Chapter One

 

Oh God. She was dying.

Run over by a train, maybe. Or a hangover, but either way, dying. And not quick enough. She opened one eye. Heaven…or Hell looked an awful lot like her bedroom. Stark-white curtains, blood-red bedspread. Yep. Her room. And her mother, pillow poised and ready…. Ouch. What the hell?

Rebecca Heller sat up, rubbing a fist over her sandpaper-lidded eyes before she flipped the other one open just as her mother drew back for a second strike. Becca ducked, wondering where the bartender she clearly remembered hanging on as he poured her into the passenger side of the Porsche she’d “borrowed” from Daddy had gone. And why was she still wearing a cocktail dress? If history remained true to its usual form, she should have been naked and wrapped around Pablo—Paulo? Paul, maybe?

She shielded her head from a third blow and peeked out from beneath her arms at her mother. “What is your problem?”

Becca had seen fury before. The unbridled anger. The words spat from between lips tightened by rage and Botox. Somehow, though, this qualified as more than a missed-her-first-cup-of-coffee air strike.

“Rebecca Jean-Marie Heller.” Oh, dear. Full-name rage. Never good at the Heller household. “You missed the staff meeting.”

A tired old gripe, and if the best her mother could come up with, Becca had no intention of staying awake for an argument they debated every single Monday. With exaggerated care, she laid her head back against the pillow and received another wallop. Side note: memory foam, when used as a weapon, did not conform to the shape of her head. Rather, it felt like a chunk of concrete slamming against her skull. Or maybe that was the hangover.

She held up a hand. “Would you stop it?!”

“No. I will not stop it. You drove your father’s Porsche through the garage door.” Something stronger than anger—a previously hidden or ignored homicidal tendency maybe—dripped from the round tones in her mother’s voice, squaring them into chunks of bitten wrath.

“Oh, the car.” Her father had a Porsche, a Bentley, a Corvette, and an Audi. Well, now he had a Bentley, a Corvette, and an Audi. Becca didn’t point out the math or the fact her father had enough money to replace the car ten times. Not while her mother had her arms cocked and fisted hands still armed the pillow. “Accident?”

Landra Heller breathed in, her chest puffing until her buttons strained against her silicone breasts. “Rebecca!”

Becca could have lived without the shriek.

“Not just any car. No. You couldn’t wreck your own. You went after a hundred-thousand-dollar car. Don’t even get me started on the damage to the garage.”

Becca stifled a yawn. Not the worst thing she’d ever done. Hell, it probably wouldn’t be the worst thing she did today. Besides, she found it mighty hard to take her mother’s lecture with more than an eye roll. At least not while Landra stood in a four-million-dollar mansion, dressed from top to bottom in couture Chanel and custom-made Louboutins, the cost of which would finance a semester at an Ivy League school.

Becca would have found her fake economic concerns and practiced fury—practiced because they went through this kind of thing a lot—entertaining if her skull hadn't been threatening to crack open. “Just take it out of my trust fund, and let me go back to sleep.”

“Oh, young lady.”

Young lady? At twenty-six? Not quite young anymore, and maybe too old to be living in her childhood bedroom. In her defense, only fools left such a cushy situation. And Becca was a lot of things, but fool hadn’t made the list.

“You’re going to pay for it. You’re going to work it off. And I have just the assignment.”

Uh-oh.

When she chose to drag herself out of bed before early evening hours, Becca worked for the entertainment magazine her father owned. Those short columns of celebrity gossip provided her some pocket change, allowed her to hobnob—translation: party—with the fabulously rich and the sinfully famous, gave her insight into their deep darks, their dirty little secrets. But keeping those tawdry little bits of Hollywood scandal to herself paid a lot better than any check From Your Lips magazine printed for her. Again, in her defense, her lifestyle stemmed from nothing more than her use of the job her parents had insisted she take after college. Well, the job and the fact her parents had more money than most small countries—and a few large ones. On occasion, as punishment for whatever misdeed Becca had committed, her mother pulled her from entertainment and shoved her into a less glamorous department.

“So, what’ll it be this time, Mother? Book reviews for the blog again?”

As a reviewer, she fit the definition of judging a book by its cover. Of course, if anyone discovered she based her star factors on the front of the book more than the story, she’d lose the credibility it still amazed her she had. A prominent blogger once said a review by Rebecca Heller could make or break an author’s career. God. If only they knew.

Her mother’s self-satisfied nod and smug tone of voice drew Becca out of all her self-praise. Something told her, this time she could expect worse than reading a few unheard of authors.

“No. You’re going to help your grandmother.”

Had she just said… “Grandmother? Since when?” Intriguing. Worthy of investigation. But not before Becca could function without a skull explosion.

“My mother. She raises geese on a small farm in California.” Landra’s eyes narrowed on a smile. The smug little curve of passion-pink lipstick over capped, blinding-white teeth never meant anything but trouble for Becca.

She didn’t expect this to be any different and sat up. This wealth of information trumped a skull explosion. “Geese?”

Becca choked on a laugh then swallowed hard. Her mother didn’t make jokes. Ever. And California? Hell no. Beaches and surfer boys? She loved her concrete jungle, the high-rise buildings, the Starbucks on every corner. The antithesis to California, which she considered he cesspool of American civilization.

Her mother’s blonde highlights caught the sun with every shake of her Botox-injected head and every purse of her fat-infused lips. “On a farm.”

“Are we talking like sexy cowboys and ranch hands?” A bright side after all?

Landra crossed her arms, and the evil smile returned. “We’re talking little white birds with orange beaks. No one but you and my mother.” She even chuckled. “And good luck with that.”

As Landra paced to the window to look out over the prize-winning rose garden complete with statues of the family, Becca’s stomach knotted. Sent away? From the house and the bank…and oh God. Her car. She glanced up at her mother. “I’ll pay for the car. Whatever.” Petulant, but an acquiescence that normally worked.

Until it didn’t. “Too late for all that now. No.” She spun to smirk at Becca. “I think this is better. You’re going to help your grandmother with chores, and I guarantee you…six months with her, and you’ll be begging to appreciate all your father and I have worked so hard to give you. And, if you want to see your shiny little Mercedes ever again, you’ll keep your nose out of trouble while you’re there.”

Becca swallowed back a smart-ass comment. Her mother didn’t make threats. She made promises to be broken at a later date. Seemed she’d found a way to up her game, and Becca had to say…she didn’t care much for her mother’s new behavior.

“Whatever.” She would cave. She always caved. And if not, Daddy would. Becca flopped onto to her belly and waved Landra out of her room.

As her mother stomped away, an evil laugh trailing behind her, Becca’s eyes flipped open wide.

***

 

Dylan Laugherty rolled to his side and glared at the clock. Five a.m.? Whoever stood on other side of the door…

He snatched his jeans off the floor and yanked them on, composing a mental list of the ways he planned to murder the person still banging their fist into his sleeping hours.

“I’m coming!” he shouted when the knocking became more insistent. “Just a damn minute.”

At times like these, when tired and more than a little grumpy, the twang of his Texas upbringing poked through his practiced Western accent. He hated sounding like one of those good old boys, but at five a.m. speech patterns didn’t make the list of his top priorities.

He stomped through his living room to fling the door open, fist clenched, ready for battle.

Mable? She didn’t look hurt or ill. Quite the opposite. Her eyes, sparkling blue, shone brighter than usual, and her cheeks almost glowed with color. He stood back, not that he had much choice as she brushed past him.

“Oh, Dylan. I waited as long as I could, but I just had to come over and tell you the news.”

Some cat in town probably had a new litter of kittens. In Ranger’s End, a fresh batch of fur balls headlined the most newsworthy information Mable ever delivered. God, he loved it here.

“Well, whatever it is, it must be good to bring you out so early.” Of course, a nice pot of hot coffee would make her news all the more interesting.

She followed him to the kitchen. “It’s such…I’m so excited. I almost can’t contain myself.”

“I can see.” He pulled down two mugs then stared at the coffeemaker. He had no idea how this thing worked. His mama had programmed it when he moved into the house a year ago, and he hadn’t had to do anything but drop in the prepacks at night ever since. But no way he’d ever be able to wait another two hours for the programmed pot to brew. He needed caffeine now. “Hmm.”

Mable used her hip to scoot him out of the way. “Remind me to get you a percolator.”

She hummed while she worked, but her feet never stopped moving, as if she couldn’t stop the dance inside herself from breaking out. With the coffee brewing and Dylan waiting, she turned and braced both hands behind her against the counter. “My granddaughter is coming to visit.”

“Granddaughter?” Oh no. Not another fix up. Between Lucia and Mable—sisters who thought singledom a sin—he’d met every available woman on the West Coast, and thanks to his mother, some from farther inland. At least it seemed he had, anyway.

“From New York.” Her eyes widened, and she clasped her fingers together as if in prayer. “But she’ll be here in two days.”

“Great.” Mable smiled. Anything powerful enough to make her this happy…but another granddaughter?

She chewed her lip. “I need to get things in order. If she’s anything like her mother, no doubt we’ll have a rocky start.” Before he could ask what she meant by rocky, or like her mother, she went on. “I need to paint the spare room.” Her face pinched, and new lines formed around her eyes. “Oh. I should have got the electric man out to fix the house. And the plumber to put in a bath.” She fell into the chair beside him. “She’s going to hate it here. Who am I kidding? I’m just some old lady she never met in a house not good enough for her mom and not good enough for her.”

Dylan covered her hand with his own, gave it a squeeze of silent solidarity. “Are you happy where you are, Mable?”

“God, yes. I love my little house. But she’s a young woman, and a bit spoiled if I know my daughter. Rebecca’s going to take one look at my place, and I won’t be able to move fast enough to keep her from racing back home.” Her frown tore at him. “She’ll be gone before I ever get to know her.”

There was a story in there he’d yet to hear, but he could wait. He wanted to see Mable smile. She’d been like a second mother to him, helped him adjust to his new life. He owed her this.

“She can use my house to shower and whatever else. And we’ll go to town and pick up some paint right now. You just be your wonderful self, and I promise you, she’ll never want to go home. House or not.” And he smiled as if he believed every word he’d just said