodded, her focus on the ground before her. He stepped back.
“Okay, take off,” he said.
She started the mower, and her take-off was a bit jerky, but she got the machine moving, heading for an open patch of lawn between the common room and the river. He watched her long enough that he was convinced she could handle it, and he went back inside. 
He liked hearing the run of the mower as he painted, even as the shadows grew longer. He had a work light clamped to the ladder to illuminate the room, but he wanted to check on Lori and see how she was doing.
He was surprised, when he stepped out, to see that she’d made great progress. All the common areas were mown neatly, and she had gone close-ish to the river, stopping just before the slope. She had pretty good control of the thing, too, he saw, as she whipped back around in his direction and stopped the machine.
Her bare skin was flecked with bits of cut grass, her skin glowed with sweat, but she was grinning. 
“You mastered that thing pretty quickly.”
Her grin widened. “I play a lot of video games with my kids. Once I started thinking of it that way, it was pretty easy.”
Her kids. Huh. He didn't know why he hadn’t thought about her having kids, especially kids old enough to play video games. And yet they weren’t here with her today.
She turned the key and handed it to him, then stood to rise, staggering a bit, then laughing at her own instability. “My arms are like noodles, holy cow. I hadn’t anticipated that.”
He caught one of her arms to steady her, and they felt nothing like noodles. Taut and strong. Warm. He helped guide her to the ground and then released her. 
“The place looks great. You did a lot of work. I didn't mean for you to do so much.”
“I don't mind working for my room. Speaking of, do you have the key handy so I can go in and take a shower? Although I have to say I was tempted to just jump in the river. I really feel like I need soap.”
He grimaced. “I haven't cleaned any of the rooms yet, changed the sheets or stocked with soap.”
Her shoulders sagged, just a little. Then she perked up again. “I can change the sheets and wash them and all that after I shower. And I brought my own soap and shampoo, so you don't have to worry about that. I just need access to the washer, and some detergent.”
Man, did nothing deter her? Most people would have taken the hint and headed out by now. “Sure, okay, I’ll get you the key. You said you like the one farthest from the road?”
“Yes, please. Number six.”
“You, ah, how many times have you stayed here?” he asked as he turned to lead the way to the house.
She hesitated a moment, looking at the mower, before she fell into step with him. “It depends. I came out almost every other week when my divorce was first final. Sometimes I’d bring the kids, sometimes by myself. It’s just so peaceful here. But it’s been a few months this time. My daughter just graduated, you know, and I wanted to be closer to home any time she went out. I still do, to be honest, but she’s got to grow up, and she can always call her dad or her brother to be with her until I can get there.”
“How old are your kids?” He couldn’t wrap his mind around the idea that she had a kid who had graduated.
“Sophia is eighteen, Andrew is twenty-one.” She swept her hair back from her face as she said it.
“You’ve got to be kidding. You don't look old enough to have kids that old.”
“Well, I started young, and it helps that I’m short. People think of short people as being younger, for some reason.”
“No, it’s—” He shook his head, not wanting to insult her. “I’ll get you the key.”
When he returned, she smiled up at him. “You’ve been working hard, why don't I set up the fire pit? I brought beer. And stuff for s’mores. It’ll be a nice way to unwind.”
“Ah.” He looked toward the river, back at the house. He was tempted, but he had so much work to do. “I can keep going a few more hours in there with the lights.”
“Oh.” She took a step back, bouncing the key in the palm of her hand. “Okay. Well, if you change your mind, I’ll be over there. Unless you object to me starting a fire.”
He looked back at her. “No, no, that’s fine. You go enjoy yourself.”
“All right.” The lilt in her voice told him she thought he was making the wrong decision, as she backed away, a smile curving her lips.
He thought about teasing her, asking her if she would be all right with her noodle arms, but no, better to just let her go do her thing. She’d come here to be on her own, anyway, hadn’t she?

Claiming Her Happy Place is available at all retailers. 

Melody Servantes stepped out of the elevator door into chaos. College students dressed in bathing suits filled the hallway of the hotel, their screeches echoing off the walls, waving bottles about so the liquid sloshed out of them and onto the carpet, infusing the closed space with the scent of malt.
A few years ago, she would have been in the big middle of it, possibly the one sitting on the broad shoulders of the shirtless hottie, twirling her bikini top over her head. She touched the inside of her wrist, the small stylized seahorse tattoo there, some‐ thing from her old life.
But now she was the manager of The Friendly Shores Hotel in Starfish Shores, and it was her responsibility to see the place wasn’t ripped apart by spring breakers who were frustrated by the constant rain that kept them inside. She lifted her fingers to her mouth and whistled shrilly, but the sound barely penetrated the raucous noise. She pushed her way down the hall, shouting herself hoarse to no avail. Hands clamped on her ass and she maneuvered with experience to avoid the grabby college student. Once upon a time, she would have leaned back into those hands, and the man wielding them. She might even have grabbed a bottle from one and helped herself to a healthy swig.
She cursed the unceasing rain that had the spring breakers trapped in her hotel, instead of partying by the pool or out on the beach, or any other damn where. This was her first spring break as a manager, and everything that could go wrong, had.
A ding behind her signaled the elevator opening and she turned, wondering if more tenants were coming to invade the hallway. Instead, she turned and met the blue-eyed gaze of Deputy Whit Calhoun. The last time she’d looked into those eyes, she’d been bent over the back of a cruiser, her hands being cuffed behind her by his father. The khaki shirt he wore told her before she even got a good look at him that he’d continued to follow in his father’s footsteps. So not a deputy anymore. He was the sheriff now.
He made a sound that she couldn’t believe she’d heard over the cacophony, and almost immediately, everyone in the hall turned toward him. Once he had their attention, he strolled into the center of them and raised his voice.
“We’ve had some complaints about the noise and mess. I need you all to make sure everything here is picked up, no glass or anything left on the floor, then head on back to your rooms, or out someplace else. I apologize for the weather. I know that’s not what you came here for. But there are other ways to have a good time.”
She marveled at the command in his voice, and the way the guests responded, meekly turning away and collecting the mess. He shifted his shoulders and approached her.
“Aren’t you going to give your friends a hand?”
She snapped her back straight. “I’m the manager here.” Surprise widened his eyes and his gaze flicked to the snug tank and jeans she wore before he brought his eyes—decidedly warmer—back to her face. A smile canted his lips. “Well, well. Melody Servantes. Good to see you again. I didn’t know you were back in town.”
She put her hands on her hips—drawing his gaze again—and scowled, remembering the party he and his daddy busted up all those years ago, not so different from this one, where she’d been arrested for being drunk and disorderly, and underage. How she hadn’t been too drunk to hear his father tell him, as he pushed her into the jail cell, that no one should be surprised she was in trouble, given who her father was. The words had filled her with a strange mix of defiance and defeat, and she’d never forgotten that emotion.
She’d left Starfish Shores shortly after, but had missed the beauty of her hometown. “I’ve been back about four months.”
“And I haven’t seen you before now?”
What was he asking, if she had been in trouble? She wouldn’t satisfy him with an answer. “Who called you?” she asked instead.
He lifted a broad shoulder. “One of the hotel guests who didn’t want the noise anymore. You up here to calm them down?” That she hadn’t been able to accomplish her goal made her defensive. “I was getting there.”
The glint in his blue eyes told her he didn’t believe her.
Around them, the crowd thinned and disbursed, leaving a few wet spots from spilled alcohol, but no bottles, broken or otherwise.
“You need any help with them, you let me know.” He inclined his head and ambled back to the elevator. “You going down?”
She gritted her teeth. Yes, she needed to go down, but she’d be damned if she’d ride the elevator with him.
“I’ll just make sure everything gets cleaned up,” she said.
“Suit yourself.” He stepped into the elevator, and with one last look at her, he pressed a button and the doors shuddered closed.
She let her shoulders slump, then headed for the cleaning closet for the carpet cleaner and the vacuum. She hadn’t worked her way up to manager without knowing how to clean up messes. Hell, she’d had more than her fair share of experience at that.


At least the grocery store off the main drag wasn’t as crowded that evening as most places in town—though the cereal and frozen pizza had been wiped out, as had the wine and beer section. Mel hadn’t seen the store so decimated since the last hurricane had clipped Starfish Shores when she was sixteen.
Thank goodness she knew how to cook—actually enjoyed cooking, or she’d be shit out of luck on the food supplies. She had no desire to wait for a table in a restaurant crowded with bored spring breakers.
She was straining to reach the last Diet Coke, way in the back of the top shelf, when a deep voice behind her rumbled, “Let me get that for you.”
She swung about to look into the blue eyes of Sheriff Calhoun. He was wearing his full uniform, including his hat. Just terrific. In the months she’d been back in town, she’d managed to avoid interaction with him, and now she’d seen him twice in one day?
“I can do it myself,” she said automatically.
“Sure, if you climb up on the other shelves to get it. Just stand aside and I can get it.”
She stayed where she was for a moment, but so did he. She knew she could out-stubborn him, but really, she just wanted to get out of here and go home. So she stepped aside.
He had to strain a bit to reach it, and she couldn’t help noticing the way the cotton pulled against those shoulders, and how his shirt became a little untucked, revealing bare skin at his waist.
Bare tanned skin, over tight muscle. Above a really nice ass.
Holy hell, she needed to get laid if she was lusting over the man who’d seen her at her lowest.
She took a step back as he dragged the bottle forward and turned to face her.
“That desperate for your caffeine fix?” The corner of his mouth quirked in a handsome grin.
“I’m not a pleasant person without it.”
He laughed. “How long has it been since you’ve had some?” She scowled and snatched the bottle from him and put it in her shopping cart. “You do remember arresting me, don’t you? You can see why you’re not my favorite person.”
He leaned on the handle of his own cart, looking up at her. “You do remember you were underaged, under the influence and in possession of an illegal substance. Not to mention that putting you in jail meant those two boys couldn’t do what they wanted to do to you.”
She ground her teeth together. He remembered everything. Did he think about it every time he saw her? “Maybe it was my idea.” That had been the rumor, anyway.
He straightened. “Some people may believe that. I don’t. You need anything else, give me a holler.”
He tapped the brim of his hat and headed off at that infuriating pace. But she couldn’t help herself from watching until he was out of sight.


Mel settled on her balcony with a sandwich. Sure, she liked to cook, but for some reason, not when she got back from the grocery store. So she’d treated herself to a deli sandwich, bag of chips and a soda.
The balcony was the very best part of her job at The Friendly Shores Hotel. She had an apartment on the third floor, facing west, as part of her salary, making sure guests had easy access to her if they needed her. She could only see the ocean if she set her chair just so, but she could listen to it all night long.
Unfortunately, the rain dripped right on the spot she needed to be to see the ocean, so she had to drag her chair closer to the sliding glass door, but the location beat the hell out of any other places she’d ever lived.
She crossed her legs in the chair, making herself as compact as possible to avoid the rain that occasionally drifted beneath the overhang.
Shouting from the beach surprised her as she bit into the sandwich. The rain was coming down pretty good. Why would anyone be out there? Probably just some of the guests fooling around on the beach. She couldn’t blame anyone for being stir crazy in this weather.
But the shouts increased in intensity, followed by a woman’s scream. Mel vaulted from her seat and peered over the edge of the balcony, but all she could see was a group of kids standing and pointing at the water. Damn it, had someone gone into the water? Knocking over her soda, she bolted for the front door and ran barefoot down the cement stairs, grateful she didn’t live in a taller building.
By the time she hit the deck, her feet burned from the friction, but she dared not slow down longer than it took to get a flotation log that hung on the wall in the pool area. If she was going in the water, she would not have someone take her down with him.
Her thighs ached by the time she crossed the wet sand to the group now thigh deep in the water.
“What’s going on?” she shouted, using up what felt like the last of her breath.
“Jesse went in the water and now we don’t see him!” the girl wheezed, rain plastering her hair to her head and shoulders. “He was so drunk. I don’t know what he was thinking.”
“How long since you lost sight of him?”
The girl shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Call 911.”
The girl held up her phone. “I already did.”
Good. Adrenaline had gotten Mel this far, but she didn’t know what she could do on her own. The sky was growing darker every minute. “Point to the last place you saw him.”
Two of the boys joined the girl on the beach, and once Mel got a consensus about where to look, she dove into the waves.
Because of the storm, the waves were choppy, inhibiting her vision, and the ocean wasn’t as clear as it could have been. Damn it, this was going to be hard. And she was on her own.
Looping her arm through the strap on the flotation log, she swam, looking both above and below the surface for the idiot Jesse. She would not have some kid drown at her hotel, damn it. The salt stung her eyes and nose, but she couldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. Her arms ached, her thighs screamed, but some kid was out here and--
There! There! She saw him flailing above the waves. With renewed energy, she plowed through the water toward him, feeling like she’d never reach him.
And then she did. He reached for her, but she managed to avoid him, to get him onto the flotation device. Once he had a hold of that, he calmed down a bit, so she didn’t have to slap the shit out of him to get him back to the beach.
Lights flashed against the darkening sky and for a moment she thought lightning, and here she was in the water with an asshole. But then she realized the light was colored—red and blue, to be precise. Then arms were grabbing her, lifting her, and she looked into the granite jaw of Whit Calhoun.


“Holy Shit. Holy shit, Mel.” Whit crouched beside her chair under the overhang of the hotel as one of the paramedics from Gulf Shores cleaned her feet. “What the hell were you thinking, going out there by yourself?”
“I was thinking if I didn’t find him, he was going to drown,” she shot back, her voice raspy from the salt water. She pulled the blanket closer around her, clearly miserable in her wet clothes. “I couldn’t just wait—I didn’t know how long it would take anyone to get here.”
“So you just grab something and throw yourself into the water?” The guy she’d pulled out of the water had been nearly twice her size. When he’d recognized her, fighting her way back to shore, he swore his heart stopped for a minute before he’d charged into the water afterwards. He flexed his toes in his wet socks. His shoes would never be the same.
“I’m certified,” she told him. “I’ve been thinking about applying for Search and Rescue. It’s part of the reason I came back to Starfish Shores.”
Search and Rescue? She was probably a buck twenty right now, drenched to the skin, slender, not even up to his shoulder in her bare feet. How could she think she could rescue someone?
But then, she just had, hadn’t she?
She looked past him at the ambulance where the other paramedics were working, surrounded by the young man’s friends, who were clinging to each other. “He’s okay, right?”
“Drunk as a skunk,” the paramedic kneeling before her said. “Puking up moonshine and sea water. But he should be okay. Brave thing you did out there.” He packed up his stuff, then rested his arms on his thighs, looking up at her. “Keep those cuts clean and you’ll be fine. And get out of those wet clothes and into a warm shower as soon as you can.” He rose and winked. “You can give me a call if you need help with any of that.”
Whit cleared his throat and the younger man sobered. But he placed a hand on her shoulder before he walked away.
“Kid would be dead if not for you.”
Mel raised defiant eyes to Whit. “Do we have business?”
“I need to get your statement.” And figure out why in the hell she’d scared him so bad. Yes, he remembered her from when she lived here before, the trouble-maker daughter of a small-time criminal. He remembered how tough she’d been then. She hadn’t softened much, and that intrigued the hell out of him.
“I heard shouting, I ran, I grabbed the flotation log, I swam, I found him, I pulled him in. Then you pulled me in.” She pushed to her feet and let out a hiss of pain. “There you go.”
“I’m going to need more than that. I can walk up with you, if you want.” She shrugged and hobbled around the corner of the building.
He walked beside her, resisting the urge to sweep her into his arms again. He got the feeling she wouldn’t be a fan of the maneuver. Maybe it was her independence, so different from his ex-fiancee Hillary, that drew him.
Well, Hillary had shown her independence in the end, hadn’t she?
“I was sitting on my balcony and heard shouting. I saw people gathered, looking at the water and pointing. I ran downstairs, stopped long enough to get the log, and ran up to the crowd. The girl with them told me what happened, said she’d called 911, but I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t wait.”
Whit stopped, the light from the cafeteria window washing over the walkway as he stared at her. “You couldn’t see him, but you went into the water anyway?”
“What was my option, Sheriff? To stand helplessly by and wring my hands until someone else came? I saved his life.”
“You sure as hell did.”
She pressed the elevator button and turned to look at him, her eyes weary, her body sagging as the adrenaline drained from her.
“Is there anything else, or can I go now?”
“Are you going to be okay?” He’d resisted to this point, but now he had to touch her arm through the blanket. “Can you get to your apartment by yourself?”
“I’m perfectly capable,” she said as the elevator slid open behind her.
She probably would have preferred that she hadn’t stumbled into the car in front of him, but she straightened, drew the blanket around her and lifted her chin as the doors closed behind her.


Whit walked into The Pit the next night, wondering if he should have just tried to drive farther inland and gone some place quieter. He was off-duty, but some of the spring breakers apparently recognized him anyway and gave him a wide berth.
As the crowd cleared in front of him, he caught sight of gorgeous long legs beneath a short white skirt at the bar. He followed them up and his grin widened when he recognized a familiar tank top. Gorgeous, courageous Melody Servantes sat with Brenda Wesley from the Top Tier bakery, surrounded by college kids, some reaching past them to get drinks, some more interested in the women. Melody was ignoring them, but by the way Brenda tossed her curls, he had a feeling she was enjoying the attention.
Then Melody spotted him, and her brows drew together over her beautiful dark eyes. He wasn’t deterred and headed toward her.
“Melody. Brenda,” he greeted, leaning on the bar to get the attention of Liam, one of the owners of The Pit. He let his arm brush Melody’s back, and felt her stiffen. She drew her arms toward her and he caught sight of a small tattoo on the inside of her wrist. Was that a seahorse? “You ladies enjoying the evening?”
“Looking for lawbreakers tonight?” Brenda asked, leaning around Melody to look at him.
“Looking for a beer tonight,” he replied, saluting her with the bottle when Liam slid his favorite brand across to him. “Why? You see something I should address?”
“Nobody’s causing trouble,” Melody said, not looking at him. “Everyone’s just having a good time.”
“Good.” He turned, scanning the crowd, wishing he didn’t always think like a cop, searching out which of these drinkers might be underage. He knew Liam and Sam, the owners, would be especially careful this week, but he’d seen some damned good fake IDs, and didn’t want to make any phone calls to distressed parents. “Then I can relax.”
“Can you relax somewhere else?” Melody asked.
Wow, she really didn’t like him.
“Mel!” Brenda gasped and elbowed her friend, and gave her one of those looks that women share when goals are being thwarted.
Huh. He hadn’t realized there was interest there, not that he would have acted on it. Brenda was a sweet girl, pretty, but entirely too virtuous for him. He’d done the virtuous thing, and it kicked him in the gut. Now he wanted something that had some teeth. Melody Servantes seemed to fit that bill.
“How are your feet?” he asked Mel, looking down to see she wore pretty flats with a jeweled strap that hooked between her toes. He couldn’t tell by looking that she’d barely been able to walk on them last night.
“Your feet?” Brenda asked her friend.
“Mel didn’t tell you about her adventure last night?” Whit asked.
“What adventure?”
“She saved a kid from drowning outside the Friendly Shores.” “You did?” Brenda’s voice raised an octave, drawing the attention of those around them. “Tell me everything.”
“I don’t—it was—there was no one else to help.” She gave Brenda the same abbreviated version she’d given him last night.
“End of story. He lived to drink and make stupid mistakes another day.”
Brenda wrapped an arm around Mel’s shoulders and hugged her. “That’s amazing. You are amazing. But then, I already knew that.”
“I don’t want everyone around town talking about it,” Mel said, leveling a look at Whit.
He lifted his hands, but couldn’t force a lie past his lips. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, how she’d looked plowing through the water with that kid in tow.
“It was a sight to see,” he told Brenda.
“My feet are fine, I am fine, the kid is fine. Thank you for your concern,” she said, straightening her shoulders.
Dismissing him. He got that. He pushed away from the bar, lifting the bottle in farewell as he walked away.
Most of the crowd was way too young for him. At thirty, he never thought he’d feel like an old man, but he did right now. His gaze drifted back to Melody, who kept a suspicious eye on him. As he recalled, she was about five years younger than him, not so young that he felt dirty when he looked at those gorgeous legs, or the small of her back when she leaned forward. He couldn’t quite make out the tattoo there, but its existence made him a little crazy. He definitely needed to work on some goodwill with her.
At least he wasn’t the only man she was turning away. Boy after boy walked away dejected, but she treated most of them pretty gently. Not like the get-the-hell-out attitude she gave him.
Yeah, he definitely needed to figure out goodwill there. He just wasn’t sure how to start.


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