7

JACKSON DOVE FOR Miranda, wrapping his arms around her while heaving them both to the grass edging the dirt lot. Heat from the explosion, as well as flying debris, landed all around them, but thankfully, not on them.

Pulse raging, ears ringing above an eerie silence in his head, Jackson didn’t rise until the heat lessened, which could have been a few seconds, minutes or hours. Time slowed as the realization hit him that he was in way over his head. The guy he was chasing was a ghost. Everywhere. Capable of doing anything.

How many people had he just killed?

Miranda, alternately screaming and crying, scrambled to her feet. “Lex! Lex!”

She tore off into the blaze, but Jackson was faster, pulling her back. “Everyone who was in there is gone.”

“Noooo…” Her face was black from soot. Her clothes covered in dirt and grass and ash. “Lex. Julio and Tommy and Uncle Ray… They can’t all be gone?”

There hadn’t been many times in his life when Jackson was unsure of his next move, but honestly? This was one.

After dialing 9-1-1, literally the only thing in his control was holding a trembling and crying Miranda, so that’s what he did, murmuring nonsensical words of comfort into her ear. This case was insane. Most arsonists stayed in their lane. They had specific patterns from which they rarely deviated.

This guy was all over the place.

Flaming love notes, snakes, and now explosions and murder.

Miranda clung to him. “I-I can’t believe they’re gone…”

“I’m sorry…” He shoved his phone into his back pocket, freeing both arms to wrap around her. After kissing the crown of her head, he said, “This guy belongs to a special breed of psycho.”

Sirens sounded in the distance.

A lone car pulled into the dirt lot. Three girls tumbled out, talking over each other while running toward him and Miranda.

“What happened?”

“Is everyone okay?”

She parted from him just enough to turn toward the women he assumed were her waitresses. Tears streaming down her cheeks, streaking the soot, she shook her head. “Lex, Julio. U-uncle Ray and Tommy—they’re all just g-gone.”

Now, all of the women were crying.

A fire truck was next to enter the lot, followed by an ambulance and fire department SUV. Two additional ladder trucks lumbered further down the road, but they needn’t have bothered. The fire had blazed so hot, so fast, that it had burned itself out. All that remained of Miranda’s honkytonk had been reduced to a smoldering pile of ash.

“WISH WE WERE meeting under better circumstances.” Miranda silently watched on while her father, Robert, shook Jackson’s hand.

Her mother, Genevieve, followed suit.

“Likewise,” Jackson shook both of their hands.

“I’m so thankful you’re okay.” Her mother fussed over Miranda, smoothing her soot-covered hair. “Let’s get you into a nice bubble bath. You have plenty of clothes in your old room. I’ll send Betsy up to fetch your items that need washing. Jackson? You look to be about Robert’s size. How about a nice shower and a jogging suit until we can wash your clothes?”

“Thanks, but I’m not leaving your daughter.”

Her father cleared his throat. “I appreciate your dedication, but as long as she’s under my roof, Randi will be fine.”

“Sir,” Jackson tensed. “With all due respect, in light of—”

“Stop. Both of you.” Miranda turned to her father. “Daddy, I’m a grown woman who just had four employees who were also friends murdered. Modesty is the last thing on my mind. But if it eases your mind, while I shower, Jackson can stand outside the closed bathroom door.”

“I suppose that will do.” Her father shoved his hands in his suit pants pockets. He was used to being in charge. His word was law. It meant a lot that he’d abided by both her and Jackson’s wishes.

“Thank you.” On her tiptoes, she kissed her father’s weathered cheek. To Jackson, she asked, “Ready?”

He nodded. “But let me go first.”

“I can assure you,” her mother said, “no one besides our staff has been in our home.”

“All the same, I’ll be leading the way. Miranda, just tell me where to go…”

They made it up the grand double staircase that Miranda’s mother had always planned for her to glide down on her wedding day. Judging by her current rate of calamity, she’d be lucky to survive the rest of this day, let alone until finding a man she loved enough to marry.

“Which way?” Jackson asked at the top of the stairs.

“Right. Fifth door on the left.” The rough-hewn walnut floor hall was wide enough to house cozy seating groups and serve as a showcase for her mother’s 20th century watercolors. “Sorry about that,” she said midway to their destination. “Mom and Dad still see me as a fourteen-year-old virgin.”

“No worries. I’m also a proponent of protecting your virtue.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Nothing. Bad joke at an even worse time. This it?” He paused before the open door to her teen bedroom.

“Yep. In all of its lilac splendor.” The purple walls and canopy bed had been her mother’s way of trying to shape Miranda into the quintessential Southern belle, but Miranda had been far more interested in business and serving her community than parties and dresses—not that there was anything wrong her mother’s lifestyle. It just wasn’t fulfilling enough for her daughter.

“I don’t know…” Jackson winked before sharing a half-smile. “I’m digging the canopy bed. And do you know how to use that baton? I’ve always had a thing for majorettes. Twirling is a dying art.”

“You’re crazy.” Despite her morose mood, he managed to tug loose at least a partial grin. “Are we going to be all right?”

“Honestly?” He shrugged. “I’ve never seen anything like this. If I didn’t know better, I’d say we were dealing with two people. One who informs you of your status as a whore, and the other sets fires. But that’s an awful lot of hate for one small town where from what I can tell, most everyone adores you.”

“Someone doesn’t…” She turned to the tall white dresser on the wall opposite the bed. When the inn booked larger weddings, she gave up her bungalow to the bride or groom and stayed here. She kept seconds of toiletries and casualwear on hand just in case. From the top drawer, she grabbed panties and a sports bra. She then found a well-worn red campaign T-shirt and yoga pants. “I’ll be right out,” she said before heading into the bathroom, flipping on the overhead light, then closing the door.

Looking to the tub, she would have longed for a soak, but poor Jackson needed a shower as much as she did. Since he was waiting, common courtesy compelled her to hurry.

She stripped, careful not to get her dirty clothes on the fluffy white rug.

Two towels hung on the rack beside the shower, so she opened the door to turn on the water, adjusting it to a relaxing, steamy temp before stepping inside. Under the spray, she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, trying not to succumb to the knot in her throat. But then she saw Cook with a nightly special for her to try. Uncle Ray and Tommy sneaking out of the kitchen for a quick smoke with pretty girls. Lex cracking a corny joke.

When her bar was destroyed the first time, she’d thought her heart couldn’t bear it.

Now that it had happened again?

Tears fell, but mixed with the water, she couldn’t feel the physical release—only the pain. She’d come close to dying. Too close. If Lex hadn’t shouted for her to make a supply run, she and Jackson could have already been inside.

Is that what the arsonist wanted? To kill her?

If so, was anywhere truly safe?

Despite the hot water, the question gave her chills. Eyes open, she washed her hair, leaving in conditioner while running the magnolia-scented soap over her body. When her palms skimmed her breasts, her nipples hardened. Sex was the last thing on her mind, yet if only for a moment, that instant of physical pleasure didn’t just fill her with relief to be alive but resolve to beat this monster. And if after, Jackson was amenable to celebrating life, maybe they could get to know each other without the pressure of their lives being threatened.

While rinsing her hair, the thought of happier times filled her with hope.

Once the killer was behind bars, she could breathe.

She turned off the water, fumbling with the door while reaching to the rack for a white towel to twist turban-style around her hair. Miranda used a second towel to pat her face dry, then arms and chest before wrapping it around her like a sarong.

Steam from the shower made the room uncomfortably warm and sticky, as if the central A/C couldn’t keep up with the humidity. The oppressive heat felt like a backpack filled with exhaustion and grief hanging between her shoulder blades.

After closing the shower door, she aimed for the sink. It was probably in her head, but her mouth tasted of smoke and she wanted to brush her teeth. She’d just taken her toothbrush and paste from the drawer when she looked at the still-foggy mirror—and screamed.