Somewhere (Sawtooth Mountains Stories Book 1) by Susan Fanetti (1)

 

 

 

 

SOMEWHERE

 

 

A Sawtooth Mountains Story

 

 

by

Susan Fanetti

 

 

 

 

 

THE FREAK CIRCLE PRESS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere © 2016 Susan Fanetti

All rights reserved

 

Susan Fanetti has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this book under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.

 

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ALSO BY SUSAN FANETTI

 

 

THE NIGHT HORDE MC SAGA:

Nolan: Return to Signal Bend

Love & Friendship

 

The Brazen Bulls MC:

Crash, Book 1

Twist, Book 2

Slam, Book 3

 

The Pagano Family Series:

Footsteps, Book 1

Touch, Book 2

Rooted, Book 3

Deep, Book 4

Prayer, Book 5

Miracle, Book 6

The Pagano Family: The Complete Series

 

The Northwomen Sagas:

God’s Eye

Heart’s Ease

Soul’s Fire

Father’s Sun

 

 

 

 

For my husband, who is my somewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

:

 

 

Chapter 1: Noah and the Whale, “Blue Skies”

Chapter 2: The Lumineers, “Sleep on the Floor”

Chapter 3: U2, “Running to Stand Still”

Chapter 4: Jason Lytle, “Brand New Sun”

 

Chapter 5: Kenny Chesney, “Who’d You Be Today”

Chapter 6: Amber Run, “I Found Love”

Chapter 7: The Oh Hellos, “Hello My Old Heart”

Chapter 8: U2, “The First Time”

 

Chapter 9: JJ Heller, “Where I Land”

Chapter 10: Lady Antebellum, “Just a Kiss”

Chapter 11: Phillip Phillips, “Gone, Gone, Gone”

Chapter 12: Amos Lee, “Wait Up for Me”

 

Chapter 13: Eric Church, “Give Me Back My Hometown”

Chapter 14: The White Buffalo, “Love Song #1”

Chapter 15: Imagine Dragons, “Demons”

Chapter 16: Jewel, “Life Uncommon”

 

Chapter 17: Avril Lavigne, “Keep Holding On”

Chapter 18: The All-American Rejects, “Move Along”

Chapter 19: Beck, “Waking Light”

Chapter 20: Iron & Wine, “The Trapeze Swinger”

 

Chapter 21: For King & Country, “It’s Not Over Yet”

Chapter 22: Iron & Wine, “Resurrection Fern”

Chapter 23: The Wailin’ Jennys, “Storm Comin’”

Chapter 24: Joshua Radin, “Brand New Day”

 

 

 

 

 

 

I published this novel in 2016 under the pseudonym Jenny Gavin, but almost immediately had second thoughts about that choice and ended up unpublishing it after a couple of weeks. At the time, I planned to leave Somewhere and any plans for more books in a series about this world in the trash heap of mistakes made and lessons learned.

But lately, my muse wants to return to the world and write more, so I’ve decided to release it again, this time under my own name. I’ve learned something about pen names—to wit, that I’m not the kind of author, or person, who should try to write under a name not her own.

You can read a fuller explanation on my blog, here:

If you read Somewhere in its first life, then I want you to know that this version is the same, with only minor edits. The only real content edit is a significant reduction of the pet name Heath uses for Gabe, which ran away with me a bit in the book’s first iteration.

If you’re encountering this book for the first time, then I want you to know that this book is different from my other work, in that the world is much safer overall. It still came out of my head, and I wasn’t trying to write like anyone else, so there are similarities in theme, of course. But this is not a world where the characters are routinely armed or routinely encounter life or death situations.

In this world, I can and do guarantee ironclad HEAs for the lead characters.

I hope you enjoy your visit to Jasper Ridge, Idaho.

Cheers,

Susan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’d been in courtrooms countless times during the past two-plus years, and in this one almost daily for weeks, but every time she sat down in the gallery, she felt the same sense of ill discomfort.

Nothing good happened in a room like this. Even if justice was served, whatever that meant, that justice was only offered because something terrible had happened.

It was an awful room, a room where awful things were relived and happened all over again, and where the only kind of hope that could breathe was a black hope for someone else’s pain.

That black hope was the only thing she knew how to feel anymore. It radiated from her scars and wrapped around her organs. It leaned on her thoughts every day and on her dreams each night.

But today would be the last day she’d have to sit on this hard seat and square her shoulders against the room’s ill air. Tomorrow, perhaps, she’d be able to shrug herself free of the past.

One more day in this room.

The first time she’d sat down in a room like this, she’d been too terrified of what loomed ahead of her to really notice the room itself, or the people in it—besides the one who sat at the table on the left, facing the bench. Him, she always noticed. He seemed to fill that chair even when he wasn’t in the room.

In all the days since the first day, in the many long lulls between horrors, she’d had ample time to memorize this room—the walls, the seats, the tables, the seal on the wall behind the bench. This courtroom in the District Court in Santa Fe, New Mexico looked much like the courtrooms they showed on television. And yet it lacked the imposing substance of those make-believe rooms, even though, in this one, real cases were tried, and real people’s lives hung in the balance.

It was just a room. Empty, it was nearly featureless. One might even mistake it for innocuous.

When she’d sat down on this day, the room had been nearly empty. She liked to arrive as early as allowed, because she’d discovered that people noticed her less often when she was already seated. They paid attention to those who came in after them, not those who’d arrived before, and she didn’t want to be noticed. She’d had enough of notice in this room.

Today, she knew, she wouldn’t be able to avoid it. It might have been better to stay home and watch the news, or wait for a phone call. But she wanted to hear the words when they were spoken.

So she sat in the back row and watched the lawyers at their seemingly bland prep work, and watched the people file in, the looky-loos and reporters, and waited to hear the words.

By the time the defendant was brought in from a side door, wearing the one Men’s Wearhouse suit he owned—black—the one good dress shirt—white—the one silk tie—yellow—the one pair of dress shoes—black—and the ankle and wrist shackles—silver—the courtroom had filled to capacity, and the deputies had closed the doors. There was a rumble of rumor and gossip as the shackled man was led to his chair and the bailiff locked his bonds to the table. Even over that excited hum, she could hear the metallic jingle of the chains.

Between the heads of the spectators filling the distance between them, she saw him turn and scan the room. He always did that, every day. Normally, she did what she could to be sure he couldn’t pick her out of the crowd, and normally she was successful.

Today, though, she didn’t try. When he found her, their eyes locked, and for the first time in weeks, perhaps months, they really saw each other.

He smiled. She didn’t.

And then the bailiff called everyone to rise, and the defendant turned away.

The judge entered, and everyone sat again, and she stared at the back of the man in the Men’s Wearhouse suit. Normally, she didn’t bother to pay attention until the lawyers began to talk; she had the beginning part of each trial day memorized.

But today was different. The main part of the trial was over. A guilty verdict had been rendered. Evidence in the sentencing phase had been presented. Today, they had all gathered to hear the sentence imposed.

So once the bailiff had finished calling the case, the judge—a tiny woman with a grey bob and a white lace collar—said immediately, “The defendant will rise.”

And in the back row, it was all she could do to keep her seat.

The defendant rose, his shackles jingling. She noticed that he’d gotten a fresh haircut over the weekend. His iron-grey hair was military short, and the skin above his collar was baby smooth.

“Mr. Kincaid,” the little judge began, in her husky, two-packs-a-day voice, “You have been found guilty of three counts of capital murder, and one count of attempted murder. Evidence has been presented in this sentencing phase, and I am ready to rule. Before I do, is there anything you would like to say to the court?”

The defendant turned and scanned the gallery again, but his lawyer nudged him, and he returned his attention to the judge. “No, ma’am—uh, Your Honor.”

“Very well. Stuart Donald Kincaid, for the capital murders of Edgar Sandoval, Gloria Sandoval, and Maria Sandoval Kincaid, I sentence you to three life sentences without any possibility of parole, to be served consecutively. For the attempted murder of Gabriela Kincaid, I sentence you to eighteen years, to be served consecutively, following the capital sentences. You shall return immediately to the custody of the State of New Mexico to serve your sentence.”

The judge slammed the gavel, and the gallery erupted in chatter. Some people applauded.

From the back row, she could see that reporters were texting the verdict to their editors, or tweeting it, or whatever, and getting ready to find their interviews. She stood, intent upon leaving the room, and the building, as quickly as she could. If she hurried, maybe she could disappear before anyone thought to look.

She paused to watch as the defendant was led back to the door from which he’d been led in only a few minutes before. He struggled against the push of the deputies and turned to scan the room again.

Their eyes met. “Gabby!” he yelled. “Gabby! Baby, I love you! Please!”

Heads began to swivel her way.

Gabriela Kincaid turned away from her father and ran for the courthouse door.

 

 

*****

 

 

Mrs. Brant was old and hard of hearing. She hated her hearing aids and only wore them when she was away from home. At home, she compensated for her failing ears with volume—the television, the radio, the ringer on her telephone, all at maximum. When the windows were open, Gabby could hear everything Rush Limbaugh or Fox News had to say over at her neighbor’s house. Not to mention most of her side of her phone conversations.

On this afternoon, as she sat on the front porch with a bottle of Corona, she could hear the local news. Now that the story was no longer “breaking,” the reporters had had a few hours to put together an in-depth report, telling the story of the night her father had lost his mind.

No, that was too kind a way to say it. He had not lost his mind. He had been, he continued to be, perfectly sane. He had been drunk and angry. He had often been drunk and angry, but on that night, he had also had a commercial kitchen’s worth of weapons at his disposal.

How strange to hear strangers speak so knowledgeably, so matter-of-factly, about her own life. No one could know what it had been like, what it still was like. Only she. And, she supposed, her father.

Gabby closed her eyes and tried to drown out the calmly interested tones of the reporter describing the scene on that night more than two years earlier. Her father, barricaded in the kitchen of her grandparents’ cantina, holding his wounded daughter hostage, a carving knife to her throat, sitting in the spattered and pooling blood of his wife and in-laws.

She didn’t need a stranger to draw a picture for her. She could still feel the bite of the blade into her neck, could still feel the blood pulsing from her side, growing sticky as it spread over her skin and cooled. She could still feel the desperation as her breath became blood and began to drown her.

When she closed her eyes, she could see her mother’s body, drenched in red, her eyes open, one hand out as if reaching for her. She could see her grandfather, burned by frying oil, his head caved in. She could see her grandmother lying in a nearly perfect halo of her blood. She had been the first to die, her throat slit before anyone had known there was trouble.

The brave girl fought for her family and was nearly killed herself. By her own father.

Gabby chuckled bleakly at the sensationalized truth of the reporter’s words. She had fought, she supposed that was true, but ineffectively. She’d loved her father. Even in the ugliness of her parents’ separation, even as his anger grew and flared, she’d remembered her daddy and loved him. She hadn’t believed him capable of such things, and she’d sought to find him behind those chaotic, killing eyes and bring him back.

When her grandmother had fallen, and her father had gone for her mother, Gabby had lunged between them and tried to hold him off. The wound in her side had happened in the scuffle. The blade had sunk into her lung, and she’d fallen, desperate for breath, choking on blood, watching as her father fought her grandfather, threw hot oil in his face, and then beat him with a skillet until his head no longer looked like a head.

Gabby’s mother was dead because she hadn’t run when she’d had the chance. She’d tried to bring Gabby with her. Her father had pulled her mother off of her and stabbed and stabbed and stabbed.

And then, as police sirens and lights flashed, he’d gathered Gabby up and put the bloody knife to her throat.

The last thing she remembered before she’d passed out—she’d thought she’d been dying—was him whispering, “You weren’t supposed to be here. Why are you here? Why are you here?”

Ms. Kincaid had no comment for reporters today, but when the trial began, she sat down with our own…

Unable to take it anymore, Gabby drank down the rest of her beer and went back inside to close up all the windows. Better stale air than refreshed pain.

 

 

*****

 

 

The next morning, Gabby stood in the living room with her third cup of coffee. She stared out the window at the news van. Just one, but it wasn’t yet six o’clock in the morning. There would be more. They hadn’t been happy with her headlong no comment the day before. She’d turned off the ringer on the landline phone last night, because there was no one in the world she wanted to talk to, and the only people who’d been calling had been reporters. So at least the house was quiet.

She took another sip of coffee and stared through the sheers at that blue van with the bright logo on its side and the satellite dish on its roof.

Fuck.

The mug she held was a cheap dollar-store thing with a generic pink rose glazed on one side, and the cheery pink words I Love My Mom! on the other. Gabby had given it to her mother when she was in grade school. She could remember using her allowance that Christmas at the dollar store, trying with the little bit of money she had saved to find something good for all the people she loved.

Everywhere around her was memory of a life she no longer had. She still lived in the house she’d lived in all her life; she hadn’t even changed bedrooms. Everything about the house was as it had always been, except that she was alone in it.

When she’d gotten out of the hospital, her whole family dead except the man who’d killed them, she’d had nowhere else to go, and she simply hadn’t cared enough about anything to dredge up the will to change the situation. At the hospital, she’d told the cab driver her address, and when he’d brought her there, she’d walked up onto the only porch she’d known, into the only front door she’d known, and had begun the motions of the life she’d had.

Her parents’ landlord was a decent guy, and he’d let her keep renting. She’d been the beneficiary of her grandparents’ life insurance, and, although after the funerals and her medical bills it hadn’t exactly been a huge amount of money, she’d been able to live on it. Not for much longer, though.

She’d had friends, but they’d been part of the life she’d lost, and they hadn’t known how to be with her in this new, numb place, so she’d let them fade away. It hadn’t taken long.

She’d dropped out of school—she’d only been going to community college anyway and hadn’t figured out why yet—and she’d hunkered down to the one thing she’d yet cared about. She’d devoted her days to her father’s trial.

And now that was over.

And she had no life.

But she was surrounded by the life she’d had—her parents’ furniture, her mother’s crucifix and generic painting of Jesus hanging on the wall near the kitchen door, the braided rugs her Nana had made, the neatly aligned, cheaply framed eight-by-ten school photos chronicling her advancement through public school, kindergarten to high school graduation.

The bed in the room that had been her parents’, and then only her mother’s, still made by her mother on the last day of her life, the purple chenille tucked neatly under the pillows, the vibrant throw pillows arranged just so.

Her own room, last decorated by a nineteen-year-old whose life had known no greater stress than her parents’ separation. She still slept in that room every night, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d really noticed anything in it.

Gabby stared down at the cup in her hand, at that cheap pink rose, and knew with a flash of clarity that she could not spend another day in this non-life, walking like a ghost through her own past.

A sound beyond the window caught her ear, and she looked up to see another news van pull in behind the first.

Enough. There was nothing for her in Santa Fe now but broken history.

It was time to go. It didn’t matter where—just somewhere. A new place. A new life.

Looking around the room again, Gabby understood that there was truly nothing for her, not even in this house.

One thing. There was one thing she wanted.

And one thing she would take because it seemed fitting that she should.

 

 

*****

 

 

An hour later, she propped an envelope addressed to the landlord against the cookie jar on the kitchen counter, set her house key in front of it, and dug a ring of keys out of the junk drawer. She picked up her old duffel bag, packed with nothing but a few changes of clothes, and walked out the back door, locking the knob behind her. She crossed the small yard to the garage and heaved up the overhead door.

Her father’s 1970 Chevy pickup sat quietly. He loved that truck like a child. In the last months of her life, her mother had tried and tried to get him to take it away, but he’d procrastinated and refused and delayed. Gabby had known then that he believed that if the truck stayed, he might have a chance to come back home to stay as well.

She climbed up into the lifted truck and pushed her duffel to the passenger side. Before she turned the ignition, she picked up her mother’s gold crucifix from her chest and pressed her lips to it.

Gabby wasn’t particularly religious, especially not these days, but her mother had been devout. She’d worn this crucifix every day. She’d been wearing it on that last day; Gabby had had to clean old blood from around the body of Christ before she’d put it on.

It was the one thing Gabby wanted from the house as a memory to keep close.

She wanted the truck because it felt right to get away from her father in the thing he loved best. To take that from him as well.

She tucked the cross back under her t-shirt and turned the ignition. The truck had sat for more than two years; by all rights the battery should have been dead, but it caught, and the engine tried to turn over. Tried. For a few minutes, Gabby thought it wouldn’t start. As she tried without success to prime the old engine and nurse it to life, she began to feel deep panic, as if this big beast of a Chevy were her only chance for salvation.

Just as tears threatened to overtop her eyes, the engine caught and coughed, then roared to life. Gabby goosed the gas pedal until the truck settled into a fairly smooth idle. Then she put it into Reverse and backed down the long, narrow driveway.

She waved at the news teams as she shifted to Drive and left Santa Fe in her rearview mirror.

 

 

*****

 

 

She had no idea where she was headed; she’d never in her life been farther from Santa Fe than Albuquerque—which was where she headed first, because in her mind, you couldn’t get anywhere from Santa Fe unless you started at Albuquerque. Once in that city, though, the farthest reaches of what she knew, she had to pull over and think for a minute.

All she had to do was figure out which direction to point the truck.

South felt backward. She supposed she had family in Mexico—she knew she did—but she’d never met any of them, and she barely spoke any Spanish. Besides, she wanted to own her memories of her mother and grandparents, and she could only do that if no one else shared them.

West was more of the same and then California, basically, and all she knew about California was what movies and television said about it. Fake and bright and loud. Not even a chance to see the ocean could draw her through that.

East, from all she knew of it, was just crowded. People everywhere.

So she went north. Maybe she’d end up in Canada. Maybe she’d go so far as Alaska. She didn’t know, but the thought of going somewhere green and lush, getting away from the desert scrub of the southwest, made her feel calm.

So she went north, and she decided she’d know where she was supposed to stop when she got there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She came awake with a start, her side aching, and the dream reached from her sleep into waking. She would have screamed, except that she thought she was choking on blood.

The cold dark that greeted her opening eyes seemed to her sluggish brain the first sight of her own death. And then she understood that she could see a steering wheel, and the diffuse light of the moon through fogged glass.

She’d fallen off the bench seat of the Chevy. The ache in her side was the sole of one of her boots digging in near her scar; she’d toed them off in an anemic attempt to get comfortable for the night.

Struggling up from the floor of the cab, she sat on the passenger side and yanked her boots back on, breathing deeply and steadily until her head cleared. The dream was always the same when it came: that night relived, every sense memory at full power.

Once her mind was back in reality, she began to shiver—subtly at first, but with increasing violence. She was freezing. Digging into her duffel, she found a hoodie and pulled it on over her leather jacket.

It was early spring, but the weather had been unusually warm, and when she’d stopped in this national park in Utah, she’d been wearing a t-shirt and had both windows down in the cab.

She’d stopped too early in the day; she’d only been on the road about seven hours. But once she’d cleared the New Mexico state line, she’d started to think of more than escape, and she’d realized a few things—first among them: she was scared. Fear wrung her stomach like an old dishrag. She was singularly unprepared for this journey. She didn’t even have a map.

On her way out of town, she’d stopped at the bank and emptied what was left of her savings and checking accounts, and now she had twenty-three hundred dollars in an envelope in her duffel, tucked into a pocket with a passport she’d never used. In her wallet, she had her driver’s license, her Santa Fe Public Library card, her old high school ID, and a JCPenney Portrait Studio photo of her and her parents.

She had about four changes of clothes in the duffel, a pair of sneakers, and two hoodies.

Everything else, she’d left behind. Even her cell phone. At the time, she’d been leaving behind her ghosts and starting off fresh. A few hours later, it had dawned on her that if somebody came on her and meant her harm, she would be in real trouble.

So she’d stopped in the next town—Moab, Utah—determining right then that she should not drive at night, and that she should find and buy a disposable cell phone. But there was some kind of festival going on in the funky little town, and she hadn’t been able to find a room, or a store that sold cheap cell phones.

She’d driven to Arches National Park, just outside Moab, thinking she could take a campsite, but they were all booked, too. Not knowing what else to do, she’d driven back to town and just gone in circles, crying, until she realized she was burning gasoline she needed.

How stupid she’d been to think she could just strike out and find a new life. How naïve. How childish.

Finally, after a fast-food dinner, she’d driven back to the park, parked in the visitor center lot, locked the doors and rolled up the windows, and hoped everyone would leave her alone.

So far, they had. She checked her watch, which had an old-fashioned glowing dial. Almost four o’clock. Only a couple of hours until sunrise, and she could turn around and go back home. The landlord wouldn’t have seen her letter yet, and she could get the spare key out of the fake rock in the yard.

She buried her nose into the neck of her hoodie and hunkered down to wait for dawn.

 

 

*****

 

 

Again, she woke with a start, this time into bright sunshine. She jumped again when she saw the park ranger standing outside the window. He smiled and made the ‘roll down your window’ gesture. With a deep breath, she obliged.

“Good morning, miss.”

“Morning.”

“Did you spend the night here?”

She blushed. “Yes, I’m sorry. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

The ranger was about her father’s age, with the same kind of wrinkles on his face that meant he’d lived most of his life outdoors. The edge of tightly-trimmed hair under his ranger’s hat was blond, though, and his eyes were blue. He was thick and tall, unlike her short, wiry father.

He studied her for a second or two, then nodded as if he’d just won an argument with himself. “Well, why don’t you come on in. I’ll put the coffee on, and it’s Lori’s turn to bring the doughnuts.”

“Yeah?” She blushed again at the sharp way surprise had turned the word. “I mean…thank you. You’re sure?”

“Sure. If the best place you had to be was a parking lot on a thirty-degree night, then I’d say you could use some coffee and carbs to get your day started.” He smiled again, and she could almost feel the warmth of the expression. “And a friend, if you want one. I’m Chuck.”

He opened the door and held out his hand, and she took it and let him help her down from the truck.

 

 

*****

 

 

The other ranger, Lori, came in while Chuck was making the coffee. She was short and skinny. Like Chuck, she seemed to be about her dad’s age. Late forties or early fifties. Her eyebrows went up when she saw that Chuck wasn’t alone, but then she smiled and set the pink bakery box down. “Hi there.”

Before she could answer, Chuck turned and did it for her. “This here is Gabriela. She’s just passin’ through, but she needs a little help before she gets on her way.”

“Well, hi, Gabriela. I’m Lori.” Lori opened the box. “Help yourself, but save a bear claw for Chuck, or we’ll all be in trouble.”

“Thanks.” She felt guilty, taking their charity when she’d brought all this on herself. She was neither truly homeless nor entirely broke, and these nice people were taking care of her like she was a desperate case. “I…I can pay. I’m not homeless or anything.” The words sounded flat and pathetic once they were in the air.

Chuck and Lori gave each other a look loaded with some kind of meaning, and then Chuck came over with a cup of coffee for Lori, and they both sat down at the rickety table in this staff room.

“Why’d you sleep out there in your truck last night, then?” Chuck asked.

She felt a blush warm her cheeks. “I panicked, I guess. I couldn’t find a room, and the campsites were all full, and I was worried about driving at night. This seemed like the safest place I could think of.”

Chuck smiled that kind smile, and Lori nodded. “Where’re you headed, Gabriela?” she asked.

Alone in the dark before dawn, she had decided to go back to Santa Fe. Here, now, in the bright morning, sitting around a table with kind people, eating a chocolate-frosted doughnut and drinking a good cup of strong coffee, she said, “North.”

Chuck laughed lightly. “Just ‘north’?”

She shrugged. “For now, yeah. Just north. Somewhere. I’ll know when I get there.”

“How old are you, honey?” Lori asked, leaning forward.

“Twenty-one.”

“Can you prove that?”

“Lori,” Chuck muttered. “Come on.”

“No, it’s okay.” She reached down to her duffel, unzipped it, and dug out her wallet. She pulled her driver’s license out and pushed it across the table. “I get why you’d ask.”

Until she saw Lori’s expression, it hadn’t occurred to her that anyone would know her story outside of New Mexico. But it was brilliantly obvious that Lori recognized her name. She looked up. “Oh, honey.”

“What?” Chuck asked and reached for the ID. He didn’t make the connection, though, and he looked back up. “What?”

“I think Lori just figured out that my dad killed all my family and almost killed me, too. The Cantina Killings in New Mexico a couple of years ago.”

“Oh? Oh.” Chuck’s penny finally dropped. “Oh. God.”

“The sentencing was a couple of days ago. It was on the news,” Lori added. “And now you’re going away.”

She nodded.

“Oh, honey,” Lori said again. “I’m sorry. What can we do?”

“I’m okay. I just…I should probably buy a cell phone. And maybe a map.”

That made Chuck laugh, and she turned to him, surprised. “I’d say those are bare minimums,” he said. “You really just took off, didn’t you?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she ate the last bite of doughnut and finished her coffee.

Lori sat straight, like she knew the conversation was coming to an end and it was time for business. “We can give you a few maps—we have boxes of ‘em, but nobody wants paper maps anymore. As for a cell phone, I guess you want one of those no-plan deals?”

She nodded.

“Well, I think you’re probably out of luck there until Provo or Salt Lake, but they’re only about three hours off. Then you’ll be able to find just about any store you want.” Lori’s eyes narrowed. “You sure that’s all you need?”

“Yep. You’ve been really nice, and sitting here with you made a bad night worth it. But I’m okay. Honest.”

 

 

*****

 

 

They sent her off with a paper sack filled with two more doughnuts, a new travel mug imprinted with the National Parks logo and filled with coffee, three different road maps, and their business cards, with the personal cell numbers scrawled on the back. Lori even gave her a hug. Chuck touched his finger to the brim of his ranger hat.

When she pulled out of the parking lot, she felt a pang of loss far stronger than anything she’d felt as she’d rolled down the street she’d always lived on.

That loss had been too old, the scar too thick, to have caused her pain beyond the steady beat she’d learned to live with.

She’d meant to drive right out of the park, but now, without the panic of finding a place to sleep, now, when she’d had a chance to get used to the weight of the vast uncertainty before her, she noticed the park itself.

Mere minutes after she’d said goodbye to her ranger friends, she pulled off at a scenic viewpoint. What a place this was. Without realizing it, she meandered forward on a trail until she was deep among the arches.

The geography around the visitor center had been striking, but in a way more or less familiar to her. The Southwest was beautiful, in its stark, scrubby, brownness, but it was bleak, too. She’d been to Taos once or twice, where there were real mountains and a dark, severe kind of green beauty.

But the Arches. It was hard not to see the hand of God shaping a place like this. Actually, as she sat on a round, red boulder and basked like a lizard in the sun, taking in the epic magnificence of the landscape, she decided it was even more magical to think of the world shaping itself. It was almost romantic—the caress of great waters and the kiss of fierce winds, the embrace of eons, each day, each moment adding or taking its share. Some days left gentle, nearly imperceptible marks; others broke boulders and tore trees from their roots. Everything changed everything.

Even as she sat, even as the hikers around her moved through, they were all making tiny changes that would reshape the landscape.

That was how life was. Every day, every choice, every word, every gesture, every breath. Each moment in the present shaped a future it didn’t know.

And some moments shaped the past, too, made it impossible to look back and see what had been the way it had been.

She had lost her past. Her father had taken it all away, made her unable to feel joy in her memories, unable to believe in the life she’d had.

She’d been wrong when she’d told the rangers that she wasn’t homeless.

 

 

*****

 

 

She found a huge truck stop just outside of Salt Lake City. Besides the gas pumps, there was a restaurant, showers for rent, and a fairly big store. She filled up, rented herself a shower, and chose a cheap phone from three options, and got a minutes card for it, too. Washed and wearing clean clothes, feeling fresh and a little bit excited, she went to the restaurant and ordered a turkey club sandwich and a vanilla Coke. Then she opened up the phone and worked on getting it set up.

“You need some help with that, little lady?”

She looked up at the man who’d stopped at the edge of her table. He was too young to be calling her ‘little lady.’ Lean, with jeans hanging low and a baggy t-shirt, his ratty brown hair bushing out under a grimy trucker hat. He had a long, scraggly beard, but he wasn’t the kind of guy who should have tried to keep a beard. Big patches of his cheeks were smooth.

He was smiling, but something about him made the hairs on the back of her neck rise up.

She smiled back. “No, thanks. I got it.”

“You sure?”

“Yep. Thank you anyway.”

He stared at her a moment longer, then nodded. “Okay. Well, I’m up at the counter. Give a holler if you change your mind. I’m Cal.”

She didn’t offer her name. “Thank you,” she repeated.

Then the waitress came with her order, and her helpful buddy Cal walked off.

 

 

*****

 

 

Though Cal hadn’t done anything at all that wasn’t polite, she still lingered over her French fries until he’d paid up his bill and left the restaurant. She gave it another ten minutes and then settled up.

It was after one in the afternoon, and now that she had a map, she’d decided that she wanted to get to Boise, Idaho and stop there for the night, so she had about four or five hours left on the road.

Since her duffel held everything she still had, she’d been carrying it with her everywhere. Out in the lot, she went to the passenger side of the truck first, used the key to unlock the door, and heaved the duffel onto the seat.

A strange shadow told her that another person was coming up behind her, and, instinctively, she tried to jump up into the cab. If it hadn’t been lifted, she might have made it, might even have had enough time to yank the door closed and lock it, but her leverage was off, and she felt hands around her calves.

Without seeing him, she knew it was Cal pulling her out of the truck, so she wasn’t surprised when he wrenched her around and they were face to face. She opened her mouth at once, taking a huge breath, meaning to scream her head off, but he slammed his hand over her mouth.

“I was nice to you in there, and you were a rude little bitch. You’re gonna know how to take a favor by the time I’m done.”

She wasn’t afraid. Not even a little bit. Maybe she would have been, two years earlier, but now, the worst thing that would ever happen in her life had already happened. There was nothing this lowlife could do to her, up to and including kill her, that would be worse than what her father had done.

She shifted her face under his grip, just enough that she could open her jaws and bite down, and she caught a hunk of his palm. She bit until she tasted blood, and he yelled and yanked his hand away.

When he coiled that bleeding hand into a fist, she expected it, and she ducked the blow. Then, without thinking, without checking that she was placed to hit her target, but somehow knowing that she would, she kicked up with a booted foot and landed a solid blow between his legs. He yowled and doubled over, stumbling a couple of steps back, and she scrambled to get into the truck.

She made it and turned back to grab the door, but he was there just as she was, with one hand on the door and the other on the frame, meaning to lunge at her.

With every iota of force she could muster, she threw herself backward and jerked the door with her. It slammed on his hand. She heard bones snap. The sound he made at that, she had no word to describe.

She let the door ease up, and he pulled himself free, and then she slammed it shut and pounded her fist down on the lock.

In the back window, she saw people beginning to head in their direction, drawn by the commotion. Still feeling completely calm, but breathing heavily from her exertions, she settled herself in the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, turned the engine over, and drove away.

She supposed she should have stayed and called the cops on her new phone, but she just wanted away. Salt Lake City was definitely not where her journey would end.

Back on the highway, she realized she was grinning. Once she noticed that, she began to laugh. She laughed so hard, she had to pull over to the shoulder. She laughed until tears streamed from her eyes, until her sides ached.

She hadn’t laughed like that in two years. Why had getting attacked brought it out?

Because she’d kicked the shit out of that guy. She’d felt no fear, and she’d kicked the shit out of him.

She felt powerful. Invulnerable.

Alive.

Back in control of her senses, she pulled back onto the highway and headed toward a new life.

Somewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The flatbed wrecker pulled up onto the shoulder of the highway and stopped about fifteen feet ahead of her truck.

She’d been standing in the weeds off the road, a fair distance from the truck, because the smell near it was too much to tolerate for long. She’d put the hood up, mainly for its universal signal of a breakdown, but she wouldn’t have known a carburetor from a radiator. There’d been a time when she’d have relished working on this truck with her father, but he didn’t like people around him when he was under the hood.

Anyway, the truck was lifted too high for her to have been able to do anything in the engine, even if she’d known what to do.

Luckily, she had a new cell phone—a smart one—and she’d been close enough to a tower or something to have service and be able to look up help: Jasper Ridge Gas & Service.

She was in Idaho, but she hadn’t made it to Boise.

A man got out of the wrecker, settling a misshapen cowboy hat on his head as he did, and she headed up to meet him. He was tall and extremely thin, like a skeleton with skin and baggy clothes. His skin was deeply creased and ruddy, as if he’d never gone indoors in all his—fairly long—life.

After her adventure in Salt Lake City, she was reluctant to get too close to a strange man, even if she had called for the help he was apparently there to provide.

“I guess you called for the tow,” he said. He didn’t smile. Somehow, that made her feel more at ease.

“Yeah. It locked up, and I almost went off the road. The wheels wouldn’t turn, the steering wheel got all stiff, it made a weird, screamy-roary sound, and the smell was unbelievable.”

Nodding, he stared at the truck but didn’t get closer. He took a deep whiff and turned to her, studying her with faded blue eyes set in yellowing whites. “You didn’t smell anythin’ until it locked up? Nothin’ peculiar happened before now?”

Feeling like a stupid chick, she couldn’t maintain eye contact. Instead, she glared at the truck, the latest in a long line of her father’s betrayals and attacks. “It started acting a little weird about an hour or so ago. I was trying to get to Boise before I stopped.” Boise was a city. She’d thought she’d be better off stopping in a city.

Her wrinkled savior chuckled at that and chewed on the toothpick in his mouth. “Missy girl, I don’t got to even look to know how bad you got it. That smell? That’s transmission fluid. Smell that strong, and the truck actin’ like you say? You burnt your tranny straight to hell.”

Her heart started to pound a staccato beat. “Is that expensive?”

He chuckled again. “Well, I got to haul it in, give it a good look before I can say a price, and an old truck like this, we could do a rebuilt, but you’re still pro’lly lookin’ at a couple grand.”

“Jesus. Really?”

He nodded wisely, with a hint of pity. “Yup.”

“Well, fuck me.”

Her language surprised him, and he narrowed his eyes in censure. “You say you’re headin’ up to Boise?” He pronounced the second syllable ‘see’ rather than ‘zee.’

Not without her truck, she wasn’t. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t have two thousand dollars to pay to fix it.” She turned and looked back at the wrecker. Above the rear bumper, the name and number of the shop it had come from was painted in fading red script.

She scanned the landscape. Fields dotted with cows and sheep, and clusters of woods merging into forest, and on the horizon, not far at all, an impressive mountain range, still topped with snow. She’d seen a sign on the highway and knew those were the Sawtooth Mountains, part of the Rocky Mountain Range.

It was pretty here. Even the sky seemed more—higher and bluer both.

Well, she’d decided that she’d know when it was time to stop. This seemed like a crystal-clear sign.

“Is Jasper Ridge a place?”

“Yup. ‘Bout ten miles up ahead.”

“Is it a decent place to live?”

He narrowed his eyes again. “I think so. Lived there all my life. My people helped make the settlement, long ways back. Can’t say we get a lotta newcomers. Tourists, sure. Not keepers, though. You don’t got a place you’re s’posed to be?”

She shook her head. “Nope. Just…somewhere. Somewhere new.”

“How old’re you, missy girl?”

She smiled. The question didn’t bother her. So far, the people who’d asked it seemed to want to help. Strangely, though, she’d always before been perceived to be older than her years. Only since she’d left Santa Fe had people questioned whether she was of age. She wondered if it had to do with being alone. But she’d been alone for years now.

“Twenty-one.”

He stared at her for long enough that she began to feel fidgety. Finally, his internal judgment rendered, he said, “Well, let’s get this hunk up on the wrecker. If nothin’ else, there’s the motel down the road from the station. Give you a place to put your head until you figure out what you wanna do. Mary’s a crotchety old hen, but say my name, and she’ll let you take the room on account.” He held out his hand. “I’m Floyd, but you might s’well call me Jerk. Ev’rybody does.”

Wondering if the nickname were kinder in context than it sounded, she shook hands with her newest friend. “Hi, Jerk. I’m Gabriela, but everybody calls me Gabe.”

No one had ever called her Gabe in her life. But everybody would from now on.

Jerk touched a finger to the brim of his battered, wilted straw cowboy hat. “How do, Gabe.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Like everything else she’d seen of Jasper Ridge and the Idaho around it, the Gemstone Motor Inn, just a short walk from the Jasper Ridge Gas & Service, seemed too artful to be real. Gabe half expected to open the door to the office and find the back of a movie set.

Instead, she found a skinny old woman with aggressively teased blue hair and black cat’s-eye glasses, the kind with rhinestones at the temples and a beaded chain hanging from the stems and looped around her neck.

Actually, she could’ve been a set piece, too. “Hi. Are you Mary?”

The woman nodded brusquely. “Help ya?” she asked, sounding something less than helpful.

Gabe came all the way in and went to the desk. “Yeah. Um, Jerk sent me over? He said you might have a room you could let me take on account?”

She didn’t know why all of her sentences were coming out as questions, but she smiled and tried to make herself look responsible and mature—which she was.

But Mary squinted at her behind those glittery spectacles and pursed her lips like a schoolmarm. “Which means you ain’t got money to pay up front.”

She did, actually, but she wasn’t sure how long she’d be staying, and something in the woman’s look made her reluctant to say too much. “I’m thinking of staying in Jasper Ridge. Looking for a job. I’m good for the rate.”

Mary made a noise full of scorn. “I’m sure. Jerk’s too soft for my own good. Fine. Rate’s fifty a night. I’ll give you a week on account, and then you’ll have to settle up.” She looked over her spectacles. “Lemme see your ID. If you run out on me, or you break up the room…”

Gabe dug her wallet out of her back pocket and handed Mary her license. “I won’t. I’ll take good care, I promise.”

Another scornful snort.

“You know of anywhere there’s a job in town?”

Without looking up from the form on which she was writing Gabe’s information in perfect, grandmotherly cursive, Mary shook her head. “I guess you could check over at the Jack. Reese might do ya somethin’.”

“The Jack? Reese?”

Sighing like she was dealing with a very slow toddler, Mary stood up, turned to the back wall, pulled an old-fashioned motel key on an oblong plastic fob from a row of small hooks, and then came back to the desk. She slid the key to Gabe’s side but didn’t lift her hand from it.

“The Apple Jack Saloon. Reese Webb runs it. If he don’t need help, could be there’s somebody around there who does. It’s still early enough in the season, you might find somethin’ temp’rary, anyway.” She took her hand from the key. The number ‘10’ was stamped on the red plastic fob in gilt.

“Thank you.” Gabe took the key. “So much. Where’s the Apple Jack?”

“Bit of a mile down Ridge Road here.” Mary waved vaguely to the west, indicating somewhere farther down the main road. “Other side of Old Town. Just start walkin’. If you ain’t blind, you won’t miss it.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Old Town turned out to be about four blocks of Old West touristy cuteness, and Gabe changed her mind about the rest of town looking like a movie set. These blocks reset the scale. More than a movie set, though, this stretch looked like a theme park—so much so that she wondered if, in fact, the buildings were as old as they were supposed to look. Was this really Old Town, or was it the touristy version of it?

The shops inside the picture-perfect Wild-Westy buildings—boardwalks and hitching posts and all—were clearly made for tourists: candy shop; leatherworker; a novelty photography studio, showing portraits in the windows of people in 1800s costume; a t-shirt shop; a woodworker; and on and on. Everything you’d expect from a tourist town.

One shop was like a visitor center, with posters in the windows of must-see locations and must-do events. A large poster dominating one window showcased a place called Moondancer Ranch, which looked like one of those luxury resorts where rich people played cowboy. Dude ranches, she thought they were called.

She had a vague memory that her mother had liked a movie about one of those places. Gabe couldn’t remember its title or many details, but it had had the guy who’d played Miracle Max in it.

Smiling at the memory of her mother’s laugh, Gabe stepped off the boardwalk and walked into something more like a normal small town. Across the street, in a building like a bigger version of the Old Town shops, set back from the road by a gravel parking lot about one-third full of pickups, was The Apple Jack Saloon.

It was dusk, and the building’s narrow front windows glowed with amber light and neon beer signs. She could hear the low beat of country music. Feeling a little bit nervous—maybe Salt Lake City cast a shadow longer than she wanted to admit—Gabe crossed the road.

Inside, ‘The Jack’ looked about like what Gabe had come to expect: rough wood and beams everywhere, a massive, long old bar against the back wall, simple four-top tables scattered around the floor, a couple of red-topped pool tables, a big, old-fashioned jukebox playing twangy music. Maybe eight or ten tables were occupied, mostly by men in worn denim or poplin jackets and oft-handled cowboy hats. Most men had left both on, but there was a stack of cubbies near the door, and a few of those had hats in them. A row of hooks held about as many jackets.

Most of the stools at the bar were empty. Behind it, a tall, broad-shouldered man poured a beer on tap and slid it down to a guy standing at the end. Hoping the bartender was Reese, Gabe crossed the room.

No one had noticed her come in, as far as she’d been able to tell, but as she approached the bar, she felt like she was walking down a runway. Every eye seemed to be on her.

At a table near the pool tables, three men sat. They seemed to be all about the same age, but Gabe couldn’t tell what that was. Youngish, she decided. Two were making a real show of checking her out, wearing wide grins, pushing their hats back, and rubbing their chests. The other one, hatless, facing her, simply watched, his face inscrutable—but when one of his friends made a raunchy wolf whistle, Hatless popped him on the shoulder and nearly knocked him from his chair.

Gabe smiled a little and turned to the bar. The big bartender came right over. “What can I getcha?”

“You got Corona?”

He nodded and reached down to pull a bottle from ice. As he popped the top, she asked, “Are you Reese?”

His eyebrows went up as he set the bottle on the bar with a glass. “I am. You got me at a disadvantage, miss.” He held out his hand.

She shook it. “I’m Gabe. Mary at the Gemstone motel said you might know where there was a job open?”

He’d been smiling, but at that, the eyebrows went up again. “You puttin’ down a stake?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. If there’s work. My truck broke down, and I can’t afford to fix it.” She ignored the glass and took a long drink from the bottle. As the beer hit her stomach, she remembered that she hadn’t eaten since the truck stop in Salt Lake City.

Reese leaned his elbows on the bar. He smiled again—a nice smile, wide and infectious, with straight white teeth and full lips framed by a stubbly brown beard. His eyes smiled, too. “Well, I don’t know. I’m full up here, but—well, you know what? Might be somethin’ up at the Moondancer. Catherine was just down here the other night, complainin’ that she’d had to let a couple newbies go.”

“The Moondancer? That’s the place I saw the poster for? The…dude ranch?” She felt embarrassed saying the words.

But Reese nodded. “Yep. You ever do any hotel work?”

“No, but I waited tables since I was fourteen.”

“Then you should go up there tomorrow, talk to Catherine. She might have somethin’.”

“Is it far?”

“Nah. ‘Bout fifteen miles.”

Gabe laughed and almost snorted Corona. To cover, she finished the bottle. Swallowing a belch, she asked, “Is there a bus in town? Or a cab?”

Waving her empty bottle and getting a nod from her, Reese pulled a fresh bottle from the ice and popped the top. “Right—your truck. Sorry, Gabe. There’s just the shuttle from the Moondancer, but that only runs for the guests. Hey—hold up.” He took a couple of steps away, toward the end of the bar nearest the pool tables. “Heath! You’re headin’ up to Catherine’s tomorrow, yeah?”

Gabe watched as Hatless set his chair down on all fours. “Yeah,” he said. Nothing more. But Reese waved him to the bar, and Hatless—whose name appeared to be Heath—stood up and came over. His friends watched avidly.

“What you need?” Heath spoke to Reese; he didn’t acknowledge Gabe at all, like she was beneath his notice.

He was not beneath hers, however. He was tall and broad, diminishing Reese’s previously impressive size by his proximity. And he had the squarest jaw Gabe had ever seen. His brown hair was trimmed short but still a bit disordered, as if he didn’t bother with a comb, and his skin had a pale bronze tint, like a light suntan. Probably exactly a light suntan—he had the creases at the corners of his eyes that said he did a lot of squinting into the sun.

His voice had managed to be both soft and coarse, like silk over gravel—the kind of voice a woman could feel down deep inside. Caramba.

The last thing Gabe wanted just now was to get tangled up with another person, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate a hot man.

“This here is Gabe. Gabe, this is my buddy Heath.” At Reese’s introduction, Heath swiveled his head and looked down at her. The bar was dim, and he only glanced at her before his eyes slid away, but those eyes were pale—green or blue, or some combination of the two. Nice.

She smiled, hoping it didn’t look young or eager or stupid. “Hi.”

He didn’t smile, or speak, but he nodded. Then he turned back to Reese. “What you need?” he repeated.

“Gabe is thinkin’ about stayin’, if she can find work. I told her Catherine was lookin’, but she needs a ride. Since you’re goin’ up there, how ‘bout you take her along?”

“No,” he said without looking Gabe’s way.

Frankly, she was shocked. Everybody, not counting Mary, had been nice to her in Jasper Ridge so far, and even Mary had been helpful. She’d expected Heath to say yes. She’d even been silently rehearsing what she’d say to him to show her gratitude without sounding dumb or desperate.

“Aw, come on, Heath,” Reese said as his friend turned away.

Without thinking about what she was doing, Gabe reached out and grabbed Heath’s arm. He wore a denim jacket, but under it she felt a heavily muscled forearm. God.

He stopped and stared down at her hand, but didn’t turn back or say a word.

“Please,” she said. “I’d take a bus if there was one. I can pay.”

That finally brought his eyes to hers. “Don’t need your money.”

“Please,” she said again.

He made an irritated face. “You at the Gemstone?”

Relief made her grin. “Yes. Room—”

“—I don’t need to know your room. Be outside the office at seven-thirty. A.M. Sharp.”

Before she got the words “Thank you” out, he’d shaken her hand off and stalked back to his table.

No chance of getting tangled up with him, obviously.

When she turned back to the bar, Reese grinned ruefully. “Don’t mind Heath. He’s good people. Just not too sociable.”

“That’s obvious. But at least I got a ride.” As she sat on the nearest stool, her stomach rumbled angrily. “Thanks to you. Hey—do you serve food?”

“Real food, yeah.” He laughed—a warm, inclusive sound. “If you’re one of those vegan weirdoes, then you’ll prob’ly starve around here.”

She was not a vegan weirdo. “Cheeseburger and fries? Medium rare?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’!” He waved sharply, like he was shooing a pest, and Gabe looked behind her and saw a couple of cowboy types backing away. When she faced Reese again, he winked. “I’ll hold ‘em at bay, ‘less you want company.”

“I really, really don’t. I don’t mind talking to you, though.” She didn’t. He felt almost like a friend. It had been a long time since she’d had one of those.

He winked again—friendly, not flirty. “I’ll get Alf on your burger, then.”

 

 

*****

 

 

They chatted while she ate, and Reese told her some of the history of Jasper Ridge. By the time she’d finished her burger, she knew that Old Town really was the original town, and that the Jack was housed in the original saloon, which had been in continuous operation since the 1870s, though the name was only as old as his family’s ownership. Reese’s grandfather had bought the place during hard times for the town and brought it back from crumbling decay.

After she finished her dinner and washed it all down with another beer, she pulled her wallet from her back pocket and settled up, adding a good tip. She’d heard people say you weren’t supposed to tip the owner or manager of a place, but from the other side of that transaction, she knew that money was money, and acknowledgement of good service was appreciated by anyone.

He nodded when she waved away his offer to make change. “Thank you, Miss Gabe—the pretty woman with the manly name.”

“Thank you. If everybody around here’s as nice as you, then Jasper Ridge is a pretty great place.”

He laughed. “Well, you’ve already seen we got nice people and not-so-nice, just like anyplace else. But yeah, I think it’s alright. You rest up—Heath wasn’t jokin’ about the time he’d be there. He won’t wait around.”

“Okay. Thanks again. I’ll see you—I’ll let you know if I have any luck tomorrow.”

“You won’t have to. Bet I know before you get back down here.” He winked again. “Have a good night, Gabe.”

As she walked to the door, she saw Heath alone at the same table, watching her. When their eyes met, he lingered just a beat and then looked away.

 

 

*****

 

 

Back in Room 10 of the Gemstone Motor Inn, Gabe—the more she said it to herself and to others, the more it sounded like her name—lay on the cheap, rustic-patterned bedspread and stared up at the wagon-wheel light fixture in the ceiling. The whole town had really bought into the Wild West shtick.

Idaho didn’t seem very far from where she’d started out. Something like a thousand miles. It felt like giving up to stop so soon.

Maybe the breakdown wasn’t a sign. Maybe it was just bad luck. Or stupidity—what kind of idiot took a road trip in a truck that had been sitting in a garage for two years?

Maybe instead of going up to the dude ranch with that sour asshole, she should go back to see Jerk and go ahead and pay for the repair. It would only leave her a few hundred dollars, but…

No. A few hundred dollars wouldn’t do anything for her. One way or another, she needed to stay in this town and work. It didn’t mean she had to stay long-term, though. She could work just long enough to afford a new transmission, and then she could get back on the road.

She didn’t need to decide whether Jasper Ridge was her real end point right now, but she did need a job. So she’d be waiting for Heath when he rolled up at seven-thirty the next morning.

With that resolved, she got up, shed her jeans and socks, wriggled her bra out from under her t-shirt, took off the black leather choker she wore every day, and climbed under the synthetic bedspread. Once she was settled, she turned on the television, keeping the volume low. She was too tired to watch, but she felt less lonely with its human sounds in her ears as she slipped into sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The hands on the little plastic clock in the motel office window said that it would open again at nine a.m., so at twenty past seven the next morning, Gabe stood on the sidewalk outside the office door, next to a barrel full of sand that was obviously meant as an ashtray. The morning was overcast and chilly; she shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and shrugged down into the neckline a little.

Without many options in the way of clothing, she’d dressed in a clean pair of jeans, a black v-neck t-shirt, and her boots. She’d left her long hair loose and hoped that this Catherine person wouldn’t expect business attire to discuss a job doing what would most likely be grunt work.

She’d come out a few minutes early, feeling suspicious about Heath’s intent to pick her up. His reluctance had been palpable, to say the least—so she wasn’t surprised when he turned in at seven-twenty-five and seemed, through the windshield, disappointed to find her already waiting.

His truck was an enormous black monster, a big Dodge hemi with a strange kind of black, camper-like thing over the bed. He stopped right in front of her and opened his door, and Gabe saw a magnetized sign on it, black and white, that showed an anvil, hammer, and tongs on one side, and a horseshoe on the other, framing the words:

 

Hephaestus Farrier & Smithy

Heath Cahill, AFA CJF

70010 Ridge Road, Jasper Ridge, ID

555-910-9100

 

Gabe grinned as Heath came to her. She enjoyed ancient mythology, and she thought Hephaestus, the Greek god of the forge, a basically perfect name for a blacksmith. Better than the Roman Vulcan, because not as many people knew Hephaestus, and because people knew ‘Vulcan’ for other reasons than blacksmithing.

So he was a blacksmith. That accounted for the massive forearms, then. She hadn’t heard the word ‘farrier’ before, but the horseshoe on the sign gave her an idea what it meant.

“Morning,” he said as he came to the front of his truck. He didn’t drop his ‘g.’ All of the (three) other people she’d spoken to in town so far had.

“Morning,” she answered, but he’d already rounded the front end and had his back to her. She was surprised when he opened the passenger door. ‘Chivalrous’ wouldn’t have been a word she’d have used for him, in their short acquaintance.

“Thanks.” She got in and let him close the door, then watched as he rounded the front end again and climbed in behind the wheel. Between them, on the ceiling in some kind of contraption, was a worn, brown cowboy hat. It wasn’t ill-used, like the wad of straw Jerk had smashed down on his head, but it had obviously been worn daily for a long time of hard work.

She tried to imagine it on Heath’s head. If she squinted, she could see a line of paler skin on his forehead, an inch or so below his hairline.

His eyes slid toward her as he checked the mirror at her side to back out of the parking space, and he caught her studying him that closely. He stopped and held her gaze, really looking back at her for the first time. His eyes were definitely green—a pale green, almost like mint.

“Problem?”

Embarrassed, searching for something to say, she landed on, “Thank you. Again. For the ride. It’s a real help. Thanks.”

He cocked his head dismissively and got back to the business of driving. “Going up there anyway,” he said as he pulled out onto the road.

The silence felt oppressively horrible right from the start, so Gabe searched her head for something, anything, chatty to say. Even if he just grunted at her, even if he completely ignored her, she’d feel better filling up the space with her own words, at least.

“You’re a farrier, huh? That’s a horseshoer, right?”

He nodded.

“Is that why you’re going up to the”—oh shit, she’d forgotten the name—“um, the Moon…”

That got a quick glance in her direction, and possibly an upward twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Moondancer. Yeah. I take care of her stable. Full season opens in a couple days.” He shifted his eyes in her direction again. “I’ll be up there all day. If you need a ride back, it’ll be some waiting.”

She hadn’t thought any farther ahead than getting up there and getting a job. Stupid. “Uh…I guess I probably will. I’m happy to wait, if you’re okay bringing me back.”

He shrugged. “Gotta come back down anyway.”

What a charmer. But he was, at least, holding something like a conversation. After another minute of so of silence, while nothing but fields passed by, she tried to keep it going. “What’s AFACJF?”

“’Scuse me?”

“On your sign. It says, ‘Heath Cahill, AFACJF.’”

“Ah. American Farrier’s Association, Certified Journeyman Farrier.”

“So you’re good, then.”

“I’d say so.” Another quick look her way. “You know much about horses?”

“Not really. I went on a couple of trail rides when I was a kid, but the kind where the horse just plodded along, following his buddies. I held the reins, but that was mostly for show. I like them, though. They’re pretty.”

He actually chuckled at that. “Yeah, they are. You stay around here, you’ll need to get to know them more than that.”

“I guess you’ve been riding horseback all your life.”

“Yep. Was in the saddle before I could walk. Same as most everybody out here.”

He looked at her again, his eyes staying on her for a second or two this time, and then he seemed to realize that he was talking and decide he was doing it too much. He frowned and faced forward.

Despite Gabe’s continuing efforts, that was the last of Heath’s words until they’d crossed under an arch with the words ‘Moondancer Ranch’ and he’d parked near an enormous barn.

He pulled his hat down from the ceiling, and they got out. He went to the back of the truck and opened the hatch. Gabe, who’d followed his lead and also gone to the back, saw that the strange black camper thing held what appeared to be a mini-forge.

“You make horseshoes right here?” When she looked up at him she saw that he had his brown cowboy hat on. Her imagination had not done that sight justice.

He seemed surprised she was still around. “No. But sometimes I don’t have a cold shoe that’ll work for a horse, and I have to shape what I’ve got.” He unfastened some part of the truck and pulled an anvil out. “Catherine’ll be up at the big house. She’s the one you want.”

Gabe turned in the direction that seemed to be ‘up,’ along the sweeping drive toward a house on the hill which looked like a log cabin on all the steroids. There were other buildings, but that was a ‘big house,’ to be sure.

It was clear that he wanted her away, so Gabe said, “Okay. Thanks,” and headed up toward the big house, hoping this Catherine had a job for her.

 

 

*****

 

 

Inside, the big log cabin looked like the lobby of a fancy hotel, except with log beams and western patterns on the upholstery. A slender, pretty woman in jeans and an elaborately embroidered shirt stood behind the reception desk and smiled brightly as Gabe approached. “Hiya. Welcome to the Moondancer Ranch. We’re not open for guests today, but if you’d like a tour, I can call up a ranch hand.”

A blue tag on her shirt labeled her as ‘Pearl.’

“Hi…Pearl. I’m Gabe. I’m not a guest. Reese at the Apple Jack Saloon told me to come up and talk to Catherine about a job.”

“Oh! Sorry. Sure. Hold on, please.” She picked up the desk phone, but then put it back on its base without saying anything. “Catherine!”

Gabe spun around in the direction Pearl had called out, and an elegant woman, about Gabe’s mother’s last age, with dark, thick hair like her mother’s, came over from a wide hallway across the lobby. She was, like Pearl, wearing jeans and a fancy shirt with pearl buttons and flowers embroidered along the plackets.

“Don’t shout, Pearl, please.”

“Sorry. This is…I’m sorry, I don’t recall your name?”

“Gabe.” Gabe held out her hand. “I’m here to apply for work. Reese sent me up.”

Catherine shook her hand. “Did he now? You must have caught his eye.” She scanned her head to toe with an evaluative eye. “I can see why.”

Gabe didn’t think that was true. Reese hadn’t flirted with her at all. But she only smiled; she was smart enough to know not to disagree with the person she was asking to hire her.

“What experience do you have? Housekeeping? Livestock work?”

“No. But I worked as a waitress at my grandparents’ restaurant from the time I was fourteen, and before that, I did busing. I also did some kitchen prep.”

“Since you were fourteen, huh? And how long’s that been, then?”

Everybody wanted to know her age. “Seven years.” Gabe left off the supplemental fact that she hadn’t worked in two years. Five years’ experience was five years’ experience.

“You got references?”

Gabe felt a twist of anxiety. Another thing she hadn’t thought of. Thinking quickly now, she said, “My grandparents are dead, and their restaurant closed after that. I never worked anywhere else. But I can give you character references.”

It wasn’t like she was actively hiding. She could list the prosecuting attorney, whom she’d gotten to know well during the trial, and she could list her neighbor, Mrs. Brant. And her English teacher from her last semester at community college. She’d been in that class when everything had happened, and Professor Laughlin had visited her in the hospital regularly and helped her actually finish out the semester.

Catherine, standing akimbo, drummed her fingers on her hips. She wore a belt with an intricate silver buckle, and her boots seemed to match the tooling on the belt. “Well, you’re in luck. We got a big corporate event coming in, full house, in two days, and I just had to kick a couple worthless little chippies who were only here on the chance to catch themselves a billionaire.”

At the corner of her eye, Gabe saw Pearl react in some way to that.

“Okay,” Catherine sighed. “If Reese sent you up, I’ll call that good enough to put you on paper, anyway. Pearl, get her paperwork started, then take her on the tour. I’ll have Ellen up at the desk. D’you know is Heath around yet?”

“He is,” Gabe answered. “He drove me up.”

Catherine gave her a sharp, witty smirk. “Well now. You’ve got all the eligibles hooked already, don’t ya?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Sure you don’t. Well, you be careful around Heath Cahill. This town will turn on you fast if you play loose with him.”

Gabe didn’t know what that meant, either, but she held her tongue. “I’m just looking for a job.”

“And you’ve got one. After you do the paperwork and get the tour, head back to the kitchen. Naomi’ll be in by then, and she’ll show you the ropes.”

“So…I hope I’m not being dense, but what job am I getting?”

Catherine’s loud huff suggested that yes, she was being dense. “Waitress. Pays minimum plus tips. You’ll need to go down to the Outfitters and pick up some clothes—just tell Randall that you’re working up here, and he’ll know what you need. No board until after a month’s probation. I’ll be down at the stables.” Without waiting for a response from either Gabe or Pearl, Catherine strode to the wide front door and left into the morning sun—the clouds had broken away.

Gabe turned back to Pearl and gave her a wide-eyed look.

Pearl laughed. “Catherine’s great, don’t worry, but she wants things the way she wants them, and she sees them the way she sees them. Come on—I’ll give you the grand tour.”

“Board? Did she say board? Like, a place to live?”

“Yeah. If you want it. This place used to be a real working ranch. There’s bunkhouses off a ways from the guest cabins. It’s not luxurious—each bunkhouse has four tiny bedrooms and a shared living area and bathroom—but it’s clean and free, and since a lot of the staff is seasonal, it works out pretty well. Mostly it’s people who come from away to work the season. Locals just go home, and we get a bump in pay for not taking the room.”

“Wow. And I need clothes?”

“Yeah—that’s on you. But we all wear jeans, boots, and shirts like this.” She did a little game-show-hostess sweep over her chest. “The Idahoan Outfitters in town carries everything you need, like she said, and if you need to pay it off in installments, Randall’ll set something up, and it’ll come off your checks.”

Gabe’s head spun—but with glad relief most of all. There was a lot to take in, and a lot of sudden change, but it felt good. Like her first truly forward step since her father had killed her life.

 

 

*****

 

 

After Gabe filled out the paperwork and Pearl left it in Catherine’s office, they walked all around the ranch. First, Pearl showed her the banquet and meeting rooms, the guest rooms inside the big house, and the various guest cabins, some of those too large to warrant the humble label ‘cabin.’

Then Pearl took her to the bunkhouses, which were just as she’d described: small and plain, but clean and comfortable. The ‘bedrooms’ were barely bigger than closets, each holding a twin bed and a dresser and nothing else, but the mattresses looked good, and the common area was cozy.

She saw the pool, and they walked a little ways down the hiking trail, into the woods. There was a pasture of sheep, and Pearl explained that one of the ranch’s package offerings was called “The Cowboy Life,” which gave guests a chance to try ranch work like herding and roping, and they let them watch more specialized work, like shearing and shoeing.

Gabe smiled at the thought of Heath working for an audience. In just the few hours since she’d met him and the few minutes of actual contact, she had a decent sense that he would hate that.

She learned that the ranch was open most of the year, with a few weeks closed for Christmas and for the transition between seasons, but that, by far, the warm season, mid-April through mid-October, was their busiest time. Though they were at the foot of the Sawtooth range, they weren’t close to good alpine skiing, so their winter season was for people who wanted to get away and be quiet. Catherine kept a small staff of year-round employees in addition to the seasonal hires.

Eventually, near midday, they’d made their way to the stables, where Heath was well at work. With the sun, the day had warmed to near summer heat, and he’d taken off his jacket and the red plaid shirt he’d had on under it. Besides a long leather apron, all he wore over his torso was a white t-shirt so snug it seemed glued to his body. His really, really excellent body. His arms, with a sheen of sweat glimmering over that almost-bronze skin, were…something else.

“Damn, he’s just so pretty,” Pearl sighed next to her.

Yes, he was. With Catherine’s snark still echoing in her recent memory, Gabe didn’t respond. But she watched. She definitely watched.

He’d just tied a big brown horse for shoeing, and before he did anything else, he took his gloves off and went to stand at the horse’s head. The horse shied a little, shifting on his feet, but Heath stood there, rubbing the sides of his—her? How did you tell on a horse?—face, speaking in low tones at his or her ear. Finally, after a few solid minutes, the horse pressed its nose against Heath’s chest, and then they stood there, like they were hugging, for a while longer.

Then Heath stepped away, trailing one large hand over the horse’s neck and down its shoulder. He put his gloves on and patted its leg, and the big beast picked up its foot and set it in Heath’s hands.

Gabe knew nothing at all about horses except that they were pretty. But she was fairly certain that Heath was good with them.

Still in that swoony tone, Pearl said, “Destry’s got a little bit of a nervous temperament. A truck backfired while he was getting shod a couple years ago, and he kicked Heath right in the chest. Stopped his heart. That was a scary day. But Heath was right back with him as soon as he could be.”

Gabe put her hand to her chest. “God. Do guests ride him?” She couldn’t imagine putting spoiled rich people on skittish horses.

“Oh no. Des is Catherine’s baby boy.” Pearl tugged on her sleeve. “Come on. It’s about lunch time, and all’s we got left of the tour is the kitchen and dining room. You’ll like Naomi.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Naomi was a small, older Native American woman—Shoshone, she was quick to mention—with long, greying black hair captured in a net snood, and Gabe did like her right away. She reminded her, in spirit if not in body, of her grandmother. Feisty and friendly. She grabbed Gabe’s hand and took over the tour of ‘my house,’ as she called the kitchen and dining room. Her staff was preparing a simple lunch of barbecued beef and assorted starches.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “When the guests get here, we do up the meals, and you can get a plate of most things on the menu if you want it. But we locals like things simple, and Catherine likes to feed us cheap.”

“Simple and cheap is the way I eat, too. My grandparents owned a cantina in Santa Fe. Basic Mexican comfort food. People love simple food. I think even the fancy people, deep down, love simple food best.”

Naomi laughed hard and clapped her hands together. “I think you’re right. They’ll never admit it, though.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath came in for lunch, his apron off, showing the forged chest under that sinfully snug t-shirt, now stained with sweat and work. He nodded a greeting at Gabe, among other people, but he sat alone. When he was finished, he went to Naomi, said something and squeezed her arm sweetly, then went back down to the stables.

With nothing better to do, Gabe hung out in the kitchen and helped clean up. Might as well get to know her coworkers.

A few hours later, she was sitting in the empty dining room with Naomi, Birdie, and Anne, having a coffee break and listening to her new friends gossip, when Heath came in. His plaid shirt was on again, open over the t-shirt, and he had his hat in his hands.

“’Scuse me, ladies. Gabe, I’m heading out.”

She liked the sound of her new name in his silky-rough voice. “Okay. I’m ready.” Her leather jacket was hanging just inside the kitchen door. He waited while she pushed the swinger in and reached around to snag it.

“Thanks, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow!” They all waved, and she went smiling to the door, where Heath stood. He gave her a tiny smile of his own and held the door for her.

On their way down the drive to his truck, he actually started a conversation. “I guess things worked out alright for you today.”

“Yeah. I got a job as a waitress, and I’m going to be able to live in a bunkhouse in a month. The people are all so nice! And it’s so pretty! Things worked out great.” Realizing that she was rambling, and at breakneck speed, Gabe stopped, biting down on her bottom lip.

“I’ll be back for more of the same tomorrow, so I can drive you up. After tomorrow, though, I’ll be in the shop, and you’ll need to figure something else out.”

She’d worked out a ride with Pearl, starting tomorrow, until she could take one of the rooms in a bunkhouse, but now she felt a little disappointed not to be able to take Heath’s offer. It seemed momentous that he’d offered on his own, after his near hostility to the idea when Reese had presented it just last night.

But she had another ride. “That’s okay. I’m going to ride with Pearl until I can move up here.”

They’d reached his truck, and he opened the door for her. “Oh. That’s good, then.”

“Yeah. She’s nice.” She climbed in.

“She’s okay, yeah.” He closed the door, and, again, Gabe watched as he passed across the front of the truck.

When he got in, he slid his hat into its holder and raked his hands through his hair, which had stiffened over the course of a day of hard, hot work. He caught her watching again, and gave her an embarrassed smirk. He seemed to have softened toward her.

“I probably stink. Sorry.”

“No, you’re fine.” He did, in fact, but not in a bad way.

They rode in silence for a few miles until, again, Gabe couldn’t stand it. “Why Hephaestus?”

“Hmm? Oh. I like mythology. He’s the Greek god of blacksmithing. Vulcan is the Roman version, which would be easier for people to say, and spell, and probably a better business name for that, but everybody thinks Star Trek when they see the word ‘Vulcan.’”

Remembering her first thoughts upon seeing his magnetic sign, Gabe laughed. At his responding frown, she explained, “I like mythology, too. I was thinking earlier that Hephaestus was a great choice because of the Spock thing.” She paused, considered, and added, “You are really good at it.”

He turned to her—finally, an actual, real-life grin. It crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed long dimples in his cheeks. Wow. For the first time, Gabe got a sense of his age, too. His frowning face seemed practically eternal. Now, she thought he was thirty-ish.

“You being such an expert about horses and all.”

That was nearly a joke. “Don’t make fun. I saw you with that one horse—Destiny, maybe?—and you just seemed like you were good at what you were doing.”

“Destry. He’s a good boy, just doesn’t like a lot of fuss around him. And thanks.”

They rode in a much more comfortable silence until he’d pulled into the lot at the Gemstone and parked near the office. When he opened his own door, Gabe, trained by now to his chivalry, waited and let him open her door. He might not like her, but somebody had well and truly taught him to open doors for women.

She thought it was sweet.

It was the first time, though, that he’d helped her out of the truck—that morning, she’d climbed down before he could make his way around—so she was surprised when his hand went around her upper arm and he helped her out.

They stood there, framed by the truck and the open door, his hand around her arm, and for the first time that she knew of, Heath really looked at her. He studied her. She returned that serious gaze with a smile.

“Well, thank you for today, Heath. You were a huge help. I know you didn’t want to do it, but it meant a lot to me.”

“How old are you, Gabe?”

The question surprised her—for her reaction to it as much as for its seeming randomness. She hadn’t minded it when she’d been asked before, but this time, she felt defensive, almost offended. “Why? How old are you?”

“Thirty-six,” he answered without pause. “Your turn.”

That was…older than she’d thought. Her own mother had been only sixteen years older than she. Not something she intended to point out. “Oh. Um, twenty-one.” Before, when she’d been asked, her age had meant she was old enough. This time, it seemed to mean that she was too young.

He blinked, then nodded and stepped out, leading her away from the door so he could close it. “Okay. Have a good night, Gabe. I’ll see you up at the ranch tomorrow.”

He walked around the truck, climbed back in and drove away.

Gabe stood on the lot where he’d left her, feeling like she’d missed out on something.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heath could hear the racket of the kids as he took hold of the knob on the front door of his father’s house, so he wasn’t surprised when, swinging that heavy mass of old wood and iron open, he found Kendall and Anya wrestling on the flagstones of the front hall.

Their family dog, a retired old border collie named Chester, sat in the arched entry to the living room and watched. Used to their antics, old Chess didn’t bother himself about it, but he always stayed close, just in case. His herding days were behind him, but the instinct was still there.

“Cool it, kidlets, or your ma’ll start hollering.”

They stopped and looked up at him, flushed and panting. “We’re playing rodeo.”

“No doubt.” He crouched low, and six-year-old Anya climbed up on his back. “That’s outside play, and you know it. You break something of Poppy’s, and it’s not yelling you have to worry about.”

Heath fucking hated rodeo and everything about it, he thought it was cruel to animal and human alike, but that was an unpopular opinion in this house, and in this town, and he mainly kept it to himself. His father, older brother, and brother-in-law had all done time on the circuit, and Wes, his brother-in-law, was still involved as a judge. There had been considerable fireworks when, while still in middle school, Heath had refused that life.

Almost as great an explosion as when he’d taken up the work he did now and stopped regularly working his family’s land.

“Come on, kidlets. I smell bacon.” With Anya on his back, eight-year-old Kendall at his side, and Chester trailing, Heath walked down the main hall of his father’s house—the big house on the Twisted C Ranch—and into the kitchen.

His sister, Emma, was in there alone, working on breakfast. The dining room had been empty, too, and the living room. Heath kissed his little sister on the cheek and then set her daughter down. “Where’s everybody?”

“Out at the barn. Wes is trying to talk Dad into something.”

“Shit.”

Wes would have been an architect or an engineer if he’d come from a family that could have afforded college, but instead, he was a good-natured good ol’ boy, stuck with his unfulfilled dreams. Marrying Morgan Cahill’s only daughter might have gotten him a ways closer to fulfilling a few, but Morgan Cahill wasn’t interested in anybody’s vision but his own.

Wes always had an idea for a new way of doing things, and their father always heard him out, stringing him along with false hope before he said no, and Wes always fell for it and then felt betrayed, and they fought. It meant Sunday breakfast had gone to hell while the bacon was still in the skillet.

“Uncle Heath, that’s a bad word. You’re not s’posed to say bad words on Sunday.”

The Cahills were nominally members of the Jasper Ridge Assembly of God, but they had been indifferent churchgoers since Serena Cahill’s death. Many of her rules had evolved into family traditions, however—among them the rule of no cussing on Sunday.

“Sorry, Annie.” To his sister, he asked, “Logan out there, too?” If their older brother was in the middle of it, there was a chance it would at least stay calm. Logan was good at managing people.

Emma nodded. “Do me a favor and go out there and rope ‘em in? Breakfast in five minutes, and you know how Dad is if his eggs are cold.”

Heath rolled his eyes, but he went, hearing Emma chase her kids to the sink to wash up as he went out the side door.

The barn was some distance from the big house, and it took Heath a couple of minutes to make it over there. As he came in, Maggie, his own horse, threw her head over the stall and nickered at him.

“Hey, girl.” He went over and rubbed her nose. “What you still doing in here?”

She nickered again, with a different tone, as if to say she had no idea, but somebody’s head needed to roll.

About half the stalls were still full. Heath took that to mean that whatever was going on among the rest of the men in his family had distracted Wes from putting the horses out to pasture this morning.

Ignoring the office, he pulled Maggie’s lead and halter from the hook and stepped into her stall. “Come on, sweet thing. I’ll get you outside.”

His sister was probably having kittens in the kitchen at the delay, but Heath wasn’t going to leave five horses cooped up while their friends got to play. And he most certainly wasn’t going to leave Maggie in.

After he got them all out to run, he hung up the last lead and finally went to the office. His father, brother, and brother-in-law stood around the desk, staring down at what passed for one of Wes’s blueprints—an untrained sketch of some kind of machine, made on brown paper. Heath couldn’t make out what it was, but usually Wes’s contraptions were meant to move livestock more rapidly, so he assumed this one was, too.

It didn’t matter. They’d already arrived at their father’s refusal, and as Heath came in, Logan had his hands up between the men, so it had gotten hot. Yep, Sunday breakfast was likely going to be a silent, sulky affair.

They all stopped and stared at Heath when he cleared his throat. “Emma says come eat.”

“Now that sounds like a workable idea,” their father said, smirking. He turned and left the office, and the barn, without another word.

Wes was so red in the face, Heath thought he might be ready to stroke out. Logan put a calming hand on his shoulder, and Wes took a breath. Then he grabbed up his sketch in his fists and tore it into pieces.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

Logan patted Wes’s shoulder. “Easy, man. Don’t bring this to breakfast. Not fair to Emma and the kids.”

“Don’t tell me what’s fair to my wife and my children.” He shoved the destroyed sketch in the waste bin and stalked out. Heath had to swing out of the doorway to avoid a collision.

Logan rolled his eyes at Heath. “You always manage to miss the fun. C’mon, let’s eat.”

They walked together behind their sauntering father, in the lead, and their seething brother-in-law, stomping behind him.

Their father was a good man—he was honest, he was fair in business, he treated his workers and his livestock well, he took his role as a town leader seriously and didn’t let power twist up his head, and his family knew they had his love. More than that, he was capable of real kindness. He was a marshmallow with his grandkids.

Heath and his father had had a fractious relationship from the time Heath was ten and first told his father ‘no.’ He was the family rebel without being the antagonist. He’d simply gone about his life his own way, refusing to be buffeted by his father’s powerful will, and refusing to fight about it. He’d just said no and done what he’d wanted, letting the bluster go on around him. When he truly wanted something, he could not be swayed, not by threat and not by guilt.

Their mother had said while she was alive, and Emma said now, that they fought so often because they were so much alike.

But neither doubted their mutual love. And when Heath had gone through the deepest black of his dark time, a few years back, his father had been downright gentle with him.

So Morgan Cahill was a good man. But he had an old-school frontiersman’s heart, hard and implacable, and he could be a real asshole when his patience ran out.

He had little patience for Wes. He thought his only daughter had married beneath her station, he thought Wes was weak, and it galled him to have the man in a position of any authority at all on his ranch.

Wes did a good job as livestock manager, and some of his ideas probably had real merit, but their father would never see it.

“What was it this time?” Heath asked, his voice low.

Logan shook his head. “Some kind of surveillance setup so we wouldn’t need hands out in the fields with the flock.”

“What? How’s that work?”

“It doesn’t. Not one of his better ones. I think he’s reaching into science fiction territory, trying to find something that’ll capture the old man’s eye. I wish he’d give it up.”

“That won’t happen until Dad gives him some respect for what he can do—or until he breaks him down completely.”

“Wanna bet on which one’ll happen first?”

“No thanks. Sucker bet.”

 

 

*****

 

 

The climate in the dining room at breakfast was cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms. Their father seemed like he had shrugged off his irritation easily. He joked with the kids and paid lavish compliments to Emma’s cooking. In fact, Heath thought he was going overboard with the good mood—in a calculated move to skewer Wes just a little bit more.

Wes was definitely taking it that way. His fork clattered against his plate each time he picked up more food, and he glowered at the table, not making eye contact with anyone. Eventually, the heat of his temper shut everyone up.

In her usual role as family social director, Emma tried to find a neutral topic. She flipped through all the town news and got mainly grunts from the men. For a minute or two, she gave up and sulked at her plate. But then she perked up and looked right at Heath.

“Oh! I almost forgot! I saw Catherine Spelling at the IGA yesterday. She was holding court, as she does.” Catherine loved gossip, and she usually had bushels of it from the Moondancer. She apparently never named names of guests, but whenever Emma had seen Catherine in town, she was popping with stories about weird rich people.

Some of the stories were pornographic, but if she had one to share at Sunday breakfast, it would be G-rated. Heath smiled and waited to hear what dumb thing some CEO type had done.

“You know that new girl in town? Gabe? Dumb name for a girl if you ask me, but anyway…” Distracted by Anya’s request for more juice, Emma faded out.

She had the full attention of the table, but Heath frowned, feeling defensive for Gabe. Not because of Emma’s critique of her name, which he assumed was a nickname and her prerogative—and he also thought it kind of sexy when women had men’s names—but because he didn’t want her to be the subject of gossip.

Not that what he wanted mattered. Everybody in Jasper Ridge was the subject of gossip. Anyway, he’d barely laid eyes on her in the couple of weeks since he’d taken her up to the Moondancer. He had no business feeling defensive on her behalf.

With Anya’s juice dealt with, Emma picked up her story. “Anyway, she’s working up at the Moondancer, and Catherine did a check on her, you know. It turns out that she has quite a story, poor thing.”

His sister’s little words of sympathy were belied somewhat by her evident enthusiasm for the news she had. She glanced guiltily at her children, and Heath knew that the news wasn’t G-rated after all.

“Cover your ears, kids,” she said.

They did, but Heath noticed with a smirk that Kendall’s hands were cupped. Anya, on the other hand, was mashing hard on the sides of her head.

Once her children were supposedly safe from whatever she had to say, Emma leaned in a bit and scanned the table, meeting the eyes of all the men in her life, ending, and coming to rest, with Heath’s. “It turns out that her father is the Cantina Killer. I didn’t know what that was, but Catherine said, and then I looked it up myself later, and yep. In Santa Fe, about two years ago. He killed her grandparents and her mother, and he tried to kill her. Almost did. In their restaurant. It was a bloody mess. You know that dumb choker she always wears? Catherine hates it, but she won’t take it off. I bet it covers a scar.”

Heath felt rocked. Hard. And furious with his sister in a way unfamiliar to him. He punched the table, and the whole thing rattled. “Jesus, Em. That’s horrific. Do you have to be so fucking excited about it?”

“Don’t you talk like that at your mother’s table, son.”

Everybody at that table knew why Heath might react strongly to a story about someone losing their family in horror, and yet they were all looking at him like he was the one out of line.

At least Emma had the grace to blush. It wasn’t enough, though; Heath’s temper was loose, and he had to get away. He pushed back from the table, dropped his napkin on his plate, and stormed out of the house.

 

 

*****

 

 

He didn’t go far; he lived on the ranch himself. The whole family lived on a compound here: their father and Logan in the big house; Wes, Emma, and their kids in a house their father had had built for them as a wedding gift; and Heath in a bunkhouse he’d converted himself.

He stalked across the grounds, up the single, low step onto his wooden porch, and went inside and grabbed a beer. It wasn’t yet ten o’clock on Sunday morning, but he didn’t give a flying fuck.

The back of his house bumped up against the main horse pasture, and through the window over his kitchen sink, he saw Maggie grazing not far away. Feeling calmer at once, he whistled, and she brought up her head and looked his way, ears perked forward. When he whistled again, she ambled over.

She put her head through the open window and flopped her lips at him.

“You only love me for my apples, I know.” He chuckled and picked an apple from a wooden bowl on the butcher-block counter. While she talked at him, he quartered it and palmed a piece for her. When she’d had the whole apple, and his hand was sticky with horse slobber and apple juice, he murmured, “Gimme sugar, baby girl,” and she stretched her neck and pursed her lips. He kissed the soft velvet of her nose.

“Good girl. Git on, now.” She nodded her head and backed off, then trotted back to her alfalfa feast.

Heath washed his hands, finished his beer, and got a fresh from the fridge. Then he went to the front room and sat on his sofa. He would have preferred to sit outside—it was a beautiful spring day, and he hated being indoors in general—but his porch faced the big house, and if Emma or Logan saw him out there, one or both of them would want to talk it out.

He needed to think it out first.

His heart still felt a little fast; he’d very nearly lost it, and these past few years, that was usually a bad thing. He’d almost lost it at his little sister. In front of his niece and nephew. Over a girl he barely knew.

When she’d come into the Jack that first night, he’d noticed her at once. It wasn’t unusual for strangers to stop at the Jack—the dudes from the Moondancer always wanted some local color in their vacation, and the town was close enough to the highway that sometimes people wandered off the road to stop for the night and relax. But she’d seemed unusual right off.

She was gorgeous, and that had had all the patrons’ attention on that evening where most everyone in there was a guy at the end of his work day. He’d been sitting with Emmett and Paul, who’d both acted like they’d stepped out of an old Tex Avery cartoon when they’d seen her.

But Heath hadn’t cared about her looks so much, other than to notice them. Her eyes had caught his attention right away, long before he knew they were brown, with green flecks. There was something old in her eyes. It had made it hard to guess her age—those old, haunted eyes in her smooth, fresh face.

He’d felt literally caught each time their eyes met, and it hadn’t been a good feeling. It was like he was seeing too much, far more than he wanted to see, or than she wanted him to see.

Disturbed, and long out of practice with women anyway, he’d been an asshole to her. But he honestly wanted nothing to do with her. He had no interest at all in having anything to do with women ever again. Certainly not one that trapped him in her haunted eyes.

He’d never been what anyone would have called gregarious, but the past few years, he only let his guard down here at the ranch. Reese knew it, and he knew why, everybody in the whole fucking town knew why, and Heath thought it had been a bullshit move of his friend to put him in that situation.

But at the end of that day at Moondancer, seeing a new glint of light behind the age and sorrow in those pretty brown eyes, Heath had felt something loosen up inside him. It scared the shit out of him, and he’d been relieved to learn that she was near young enough to be his daughter.

But now he knew what was in her eyes.

Trauma.

And knowing her story, he wanted to see her. He shouldn’t, he wouldn’t, but he wanted to.

His front door opened, and Emma walked in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

She lifted an eyebrow at his beer. “Really?”

For an answer, he put the bottle to his lips and had a drink. Emma sighed and sat down on the other end of the sofa.

“So, I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” He was. He didn’t like making Emma feel bad.

“You’re right. It’s a terrible story. I feel awful for her.”

“Then don’t go spreading it around. If she wants it told, she’ll tell it.”

“You know that’s not how it works around here. If she’s going to stay, she’ll just have to get used to that.”

That was true, but it stank to high heaven. Heath had another drink, finishing the beer, and set the bottle on the table at his side. He and his sister sat in silence for awhile.

“Catherine says that girl’s got her eye on you.”

“Any sentence that starts with ‘Catherine says’ is probably bullshit, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t. What she says is usually true, ugly or not. And that’s not ugly. I think it would be sweet. She’s so lovely. Her real name is Gabriela. I don’t know why she’d muck up a pretty name like that with that awful nickname.”

He rolled his eyes at his sister’s fascination with Gabe’s choice of name, but there was something more important to ask than why she cared about that. “What are you doing, Em?”

She turned and faced him on the sofa, pulling her knee up onto the cushions. “Heath, it’s been a long time. You can’t live the whole rest of your life alone. And this girl shows up in town with a story even more horrible than yours—”

He cut her off with a snort, then stood and took his empty to the kitchen.

Emma followed him. As he pulled a third beer from the refrigerator, she said, “Okay. A story as horrible as yours, if you want to see it that way. Either way, she knows something like you do. Maybe it’s the hand of Fate. Maybe it’s God’s plan. I heard she stopped here because her truck died right outside town, and even she took it as a sign. Maybe it’s a sign for you, too.”

“Jesus. She’s twenty-one years old.”

“So? Fifteen years isn’t so much. Mama was twenty-three years younger than Dad.”

“I am not Dad.”

Emma laughed. It came out like a bark. “Please.” She came to him and set her hand on his forearm, stopping its arc as he brought the bottle to his mouth. “Don’t you miss being happy, Heath?”

He did. But what he’d known before wasn’t something he could ever get back. That kind of happiness was only possible in a life where things that weren’t supposed to happen didn’t happen.

And Gabe was possibly the only person he knew who might truly understand that.

“Emma, you meddle. You’re worse than Mama ever was.”

“I just want all my men happy.” She looped her arm around his waist, and he closed her up in a hug.

“Why don’t you pick on Logan, then?” Their brother had never been married or even serious with a woman. He preferred the buckle bunnies of the rodeo circuit or, lately, the bored wives who came down from the Moondancer while their husbands were out failing to rope calves.

“Logan is happy. Just as he is. Don’t worry—if he ever looks like he needs a woman, you can rest assured, I’ll be on that like flies on shit.”

Heath laughed and kissed the top of his sister’s head. “Hey—language. It’s Sunday.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy! Daddy! DAAAA-DEEE!

Heath sat upright with a strangled shout, and the dream faded away, but, as always, its claws scraped over him on its way into oblivion. The sheet was twisted damply around his body, and he struggled in a panic to get to his feet. He had to get out of the fucking bed.

With Ruthie’s screams clawing down the back of his brain, he stumbled naked through his howlingly empty house, past the closed door he never opened, and into his kitchen. He yanked open the fridge door, making the bottles and jars in the door shelves jangle angrily.

Squinting against the bright light inside, he saw nothing on the top shelf but a mostly-empty jug of tomato juice and half a red onion. He was out of beer. Fuck.

Fine, then. He preferred bourbon anyway, and it would get him drunker.

Slamming the door shut, he opened a cupboard and pulled down a bottle of Jim Beam instead. Not bothering with a glass, he untwisted the cap and put the bottle to his lips, drinking it down like water until the burn finally forced him to stop. Then he leaned back against the counter with the bottle in his shaking hands. He closed his eyes and did what Doc Lind had told him to do: visualize a calming scene. For him, it was always the same: riding Maggie through the woods, then coming to the wide clearing at the back of the ranch and giving her her head, letting her ease into her gallop, a gait so smooth it was like her hooves barely touched the ground.

It had been months since he’d had that dream. Not since Ruthie’s birthday. It wasn’t even a dream, not really. It was a memory, a true thing, relived in perfect recall, every detail in high definition.

As each year passed, it came a little bit less often. The first few months, he’d hardly slept, because it had lain in wait for him at every slip of consciousness. Now, it only reared up on special occasions.

Or on a random night like this, when he’d had cause during the day to think hard on what he’d lost. Whom he’d lost. And how.

Knowing he wouldn’t sleep more without the help of the bottle in his hand, he put it back to his lips and took another long, burning drink, swallowing four times before he pulled away.

There. Now he could feel quiet seeping up his spine. He’d sleep undisturbed the rest of the night.

But he took one more swig, just to be sure.

 

 

*****

 

 

The following Friday night, Heath sat in his usual chair at his usual table at the Jack. Emmett, Paul, and Victor sat with him, rounding out the table in the usual way. They were all winding up to their usual Friday night fever pitch, and the bar was starting to hop like a usual Friday, but Heath just sat back, drinking and listening to his friends’ banter with half an ear and his eyes at half mast.

He’d had a rough week. The dream had hit him three more times in the four nights since Sunday, and he’d been, he knew, drinking too much to try to hold it back. The string of drunk nights and hung-over mornings was taking its toll.

Luckily, it had been a pretty light week at his shop. The great bulk of his work was farriering—there wasn’t much call for a true blacksmith these days, except on the festival circuit, and that wasn’t his scene. But he was one of only a few true forge smiths in the state, so he had a more or less steady stream of artisanal projects coming in—mostly wealthy folk who wanted original ironwork in their home, or any number of historic sites that needed to maintain and refurbish antique equipment. Plus, he made his own horseshoes. Most farriers bought machine-forged shoes in bulk these days and only shaped them, if they got them hot at all. Heath made his shoes from raw metal.

It was late April, the point in the season where most everybody had their horses shoed for warm weather. Most people in the area shoed their horses; the earth around the mountains was rocky, and this was still a place where horses worked for their oats. He’d had a wall-to-wall busy several weeks, but now everybody’s stables were ready, and he was getting far fewer urgent calls or appointments. This lull was normal; the farrier work would pick up again in a few weeks, as maintenance calls picked up. In the meantime, he’d finished a couple of decorative projects and then spent most of the week in the shop, doing equipment maintenance and keeping to himself.

Keeping to himself was the smarter, safer course. He’d struggled to enjoy being around people for years now, but this week had been the hardest spell in a long time, and his head felt wobbly. He looked around the table at his friends. He should have just gone home tonight.

But Friday at the Jack was a decades-long tradition, so entrenched in his fibers that he’d headed over after he’d closed the shop without thinking twice about it, despite his overall gloom.

Now he was sitting with his lifelong friends, who’d grown used to his taciturn presence. He set the front legs of his chair down and tried to focus on their conversation.

“No way, man,” Victor was saying. He tossed his black hair back over his shoulders, which meant he had an important point to make. “I’m telling you—Denny Whitt is up to something.”

Denny Whitt was an outsider, some kind of corporate guy who’d had his dude-cation at the Moondancer about ten years earlier and decided to stay. He wanted himself and his bank account to be important in Jasper Ridge, and he’d been continually frustrated by the townspeople’s deep lack of interest in his money or ideas. Heath’s family was the power in this town, and people had liked it that way for about a century and a half. But Whitt—whose name was actually Denham, and he hated that everybody around here called him Denny—kept trying.

He’d been quiet since he’d lost a bid to be mayor. The general consensus was that he’d finally gotten the message that history and tradition made the real influence in a small town like this. Money didn’t talk near so loud.

“What?” Heath asked. “How do you know?”

It was his first contribution to the discussion in who knew how long, and everybody stopped for a beat and stared at him.

“Nice nap, bro?” Victor smirked.

Heath sneered back. Victor was a construction worker, so Heath didn’t know how he’d have dirt on Denny. “What’d you hear? Denny out campaigning with the road crews now?”

Victor flipped him off. “Asshole. No—my pop.”

That got Heath’s attention—and Emmett’s and Paul’s, too. Victor’s father was the County Clerk.

“He file somethin’?” Emmett asked.

“Yeah. Deeds to three parcels totaling three hundred acres. Right up against the Twisted C.”

The Cahill ranch. They only had two neighbors, and one of them was the Federal Government. “Granville is selling off to Denny? Small parcels?” Heath asked. “Why?”

Victor shrugged. “Dunno. But he’s got to be up to somethin’. Pop is over with your dad tonight, talkin’ it out.” Heath’s father and Victor’s had been friends since childhood, just like their sons.

“Fuck.”

“Eloquently said.” Paul stood up. “We need another round. Pitcher, or is it time for a bottle?” He glanced at Heath’s glass—he’d been at the bourbon since he’d sat down, but he was a good ways from drunk yet.

“Bottle,” he said, and Paul nodded and headed to the bar.

Emmett whistled, low but lustily, and Heath turned. Gabe, Pearl, and Ellen had walked in. They went straight to the bar, talking and laughing together. Heath watched Gabe, both hoping and fearing that she would see him. She didn’t.

Emmett leaned toward him. “Don’t hit me again, but damn, that new chick is fine. If you’re just gonna stare at her, y’oughta let a guy take a chance.”

“No,” he said, forcing his eyes away from the bar and to his friend. “She’s too young.”

“You hear her story?” Victor asked.

Paul came back with a bottle of Jim Beam and four glasses. “Whose story?” he asked as he sat down.

“Shut the fuck up,” Heath said. “Fucking vultures.” He poured himself a full glass of bourbon and took a long swallow.

Victor ignored him. “The new chick. Gabe. Her dad’s a fuckin’ mass murderer. You didn’t hear?”

Emmett nodded. Paul said, “Oh, right. Yeah. That’s truly shitty.”

“I bet she could use a cuddle. I bet she’d be real fuckin’ grateful for some affection.”

With barely a thought, just a bright flash of red rage, Heath kicked out at Emmett’s chair and knocked it right out from under the skinny son of a bitch. He landed on the wood floor with a shout, and the chair clattered away, and for a radius of about fifteen feet—which included Gabe and her new friends at the bar—Heath and Emmett had everyone’s complete attention.

Gabe stared right at him, her eyes sharp and curious. Damn. Every time, he got caught. Then she looked away and said something to Ellen.

She was wearing that black choker, and Heath wondered if his sister was right. He thought she probably was. It covered a scar.

“Shit and fuck! What’d you do that for?” Emmett stood and collected his chair. He brought it back to the table and sat down. Under his breath, so that only the table could hear, he added, “I was talkin’ about you, asshole. Fuck her or get yourself square some other way, man. I am over your feel-my-pain bullshit. I thought that was done. You had a bad turn. It’s time to move on.”

Heath brought his attention back to his friend. “Fuck you.”

Before Emmett could come back at that, Paul, always the calmest among them, said, “Heath. Keep your seat. Take a breath. Keep your cool.” He’d been looking around the bar, waving attention away from their scene. Heath’s eyes followed the direction Paul had been turned when he interrupted.

Brandon Black had walked in.

Heath had one enemy in the world: Brandon Black. Black was the reason for everything that had gone wrong in his life.

He was the reason for the dream and the loss it remembered.

He had no business breathing the same air Heath breathed. And yet there he was, and everyone who’d noticed was now focused on Heath, waiting to see what he would do.

Four years ago, Black would not have dared show his face in the Jack—or anywhere in or around Jasper Ridge—under imminent threat of having that face and the skull it covered beaten into mush. He’d been literally driven out of town. If it had been a hundred or so years earlier, he might have been tarred and feathered and taken out on a rail.

Instead, Heath’s father had driven him to Boise. And Black had stayed away.

But then Black’s father had fallen ill, and his mother had asked Heath if her only son could please come home. Three years had passed; Heath had healed enough to find pity for the sad woman with the dying husband, and he’d said yes.

Black the elder had died, but his son had stayed on, easing his way back into the community over the past year, almost imperceptibly, so that even Heath’s close friends had stopped icing him out completely.

Watching Black amble to the bar as if he belonged there, and seeing Reese take his order after a guilty glance his way, Heath felt his mouth twist into a snarl.

“You okay?” Victor asked. “Let’s just get outta here. We can drink at your place. Raid your old man’s bar, like the old days.”

“No.” It made no sense, but he didn’t want to leave Gabe in the same place as that piece of shit. “I’m cool. Let him get his drink.”

He felt a pressure on his arm and looked down to see Emmett’s hand on it. “You’re shakin’, my friend. You sure?”

Heath pulled his arm free and filled his glass. “I’m sure.”

In his head, Ruthie’s screams ricocheted against his skull, and when he closed his eyes, he saw flames.

He finished his glass and poured it full again.

 

 

*****

 

 

He held it together for a long time. For several more glasses of bourbon. He’d even held it together when Black had pushed in between Gabe and Pearl and bought the women a drink. And a second. He’d held it together when Gabe laughed at something Black had said.

Heath and his friends had finished off a second bottle and made a dent in a third. In the back of his increasingly muddy mind, a mind that had become a pulsing red tunnel, with only Black and Gabe in focus, Heath suspected that his friends had decided to keep him drinking until he was too drunk to cause trouble.

They’d miscalculated the motivating quality of his hatred.

He had no claim on Gabe—he hadn’t even spoken a word to her in nearly three weeks—but that was a sober thought, and he’d drowned it.

Then Black gave him cause.

When Black set his hand on Gabe’s back and she’d shrugged it off, Heath sat up straighter in his chair. When Black then hooked his hand around the back of her neck, sinking into that wavy mass of dark hair, and she’d shrugged away again, Heath pushed his chair back from the table.

Then Black leaned in and said or did something, and Gabe pushed him away, with some force, and Heath was up and at the bar before his head realized it was drunk and began to swim.

Though he didn’t remember picking it up, he had an empty Jim Beam bottle in his hand, and he swung it at Black’s head. It didn’t break—bottles never broke like they did in the movies, and that was why they were, in reality, dangerous weapons—until Heath dropped it as Black reeled backward with his hand over his eye and temple. Heath charged in, grabbing his mortal enemy by the throat with one hand and slamming jabs into Black’s face with the other.

People were on him, trying to pull him back, but he shoved them all away. Black fell to the floor, and Heath dived after him, landing blow after blow, feeling blood washing over his hands and spattering his face, feeling bone give.

Black flailed his hands around the floor and came up with the broken neck of the bottle. He wielded it weakly, and Heath snatched it away. He pressed the jagged edge against Black’s throat.

He didn’t know if he would have killed him. He didn’t get the chance to know. Reese and Paul had him by the arms and finally managed to pull him off. He fought, but booze and fatigue were on him hard now, and he no longer had the strength to fight them.

With a last twist of his shoulder in Reese’s grip, Heath yelled at the gooey mess on the floor. “I swear to GOD, you murderous son of a bitch. If you ever come near her again, I will pull your fucking heart out with my HANDS.”

His friends wrestled him to a chair and shoved him in it. “I’m cool, I’m cool!” he barked. “I’m done.”

He looked up, straight into Gabe’s old, haunted, beautiful eyes. They were wide and afraid.

Of him.

She had both hands up around her throat, over that black choker, like she was protecting herself.

“Gabe,” he said, but he didn’t think anyone heard him over the commotion. He’d barely heard himself.

She ran out of the bar.

He tried to stand, but now there were four men on him, and his energy was spent. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Her friends stood in place and watched her go, their mouths gaping, until Reese said, “Jesus, ladies—git! I got your tab!”

Then they hurried after her.

Reese watched them go, then waved a couple of guys over to Black, who was still moaning on the floor. “Pick him up, take him to the back. Linda!”

“On it,” his head waitress said. She’d stitched up more than a few guys in her time. As Cole and Zack heaved Black up and dragged him away, Linda tutted. “He’s gonna need more than a stitch, though.”

“We’ll sort that later. For now, just stop him bleedin’ all over my damn saloon.”

With Black dispatched, Reese turned to Heath. “Dammit, man.”

If Reese was looking for an apology, he wasn’t going to get one. Heath just stared, too tired and drunk and pissed off to form his face into an expression.

His friends had let him loose; he couldn’t recall when that had happened. He folded forward, meaning to put his head in his hands, but he kept falling, straight into the dark.

 

 

*****

 

 

DAAAA-DEEEEE!

Heath jolted awake with the smell of fire and smoke and burning thick in his nose and mouth. His throat was raw, and he could feel the asphalt digging into his knees.

Somebody had him, was shaking him, holding him back, keeping him away, and he struck out, landing a sidelong blow on a bearded jaw.

“Ow! Fuck! Wake up!”

He blinked, and blinked again, and saw his brother’s face looming over him. A familiar light fixture in the ceiling glowed dimly beyond Logan’s head.

He was in one of the guest rooms at the big house. His old room.

“You good?” his brother asked.

Not sure of the answer, Heath nodded, and then threw himself sideways as everything he’d ever eaten or drunk in his life charged up his throat. Logan swung a lined wastebasket under his head, and he heaved until he was empty.

“Jesus hell,” he moaned when he could roll back to the pillow.

“Yeah.” Logan, in pajama bottoms—Heath must have woken him up—sat down on the side of the bed. “You were yelling your head off. I thought this shit was behind you.”

“Me too.” He put his hands up to rub his face and realized that his right hand hurt like a fucker. Pulling it back, he focused and examined it in the low light, and then the night rushed back into place. “Fuck.”

Logan chuckled without a lot of humor. “Yeah, little brother. You gave the tongues something to wag about, no doubt. Black’s in the hospital. You broke his face all kind of ways. But he’s not so stupid he’d press charges, and nobody’s gonna push the point. There’s probably nobody in three counties don’t know about Syb and him and what happened, and probably nobody not named Black don’t think he deserves every beating from here to eternity. For Ruthie if nothing else.”

Heath felt much too shitty to deal with this conversation. “Shut up, Loge.”

True to form, his brother didn’t shut up. “Why now, Heath? People’re saying it was about that new girl, the one Em’s all fired up about.”

He thought of the fear in Gabe’s eyes, and he rubbed his own to try to erase the image. “You know what it was about. I was drunk. He was there. I lost my shit. The end.”

“If you say so.” Logan stood up. “Okay. You gonna hold now till morning?

He didn’t care; he just wanted to be alone. “Yeah, I’m good. Sorry I hit you.”

Rubbing his jaw, Logan laughed. “Yeah. S’okay. Rest up, little brother. Dad’s got shit to talk about in the morning.”

Vaguely remembering that there was some kind of important news, Heath nodded. When he was alone in the room, he closed his eyes and stopped fighting the movie his mind wanted to make.

Immediately, his head filled with flame and stink, with the screams of his five-year-old daughter, and with his own screams as he was wrestled to the road and stopped from running to the burning car to save her.

Sybil, his cheating cunt of a drunk wife, had been driving and had passed out at the wheel and run off the road, flipping into a rocky ravine. She’d been screaming, too, but Heath never heard her in his dreams. All he heard was Ruthie.

Brandon fucking Black, Heath’s friend from the time they were six and until he’d started banging Heath’s wife, had been in that car. He’d gotten out and clear before the fire started.

He’d left Heath’s wife and child behind to be burned alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

During the week, Alyson, Morgan Cahill’s housekeeper and cook, made meals for their dad and Logan—and, usually, Heath. On Sundays, Emma brought her family over to the big house and kept up their mother’s tradition of a full-family breakfast. She did the same on Wednesdays, for dinner.

But Alyson had weekends off, and Emma had a busy family of her own, so Saturdays meant the Cahill men were on their own. Meal-wise, that meant cornflakes and cold cuts.

On this Saturday, Heath flopped out of the bed in the guest room and stumbled to the bathroom, then, dressed just as Logan had left him when he’d apparently dumped him onto the bed, in his jeans and socks, he made his way downstairs, leaning on the wall the whole way.

He hadn’t felt this flattened in years. His right hand ached fiercely—it was swollen, and he had trouble flexing it. Had he broken something in it? Fuck. His work was in his hands.

His brother and father sat at the round oak table in the kitchen, their father with the Boise paper held up before his face—he would never accept the idea that news could be read in any other way—and Logan leaning over his tablet, next to a bowl of corn flakes. Neither one acknowledged Heath.

He made a beeline for the coffee. Taking one of the massive stoneware mugs their father favored down from the cupboard, he filled it with the practically nuclear-powered brew their father insisted on. Growing up on coffee this strong, Heath thought the shit they sold at the fancy coffee shops in Boise tasted like cheap candy.

Normally, he added a splash of cream, just to level off the first kick going down, but this morning, he needed every kick, so he took it black.

His internal organs had had a meeting and decided that food would not be on the agenda, so he sat down with his coffee and scanned the front page of the Statesman, held up before him as his father read something inside.

After a minute, his father dropped the paper and gave Heath a long look over it. His expression was kind. Anything that touched on the matter of Sybil and Ruthie, his father had seemingly infinite patience and compassion for. His own loss, while perhaps not so horrific, gave him empathy.

“You doin’ okay, son?”

“Yeah, Dad. Sorry about…” Not sure how he’d gotten up to the guest room, he wasn’t sure if he knew everything he had to apologize for.

“No matter. No harm done where it oughtn’t be done.”

That was one of their father’s favorite sayings, meaning that whatever had happened had been just deserts. Heath had to disagree. Just deserts for Brandon Black would involve fire.

He forced his hand to straighten out flat and then coiled it into a fist again, trying to determine whether he’d fucked it up or just banged it up. After a few careful flexes, he decided it was just banged up. He’d need to get his knuckles clean pretty soon, though—the edges of broken skin looked angry and scalloped.

Logan looked up from whatever he was reading on his tablet. “We need to talk about Denny.”

As the memory of the last substantive conversation he’d had shouldered its way to the front of his brain, Heath took a cleansing breath and a big swallow of killer coffee. “Yeah, yeah. Victor said he’s buying up small parcels from Granville. He said Frank was over here last night to talk about it.”

Their father folded up his paper and drank from his own big mug. “He was. We got more questions than answers, though.”

“What d’you mean?”

His brother answered. “Frank brought a topo map. It makes no sense. Denny took random parcels.”

“He’s taking random parcels,” their father corrected.

“You don’t think he’s done?” Heath’s head thumped as he tried to pull clear thoughts through the muck of his hangover.

Their father shook his head. “Can’t be. Whitt’s a jackass, but he’s a smart jackass. There’s something more to see.” He stood up. “I’ll talk to Charlie tomorrow. Today, Logan and I are riding out to take a look. You up to it, Heath?”

Riding out along their border with Charlie Granville meant a long trek on horseback. That side of the ranch wasn’t passable by truck, and out and back would take the better part of the day. After the night he’d had, spending the day in sweats, lying on the sofa with a book, was more his speed for the day.

But there was nothing in the world he enjoyed more than a long ride on a good day. He flexed his sore hand. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“It’s the creek.” Heath pushed his hat back and stared down at the water.

Heath, Logan, and their father sat astride their horses atop a bluff near the boundary of their land. Below them to the north ran Cahill Creek, which was more like a river. Swollen to its spring depth, it rushed noisily through their land and was their primary source of water.

On Charlie Granville’s property, most of the length of the creek truly was no more than a creek. The two families had a generations-long agreement that gave Granville access on Cahill land.

One of the parcels Whitt had purchased—the smallest—bounded the creek. The other two were farther up the Cahill property line and separated from each other by about a hundred acres and nearly a linear mile.

At Heath’s statement, his father turned. “What’re you thinking?”

Looping the reins over the horn of his saddle, Heath dismounted and gave Maggie a pat. “Let’s see the topo.”

Logan slid the rolled map from the saddle ties and handed it over, then dismounted himself. As their father followed suit, Heath pulled it from its tube and opened it over a nearby rock.

“Look.” Fighting a breeze that wanted to send the map aloft, he drew a circle with his finger around each of the three parcels Whitt had bought.

Logan leaned over his shoulder. “What do you see?”

“They’re flat—or close enough to it.” Their father had stepped up, casting his shadow over the map.

“Exactly,” Heath agreed. “Most of the line on this side is cliff and rock. Those sections are grassy valley. He’s got Granville’s best access to the creek and his only level acreage on our border. That adds up to something.”

“But what?” Logan asked. “I think you’re right, but don’t see any kind of sense in it. Besides, why would Granville give up his creek access? He’s got five thousand head to water.”

“Could he be trying to reroute in some way?” Heath offered. “Move the water into those valleys?” If that was the case, and if he was successful, he’d dry the Twisted C right up. But why not buy up the land in between those parcels?

Their father hunkered down and squinted at the map. “Can’t just reroute the river. It feeds into the reservoir eventually, and the Feds would be on that in half a blink. I don’t know. I’ll head over and talk to Charlie after breakfast tomorrow.”

As his brother and father stepped back, Heath stood and rolled up the map. “It sounds paranoid, but this has to be about us. Denny sees us as in his way. He thinks he’d have had this town bought and paid for by now if not for you, Dad.”

“I know. He’s wrong, but I’m not gonna step aside to show him that. Whatever he’s got boiling under that five-hundred-dollar haircut, we’ll cool it off.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Charlie Granville had purported not to know Whitt’s intention and insisted that he’d only sold because the money was so good and he’d retained access to the creek. He thought Whitt was a moron who had chosen the parcels badly and paid wildly too much for them. When Heath’s father suggested that there might be more to it than that, Granville had agreed to sell Denny Whitt nothing else.

Maybe that would be the end of it. But Heath, Logan, and their father were still looking into it, trying to make sense of what seemed for all the world like nonsense.

In the meantime, life went on. The following Wednesday, just before noon, Emma showed up at the shop while Heath and his assistant were at the forge, working on a commission for an iron gate. He saw her leaning against the wide bay door as he slid a newly twisted picket into the quenching bath. With a wave at Bill to back off the fire, Heath pushed his goggles to the top of his head and walked over.

“Hey, sis. What’s up?” Emma didn’t often just drop by the shop.

She offered her cheek, and his kissed it. “Take me to the Lunch Basket.”

The Lunch Basket was a sandwich shop a couple of blocks off Ridge Road. The customers there were mostly local; tourists rarely strayed far from the main road.

Heath and Emma had lunch there every now and then, but normally, they’d planned ahead of time, and he’d scheduled his day accordingly. On this day, he’d planned to send Bill out to grab something for them both and eat it in the shop.

“Shit, Em. Look at me.” His work was filthy work, especially when he was at the forge.

“So wash your face and hands and put a clean shirt on. You’ve got a whole closet in your office. I want to talk.”

“What’s on your mind?”

“Dad and Logan have something going on, and they’re not bringing Wes in, and it’s got him all lathered up. I want to know what.”

Heath figured it was the Denny thing, but he didn’t feel like it was necessarily his place to tell her what their father hadn’t. He rarely worked the ranch, and he left those dealings to those who did. Plus, he hadn’t seen much of his family since Sunday afternoon, so he was only assuming that there weren’t new developments in the situation.

Then again, nobody had said anything to him about the situation being a secret.

“I don’t know, Em…”

“Oh, bullshit. Of course you do. C’mon, buy me lunch and talk to me.”

He sighed. “Okay. You win. Give me five minutes to pretty up.”

 

 

*****

 

 

One of the best things about The Lunch Basket, besides the mostly local patronage and good food, fast and cheap, was that Jeannie Cannon, the owner, hadn’t gone in for the typical western style. Living in a historic town with a strong tourist draw, the Wild Old West aesthetic got to be a bit overwhelming.

The aesthetic was honestly earned, and many of the buildings in and around Jasper Ridge—including the big house on the Twisted C—looked the same way they’d looked for many decades. But the style tended to be heavy and dark, and it got ponderous, especially in the town proper, where the honest history mingled with tourist kitsch.

The Lunch Basket, on the other hand, was a bright, high-ceilinged space in a free-standing building only about twenty years old. The walls were covered with yellow-and-white lattice-print paper, grass-green fabric hung at the windows, and the tables and chairs were painted with high-gloss paint in bright, mismatched colors.

Jeannie served typical sandwich-shop fare, with a few local favorites thrown in. She handed it over in little wicker baskets lined with flowered paper. It was good food in a pleasing atmosphere. For the most part, the tourists hadn’t found it, so the locals preferred it, and she did a hopping lunch business.

Heath carried the tray holding their lunch over to a table by the window, where Emma sat, looking out onto the street. He sat and started shifting their baskets and drinks from the tray to the table. “I don’t know what you want me to—”

Emma cut him off with a hiss and a sharp wave. “Never mind about that. Something more important just came up.” Her eyes shifted past him, and he heard the bell over the door. “Well, hey there!” she called out.

Heath looked over his shoulder and saw Gabe standing just inside the door, looking their way, her expression the picture of surprise and confusion. She wore jeans and boots and a brown sleeveless top. And that black choker. The neckline of her top swept low over her chest, showing more skin than he’d seen before. She wore a necklace, too—a gold chain with a cross.

Her dark hair was loose, and she tucked it back behind her ears as she smiled shyly. “Uh, hi,” she said. “Emma, right?”

When had Emma and Gabe met?

Then her eyes moved from Emma to him, and the hesitant smile stalled out. She hadn’t seen him since Friday night, when she’d run from the bar. Heath’s mostly-healed hand ached with the memory.

She lived up at the Moondancer now, and she wasn’t around in town much. He guessed that she had the day off.

Across the table from him, Emma stood up. “That’s right! Well, come on over, honey. You shouldn’t eat alone.”

“That’s okay.” Her eyes had locked with Heath’s, but now she looked back at Emma. “I just…uh…came in for a bottle of water.”

That was a lie, Heath could tell. Emma had derailed her lunch. “Well, that’s silly. You can’t skip lunch. You’re skinny enough as it is.”

“Em. Back off,” Heath muttered.

His little sister ignored him completely and instead walked to Gabe and took her by the arm. When she pulled, Gabe came along. Emma Cahill Taylor was an irresistible force.

She pulled out the chair next to Heath and nudged Gabe to sit. She did, but scooted the chair a few inches away.

“So what’ll you have? Heath’s buying. The pulled pork is everybody’s favorite, or if you like something lighter, the chicken salad is great. It’s all great, honestly. You can’t pick wrong here.”

Gabe’s eyes darted around the café as if she might find rescue. All she found were a lot of eyes paying attention. They seemed doomed to be fertilizer for the town grapevine.

“Thanks, but really—I didn’t come in for food. I…uh…don’t usually eat lunch.”

“I guess that explains your figure then, doesn’t it? Just like pulled pork sandwiches explains mine!” Emma laughed at her own little joke. Her eyes shone with sudden inspiration, and Heath felt the urge to brace for impact.

“Emma…”

Ignored again, he sat helplessly as his sister said, “I just had the best idea! It’s Wednesday! If you don’t eat lunch, you’ve got to eat dinner—you should come to the ranch tonight! I do a big meal for the family on Wednesdays, and I’m a great cook, if say so myself. Besides, it’s practically a tradition to invite new people over. Right, Heath?”

They didn’t get enough new people in town to make a tradition out of something like that. His only reply was a death stare.

Gabe’s olive complexion took on a sickly hue. “Oh, no. Thank you, but I have to get back. I still don’t have my own ride. Pat brought me down, but…”

Emma scoffed. “Pat’ll be three sheets to the wind by sundown. I’ll take you to the ranch after I’m done at the market. You can help cook! And one of us will take you up to the Moondancer after.” The gleam in her eyes turned shrewd. “You know, some’d say it would be rude to turn down two invitations in a row.”

Okay, that was just enough. “Emma! Back. Off.” He turned to Gabe. “Sorry. You can ignore her.”

At least he didn’t see fear in those brown eyes as they searched his now. “It’s okay.” She smiled a little and turned back to Emma. “Sure. That sounds…it sounds good. Thank you.”

“Fantastic! Okay, well, I am too busy for lunch myself today.” She stood up and gestured at her uneaten meal. “Feel free to try that pulled pork. Let’s say we meet at the post office in a couple of hours?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

When Emma came around to him and bent to kiss his cheek, Heath grabbed her wrist. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Be a gentleman, Heath Matthew. I’ll see you tonight.”

She kissed his cheek, and then she was gone. He gaped after her, his head spinning.

Movement at his side caught his attention, and he turned. Gabe had gotten up from the seat next to him and taken Emma’s seat across from him instead.

“I’m sorry about my sister. She’s subtle as a rock.”

She shrugged. “Since Friday, everybody thinks there’s something between us.” Plucking at Emma’s abandoned fries, picking one up and dropping it back, she added, “About a dozen people I barely know have tried to grill me for information about how I ‘snagged’ you, and warned me to be good to you. They don’t believe me when I say I have no freaking clue how I figure in what happened.”

“I’m so sorry. It’s a long story, and not really about you.”

She dropped a fry and lifted her gaze. Their eyes met and held. “Yeah. I’ve heard it now. Several times. And I guess you’ve heard mine.”

He nodded. “This town feeds on shit like that. I’m just…sorry. That you got pulled in like this, and…and that you have a story like you do.”

Her laugh was melancholy as she turned away and gazed out the window. “I ended up here because I was trying to get away from that story. Maybe I didn’t go far enough.”

“No such thing as far enough. In distance or time. I live with mine on my shoulder every day.” He paused, then asked, “You thinking of leaving?” He didn’t much like the idea of her going away.

But she chuckled and shook her head. “When Jerk got under the hood of my truck, he found all kinds of other problems. I guess it was a bad idea to drive it a thousand miles after it had sat for two years. Everything rubber had dried out. I was apparently about three miles from the whole engine just falling out on the road. If I had any money, I’d wonder if he was trying to screw me out of it.”

“Nah. Jerk’s a square dealer.”

“Yeah, I see that. Anyway, no. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.” She surprised him with a grin—wide and almost happy, but dark and sorrowful, too. “I kind of like the idea that I drove my father’s pet truck right into the ground.”

That conflicted expression disarmed Heath utterly, because he understood it completely. The bitter, painful satisfaction of revenge.

He nearly reached for her hand—his arm actually lifted before he caught himself and rested it back on the table next to the basket of his uneaten lunch.

“What happened Friday—I’m sorry I scared you. That’s wasn’t me. There was a lot of bourbon involved.”

Her reaction was swift and stark—he’d offended her. “Sure it was. People say that to push responsibility away, and it sucks. That guy hurt you, and you wanted to hurt him back. That was in you. It was you. Being drunk just loosened you up to do what you wanted to do.”

She was talking about more than Friday night, more than him. She was talking about her father, too. He could hear the weight of personal history in her voice. He hated that she was thinking of him and her father in the same thought, but she wasn’t wrong. There hadn’t been a day in four years that he hadn’t had at least one thought that he wanted Brandon Black painfully dead.

“Okay. But only for him. I’m not…usually like that.”

One shoulder came up in a shrug. That cross—it was a crucifix, gold with a silver Christ figure—bobbled on her chest. “Does it matter?”

It did. God help him, it did. He’d not touched a woman in four years; he’d sworn he never would be with another again. The one sitting across from him now was barely old enough to be called a woman. Every goddamn eye in town was on them, watching and waiting to see what they’d do. But God help him, it mattered.

But he couldn’t say it. Rather, he said, “You can beg off dinner tonight. Emma gets like a terrier, but I can call her off.”

“I’ve been here long enough to know it’s probably a bad idea to get on your sister’s bad side if there’s a chance I might want to stay.”

That was true, but this was different. “I’ll take the heat. I’ll tell her I told you I didn’t want you there.”

“Don’t you?”

He did, but not like this. “I don’t want you railroaded into a dinner with my family.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Heath could see it in her eyes—she wanted him to say that he wanted her to go to dinner. She had opened a door between them. Just a crack, just enough to gauge the weather. With his answer, he could pull that door wide or shove it closed.

All he had to do was say yes. Which was the truth. He wanted her at dinner—he wanted her, period. He’d had to set his hands in his lap because he couldn’t trust himself not to touch her.

All he had to do was say yes.

“No.”

Her face changed again, this time in a way he couldn’t pinpoint. She’d dimmed, or something.

The door had closed.

She stood up and left the restaurant.

Heath didn’t turn to watch her go. But as he sat there, he realized that the whole room had gone quiet, and he didn’t need to look around to know that every eye was on him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When he got back to the ranch that night, about half an hour before dinner, he went to his own house and took a hot shower, scrubbing the soot away and then standing with his hands on the wall, letting the scalding stream beat against his neck and shoulders.

Gabe walking out on him had really fucked up his day. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything else—and the stack of fucked-up pickets in his shop was a testament to that.

But it was right that she had—it was good. She was too young. He was too damaged. She had damage of her own. He was trapped in his past. She was trying for a new start. And the town would devour her whole and then spit her out on the highway to Boise if they started something and it didn’t go right.

They should stay away from each other. Eventually, when there wasn’t anything meaty between them to feed on, the town tongues would stop wagging.

Heath didn’t believe in signs or fate. He believed in actions and consequences. The draw he felt to her was not some cosmic force bringing them together. It was nothing more than empathy. He saw a pain in her that he knew well.

He’d been right to tell her no. She’d been right to walk away.

He shut off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and walked, dripping, to the kitchen. He needed a drink.

 

 

*****

 

 

Stepping into the big house, he saw his father, brother, and brother-in-law in the living room, and he headed there. The kids were setting the dining room table. No sign of the dog—he was probably in the kitchen, hoping for scraps.

He nodded toward the men in the living room, then headed down the hallway toward the kitchen. First thing he had to do was set Emma straight about Gabe. Emma was the baby of the family, but in the ten years since their mother’s death, she’d stepped into those boots for all of them. She was sweet and truly kind, but she had the Cahill iron will, and she could force her way with kindness better than the worst bully could with violence.

Still, he had to get her off of Gabe.

As he neared the kitchen entrance, he heard two female voices, both of them familiar, but only one of them expected. Emma. And Gabe.

He stopped, shocked, and listened. They were chatting about food. With trepidation and surprise speeding up his heart, he went in.

Emma beamed at him. “Well finally! Food’s ready! I was about to send Wes up to drag your butt down here.”

“Sorry.” He looked at Gabe when he said it and was rewarded with a wry lift at one corner of her mouth. On the information in that cute smirk, Heath was able to make a pretty good guess about why she was here after all. Emma and her Cahill will.

Irresistible force.

He smiled back. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Okay, don’t just stand there,” Emma chirped. “You two can help me get these dishes on the table. WES!” she yelled suddenly, and Gabe jumped a little. “GET THE KIDS! EVERYBODY WASH UP! TIME TO EAT!”

 

 

*****

 

 

“How d’you like it up at the Moondancer, Gabe?” Heath’s father handed her the basket of rolls as he asked.

She took it and then passed it to Heath at her side without taking one for herself.

They were on the second pass, and Gabe’s plate was still fairly full from the first. Emma had put on a real feast: beef tenderloin, mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, green beans and onions, sweet corn on the cob, hard rolls, and salad. Wednesday Family Dinner was generally a full-plate affair, but this was nearly a Thanksgiving-level menu. Heath had to assume she’d adjusted her plans after inviting Gabe.

It was like his sister was selling him to her: hook up with the crabby cowboy, get this great family for free!

This enthusiasm about his love life was a new thing. He’d only ever been with one woman; he and Sybil had been high school sweethearts. He’d gone to college and she hadn’t, but they’d stayed together and faithful—well, he had, and he’d thought at the time that she had; now he wasn’t so sure—and then they’d gotten married when he’d graduated and come home. A few years later, they’d started a family.

A few years after that, everything was over.

But Sybil had practically grown up with him at this dinner table, so there’d never been much fuss about Heath’s romantic inclinations. There’d been a few pointed conversations about keeping his priorities straight and finishing college before anything else, but Heath hadn’t ever really been tempted to do otherwise. His parents had raised their children to value learning, and they’d all gone off to learn the world, even though there’d been little doubt that they’d all come right back home. And they all had.

He’d felt secure in the knowledge that Sybil would wait for him to graduate, that she would be there. And she had been.

Everyone had known forever that Sybil Miller and Heath Cahill were a done deal.

They’d all also known that she was an alcoholic, just like both her parents, but, family and town alike, they took care of their own. Everybody, including Heath, had thought that patience and love would get her through. They’d been wrong.

“I like it a lot,” Gabe answered Heath’s father. “It’s so beautiful, and the people up there are nice. The hands all let me pester them with questions about their work. I’m learning a lot.”

“You get along with Catherine okay? She can be difficult.”

A bit of guarded hesitation crossed her brow. “Yeah, I do. It’s her place, and she runs it well.”

Knowing Catherine like he did, Heath didn’t have to work hard to see between those lines.

Logan laughed and spooned another helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate. “Diplomatic. So, you think you’ll stay on there?”

“Well, I don’t know. Maybe. I’m just taking things as they come right now. I haven’t figured much out yet.” She darted a glance at Heath and tried to hide that she had by picking up the tongs and grabbing another cob of corn from the platter near their plates. There was already an untouched cob on her plate.

“Of course you haven’t.” Emma’s voice dripped with maternal concern. “I don’t know how you figure out anything after all you’ve been through.” She shook her head and put an arm around each of her kids, who had been focused on their food and mostly oblivious to the conversation around them. “I don’t know what I’d do if I found myself alone in the world.”

At his side, Gabe flinched, and a tremor passed through the politely interested, warm-but-careful expression she’d been wearing.

“Emma, shut up.” Before he could control it, his hand reached out under the table and gave Gabe’s thigh a squeeze. It turned to stone under his grip, and he pulled back. “I’m sorry.” He was apologizing for his sister and himself.

She smiled at him, brave and sad. “It’s okay.” Turning to Emma, she added, “You’re right. It’s hard. I guess that’s why I’m not making plans. I don’t know what plans to make. Everything’s changed so much. I’m just trying to find somewhere to…I don’t know.” She sighed. “Just somewhere.”

“That’s a good thing about a life out here,” his father said with a compassionate smile. “Life just rolls on, same’s ever. I’m the fifth Cahill generation to run this ranch. My boys’ll be the sixth. This house has stood here almost a hundred and fifty years. Out here, we change with the land, not the wind.” He leaned across the corner of the table and took hold of her hand. “So if you’re looking for somewhere to take a deep breath, maybe you found it.”

 

 

*****

 

 

By the time they’d finished dessert—peach pie—Emma had finagled Gabe into agreeing to riding lessons, and, of course, she’d volunteered Heath’s services as teacher. He’d given up trying to stop his sister’s runaway train, deciding that when he and Gabe were alone, they could figure it out.

And now they were alone. He closed the passenger door on his truck and went around to climb in behind the wheel. As he started the engine and pulled onto their road, he said, “I’m sorry. That had to be strange for you.”

“It wasn’t. Not really. I like your family.”

He’d never been good at small talk, and his head was full of conflict and still reeling from his sister’s matchmaker assault, so Heath couldn’t find any words to say. Gabe fell into silence, too. Whenever he looked over, she was staring out the side window. The twilight lit her features in soft grey. The distance between them seemed greater than the space in the cab of his truck.

Maybe they wouldn’t figure it out after all.

For four years, Heath had shut himself down. It was what he’d wanted: to be left alone. To do his work and go back to his family home. He was angry, and he was sad, and he didn’t expect that he ever wouldn’t be. He didn’t blame all women for Sybil’s betrayals, it wasn’t that. It was simply that he didn’t have enough left of himself to offer to anyone else. He’d had to cage his emotions in iron so they wouldn’t fly loose and out of control. So he could keep breathing.

That hadn’t changed, had it? What could he offer anyone, least of all a young woman like Gabe, with pain of her own?

Nothing.

So that answered the question. He would back Emma off, and the whole damn town if he had to, and leave Gabe alone. It was the right thing to do.

Then why did it feel so shitty?

They were halfway up to the Moondancer, having ridden in silence all the way, when Gabe’s voice pulled him out of his frustrated reverie.

“Can I ask you something?”

He cleared his throat and found his tongue. “Sure. Might not answer, but you can ask.”

“You seem different from the rest of your family. A little. Not much. I mean, it’s just an impression, it’s not like I know any of you, and it’s probably crappy for me to say something like that, but…yeah. Sorry. Never mind.”

Not offended but curious, Heath said, “No, it’s okay. I wonder why you think so.”

“Okay, this is probably dumb. But the first thing is how you look. Your dad and your brother, and Emma’s husband—they all have thick beards. Wes’s is epic. And kind of long hair. You don’t. At that table, you were like ‘one of these things is not like the others.’

“‘One of these things doesn’t belong’?”

“No—see, it was crappy for me to say anything.”

He’d only been teasing; he should have known better than to try that. In truth, it moved him that she’d picked up on his difference. “It’s fine. I’d never thought of it like that, but you’re not wrong. I keep my hair short and my face shaved because I work around fire every day, and it’s hot—not to mention possibly dangerous. I’m not trying to be different from my family. We’re all close. But you’re right—I’m not quite in step. Drives my old man crazy that I don’t work the ranch.”

“Why don’t you?”

He laughed. “That’s a big topic. Lot of reasons.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“S’okay. There’s just not much time on this drive for a talk that deep. Ask me again sometime, and I’ll tell you.”

More quiet while Heath ransacked his brain for something to say to hold up his end of a conversation.

“You like beards?” He rolled his eyes. If that was the best he could do, he should just shut the hell up.

“Um, I guess. It depends.”

She didn’t say more. Heath slowed and turned onto the road that would become the Moondancer drive. They were out of time.

“You shouldn’t have one, though.” Her tone suggested that she’d been debating internally the wisdom of saying that aloud and had spoken before she’d fully persuaded herself.

“No?” He drove through the Moondancer gate—which he’d forged.

“No. It would cover up your dimples.”

That statement hung in the air as he drove up and around the edge of the compound to the little bunkhouse parking lot. The big house was brightly lit, and the parking lot was full. There must have been one of those corporate retreats going on.

He parked, and as soon as he had the truck in Park, Gabe put her hand on the door handle. “Thank you for the ride—and for dinner.”

When she moved to open the door, he dropped his hand on her thigh. “Wait up. I’ll walk you.”

She laughed. “You’re a gentleman, but you don’t have to.” With a forward tilt of her head, she added. “I’m just right there in House 2.”

It was more than the courtliness his parents had taught him. He was acting on instinct that was in conflict with intellect, but it was more than just manners. “Wait up.” He pushed lightly on her thigh, as if that would hold her in place, and then jumped out of the truck and came around to her side. She waited for him.

He helped her down, and they walked the ten or fifteen feet to her bunkhouse. It was dark, except for a light over the door.

“You live alone in there?”

“No, but right now I only have one roommate, and she’s working the cocktail party tonight.”

They were at the door, but he didn’t want to leave her company. So he stretched his small-talk abilities and came up with something. “You like living in the bunkhouse?”

Not something good, but something.

“Yeah, it’s okay.” She turned away from the door and looked up at him. She wasn’t exactly short, but he was six-four and more than a head taller.

With nothing else he could think to say to extend the conversation, such as it was, and unable to say good night, Heath looked down at her silently. The golden shine of the light above the door was a spotlight on her beauty: her deep, flecked brown eyes, the point of her chin, the plump swell of her lips.

What Gabe did next threw him for a hell of a loop. She picked up his right hand—still scabbed from the beating he’d laid on Black less than a week before—in both of hers. She bent her head and kissed his healing knuckles.

Just a light kiss, her lips soft and warm, sending shockwaves through him, and then she looked back up. Her expression was open yet unreadable—her lips slightly parted, but her eyes wide and dark, full of haunted age. She still held his hand.

“Why’d you do that?”

That sweet mouth curved up. “You’re so big. I’m not tall enough to reach your lips without your help, and I wasn’t sure you’d help.”

Ah, damn. Damn, damn, damn.

Turning his hand, he pulled hers up and over his shoulder. “Like you said, I’m a gentleman. I always help a lady.”

She took a step forward, bringing their bodies into full contact, and he bent down, slid his hands around her face and into waves and waves of hair like sable silk, and covered her mouth with his.

She tasted like peaches and felt like velvet, and when she moaned, her breath skimmed over his cheek like the lightest caress. He touched his tongue to her barely-parted lips, and she opened for him, and he knew right then, as he searched the warm wet of her mouth, as her tongue moved with his, as her hands clenched at the back of his neck and his twisted in her hair, that he would take everything she might offer him, and he’d find something inside himself to give to her.

For the first time in four years, Heath felt not only what he’d lost, but also what he’d been missing. He could feel his heart beating for the first time since that night when he’d knelt on the road, held down, held back, by his friends, by his brother, helpless, and listened to his daughter screaming until she stopped.

That memory intruded on the moment, and he broke away, gasping and disoriented. Gabe kept her arms tight around his neck and didn’t let him go far.

“Heath?”

He blinked away the fire in his mind and smiled at the woman in his arms. “Sorry. I should say good night and let you go on inside.”

Her brow creased and then smoothed again. “Why?”

Why, indeed. His cock ached and throbbed—sensing the possibility of the touch of something more than his own hand, it almost seemed to be stretching out to her. And he was done pretending that he could leave her alone.

But she was young, and they were both screwed up, and they should tread lightly. With caution.

“I like you, Gabe. I think maybe Emma wasn’t so wrong to push us together.”

“I don’t feel like she had to push that hard.”

He grinned, and his newly invigorated heart lightened. “I don’t guess she did. But I don’t want to rush you. Like you said at dinner, you got a lot of changes you’re dealing with. You don’t know where you’re going to land.”

She shifted in his hold, and he felt her fingers move through his hair, scratch lightly at his scalp. He nearly shivered at the electric pleasure in the touch, and his eyes closed.

“That’s true. But I do know that this—right now, here—is the very first time in more than two years that I haven’t felt alone.”

“Yeah. Four years for me.”

She cocked her head. “Then why leave?”

Excellent question.

He bent and kissed her again. This time, as soon as their lips touched, Gabe took charge, pushing her tongue into his mouth and clenching her arms so tightly around his neck that he felt her body lift as she came up on her tiptoes. Needing to be closer, he dropped his hands to her hips and picked her up and leaned into her, pressing her to the bunkhouse door. She hooked her boots against the back of his legs.

His heart raced, his cock throbbed, and every time she moaned in his mouth, his hips rocked into her. Christ, he felt dizzy. And he was near to coming in his jeans.

He tore away and tucked in against her neck, his nose against the leather of her choker. Her chest heaved, and each of her strained breaths filled his ear.

“What do you want to happen?” He sounded like he’d run a marathon.

“You mean right now?” She was no less winded.

He nodded.

She pushed his head back and looked him in the eye. “I want you to come in and come to bed with me. It’s not a big bed, but I think we can make it work.”

“And your roommate?”

“Britnee. She’ll be gone for a while. My room is private, anyway.”

He brushed his nose over the maddeningly soft skin of her cheek. “Gabe…when I say it’s been four years, I mean for everything.”

“It’s been almost three years for me. I just…I like you, I like feeling the way I do right now, and I want to be close.” Suddenly, her eyes filled and swam with tears, and she dropped her head.

He brought his hand between them and tipped her chin back up. “Hey, hey. It’s okay.”

“I’m trying hard not to say please because it sounds so fucking desperate, but…please?”

Running his thumb over her perfect bottom lip, he smiled. “Always help a lady.”

The smile she gave him back was sweet but hesitant. As forthright as she’d been, she was anxious, too. “Is that all it is? I think that would be okay—”

“Hush. It’s not all it is. We’ll have to figure it out. Okay?”

She nodded, and he set her down.

“Give me your keys.”

 

 

*****

 

 

This bunkhouse wasn’t markedly different from what Heath’s own house had been before he’d converted it to a real home. The common area had some motel-grade furniture and a small television, the kitchen was little more than a sink and a small refrigerator, and there were no personal touches that he could see, but it wasn’t bad. Not a home, but shelter.

Gabe had his hand, and she pulled him in the direction of a door at the back. She opened it and led him through, then flipped a switch on the wall, and two sconces on the far wall came on. The room was tiny, just a chest of drawers and a narrow bed. The bed was neatly made. On the chest was an empty duffel bag; it was the only sign that anyone lived here.

“This is your room?”

“Yeah. Sad, huh? I don’t have much. I kinda walked away from everything.”

She was standing in front of him, facing away, and he reached out and swept her hair to one side and over that shoulder. Goosebumps rose up on the shoulder he’d bared, and he traced his fingers over the raised flesh. “You are beautiful, little one.”

Turning her head a bit, she looked back at him sidelong. “Little one?”

Those words had just come out. He grinned a little, feeling self-conscious. “Yeah…I don’t know. That just happened.”

“It’s okay. I think I like it.”

He stepped to her and kissed her shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The syllable lofted into the air on a quivering breath, and she made a sound then so much like a whimpering sob that Heath stopped his oral exploration of her shoulder and arm and looked up to catch her eye.

“All right?”

She nodded. “It’s just…all of a sudden, I feel what it was like not to have anybody all this time. Nobody to just touch me. It’s like I was numb and now I’m not, and all my nerves are freaking out.” With a nervous laugh and a quick, sharp shake of her head, she added, “It’s dumb. Makes no sense.”

More than anything else, her youth came through like that—these moments of self-deprecating self-doubt. He changed his touch, smoothing his palm firmly down her arm, not unlike the way he’d soothe a skittish horse. “It’s not dumb. I know exactly what you mean. I feel it, too. I should go. We can take it slow, Gabe. We don’t have to rush.”

“No!” She spun around and grabbed at his shirt. “No! I don’t want to go slow. I don’t want to wait. I feel this now, and I don’t want to lose it. Please don’t go. Please.”

She pulled at his shirt and hooked her arms around his neck, craning toward him. He bent down and helped her.

There was raw, ragged need in her kiss now, and feeling it, knowing that it was him she needed, believing it, Heath felt the cage around his heart begin to melt. Honestly, it had been on the fire for weeks now, maybe from the time he’d first laid eyes on this girl.

He kissed her back with all that fire, and they stood in the middle of her tiny room, grunting and gasping, until Heath caught the back of her top in his hands and pulled it free of her jeans. She tore her mouth from his and stepped back, and he frowned, thinking he’d crossed a line somewhere.

But no—she was simply taking her own clothes off. Without fanfare or display, she pulled her top off. Her bra was black satin, no lace or other adornment. Her breasts were small. Her nipples were already hard; they made peaks in their satin cups.

She toed her boots off—not cowboy style, but good, sturdy brown boots that seemed to have been worn long and well. Then she undid her plain, brown leather belt and opened her jeans, and Heath swallowed dryly as she shimmied out of them and kicked them away. Her underwear was pink lace, what his wife had called ‘cheekies,’ and Heath’s knees felt unstable.

The way Gabe dressed—usually in t-shirts and good-fitting jeans, nothing too attention-seeking, but nothing baggy and concealing, either—there had never been a question that her body would be beautiful. But as she stood there in her pretty, mismatched underwear, Heath marveled. She was both slender and solid, some nearly otherworldly cross between vulnerable and powerful, between fragility and strength. Her skin was a dewy, fair olive tone that nearly glowed in the incandescent light of the room, and it seemed without blemish.

Except for the angry, uneven scar that started just under her left breast and swept around her left side.

He stepped close and reached out to touch the scar.

She stopped him. “Wait. Not yet.” When she took hold of his shirt and started working buttons, he realized that he’d been so busy watching her that he was still fully dressed.

With a laugh and a shrug, he rectified that in short order, stripping with the focus on expediency that she’d shown, until he was down to his boxer briefs. After a heartbeat’s hesitation, he shed those, too. As he did so, Gabe took off her underwear.

Her little breasts were perfect, round and just plump enough, with sweet, small, dark nipples. And below, at the join of her thighs, a wedge of dark curls. Imagining his hands, his face, there, Heath groaned and tried to breathe.

In that moment, standing there with his throbbing, weeping cock stuck out like a dowsing rod, he felt absurdly young. He was thirty-six years old, and Gabe was the second woman in his life he’d been naked with.

Now that they were both completely exposed to each other, Gabe picked up his hand and set it on her scar. “You can touch it now.”

She’d needed him to be naked first. As he traced a finger over the scar’s strange pattern—jagged for most of its length and then surgically straight—and felt her chest tremble under his touch, he understood that this was the real exposure for her, and she’d needed him to be vulnerable, too.

“That’s how my father almost killed me.”

“God.”

“Thank you.”

Surprised, he looked up from her scar. “Why ‘thank you’?”

“Usually people say ‘I’m sorry’ when they hear what happened, and I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what they mean. So thank you for just saying the thought you really had.”

He knew exactly what she meant. He thought he had a better sense of why people said they were sorry in such situations, and maybe it was simply age and experience that had given him that understanding. It wasn’t an apology, it was sympathy, but more than anything, unless someone truly close said it, that phrase really was empty. Just the words people were supposed to say to fill up the space. Because there were no words that could possibly be truly appropriate to stories like theirs.

While he finished tracing her scar and let his fingers continue their acquaintance with her body, she set her hand on his chest, and he gasped. It had been a very long time for him, too, and she was right—his body didn’t know what to do with the sensations her mere proximity made in him, much less her actual touch.

She swept a finger over the arced scar on the left side of his chest, on the inside of that pectoral muscle. “Is this where Destry kicked you?”

“You heard about that, huh?”

“Yeah. That must’ve been terrifying.”

He shook his head. “No. It was a couple years ago. The worst part about it was waking up.”

He’d never said that out loud before. When her eyes searched his, he held steady and let her look her fill.

“Yeah,” was all she said.

Heath decided that maybe he did believe in fate. Because he was standing naked in a room with one of a small, sad group of people in the world who could truly understand what he meant, how he’d felt, and she was only there because her truck had broken down before she could drive through and away.

He caught her hand and pulled her close. This time, when he bent down to kiss her, he whispered, “This is the first time I’ve been glad I woke up.”

In this kiss, he could feel their mutual and complete surrender. With their mouths joined, nipping, kissing, sucking, he lifted her off the floor and laid her down on that small bed. As he settled over her, she took hold of his cock, and—fuck. Holy fucking hell.

He rocked his hips back and pulled away to settle on his knees, out of her reach.

“What?”

A deep breath was required before he could speak. “Been a long time. This is gonna go quick. Maybe I should—”

“Please don’t say you want to leave now!”

“I was gonna say maybe I should go to your bathroom and jack off first. Build up some stamina.”

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Okay. Well, don’t judge me on round one, then.” Another thought occurred to him. “Shit. Condoms?”

At first, her expression was perfect, shocked frustration, but then it changed dramatically and she twisted under him and reached to the floor. Poking around under her bed, she came up, grinning, with a strip of Trojans.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “You keep loose condoms under your bed?”

“I had a fight with Britnee. At the end of it, she stomped in here, threw these at me, and yelled, why don’t you just fucking get laid already!” Gabe giggled, and such a sweet, happy sound it was. “She’s from LA. She has a dramatic flair.”

“Clearly. Helpful, too.” He tore one off and dropped the rest to the floor. “I don’t think I’ll survive much more foreplay without embarrassing myself.”

“Talking about our scars was foreplay?” There was still humor in her voice.

But he answered her seriously. “For me, yeah. I feel like we understand each other better than anybody else could. That’s…that’s hot.”

“Yeah, it is.” She took his hand and brought it to those dark curls over her mound. He pushed his fingers between her legs, through her folds, over her clit. She was wet, and she tensed and flexed at his touch.

“I don’t want to wait, I don’t want to wait, I don’t want to wait,” she mumbled.

He rolled the condom on, flinching a little at the cold, lubed latex on his hot, seriously over-stimulated cock, then folded forward over her. He bent and kissed her mound, nudging her legs wider so he could flick his tongue over her tight little clit and dip into her sweet pussy, then he trailed his tongue up, over and into her belly button, over to her scar, up to swirl around the swollen knot of her nipple, then to the other.

Beneath him, Gabe writhed and gasped, her hands roaming over his back, grabbing his ass, dragging up to clutch his shoulders, to clench in his short hair. His cock began to twitch and pulse, and he knew he couldn’t take this any longer.

He grabbed her leg and pulled it up, bringing her pussy into easy position. Then he took hold of himself and pushed into her. He groaned painfully, and she arched and moaned, and he didn’t know how he could possibly control himself. The feeling of her young, tight body closing around him, clenching him, pulling him deeper, very nearly undid him on that single thrust.

But he dropped his head to the pillow beside her ear and held himself together by sheer force of a will made of iron.

Just as he thought he could master himself enough to move, Gabe moved for them both. She flexed her hips, rocking only gently, and clamped his ass in her hands. Fuck oh fuck, that felt so good.

For a minute or two, he let her do the work and focused on the brilliant torture of those little flexes that narrowed the feeling down to the head of his cock against the back of her pussy. Christ.

Still with his forehead on the pillow at her ear, still letting her use his body her way, he brought his hand to her breast and teased at her nipple, plucking lightly, twisting gently.

Sybil had hated that, but Gabe seemed to love it. Each time he tweaked or twisted, she made a beautiful sound and pushed her chest more firmly into his grip.

When her breathing began to get loud and erratic, Heath realized that their first time wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all. She was close—so was he, but he’d held it together.

Now he took over. Pushing up onto his hands, he stared down at her, and when she opened her eyes and focused on him, he rocked his hips back until he was nearly out of her, then slammed back. The change from gentle to intense made her eyes flare. He did it again. And again. When he pulled back the fourth time, it was over for him. He dropped onto her, tucked his head on her shoulder, shoved his hands under her body and grabbed hold of her ass, and freed himself to seek release.

He came almost at once, grunting like a damn animal, but he kept up a fevered thrusting pace, and it lasted for-fucking-ever, so that he thought he’d explode from the sensitivity. But she was with him, pulsing around him, her nails digging into his ass, every exhale a tiny yes until she was crying, Yesyesyesyesyesyes! Ohgod! Nownownownownow! YES! NOW! YES!

When it was over, they simply stopped moving and stayed just as they were, his body on hers. After a moment, it dawned on him that he was too big and must have been smothering her, but when he tried to pull out and roll to the side, Gabe clenched her body around his and whispered, “No.”

Her voice was muffled by his body, but still, Heath thought he heard something else in that one short syllable. He tried to shift at all, and she clutched him close, pressing her face to his chest, and he stopped, having lifted up only an inch or two. Her shoulders began to shake.

She was crying.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He didn’t ask if he’d hurt her. He knew the answer to both questions. Nothing was wrong. He hadn’t hurt her.

But what had just happened between them was momentous—an ending and a beginning.

Heath felt it, too—shaken to his core, his emotions careening through him. But since he had been a small boy, he’d cried only a handful of times, and he’d shed his final tear when the firefighters, arriving too late to be of any real help, pulled Ruthie’s charred body from her mother’s car.

If only he hadn’t been out with Logan that night. If only he’d been in his own truck, his safety gear might have backed the fire down enough to save them. Or at least to save his daughter.

Shoving that thought to the side, he kissed Gabe’s temple and pulled out, only flexing his hips, so that he didn’t break her solid hold on him. Then he rolled to his side and wrapped his arms around her, tucking her even closer. She hooked her leg over his, like she was trying to climb into him.

“I know, little one. I know,” he murmured into her hair. “I know.”

She held him and wept and never said a word.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gabe’s eyes flew open at the sound of the front door banging shut. Britnee was a slammer—doors, cupboards, windows, you name it, if it could be slammed, she slammed it. Not in anger or passive aggression. Britnee was simply loud. In everything.

As her roommate banged around in the kitchen next, Gabe could track her movements: fridge—slam—juice bottle on the counter—slam—cupboard—slam—plastic tumbler on the counter—lighter slam.

All that slamming suggested that Britnee hadn’t yet realized that they had a guest. Heath’s truck was parked in front of their bunkhouse, but it was dark, and she wasn’t necessarily the world’s most observant person.

On the other hand, she knew about Heath and the rumors swirling around him and Gabe, and she’d seen him and commented, expansively, on his hotness. He’d been up at the ranch a few days before to re-shoe the horses, and the staff gossip mill had been churning at full capacity.

Ever since his blow-up at the Jack, when he’d beaten the crap out of that guy and shouted at him to stay away from her, the entire town of Jasper Ridge and the staff of the Moondancer were all fixated. Like they were the hot new storyline on the town soap opera.

Until tonight, she’d been profoundly frustrated, because he’d barely paid her any mind—she’d hardly ever seen him, and when she had, he’d mostly ignored her. Even that night at the Jack, he’d ignored her until he’d beaten a guy into the hospital who’d been no worse than irritating in his attention to her.

Of course, thanks to that gossip mill, now she knew Heath’s story and understood that she’d been little more than an excuse for him to hurt the man who’d let his family die. Yet the people who had told her his story, who should have known best of all that what had happened at the Jack hadn’t been about her, were the same people who were most fascinated by the idea of Gabe and Heath.

She’d been going completely nuts. Everybody around here knew everything about everybody, and if they didn’t, they filled in the blanks with their imagination and called it truth. It was maddening.

She’d come north to get away from her past, to start over, to control her memories and keep her life her own. Within days of landing by accident in Jasper Ridge, the entire town had known who she was and what had happened—and what they’d decided had happened.

The fact that she’d been stabbed trying to get between her father and her mother had become a ‘truth’ that she had fought a mighty battle with him—when, in fact, she’d simply jumped between them and been stabbed by the thrust meant for her mother, then had crumpled to the floor, choking on her own blood. She’d barely fought him at all, and her mother was dead because she’d tried to save her instead of running away.

She’d lain, sure she was dying, and watched all that he’d done to her family. Then, seeing that she was still alive, her father had dragged her nearly incapacitated body up and pressed a knife to her throat.

People in Jasper Ridge thought she was some kind of warrior, but she was only a girl who’d been stabbed by her father and gotten her mother killed.

She wondered how much of what she’d been told of Heath’s story was really his. Lying with her head on his sleeping chest, Gabe looked up at his face. In the morning, she would ask. They should know each other’s real truths, not what was cooked up for them by people who couldn’t know.

Right now, though, she had to figure out what to do about Britnee.

She and Heath hadn’t talked about whether he would spend the night, but he was sleeping deeply, and she wasn’t willing to give up the feeling of resting in his strong arms. Frankly, she wasn’t sure how she’d ever sleep alone again in her life. But there was only one bathroom, and her roommate walked between her bedroom and that bathroom in nothing but her underwear all the time. The chances of Heath and Britnee coming upon each other in an embarrassing situation were high.

Now the television went on. Okay. Gabe had to do something. She eased up from the bed. Heath stirred and sighed deeply, and she froze, watching, but he settled back into sleep, the hand that had been resting on her hip now on his belly. His ridged, firm belly.

Damn, he was gorgeous. A big, hard, chiseled statue of a man.

Rooting around on the dark floor, she found his shirt and pulled it on, buttoning enough buttons for decency, then tiptoed out of the room and closed the door again.

Britnee looked over the back of the sofa at her. Her legs were stretched out on the flimsy coffee table—they were bare; she’d taken off her jeans and boots and left them on the floor where they’d apparently fallen. So already they were in possibly embarrassing territory.

“Hey. You have a good day off—wait.” She scooted around so that she could better face Gabe over the sofa. “Whose shirt is that—OH MY GOD! Is your cowboy here?”

“Shut up, Britnee. I’m four feet away from you. You don’t have to yell.” She herself was barely more than whispering. Ideally, Heath would stay asleep while she negotiated whatever deal Britnee would demand to be a decent human being for a few hours.

Gabe actually liked Britnee more often than not, but they were very different people. Opposites, even. Britnee was…big. Physically, she was tiny, a little blonde, blue-eyed sprite, but everything she did was outsized. She talked loud, laughed big, moved through the world like a dervish, and reacted to absolutely everything without restraint. When she was angry, she shouted and threw things; when she was happy, she literally skipped. When she was sad, she wailed like a two-year-old.

They’d been living together for ten days, and Gabe had seen each emotional iteration more than once. It was exhausting.

But it was interesting.

Britnee modulated her voice about a hundredth of a decimal. “You have to tell me! Did you bang the horseshoe guy? Oh my god, he’s SO HOT! Was it good? Did you get off? Does he have a big dick? I bet he has a HUGE dick—those hands! And the way his jeans…Holy shit! Come on! Spill!”

“For all that is good and holy, please please please hold it down, Brit. Please.” When Britnee grinned and made the locking-her-lips gesture, Gabe sighed. “Yes. He’s here. I want him to stay the night, if that’s okay.”

The door opened behind her, and Gabe lost her roommate’s attention completely. Britnee looked past Gabe and grinned. “Well, hey there, cowboy. Hah! I’ve always wanted to say that!”

Gabe thought the Moondancer Ranch and Jasper Ridge, Idaho should have already given her ample time to say it—not that she thought it was such an inspired witticism.

Standing behind her, Heath put his hand on her hip. She looked back; he was dressed only in his jeans. His belt was loose, and he hadn’t fastened all the buttons of his fly. There was a trail of brown hair that ran into that open space and made Gabe swallow hard.

His hair was standing at all ends—she’d dragged her hands through it repeatedly.

“I’d’ve put my shirt on, but…” He grinned and nodded at her. Then he looked over at her roommate. “Hey. I’m Heath.”

“I’m Britnee. Don’t put a shirt on on my account,” said Britnee. “Far as I’m concerned, you should never, ever wear a shirt.” She bounced up; her embroidered work shirt, still with her nametag pinned to it, was open, and all she wore besides it was her lacy, matched underwear set. She put her hands on her hips, spreading her shirt even more widely, and grinned. Her little belly-button charm sparkled on her tanned, toned belly.

Gabe felt a violent stab of insecurity and jealousy.

But Heath cleared his throat uncomfortably and tightened his fingers at her hip, and Gabe looked back again to see that his eyes were firmly on her. “I was going to ask if you wanted me to go, but I heard you say you wanted me to stay. Yeah?”

She turned and faced him, setting her hands on his broad, beautiful chest. “Yeah.”

“Of course you can stay! She so needed to get laid! It’s like a public service!” piped up the exhibitionist Gabe lived with.

“Come on, then.” He took her hand and led her back into her room. With a courtly nod to Britnee, he said, “Nice to meet you,” and closed the door. He switched the light on.

He’d just rescued her in her own home.

“I’m so sorry,” she said as soon as they were alone. “She’s pretty obnoxious. And fuck her for putting all her lacy bits on display like that.”

Heath smirked and drew her close. “There is nothing sexier in the known world than you in my shirt. I barely noticed your roommate’s bits, lacy or otherwise.”

The way Heath made her feel—hopeful and happy and full—had come on so quickly that Gabe worried that it couldn’t be real. He was the first person in two years to really come close to her; maybe what she felt was simply that. Maybe anyone who treated her like he was treating her would have made her feel the same way.

But it wasn’t like she’d been living in a cave for the past two years. Nobody else around her had even tried to be close to her. Not that she would have wanted it.

Even when Heath had been ignoring her, he’d felt strangely close—like he’d already known her before he’d met her. Like he could see her in a way no one else could. And vice versa.

Was it only that he had a story, too? Or was that something so rare, so special—two people whose pasts made them incomprehensible to everyone around them finding each other and being understood—that they were spectacularly lucky? Had it been fate? Had she stopped here because there had been one person in the world, living in Jasper Ridge, Idaho, who could see beyond her scars?

As if to prove the point of her wondering, as if he had heard her thoughts, Heath curled his hand around Gabe’s neck, around the choker she hadn’t taken off. “Does this cover up something you don’t want people to see?”

With a nod, she pulled away from his hand and reached back to unfasten the leather. “It’s not bad, but if I don’t hide it, people ask.” She dropped her hands, and the choker with them, and Heath’s eyes focused on the faint, straight line over her carotid artery. When he traced his finger lightly over the mark, she said, “In some ways, it’s the worst, even though I don’t think it would’ve killed me. The other scar, I don’t think he meant to do. This one, he did.”

She reached behind her and set the choker on the chest of drawers. “I don’t know why I still wear it—everybody around here knows what happened. I can’t believe how fast the story got out.”

“Catherine’s an Olympic-level gossip.”

“Yeah, I know that now. But like you said, there’s no running away from it, whether other people know or not.”

“No, there’s not. But what people say and what’s real—that’s usually two different things.”

She’d been thinking the exact same thing not long before. Though it was the middle of the night, and she had work in the morning, and he did, too, Gabe took his hand from her neck and held it in both of hers. “You’re right. The stories that get spread, those are myths. I want us to know each other’s truths.”

A cascade of emotions spilled through his pale green eyes, and Gabe knew a second of regret for causing him that turmoil. But then he nodded and led her to sit with him on her bed.

“I’ve never talked about it,” he said, and Gabe realized that he was going to tell his truth first, that he was offering her his own raw vulnerability without hesitation. “Since I stopped having to tell the story officially, I haven’t talked about it. I think about it every day, and other people talk about it to this day. I know the story people tell’s changed, but I’ve never given a shit what they say. Until now.” He sighed. “It would help if you told me what you’ve heard.”

Feeling guilty and intrusive, like she’d been gossiping, even though she hadn’t been able to avoid the story, Gabe squeezed his hands. Each of their stories was traumatic, awful in their own particular ways. But Heath had lost his own child. “I know that your wife crashed her car into that ravine on the side of the road that leads to the school compound.” In Jasper Ridge, the grade school and the high school were on the same campus, and the grade school went to grade eight.

He smiled a little. “Old School Road. Yeah.”

“I know that your little girl was with her, and they both died.” Gabe refrained from saying she was sorry, though she felt that odd impulse people felt to fill space with the empty phrase.

“You know more than that.”

She shook her head—yes, she had been told a lot of things, but she wasn’t sure what could be trusted. “Well, I’ve been told more than that, but I think those are the facts I know. The rest…I’m not sure. I’d rather you tell me.”

At that, he smiled fully, his dimples deepening. She couldn’t help but draw her finger down the crease of one. The smile wasn’t happy, but it was appreciative, and he said, “Thank you.”

Heath shifted on the bed, resting his back against the low, plain headboard and stretching his legs out. He pulled Gabe’s arm, and she moved as well, settling herself in snugly at his side. His arm went around her, and she felt safe. She nestled on his chest and let him talk, the rumble of his voice against her ear giving her peace even as his words gave him pain.

“Sybil—my wife—we knew each other all our lives. We were related a little—her mom is full Shoshone, and my maternal grandfather was, too, and her mom and my granddad were fourth cousins twice removed or some such. My mom had the whole family tree worked out. It was too far distant to matter, anyway. We were together from the time I was in tenth grade and she was in ninth. We were one of those couples that were all over the yearbook. The whole cliché—I was football, she was cheer, Homecoming, Prom, all of it. I went to college, and she didn’t, she worked in town at Wild West Impressions—that old-timey photo studio—but she waited for me. Anyway, it was good, I thought.

“She was a drinker, but hell, everybody around here is. A lot of people drink hard. While I was away at school, I guess it started to get out of control for her, but I didn’t see it until I’d graduated and come back home. Then I wanted to train as a blacksmith, and my dad and I were at each other over that the whole time I was training, and I guess I just didn’t see that she was in trouble. Like I said, around here, a lot of people drink, and a lot of those are drunks, but nobody makes a fuss.”

Gabe thought about how much she’d seen Heath drink—a lot—but she didn’t interrupt the flow of his story to mention it. Except for that one night at the Jack, she couldn’t say she’d seen him obviously drunk.

“Anyway,” he continued, “the way people tell the story now, Syb comes off like a monster. And I hate her, no question. What she did…I dream about Ruthie, about her dying, but I’ve never once dreamt about Sybil. Far as I’m concerned she brought that on herself. But she wasn’t a monster. She was just a woman with trouble. And I didn’t see it. But she loved Ruthie. I’d’ve said she’d never do anything to hurt her. I thought she was a good mom.”

He took a deep breath. “Shit, this is getting long and involved. I didn’t expect—”

Gabe rose up and put a finger over his lips. “It’s okay. Tell your truth. Right?”

His eyes studied hers deeply. “You are so young and so old, both at the same time. It’s mesmerizing.”

Taking that as a compliment, Gabe smiled and kissed him, then settled back on his chest.

After a moment, with his fingers combing through her hair, he went on. “All of that is just to say that Sybil had her demons, and I was not paying attention. I think she drank to get through her days and she just seemed normal that way, and when she got really sloppy, I just dried her out and took care of her. She stayed dry while she was pregnant. We had our baby girl, and I had the job I wanted. My dad and I worked our shit out, more than not, and I rebuilt a bunkhouse into a home for my family. I was happy. I loved my wife, and God, I loved my little girl. There is nothing like the way your own child looks at you. You know you have worth when you see that.”

His voice broke, and he went quiet. Gabe, feeling a swell of emotion for him, stroked her hand over his chest, and they were silent together until he could speak again.

“About two months before the crash, I found out that Sybil and Brandon Black had been fucking behind my back for at least a year. Ruthie told me. She didn’t mean to, but Syb had started bringing her out to see Uncle Brandon while I was at work, and she’d seen them kissing, and she asked about it. She was only five, and she was just trying to understand, since I’d told her that mommies and daddies kissed that way.

“I’d known Black as long as I’d known Sybil—we all grow up together around here—and he was a good friend. I thought so, anyway. Until Ruthie said what she said, and I took it to Syb and she just crumbled right away, I thought I had a good life. I thought I knew what was going on in my own life.”

He sighed and went quiet again. Gabe waited, her hand still stroking him, now making light circles around his belly button. Of all the things he was telling her, she had heard almost none of it before. All she’d heard was that Sybil was a drunk who’d been cheating on Heath with Brandon Black, that they’d both been drunk in the car with Ruthie, that Sybil had been driving, and that Brandon had run away from the car, before the flames, without trying to save Ruthie or Sybil.

“I lost my shit. I threw her out and kept Ruthie from her. If I’d’ve gotten her to court, I might’ve won custody, if only because I had money and she didn’t. But everybody leaned on me about taking a child from her mother, and Ruthie missed her, and I just felt like shit. I didn’t know what to do. I ended up letting her take our girl on weekends. The crash happened on the second weekend visit.”

Under Gabe’s hand, Heath’s belly went rock hard. His whole body had tensed.

“She was out in the open with Black after we split. Everybody knew about them. That night, they were both drinking. They’d started at the Jack, but when Reese cut them off and told them to take Ruthie out of there before it got too rowdy, they went back to Black’s trailer. According to what he told the sheriff later, they were on their way to the playground so Ruthie could play. It was after midnight. Sybil was driving because Black’s license was suspended for DUI. She missed a turn, went through the rail and into the ravine. It’s wide there, and full of scrubby trees. One of them went through the gas tank. The engine didn’t die in the crash. The combination of the engine still running and the gas leaking from the tank started a fire. And then an explosion.”

He was clutching her hip so tightly now that Gabe could feel the bruise forming under his fingertips.

“Black got out of that car and ran. It was two days before they figured out he’d been there at all. He said he was drunk and hurt, and he didn’t realize he was leaving my wife and child behind to die in a fire, but it doesn’t matter. He killed Ruthie just as much as Sybil did.”

His words had gotten thick, and Gabe rose up again, thinking that he was crying. He wasn’t, but he was all but. His face was a melting mask of grief.

She stroked his cheek. “You don’t have to go on.”

He shook his head. “I’ve come this far. Logan and I were out with a couple of buddies, winding up the night. He was trying to keep me busy on weekends without Ruthie. We were at the Jack, but nobody said anything about Syb and Black being there earlier. Back then, everybody was just watching and talking behind our backs, but ‘trying to stay out of it,’ as they said.”

The sarcastic quotation marks were audible.

“We were driving Victor back to his place. He lives out past the school on Old School Road, where it crosses into the rez. If Victor hadn’t stopped to take a piss before we set out, maybe we’d’ve gotten there before the fire started. If somebody had said something about Syb and Black having Ruthie at the Jack, I’d’ve called and chewed her out, and maybe that would’ve changed something. Instead, we pulled off and got out to help whoever it was, and I saw the back end of my wife’s Ford in that gulch, fire already filling it, and my little girl flailing in her car seat. She was screaming for me, and she didn’t even know I was there. She’d just thought that her daddy was the one who would save her.”

Then Heath was crying. “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ,” he gasped, and his body shook with sobs.

Gabe, tears falling down her cheeks as well, turned and wrapped her arms around him, tucking his head against her chest. He twined his arms around her and wept.

She was consumed with more emotions than she could identify—with compassion and concern, with sympathy and empathy, and with so much more. That he had entrusted her with this moment moved her deeply, seemed even to change her. The image of sitting among the arches in Utah rose up, and the memory of what she’d thought, about days that were gentle breezes, and days that were fierce storms, about the changes that the elements made on the landscape and in one’s life. Right now, this moment, Gabe felt an elemental change in her life.

In her arms, Heath breathed deeply and found his composure. He pushed back and met her eyes. He didn’t try to wipe the spent tears from his face. “I’m sorry.”

She bent her head to his and kissed him; his lips tasted of salt. “It’s okay. More than okay. Thank you for telling me your truth. I’m sorry it hurt so much to tell it.”

His eyes dancing back and forth between hers, he smiled, then closed his eyes and kissed her forehead. “It did, but it’s good, too, to have someone who knows it more like I do. I haven’t…I haven’t done that since it happened. I didn’t even cry at the funeral.”

Gabe’s cheeks warmed with a blush. She didn’t know why, but his words pleased her. She felt safe with him, she felt known, and she’d forgotten what that was like.

Shifting so that she could press her face to his chest again and feel surrounded by him, she asked, “Can I share my truth later? Yours feels too big right now.”

“Yeah. You can share yours whenever you like. We should probably sleep.”

As he said it, his hand swept over her ass, his fingertips just trailing at her cleft, then eased down her thigh, and Gabe didn’t think he was really ready to sleep. No more than she was.

“Yeah, we probably should.” She pushed her hand into his half-open jeans.

They slept. Eventually.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I’m gonna have to find a super-cheap car soon. I can’t expect people to drive me everywhere forever.”

Heath had taken her arm to help her out of his truck in his customary way. His truck was big, and high off the ground, but she could certainly have hopped down on her own without trouble. Yet this chivalry was as much a part of him as his green eyes.

He paused with his hand around her upper arm and frowned at her. “I don’t want you in some junker. I want you safe. And I like picking you up.”

It was Saturday, only three days after the evening of the family dinner and their first—and so far only—night together. From the time he’d left the bunkhouse on Thursday morning to the time he’d picked her up on this day a few hours earlier, they hadn’t seen each other or had more contact than a few texts and a couple of phone calls, so they were about as new a couple as they could possibly be.

His possessive care, however, always apparent in that chivalry, had become overt almost immediately, from the time they’d woken on Thursday.

If asked out of context how she’d feel about a man who insisted on opening doors and helping her through them, who said things like ‘I want you safe’ as if that were an end to a discussion, Gabe would have rolled her eyes and made a snide comment about chivalry being nothing but a gentle kind of sexism.

In the context of Heath—so far, at least—she liked it. She’d put a little thought into it in the past couple of days, and she’d decided that it was more than just Heath. It was her, too. And them. He needed somebody to take care of. And she needed to be taken care of. It was part of their coming out from the dark places they’d been.

She was worried about setting a pattern for the way they would always be, though, and worried that she wouldn’t always like it the way she did now. So she gave him a smirk. “A little soon to be telling me what you think about my choices, don’t you think?”

The lines between his eyebrows deepened. “Is it?”

That spun her a bit. “Isn’t it?”

“Don’t talk in circles, Gabe.” He let go of her arm and cupped his hands around her face. “I’m not…”—his eyes slid away as he thought of the word he wanted, then came back when he found it—“casual. I told you how long it’d been. Going so long alone wasn’t an accident. It was my choice. I was done. And now I’m not. Now I’m with you. So it doesn’t feel ‘soon’ to me.”

God. She’d never known anybody like this man before. She didn’t think there was anybody like this man. She’d thought he was aloof and inscrutable, but that was only the iron casing over a raw, vulnerable heart. He’d let her in, and with a bolt of understanding, she saw the responsibility that came with his trust.

It was scary. And exhilarating.

She swallowed. “Okay.” The word came out as a whisper.

“Okay.” The frown darkening his face smoothed away, and he leaned in and kissed her. All it took to forget her reservations, to lighten the load of his trust, was the touch of his lips to hers. She hooked her arms around his neck and leaned back, and his hands dropped from her face as he pulled her into a full embrace, folding over her while he stood between his truck and the open passenger door. Her tongue sought his and found it, and for a few moments, Gabe thought they might actually get busy right there, in his truck, parked outside the stables at the Twisted C.

But then he turned his head and broke the kiss. Breathing heavily, he chuckled and picked up his hat from the truck floor, where it had fallen when their embrace had knocked it from his head. “Come on. Time for your lesson.”

He pulled her up to sitting, then grabbed her hips and lifted her out of the truck entirely.

“I’ve been on a horse before. I told you,” she grumbled as they walked hand in hand to the stable.

“Broken-down trail horses don’t count—as you said. You want to live out here, you need to know your way around horses.” They entered the cool space, dim after the bright morning sun. “Don’t you want to?”

“I do.” She honestly did. But she felt some nervousness, too. Horses were a big part of Heath’s life. What if she sucked at all this cowboy stuff?

They did lessons up at the Moondancer, and the day before, she’d asked Catherine if she could get one—just one—from one of the hands who did guest lessons—mainly so she wouldn’t completely embarrass herself with Heath. Her boss had emphatically explained that lessons were for paying guests only.

So here she stood, knowing nothing, standing in a long, seemingly empty stable. Then a big brown head came over a stall door and made a sound like it was clearing its throat.

Heath dropped her hand and went to the stall. “Hey, sweet thing.” He leaned his forehead on the horse’s…forehead? And they stayed like that for a few seconds until the horse made that sound again and Heath laughed.

“Only for my sweets, I know.” He dug into his pocket and held something to the horse’s mouth. It snuffled it up in its lips and crunched down.

“Gabe, this is my girl Maggie. Maggie, my girl Gabe.” He held out his hand, and Gabe went to him. He took her hand and set it on Maggie’s nose. The horse’s eye seemed to focus on her.

“First thing—never come up on a horse unawares. Let ‘em know you’re there. You don’t want a thousand pounds or better shying and bolting. And watch their ears. Those ears’ll tell you how they’re feeling. Up front like Maggie’s now, that’s good. She’s glad to see us and wondering if we’re going to do something fun. Pinned back—that’s trouble. That would mean she’s scared, and a scared horse can hurt themselves or anybody around ‘em, even if it’s somebody they love. Sometimes, when she’s been on her own and is taking a break, maybe sleeping, her ears get a little floppy and her head will be a little saggy—you want to signal that you’re around before you get too close, so you don’t startle her. If she’s swinging those ears around like antennae, then she’s tense and trying to figure things out.”

Gabe had been trying to memorize all that, and she must have looked it, because Heath laughed. “Just in general, be easy around an animal this big. Pay attention. And if somebody who knows better than you says look out, look out.”

He dug into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small brown cookie. “My mama used to say that horses are like men. The way to their heart is their stomach. Here. Hold it flat on your hand, so she doesn’t accidentally catch your fingers while she takes it.”

Gabe took the cookie and did what Heath said. Maggie made that coughing sound and snarfed it up from her palm, then did a little nod. Heath laughed.

“Don’t go cheatin’ on me now, missy. You’re my girl.” He rubbed Maggie’s face. Then he stepped a bit down the aisle to another horse in a neighboring stall. Gabe had been so intent on Maggie and everything Heath was saying that she hadn’t noticed this other horse—a smaller, pretty grey.

“This here is Phoebe. She’s a good, gentle girl.” He turned and gave Gabe a look she didn’t understand—smiling, but suddenly sad, too. “She’s five years old. Just a baby when Ruthie died. They were supposed to grow up together.”

Gabe went to the grey and reached out. Phoebe swung her head toward her and snuffed at her empty hand. Heath smiled and gave her a horse cookie to offer the little mare.

“She’s so pretty. Smaller than Maggie.”

“Yeah. Maggie’s a Tennessee Walking Horse. They’re big. Phoebe’s American Quarter Horse. She’s your ride today.”

Gabe stepped back. “What? Heath, I can’t…I can’t ride your daughter’s horse.”

“Why not? She’s good under the saddle. Calm and sweet, and a good spirit. She needs a rider. Em wants Anya to have her when she’s old enough, but—”

“Heath.” She doubted she’d have felt more shocked if he’d held out an engagement ring. Offering his dead daughter’s horse, even if only to ride this one time, seemed incredibly intimate.

He gave Phoebe another cookie and then came to Gabe. He picked up her hands. “I’m asking you to ride her, Gabe, not marry her. Or me.”

Once again, it was like he’d opened her skull and read her mind.

“O-Okay. Okay.”

The obvious pleasure in his smile eased her reservations. “Hold on. You need one thing before we work on getting them saddled up.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, then took off down the aisle toward the back.

Since she hadn’t been invited to join him, Gabe went back to Phoebe and got to know her. The horse stretched her neck and nosed at her jeans pockets, looking fruitlessly for treats, but she seemed content to let her stroke her face and play with the long lock of coarse grey hair that lay over her forehead like bangs.

“Hi, baby,” she crooned. “I hope you like me after you see how much I don’t know about all this.”

Heath was back, holding a fairly big square box in his hands. Plain brown, but constructed like a gift box, it was about a cubic foot in size. “Can’t ride without this,” he offered with a grin.

Curious and excited at the thought of a gift—it’d been years since she’d gotten one—Gabe lifted the top of the box. Inside was a cowboy hat. The felt, if that was the material, was a creamy, pale tan. Around the head part was a brown leather band studded with copper discs and oval stones of turquoise. They looked real. The brim was lashed with leather lacing.

She’d seen a lot of cowboy hats in her time in Jasper Ridge, on men and women alike. Only one person wore a hat this fancy: Catherine, whose hat was black, with a big burst of vivid feathers at the front of the band.

She looked up at Heath. “Wow. It’s beautiful.”

“You like it?”

He seemed anxious for her approval of this gift, and there was no chance she would dash his hopes, though she had her misgivings. The hat was beautiful, no question. But what would people think if they saw her wearing it? Everybody in town knew she was not really of this world. Would they all think she was a poseur?

No—they would all know Heath had given it to her. They would see her wearing it and know they were together. Really together.

“I love it.” She lifted it out of the tissue bedding and set it on her head. It fit perfectly, she thought. “How do I look?”

His expression said everything. She looked like she belonged.

 

 

*****

 

 

After a careful lesson about saddling and bridling the horse, which involved her watching him do it and then doing it herself several times until she could do it all properly without his intervention, and then a lecture about the proper care of ‘tack’—that was what it was called, ‘tack,’ and she had a new vocabulary of words like ‘cinch’ and ‘pommel’ and ‘cantle’—and more than an hour in the ‘paddock’ learning cues with the reins and with her legs—Heath and Gabe went into the big house and made a picnic lunch, which he packed into saddlebags fixed to his own saddle. Then he took her out onto the ranch for a ride.

The ride was gentle, just an amble, really, with Heath pointing out features of the land and telling her stories about it and his life on it, and asking her questions every now and then about riding to reinforce what he’d taught her. They’d sped up to a ‘canter’ once, in a clearing, but that had been scarier out in the open than it had been in the confines of the paddock, and when Heath had seen the worry on her face, he’d slowed them down again.

Phoebe had huffed when they’d slowed, and Gabe would have sworn she’d heard irritation in it.

By the time they stopped to have their lunch, near what Heath called a ‘creek’ but seemed more like a river, Gabe’s ass hurt, despite the padding on her saddle. And her thighs and calves!—she’d had no idea that there was so much leg work involved in sitting on a horse.

They sat at the top of a grassy slope, above the creek, amidst a copse of big, fragrant pines. The day was bright, the sky cloudless and blue. The water rushed gently by, whispering as it passed below them. A perfect spring day.

Along with the cold sandwiches, bottled water, and bag of potato chips, Heath had brought a soft, plaid blanket, and they stretched out together and rested when their lunch was done. He lay behind her, his arm around her. Their hats—hers new and fancy, his old and sweat-stained—sat side by side at the edge of the blanket.

An absolutely perfect day.

She hoped she wasn’t about to ruin it. “Can I ask you something?”

He lifted his head and spoke at her ear. “Anything.”

Boy, she hoped she wasn’t going to ruin it. But the question wouldn’t leave her mind—even though she didn’t know why it would matter. “You said you and your wife were together since high school.”

She felt him flinch slightly at the mention of his wife. “Yeah. Tenth grade for me, and ninth for her.”

“And it’d been four years when we…”

He laughed, and she could hear that he knew her question and didn’t mind. “Are you asking how many women I’ve been with?”

Embarrassed for even wondering, she could only nod.

“As of a couple of days ago, two.”

Holy shit. The reason she’d been wondering and had needed to ask was that she’d come up with the same answer, so she shouldn’t have been surprised. But still, he was thirty-six years old, and he was good at sex. He was excellent at sex. Toe-curlingly fantastic at sex. Sure, being with someone for years and years probably meant that he’d had a lot of it, but all with the same person? Holy shit.

“Is that a problem?”

Turning to face him, she smiled. “No. I just can’t decide whether I’m glad that there’s something I’m more experienced than you at, or if I feel slutty in comparison.”

“You’re not slutty, no matter what. And I’m not sure variety is the same thing as experience.” After a pause, he added, “But can I ask you the same question?”

Despite what he’d said, she felt a little slutty, and she couldn’t quite keep eye contact. “As of a couple of days ago, five.”

She didn’t miss the lift of his eyebrows, though he tried to control it. She’d told him that it had been nearly three years for her, and it had. When she’d broken up with Tony, her last boyfriend, she’d been eighteen, a few months before her nineteenth birthday, a few more months before her father had done what he’d done.

“It seems like a lot, I guess. But all four were boyfriends. I didn’t—I don’t—mess around.”

He brushed his fingers over her face. “I’m not judging. But I’m glad to know it.”

As calm as he was being, Gabe felt like she had more explaining to do. “It’s not as much as it sounds. I started when I was in tenth grade…or maybe that’s worse.”

“Gabe. Stop.” He sat up and tugged on her arm until she did as well. “I’m not judging you any more than you’re judging me. It doesn’t matter, except that we’re getting to know each other. Anyway, I started when I was in tenth grade, too.”

Now she was embarrassed about being embarrassed. “Sorry. I guess I’m used to defending myself about it.”

Cocking his head, he asked, “What do you mean?”

She finished a bottle of water before she answered. “I guess maybe it’s time for my truth.”

His frown told her that he didn’t see the connection. He would.

Picking her mother’s crucifix up from her chest, she began, “My mom lost her mind when she found out I was sleeping with my first boyfriend. She was a fucking awful snoop, and she did things like rooting around in my laundry hamper and smelling my underwear. From the time I had my first period, she was on me all the time about boys. She’d had me when she was sixteen, and she was terrified I’d end up like she had.

“I never could just go along to get along, either. Whatever she said I couldn’t do, that’s what I wanted most to do. The harder she made it, the harder I tried. We fought every single day. She was a slapper—whenever I said something that pissed her off, wham across the face—and I would say shit just to make her head explode. It was pretty bad. I guess my first truth is that: I loved my mom, and I know she loved me, but at least once a day, almost every day for as long as I can remember, I thought to myself that I hated her. The day it happened, when my dad came in, we’d been standing in the kitchen screaming at each other. I’d just told her to fuck off, because I knew how much it hurt her when I spoke to her like that. It’s hard to live with that being the last thing she knew of me.”

She was leaning on her hand on the blanket; Heath laid his hand over hers. “If I know the story right, the last thing she knew of you was you fighting your dad. Trying to save her. She knew you loved her.”

Gabe shook that idea away. “No. All I did was get between them. I didn’t fight. I jumped in his way, and he stabbed me instead. Then I just laid there, trying to breathe, while everything happened. My mom could’ve gotten away, but she tried to pull me out with her. If she’d left me, she’d’ve lived.”

Heath wanted to argue with her, she could tell, but then he realized what he was doing—interfering in her truth—and he relaxed and just listened while she told him about the hospital, and her friends drifting quickly away, and living in that rented house alone, going to the courthouse for every single hearing, every single day of evidence, waiting, waiting, waiting for it to be over.

“Everybody wants it to be a story about a heroic girl trying to save her beloved family, and I guess it’s close enough. But really we were fucked up. My grandparents were wonderful to me, but they treated my dad like crap and they talked shit about him to my mom so that she stopped seeing the good in him. They hated him for being white, they hated him for knocking my mom up, they hated him for not providing for us well enough, and they hated him for all the crap he actually did wrong. He really did love my mom and me, but all those years of people telling him he was crap…and then she threw him out, and he went nuts.”

She sighed and looked down the hill at the burbling water. “I guess my truth is like yours in that way. I hate my father for what he did, but he’s not a monster. In a way, though, that’s worse.”

Heath caught her chin in his fingers and turned her to look at him. “It’s worse because if they were monsters, there wouldn’t have been anything we could do to prevent what happened. They were just screwed-up people, and that means maybe we could have helped. I’ve got four years of combing through the past trying to see where I could have saved Ruthie and her mom. I could name hundreds of things that maybe if I’d done them differently, noticed something I missed, turned a different direction, maybe they’d be alive. It doesn’t matter. We can’t undo what happened, and no matter what we did or didn’t do, we didn’t make their choices for them. We are not at fault.”

His eyes flared wide, and he looked away.

“Heath?”

“That’s the first time I said that and believed it.” When he met her eyes again, they gleamed with emotion. “I guess I needed to believe it for somebody else before I could believe it for me.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Back at the barn late that afternoon, Gabe whimpered when she brought her leg over Phoebe’s back, and for a second, she just stayed right where she was, one foot in the stirrup, trying to prepare herself for the impact when she hopped to the ground. Every muscle in her body sang out its aches. Horseback riding was freaking hard work.

Before she’d worked up the nerve to kick her foot free of the stirrup, she felt Heath’s hands on her hips. “Let go, little one. I got you.”

She did, and he set her gently on the ground. Another whimper escaped when her legs were expected to hold her up.

Heath frowned. “You’re really hurting.”

For half a second, she considered laughing it off—but she honestly didn’t know how she was going to take even a step, so she nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sore.”

“Steve!” he shouted, startling her, and a man about her age trotted out from the stable.

“Yeah, Heath?”

“Put up our horses, will ya?”

Steve nodded and came over to take the reins of both Maggie and Phoebe. He tipped his head cordially at Gabe, who gave him a little wave, but Heath didn’t introduce them.

When Steve led the horses away, Heath took Gabe’s hand. “You think you can make it to my truck?”

She nodded and eased her way carefully the few steps to his truck. He opened the door and lifted her in, and she didn’t mind at all.

When she got back to the Moondancer, she was going to try to stand in a hot shower as long as she could, and then she was going to lie perfectly still in her narrow bed until she had to get up for work the next afternoon.

But Heath didn’t drive her to the Moondancer. He drove for about one minute and then parked again, still on the ranch and in sight of the stable and the big house, in front of a low, grey clapboard house: one story with a long porch across the front and a dark red door. It looked a lot like the bunkhouse she lived in, but bigger.

Confused, she turned and made a face to show him that she was.

“This is my house. If it’s okay with you, I thought I’d take you in and draw you a bath. There’s a good tub. Maybe a massage after, if you’d like that.”

“Really?”

“Sound good?”

“It sounds too good to be true.”

“And yet it’s true.” He got out and came around to her side. She let him lift her from the truck, her legs complaining even about that, and when he hipped the door closed and didn’t set her on the ground, she hooked her sore arms—how had her arms gotten sore?—around his neck and let him carry her into his house.

 

 

*****

 

 

His house was clean and uncluttered. Near the front door was a large, black metal chest that seemed to be work-related, and there was a saddle on a stand nearby. Neither of these things seemed particularly decorative choices for a living room, but they didn’t seem wildly out of place here, either. A low shelf against the wall inside the door held three pairs of cowboy boots in various states of wear, and a pair of heavy-duty rubber boots as well.

He set her down on a round, red braided rug and toed his boots off, pushing them to the shelf with his socked foot. When he asked, “You need my help?” Gabe understood that she was to take her boots off, too. There was a little red stool close by, so she shook her head, groaned her way down to the stool, and worked her boots off.

Smiling, he helped her stand. “I’ll get that bath going. You want a drink?”

“No, thanks.” She’d barely thought to answer. At the other end of the living room was a wall full of photos, and she wanted to get over there.

He saw her interest. Kissing her cheek, he said, “Go ahead and look around. I’ll come get you when I’m ready for you.”

Then he was gone, through a doorway, and Gabe was alone in his living room.

She walked stiffly past a plain but comfortable-looking brown tweed sofa with small matched tables on either side, and a large television on the wall facing it. Filling the far wall from side to side and about three feet up from the floor was a bookcase crammed with books. Those interested her, too, but the photos had her in thrall. Wall to wall above the books, almost to the ceiling, in identical frames and perfect symmetry: Heath’s whole history.

She saw him as an adorable little boy on a pony. The same boy in his mother’s arms—she’d been a beautiful woman. Heath, now recognizable as a teen, standing with Logan, who looked dramatically different without a beard. Heath riding. Heath graduating. The whole family all mounted up and looking rancher-like. Emma with Wes and the kids. Morgan and his wife.

Also Heath with an exotically beautiful woman with long, straight black hair and dark, dark eyes. He’d told Gabe that Sybil was half Shoshone, and she’d looked it more than Gabe looked half Mexican. Only one photo of her, and she was obviously pregnant. He had his hand on her round, bare belly.

All the rest of the photos, at least a dozen, were of a little girl. She alone, or with her daddy or her aunt or uncle or grandpa. Ruthie. She’d been a pretty, delicate little girl, with long hair the same color as Heath’s—medium brown with hints of auburn and blonde—and eyes as dark as her mother’s. There was a little gleam in those eyes that spoke of a quick wit and a mischievous spirit.

Two photos in particular grabbed her attention again and again. In one, Ruthie sat alone on the weathered boards of a porch—maybe the one on this very house. She wore a filmy, pale pink dress and small brown cowboy boots. Her elbow was on her knee, and that hand propped her chin coquettishly. The boots were on the wrong feet. She seemed about five years old in that photo—not long before she’d died.

The other was an arty shot. Heath and Ruthie, their faces only, in profile and almost entirely in silhouette, with the sundown centered behind them. They were kissing; Ruthie had her hands on her daddy’s cheeks, and her little face was screwed up in an exaggerated pucker. She was a toddler in that one.

Gabe’s throat swelled. To lose a child. To lose a child as Heath had lost Ruthie. Her own loss felt insignificant in contrast.

“That’s my girl.” Coming up behind her, he set his hands on her hips.

She turned to him. He’d taken off his shirt and stood before her now gloriously bare-chested. Her fingers were drawn to the arcing scar where he’d been kicked and had hoped not to wake up. “She was beautiful.” The word ‘beautiful’ broke in half, and she cleared her throat.

“Yeah. Bath’s ready.” He took her hand and led her away from his past.

 

 

*****

 

 

The bathroom was nice—nicer than Gabe had expected, in white and grey, modern but old-fashioned, with a wide, deep, clawfoot tub and an elaborate new faucet fixture and a separate shower. The steam from the bath he’d drawn had made the room humid, and her mouth nearly watered in anticipation of that hot water on her sore body.

“I don’t have bubbles or anything like that, but I’ve got Epsom salts, if you want.”

“What are Ep—whatever?”

“Epsom salts. You put them in the bath to relieve aches.”

“Okay. I’ll try.”

As she stripped, he went to a cupboard in the wall and brought out a clear jar of white crystals. Removing her bra, she watched him open the jar and shake some crystals out, letting them fall like snow over the surface of the water. He swirled his hand around in the tub.

“Ready.”

He helped her into the tub, going so far as to sweep up her legs and set her in the water when the idea of bending that far down proved too much for Gabe to contemplate.

After she was settled in the water—the perfect temperature, hot enough to need a moment to adapt but not so hot that it hurt—he was crouched at the side of the tub, smiling pensively. She’d bound her hair up high on her head with the elastic band she always wore for occasions when her mop was too much. He brushed a stray lock from her brow and tucked it behind her ear.

“Take your time. Towels are there.” He nodded toward a little table stacked with thick, white towels.

But when he moved to stand, Gabe grabbed his hand on the side of the tub. She didn’t want to be away from him.

He cocked his head but didn’t speak—or move.

“Stay with me?”

“Sure. What do you want, little one?”

Not sure she wanted sex, but positive that she wanted closeness, Gabe sat forward, making a space in the tub behind her. “Get in with me?”

Everything was a question. She hated when she did that, so she repeated herself more firmly. “I want you to get in with me.”

“Not too sore?”

She didn’t know, but she shook her head. His body on hers would feel good, no matter how her muscles felt.

He stood and dropped his jeans and boxer briefs, kicking them to the side. His cock was at full attention, and Gabe couldn’t help but stare. It was an excellent cock. Uncircumcised, and her first like that, it was long and thick and perfect.

Heath’s legs were long and muscular, covered with dark hair that converged around that cock and then tapered off into a trail to his belly button. His forearms were hairy, too, but his chest, back, and upper arms were not. She thought he looked all the more chiseled because his abs and pecs, his delts and lats, and all the other muscles she didn’t know the names of—especially those wedges over his hips—were free of hair.

Scars were scattered randomly over his body. Nothing like her own, but simply the accumulation of marks from a life lived outdoors, at hard work. His hands were especially rough and seemed older than the rest of him.

She had come to understand that the Cahills were very wealthy, maybe the richest people in Jasper Ridge, and certainly the most important, but their kind of rich was different from the wealth she’d always imagined—men in suits, and women in gowns, riding in limousines and having fabulous parties. The Cahills didn’t seem all that different from the rest of the people in this town.

He eased into the water behind her. As he sat, stretching out his legs and lifting her up so that she could rest on him, the water lapped over the sides and splashed on the tile floor.

“Is this what you want?” He pulled lightly on her shoulders until she lay back, relaxed on his chest.

“Yes. God, yes.” His erection dug into her ass and lower back, and she squirmed, trying both to find a more comfortable place for it and to rub on him.

He grunted. “Sorry ‘bout that. I can’t help it. I’m hard most of the time I’m around you.”

She squirmed again. “Don’t be sorry. I like it.” She’d been right—having him touching her like this was totally distracting her from her aches and pains.

He picked up a washcloth and soaked it in the water. Bringing it up, he let it drip over her chest, focusing especially on her nipples. She gasped as the water struck her sensitive flesh, and knew that this bath was now about much more than her soreness.

“This okay?” His voice was little more than a growl at her ear, and she nodded.

With her permission granted, Heath let his hands move all over her. Those large, work-roughened hands skimmed over her whole wet body, at first simply stroking her from shoulder to knee and back up. Every now and then, he’d soak the cloth and wet her cooling body with fresh warm water, and then he’d begin his travels again. Each time his fingers and palms slid over her nipples, she arched up, hoping he’d pause there, but he didn’t. Each time he slid up the insides of her thighs, she spread them, hoping he’d come to rest at her pussy, but he didn’t. He stroked her and wet her and stroked her until every sore muscle quivered and she couldn’t stop moaning.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, nipping at her earlobe, as his hands kept up their maddening movement. “So beautiful. Inside as much as out. I know you’re too young—hell, I really am old enough to be your father—but you don’t seem it. We barely know each other, but it doesn’t feel like it. I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

The stimulation of his words and his touch together had Gabe feeling dizzy and desperate. She couldn’t have formed a response in words even if she’d known what to say, so she let her body respond instead.

Finally, he stopped stroking and focused on her breasts. He had every inch of her skin buzzing already, and when he plucked at both nipples, she came up from his chest with a frantic cry.

“Christ, I love that you love that,” he rumbled and plucked again.

“Heath…please.” She reached back between them and took hold of his cock. He grunted and bounced his hips against her.

Without thinking, knowing only what she needed, Gabe shifted until he was between her legs, pressing into her, sliding so near where she wanted him that her body seemed to open wide.

But he groaned and lifted her away. “Easy, now. Let’s get out of the tub.”

“What? Why?” She was so close to what she wanted right now, right here.

“No condom, Gabe.”

“Oh.” The thought sank in fully. “Oh. Fuck.”

“Definitely. Come on. The water’s getting cold anyway. Let’s take this to bed.” He climbed out and then lifted her out and to her feet. She stood still and let him wrap a towel around her and pick her up again.

 

 

*****

 

 

As soon as he had her in his bedroom, he dropped her on the bed, still wet, and fell on top of her. His mouth was everywhere his hands had been, sucking at her nipples, flicking over her clit, nipping and kissing and licking every point in between. She couldn’t take it anymore, she’d been dangling off the edge of an incredible orgasm for what seemed like hours, and every time she tried to get hold of his cock and put it where she wanted it, he danced out of her reach.

Finally, he grabbed a condom from his nightstand drawer. She snatched it from his hand and tore open the packet. Understanding her intent, he grinned and rose up on his knees so that she could roll it on.

She took her time, wanting to drive him as crazy as he’d been driving her, until he slapped her hands away and finished the job himself, then grabbed her—oh, he was rough now; she could feel his need in every powerful move of his body taking control of hers—and sank into her, slamming his mouth over hers at the same time.

She came at once, as soon as he struck deep, and she kept coming and coming, like a rolling sea, waves that crashed over and over and over again as he thrust harder and harder, grunting into her mouth until she felt him swell. He tore his mouth away and reared back, freezing like that, tendons rising up in his reddening neck.

When he was able to relax, he pulled slowly out of her, and she lamented the loss of that perfect fullness. But he fell to her side and pulled her close, and she snuggled in and heard herself make a sound that could only be called a purr.

“I’m sorry that goes so fast. I need to build my endurance back up.”

“If you last much longer, I might stroke out.”

He chuckled and kissed her head. “Stay with me tonight. I owe you a massage, and I can fix us some dinner after. Do some more endurance work, too. Then Sunday breakfast with the family, if you want. And I can take you back up to the Moondancer after that.”

She nodded and hugged him tight, feeling suddenly emotional.

They were moving fast, but Gabe didn’t care. After all that time alone and dead inside, she had somebody who cared about her, who wanted her and wanted to take care of her, whom she wanted and wanted to take care of. He came with a whole family, a whole town, a whole life. She couldn’t imagine ever willingly giving him up.

She could see love in her future. She felt it in her heart right this moment, but she knew better than to say that out loud.

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the first things Catherine had told Gabe when she’d hired her was that there was a strict no-fraternization rule—staff could not hook up with guests.

Gabe learned quickly thereafter that the strict rule was a bit different in implementation: no fraternization drama was what Catherine was really interested in. She didn’t actually care if there was hanky-panky going on, as long as it didn’t get in her way. In fact, in some ways, she encouraged it.

A majority of the Moondancer guests were men. Even though they hosted family reunions and multi-family vacations, which included women and children, and corporate retreats, which often included women as well, still the balance worked out strongly male. Groups of buddies ‘getting away from it all’ and companies with, for whatever reason, a preponderance of male employees seemed especially drawn to dude ranches. At least this particular dude ranch.

After two months working at the Moondancer, Gabe strongly suspected that Catherine hired her staff with an eye toward their appeal for the guests. Every one of the housekeeping and hospitality workers was female, and every one of those who worked among the guests, as maids, waitresses, and desk staff, was young—all of them fit, and all of them landing at some point on the conventional attractiveness scale from cute to beautiful. The ranch staff was more traditional—and more male—but the few women who worked as trail guides were just as pretty and young as the women working the main house.

She wouldn’t have said that Catherine intentionally whored her staff out, but she understood the appeal pretty women had for the kind of men who wanted to play cowboy, and she made sure not to notice when staff and guests got friendly—unless there was some kind of trouble between them. That was where her ‘strict rule’ applied—and on the side of the guest.

Generally speaking, that atmosphere wasn’t too hard to manage. Some of the girls were interested in getting with a guest, either just to play around or because they were hoping for more, and those girls had busy social calendars on the ranch. Gabe obviously wasn’t, but for the most part, it was fairly easy to navigate around the guests who were hoping to play around with a cute little cowgirl. She’d had her ass grabbed more times than she could count, and she’d gotten a couple dozen outright invitations to rooms, but she smiled and ignored them.

Strangely, and vexingly, it wasn’t in the stag groups or the corporate retreats where the actual problem guests showed up. Unfaithful men away from their wives were just plain old flirts. They overtly tried to pick girls up, like any other guy, and they were easy to handle.

The problem guests were those who’d come with their wives and children. They were the ones who’d grab a waitress’s leg or ass while their wives sat beside them at the dinner table, or who’d try to catch a maid in the corridor and pull her into a dark corner. Like the chance of getting caught was part of the appeal.

After she’d figured that out, Gabe set her mind toward identifying the possible problem guests. The staff talked about them, too—working out ways to do their job and not get caught up. Even the girls who were happy to play around weren’t interested in men whose wives were nearby. That was a one-way ticket to drama and dismissal.

Gabe hadn’t told Heath about any of it, because she thought his possessive-protective thing would be a problem, and what he’d done to Brandon Black was still a vivid memory. On the other hand, it seemed like one of those things that everybody knew but nobody said aloud, so maybe he understood and simply assumed she was handling any advances.

And she was—though she hated family reunion bookings. Like now: one family had booked the entire ranch for two whole weeks and had converged from all over the country to play cowboy. At least four different married men in that one group had gotten handsy with the staff. Two of those had wives who were paying attention. One girl, Melodie—Britnee and Gabe’s roommate for all of about six days—had already been fired because she’d gotten caught banging a married guest. Everybody was on alert.

That morning at breakfast, one of the problem married men in question—the same one who’d gotten Melodie fired—came up behind Gabe while she stood at the beverage station and refilled a water pitcher. Under the guise of reaching for a glass, he pressed right up against her and ground his hips on her ass. She felt him get hard, but she stood still and didn’t react.

“You got yourself a helluva fine ass, Curly-Sue,” he mumbled behind her. With a thrust of his hips, he walked away.

Gross. Gross, gross, gross. Getting her ass pinched or slapped was bad enough, but what that guy—Mr. Cross was all she knew of his name—had done was almost assault. Her stomach twisted into a knot. She should have done something. But what? Cause a scene in a full dining room and get fired for her trouble? Shit.

No, it was nothing. She’d been bumped into on crowded buses in similar ways. She took a breath and finished filling the pitcher, then carried it with a smile around the room, refilling glasses.

Mr. Cross winked at her when she filled the glasses at his table. She looked away. Gross.

 

 

*****

 

 

Melodie had been wait staff, and with her sudden ouster, the other girls had to fill in her schedule. On this day near the end of the Cross-Michener family reunion, Gabe was working a double, taking an extra shift that night to work the Chuck Wagon Dinner.

She hated those dinners a whole lot. They were held outside, after dark, and with the exception of the ‘chuck wagon’—which was really just a food truck, a mobile kitchen under a canvas dome made to look like an old Conestoga wagon—the whole area was illuminated only by a bonfire and a few torches. It was hard to serve in the dark, and people got drunk, and then the staff had to navigate an obstacle course of grabby mitts. Not fun. Not being able to see Heath that night? Even less fun.

But that afternoon, she had a break between shifts, and that break happened to coincide with Heath being at the ranch to do a farrier presentation. A glimmer of silver in her cloudy work day.

She’d guessed, when she’d first arrived in town and met him, that he would hate those, but it turned out that he enjoyed them. He didn’t make much eye contact with his audience, but he was proud of his work, and he didn’t mind explaining what he was doing and why he was doing it that way. He made a show of his work when people were there to watch, doing a lot more than he needed to do to put shoes on the horses.

Gabe walked down to the stable while he was in the middle of his spiel. There was a group of a dozen or so people watching him. She stayed back, out of the way of the guests, and watched her man, the muscles in his arms flexing as he hammered a hot shoe into a new shape, then dunked it into the quenching bath.

She knew some of the terminology now, after being with him for a month. She’d watched him work a few times, here and at his shop. What he did was art. Even making a horseshoe was a kind of artistry.

As he finished his little show, he looked up and saw her, and a smile brightened his face. As the little group dispersed—Mr. Cross among them, his little boy riding on his shoulders—Gabe went to Heath.

“Hey, you.” He pulled her into his arms. “I was hoping you’d come down and see me.”

“I have a break before dinner. Can you hang out up here for a while? Maybe come back to the bunkhouse with me?” She shoved her hands under the back of his t-shirt and raked her nails across his sweat-dampened skin.

With a groan, he grabbed hold of her arms. “I can’t. I’ve got three more appointments this afternoon.”

“Well, that sucks.” She stuck her lip out in a dramatic pout.

Grinning in a way he only made for her, he bent his head and sucked her lip into his mouth. “Poor baby. I tell you what—hold on.” He pulled his leather apron off, put his gear away, shut down his equipment and closed up his truck, then took her hand and led her into the shade of the stables.

In the middle of the day like this, the stables were nearly empty. The few horses that had been kept back for shoeing were their only company. Heath pulled her into a nook at the front of the building, next to an empty stall, where leads and halters hung from rows of hooks.

He pushed her against the far wall and leaned in, looming over her, his hands on either side of her head. “No time to get naked, but we can make out for a few minutes. You game for that?”

Reaching up, she swiped at the brim of his hat and knocked it off his head. Then she grabbed fistfuls of his t-shirt and yanked him close. Yeah, she was game for that.

As his mouth claimed hers, he held her head, his long fingers tangling in her hair. She twisted her arms around his neck, arching her body so that she could mold herself to him. He groaned, the sound muffled in their joined mouths, and she ground against his hard cock.

Soon, they were all but fucking against the stable wall. Anyone walking by might think they were going at it full tilt; Gabe met each of Heath’s feral grunts with one of her own, and she could hear how noisy they were. She could hear, but she couldn’t care. For her part, if Heath had opened his jeans and flipped her to face the wall, she doubted she’d have stopped him.

Fucking him was her favorite thing to do in the world. With sleeping in his arms a close second. Being with him in general took up about the first ten slots on her list of favorite things. She’d been happier in the past few weeks than she could remember being ever before.

Finally, he pulled back. “Damn. Okay, okay. Okay. I’m about to lose it in my damn jeans.”

“I don’t want to stop,” she whispered, irrationally. They obviously could not fuck in the Moondancer stable while fifty guests and a couple dozen staff roamed the grounds. Still, she clung to him.

“I don’t, either.” Sadly, he belied that sentiment by pulling her arms free of his neck. When she whined, he chuckled and kissed her nose.

He played with a lock of her hair, stretching it out to its full length and letting it spring back into its waves. “I’ll come up and get you after your shift. Call me when you’re off.”

She shook her head. “I have to work breakfast tomorrow.” She didn’t like him chauffeuring her back and forth like that. He had work of his own. “I really need a car.”

“How much’ve you got? You close?”

“Jerk said he’ll give me eight hundred for my dad’s truck, as is. Is that good?”

Heath laughed. “That’s Jerk being nice. I’ve seen that truck.”

“Should I not take that much, then?”

“You should let him be nice. He likes you, and he’d be happy to do you a good turn.”

And she was happy to accept a kindness like that. “Okay. With that and the money I have left from when I got here, and what I’ve saved from my earnings here…about thirty-five hundred? I can find a good used car for that, right?”

He frowned. “That’s not that much, Gabe. But let me make some calls. I know some people in Boise. Will you let me do that?”

When he’d offered to help her pay for a car, she’d stomped hard all over that idea. As wonderful as it was to be with him, as much as it felt like the real deal, it was too early for stuff like that to be between them. But she wasn’t opposed to a little help with finding the right car and the right seller. She grinned up at him. “That would be great. Yes! This weekend?”

His evident disappointment at that surprised her, but he said, “Yeah. This weekend.”

He picked his hat up off the stable floor and squared it on his head, then took her hand and led her into the sunshine again.

There were a few people around, mostly ranch hands. She could tell by their expressions that they’d heard what had been going on in the stable—or what they thought had been going on.

She simply grinned back and walked her man to his truck.

 

 

*****

 

 

Naomi had a standard menu for the Chuck Wagon Dinner: fancied-up takes on traditional cowboy foods, like chili and beans and cornbread, and some traditional Shoshone dishes as well. It was usually the highlight of the visit for the guests, but nobody liked to work it. Gabe had never been to Hawaii, but she’d seen stuff about it on television, and she guessed it was kind of like those luaus at Hawaiian hotels—big hits with the tourists and irritating for the staff.

Still, this one was going okay. Britnee was working it, too, and she was really great with the guests. With her big personality, she managed to control the attention of anyone she wanted, turning over-the-top advances into harmless flirtation, and it took a lot of pressure off Gabe and the few other girls like her, the ones who only wanted to do their work and be left alone. Gabe wasn’t auditioning friends or boyfriends or fuck buddies. She was doing her job. Period.

Mr. Cross hadn’t paid her any attention all evening, so she decided that the thing at breakfast was just a one-off weird moment. Maybe he’d been pouting that Melodie was gone. She relaxed a little and served her tables. The meal was done ‘family style,’ with platters and large bowls brought to the tables, and plates filled from there—another reason she hated the dinner, since there was so much more opportunity for spills and mistakes.

She was headed to the ‘chuck wagon’ to get towels to help one of the other girls clean up a spilled bowl of beans when a hand clamped around her arm, just above her elbow, and she was yanked around to the back of the truck. It was dark back there; the food truck only had windows on the serving side.

Mr. Cross pushed her, face first, against the truck, holding her in place with his body. He was only a couple of inches taller than she, and his face was almost level with hers. She could almost taste the cowboy dinner on his breath. And the whiskey.

“Hey, Curly-Sue. I’m gonna need some of this ass to get me through the night.” He slid his hand down her side, then over her ass until he could push his fingers between her legs.

This asshole’s wife and kids were on the other side of the truck, sitting at their table with the red-checked tablecloth, eating cornbread and listening to Luke play cowboy songs on his guitar.

Gabe tried to keep calm. She needed the job. “Mr. Cross”—he was leaning so hard on her, grinding again, his fingers probing around on her jeans, that her voice sounded stilted—“you need to let me go. Please.”

“I saw you with that blacksmith. I heard you two going at it right out in public. I know what you like.”

“That’s my boyfriend. I have a boyfriend. Please let me go.” Gabe clenched her teeth to hold back the shakes. If they got into her jaw, they’d take over her whole body.

“I will. When I get what I want. I can buy this place a hundred times over. I get what I want. Stupid little waitresses don’t tell me no.”

When his hand came around to her front and went for her belt, Gabe was done asking nicely. She meant to scream, but she forgot to unlock her jaw, and she made an odd, grunting roar instead. Then she stomped on his foot as hard as she could. She was wearing boots, but so was he. She didn’t think she’d done much damage, but it was enough to startle him and make him hop back. She turned around and did the only other move she knew. She kicked him in his arrogant balls.

Her boots were much more useful there.

He dropped to his knees and then fell over, curled into a fetal ball, clutching what Gabe hoped were swelling nuts. She stood where she was, transfixed by the scene. Besides, she didn’t know where she would go.

When he could take in a breath, he howled, then howled again. On the other side of the truck, the noises of the dinner crowd petered out.

Luke was the first one to arrive at the back of the truck, his guitar still strapped over his chest. He scanned the scene quickly, then came to Gabe. “You okay?”

She nodded. Words wouldn’t come out of her mouth. Her jaw wouldn’t unlock.

Catherine had been right behind Luke. She went to Mr. Cross and helped him to sit. Then his wife was there. She gave Gabe a poisonous sneer and went to her husband.

“She attacked me!” the asshole wailed. “I want that stupid little bitch fired. Now!”

“My office, Gabe. Now. Luke, help Mr. Cross to the infirmary.”

With a quick, supportive squeeze of her shoulder, Luke did as he was told. Still speechless, Gabe couldn’t defend herself against the accusation, so she walked away from the scene, too, and headed toward the big house and Catherine’s office.

Halfway to the house, the shakes took her over. She needed this job. This was how she stayed in Jasper Ridge. How she stayed with Heath. How she got her new start. She couldn’t lose this job. Everything would fall apart.

By the time she sat down in the wingchair in front of her boss’s elegant desk, Gabe was sobbing.

 

 

*****

 

 

Rather than sit behind her desk, Catherine took the matching wingchair beside Gabe’s.

Gabe had pulled herself together, more or less, but she was still sniffling, and she imagined her face was a bleary mess. “Please don’t fire me.”

“Tell me what happened.” Catherine’s voice was gentler than Gabe had ever heard it.

“He grabbed me and dragged me behind the truck. He told me he got whatever he wanted, and I couldn’t stop him.”

Her boss chuckled quietly. “Guess he was wrong about that.”

Maybe someday Gabe would find humor in the situation. Doubtful, but maybe, in the future. Definitely not now. “Please don’t fire me. I didn’t do anything. I promise.”

“I believe you. You’ve already landed your whale.”

Gabe didn’t know what that meant.

“Here’s the problem, Gabe. Do you know who Richard Cross is?”

She shook her head; just another wealthy guest, she’d supposed.

“He is the CEO of Cross Aeronautics. A major military contractor. He books his executive retreat here every winter, and he brings his family every other year and books us solid for two full weeks. More than that, he tells his friends how much he loves the Moondancer. He is my most important guest. Every visit, he finds himself a little cookie to play with. He considers it one of the perks. To my knowledge, no one has ever told him no.”

Gabe wondered how many of his ‘cookies’ would have liked the chance to say no. “I thought fraternizing with guests was against the rules.”

The look Catherine gave her just about screamed Shut up, smarty-pants. Gabe shut up.

“If Melodie had been discreet, all would have been well, but she got the talk going, and Mrs. Cross caught wind. She knows, of course, but she wants to pretend she doesn’t. If anyone is more important to keep happy than Richard Cross, it’s his wife. She is now extremely unhappy.”

Seeing the destination of this talk, Gabe felt tears welling up again. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Who do you think I can most afford to lose here?”

“Please. I need this job.”

“What if he presses charges, Gabe? What if he sues?”

“He was trying to rape me!” Tears spilled over and became sobs.

“Right there at the chuck wagon? In front of everybody? And who can back up your story? Any bruises? I imagine he has some marks to prove his version.”

“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.” Even as she said the words, she understood their emptiness. Truth was what people wanted it to be. She knew that better than most.

“I’m sorry, Gabe. Pack your things. I’ll have Luke take you into town.”

“No. I’ll get my own ride.”

“Fine. I want you off the ranch within the hour.”

 

 

*****

 

 

On her way back to the bunkhouse, Gabe stopped and sat down on a bench. She pulled her new phone out and scrolled to Heath’s name, but stopped before she pressed ‘call.’ For a few minutes, she sat there with her phone in her hand and cried.

When she’d been attacked outside the truck stop near Salt Lake City, and fought back in a similar fashion, she’d felt a vibrant surge of potency, of power and self-confidence. For a brief flash of time, she’d felt invulnerable. Now, though she’d fought back and won, she felt like she’d lost. She felt small and unsubstantial.

But she’d had control of that truth. She’d fought the Salt Lake guy off and left him behind, and there had been no one to challenge her story, no one to tell her that she had acted wrongly or that her truth was immaterial. She’d been alone in the world, and there was a kind of strength in that, a strength she’d lost when she’d come to Jasper Ridge and tried to make room for herself here.

Everything was changing again. She had no home again, no place to be, nowhere to go. Could she even call Heath? They’d only been together a few weeks. She wasn’t his responsibility.

But what else could she do? Let Luke take her down into Jasper Ridge and get a room at the Gemstone again? To what purpose? She had nothing. Again.

No. She had Heath. And that strength—the kind that came with leaning on a friend—was as good if not better than the kind that came when there was no one to lean on.

Forcing control over her tears, she pressed ‘call.’

He answered right away. “Hey, little one. You done early?”

The sound of his voice shattered that little bit of control, and tears overwhelmed her again. “Can you please pick me up?”

“Gabe, what’s wrong?”

“Can you please pick me up?”

“I’m leaving right now. Are you safe?”

She didn’t feel safe at all. “Yes. Please come.”

“I’m worried. Stay on the phone with me while I’m on my way.”

She took a breath and made her voice level out. “No, I’m okay. I’ll see you when you get here. I’m at the bunkhouse.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath didn’t bother to knock. He stormed in and, finding her in the living room, her sad little duffel packed with all she owned—at least she had enough to fill it full now—sitting next to her on the sofa, he came right to her, deep worry etched into his forehead.

Gabe had been crying most of the twenty minutes since she’d ended their call, and she knew he could tell. But she was fairly certain her tears had finally dried up.

He crouched in front of her and took her hands. “Tell me what happened.”

“I got fired.”

“What? Why?” After a beat, he added, “Because of me?”

“No.” Could she tell him? The image of Brandon Black lying on the floor of the Jack rose up. If he did something like that to Richard Cross, he would end up in real trouble.

But she had to tell him. She needed him to know. She needed him to make her feel better.

“A guest came at me, and I hurt him.”

A dangerous glint came into his eyes. “What do you mean, came at you?”

Her voice would fail if she tried to say more while she was confronted with the icy fury building in his eyes, so she looked down at her lap instead, where his hands held hers. “He pushed me up against the food truck and—”

She got no farther, because he leapt to his feet, startling her and cutting her off. “Jesus fucking Christ. Stay here.” He stalked toward the front door.

Gabe jumped up. “Heath, no! Don’t—just don’t. I just want to go. I don’t know where to go. I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t know what to do.” As her thoughts unspooled into panic, a new font of tears erupted. She began to cry again, and Heath came back and gathered her close.

“Hush. It’s okay. You have somewhere. Come home with me. Stay with me.”

She shook her head against his chest. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’s too soon! We just started!”

“Who cares about that?” He lifted her chin and stared down into her eyes. The light in his had changed, grown warm. “Why put a clock on what’s happening? Gabe, I love you. I want to be with you. If you feel the same, come live with me.”

It was the first time he’d said those words. It didn’t begin to solve all the problems or answer all the questions, but it was a start; she felt instantly better. And she did love him. She’d been fighting the urge to say it for weeks, almost since their first night together.

“Do you feel the same, Gabe?” He brushed his thumbs over her cheekbones, wiping her tears away.

She nodded. “Yes. I love you.”

His smile was gentle. “Then let’s get the fuck out of here. I’ll deal with this shit later.”

Gabe was afraid to ask what he meant.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heath came out onto the porch and handed Gabe a beer. He’d started keeping Corona in his fridge for her, and he’d even bought limes once or twice, though Gabe could take or leave the lime. That was more fuss than she herself normally bothered with, but it was sweet that he’d thought of it.

This time, though, the bottle was lime-free. Sitting on his porch glider, she took a long drink, swallowing a couple of times before she set the half-empty bottle on her knee.

He sat next to her and stretched his arm across the back of the glider. His other hand held a glass of bourbon. “I want you to tell me again. You’re leaving shit out, Gabe. I want to know it all.”

All the way from the Moondancer, he’d grilled her about the night: what had happened with Richard Cross—whose name she’d kept to herself, though he’d probably hear it from somebody else in town soon enough—what Catherine had said, whether she’d had trouble with him or anybody else before, why she hadn’t told him.

In truth, she hadn’t left much out at all, but he was convinced that she was hurt and not saying. That was kind of ironic—if she’d gotten hurt, maybe she could have proved her ‘story.’ “There’s nothing else to tell. The way people talk around here, you have to know how things work up there, right?”

He drank from his glass and looked out at the dark ranch before him. There wasn’t much moon, but he’d kept the porch light off so they wouldn’t be so interesting to bugs, and the scene before them rolled out like a blue painting on black velvet.

“I know some girls work up there to find men. I didn’t know the men thought they could take whoever they wanted. And I didn’t fucking know Catherine fires women who get attacked. Christ, Gabe! That is every kind of wrong. I’m going up there tomorrow. You’re going to get your fucking job back, and that son of a bitch who put hands on you is going to learn some manners.” He finished his drink and set the empty glass on the porch floor.

“No.”

“Yes. This shit doesn’t stand. You can’t think I’m going to sit here and do nothing.”

The real truth was that Gabe wanted him to go back up to the Moondancer and tear the place apart. She wanted him to do to Richard Cross what he’d done to Brandon Black. She even wanted him to do the same thing to Catherine. She was angry and hurt and disgusted. She felt helpless and vulnerable, and she wanted Heath—her man—to make it all better.

And he would. But that would make everything worse.

Not only would he get himself in serious trouble, but it would change things between them. It would be so easy to just give over and let him do what he wanted, to let him take care of her. But she knew she would lose herself as soon as she did—and maybe in a way she couldn’t get back.

“Yeah, I do think that. It’s not your fight, Heath. And it’s not worth fighting. You can’t just go up and beat up a guest. He’s some kind of important guy, and you’ll just get in trouble. I don’t want that—and it doesn’t fix anything, anyway. I don’t want that job back. I hate that I lost it, and I don’t know what I’m going to do now, but I can’t go back after all this.” She sighed. “I don’t know what to do.”

Calming, he put his arm around her and pulled her tight to his side. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“What?”

“You don’t need to work. You know I can take care of you.”

“Heath, no.” She put her hand on his chest, pushing back so she could look into his eyes.

She could just barely make out his expression in the dark; he was frowning. “Why not? And don’t say it’s too soon.”

“Because I can’t just sit around and do nothing. I want to have a life, not just get swallowed up in yours.”

He tensed, and Gabe thought she might have hurt his feelings, but he said, “Okay. But why just get any old job? Why not do something you want to do?”

“I don’t know what that is. In Santa Fe, I was taking community college classes to try to figure that out when everything happened.”

“So do that again. Boise’s a couple hours away. You could take some classes, work your schedule so you drive into the city a couple days a week. Figure out what you want.”

“I can’t afford college. And I can’t get there.” They were circling toward a familiar argument now.

“Gabe. Enough. Money is not your problem, and I’m getting offended that you won’t see that. Let me help.”

“It’s only been a month, Heath.” Maybe he didn’t want to hear that they were too early in their relationship to make big plans, but his denial didn’t make it less true. Gabe thought it was important to at least try to keep it in mind.

“I was alone for four years. By choice. It was my choice to stay that way for the rest of my days. Now it’s not. Now I want to be with you. You think I take that lightly? Do you take it lightly?”

Gabe looked out over the dark ranch and thought for a moment. Why was she fighting him? She loved him, and she believed him when he said that he loved her. She wanted him to take care of her. She didn’t want to have nothing in her life except him—but he was offering to help her make sure that wouldn’t be the case.

She shook her head. “No, I don’t take it lightly.”

He tucked her against his chest again. “Good, then. It’s settled. We’ll go into Boise and find you a car, and we’ll go by the community college while we’re there. You can do anything you want. I’ll do whatever I can to help you make it happen. I’ll take care of you. I will.”

It was—he was—exactly what she needed to erase the awfulness of her day. Of her life.

 

 

*****

 

 

“Okay, good. Bring the cue back—easy, stay lined up—”

Gabe could feel Heath’s erection on her hip. “I don’t think this is a good way to learn pool.”

He was curled over her back, his face just above hers. She felt his chuckle like a warm, light caress over her ear and cheek. “You don’t? Seems great to me.” He tucked his face in the crook of her shoulder and nipped at her neck.

“It’s great, but I’m not learning pool.” She shimmied her hips.

“Christ on crutches, you two. Are we gonna play this game, or are we gonna have to watch you dry hump all night?”

Laughing at Emmett’s complaint, Gabe let go of the cue and turned around. Heath barely made room for her to do so, and she rubbed solidly against him until she was facing him, still wedged between his body and the pool table. She liked the light in his eyes—the one that said he was half a second from dragging her to a dark corner.

“You play. I’ll sit and watch your ass.” She reached around and smacked the ass in question.

He sent her off to the table with a kiss, then shot an exaggerated scowl at Emmett. “We’re playing, asshole.”

As Gabe came to the table, Victor and Paul both half-stood in that gentlemanly way most of the men had in Jasper Ridge, and Paul pulled back one of the empty chairs for her to sit. Heath’s friends were a strange combination of chivalrous and nasty about women. They stood when a woman stood, they pulled out chairs and held doors, tipped their hats, all that stuff. But she’d been around them enough in the past weeks to have also learned how they talked about the same women they were so polite to.

Thrilled that she had brought Heath back to the living, as they said, his buddies had folded Gabe into their group fairly readily, to the point that they’d already stopped watching what they said around her. In the nearly two weeks that she’d been living with Heath, she’d accumulated vivid naked pictures in her mind of nearly all the attractive women in Jasper Ridge, just from listening to these buttheads describe what they knew and what they thought they knew about what the women looked like.

She wasn’t surprised all of his closest friends were single.

Victor refilled Gabe’s glass from one of the pitchers of beer on their table. His attention wandered, and he overfilled, then knocked the glass over when he noticed his mistake. Beer went everywhere. As she jumped clear of the splash zone, she turned to see what had caught his eye.

Pearl and Ellen, from the Moondancer, had come in. Gabe smiled and held up her hand in a wave, and they sent stunted waves back. The palpable awkwardness kept anything more from happening.

Gabe liked them both, and they’d been building a friendship. Pearl and Ellen were full-timers at the dude ranch; they’d both been born and raised in Jasper Ridge, and they both lived in town rather than one of the bunkhouses. They’d been enthusiastic about her connection with Heath and had shared a lot more gossip about him than she’d ever wanted to hear. Both had sharp senses of humor. They were fun.

But the situation with Richard Cross had gotten a lot more complicated, and a ‘Moondancer versus Cahill’ feud had bubbled up in town.

Despite Gabe’s pleas against it, Heath had gone up to see Catherine the very next day after the incident at the Chuck Wagon Dinner. Gabe had been out with Emma and the kids, and she’d first heard about it after the fact. She’d heard in detail, from many sources, including Heath.

He’d asked around and quickly figured out which guest had attacked her. He hadn’t beaten Cross, but he’d made some intense threats—which had been effective, because the whole reunion group had packed up and left that day, three days early. Catherine had most likely lost Cross’s business, and that of all his associates, for good.

Then Heath had gone for Catherine. People said they could hear the shouting in her office all the way down at the stables.

By the time he’d stormed back to his truck, he’d canceled his contract with her. He was the only farrier for many miles, so that also made some significant complications for the ranch.

Catherine had taken the whole thing very badly. Now everybody working at the Moondancer was on orders not to associate with the Cahill family or Gabe, under threat of firing.

Since then, there had been strange tension throughout the town—nothing but an atmosphere yet, but Gabe got the sense that people were beginning to align on opposing sides of a divide: Catherine and the people she employed, and some of the other ranchers, against Heath and the Cahill family and their friends.

And Gabe was back to having no friends—except those Heath had brought to her.

That was her one source of real worry right now, but it touched every part of her life. Since she and Heath had become a couple, and especially since they’d begun to live together, every part of her life came through him. She lived in his house. All of her friends were his family and friends. Jasper Ridge was his town.

She was a guest in her own life.

It was only temporary; she told herself that every day, and she browsed through the college registration materials to reassure herself. She’d start classes in the fall and would have something that was hers. She’d get there in a car that he’d more than half paid for, but once she was there, school would be her own private thing.

In the meantime, Heath took good care of her, and he went out of his way to make her feel like a real part of this life that wasn’t hers.

Only when they were alone did she honestly feel like she belonged in it, though.

She turned back to the table with a sigh. Reese had come over with bar rags and had pushed the guys aside to clean up Victor’s mess.

“You okay, Gabe?” he asked as he slopped up the mess.

“Sure. A little beer isn’t going to scar me.”

Victor picked up the upended glass and the near-empty pitcher. “Sorry. I’ll get us a refill.”

“No, shithead,” Reese countered. “You don’t go behind the bar. And she ain’t gonna talk to you anyway.”

Paul laughed. “Man, even in the middle of a town fight, you can’t get your dick down.”

“What?” Gabe was trying to follow along. “Victor—do you like Pearl? Or Ellen?”

“I’ll bring a fresh pitcher and glasses. And somebody should catch Gabe up on the Shakespearean saga of Victor and Pearl.” Finished with his cleanup, Reese held out a chair for Gabe, and she sat. Then, with a little bow, he was gone.

“It’s not a fuckin’ saga,” Victor grumbled. “We’re friends.”

Emmett and Heath had racked their cues and returned to the table. Heath came to Gabe’s seat and lifted her arm. Knowing what he wanted, she stood and let him take her chair, then pull her onto his lap. This was his way—even when there were seats available, more often than not he wanted her on his lap.

“We talking about Pearl again?” He rolled his eyes.

“Look, soap-opera boy, fuck off.” Victor looked like he might be thinking about walking away, but he stayed in his seat and pouted instead.

Reese came back with a full pitcher, a stack of glasses, and a new bottle of bourbon. Then he dragged a chair from a nearby table and made himself comfortable. “Kelly’s got the bar for a minute. I want in on the story.”

“You guys are assholes,” Victor snarled.

“Yeah, we are. But we’re equal-opportunity assholes.” Emmett laughed and poured bourbon for the table—except for Gabe. Everybody knew she didn’t like hard liquor. The men all drank as if the couple of inches of Jim Beam in their glasses were no more potent than water. Then Reese poured a round of beer. Heath had not been exaggerating when he’d said that people in Jasper Ridge were hard drinkers.

“Will somebody just tell the story?” Gabe finally burst out. She was starting to get used to the gossip, and as the subject of a lot of it, she thought it only fair that others did their time on the hot seat, too. “Victor, you tell it. It’s yours.”

He gave her a look equally grateful and stubborn. “It’s not a story. Pearl and I went out a little. We broke up, but we’re still friends.”

“Hell, that’s the Cliffs Notes version.” Reese took a long drink of beer. “They went out for five years. Then Pearl started workin’ up at the Moondancer, and she decided she wanted to catch herself a rich bastard. Now Victor trails around after her like a sick puppy, takin’ the scraps of ass she tosses his way after one of those jackoffs kicks her to the curb.”

Victor scowled silently down at his half-empty glass of beer.

Now she felt bad. Victor was right—these guys were assholes, because that was a sad story that shouldn’t have been subject to their ridicule. “I’m sorry, Victor.”

He only shrugged.

Gabe knew that Pearl was interested in finding a man at the ranch. She’d been far more discreet than other girls, and she wasn’t one to just jump in bed with a guy, but she was fairly forthright about her interest. She wanted away from the ‘two-bit town’ she’d been born in. She wanted a bigger life, but she didn’t know how to make it for herself, so she’d decided that she’d find a man to make it for her.

In the two months that Gabe had worked there, she’d seen Pearl turn her attention to two men, one a New York investment banker, and the other a Hollywood director.

Victor lived in a trailer on the nearby Shoshone reservation and worked on a road construction crew. The comparison, in that regard, was stark, and not in Victor’s favor.

For her part, Pearl shared an apartment with Ellen, above a souvenir shop on Ridge Road.

She could understand Pearl’s need to clear the past from her trail. But Victor was a good guy. Gabe thought the whole thing was sad. She sighed, and Heath’s hand smoothed over her back.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. I just think everybody sticking their nose into other people’s lives sucks. What’s on the outside is never the real truth. Don’t people around here have cable? Or books? Or hobbies?”

She’d spoken so only Heath could hear, and he smiled. “I agree. You have a good heart.”

Missing their exchange, the rest of the table was still giving Victor shit. Reese said, “She’s on Catherine’s side, and you have the Cahill stain on you, buddy. I don’t see her even talkin’ to you right now.”

Gabe felt Heath sigh, but he didn’t say anything.

“How come you can?” Victor asked Reese. “You’re Heath’s friend, too.”

Reese finished his beer and stood. “The Apple Jack Saloon is Switzerland, and I am its president. I don’t choose sides. But the way this thing between Heath and Catherine is goin’, we might have a whole new caliber of fireworks come the Fourth of July.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Jasper Ridge did the Fourth of July up in a big way. For days beforehand, the town was festooned in red, white, and blue bunting and streamers, in glittery stars and flowing stripes. There were little fairs in Jasper Park and on the street each day. Each evening for the whole week, they had bands playing in the gazebo at the center of the park, and fireworks each night.

Gabe had grown up in Santa Fe, which wasn’t exactly a huge metropolis, but it was the capital of New Mexico and probably qualified as a city. It had some office buildings and strip malls, things like that. And its own rich and specific history that many found quaint. To Gabe, though, it had always just simply been the place she’d lived. City events, like the Fourth, had just been things to do, not particularly special.

Jasper Ridge events were full-participation extravaganzas. Only a couple of thousand people named the town as their home, and most of those didn’t actually live within the town limits, but when there was something to celebrate, they all came together to do it. Gabe had been in town for Easter and Memorial Day so far, and as she was actually a part of the preparations for Independence Day, she had come to understand that the town really loved a good party. And this one was an especially big deal.

There was a truce called—a literal truce; Heath, Logan, and their dad had met Catherine at the Jack to agree on it—so that everybody could enjoy the day. Pearl, Ellen, Britnee, and the others came down and helped build floats at the high school for the parade. Whether by accident or intention, Emma, one of the celebration organizers, assigned Pearl and Britnee to the same station as Gabe: making flowers out of mountains of tissue paper.

They came over to the table in the gymnasium warily, as if they expected Gabe to lash out at them. It hurt her feelings, but she smiled. “Hey guys. You on flower duty, too?”

“Looks that way,” said Pearl. “You know what you’re doin’?”

“I got a ten-minute tutorial on fluffing,” Gabe said and pulled layers of tissue apart in her half-finished flower to demonstrate. Britnee barked out a laugh. “What?” Gabe asked, defensive already.

“I’d’ve thought you were great at fluffing by now, sleeping with the cowboy every night.”

Gabe still didn’t understand, but Pearl gave Britnee a look. “Don’t be a hag, Brit. Why don’t you go over there and get some more pipe cleaners. You know what a pipe cleaner is?”

With a dramatic sigh, Britnee sashayed to the supply table, and Pearl turned back to Gabe. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m…I’m sorry I caused all this weirdness.”

“I get it. What were you supposed to do? I mean, if you’d’ve cheated on Heath…”

“It wasn’t about cheating, Pearl. He was trying to rape me.”

“Well, he was drunk. And he always gets his way, so I can see why he was confused.”

“It wasn’t confusing. I told him no. I told him to let me go.”

When Pearl waved off Gabe’s assertion with a ‘let’s agree to disagree’ flip of her hand, Gabe crushed the flower in her fist. But she kept her mouth shut. Since she’d arrived in Jasper Ridge, she’d been the cause of two scenes that were still grinding in the gossip mill—not to mention an actual feud. She didn’t need to start anything more.

She looked around to see if anybody was paying attention to them; nobody was. Britnee wasn’t going to be back with pipe cleaners anytime soon, either. She was flirting with Steve, one of the hands at the Twisted C, and she was working all her moves.

Pearl had more to say, and Gabe focused, trying to repair the damage to the flower—they were a pain to make and she didn’t want to start over—and to remain friendly with Pearl.

“Anyway, things’re a mess up at the ranch. We had a bunch of cancelations. Mr. Cross is telling everybody he knows, and they’re telling everybody they know, and now Catherine is holding back paychecks, and I heard her talking with Mr. Whitt about a loan, and everybody’s scared. I don’t much care about the temps like Britnee, but there’s almost thirty of us work up there full-time, and there’s no jobs down in town for any of us if the Moondancer goes under.” She laid her hands on the tissues she’d been folding and gave Gabe a significant look. “Did you have to hurt him? Maybe if you hadn’t hurt him. Maybe if you apologized for that, he’d back off of Catherine.”

“He was trying to rape me.” The flower was a lost cause by now. It was wilting in her grip.

“But out there by the chuck wagon? He probably wouldn’t’ve done anything. Not really. His wife was right there. His kids. I mean, think about it, Gabe. Don’t you think you might’ve overreacted a little? I mean, it’d be understandable if you had a hair trigger, after what your father did…”

“Go to hell, Pearl. Seriously—you can fuck right off.” Gabe threw the wad of former flower and hit Pearl in the face. Then she stormed out of the gym, feeling every single eye on her back.

So much for not adding grist to the mill.

 

 

*****

 

 

When Heath was feeling especially low or stressed, he saddled up his horse, Maggie May, and rode. So after Gabe got home from the high school, she wasn’t surprised when he showed up not half an hour after her and suggested they take a sundown ride.

He hadn’t even asked her what was wrong; he’d already known. Word had gotten to him almost immediately, and he’d come straight home from his shop, hugged her hard, and said, “Let’s take a ride.”

Riding wasn’t the calming comfort to Gabe that it was to Heath, but she was getting used to the saddle and could ride for a couple of hours before she felt it—which still made her ‘soft,’ according to all the hands at the Twisted C, but was an improvement. Phoebe, the mare that had been intended for Ruthie, had become her horse. She was a sweet girl, and patient with Gabe. Her spotted grey coat was called ‘dapple.’ Gabe had learned a whole new vocabulary since she’d come to Jasper Ridge.

They rode more or less quietly, talking only about the horses or where they were headed, until they’d left sight of the compound. Then, with the horses ambling side by side, Heath turned to Gabe. “You want to talk about what happened?”

Still stinging from the confrontation itself, and feeling sore about Jasper Ridge and its flapping gums, Gabe shrugged. “You obviously already know.”

“Your truth. That’s all I care about.”

She didn’t want to rehash the stupid fight. Instead, she turned and stared hard at him. “If I ask you something that might be hard, will you promise to give me an honest answer?”

He frowned, his brow furrowing under his hat. “Have I ever not been honest?”

“No, it’s just”—she heaved an aggravated breath—“do you think I overreacted? Is all this my fault?”

“Whoa,” he muttered, pulling on the reins. Maggie stopped. “Pull up, Gabe.”

She did.

They’d been walking west, into the lowering sun, which was nearly behind the mountains. When he turned, the brim of his hat slanted shade across his face, and his pale eyes seemed to glow. “Did you tell me what happened? Exactly what happened?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you know damn well you didn’t overreact. He put hands on you.” Maggie shook her head fussily and made a noise like a complaint. Heath shifted his hold on the reins; Gabe saw that his knuckles were nearly white with the force of his grip. “He threatened you. If I’d’ve been there, a swollen sack would’ve been the least of his worries.”

“Nobody believes me.” Her throat tightened as she said the words aloud.

“I believe you, Gabe. And I’m not alone in that. What’s going on at the Moondancer is bad, but it’s Catherine’s fault. She should’ve had a leash on that bastard a long time ago. If he thought the ranch was his own personal petting zoo, it’s because she let him think so.”

“Ever since I got here, all I’ve done is cause people trouble. I just wanted to find somewhere I could be, but it’s like all my crap followed behind me. A thousand-mile shadow. I’m gonna overstay my welcome pretty quick.”

Heath nudged Maggie closer to Phoebe, so that they were nearly touching. He leaned over and rested his hand on Gabe’s thigh. “You listen to me. You have found somewhere to be. You’re with me. I love you.”

She smiled and curled her hand around his. “I love you, too.”

“This town always has some scandal boiling. I’ve been in the soup more than a few times. It always cools off. People find something else to obsess about.”

“What if the Moondancer goes under? Pearl said she heard Catherine asking some guy for a loan.”

A bitter scowl darkened his face for a second, but then he wiped it away and put on a smile instead. “You gossiping?”

She blushed, realizing that that was exactly what she’d done. “God. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I heard about that, too. Like I said, what happens to the Moondancer is Catherine’s problem. If it goes under, we’ll do what we can to help the people who lose their jobs. That’s the good thing about a town like this, with everybody so close they know the brand of your underwear—we might fight each other like crazy, but we pull together, too. And none of it is your fault. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. C’mon. I want to ride into the woods and have my way with you.”

“You took me out here to have sex?”

He only winked and got Maggie moving with a click of his tongue.

Gabe held Phoebe back and watched him ride for a second. Then she let her horse follow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For generations, the Jasper Ridge Founders’ Festival had been the whole year’s highlight. The town had been formally founded on July 4, 1869. The following year, the federal government had declared Independence Day a national holiday, and since then the town’s celebration was bigger than all the other holidays combined. They partied for a week, with music and then fireworks in the town park every evening, a different kind of fair each day, and food and booze aplenty.

And then, on the day of the Fourth itself, they did it all a hundredfold bigger. The Jack ran dollar pints and shots all day, the Lunch Basket offered five-dollar family baskets, Piggie’s BBQ put out trays of wings for the taking. They did a big town parade and crowned their annual Miss Jasper, and the fireworks that night went on for almost an hour—except the one year when Karl Riggs got drunk and upended the works into Jasper Park Pond about ten minutes into the show.

To an outsider, it probably looked like much ado about nothing. The musicians that played were local, the fairs showcased local arts and crafts and talents—the pie and preserve contest was a highlight, as was the Kiddie Rodeo—and the parade floats were all pickups pulling flatbeds festooned with chicken wire and tissue-paper flowers, or horses pulling carts and wagons. Miss Jasper rode to her plywood throne sitting on the back of Ron Webb’s convertible 2005 Mustang.

But to the town, it was a year’s worth of civic love.

The tradition had always been that any antipathies between neighbors, any complaints or grievances, any irritations or disagreements—all of it was tabled for that week of town spirit. For one week, the citizens of Jasper Ridge all remembered they were family and loved each other, no matter what had been going on between them.

Or they pretended as much, anyway.

By the time the Founders’ Festival was underway this year, the town was more divided than Heath could remember—to the point that the Cahill men had met with Catherine to reinforce tradition and agree outright to a truce for the week.

Catherine had arrived at the Jack for that meeting with Denny Whitt, setting off warning bells in Cahill heads, though nothing more had yet come from those strange land buys Whitt had made in the spring. Whitt was on Catherine’s side of the dispute, however, and helping her keep the Moondancer afloat. There had to be an upside for him; Whitt wasn’t the kind who helped anybody out of the goodness of his heart.

Heath couldn’t afford to spend much of his mind on the puzzle of Denny Whitt; he left that to his father and Logan. His head was consumed with anger and concern on Gabe’s behalf. That anybody could have been on Catherine’s side, that anybody could have seen what had happened to Gabe as anything but an outrage, made his blood boil, and the town seemed evenly divided on the matter. That was a whole lot of people Heath wanted to hurt.

And then, the day before, she’d been driven from the float-making squad at the gym by people wanting her to take the blame for being attacked.

If she hadn’t been an outsider, the story would have been different. At the least, there would have been a lot fewer people on Catherine’s side. But Catherine was a local girl, a town daughter who’d done well and hired other locals, and a lot of people saw her sudden struggles with the ranch as the fault of an outsider who didn’t know how things worked.

Everywhere he went, people stopped talking and started staring when he came in, and it had to have been worse for Gabe. He was used to it, he’d dealt with it for years, but she was young and innocent. She’d tried to find somewhere she could have a life that wasn’t shaped by what had happened to her, and all she’d found was a place where more shit had happened, and all of it was common knowledge.

Not knowledge—rumor. Gabe was absolutely right that what people thought they knew was almost never what was actually true.

If he could have beaten every single mouth that spilled shit about her, he would have. Maybe he should have beaten Richard Cross after all. Starting there might have ended it there.

No. It would have made things even worse. But Heath was having a hard time holding his shit together now. He couldn’t just turn off his anger because it was Founders’ Week, and seeing how isolated Gabe felt, even when she was being superficially included, only made him angrier. Not even Emma’s influence was enough of a buffer.

Everything he did to try to help her—move her in with him, help her buy a little SUV, take her to walk around the Boise community college campus and register for fall classes, enlist Emma to get her involved in organizing the Founders’ Week stuff—it all seemed to make Gabe tentative and wary, each day a little more.

She was loving and sweet and grateful, but he didn’t want her gratitude. He wanted her happiness. Instead, that old, haunted look edged her eyes, and, except when they were alone together, she almost seemed to hide behind him.

She was strong and resolute, and she put on a decent show, but he saw it anyway, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

Walking around with her on the Fourth, studying her every chance he could without her realizing it, he saw the melancholy behind her smile. And he saw the sidelong looks around them. Setting aside differences for the week hadn’t stopped some people—too many—from sneering and whispering.

Before they’d become a couple, Gabe had started making a home here, finding friends. And now she was that troublemaker from away who’d sicced her boyfriend on a harmless guest and put dear Catherine’s livelihood—and her employees’—at risk. With each new telling of the story, Gabe became more unreasonable, Heath more violent, Cross more harmless, and Catherine more victimized.

Pretty soon, he was going to prove them right, at least where he was concerned.

On the Fourth, they stood outside the Jack and watched the parade. Gabe was quiet, smiling with calm rigidity. All day, she’d been like that, assiduously ignoring the stares and murmurs, always saying hello to the people they passed, clapping and cheering and laughing along with others as appropriate, but all of that pleasantness seemed locked onto her face.

Heath stood behind her, one arm hooked around her waist, keeping her close, keeping her steady. In his other hand, he held a plastic pint cup of beer. He’d lost track of how many pints he’d had, but beer didn’t have much of an effect on him. He only felt it a little, just a warmth in his joints, a calmness he needed.

Gabe was drinking more freely than he’d seen before. He’d never seen her drunk or anything more than a bit tipsy, but she’d taken a fresh beer almost every time he had, and she was obviously feeling it much more than he was. She was half his size, too. He’d been watching, hoping the alcohol would relax her, let her have an actual good day, make that smile on her face real, but the only effect he’d noticed was an extra carefulness about her movements, like she had to aim.

The Moondancer Ranch float rolled by, with Catherine in full Dale Evans regalia—a bright red embroidered western shirt, dark jeans, red boots, and a white Stetson with red feathers—standing front and center, waving, a broad smile on her face. Pearl Wilkes and Ellen Emerson were perched up there with her, also in their western finery. A few of the ranch hands walked alongside the float, doing rope tricks.

When Catherine met Heath’s eyes, she stopped waving—dropped her hand abruptly and erased the smile from her face. But she didn’t look away. She stared for a beat, then dropped her eyes to Gabe. Heath noticed that Pearl and Ellen had stopped waving, too. Everybody on the float had gone still and was staring.

And everybody on the sidelines had noticed and turned their attention in the same direction. The whole fucking town, it seemed, was staring at Gabe now, in contempt or in curiosity, depending on which side they’d fallen in the feud.

When they could no longer hold eye contact, Catherine and the others resumed their smiles and waves. Gabe stood pat until the float, moving at a fucking snail’s pace, finally passed out of their line of sight. Then she spun in his arms and buried her face against his chest. He’d had to grab her to keep her upright; the swift motion had obviously made her dizzy.

So much for a truce. He wanted people to pay.

Ignoring the people around them, he finished his beer and tossed the plastic cup into a nearby bin. “C’mon, little one. Let’s go home.”

He pulled her away from the crowd, and she came willingly, but then she stopped and looked up at him. She was obviously tired, and that fake smile was gone. “No. Anya and Kendall have their thing this afternoon. We can’t leave before that.”

His niece and nephew were both participating in the Kiddie Rodeo, which had events for very young kids, like Anya, who had her pony entered in an agility competition, and kids a little older, like Kendall, who was riding his gelding in an egg and spoon race. Older kids, up to age fourteen, did some more polished stunt and agility riding. It wasn’t really a rodeo, and Heath had no objection to the harmless and fun events.

He really needed to be there for the kids. But Gabe didn’t. “I’ll take you home, then come back out in time to see them.”

She frowned, and he didn’t know what he’d said. Then she told him: “You don’t want me there?”

Suddenly, she was sobbing.

At first, he was too surprised to know what to do. Gabe wasn’t closed-off like he was, but neither was she normally effusive with her emotions. He pulled her close. “Ah, Gabe, of course I want you there. I want you with me everywhere. Let’s go inside. We’ll sit and have a drink. Maybe get Reese to fix us something to eat.” Food was probably a good idea—she seemed more drunk than he’d even thought.

Still crying, she shook her head. “I’m not-not h-h-hungry!”

Keeping her under the shelter of his arms, her head pressed to his shirt, he led her into the Jack.

For the Fourth, Reese put up a temporary bar on the parking lot that served the Jack’s cheap pints and shots, so the saloon itself was dark and quiet. Reese, who had always hated Founders’ Week, stayed inside behind his real bar and served those people who wanted to get away from the frivolity for a spell.

His attention devoted to Gabe, Heath didn’t make note of anyone else inside. Vaguely, as he ushered her to the bar and sat her down, he recognized that the place was almost, but not completely, empty, but there was no one at the bar itself except Reese, leaning on his elbows, snacking from the garnish tray.

He stood up as Heath eased Gabe onto a stool. “Everything okay? What’s the matter, dumplin’?”

Reese called every woman he felt friendly affection for ‘dumplin’,’ but at this moment, in Heath’s heightened sense of protection and aggravation, the word sounded too familiar, and he glared at his friend.

Before he could say something, Gabe swiped at her cheeks, shook her head, and plastered that stiff smile onto her face. “I’m okay. Just…maybe I’m drunk.”

Reese reached across the bar and squeezed her arm. “This is gonna pass, Gabe. They’ll find something else to be mad about soon enough. You want a sandwich? Tuna on toast?”

“Okay, thanks.” Gabe sucked in and released the shaky breath that said she was finding her level.

“Make it two,” Heath said. “And water. Bourbon for me.”

“You got it.” After he’d poured their drinks, Reese went back to the kitchen.

“Sorry,” Gabe muttered when they were alone at the bar. “It just got to be too much for a second. It was dumb to drink today. My head is sideways.” She wasn’t slurring her words, but she was articulating them with a bit more precision than usual. Still, he felt reassured that she wasn’t too far gone.

Heath poured the glass of bourbon down his throat, and Gabe gave him a look that was almost wry. She had suggested more than once that he drank a lot. He had assured her that he drank only enough.

He returned a smile and rubbed his hand over her back. “It’s keeping me calm, little one. I’m steady. Worried about you, though.”

“I’m okay. I just needed a break from it. It’s hard to pretend like it doesn’t bother me.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. Tell you what—let’s stay in here until it’s time to go to the park for the kids. We’ll sit and eat, maybe have a lesson playing pool.” He wiggled his eyebrows, and she laughed—a true, full laugh—and leaned on his shoulder.

“Thank you. I love you.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Gabe breathed a sultry chuckle against his cheek and tipped her head, taking her lips from his. “If I’m ever going to learn this game, I think somebody else is going to have to teach me.”

With his hands grasping her hips, Heath rocked against her, letting her feel his need. She moaned, and the sound pulled its husky echo from his chest. “Anybody even offers, I’ll break their hands.”

“Tsk, tsk. So violent.” She smiled and brushed a finger over his bottom lip. He sucked it into his mouth and watched as her tongue peeked out in response and wet her lips.

After that one glass of water, Gabe had reverted to beer, and as she’d eased and found some enjoyment in the day, Heath was glad to keep them coming. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with drink and arousal. She was relaxed and happy. His cock strained against his jeans. He was just about beyond caring that they were in public. Technically, at least.

In the hour or so since they’d come into the shelter of the Jack, they’d had the place almost entirely to themselves, with the exceptions of a couple of tables across the room and the random stumbler-in seeking the restroom.

Denny Whitt sat alone at one of those tables, and had been since they’d come in, but Heath had decided to put anything but Gabe and his family out of his head for the rest of the day, so he tried hard to ignore him. After a couple more glasses of bourbon and his share of their pitcher of beer, he’d finally arrived at a place of not giving a weak fuck about Denham Whitt or any other rattlesnake in town.

Especially not with Gabe sitting on the side of the pool table, her legs around his hips.

“Damn, I want you so bad,” he murmured and bent down to kiss the spot just under her ear, the place where his lips never failed to make her pulse quicken, right where he could feel it happen. A faint scar crossed her throat, starting there and traveling almost to the front. She no longer covered it with the black leather choker; the only necklace she ever wore now was her mother’s crucifix.

Her arms twisted around his head and held him in place, and she leaned back until her shoulders touched the table, bringing him down with her.

His erection was pressed so hard against her pubic bone that he thought he might end up bruised, and he could tell—by the way her chest heaved into his with every inhale, the way each exhale left on a whimper, the way her legs were locked around him—that she would let him do whatever he wanted. Whether she’d forgotten where they were or just didn’t care, she was wholeheartedly open to him. She was naturally private and reserved, so Heath knew it was the alcohol at work.

He’d wanted her to relax, and she finally had. Too much.

He knew he was drunk, too, when he realized how close he was to taking advantage of that fact.

Groaning, he backed off, forcing himself to ignore her whimpering, writhing, ready body. He reached back and took hold of her arms, prying them from around his neck. She fought him, wearing a pouty little frown, but she didn’t even sit back up.

“We gotta stop. We’ll pick this up when we’re home, okay?” In fact, he should take her home now; she was too drunk to deal with the rest of the day. But Heath did not drive if he’d had more than two drinks in the past two hours. He felt okay, just warm and loose, but his lack of restraint only moments before told him he was not in full control.

He’d had a vivid and agonizing object lesson on the evils of driving drunk.

Still standing at the side of the pool table, Gabe’s legs still wrapped around him as she lay on the red felt like an offering, Heath pulled out his phone and texted his brother: At the Jack. Drunk. Need a ride home. ASAP.

Logan had main charge of the ranch work these days, and he always kept his phone on and close. He texted back in seconds: 5 minutes. All OK?

He looked down at Gabe. Her eyes were closed, and her legs had gone slack around him; she seemed to have fallen asleep. Yeah. Thanks, he texted back.

It was his intention to sit with her and let her sleep until Logan showed up, then carry her out to his truck. He unhooked her heels and put her legs down, letting them dangle against the side of the table. Then he turned, meaning to snag a chair and pull it close.

Brandon Black stood not two feet behind him.

He took a protective step backward, toward Gabe, and set a hand on her leg. That made no sense; Black had never been violent to women, and even in the deepest hole of his grief and rage, Heath had recognized that what Black had done was negligence and cowardice, not malice, but still he felt a mammoth surge of protective instinct push through his veins, so big and so fast that he thought he might have literally swelled.

“You want to get the holy fuck out of my sight right now, Brandon. Right. Now.”

Black didn’t move, except to weave a little on his feet. “Won’t you ever let up, Heath? I made a mistake. I live with it every day.”

He was drunk out of his head, and his tongue had clocked out for the day some time before. If Heath hadn’t known him so well and been around him drunk so often, he might not have understood any word of what he’d said.

“If you don’t back off NOW, I will break your jaw for you again.” His fists were ready. He had a mountain of stress and anger he’d been standing on; beating the shit out of Black again would do a lot to clear it out of his way.

“I don’t need to be friends. I know I can’t ask that. But you won’t even take my apology.”

Heath cocked his arm back, but Reese was there, grabbing on, holding him back. “C’mon. Not here again. Take a breath and let it go. It’s the Fourth, man.”

“Brandon. Come on, son. Come sit back down.” Denny Whitt had shown up in the middle of things. He stood just in front of Brandon, facing Heath. “Nobody wants to turn Independence Day into a melee, right?”

With Reese still holding him back, Heath watched as Whitt took Black’s arm and led him to his table on the other side of the room. There were baskets of food and empty glasses at the table, as if those two had been just hanging out together all afternoon. Heath had been so wrapped up in Gabe he hadn’t noticed Black come in.

He always noticed when Black was near.

“He’s calling him ‘son’? What are they doing together?” Heath asked, not expecting an answer.

“Whitt gave him a job,” Reese answered. “They’ve been in a couple of times, past week or so.”

Yanking his arm from his friend’s grasp, Heath wheeled around. “And you didn’t fucking tell me?”

Reese barely blinked at Heath’s outburst. “Buddy, you have been on edge worse since the Moondancer thing than you’ve been the past couple of years. And I gotta say, you ain’t been the picture of calm in a damn long time. So sue me for not wantin’ to add to your reasons to lose your shit.”

Logan came in just then, and he noticed Whitt and Black sitting together, but he didn’t show any surprise. He came over and cocked his eyebrow at Heath and Reese.

“Somethin’ wrong? You two look about ready to go at it.”

With a final scowl at his friend, Heath shook it off. “No. We’re good. I need to get Gabe home.”

Logan turned that cocked eyebrow to the pool table. “Yeah, I’d say you do.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath carried his passed-out girl out of the Jack. The air was redolent of horse manure—as usual, many of the beasts of the parade had left steaming mementos behind. The parade was long over, and the celebration had moved to the park, so there were far fewer people around, though a small crowd had decided that the cheap shots and pints were the highlight of the event.

He wanted to let her stretch out on the back seat with her head on his lap, so he stood at the side of the truck while Logan cleaned his crap out of the back and tossed it into his truck box.

As Logan climbed in behind the wheel, Heath lay Gabe on the seat. He was about to get in himself, when that radar for Black, which almost never missed, blipped, and he swiveled his head as he climbed into the truck.

Black was shuffling across the parking lot.

Heath froze and watched as Black fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

Heath slid back out and stood at the open truck door.

From behind the wheel, his brother said, “Heath?”

Black’s truck honked, and again, and again, and the lights flashed as Black pushed the locking button on his fob. Finally, he got it right, the lights flashed again, and he pawed at the door handle until the driver’s door opened.

“Oh, that piece of shit. Jesus motherfucking Christ,” Heath muttered.

No, that asshole was not driving drunk. Leaving the door open behind him, Heath charged across the parking lot. He grabbed the door out of Black’s hand and ripped it open, then reached in and took two fistfuls, one of shirt and the other of Black’s long hair, and yanked the yelping motherfucker out of his truck.

“I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU! RIP YOU APART WITH MY BARE HANDS!” he roared, and commenced doing exactly that. Black was too drunk to get any kind of defense up.

A crowd gathered almost at once; Heath was foggily aware of it as their circling bodies changed the light around him. But nobody stopped him—or he didn’t realize that anyone was trying until his hands ached viciously and he heard Logan shouting his name from some point far away.

When he heard that, it broke into whatever fugue he’d been in, and Logan and somebody else—oh, Steve, one of their hands at the ranch—managed to pull him back.

“That’s enough, little brother. That’s enough.”

“He was in his goddamn truck. He meant to drive,” Heath growled, panting, by way of explanation.

“I know.” To somebody else, Logan said, “Go in and get Reese.” It must have been Steve he’d spoken to, because Heath felt two hands leave him. Logan continued, “And somebody deal with that bastard. Anybody gonna stop me taking my brother home?”

Apparently, the answer was no, because Logan hooked his arm firmly over Heath’s shoulders—no easy feat, since Heath was the taller brother—and led him back to his truck.

Gabe was up, standing about halfway between Logan’s truck and Black’s. She’d seen or heard, or both, enough to have that awful, wide-eyed look about her, the one that said she was afraid of him. Her hair was mussed, and she rocked on her feet. What must the scene have looked like to her inebriated mind?

“What happened?”

He reached his hand out to her. When her eyes, hazy with drink, flared even wider at the sight, Heath glanced down and saw the blood dripping from his fingers. He dropped his hand to his side. “I’m sorry, little one. Please don’t be afraid.”

Logan let Heath go and went to Gabe. “It’s okay, Gabe.”

When she looked up at his brother, her eyes focused and grew calm, and Heath felt a nearly undeniable impulse to punch Logan in the face. But she turned those calmer eyes on him, then, and smiled—a hesitant smile, too obviously brave, but better than that fearful doe look.

He wiped his bloody hand on his jeans and held it out to her again, and this time she took it, carefully, wrapping her hand around his fingers, avoiding his knuckles.

“Let’s go home.”

“But the rodeo,” Gabe protested. If she’d remembered that, she was sobering up at least a little, then.

“Do you really want to go to the park now, Gabe?”

She looked past him, back to the scene. Heath didn’t bother to turn around to see. Then she shifted her eyes back to his and shook her head. “No. I want to go home.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gabe was quiet on the ride back to the ranch. They all were, in fact. Nobody spoke until Logan pulled up in front of Heath’s porch and said, “You want me to talk to Dad tonight?”

Normally, Heath’s answer would have been no, he would have wanted to speak to their father himself. But Gabe was his priority tonight. He met his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, thanks. We’ll come over early in the morning, and I’ll talk to him before breakfast.” Tomorrow was Sunday. The big family breakfast would either have lively conversation or seething silence this week.

“Okay. You gotta find a way to get right with Brandon bein’ in town, little brother. He’s not leaving. He’s working with Whitt now and—”

“Wait. You knew?”

“Yeah. He’s just doing ranch work. Low-level shit. But he sees it as protection for himself, and he wants to stay close to his mom.”

“Why not stay on the rez, then? And why the hell is Whitt taking one of his damn hands out to lunch?”

He was ramping up again; he could feel it, and he could hear it. Gabe, sitting with him in the back seat, staring at her lap, flinched. With his arm around her, he felt it almost as strongly as if it had been his own movement. He forced air to move slowly into his body and back out.

“Sorry. Okay. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. Tell the kids we’re sorry we missed the rodeo.”

Gabe flinched again, more subtly, and Heath felt his heart getting torn to shreds by all the ways he was making her unhappy in such a short space of time.

“I will. I’ll have Steve bring your truck back, too.”

“Thanks.” He opened the door and got out. The sun rested on the peaks of the mountains, but as far as Heath was concerned, the day was done. “C’mon, Gabe. Let’s go in and put an end to this shitty day.”

“Bye, Logan. Thanks for the ride.” With an almost-real smile for his brother, Gabe took Heath’s hand and climbed out of the truck.

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath closed the door as Gabe sat on the stool to pull off her boots. She dropped them in a heap next to the boot shelf and then simply sat there, staring at nothing.

The adrenaline of the fight with—no, the beating of—Black had pushed the effects of the booze out of his blood. He was exhausted, but he was sober as a judge.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to be.

For now, though, he crouched before Gabe and picked up her hands. “I’m sorry about…hell, more shit than I can name. But for right now, I’m sorry I scared you. I will never hurt you, Gabe. I swear.”

She turned their hands so that his knuckles were on top. His right hand was torn up and swelling noticeably, and his left didn’t look much better. He’d always been one to hit his target’s face. He knew the conventional wisdom that body blows were safer for the hitter, that the face was hard and full of sharp objects, but the fact was, when he threw a punch, he was angry. He wasn’t boxing; he was fighting. Bashing somebody’s face in was more satisfying.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, almost too softly for Heath to hear.

He leaned in close. “What don’t you understand, little one?”

She only shook her head. When she tried to pull her hands from his and stand up, Heath held her in place.

“What don’t you understand?”

“Anything,” she sighed. “I’m too drunk for this conversation. I’m tired. And I smell like beer and horseshit.”

He couldn’t decide how drunk she truly yet was. Her speech sounded nearly normal, though her tone was weary and dejected. Her eyes focused readily, but that look he hated had taken them over.

Heath was suddenly seriously worried. Whatever she was feeling, it went deeper than the shitty day. He knew if he let it, it would come between them.

There was no way on earth he would sit back and lose her. So the day wasn’t over. He needed to find a way to salvage it, to give them something good before they called the day done.

“Will you let me draw you a bath?”

She met his eyes, and they held like that for several long seconds. Heath tried to read her love in hers and tried to send his love through his.

Finally, she smiled, just a little, but real. “That would be nice.”

 

 

*****

 

 

The morning after Gabe had moved in, before he’d gone up to the Moondancer and caused all manner of trouble up there, Heath had gone over to his sister’s and asked her to take Gabe out and do some shopping. That damn little duffel bag she’d lugged everywhere drove him crazy, holding everything she owned in the world. He wanted her to have things. Not because the things themselves were so important, but because you couldn’t settle in anywhere if everything you could call your own fit in a three-foot long nylon duffel. You had to spread out before you could grow roots.

They’d both known Gabe well enough already to know that she’d resist the idea. She’d been saving up her money for a car, and she wouldn’t spend it on anything she didn’t consider essential. No more than she would sit back and let Emma buy it for her. So Heath and Emma had sat down at her kitchen counter that morning and made up a list of things Emma thought were important, and she said she’d shop for those things herself and pay attention to where Gabe’s eyes and hands landed while they did.

When he’d come back to the ranch that evening, he’d stopped by his sister’s first. She’d made up a basket of the things she’d bought for Gabe, ranging from a surprisingly ornate silver picture frame to a coffee mug, to towels in a soft yellow and white stripe, to a set of smelly bath stuff—a candle and a few bottles of stuff. And a tooled-leather journal.

Heath had given Gabe the basket first, hoping the gifts would soften the blow of the news he had about what he’d done up at the Moondancer, something she had directly asked him not to do.

They hadn’t. And she’d been a little mad about the gifts, too. But she’d set the frame out on the nightstand on what had become her side of the bed, and a few days later, there was a photo in it of the two of them, one he hadn’t even known had been taken. She used the coffee mug every morning, and she’d washed and set out the towels. As far as he knew, she hadn’t started using the journal, but maybe that was just private.

As for the smelly stuff, she used it a lot, and it wasn’t as bad as he’d feared. It wasn’t flowery or anything, and he kind of liked it himself. Sandalwood.

Alone in the bathroom, after he cleaned up the mess of his hands—they looked a little less awful once the blood was gone—Heath drew a hot bath and squeezed some of the sandalwood bubble oil into the water, under the running faucet. While the tub filled, he lit the candle and set it on the window sill.

The sun had dipped below the mountains, so they were in that dusky stage before true sundown, when the whole ranch was in shadow but the tops of the trees still glowed bright gold. Heath stood at the window and took in the view, flexing his hands absently, working out their ache.

Before Gabe, he’d been drowning in his own misery for years, but before he’d lost Ruthie, he’d been happy. For his whole life. He loved his family, he loved the ranch, he loved the town. Even his fury and sense of betrayal at Sybil’s infidelity had only been a surface scratch; in the very midst of it, he’d known he’d recover and be happy again, because he had his family. He’d had his little girl.

And then he hadn’t, and the world had turned dark and desolate.

Gabe had brought him back from that. Just—Jesus, just coming into town, she’d woken him up. She’d brought sunlight back, like she’d carried it with her in that damn duffel bag. Now he had her, he knew her, he loved her. She loved him. He could feel happiness tickling the tips of his fingers, so close he could almost catch hold.

But she wasn’t happy. She needed a home, and all he’d been able to give her was a place to live.

“The tub’s going to run over.”

“Shit.”

Gabe’s voice had yanked him out of his musing, and he stepped over and shut off the water. The bubbles were heaped about a foot higher than the edge of the tub. He dipped his hand down until he found the water level—about two inches from the rim. Too full for a person, but fuck it. The tile would wipe up.

He turned to Gabe, who stood in the doorway, naked. Christ, she was beautiful. Her body had changed a bit since he’d first seen her naked; there was new definition in her arms and legs, the result of riding Phoebe regularly.

Heath was glad he’d raised the filly even after Ruthie was gone, because she and Gabe made a good pair.

Though he was instantly hard at the sight of her, he didn’t mean the bath to be anything but relaxing for her. He went over and set his hands on her hips. “It’s ready to go. You want a thing to put your hair up?”

She shook her head. Tendrils swept lightly back and forth over her dark little nipples. Damn.

He cleared his throat. “Okay. I’ll leave you to it. You want me to bring you in some water or juice?”

“Wait.” She picked up his right hand and brushed her thumb over his scraped knuckles—her touch stung a little, but he wouldn’t have stopped her even if it had felt like fire. “Will you wash me?”

Gabe very much enjoyed a soaking bath. In fact, if her hair had been more manageable, she might have taken only baths. He’d washed her a few times, and every time it had been, or become, foreplay.

“Are you sure you want me to?”

There was no hesitation in her nod. So he swept her into his arms and set her into the tub. The water sloshed over the side and wet his jeans. When she was settled, he discarded his clothes as quickly as he could, then reached for one of her yellow-and-white washcloths and the sea sponge that had also been in Emma’s basket.

She rested against the sloped side of the big tub, flipping her hair so it dangled over the side. With her eyes closed, she breathed deep, and Heath knelt on the mat beside the tub and sank the sponge through the bubbles, into the water, and let it fill to sopping.

The bubbles obscured his view of her lovely body, and he brushed a mound of them to the other side of the tub. He washed her gently, running the sponge over her shoulders, down her arms, across her chest, her belly, her legs. Though he was hard as steel, achingly hard, he avoided the parts of her that would lead them in other directions. He didn’t know how drunk she still was, or how scared—even now. She was too withdrawn for him to know.

As he held her leg in his hands and smoothed the sponge over her calf, she asked, “How is it different?”

He looked back to her face, but she hadn’t opened her eyes. Her expression was relaxed. “How is what different?”

“What you did to Brandon Black, and what my father did to my family.”

If she’d jumped up and hit him, he wouldn’t have been more surprised—or hurt. He dropped her leg and the sponge, and their splash hit him in the face and chest. “What?”

She opened her eyes and answered in no other way.

“Jesus, Gabe. You think I’m like your father?” His heart raced and his head roared. How could she think such a thing?

“Tell me how you’re not.”

“Tell me why you could think I am!” He stood and grabbed his jeans, far too shocked and vulnerable to continue this discussion naked. He stuffed his legs into the denim and shoved his—now completely soft—cock in, but didn’t bother to close the fly.

“Why do you keep beating him up so bad?”

The worst thing was how calm her voice was, how collected. Like she was simply curious. But this was why she’d looked so scared when she’d seen him on Black: she saw her father in him. A mass murderer. Who’d tried to kill her, too.

“He let my daughter die in a fire. He ran away and left her and my wife to burn alive. He killed my little girl. I know I’m not reasonable about him, but it’s just him. And he deserves it.”

“You were yelling that you were going to kill him. Over and over, you said it. Does he deserve to die?”

Heath didn’t remember yelling anything after he’d gotten started with the beating, but he knew that if Logan and Steve hadn’t pulled him off, he wouldn’t have stopped until his arms gave out. “Yes. He does. He let Ruthie burn to death. Gabe, my God.”

She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. “You’re angry. He ruined your life. Caused you terrible pain. I understand all of that. He’s an awful person. My dad would have said the same about my grandparents and my mom—not with the same cause, but with the same certainty. My dad didn’t shoot up a random restaurant. He wasn’t trying to be a killer. He was after revenge. He wanted to make the people who hurt him pay. He wanted a justice he thought he deserved and couldn’t get anywhere else. He lost sight of everything but that, and I got caught up in it.”

Obviously, she wasn’t drunk anymore. What she’d said made a horrible, overwhelming kind of sense, and Heath reeled back until he hit the wall, then slid down into a crouch. He bent his head low; he couldn’t risk meeting her eyes.

“Am I going to get caught up in your justice, Heath?”

“Shut up, Gabe. Shut up, shut up.” He covered his ears with his hands like a child.

“I need to know. I need to find somewhere I can feel safe.” At last, emotion had entered her voice, and Heath hazarded a glance in her direction again. Big brown eyes, haunted but resolute, stared back. “I love you, but you make me afraid.”

“I’m sorry.” Grief and shock had made his muscles taut, and the words came out with little more than breath to impel them. “God. I don’t want you to be scared. I will never hurt you. You are safe with me. I swear. I swear. On Ruthie’s memory, I swear.”

He wanted that alone, his most solemn promise, to convince her, but her expression didn’t change. “You look like him when you’re beating Black. There’s a thing that happens in your eyes and on your face. It happened to him, too. I don’t think you’d know if you hurt me until later.” She sighed and swept a mound of wilting bubbles up to cover her breasts. “Even if you never touch me, you could hurt me. It would hurt most if you killed him and spent the rest of your life in prison, away from me.”

Hearing cause for hope in her latest words, but still staggered from shocks coming from all directions in what she’d said before them, in the flaying truth of all that she’d said before, Heath crawled back to the tub. He slid a hand under her hair, around her neck, and he leaned in, bringing his face close to hers, staring hard into her eyes. “I’ll leave him alone. From now on. I’m not your father, Gabe. I won’t hurt you. I won’t leave you. I promise you. Please believe me.”

Her eyes searched his until Heath thought he’d lose his mind. “Okay.”

It wasn’t enough. He needed it said again. “I swear. You are safe with me.”

Her hand came out of the dying bubbles and cupped his cheek. “I believe you.”

If his body hadn’t been as tight as steel cables, he might have wept. Instead, he closed the last few inches between them and kissed her.

She was with him at once, hooking her arms over his neck, opening her mouth wide, luring his tongue into her mouth. He leaned in more, wrapping her warm, wetly silky body, fragrant with sandalwood oil, in his arms until her breasts were crushed to his chest and the side of the tub dug into his belly.

“Get in with me,” she gasped, but didn’t let him go. Instead, she leaned back, trying to drag him in herself.

“Hold up, hold up.” Without making her let him go, he leaned back himself, drawing her forward, and worked his way out of the jeans he’d yanked on in distress.

He still felt that distress, coiling through his blood like the last wisps of smoke rising from a dying forest fire. His heart slammed against his eardrums, and he couldn’t catch his breath. Gabe had turned a black, fathomless mirror on him, and the murky image he’d seen rising up at him scared him nearly witless.

When he was bare again, he reclaimed her mouth and let her pull him into the tub.

Usually, Gabe wanted him to sit behind her when they bathed together, but this time, she pulled him in facing her. It wasn’t uncomfortable; Heath was tall, and he enjoyed a soaking bath himself from time to time, especially after a long ride, so he’d installed the biggest clawfoot tub he could find, with a side-filling faucet. On his own in here, he could submerge to his chest and still stretch his legs out. The tub was wider than most as well. It was quite accommodating of guests.

As soon as his ass hit the bottom of the tub, Gabe came forward, pushing him to lean back, and straddled him, setting her knees on the bottom, alongside his hips. They were still kissing ravenously, and he thought nothing of her self-assertion—nothing except the relief and oddly painful joy of having her so eagerly with him after that horrible talk, and the always powerfully arousing sensation of her skin on his. He slid his hands up her slick back and tangled his fingers in her mass of damp curls until he had fistfuls, then pulled her head back and latched his mouth onto the side of her throat, just under her ear.

She moaned and flexed—and he felt her slide over his cock, hot and wet with more than bath water and bubble oil. His hips jerked, hard and automatically, and his tip pushed in.

Throwing his head back in need and frustration and all the other crazy feelings caroming through his brain, he gritted out, “Shit, shit, shit.”

But Gabe flexed again, and he went in farther. Her eyes, locked on his, flared wide and then fluttered closed as she flexed again, with more obvious intent, and he filled her completely.

Oh, so long since he’d been bareback inside a woman. Her heat enveloped him, consumed him. She felt like…he didn’t even know. Like every good thing he’d ever touched. Like home. Like love.

But this was dangerous territory, especially after everything about this fucking day.

“Gabe. What are you—we—what…” He couldn’t form the question. With effort, he managed to force out, “Condom.”

Her eyes still locked with his, her hands grasping his shoulders, she shook her head. “I don’t care.”

“What?”

“I don’t care if it happens. I need this right now, and I don’t care if it happens.” She rocked her hips, and as the bolt of need shot through him, he dropped his hands from her hair to grab her hips and hold them in place. He could feel strands he’d pulled out coiled around his fingers.

He wanted to make her pregnant. It wasn’t even the first time he’d had the thought. But she was twenty-one years old, and, though she’d obviously sobered up, neither of them was currently in a state to be making any big decisions.

Reason was hard to come by for Heath just at the moment, but he tried to marshal up enough to protect her. “This feels fucking amazing, Gabe. But you can’t take a risk that’ll change your life just for this good feeling. If you want this, we’ll get you on some birth control, and we’ll have it. Just not right now.”

She traced a finger over the arc of his scar. “It’s not a risk. Unless you don’t want it. I want to make a family.”

“You just said you were afraid of me. You said I was like your father. Now you want to make a baby?” It was all he could do to keep the conversation going, to lay rational thinking out between them while her pussy clenched around him and her mouth said things he wanted to hear.

“And you promised me you weren’t. You swore you wouldn’t hurt me. You swore you’d stop. I believe you.”

“Just like that?”

“Did you lie?”

“No.”

“Do you want it?”

“Yes.”

She smiled—beautiful and real. “Then shut up and fuck me.”

He knew he should tell her no. He was older and wiser. He knew better. He was the one who’d let his pain warp him into something she feared. He could hurt her, despite his solemn vow and his wholehearted intent to keep it all his life. Even if they were ready so quickly to make this choice, now was not the time to make it.

But staring into her gorgeous eyes, free in that moment of haunted age and full of love, he couldn’t be older or wiser. He couldn’t be better. He could only need. And love.

He let go of her hips and buried his hands into her hair again. As she began to rock, he let her set their pace while he devoted himself to tasting all he could reach of her, sucking her lips, nipping her jaw, drawing his tongue down the sweep of her throat. When he caught a tight, dark nipple into his mouth and pulled it between his teeth, she arched back like a dancer, offering her body to him. He let go of her hair and took hold of her breasts instead, working one with his fingers and the other with his mouth, moving back and forth, taking all she offered.

The change of her position shifted his path inside her, and he obviously now struck an especially good place, because her nearly languid, rolling thrusts became abrupt and emphatic, and soon she let loose a stream of short, loud grunts that echoed off the tiles and filled the room.

As always, her arousal aroused him, her climb pulled him with her, her climax brought him to the brink of his. When she went over, her silky body tensed on him, around him, pulsing, milking him so hard he had to bite down on his lip to let her finish.

It was often said that simultaneous orgasm was the holy grail of good sex, but Heath had never agreed. It was good, no question, and it was rare, sure. But what he loved better was this—when he could just barely hold his back until the moment her body first began to relax, and then could turn his efforts to his own finish. At least with Gabe, he could prolong her climax, sometimes even find another peak for her, and her body pulsing around his all the way through—nothing was more intense.

When Gabe made the little gasping whine that was the sound of her last throe, Heath closed her up in his arms and bent forward, laying her back on his lap, moving her body on him as he rocked his hips off the bottom of the tub. Water sloshed wildly, splashing all over the floor. Gabe’s eyes flew open and she cried out.

It was only seconds before he was done, shouting at the ceiling as he went off inside her. When he fell back against the tub, he pulled her with him, and she flopped onto his chest, gasping. Her hair went every which way, and he brushed it from both of their faces.

This was more than they’d ever felt before—closer, hotter, more electrifying. The condom wasn’t the only barrier missing between them. The buzz saw of emotions had flayed them raw. Heath realized that, torturous as it had been to hear it, Gabe had given him something important when she’d asked him to show her how he was different from her father. She had given him her trust. She’d shared her fear and trusted him to ease it.

“I love you,” she whispered, her lips moving on his chest.

“Always, little one.”

“And forever.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath leaned against the propped pillows and watched Gabe sleep. They’d spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening in bed, even eating dinner on the sheets. He’d come inside her twice more, before she’d finally simply fallen asleep during their last post-coital cuddle. Now she lay beside him in her most frequent sleeping position: on her stomach, her hands under her pillow, the leg nearest the side of the bed cocked. Many times, he’d woken and gotten something going by sliding his hand over her ass and into her pussy, so open and inviting in this position.

She often had bad dreams, and she talked in her sleep, so he knew they were about her father. They weren’t always about what he’d done, though. Sometimes the words she said seemed silly and mundane, but the dreams always ended with her distress.

He knew something about bad dreams and how they got tangled up with memories—good memories as well as bad, like the dreams pissed blood all over everything that had to do with the loss. He’d had countless nightmares that had started as happy times spent with Ruthie and had been warped into fire and blood.

Now, though, Gabe slept quietly. She seemed at perfect ease. Heath, on the other hand, could not shut his brain up.

Was he like her father? Was he capable of something like what Stuart Kincaid had done? No—how could he be?

But he’d beaten down Black on four separate occasions in the past four years, twice just after it had happened, and now twice since he’d come back to town, and he could remember almost none of it. He could barely remember where and when they’d happened. When he’d seen Black afterward, he’d always been surprised at how bad he looked, how much damage he’d taken. That Heath had dealt him.

He knew full well that if he ever lost his shit at Black when there weren’t other people around, he wouldn’t stop. He knew that he would kill him. He would intend to kill him.

Because the only thing he remembered clearly about any of those beatings was that: the need to kill Brandon Black.

Not until tonight, kneeling in the bathroom, hearing Gabe compare him to her father, had he ever felt remotely guilty about that. Black deserved to die. Heath believed that right now, sitting in his dark bedroom beside his sleeping love, whom he might have made a child with. Brandon Black deserved a slow, painful death.

For the past four years, Heath would have been happy to have been Black’s executioner, and he wouldn’t have cared about the consequences. Prison, death row, whatever. If Black was dead, the price would have been worth it. His life had been over when Ruthie had stopped screaming.

But now, unexpectedly, it wasn’t. He had someone to live for, something to strive for. Once again, he had everything to lose.

He had to let Brandon Black live his life. Not forgive—never. Not forget—never. But set it aside.

Could he? That bloodthirsty fire that filled him, that wasn’t rational. It wasn’t a clear choice he made when he went for Black. It might start that way, but once he was actually on him, there was something else, something dark in his heart, at the controls.

Heath had made Gabe a solemn promise, and he meant to keep it. But he didn’t know if he was capable of keeping it.

Christ, was he some kind of homicidal maniac waiting to happen?

The thought made him too upset and restless to stay in bed, so he eased out, trying not to disturb her, and grabbed up his clothes from the day before.

Out in the living room, he flipped on a light and got dressed. Fuck, there was blood all over the front of his shirt and streaked down the sides of his jeans. No wonder she’d been so damn afraid of him. It was a lot of blood; he’d never noticed. Even while he’d been promising not to hurt her, he’d been wearing somebody else’s blood.

He turned and stared at the closed bedroom door, contemplating the possibility of her remaining asleep while he went in and dug up fresh clothes. Deciding that that chance was too slim, he stayed in his bloody clothes and pulled on his boots.

When he went for his hat, it wasn’t where it belonged. Fuck. He’d lost it? Fuck. It must have fallen off in his clash with Black. Maybe Reese had picked it up. He hoped so; he’d had that hat more than a decade.

Once outside in the muggy, deep night, Heath saw his truck parked in its usual spot, next to Gabe’s little SUV. Steve must have brought it back. He didn’t remember handing over his keys, but he must have.

He reached down and picked up a handful of dirt, rubbing it over the bloodstains on his jeans. He used another handful on his shirt. He wanted to go up and talk to Maggie, and horses were not generally great with the scent of blood, not unless they’d been intentionally adapted to it. Maggie was particularly sensitive about it.

Satisfied that the blood was old enough, and now well enough covered, not to upset her, he headed off up the ranch road. Being with his horse always calmed him down, and she’d be happy for the surprise visit, which meant cookies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a couple of hours grooming Maggie, talking to her, stuffing her full of cookies, Heath felt calmer. The shouting in his head had muted, but the questions still had no answers. Finally, he put her up, packed away the grooming supplies, and went back down to his house. The night was still dark, but he could sense, in the stirrings of the world around him, that dawn was not so far off.

He’d fixed a pot of coffee up at the stable and had cup or two. Knowing that he wouldn’t sleep, he didn’t even bother to go into the house. He sat instead on the porch glider and let his mind have its head.

Rarely did he simply let go and open himself to whatever thoughts his mind could conjure; he knew what hunkered in the dark corners, and he didn’t like to take the risk that the worst of his demons would leap out at him when he wasn’t armed and ready for the fight. But tonight, still feeling the lingering mental tremors that his confrontation with Gabe had brought him, he was too weary to hold it all back. So he slumped down on the glider and stared out at the ranch, and he let his defenses down.

His thoughts careened everywhere. He thought about Ruthie and her little brown cowboy boots, then Anya and Kendall. He felt guilty about missing the rodeo, then remembered watching Sybil, when they were in high school, running barrel races on her mustang. That brought him to Phoebe, bringing Ruthie down to watch the foal come into the world, setting her on top of the stall wall, holding her tight, while Phoebe’s mother cleaned her and nudged her to stand on those wobbly stalks of legs. He thought of Gabe, the first person to ride Pheebs regularly, because Ruthie had been long dead before the filly was old enough to carry a rider.

His throat twisted with sorrow, and he swallowed hard as his mind brought him back to the day and night just before. The town and its fascination with Gabe, and with him. The way it hurt her. Black. Gabe’s fear. Her accusation—her truth. Their desperate emotion. The choice they’d made when they shouldn’t have.

Had he made her pregnant? What did he think about that? Did he want it, really?

Yes. Yes, he did. He wanted a new beginning. He wanted a chance to be better, to take better care, to raise a child, to know that love again. He wanted to give that to Gabe, to share it with her.

The light had brightened to pale, pearly grey when the screen door screeched, and Heath looked over. Gabe stepped out, her hair wild over her shoulders, wearing one of his white t-shirts and nothing else—no, as she stepped onto the porch, he saw that she had on a pair of those small, snug knit shorts she wore as pajamas bottoms, on those rare occasions when she wore pajamas. They were barely more than underwear, really. He loved them.

“What are you doing out here? I got worried.”

He held out his hand. “Sorry. Couldn’t sleep.”

She came over and took his hand. As he pulled her to sit on his lap, she frowned and held back. “You’re a mess, even worse than last night. What happened?”

Glancing down at his bloody, filthy clothes, he chuckled. “Yeah. Long story.” He patted the seat of the glider at his side instead, but she smiled and sat on his dirty lap anyway.

For a few minutes, they sat quietly like that, Gabe leaning against his chest, her head on his shoulder, his hands brushing over her hair and smoothing over her thigh.

Finally, he asked, “How are you feeling this morning? Any regrets?”

She picked his hand up from her thigh and set it on her flat belly. “No. You?”

Removing his hand from her belly, he took her arm and pulled gently, shifting her so that they were face to face. “Then marry me.”

That hadn’t been one of the thoughts bouncing around in his brain that morning, but all the thoughts together were, at their core, that one: what he needed to make everything else settle and be still.

Her eyes went wide with surprise, and he added, “I love you. I want to love you and take care of you always. I want to make you happy and keep you safe. I want a child with you. I want a new start. You want it, too. So marry me.”

She studied his eyes, his whole face, silently as his heart beat between them. Then, just as silently, she nodded.

He kissed her. Then he wrapped her in his arms, stood up, and carried her back to their bed.

 

 

*****

 

 

With a kiss on her cheek and a swat of her ass, Heath sent Gabe off to the kitchen to help Emma put breakfast on. He watched her move down the hallway. She turned and blew him a kiss before she ducked through the doorway. The clouds between them the night before had wafted away and left blue skies and sunshine.

They’d decided to keep their news to themselves. Gabe had said the only way they could keep it a truth of their own was not to let anyone else know, and she didn’t want to share it yet. He’d been happy to agree.

He went through the living room, into his father’s study, where he found, as he’d expected, his father, brother, and brother-in-law sitting on the sofa and chairs, sharing parts of the Sunday paper.

“Morning.”

“Morning, little brother. You better?”

Heath smiled and picked through the remaining sections of the paper. “Yeah, I am. Sorry about yesterday.”

Logan shrugged, and Wes simply looked interested, but their father set his hands down, crushing the paper on his lap. “I understand, Heath. You know I do. But I am growing very tired of cleaning up after you. This feud with Catherine is making things messy enough.”

He abandoned his search for something to read and sat down in a heavy leather wingchair. “I’m sorry, Dad. It won’t happen ever again. I promise.”

Bushy eyebrows went up. “And why should that be true?”

“I promised Gabe. I swore on Ruthie.”

His father considered him, then nodded. “Good, then. She’s a good girl, your Gabe. She needs you to make things easier for her around here, not harder. You’ve been letting her down.”

Unable to hold his father’s estimating gaze, Heath studied the toes of his boots. He focused on a dark dot on the left one that was new. Blood. “I know. I see that now.”

“Good. Make it right.”

“Yes, sir.” He hesitated, then added, “Black is working with Whitt, though. That’s something to pay attention to.”

“What? Why? What’s going on?” Wes asked, becoming a participant rather than an observer.

No one answered him. Heath started to, but Logan shook his head and said, “We talked about that already. Dad thinks it’s a red herring, and now I tend to agree.”

“Dad?”

Morgan Cahill folded up his front page and set it beside him on the sofa. He leaned forward. “I think hiring Black was just kicking dirt in your face. I don’t even think the land buys are his gambit anymore. You gave him a better play when you stirred Catherine up. I don’t know what it is yet, but I know he’s got himself a sidekick now.” His laugh was scummed with bitter humor. “That is one vindictive wasp of a woman. So set Black aside, Heath. Turn your attention to what’s important. We’ll all figure out Whitt together, we’ll get shit sorted with the Moondancer, and you’ll ignore Black like the maggot he is. God’ll take care of him in His own time. Then he’ll burn the way you want. For all eternity.”

The town was split by shit he bore significant responsibility for, and they still didn’t know what in the blue hell Denny Whitt was after, but Heath realized that he felt good. It felt good to set Black aside. Like he’d cleaned out his mind’s gutters. His heart was open. His thoughts and feelings flowed.

Shit, he was happy.

He grinned, and it must have looked like a new thing on his face, because his brother and Wes both reacted with surprise and then gave him broad grins right back. After a beat, his father smiled, too.

Just then, Anya skipped into the room, Chester padding after her, tail wagging. She had a red prize ribbon pinned to her flowered top. “Breakfast time! Wash up!”

 

 

*****

 

 

“That’s a pretty pin you’re wearing, Annie.” Heath winked at his niece as he forked a couple of waffles onto his plate and then one for Gabe’s plate.

“It’s not a pin, Uncle Heath. It’s a ribbon. Shadow and me won second place!”

“Shadow and I,” Emma corrected.

“That is fantastic, kidlet! Good job!” Heath lifted off his chair and reached his arm across the table, holding his hand up for a high five, which Anya happily provided.

“Daddy says second place is first loser,” Kendall sneered.

“Mama!”

“Kendall, there’s no call for meanness. Apologize.” Emma glared at her husband, who shrugged, chewing on a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

While Emma and her family squabbled, Gabe leaned close and whispered in Heath’s ear. “Pass the strawberries, please?”

He picked up the stoneware bowl and plucked a single strawberry from it. Pinching it by its leafy top, he held it near her perfect mouth. She licked her lips and wrapped them around the succulent fruit. Her eyes on his, she bit down, and he stared while she chewed it—oh so slowly—and swallowed, then licked her lips again.

Christ.

The table had gone quiet around them until his sister said, her voice bright, “Well! I have to say that I thought breakfast this morning would be a grim affair, but it looks like everybody’s happy and well!”

Heath smiled at Gabe, then turned to his sister. “Yeah. We are. We’re sorry we missed the rodeo, though.”

“Yeah!” Gabe offered. “We sure would’ve liked to see you get that ribbon, Anya. I’m so sorry we weren’t there.”

“That’s okay. Uncle Logan said you were feeling bad and Uncle Heath had to take care of you. Did you have too much kettle corn? I had too much kettle corn the other day, and my tummy felt bad and Daddy had to take care of me.”

“I did have too much,” Gabe agreed. “But Uncle Heath took good care of me.”

“That’s good. Uncle Heath is good.”

Gabe turned to him. “Yeah, he is.”

Damn. Love and contentment was making him feel drunk. He wanted to grab her and find a room where he could ravish her. He blinked and turned back to the table before he did exactly that.

“So, Kendall,” he asked. “Where’s your ribbon?”

Kendall was only eight, a little kid himself, but he could be a real shit to his baby sister, and Heath didn’t mind taking a light jab to remind him to be a good brother. Emma glared at him for asking such a question, and Kendall scowled at his waffles. Logan, their dad, and Wes all chuckled.

Wes answered. “Some kid had pompons in the front row, and Tahoe couldn’t take his eyes off ‘em. Swingin’ his head every which way. Kenny dropped his egg on about the second stride.” He smirked at his son. “Guess you’d’ve been okay with a ribbon like your sister’s, huh son?”

“It wasn’t my fault. Stupid Tahoe wouldn’t pay attention.”

“Whose job is it to make your pony mind, Kendall?” Heath’s father gave his grandson a serious look.

Kendall was suddenly abashed. “Mine, Poppy.”

“That’s right. Cahill men don’t shrug off our responsibilities. Blame or credit, if it’s due, we carry it.”

“My son is a Taylor, Morgan.” Wes stared across the long table at his father-in-law.

“Wes,” Emma muttered. “Don’t.”

“He’s half Cahill, and he’d do better to build up that half, I’d say.”

“Daddy,” Emma sent a plea to the other end of the table. “Please. We’re having such a nice breakfast.”

“We are!” Logan jumped in. “Ems, I gotta say, you outdid yourself this morning. The waffles melted in my mouth. And what’s in the eggs? So good and spicy!”

As soon as he’d tasted the eggs, Heath had known that Gabe had made them. She had a hot tongue, and everything she made had a peppery bite. She even put chili pepper in her cocoa. Everybody at the table had figured that out by now, and knew to alternate their servings on their plate when the two women cooked together, so Emma’s tendency to sweet and Gabe’s tendency to spicy didn’t clash.

Emma looked like she wanted to hug their brother, and she played along. “Thank you, Loge. Can’t take credit for the eggs, though. That’s all Gabe. She’s a wonder.”

Logan turned on Gabe the smile that Heath had always called his leg-spreader leer. “Well, Gabe, darlin’, the eggs are lip-smackin’ good.” He smacked his lips for proof.

She blushed and grinned happily. “Thanks, Logan. I love helping Emma cook for this family.”

Heath felt that bolt of territorial jealousy. Logan would never in a hundred lifetimes make a move on his girl, but, nevertheless, he didn’t like that charm turned Gabe’s way. Logan was a slut, pure and simple, and if Heath weren’t with Gabe, he’d have absolutely made a move.

But Heath pushed the jealousy away and smiled, helping Gabe, Logan, and Emma bring the mood of the table back up. Wes and their dad were always one word away from an argument. No point helping them along.

Before another, safer topic of conversation could get started, the heavy chimes of the doorbell rang, and everybody froze in surprise.

The doorbell never rang. This was a working ranch in the twenty-first century. Though they kept the gate open except on rare occasions, few people who weren’t close—or weren’t expected—ever came to this door. The big house was the family headquarters. People who belonged there came and went at will, including close friends. Those who weren’t welcome to come on in were expected and almost always met outside. Ranch hands used their phones to contact Morgan, Logan, or Wes. And when they needed to come in, they used the kitchen door.

Heath couldn’t remember the last time those chimes had sounded.

“What’s that?” Anya asked, giving him a possible clue about how long it’d been.

“Front door. I got it.” Logan stood and dropped his napkin on his seat. Everybody sat quietly, staring at the doorway through which he’d left.

The dining room was back from the entry of the house just enough to obscure both sight and hearing, but Heath listened hard, and everybody else did, too. The anxiety he felt had no obvious origin—it had just been the damn doorbell—but it was so strange that it would ring on Sunday morning. He could hear the low murmur of voices. Male voices.

“Is something wrong?” Gabe asked, clutching his hand.

With a squeeze of her fingers, he stood. “I’m sure it’s fine. I’ll check.”

Before he could step clear of the table, Logan was back, and he was pale. “Dad, Heath. We need to talk. Now.”

“What is it, son?” Their dad stood up.

Logan’s eyes scanned the table, focusing on the women and children—Emma, Anya, Kendall, and Gabe. “Uh…shit.”

“Uncle Logan, it’s Sunday,” Anya admonished.

“Sorry, honeybee.” He turned to Heath and answered their father’s question. “The sheriff’s in the living room. We got trouble.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Sheriff Norbert Murphy looked like a country sheriff in a county full of people more inclined to mischief than mayhem. Soft in the middle, bald on the top, fleshy at the jowls and lined at the eyes. His uniform, dark green pants and a lighter green shirt, was crisp and without a single wrinkle, and the dark green, flat-crowned cowboy hat in his hands looked like it had come out of the box that morning.

He was pushing seventy, but the extra weight filled in creases and took ten years off. He’d been sheriff as long as Heath could remember, and he’d been a family friend far longer than that.

Now he stood in the middle of Heath’s father’s living room with two deputies standing just behind him, as if in formation. They knew them both: Pete Burgess had been in Heath’s class in school. Ryder Wells had been a town favorite son while he’d been topping the rodeo circuit. The best bull rider Jasper Ridge had ever raised. An injury had cut his circuit career short.

Ryder was wearing blue latex gloves, the kind television cops wore when they collected evidence. And apparently real LEOs wore them, too. Heath noticed those blue gloves immediately as he came into the room behind his brother and father, so he noticed what Ryder was holding in them before he’d noticed anything else.

He was holding Heath’s hat, sealed in a big, clear plastic baggie. An evidence bag.

Everything around Heath slowed and dimmed. His heart began to thud heavily against his ribs.

“What’s goin’ on, Norb?” Heath’s father asked as he shook the sheriff’s hand. “You know I’m always happy to sit a spell with you, but my family’s in the middle of our Sunday breakfast.”

“I know, Morgan, and I’m sorry. This couldn’t wait. But it’s not you I need to speak with.” He turned to Heath, and his eyes dropped to Heath’s swollen and scraped hands. Without changing his focus he asked, “How you doin’, son?”

With a massive effort, Heath forced his senses back into good working order. “I think you’re gonna have to tell me, Norb. I thought I was doing okay.”

The sheriff nodded at his hands. “What happened there?”

No point in skirting the truth; there had been people everywhere. “Got into a scrape outside the Jack yesterday. I’m sure it’s doing the rounds today.”

“Indeed it is. Lot of people saw you beat holy hell out of Brandon Black yesterday. Lot of people heard you yellin’ that you’d kill him. Ain’t the first time you been at Black, either, is it?”

“Is he pressing charges?” Logan asked.

The sheriff sighed. “Got a call first thing this mornin’ from Charlie Granville. Seems a team of his boys was ridin’ the border, and they came across a scene that shocked the devil out of ‘em. Body in the creek. Torn to bits. Jaw pulled almost clean off. Gruesome. ME’s just gettin’ started, but he says he can’t find no sign of a weapon. He says it looks like somebody went at the guy with his bare hands and did all that damage.”

He paused before he said the thing Heath already knew he would say: “It’s Brandon Black. Had his mama in to identify his remains.”

From the entryway behind him, Heath heard a horrified gasp in a voice he knew and loved deeply. He turned to see Gabe, her eyes huge and full of pain, her hand covering her throat. Oh, God.

He stepped toward her, and she stepped backward. “Gabe, no. I—”

His words broke off when his father laid his hand on his arm. “Focus front, son.”

“You recognize this hat, Heath?” Sheriff Murphy flicked his hand, and Ryder stepped forward.

“Yeah. It’s mine. I lost it at the parade yesterday. I was going to call Reese later and see if anybody might have turned it in.”

No one had, obviously, and he could guess where it had been found. Which meant that somebody was setting him up for a murder. Spicy eggs and sweet waffles churned in his gut.

“It was at the scene where Black’s body was found, son. Everybody for miles around knows what good reason you have to want to hurt Black as bad as anybody can hurt. Just about as many people have seen you hurt him and heard you threaten to do more. The ME did some mumbo jumbo science stuff and came up with a range for time of death. So I gotta ask you if you can account for your whereabouts late last night and early this morning, from eleven p.m. to four a.m.”

For at least three of those five hours, maybe more, he’d been on his own, up at the stable with Maggie or sitting on his porch. “I was here at the ranch. At home.”

“And can anyone corroborate your account?”

As he opened his mouth to say no, Gabe answered, her voice shaking and frail. “Yes. He—he was with me.”

The sheriff turned his attention to her. “All night? You’re sure?”

“Y-y-yes.”

Heath spun back to her, and he could see it all over her face—all over her whole body. One arm was wrapped around her middle so tightly he wouldn’t have been surprised to see her fingertips come around the other side. The other had protective hold of her throat, the move she made when she felt most threatened. Her eyes were huge and floating in unshed tears, and her lips trembled.

She thought he’d done it. At the very least, she thought he might have. The very thing she most feared. She thought he’d broken his promise scant hours after he’d made it, and she was lying to save him anyway.

He couldn’t let her do that. She knew full well that he’d been out of bed for at least part of the night, and he’d been dressed when she’d found him. He hadn’t told her where he’d been. Even though he wasn’t guilty, she was afraid he was, and she was lying for him. He couldn’t let her get caught up in his shit.

“No, Gabe. It’s okay. I didn’t do this. I promise. So it’s okay.” She gave no sign at all that she believed him or that she’d even heard him.

He turned back to the sheriff. “I couldn’t sleep. I got up about one or so—I didn’t check the time, so that’s a guess—left Gabe sleeping, got dressed, and went up to the stables. Got my horse out and spent a couple hours brushing her down.”

“At one o’clock in the morning?”

“Yeah. Settles my head. Then I went back down to my house and sat on the porch and just…thought for a while. Gabe came out while it was just getting light, say five or so, and sat with me a bit. Then we went back in to bed.”

The sheriff gave Gabe a compassionate smile, obviously showing her he understood and she wasn’t in trouble, and then returned sharper attention to Heath. “Anybody see you?”

“No. It was the middle of the night.”

“That’s a damn shame, Heath. It leaves me no choice here. I got you beatin’ hell out of my vic more’n once and just hours before. I got you threatenin’ to kill him in front of twenty or more witnesses. I got your hat at the scene. I got you with no good alibi, and I got a mother on her knees in my station doing that damn moanin’ thing they do.”

He was talking about lamentation, part of traditional Shoshone grieving. Black was—had been—full-blooded Shoshone. With a small reservation on the town border, and with about half the tribe’s members partly or wholly assimilated into town life, there had always been a fragile balance between racial tension and racial harmony in and around Jasper Ridge. Norbert Murphy sometimes fell off that balance and landed on the tension side.

Heath’s mother had been half Shoshone, and he and his siblings were registered members of the tribe, though they had never involved themselves in tribal matters. But they sure as hell didn’t land on any side of the racial balance but harmony.

Now was not the time to correct the sheriff’s insensitivity, however. “I know, Norb. I understand. I didn’t do it, but I understand.”

Sheriff Murphy nodded, then squared his hat on his head and reached back to pull a set of handcuffs from his belt.

“Norb, come on,” Heath’s father complained. “Is that necessary?”

“This is murder, Morgan. I’m sorry as hell. I am. But yeah, it’s necessary.” He grabbed Heath’s arm and turned him around. As he cuffed him, Pete Burgess came around and patted him down.

Heath was now facing Gabe again, and their eyes locked. In those beautiful, glittering brown pools, he saw terror and sorrow, shock and confusion. He saw betrayal. He saw trauma. Through all that churning mass, he couldn’t find love.

“I didn’t do it, little one. I swear. Please believe me. I can’t lose you.”

The cuffs were closed tightly over his wrists, and the sheriff grabbed his upper arm again. “Heath Cahill, you are under arrest for the murder of Brandon Black. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you. Do you understand these rights as they have been explained to you?”

“Yes.”

As the sheriff and his deputies led Heath out of his family’s house, Gabe dissolved into huge, gasping sobs, and Emma swallowed her up in a mama-bear hug, so he didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.

Logan and their father followed them all the way to the sheriff’s SUV. As Murphy loaded him into the back, pushing his head down, Heath heard his father call out, “I’m calling Scott now. We’re right behind you, son, and Scott’ll be there before any of us. Keep your damn mouth shut. You hear?”

Scott Smithson was the family attorney. He was not a defense attorney, and Heath knew he would need a good one. He had motive, means and opportunity. He’d seen enough cop and law shows to know that was the trifecta.

And they hadn’t even searched his house yet. There, they’d find a shirt and jeans covered in Black’s blood.

Not to mention what was on the boots on his feet right now.

He’d been framed—his hat proved that without question. This was no mistake. Somebody wanted him to go down for this murder. But he didn’t know how in hell they’d prove that, and he’d made it plenty easy to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he had done it. That was likely as much truth as anybody would need. He’d be lucky not to get the death penalty.

Worst of all, Gabe thought he was guilty.

And maybe she was pregnant with his child.

Heath shifted on the seat, trying to find a way to be comfortable with his hands cuffed behind his back. He felt a familiar stillness, more deadness than calm, which he’d lived with for years, which had only lifted a couple of months before. When Gabe had come to Jasper Ridge and into his life.

His sense of despair and loss was too vast, too deep for expression. It overwhelmed him and shut him down.

His world had turned dark and desolate again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heath sat alone in the small room and studied the trails of black ink that filled the grooves of his fingertips, left behind after the wet wipe Pete had handed him gave out. He remembered a lesson in some class he’d taken in college, maybe freshman bio, about fingerprints: the whorl, loop, or arch. Though each person’s fingerprints were unique, their type was genetic. Heath’s fingerprints were arched, like his father and siblings. It was the rarest of the three types. His mother’s had been looped.

He’d fingerprinted his whole family for a class project about genetic traits. When he’d shared the results with them, his father had puffed up and laughed proudly. That’s Cahill blood. Strong and independent, he’d said.

Heath had never been inside the County Sheriff’s office before, but what had happened to him since Norb Murphy had pulled through the gate of the Twisted C Ranch and driven him away from his home was a lot like what television and movies said it was like. The ride had been silent but for the occasional blast of Murphy’s radio. He’d called something in, but most of what he’d said had been in code, and then he hadn’t spoken again.

At the station, Murphy had helped him out of the back and led him inside, his hand again clutching Heath’s upper arm, just above the elbow. Heath had looked around the lobby area as they entered the building, but he hadn’t seen Scott Smithson, so, for the first time since he’d been at his home, he’d spoken. He’d asked for his attorney.

Murphy had met his eyes steadily and then nodded. Then he’d led him back into the work area of the office.

He’d been uncuffed and told to empty his pockets. Since he’d been at home having breakfast, all he’d had in his pockets was his phone, which they’d logged and bagged as evidence.

Then he’d sat at a desk while a young female deputy asked him his address, date of birth, height, weight, employment, and other details of his existence.

Fingerprints. Mug shots. Cheek swab. Pictures of his battered hands. They took his boots and gave him a pair of cheap slip-on sneakers.

Finally, he’d been ushered into this room and left.

It wasn’t an interrogation room like he’d expected. It wasn’t bleak, wasn’t empty of everything but a bare table and a couple of uncomfortable chairs. The walls were painted a pale sage green, and the paint was in good shape. There was a black metal file cabinet in the corner with a plant in a plastic pot sitting on top. Three walls had windows, the transparent variety, covered in old Venetian blinds on the other sides of the glass. A clock, like the old round school clocks, its second-hand ticking, was fixed high to the fourth wall and told Heath that it was just past eleven a.m. A lifetime seemed to have passed since he’d been feeding Gabe a plump strawberry, but it had barely been more than an hour.

Beyond the locked door, he could hear the normal sounds of work—ringing phones, conversation, even laughter. Beyond that door, other people’s lives were going on in the normal fashion.

Heath stared up at the round, white face of the clock and watch the seconds tick by into the eternity of the end of his life.

 

 

*****

 

 

The clock told him he’d been alone in that room for another hour when the door finally opened. He’d been alone and numb long enough by then that he struggled hard to pull his attention back into the room, to care who’d come in.

He’d expected that Murphy would be the first one to talk to him, but instead it was Scott Smithson. Following him in was a young woman, blonde and blue-eyed. Both were dressed as if this Sunday were a business day: Scott in a grey suit and a white shirt—but without a tie—and his companion in a trim black skirt, heels, and a silky blue blouse. Her hair was done up in some kind of twist. Heath noticed small pearls in her earlobes. They matched the strand around her throat.

In the manner in which he’d been trained all his life, he stood for the lady.

Scott reached his hand out, and Heath shook it. “I’m sorry to hear about this trouble, Heath. And I’m sorry we couldn’t get here quicker, but I’ve been on this since your dad called, I promise.”

Heath nodded and then shifted his regard to the woman. She held out her hand as well, and he shook. Her grip was firm, her hand small and smooth. “Honor Babinot,” she said.

“How do. Excuse my manners, but why are you here?”

Scott answered, pulling out a chair for Miss Babinot and waving Heath to sit down as well. “Honor is one of the best defense attorneys in the state of Idaho. Prosecutors are terrified of her. I’m an agricultural attorney, Heath. I would be lost in a criminal court. The best service I can offer you now is to find you the best lawyer to help, which I have.”

Heath considered the woman sitting at Scott’s side. She was about his own age, maybe a bit younger. Pretty and slim. Call him a chauvinist, but he had some trouble imaging anyone fearing her.

She cocked her head at his study of her. “Before you make some piggish comment you can’t take back, Mr. Cahill, let me say that I have not agreed to take your case. I’ve only agreed to this meeting because I owed Scott a favor. When I understand the full dimension of the situation, we can make a decision about whether we’ll proceed together.

“No one’s asked me anything since I was at home.”

Scott sat back, taking on the role of spectator. Miss Babinot addressed Heath’s statement. “No, I don’t expect they have. You asked for your attorney upon your arrival, right?”

Heath couldn’t remember if he had. He tried to think back.

“No matter. They noted that you had, and they had no cause to press the point. It’s not like the movies, Mr. Cahill. When you ask for a lawyer, good officers shut up. In this case, from what I understand so far, they probably weren’t even tempted to do otherwise. They have a strong case already. They don’t need any more from you than you’ve already eagerly provided. Honestly, nearly any good attorney would tell you to take a deal and negotiate for generous visitation privileges and the possibility of parole.”

Heath stared at the surface of the table. The grain of the wood was sharply detailed and camouflaged many of the chips and dings. “But I didn’t do it.” He looked up and met Miss Babinot’s eyes. “I will take a lie detector, I’ll swear on anything. I know how bad it looks, but I was home last night.” A dry laugh burst from his mouth, like a cough. “Christ, just last night, I made a promise to leave Black alone from now on. He was safe from me.”

The young lawyer studied him for a moment, then turned to Scott Smithson. “Will you leave us alone, Scott?”

“Of course.” He stood and held out his hand again, and Heath shook it. “Your father and Logan are in the lobby, and they’re not goin’ anywhere. I’ll go out and talk to ‘em.”

“Okay, thanks.”

When they were alone, Honor Babinot pulled a black leather folio from her black leather bag. She opened it, slid a silver pen from a loop inside it, and looked up at him. “You have a long history with the victim.”

“Yes. Known each other all our lives. I guess you’ve heard what’s between us.”

“What I’ve heard isn’t as important as what you’ll tell me if I take your case. But for now, you can tell me if this summary is accurate: You blame him for the deaths of your wife and child. You have attacked him several times since, beating him badly each time. You have threatened to kill him on several occasions. You’ve done these things in full view and hearing of a multitude of witnesses.”

“Yes. All of that is true.”

She jotted down a short note. Heath didn’t bother to try to read it. “And yesterday afternoon, outside the town bar—”

“The Apple Jack Saloon. Everybody calls it the Jack.”

With a curt nod, she continued past his interruption. “Outside the Jack, you beat the victim again, threatening to kill him again.”

“Yes.” He didn’t remember threatening to kill him, but Gabe had said he had, and he certainly knew he’d wanted to.

“There are several hours during the night for which you can’t account.”

Wes had lobbied hard to put the ranch on closed-circuit security, but their father had refused. It says we’re scared and don’t trust our own people. That’s not the Cahill way, he’d insisted. If Wes had won that war, there would have been cameras documenting Heath’s comings and goings last night, and he would have been at home with Gabe right now, talking about getting married, making a baby. Making a life.

If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride, his Grandma Cahill used to say.

“I can account for them. I can’t prove my account.”

Another nod, another note. “Those hours are within the range of the victim’s time of death.”

“That’s what I’ve been told, yes.”

“The body was found at the creek, on the border of your family’s property and your neighbor’s.”

“Charlie Granville. C Bar G Ranch. That’s what I was told.”

“And your hat was found at the scene.”

“I lost it yesterday, probably at the Jack.”

She set her pen on the pad. Half the top page was covered in bold, elegant handwriting, inked in blue. Folding her hands over it, she looked up and held Heath’s eyes. “It looks very bad, Mr. Cahill.”

“Heath.”

“Heath. This evidence is all circumstantial, but it is significant and compelling. It tells a grand story. Juries love stories. They get hold of a narrative that makes sense, and even if they think the victim deserved what he got, they atone for their own bloodlust by bringing a guilty verdict. My strong instinct here is to tell you to plead. I can get you the best possible deal, keep you in medium security, maybe even minimum, keep you close to home, let you see your family every week, get you parole. You are well-liked in this community, and your family is influential. Your story is known. But if this goes to trial, I lose a lot of those bargaining chips. The victim is a member of the Shoshone tribe, on the Sawtooth Jasper Reservation?”

“Yes. So am I.”

Her blonde eyebrows went up a bit and then settled back into place. “But he self-identified as Shoshone. You do not.”

“I don’t deny my heritage. If you’re asking if I’m considered white, yes.”

“And he was not legally responsible for the deaths of your wife and child?”

Heath couldn’t stop his hands from curling into fists, but he kept his voice calm. “He ran away and left them to burn.”

“But he was not driving the vehicle at the time of the crash.”

“No. She was.”

She shook her head. “I don’t like this narrative, Heath. I understand that Brandon Black is the villain of your story, and I understand your reason and your anger. But there is also a story here about a sad man who made a terrible mistake and was tortured for it the rest of his life. About a rich and physically powerful man with a vendetta who persecuted a poor, weak man for years. The DA will look for a way to bring race into it as well, and if he succeeds…”

He would never, ever take a plea. With complete certainty that he would be convicted of this murder and spend the rest of his life behind bars, Heath knew he would never, ever plead guilty. The one strand of life he could keep his fingers around was the hope that Gabe might believe him, might trust that he had not broken his promise to her, the solemn vow he’d made on his daughter’s memory.

So he would never, under any circumstances, in any situation, ever say that he had.

“Miss Babinot, I know how bad it is. I see clearly, and I know how stories don’t need facts to become truth. I offered up all their evidence on a china plate. Maybe I did persecute him. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. But I did not kill him, and I won’t say that I did. If that means prison for the rest of my life, so be it. If it means the death penalty, so be it. I will accept responsibility for the things I’ve done, but not for things I haven’t.”

She closed her pen and slid it back into its loop, then folded the cover of her leather folio over the pad. As she slid it into her bag, Heath understood that he was still searching for an attorney.

“At every angle, this is an unwinnable case, Heath.”

“I understand.”

“But here’s the thing: I believe you.”

Surprise made him flinch. “Why?”

“Call it intuition. I am as successful as I am because I’m a good judge of character and a good reader of people. I read you as a man with a traumatic past and a big temper. I believe you were capable of killing Brandon Black, but I believe if you had done it, you would have done it before a town’s worth of witnesses, and you wouldn’t have dumped the body in a creek. I judge you to be honest and stalwart. None of that is proof for a jury, but it’s proof enough for me. I’m interested, so I’ll take your case.”

“Thank you.” An ounce of weight lifted off his heart.

“We’ll likely lose, and if we go all the way to a verdict, then there will be little I can do to affect your sentence.”

“I understand.”

“We have a single strategy, then: we have to find the truth, or make one. We need another suspect, another narrative, one with evidence just as compelling.”

“How do we do that?”

His new lawyer smiled. “I work hard, and you spend money. I have an investigative team on staff. When we’re done here, I’ll put them to work immediately. Right now, we need to get you arraigned so we can get bail set. I’ll tell you now: I can get a quick arraignment, maybe as early as tomorrow morning, but be ready for a high bail, maybe a million dollars, and possibly cash only.”

“Jesus.”

“Your family is wealthy, yes?”

He never really thought about it, but maybe that itself was an excellent indicator of wealth: the ability not to think much about money. “Yeah, but we don’t keep bundles of bills behind the Remington in my dad’s study. We don’t keep millions just sitting in the bank, either. It’s a business. The money is in the ranch.”

“Would you like me to speak to your father, have him start the process of getting some money out of the ranch, then?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

She stood up, and Heath stood, too. “Okay. I’ll tell the sheriff that you’re ready to finish processing. They’ll hold you here at the station until your arraignment. If you get bail—and you will, don’t worry—and it’s posted then, you’ll be able to go home from there. Otherwise, you’ll be transported to a facility in Kuna and held until bail is posted or until the trial, whichever comes first. I’m going to do what I can to push the trial back and give ourselves time to find our alternative story.”

Heath held out his hand. “Thank you, Miss Babinot.”

Her grip was as strong as before. “Ms. And you can call me Honor.”

“Honor. Thank you. It feels better just having somebody believe me.”

It did. As soon as she’d told him that she believed him, he got his whole hand around that thread of life and hope. He could imagine getting Gabe to believe him, too. If he had that, then whatever happened in the future would be bearable.

 

 

*****

 

 

“Your Honor, the state’s case against Mr. Cahill is very strong, and the murder of which he is accused is especially violent. He is a man of great means and connections. We consider him a flight risk. The state asks that Mr. Cahill be remanded into custody, and we seek a trial date as soon as possible.”

On Monday afternoon, sitting in the same clothes he’d put on before Sunday breakfast, with his cuffed hands resting helplessly in his lap, Heath sat beside Honor in the small, humid arraignment courtroom and stared blankly at the state’s attorney. Jackson Hayes was short and pudgy, with filmy blond hair styled in what would someday become a comb-over. He wore a plain navy suit with a light blue shirt and a red tie. Except for the black stacked-heel cowboy boots on his feet, he was the picture of a successful conservative.

When Hayes asked for a fast trial, Honor stood up. Today, she wore another slim black skirt and the same shoes, this time with a white silky blouse. Her hair was put up in the same twist.

“Your Honor, my client is a well-respected, responsible member of the community, with no criminal record. He is a business owner. His ties to his home are deep and strong. He is no flight risk, and the state’s case is entirely circumstantial. We ask for reasonable bail and a reasonable trial date, so that we may prepare and mount a vigorous defense of his innocence.”

“Thank you, Miss Babinot.” The judge, a weathered old man behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, waved her back to her seat. He leaned in and stared hard at Heath, then cleared his throat noisily.

“I must say I’m surprised to see a member of the Cahill family sitting before me, accused of a crime like this. It’s a gruesome murder.”

He stopped. The silence stretched long enough that it seemed like he was done. Heath turned to Honor, ready to ask what was going on. Then the judge cleared his throat again.

“Bail is set in the amount of two million dollars. Cash only. Lureen, what’s the calendar look like?”

A woman sitting at a desk near the judge’s bench tapped the keyboard of her laptop. “The first natural date would be October fifth, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded. “That’ll do, then. Trial in the case of Idaho v. Cahill is set for Monday, October fifth.” He knocked his gavel once, and it was done.

“Okay,” Honor said. “We’ve got three months to find the killer or at least another good suspect. That’s good.”

Heath couldn’t get his brain that far ahead. “Two million dollars cash?” He shook his head. “I…”

Honor laid her hand on his shoulder. “They’re working on it already. Your dad asked for a worst-case scenario, and I pulled that number out of my ear. It’s the largest cash-only bail I’ve ever seen, but they’re working on it.”

“But how?”

“That can’t be your worry right now. Right now, this is what’s going to happen: you’re going back into custody. Your father pulled some strings, and they’re going to hold you at the sheriff’s office for the next few days, while your family puts your bail together. So just hold on. We’ll have you home as soon as we can.”

Heath was exhausted. He hadn’t slept on the night of the Fourth, before his life had been shredded again, and he hadn’t slept in the cold cell last night. He’d lain on the unyielding metal cot, with its single flat pillow and its itchy blanket, and stared into dark space.

He did not want to go back to that cell. The thought that he faced a life lived that way chilled him. The thought that he might go home today, even for a little while, had kept him focused.

Gabe had not come to the arraignment. He didn’t know why, or if he’d even have wanted her to see this, but it would have given him strength to have walked into this courtroom and seen her sitting with his father and brother.

He sighed. “Okay. Can I see my family first?”

“No, I’m sorry. They won’t allow that now. But we’re all working as hard and fast as we can. Take heart, Heath. We’ll get you home.”

 

 

*****

 

 

It was Thursday before he saw his family or the Twisted C again. Sitting alone in the back seat of his father’s big black Silverado, Heath felt his heart kick angrily against his ribs as they drove through the ranch gate.

On the ride he’d learned a few things, so he wasn’t surprised when Logan, who was driving, pulled up in front of Emma’s house. Gabe had been staying there. According to Logan, Emma was serving as a gentle guard, keeping Gabe from bolting completely.

He didn’t want her kept against her will, but he wasn’t sorry she was still here. He needed the chance to sit in quiet and talk to her.

As he climbed out of the truck, the front door of his sister’s house flew open, and Emma ran out, kids and dog following right after. “Heath! Oh, honey!” She crashed into him and clenched him hard in her soft arms. “Oh, honey! Oh, honey!”

She was crying. Chester barked, showing his shepherdy concern.

He hugged her back. “I’m okay, Emsie. It’s okay.”

She nodded and stepped back, snuffling. The kids looked worried and confused, so he crouched and held out his arms. “Everything’s okay, kidlets. C’mere.” They went to him, and he held them tightly for a few seconds.

Logan and their father headed up to the big house; they expected him to go up as well after his reunion here. He’d get there eventually. Looking up at his sister as he held her kids, Heath said, “I need a big favor.”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

With a kiss to each head, he let the kids go and stood up. “I need you to give me Mama’s ring.”

His sister’s eyes turned into saucers. “What? No! That ring’s been in the Cahill family since settler days. If you’re worried about money, Dad and Logan are on it. You’ll be okay. We don’t have to pawn off family heirlooms.”

“It’s not for money, Em. I need the ring for Gabe.”

Emma stared blankly, blinking.

“Em? You understand?”

She blinked again and caught up. “Oh. Oh!” She frowned. “Oh honey, are you sure? She’s…she’s having trouble with all this. She’s pretty scared, for more reasons than she ought to be.”

“I know. If she turns me down, then I’ll give the ring right back to you. But if she doesn’t, I’d like her to wear Mama’s ring. Her hands are like Mama’s.”

Emma smiled. “Yeah, I noticed that, too—that light olive skin, those long, slim fingers. So graceful. Better than my chubby stubs.”

Heath grabbed his sister’s hand and lifted it to his lips. “You are beautiful. You look like Mama, too. If you wore the ring, I’d never ask you to give it up.”

“No, I don’t look like Mama. But you’re a love. You’re right. The ring should be worn, and if Gabe will wear it, that’s a great thing. Okay. I’ll get it. You want to come in and see her?”

“Yes. More than anything.”

She pulled on his hand. “Well, let’s go then. We’re gonna have a big dinner, too. Celebrate getting you back—and get those shadows out from under your eyes.”

The thought of sitting in the family dining room at the big house was now tainted by what had happened at Sunday breakfast, and Heath’s stomach rebelled against the idea of eating in there again. “Can it be here? Not up—not in…”

Understanding, Emma squeezed his hand. “Of course, honey. I’ll just call up there and tell the boys I’m cookin’ in my own kitchen tonight.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Emma left him in her living room with the kids and came back carrying a small white box, yellowed with age and made of bone. The Cahill ring was well over a hundred years old and had been worn by a succession of family matriarchs. An oval ruby flanked by two round diamonds and set deeply in an etched yellow-gold band, it was a quality piece of jewelry, but it wasn’t ostentatious.

“She’s in the guest room. She ran in there when the truck pulled up, and I guess she’s still cowering like a mouse.”

There was censure in Emma’s tone, and frustration, and Heath shook his head. “It’s okay. I understand why she’s scared.”

“She should know better. You would never do anything like they’re saying.”

Emma knew that wasn’t strictly true, but Heath didn’t point that out. “You don’t have a story like hers, Ems. You don’t know how something like that twists what you know.”

“Okay, then. I hope you untwist her.”

He kissed his sister’s cheek. “Me, too. Thank you for the ring.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath knocked on the guest room door. “It’s me.”

Before he could wonder if she’d answer, the door opened, and she stood there, looking small and young in jeans and a baggy white t-shirt, knotted at the waist. Christ, it was one of his own.

Wide, scared, old eyes met his.

“It’s okay, Gabe.”

“It’s not.”

“If you love me, if you believe me, then whatever happens, we’ll be okay.”

His wish would have been for her to answer that by jumping into his arms. He was keeping desperate hold of this one thread of life, and if he lost it, if he lost her, then he’d just crumble into dust.

But she didn’t jump into his arms. She took a step backward. “I…”

Holding himself together with sheer willpower and last wisps of hope, Heath asked, “Will you sit with me and talk?”

She hesitated only briefly, but long enough to make his stomach sour, before she nodded and let him into the room.

Emma’s style was aggressively cheerful. She liked vivid colors and floral patterns. Wes held her back a little in their bedroom and the common rooms of the house, but the rooms she considered her own were another story. Her kitchen was a wild riot of sunny yellow, grass green, and tomato red. The guest room—which was really her craft room with a fold-out sofa—made the kitchen look sedate. The color scheme here was pink, purple, and green.

The sofa sleeper was folded into its sofa shape, and Gabe sat on an end, surrounded by pastel fake-fur throw pillows. She pulled one of them onto her lap and hugged it to her belly. Like a fluffy shield.

Heath pulled Emma’s desk chair over and sat backward on it, straddling the backrest.

He still hadn’t slept more than thirty or forty minutes a night. He was exhausted and hurting in mind and body. He was deeply afraid of the future—that which was far ahead and that which was right in front of him. He didn’t know if he could manage a full-bodied discussion of all that was between them. He didn’t know if he could withstand her making any accusations or explaining how she could doubt him.

He knew all those answers, anyway. It wasn’t hard to understand why she would doubt him. It was desperately hard to accept, but easy to understand.

So, rather than open a discussion that could range far and wide, into dark, painful places, Heath pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out the bone box.

A crease split the space between Gabe’s arched brows as Heath set the box on the flat of his hand and held it up but not out to her. She raised her eyes to his. God, he hated the pain and fear he saw there. He hated that he could be so easily connected in her mind to the loss of her family. He hated all the ways that he had forged that connection himself.

But he stayed his course. “Before all this happened, you and I had a serious discussion. I made you a solemn promise. And we made some choices, some decisions, about our future.”

She dropped her eyes, looking down at her lap, and he reached out with his free hand and pushed her chin up.

“I’m not asking you not to have questions that need answers. I’m not telling you I won’t give you every single answer you need. I’m not saying that I haven’t fucked up, or that I will never fuck up again. I’m not expecting you not to be scared, or sad, or anything you need to feel. I understand.

“But Gabe, I will tell you three things: One—I love you. I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. What I felt for Sybil, even at its very best, was nothing like this. Two—I want to marry you. I hope I already made you pregnant, but even if I didn’t, even with everything hanging over us right now, I want to keep trying. I want to live like we can have the future we want, because—three—I did not break my promise. I did not kill Brandon. I didn’t leave the ranch Saturday night.”

A tear fell from the corner of her eye and rushed down her cheek, hitting the seam of her closed lips. She ignored it and remained silent, staring.

“I told you three things. I have one thing to ask you: please believe me. If you love me, if you believe me, we’ll be okay. No matter what happens.”

Another tear dropped off her jaw and hit the pink puff of pillow in her arms. Heath picked up the bone box and opened it, then set it back on his flat hand. This time he held it out to her.

“This was my mother’s ring, and my great-grandmother’s before her, and a couple more greats before that. If you believe me, you don’t have to say anything at all. Just wear this ring. Marry me. Be my family.”

She didn’t move. More silent tears fell and dropped from her face, and she stared at the ring. Heath felt sick with tension, and his arm wanted to shake, but he forced his will up and held steady.

“I’m so scared,” she finally whispered, barely giving the words sound or shape.

“I know, little one. So am I. But I love you, and I know I’m innocent, and that will keep me strong. If you love me, believe me. Take the ring.”

Another long, still silence rattled his bones. And then, at last, Gabe unwound her arms from around that silly pillow. She lifted her hand and took the box. Heath could have wept with fragile relief.

She held the box cupped in both her hands and stared down at it. He couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t read the story they’d tell.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Unable to sit still any longer, Heath got up from the desk chair and went to Gabe’s side. She didn’t seem to notice the change. She had her hair back in a single ponytail—she always wore a black elastic band around her wrist and often in any day, her hair would end up caught back like this—and Heath stroked the long, wavy puff that lay on her back.

“Gabe. Please. Do you love me?”

She nodded at once. “I do. I love you so much. It hurts all the time now. That’s why I’m so scared.” She turned and let him see her eyes. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t. Even if the worst thing happens, you will be here, with my family—our family—and we will be together, even if it’s only in our hearts. But right now, I want—I need—to live the life I have. Do you believe I didn’t do this thing? Do you believe I’ve kept my promise?”

She bent her head and started to weep in earnest, and Heath found a new depth to his despair. But then she nodded. “I do,” she gasped. “I believe you.”

He pulled her into his arms, and the slight weight of her, the simple fact of her body in his arms, settled his heart. “It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d had to tell Gabe a truth before he could believe it himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Submerged in an ocean of blood, Gabby watched as her father drove the knife, long as a sword, into her mother. Again and again and again he stabbed, her mother’s body rocking back and forth as the blade sank with force into it and was pulled with force from it. Again and again and again and again. She stared at Gabby, her arm stretching out, reaching for her, stretching farther and farther but never closing the distance between them.

Daddy, no, Gabby tried to yell, but her mouth, her nose, her chest were full of blood. She was drowning in blood.

Her father paused in his exertions, and his head swiveled in her direction as if on a rusty gear. When he faced her, he wasn’t her father anymore.

Heath pulled the knife from the bloody mass lying beneath him. He pointed it at her, and blood and clumps of gore dripped from the blade.

“You weren’t supposed to be here. Why are you here? Why are you here?”

Gabe’s eyes flew open as she sucked in a deep breath that felt like her first in hours. Before she could release it in the scream that wanted to come, she slammed her hands over her mouth.

The first night she’d had that dream, Sunday night, she’d shrieked like a banshee and had Emma and her whole family, even the dog, standing at the end of the sofa bed. Wes had been holding a rifle. From then on, she’d caught herself like this and lain staring at the beamed ceiling of the guest room until her heart and breath could find their normal place.

But there were no beams above her this time. Just flat white space—and a ceiling fan she knew well.

Heath’s house. Her house, now. Their bedroom. Heath was home. He slept at her side.

She’d spent the past few days sleeping in Emma’s guest room because she’d had no other choice. Without ever saying so or being anything but sweet and nurturing about it, Emma and Wes had kept her prisoner in their house.

Ever since Emma had come into Heath’s house on Sunday afternoon and found her sitting on the bed with her empty duffel bag beside her.

Except for a consuming storm of horror, Gabe could barely remember Sunday. She remembered breakfast, and she remembered the sheriff interrupting. She remembered standing at the entry to the big, stately living room and hearing what had happened.

She remembered the flashes of images that had blazed through her brain: Heath beating Brandon Black, that fierce, blank look of hate and purpose on his face, the way he was insensible to everything around him, fighting through the pull of strong men to keep going, the way Black’s body flopped and rocked with each blow. Heath standing afterward in his blood-spattered clothes, holding out to her a hand that dripped with blood. Heath kneeling at the side of the tub, swearing that he was done with Black, that he would never hurt her, that he wasn’t like her father. Waking alone in the night, his side of the bed cool, and the confused worry she’d felt as she’d walked through the empty house. Finding him on the porch, the same bloody clothes now also filthy with dirt and grime, as if he’d been rolling on the ground.

She remembered the horror of knowing the truth of his guilt. She remembered the utter devastation of watching him pulled away from her with his hands cuffed behind him. She remembered the sound of the words Heath Cahill, you are under arrest for the murder of Brandon Black.

She remembered needing to run.

And little else.

She could recount the way the day had transpired: Running to the house and pulling her duffel from the closet, then simply freezing at the sight of the little frame on the nightstand, the one that held that silly, out-of-focus picture of Heath laughing at something Logan had said and her gazing up at him, and being unable to fill the bag with her things. Emma following not long after her and sitting with her on the bed, talking to her in soft, soothing tones, convincing her somehow to go across the road for just a minute, just to take a breath. Finding herself pulled into the movements of Emma’s family until it was dark and late, and Emma had made up the sofa bed.

She could recount every moment of the day, but she had no memory of those moments happening to her. What she remembered, what she could feel, was horror.

It had been like this just after what her father had done, too, when she’d woken in the hospital to a life that would always be aftermath. Her mind had simply refused to play along.

Monday, and Tuesday, and Wednesday were the same. Gabe lived those days with Emma and Wes and the kids, she participated, but the things that happened on those days didn’t feel like her memories now. Even all the talking Emma had done, about Heath and what was going on—Gabe had heard every word, she could paraphrase or even quote, but it felt unreal. She’d been drowning in horror and shock, and her mind had found a corner to hide in. She couldn’t remember anything she’d thought about anything in particular for four days.

Until Thursday afternoon, when Morgan’s truck pulled up and Heath got out. Then full consciousness had slammed through her and become panic. In those four days, the Heath of her dream had taken on the heft of reality, and she’d almost expected a blood-soaked demon to come into Emma’s house.

But it had only been Heath, the loving, gentle, patient man she knew. Standing outside the door of Emma’s guest room, he’d seemed older than his years and weary beyond telling, with dark circles under his eyes and several days’ scruff on his cheeks. He’d seemed so deeply sad.

Nothing Emma had said over four days of trying to convince her of Heath’s innocence had torn through her vivid image—her memory—of his murderous red rage. Nothing had helped to weaken the power of the new version of her dream. For all the time that Heath had been away, Gabe had believed in his guilt, without ever fully understanding that she had. It had simply been a truth, cosmic in scope, over which she’d had no power.

Until he’d been standing before her, just the two of them, and she’d seen his love. Until he’d touched her, and she’d felt his care. Then, he was just Heath. She knew him. She loved him.

So she believed him.

And yet the dream had still come.

She sat up and looked at the man at her side. Her love. He lay on his back, his head turned away, the arm on that side cocked on the pillow above his head. He’d kicked a leg out from under the sheet and comforter, and they were wadded over him, covering only the other leg and hip, and barely more than that.

Sometimes—often—now—she could feel settled and steady only when their bodies were in contact. In his arms, she felt like she had found somewhere to be. Somewhere that was home. Even while the past and future were in turmoil, even as the present around them clashed and rattled, when she was in his arms, she was where she belonged.

They’d come to bed for something other than sleep and fallen into unconsciousness tangled and naked, so the light on his nightstand still lit the room with a soft glow. They hadn’t closed the curtains, either, and Gabe saw the scene—herself, Heath, the light at his side—reflected in the black glass. It made a melancholy image.

She turned back to Heath. The healed skin of arced scar on his chest had a sheen to it, and the light made it shimmer subtly. She reached over and traced the tip of her index finger over that smooth, taut mark. Her touch didn’t disturb his rest, and the warmth of his body—even at the tiny point of her fingertip—turned the last of the bad feelings left from the dream to vapor.

Shifting on the bed so that she sat facing his body, cross-legged, Gabe opened her hand and smoothed it over his chest. He was so strong, so firm. His broad shoulders could carry the world—and they often seemed to.

A frown danced over his brow and away, and he groaned lightly in his sleep—little more than a hum deep in his chest—and turned his head so that he faced the ceiling. But he didn’t wake. His chest lifted in a deep sigh, and then he was still. He was so very tired.

As her hand moved over his torso—chest, shoulders, belly, smoothing even circles with her fingers spread wide—Gabe studied his handsome face. The jaw so square it seemed hewn from the rocky side of a mountain. The straight nose and strong brow. The faint dip at the center of his angular chin. Soft, straight lips just barely pinker than his tanned skin. The faint lines in his cheeks—smooth again; he’d showered and shaved that afternoon—that deepened into long, perfect dimples when he smiled. The creases at the corners of his eyes.

The strands of grey at his temples. Gabe thought those were new.

In sleep, he was relaxed, and the sorrow that had hung on his face all day was gone. Even after they’d talked, even after she’d slid the lovely old ring on her finger—it fit as if it had been made for her—he’d still been clearly, deeply sad. Gabe understood. With her mind willing to face facts again, she understood that their love and faith in each other changed nothing about the reality that Heath was very likely going to spend the rest of his life in prison. When the trial was over and a verdict was read, he would very likely be found guilty. His innocence was irrelevant to that truth.

On October fifth, he would go to trial. In a matter of weeks thereafter, Gabe would very likely be living without him. But she, at least, would still have this—his family, the ranch, her freedom. Heath had seen to that. His life would be…God. From that thought, her mind skittered away.

Three months.

Blinking away tears, Gabe pulled the comforter and sheet from his body and let them slide to the floor at the end of the bed. Rolling to her knees, she picked up his cock, which had swelled to about half-mast as she’d stroked his chest. Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she bent her head and sucked him into her mouth.

At once, he filled out completely. She loved the way that felt—him filling her mouth, his foreskin seeming to roll back as his need surged forth.

When he grunted and his belly went taut, she knew without checking that he’d woken. She swirled her tongue over his tip, then around the rounded edge of his glans, stopping to flick lightly over the wedged skin at the underside. A single drop of wet emerged, and she licked it up, savoring the faint, salty taste.

“Gabe,” he rumbled in a voice made even huskier than usual by sleep and desire. “God. God.”

She felt his hand on her head, sliding into her hair, pushing it back—he wanted to watch. She hummed, and his hips tensed as he let out a rough groan.

Tightening her grip around his base, she took him deeper, beginning a pistoning rhythm, slow and steady, then cupped his balls in one hand, brushing her thumb back and forth over skin that was at first velvety soft but became rough and hard as it bunched and drew close to his body.

Lifting away from his cock, Gabe dipped lower and sucked his tight balls into her mouth, taking each one at a time.

“Fuck oh fuck,” he gasped.

Returning to her main mission, Gabe wrapped both hands around him and sucked him deep again, picking up a faster beat.

Heath’s breathing had become heavy and strained, each exhale a groan, and his body flexed and twisted under her. Both hands were now snarled in her hair, holding her head, and every now and then he would pull and push, trying for that moment to take over her tempo.

She always knew when he was nearing his finish, because his legs would turn to stone, the muscles in his thighs swelling, and he would stop breathing, each breath getting deeper and slower until it was simply held.

As he neared that peak this time, he gasped, “Gabe, Gabe, Gabe, wait. Wait.”

When he tugged sharply on her hair, she understood that he really wanted her to stop that close to completion.

She did, lifting away—his hips followed her, arching up as she raised her head and met his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“I want to come inside you. I always want to come inside you.”

He wanted her pregnant. Even facing a future in prison, he wanted her pregnant. She might be already, but they couldn’t know yet, and he wanted to do all they could to make it happen.

She wanted that, too. A piece of him, and of her—a manifest proof of their love.

That evening, they had decided that by October fifth they would be married, and she would, God willing, be pregnant.

Without shifting her eyes from his, she mounted him and felt him hold himself steady as she eased down, slowly, and accepted him into herself.

He came at once, bucking up with a shout before she had even settled on his thighs, and, rocking hard on him, she kept him coming, shouts bursting from his throat with each hard flex that brought him deep.

Feeling him so deep, feeling his need for her, the intensity of his climax, had Gabe close herself. He was still almost completely hard, and as he began to relax, she found a gentle, deep movement that kept him pressed exactly where she needed him. Her head dropped back and she began to moan.

With a swift, powerful surge, he sat up and grabbed her to his chest, stilling her, and then they stayed like that, clutching each other, as he struggled to catch his breath.

Every time she tried to move and find that perfect spot again, he tightened his hold and stopped her.

“Heath, please.”

Another sudden, strong move, and she was on her back, and empty of him. He’d pulled out and was hovering over her. This time, she outright whined. “Heath!”

“Shhh, little one. I’m here.”

He dipped his head and sucked her breast into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the point of her nipple. As he did so, his hand skimmed down her side, over her belly, and between her legs. His rough fingers pushed into her and found that perfect point, and his mouth drew hard on her nipple. His other hand slid under her and took hold of her ass. He had encompassed her. Engulfed her.

As she came, she arched high and threw her arms wide, knocking the light off the nightstand with a crash.

He stayed on her until her body was a twitching, nerveless mass and she had to grab his hand and stop him before she passed out. He rolled to his side and tucked her close, hooking his leg over hers.

As the orgasm subsided and let her mind and body work again, she had a moment of cozy bliss, so surrounded by his love, all of her senses full of nothing but him—the scent of his sweat, the sound of his heartbeat, the touch of his skin, the sight of his arm around her, the lingering taste of his need.

Knowing this feeling, this love, this belonging, how would she ever live without it?

A torrent of emotion followed on that thought, and Gabe was sobbing before she’d realized she was sad. She clenched her arms around him, pushed her face against his strong chest, and wept.

His hold tightened at once. “It’s okay, little one. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

He said the sentence over and over and over again, as if repetition would give it the power to be true.

Gabe held him and was held by him and wished it so.

 

 

*****

 

 

“What do you think of her?” Emma asked, stirring a glass pitcher of lemonade with a wooden spoon.

Gabe stabbed cellophane-topped toothpicks into the wee, twee sandwiches Emma had insisted on making and arranged them in a circle on the stoneware platter. “I don’t know. If she’s as good as they say, then I like her. If she makes it so he can stay home, then I adore her.”

Emma stopped stirring and frowned at the side door, as if she could see around the corner to where Heath, Logan, and Morgan sat on the wide flagstone patio with Heath’s lawyer. Wes had taken the kids out for a ride; nobody wanted them around when Honor Babinot came to the house.

Heath had been home just more than a week, and this was Honor’s third visit to the ranch. They’d somehow convinced her that the big house should be the base of operations for Heath’s case, and that she should come to them, rather than the other way around. The other two times, she’d brought Melina, her investigator, but on this Friday afternoon, she’d come alone, and she was dressed casually, in jeans and a sleeveless top, with her long blonde hair loose—almost as if it had been a social call.

It hadn’t. She’d brought a banker’s box full of new files, and everybody seemed somber. Now, they were taking a break.

“Don’t you think she’s too pretty to be a lawyer?”

Gabe laughed, then realized that Emma was serious. “What are you talking about? Did you just fall through a wormhole and land in 1955 or something?”

Emma blushed, then got back to work on the lemonade. “I don’t think it’s such a bad thing for men and women to be good at different things.”

“Well, okay. Like lifting heavy things and reaching the top shelf. Opening the pickle jar. But not lawyering. I don’t think good looks or boobs makes her less capable of arguing a case. Heath says she’s the best in Idaho.”

During her father’s trial, the prosecutor, also a woman, had taken Gabe under her wing. For a time, she’d been the closest thing Gabe had had to a friend. It was strange now to be on the other side, to think of the prosecutor as an enemy. Gabe was pretty glad Heath’s lawyer was a woman. It gave her a bridge over that cognitive dissonance.

“I sure hope so. I just wish…I don’t know. Never mind.” She set the wooden spoon on the cutting board where the remains of the lemons sat, looking squished and forlorn now. “Will you taste this for me? Everybody always says I make it too sweet.”

Gabe went over and poured a splash of lemonade into a little juice glass. She took a sip, then made a face when it seemed to curdle in her mouth. “No, it’s not too sweet. Barely tastes like there’s any sugar.”

“You sure? I put a whole cup in.”

“Yeah. Wow. The lemons must be extra strong, then. It needs more.”

“Okay.” She added another half cup and stirred it in. “You ready?”

Gabe hooked a basket full of cutlery and napkins over her arm and picked up the stoneware platter. “Let’s go.”

 

 

*****

 

 

The enormous patio stretched across the back of the big house and around the western side and extended about twenty feet into the grounds around the house. Heath’s parents had entertained often when Heath’s mother was alive, so it was set up to hold at least a hundred guests comfortably.

Morgan didn’t entertain, and his wife had been dead for more than ten years, so most of the patio was empty these days. But at the corner, dead center, stood a big stone fireplace, with an arrangement of furniture before it that could accommodate a cozy family gathering of ten or so. When the discussion had gotten heavy and tense inside, Morgan had suggested they all enjoy the unexpected cool of the mid-July afternoon.

When Emma and Gabe carried out the snacks, the people around the low table were sitting quietly, their expressions uniformly glum. Gabe swallowed down the foul taste of panic. The lawyer never came with good news. Every visit, she’d shown how the prosecution’s case was getting stronger.

She set the tray in the middle of the table, and Emma handled pouring out glasses of lemonade. Heath held out his hand to her, and she let him pull her onto his lap.

“What’s wrong?”

He sighed. “I love you. We’re gonna be okay. No matter what.”

Now she felt sick with panic, and she grabbed his hand in both of hers. “I love you, too. What happened?”

“DNA came back.”

“Well, but everybody already knew it was his blood all over your clothes.”

Heath shook his head. “My DNA in his mouth.”

Though they’d been talking only to each other, they’d been speaking at nearly normal volume, so everyone had heard. The lawyer, Honor, cut in. “They found traces of Heath’s skin in the victim’s teeth.”

“But Heath punched him in the mouth. A lot. His hands were all torn up. Couldn’t it have happened then?”

“Hours before time of death. It’s possible that the flesh could have stayed in place all that time, especially if we can prove that the victim didn’t eat or drink or brush his teeth.”

Honor never seemed to use Brandon Black’s name. She always called him ‘the victim.’ Gabe wondered why.

Logan slammed his fists down on his thighs. “Yeah, it’s possible! That’s what happened. He didn’t do this! Jesus, woman. Watch how you talk.”

Honor frowned but didn’t react otherwise to Logan’s outburst. “I should have phrased that more carefully, but—”

“Isn’t phrasing things your fuckin’ job?” Logan snarled.

“Logan! You will show respect, or you will leave this meeting.” Morgan took a glass of lemonade from Emma’s shaking hand. “Thank you, darlin’.” To Honor, he said, “Go on.”

“The problem is that Hayes can argue it is unlikely that the victim didn’t do any of those things in the seven to twelve hours between your attack and his death, and that it is much more likely that Heath’s skin got caught in the victim’s teeth during the murder. We don’t need the prosecution getting more color for an already colorful story.”

Gabe stared at Honor, trying to comprehend the notion that Heath’s bleak chances had grown bleaker.

“I hate you calling it an attack,” Logan muttered.

“What else would you call it, Loge?” Heath asked.

“A damn public service. He was about to put his drunk ass behind the wheel.”

“Ugh!” Morgan complained and leaned forward to set his glass on the table. “Emma, darlin’, you got to let up on the damn sugar! That there is undrinkable. It’s practically sugar cane itself.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

Glad for something, anything, else to focus on, Gabe said, “It’s my fault, Morgan. I told her to add more.” She picked up the glass Emma had set on the table for her and took a sip. “Huh. It still tastes sour to me.”

Heath twitched. He caught her chin in his hand and turned her head to face him. “You okay?”

His eyes blazed green heat at her, and she tried to understand what had him so intense about the dumb lemonade. There were much more important things to be focused on. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just don’t like these lemons, I guess.”

She squirmed out of his hold and stood. “Sorry I screwed up the lemonade. I’ll go get some ice water instead.”

Heath stood, too. “I’ll come with you. Some of us need something stronger than water.”

 

 

*****

 

 

In the kitchen, Heath practically ran at her. He picked her up, spun her around, and set her on the counter. He was grinning. His lawyer was here to tell them that his chances of being acquitted were even slimmer, and he was grinning like an idiot. No—like a madman.

“What the hell! We’re not having sex. Not here, not now.”

“You’re pregnant.”

“What? I’m not even late yet. I’m not due until Sunday.”

He laughed and leaned his forehead on hers. “You’re pregnant. Let’s go home and do a test.”

A few days earlier, they’d driven to Boise—away from prying town eyes—and bought three double-test kits. One kit for every month that he’d be with her to try.

“You think I’m pregnant because I don’t like the lemons?”

“Yep. Your sense of taste is off. Sybil hated food she loved and loved food she hated. Emma, too. You’re pregnant.”

Gabe’s heart began to stutter. It had only been two weeks since they’d first tried—God, how their lives had changed in such a short time—could there be signs already if she was? “I don’t have strong feelings about lemonade either way. And saying it a hundred times isn’t going to make it true.”

“You’re pregnant. Let’s go do a test.” He set her on the floor and grabbed her hand.

“Heath!” She jerked her hand free. “Your lawyer is here. That’s more important.”

“No, it’s not. She’s full of bad news I can’t stop from happening. I’m going to prison, Gabe. Best we get right with that.” He pulled her into his arms. “You’re full of good news. You’re the only reason I give a shit about anything. Please?”

She bit down on the insides of her cheeks to shut down the threatening tears. “Okay. Let’s go.”

They left without telling anyone.

 

 

*****

 

 

Every doubt Gabe should have had two weeks ago, and all the doubts that had teemed about them since, charged into her mind at once as she sat on the closed lid of the toilet and stared at the word on the stick. Pregnant.

Heath had been right.

Pregnant.

He crouched before her, his hands over her forearms, staring at the stick with her.

“Told ya.”

She didn’t have to look up; she could hear the smile in his voice. He was happy.

“We’re crazy. This is crazy. W-what—what were we thinking?”

She was going to have to raise this baby on her own. It would never know its father except in a khaki uniform, sitting on plastic chairs in a khaki room, surrounded by men in khaki.

She didn’t even know how to be a person in this life, much less a mother.

“Heath! I can’t…”

As if it were a treasure made of spun glass, Heath lifted the plastic stick from her trembling hands and set it on the table where they kept their towels. Then he picked her hands up and pressed his lips to each palm.

“It’s gonna be okay, little one. Whatever happens.”

“It’s not a magic spell. You don’t just say the words and make them true.”

“Maybe I do. Hey, look at me.”

She lifted her eyes. God, he was happy. For the first time since that Sunday breakfast, he was happy.

“I love you. I will not leave you alone.”

“But if—”

With a sharp lift of his head, he silenced her. “My family is your family. You will be a Cahill in a few weeks. This is your home. Always and forever. You will have all the help you want. You’ll have everything you need.”

“No, I won’t. I won’t have you.”

“Yeah, you will. I don’t care what happens or where they put me, I will be with you every second of every day as long as I live.” His lips twisted wryly. “They’re not trying to put me on death row, so maybe I’ll live a long time. You might get tired of writing letters all the time with your old-lady arthritis.”

She nudged him with her knee. “Shut up. That’s not even slightly funny.”

The droll smirk left his face, and he became earnest. “Gabe, I love you. We’re living these months like they’re the start of our future, right? Maybe they are. Maybe we’ll find a way to wake up from this nightmare and have that future. Maybe this baby is the first of many.”

“Many?” She found a smile for him. “How many do you want?”

“As many as I can put in you.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “You’re young. You could go a while.”

“You’re gross.”

“Be happy with me, Gabe. Let’s plan a wedding and build a nursery and make a life. For however long we have. Please.”

None of Gabe’s fears had been assuaged, but it didn’t matter. She was pregnant with his child. She loved him, she wanted this baby, and she wanted to give him the happiness she could. So she nodded and wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him to her as tightly as she could.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gabe rode up to the stable and swung down from Phoebe’s back. The ranch was quiet at the grounds—the herds had been driven to a far point on the ranch, or something, so there were only a few workers around.

Wes, Emma, and the kids had gone into Boise to do some back-to-school shopping and just have a day off as their own little family, away from the tensions at the ranch.

Heath and his father were with Honor, at a meeting with the prosecutor. He was offering a deal, and Honor had advised that, regardless of Heath’s insistence that he would never plead guilty, they take the meeting and hear the deal.

Gabe had wanted to go, but Heath had refused to let her. He was protective with her about the specifics of the legal dealings, preferring to tell her what was going on rather than have her hear it raw herself. Personally, she was torn about what she wanted. She hated being set to the side for even a second, but she knew it helped her process everything when Heath held her and told her, when he said their incantation, It’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna be okay.

It wasn’t going to be okay. A month had passed since the Fourth of July. They had only two months now before the trial, and they didn’t yet have a good strategy in place to counter the prosecution’s case.

Two months left of their life together.

She led Phoebe into the stable. Standing in the aisle between the stalls, she unfastened the split-ear bridle and pulled it free of her horse’s head. As always, Phoebe nodded her thanks and rolled her tongue out of her mouth as if she were celebrating the freedom from the weight of the bit.

Gabe hooked the bridle on her shoulder and slid a pink halter over Phoebe’s nose, then tied her lead to one of the rings that lined the posts between the stall doors.

The stable was empty; the horses were either having a day off, running in the pastures, or they were working. A few hours earlier, when the morning work of the ranch had been at full buzz, she’d stood on the road and watched Heath and his father drive away, and then she’d decided she couldn’t sit on her hands and wait, so she’d come up to the stable and just caught Phoebe before Steve had led her out to play.

Her horse had made her disappointment with that change of plans obvious. But they’d had a good ride, and Gabe had let her run until they were both sweaty. Heath was right—riding alone was an excellent way to clear one’s head.

With Phoebe tied, Gabe went and hooked the bridle at the cleaning station near the tack room, then picked up Phoebe’s carry-all off the grooming supply shelf and went back to her horse.

She had pulled the cinch loose and was preparing to heave the saddle from Phoebe’s back when Logan said, “Hey—you need help?”

“No, I got it.” She pulled the saddle and blanket off and turned to take it to its rack. Logan stood in her way, his hands out, offering to take it from her. “I got it, Loge. Thanks.”

He smirked and turned out of her way. As she put the saddle away, he said, “You went out on your own?”

“Yeah, not far—just along Cedar Gulch and into the woods.”

His expression changed to something less sardonic. “You really know your way around here now.”

It was a huge ranch—thousands of acres—and she’d seen only a fraction of it. “No. But Heath’s taken me on some rides. I know some trails.”

“Turnin’ you into a real Cahill, ain’t he?” He grinned and pushed his hat back. “But I don’t know about going out on your own, Gabe. You’ve only been riding a few months, and now…” He gave her belly a significant look. “You need to be careful.”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking care of Heath’s baby.” She walked past him and picked a curry comb out of the carry-all she’d set on the floor. Phoebe liked to be curried after a ride. Gabe thought the rigid teeth of the comb must have felt good on the saddle area, like a back scratch, because Phoebe’s head always dropped, and she’d nicker happily.

Logan went to the office to do whatever he’d come into the stable to do, and Gabe focused on Phoebe. She tried to keep her phone in her pocket and not check the time or to see if she’d missed a call or a text. She didn’t need to know the time, and she would have felt a call or a text come in.

But God, she hated every second she was away from Heath, and she especially hated that he’d gone into enemy territory today. She couldn’t shake the fear that they would grab him up and send him away, that they’d somehow decide he didn’t deserve a trial and just lock him up.

She was combing Phoebe’s mane, the end of the grooming session, when Logan came back out of the office. He leaned on a post near an empty stall and watched her work.

“You’re good for my little brother. You brought him back to us. You know that, right?”

Staying focused on Phoebe’s forelock, Gabe shrugged. “He’s better for me. Maybe we just…are what we need for each other.” As she said it, she felt a weight on her chest so heavy she thought it might cave her ribs in.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

In Logan’s voice, those words were just words. Gabe shook her head. “Does nobody in this family just face facts?”

He came right up to her and stroked Phoebe’s nose. “You know who was supposed to get this girl, right?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Does he talk about Ruthie with you?”

Gabe nodded. Heath had told her many stories about his daughter, and he spoke often about his love of being a father and his grief since.

“I love Anya and Kendall. They are good kids. But Ruthie—I don’t know. Maybe because she was the first, you know? She made me an uncle. And she was so happy and funny. Damn, I loved that little imp. And Heath—darlin’, you got yourself a good daddy for that baby in your belly.”

Gabe caught a sob before it could be a crying jag, and Logan smoothed a comforting hand over her back. The kind gesture only made tears threaten more, but Gabe didn’t shrug him off.

“When he lost Ruthie…That night was a horror. I was there with him, and sometimes I still dream about it. I kept him from jumping into that ravine. He’d’ve gone headlong into that fireball, even though there was nothing he could do. At the funeral, he beat the shit out of me for that.”

Surprised, Gabe looked up at him. “What?”

“Yeah. He blamed me, too, for a long time. Not near so much as he blamed himself, though. Only one person he’s ever blamed more than himself.”

“Brandon Black.”

Logan nodded. “After, he was just…well, he was a shell. It was a year before he’d even hold a fuckin’ conversation. And it was four years before there was any part of him that wanted to be here. You brought him that.”

He smiled and stroked her cheek, catching the tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye. Then he turned back to the horse. “But through all that, this little girl was here. Heath raised her, worked her, trained her to the saddle. Her rider was dead, and he shut Emma down any time she suggested one of her kids take her, but he wouldn’t sell her. Dad and I would talk about it sometimes, wonder if it was healthy. But seeing you riding her, taking care of her, seeing that she’s yours, it’s easy to see that Heath wasn’t keeping Phoebe for a ghost. He was keeping her because somewhere, deep down inside him, he knew everything was gonna be okay. He knew he’d wake up again and have a life he wanted. He knew this girl would have a rider.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a horse cookie. Phoebe, who’d already had about five of them from Gabe, chuffed happily at the opportunity of a fresh pocket. Logan palmed it and offered it to her. “‘Face facts’ is just another way to say give up. Cahills don’t give up, darlin’. Not even when they want to. There’s always somewhere for hope inside us.”

That was it; she couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Phoebe gave her a concerned nudge, and Logan drew her into his arms.

For a minute, he let her cry into his shirt. Then he kissed the top of her head and set her back. He smiled warmly down at her. “You’re a Cahill now, Gabe. You don’t give up. It’s gonna be okay.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Gabe sat on the empty worktable and watched Heath hand Bill, his apprentice, a manila envelope. Bill faltered, looking awkward, and then he stepped in for a hug. Clearly surprised, Heath stood like a board for a second, then hugged Bill back.

Feeling sad and sentimental, Gabe put her feet on the table and hugged her legs.

When the men stepped back, Heath led Bill out of the shop. He stood in the wide doorway for a long time, then flipped the switch and let the overhead door roll down.

Hephaestus Farrier & Smithy had just closed its doors, maybe for the last time.

In the six weeks since his arrest, business had trickled to nothing. Some of it was due to the feud with Catherine—the Moondancer had been a big part of his farriering work, and those loyal to her had pulled their business in support—but Heath had already taken and absorbed those hits before the Fourth. Since then, he’d lost more business from people sure of his guilt, and he’d lost the rest because people didn’t know if he’d be around to finish the work—and he’d turned down the few new queries for the very same reason.

He walked back across the shop to her and pulled her legs down and around his hips. She hooked her arms over his shoulders.

With a sad smile, he said, “Well, that’s that, then.”

He laid his head on her shoulder, and they simply rested there in his silent shop. As their last work together, he and Bill had cleaned everything. During operation, the shop was always tidy but generally grimy. There had been a kind of soot in every crack and seam. Now, the place nearly gleamed. It felt wrong to Gabe. Even the smell was wrong.

Finally, he took a deep breath and stood straight. “Okay. We should get going.”

He picked up his hat from the table and gave it a look of pinched dissatisfaction. The new hat looked a lot like his old one—the same shape, at least—but it was black and had a narrow band trimmed with small silver discs. Wes and Emma had brought it back from Boise for him. He thought it too flashy, and he hated the idea of a black hat and its metaphor, but his sister had given it to him, so he wore it.

Gabe thought he looked gorgeous in it, but she’d preferred the well-worn and well-loved hat he’d lost forever. That had been more Heath.

“We don’t have to go. Let’s just go home.”

She hopped down from the table and took his hand. Things in town were always strange now. People didn’t even pretend not to be talking about them anymore. The story was too juicy, too current, too ripe for possible developments for people to control themselves. Every time they went into town, everybody watched like they were at a show, waiting to see if something new would happen. People literally just stopped and stared.

But he shook his head. “It’s Reese’s birthday. Don’t know how many more chances I’ll have to be with my friends, and I’m not going to miss a birthday.”

“Everybody in town’s going to be watching to see if you get drunk and do something crazy.”

“I won’t get drunk.”

She conveyed her skepticism with a look. He’d been a heavy drinker as long as she’d known him, but the over past six weeks, he’d gotten to the point that he could only sleep with about half a bottle of bourbon in him. Except for trouble managing his temper, he rarely acted drunk in any case, but they hadn’t gone out for a night at the Jack since his arrest. He’d seen his friends at the ranch, or at their homes—and even at that, only a few times.

Gabe was a little nervous about him getting drunk around all the prying town eyes.

“I won’t. I need to take care of you and the seedling. Come on, little one. Let’s walk over there.”

They went to the side door, and he ushered her through, then pulled the master switch and turned out all the lights. He went still, his hand yet on the switch, and stared into the dark.

She rubbed his back with a light caress, then leaned on him and kissed his arm. “Say the magic words?”

With a little shake, he roused and closed the door. He locked it, then put his keys away and squared his new hat on his head. Putting his strong arm around her shoulders, he squeezed her close.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Gabe thought that if she owned a bar or a restaurant, it would be the last place in the world she’d want to spend her free time, but that wasn’t true for a lot of people. Her grandparents had held all the family parties at the cantina. All her birthdays, including her quinceañera, had been at the same place she’d worked. She’d generally thought that had sucked.

This year, her birthday, at the end of July, had been nothing but a quiet night at the ranch. She and Heath had taken a ride into the woods; then they’d had a family dinner at Emma and Wes’s, with cake and presents, and they’d all sat around the table and made wedding plans.

It had been her best birthday.

Reese’s birthday party—his fortieth—was at the Jack, and they hadn’t even closed the bar for the event. He’d just put Linda on the bar and gone to sit over by the pool tables with an armload of bottles of Jack Daniels.

Though it was Reese’s birthday, a lot of the attention was on Heath and Gabe. Their friends had formed a protective barrier around them, obstructing curious eyes and any assholes bold enough to seek a confrontation.

Gabe wasn’t familiar enough yet with Jasper Ridge’s personality and history to have a strong sense of her own about what was going on in town now, but the Cahills talked often about it. The schism caused by the Moondancer feud—which is what everybody called it—had shifted shape with Heath’s arrest. Some people believed that Brandon Black deserved his death and that Heath was in his rights to kill him. Some people—even some who had shunned Black all these years—believed that Heath had already made him pay over and over again, that maybe he’d deserved a few beatings but not death, and that the violence of the killing proved that Heath was dangerous to everybody.

Very few people believed that Heath was innocent. In the story told in Jasper Ridge, he was either a hero or a madman, but he was always a killer.

Their opinions about Heath’s guilt had changed some alliances in the Moondancer feud. Some people who had stood with the Cahills at first now saw Heath as a crazy man who’d run roughshod over Catherine Spelling’s business. Others who had supported Catherine now saw him as a protector and were more inclined to believe that Gabe had been attacked and that Catherine had put profit ahead of safety.

Honestly, hardly anybody cared anymore about what had happened up at the Moondancer. The ranch was still running, held aloft by a loan from another rich man in town, one the Cahills hated. Catherine was rebuilding her reservation book. Heath’s business was closed, and he was facing trial for murder. The focus of the town was entirely on that, and people talked like the two things were related, like Catherine had won because Heath was going to prison. Gabe didn’t understand, but that was how gossip worked, she supposed—everything had to fit into one story.

The result for Heath was that, except for his family and closest friends, even people who supported him stayed clear. Nobody wanted to get pulled unwillingly into the story that might take the Cahill family down.

But at the Jack, while they stayed in their protective circle and let the rumors churn around them, every now and then, somebody would come over to shake Heath’s hand, give Gabe a courtly nod, and offer their support. Heath always stood and thanked them.

Jerk Harris, who’d saved her on the road her first day in Jasper Ridge, and his sister Mary, proprietor of the town motel, were two who’d come in to wish Reese a happy day and pay their respects to Heath and Gabe. Jerk had even given Gabe an awkward, bony hug.

Heath drank beer, alternating with water, and stayed sober. Gabe had a couple of sodas. She wasn’t really in the mood for the party, but she enjoyed seeing Heath enjoy his friends. Yet even as he laughed and talked, seeming at ease, Gabe noted the watchfulness in his eyes. He was on alert for trouble. Logan was, too, and they both seemed to have decided that she needed their protection. She hadn’t even been able to go to the toilet on her own—and these days, she needed the toilet a lot. The baby was the size of a pinto bean, so it couldn’t have been pressing on anything, but she needed to pee all the time.

It was her only symptom so far. That and the taste thing, which had extended beyond lemons to a variety of things. She had a much sweeter tooth than usual. Usually she hated things like cake frosting, but she’d eaten three pieces of her birthday cake, roses and all. She was going to be big as a house when the baby came.

Well into the evening, when Gabe had begun to hope they’d be leaving soon, because everybody was drunk as hell but them, Logan came back from the bathroom and slapped Heath on the arm. “Far corner, by the juke.”

Heath leaned his chair way back, grabbing a post for stability, and looked. He didn’t even try to be subtle.

“That’s the guy?”

“Reese—the big guy at the juke—that’s who you were talking about?”

Reese looked over. He blinked blearily and shut one eye in a parody of focus. “Yeah. Name’s…uh…” He belched.

Heath chuckled. “We’ll talk tomorrow, birthday boy. But that’s the guy?”

Gabe peered across the saloon to the corner they were talking about. It was dim back there, but she could see what appeared to be a mountain in a t-shirt, sitting with some people she recognized as locals but didn’t know to name. She didn’t recognize the huge man at all. Turning to scan the expressions of her friends, she didn’t think anybody knew him.

A wide, drunken smile spread over Reese’s face. “That’s him. I cracked the case, right?”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Heath repeated.

Gabe leaned in close. “What are you talking about?”

“C’mere.” Heath took her hand and tugged; he wanted her on his lap.

She obliged him and then repeated her question.

“I don’t want to talk about it here.”

“Is it about the case?”

“Maybe.”

“Is it good or bad?” They couldn’t take more bad.

“It’s—”

Heath kicked out his leg as Logan began to speak, connecting with his brother’s knee and shutting him up.

“Let’s go home. We’ll talk there.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Honor picked up her coffee cup and slumped back in her seat. She had become comfortable in the big house over these weeks. “I don’t know.”

Gabe huffed in frustration. “What don’t you know? You said there wasn’t anybody strong enough in town to do all that to Black in cold blood, and there wasn’t anybody but Heath with enough anger at him to do it hot. Well, this guy is huge.”

Heath’s defense had been badly hamstrung by one fact: no weapon had been used on Black. Someone had killed him with their bare hands, with enough strength to tear his jaw nearly clean off his head and open his belly to disembowel him. It was a killing of passion and nearly superhuman strength. The obvious conclusion was that a big, strong man with a fierce hatred for Black had killed him.

One man, and only one, fit that description in Jasper Ridge, and he hadn’t committed the murder, so they needed to find someone so strong that hatred needn’t fuel his power to do the same damage.

The man in the corner the other night at the Jack was the first, best, and last hope.

“But he has no ties to the victim. He’s new in town. It’s a place to start, the first place we’ve found, and that’s good, but we can’t hang this around his neck simply because he’s strong. We need to find the story, and there’s no obvious place to go next.”

“Why don’t you ever say his name?! You keep calling him ‘the victim’!” She was shouting. They had only weeks left, and nothing was happening to give them any hope. It was hard to stay calm.

Heath rubbed a hand up and down her arm. “Easy, little one. Don’t get worked up.”

Honor sat her mug down and rested her elbows on her knees. She was dressed casually again; it was Saturday afternoon. She stared hard at Gabe, her expression serious and earnest. “Using his name gives him a face. A history. A mother who named him. His name makes him a person. A victim is just a lump in a body bag. We are the defense. We don’t want to help the prosecution build sympathy for the man Heath is accused of killing.”

“But he didn’t do it.” Her voice cracked. God, she cried all the time now.

“It’s okay, Gabe. It’s okay.” Heath put his arm around her and said to Honor, “There’s one thing: He works at the Moondancer. He’s new, since the Fourth, but maybe it’s something.”

“I thought you were sure it was Whitt behind the frame job. We’re still trying to find a motive for that.”

“Whitt gave Catherine Spelling a loan to keep going. Catherine and I—I told you we’re not on good terms. She blames me for needing that loan. I wouldn’t say she’s the kind to do something like this, but she owes Whitt. Maybe there’s something there.” He sighed. “Somebody killed him bloody, and it wasn’t me. There’s got to be something somewhere.”

Honor nodded. “Okay. It’s another step—farther than we’ve gotten in any other direction. Like I’ve said, we don’t need to solve the murder. We just need reasonable doubt. We need a story. If we can show that the evidence fits another theory as well as it fits the state’s, I can close the shit out of that. I’ll put Melina on it. In the meantime, I need to talk to your father.”

That meant she needed more money. Gabe didn’t know the details, but she did know that with the gigantic cash bond and Honor’s huge and growing bill—she and a whole team were working full-time on the case, at hundreds and hundreds of dollars an hour—money was pouring out the door. Before the trial had even started, the case had depleted the family reserves and was beginning to drain the ranch reserves. They’d get his bond back eventually, but in the meantime, it seemed like finances were getting worrisome.

“Yeah, okay. He’s up at the barn, but I’ll call him down.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know how long I can let my family take these hits for me.”

Gabe took one of his hands and set it on her belly. “Until there aren’t any more hits to take. Cahills don’t give up.”

His eyebrows lifted in pleased surprise, and the weariness smoothed away with his smile. He caressed her belly. “You’re right.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“They’re gorgeous, but no.”

“Why not? They’re perfect!”

“They’re four hundred dollars.”

“So? It’s your wedding—and look, they’re the something blue, too.”

“I’m not buying cowboy boots I’m only going to wear once.”

“Why are you only gonna wear ‘em once?”

“Look at them! They’re too fancy!”

“They’re boots! Who the fuck cares? Wear ‘em every day if you want!”

“They’re four hundred dollars!”

“So what?! Do you think we’re poor now? We’re not poor! And you’re the one who said you wanted to wear boots with your fucking wedding dress!” Near tears, Emma snatched the boot from Gabe’s hands and shoved it back on the shelf with such force that the shelf shook, and the other displayed boots wobbled and fell to the floor. “Fuck!”

When she bent to pick them up and Gabe bent to help her, they both, at the same time, realized that they had the full, rapt attention of Randall and the other customers in Idahoan Outfitters that afternoon. Several of those customers were local residents.

One of them was Ellen Emerson, an employee at the Moondancer, and someone who might have become Gabe’s friend if things hadn’t gone the way they had. While everyone else simply watched the show, Ellen came over and helped them pick up boots and return them to their display shelf.

“Thanks, Ellen,” Gabe said.

“Sure. Don’t mind all the bug-eyes behind us.” She smiled and raised her voice so everyone in the shop could hear. “People need to tend their own gardens. They act like they don’t have weeds in their petunias, just like everybody else.”

The gossip-greedy audience lost its focus as Emma picked up the boot that had started the whole thing and set it, gently this time, on the shelf. Her cheeks were wet, and Gabe felt bad. She felt like crying, too.

“Thanks again, Ellen. You probably should go, though, before Catherine hears you were nice to us.”

“You know what? I don’t care. I mean, I’m gonna go, because I don’t want to horn in here, but give me a call. What’s goin’ on is…it’s tearin’ up the town, and Catherine’s actin’ like…I don’t even know. Like the Wicked Queen from Snow White. I’m so sorry about Heath. He’s a good man. I don’t believe he could do what they say he did.”

With that, she smiled at Emma and was gone. Gabe watched her leave the shop and then turned back to her soon-to-be sister-in-law. “I’m sorry.”

Emma wiped her cheeks and squared her shoulders. “Me too. You should wear whatever you want to your own wedding. I don’t know why I got so upset.”

She really had, too. Gabe couldn’t think of a time she’d ever heard Emma say ‘fuck.’ “I do. Everything’s just at maximum stress. It was dumb to try to have a wedding. We should’ve just gotten married.”

“What, at the courthouse? You think Heath would want that—to get married in a courtroom?”

Gabe shuddered at the thought. “No. I wouldn’t, either.”

“He wants you to have a beautiful wedding.”

“Everything’s so expensive.” She pouted at the boots that had started the scene. They were gorgeous, dark brown with turquoise-blue leather stitched over them in an elaborate pattern. It had been she who’d picked one up and oohed over it in the first place. Before she’d seen their price.

Emma sucked in a sharp breath, then closed her eyes and let it slowly out. The impression was strong that she was marshaling all of her patience. “Gabe. You have to stop worrying about money. We’re gonna be okay.”

Gabe chuckled at the Cahill incantation. But she didn’t stop worrying.

“Heath wants this, Gabe. He wants to give you a beautiful wedding. He wants to have that memory for himself. And a pair of boots isn’t going to be the difference in his case.”

“They’re not going to be the difference in the wedding, either. Can I just wear my own boots?”

Emma looked down at Gabe’s feet, which were covered with the boots in question. They were Frye boots, a wild extravagance of her mother’s on the last Christmas they’d had together. Sturdy as hell, they’d worn well over the years, but these months of life as a ranch girl had definitely put them to the test.

“Honestly? Gabriela Kincaid, don’t you want to be a fairy princess on your wedding? You only get one day like that. You have that beautiful dress. Buy the boots. Let Heath give you a perfect day.” Emma’s words shook and then broke, and she was crying again.

They were getting married just more than a week before his trial started. It might be their last perfect day forever. Gabe started to cry, too, and the women held each other for a few minutes and made a different kind of scene, standing in the middle of Idahoan Outfitters while everybody watched.

 

 

*****

 

 

They held the wedding on the ranch, and they’d all done most of the work themselves. It had been a happy distraction from their frightening future.

Logan and Heath had built an arch and installed it on the grounds, just off the patio, so that they would take their vows with the late-afternoon mountains as their backdrop. Emma and Anya had wrapped the rough-hewn wood of the arch with wildflowers. Their guests would stand during the ceremony, and then there would be dinner and dancing on the patio.

Gabe had been worried that they wouldn’t have any guests, but as the time of the ceremony neared and she stood upstairs in a guest room of the big house, looking out the window as Emma fussed at her already-done hair, she saw that the ranch road was full of cars. They’d invited almost a hundred people, true friends of the family only, and it seemed that they’d all come.

“Hey!” Ellen said behind her. She’d reached out again after the day in town, and she seemed to really want to be friends again. Maybe she would be—though Gabe held a corner of reserve for the possibility that she was spying for Catherine. “One more picture. Hike up that dress and show off the boots.”

Laughing, she turned from the window and lifted the tiered lace of her wedding dress to show off the fancy boots with the turquoise trim.

“Oh, come on!” Emma laughed. “Higher than that! Show off those gorgeous legs!”

She pulled the skirt almost to her hips and kicked a leg out. “Like this?”

“Perfect!” Ellen took the photo with her phone. “Oh, perfect!”

Emma fussed again with a tendril of hair curling along Gabe’s neck. “It’s about time. If you’re ready, I’ll go get Dad.”

Morgan was going to walk her to Heath. There wasn’t really an aisle, or an altar, but he was the closest thing she had to a father, so he was going to give her his arm and lead her to her husband.

Blinking tears back, she smiled down at Anya. “What do you think? Am I ready?”

The little girl nodded seriously. “You’re like a princess.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Morgan came up and shooed Emma, Anya, and Ellen out of the room. “Need a minute with the bride. Go on.”

When they were alone, Heath’s father smiled and picked up her hands. He led her to sit at the end of the bed, pushing aside the strewn garment bags and random mess as he sat next to her. “I don’t want to muss your pretty dress…”

“It’s okay.” He still had hold of both her hands, so she shifted to face him and make the position less awkward. “Thank you for giving me away today.”

“I’m not giving you away, sweetheart. I’m bringing you in. We all are. You are one of us, and you’ll never be alone again.”

The day was an emotional one anyway—life in general was just emotional right now—and Gabe’s emotions had been on a tilt-a-whirl since she’d been pregnant, so she really wanted Morgan to shut up before she ruined the makeup Emma had done so artfully. The mascara was waterproof, but the rest of it wasn’t.

“Morgan…”

“I’d like it if you called me Dad from now on. You think you can do that?”

Yeah, she was totally going to ruin her makeup. Unable to speak, she nodded.

As if he hadn’t noticed how close she was to blubbering, he lifted her left hand and brushed his thumb over the ring on her finger. “Three women have worn this ring before you. You know that?”

Again, she could only nod.

“The first one was my great-great grandmother, Annabelle Cahill. She and my great-great grandfather, Matthew, settled this claim. They weren’t nobody back East, but here, they carved a ranch out of the mountains and made the Cahill name mean something. Annabelle, she was a real pioneer woman, the kind who birthed a baby in the morning, swaddled him up at her breast and was back at work by midday. She was tough as nails. I didn’t know her, of course, but I know all the stories. Once, while Matthew was off on a roundup, she shot and killed three bandits who thought she’d be easy prey without her man around. Wasn’t nothin’ could scare her.”

As he spoke, Morgan’s voice took on a broad, cowboy cadence it didn’t normally have, like he was channeling the spirit of those pioneers.

“Matthew was the first out here to make friends with the Indians—the Shoshone—instead of just shootin’ em and makin’ war over every scrap a’ land. It wasn’t easy, and when the gov’ment came through, the tribe got the shaft anyway, but Matthew knew way back then that he had to earn his claim from the people here before him, that the land wasn’t just sittin’ out here waitin’ for him to take it.”

He looked around the room. “He built this house when he was an old man and died in it without havin’ a chance to live in it. But this was his pride—startin’ with a shack on a scuff of earth and endin’ here. Annabelle died here, too, but not before she got to see my daddy born here. Her great-grandson. My grandma, Dorothea, was wearin’ this ring by then. She’s the one made this house so grand. She brought culture to Jasper Ridge. Used to have opera singers and everythin’. They’d stay here as her guests, and she’d invite the town to the house for a performance.

“I didn’t marry for a damn long time. I was the only boy, and I had my daddy worried that I’d let the Cahill name die off. But I never could find the right woman. I was forty-two before I knew I did, and my bride was only nineteen years old. Serena. Her daddy was Shoshone, and she was brought up on the reservation. Hardly ever came off it until she was grown and decided she wanted to see what was on the other side. Just so happened I was on the other side, like I was waitin’ for her. All those years of not finding the one, and the minute I saw her, I knew. She’s dead almost eleven years, but not a day passes I don’t wake up and hope these years’ve all been a dream, and she’s sleepin’ right at my side. She wasn’t hard like Annabelle, and she wasn’t cultured like Dorothea. But she was just as strong in her way. She was just…she was quiet.” He chuckled softly. “Indians have a way of knowing what a child should be named, and they named her right. She was serene. She always saw the good, and no matter how bad things got, she always knew good was comin’. Even when she was dyin’, she could see past it and just know good was comin’.”

Morgan’s voice faltered, and he stopped and cleared his throat. Then he was quiet, holding Gabe’s hands, staring down at the family ring. Gabe had given up the fight long ago and was letting tears do what they would. She’d see if Emma could do anything to repair the damage.

A sudden shake of his shoulders and a sharp sigh, and Morgan came back to the present. With the easy grace of a man much younger than his more than eighty years, he stood and brought her up with him, still holding her hands. “Maybe Heath’s told you all this, but I wanted to make sure you knew that this ring holds the spirits of a long line of strong women. Strong just like you. You’ve had a lot to stand up to in your young life, and here you are, standing up. You had to stand up on your own, and you did it. Now you’re not on your own anymore. Now you’ve got us at your side, and you’ve got all those strong women at your back. Come what may, you are not alone.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“That better?” Heath squeezed her shoulders and came around to sit beside her again. Gabe picked up the plackets of his denim jacket and took a deep whiff of his scent.

Sunset had brought cool to the night, and as they’d sat at their table on the patio, a breeze had fluttered the lacy little cap sleeves of her dress, and she’d shivered. Immediately, Heath had sent Kendall into the house for his jacket. Two minutes after she’d shivered, she was swaddled in his warmth. It was huge on her, of course, but she didn’t care.

“It’s perfect. Thank you. Probably isn’t the look for a wedding dress, but oh well.”

He began to fold up a sleeve of the jacket, exposing her hand and wrist. “You are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. Wearing my jacket only makes you even sexier.”

He was pretty damn sexy himself. For the ceremony, he’d worn a dark grey suit that fit him perfectly, with a crisp white shirt and a dark red silk tie. He hadn’t worn his hat, but he’d worn a pair of black boots she’d never seen before—cowboy style but plain.

She’d never seen him dressed up before, and she’d been a little dazzled. He’d seemed dazzled, too, as she’d come to him on his father’s arm.

The ceremony itself had been simple and short. Logan and Emma had stood up with them, and Anya, in a miniature version of her mother’s dark red lace dress, had skipped out ahead of Gabe and Morgan. They’d exchanged their vows and rings—a delicately slim gold band for her and a heavy, thick one for him—and kissed, and they’d been married.

Immediately thereafter, they’d gone to the light-strewn patio for cocktails, and then dinner, which had been made right here in the big house kitchen by the Cahill women. Then there’d been cake and a few toasts.

Heath and Logan had both shed their jackets and ties before they’d finished their first drink. For the rest of the evening, Heath had been in his white shirt, the top two buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up. He looked about as sexy as it was humanly possible to be.

When he’d folded up both sleeves of his jacket for her, Gabe returned to her plate and scraped the last dregs of icing from her second slice of wedding cake onto her fork. Heath grinned at her as she licked the fork clean.

Her dress had gotten tight across the bust in just the four days between the fitting and the wedding. She had no idea how much weight she’d already gained, because she’d only been to the doctor once so far, and they didn’t have a scale at home.

She’d thought about stepping onto the livestock scale, but the thought of weighing herself like a cow was just a bit too close to how she was feeling.

She put her hand to her mouth with an embarrassed chuckle. “Sorry. I just can’t stop eating. I’m going to gain a thousand pounds before this baby comes.”

“And I’ll love every one of them.” He leaned in and kissed her, licking the frosting from the corner of her mouth.

“Hey, you two. The band wants to start up.” Emma had inserted her head between them.

Heath turned to Gabe. “What do you think? I’m not much of a dancer.”

“Me either. Not really. But I don’t mind standing by the band and holding you while people watch.”

His green eyes alight with love, he smiled. Turning to his sister, he grabbed her arm and pulled her down to whisper in her ear.

Emma smiled and kissed his cheek, and Gabe’s, then trotted off toward the band.

Gabe watched her talk with one of the band members, maybe the lead singer. “What was that about?”

Heath shrugged. “You want to finish my cake before they start?”

“Don’t tempt me.” She pushed his plate away, but not before she swiped at the frosting with her finger and sucked it into her mouth.

She made a cursory scan of the patio and their guests, still eating and chatting and milling about under the bright canopy of lights and flowers. They’d made a really pretty do-it-yourself wedding in just a few weeks and on a fairly small budget. Everybody seemed to be having a good time, and there had been no strangeness among their friends. It was just a good day—those had been few and far between of late.

Her eyes landed on Morgan and Logan, standing together near the wall of the house. They were talking with Honor Babinot.

Gabe would not have chosen to invite the lawyer to the wedding, but Emma had insisted that Honor spent so much time at the ranch and was working so hard on Heath’s case that it would have been rude not to invite her. She’d come alone and had seemed to be observing everyone around her very closely. Gabe had the sense that she was working.

“What’s going on over there?” The three looked serious, talking off on the side like that.

Heath followed her attention. “Don’t care. Not today.”

“But it looks important. Maybe we should—”

Taking hold of her chin, he cut her off and pulled her around to face him. “Not today, little one. Today is only for us. I don’t want to think about anything else.”

He was right, and she sighed and nodded in concession. “Shouldn’t have invited the lawyer, then.”

“You know Em,” he laughed. “We didn’t have a choice. Besides, I like her.”

“If I could get all your eyes and ears over here,” the front man of the band said into a microphone. “The bride and groom are ready to get the dancin’ started.”

The small crowd of their guests applauded, and there were a few whistles, too.

“The groom made a special request for a song, and it’s not our usual kinda music, so this first dance is just gonna be me and my guitar. If the happy couple’ll come up here for the honors…”

Heath stood and held out his hand, and Gabe, still wearing his big denim jacket, let him pull her chair out for her and lead her to the level grassy area that was their dance floor. As they stood before the band, the lead singer, who had slung an acoustic guitar over his shoulders, said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to introduce Mr. and Mrs. Heath Cahill.”

As their guests applauded again, Heath swung Gabe around and brought her into the circle of his arms. At their side, the singer began to strum a few simple bars. Gabe didn’t recognize it at first, but the first words he sang were the title of a song she loved, and she stared up at her husband, shocked.

“This is Beck.”

She loved Beck. Heath, on the other hand, liked the country music that everybody else in Jasper Ridge—maybe all of Idaho—seemed to like.

The song was ‘Waking Light.’ The singer was performing it like a country piece, but it was still familiar. There had been whole nights alone in Santa Fe that she’d spent listening to that one song on repeat. Sometimes it had felt like the song itself was keeping her going.

But she’d never told Heath that.

He nodded. “It was top of your most-played list on your phone. When I heard the lyrics…I think I understand why. And I knew it was right for now.”

He’d figured it out on his own.

“I love you, Heath. I love you so much.” She rose onto her tiptoes so she could wrap her arms around his neck.

“I love you, too, Gabriela Cahill. You woke me up. You brought light back to me.”

He lifted her off the ground so that she could hold him even more tightly, and they stood in front of their family and friends and swayed to beautiful music.

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath stumbled into their bedroom and pushed Gabe against the wall, leaning his full body into her. His mouth moved greedily over her cheek, her throat, down the V of her neckline as his hands clutched at the lace of her dress.

God, he was so hard, his body so big and hot and overwhelming, and Gabe’s head filled with glitter and swirls. She dragged his shirt and t-shirt from his waistband, trying to get to his skin.

“I don’t want to mess up your dress,” he rasped, tracing his tongue over her cleavage. He had most of her skirt hiked up, and she could feel him searching through the lace for her underwear.

“I don’t care about the dress. I’m done with the dress. It did its job.” She was finally under his shirts, and she yanked at them, trying to pull them up over his shoulders, not bothering to work out buttons.

“No, no.” His words came with the tempo of his gasping breath. “It’s too pretty. Our little girl might wear it someday.”

He’d found her underwear and moved it aside, and his fingers—so rough and yet so gentle—slid through her folds. Her whimper answered his groan, and she gave up on his shirts and went for his belt and pants instead. She needed him inside her.

“What if it’s a boy?” She got his belt open and went for his fly.

He flicked a finger over her clit. It always felt a bit swollen and extra sensitive now, and her knees buckled, but Heath held her. “Then maybe the next one’ll be a girl.”

Gabe froze, her desire locking up at once. His trial started in nine days. Honor expected it to last no more than a month, and the alternative theory she was trying to put together still had major holes. Like motive. Heath’s chances hadn’t improved. There wouldn’t be a next baby.

Heath felt the change in her and stopped, too, taking his hand away. He brushed his lips over hers.

“Don’t, Gabe. We got married today. Today, we have everything. Believe that with me.”

She drew a fingertip down the line left by one of his dimples. “I’m trying not to be scared, but it’s there all the time. I can’t help it. I don’t want to be without you.”

He brushed a wayward lock of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. Her hair had been done up for the wedding, but she hadn’t let Emma stick the billion pins in it that she’d wanted to, and now it was mostly a loose clump of curls on the back of her head. The pretty little headband wrapped with wildflowers had been left behind on the patio.

“I’m scared all the time, too. That’s why I need to have everything while we can. Even if we can only have it a little while.”

Her fear didn’t matter. When his trial was over, he would either be found not guilty and come home, or he would be found guilty. If that happened, she would return to the ranch, to their family and their home, and she would have their baby and make some kind of life that had love and comfort at the ready. He would go to prison and have loneliness and drudgery at best.

His fears and his needs were all that mattered. She could be sad and scared later.

She put a smile on her face and finished unzipping his pants. “Okay. But I don’t care about the dress. I just want to fuck my husband’s brains out.”

His grin was bright with love and relief, and he picked her up and hooked her legs around his hips as she took hold of his cock.

“God.” The word sounded like it had been dragged over gravel. “God, I love the feel of your hands on me.”

He bent forward and kissed her chest, then sucked her crucifix into his mouth until the chain was taut around her neck. It was an oddly obscene thing to do, and it made the nerves between her legs jangle so hard she shivered.

Holding his cock in her hands, she shifted and pushed his tip against her core. He slid in, changing the way he held her, one arm at a time, until her legs were over his elbows and she was spread wide beneath her lace wedding dress. His hands dug into her ass and held her tightly, and he buried himself deep, until her hands were crushed between them.

She started to release him, but he shook his head and dropped her pendant from his mouth. “No, keep your hands on me. Hold me.”

The noise he made was pure sex as she kept one hand wrapped around him and put the other on herself.

She felt him moving inside her, felt her own hands and his cock both at the same time, and she cried out as the new twist of sensation pulsed through her. She closed her eyes and felt him, all of him, felt them, at the point of their connection.

But that wasn’t their real connection. Their bodies—that was beautiful and hot and intense, but it wasn’t where their love was.

That was why everything would be okay. That was why he wouldn’t leave her. Why they couldn’t be separated, no matter what.

It was a powerful sensation, to understand that she would still have him, even if they couldn’t be together in flesh, and Gabe was coming before she knew it, swept up in a torrent.

“Oh fuck, Heath! I need—I need—” she couldn’t get the words out.

“Look at me, look at me!” he demanded. “I want you to see me!” She opened her eyes and met his blazing at her, his face damp and flushed with exertion. He sped up his frenetic thrusts, pounding into her, crashing her to the wall again and again, until she screamed, and he slammed his mouth over hers, turning that outburst into a wild, biting kiss.

When he came, he shouted straight into her mouth and then reeled backward. He lost his balance and fell, and she landed on him. She heard fabric rip as they went down. Their bodies separated as he came out of her, but their connection could not be lost.

“Are you okay?” he asked right away.

“Yeah, yeah. Tore the dress, but I’m okay. You?”

“Yeah. Damn. That was…fuck.”

“It really is gonna be okay, isn’t it? No matter what. We have each other.”

He held her tightly and kissed her head. “Yeah. Your love’s the only thing I can’t live without.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every courtroom Gabe had ever been in was exactly the same. Every one looked different—this one had windows high in the ceiling and was full of dark wood—but they were all exactly alike. They even smelled the same—like anguish and mildew, as if tears had seeped into the walls and made them rot.

She’d spent so many days sitting in courtrooms, so many days listening to her life and family deconstructed, seeing the horrors of its destruction thrown up on screens for the judgment of strangers.

The first day of Heath’s trial, Gabe almost hadn’t been able to walk through the door. Heath had taken her hand and stood with her at in the doorway as she’d shaken from head to toe and tried not to cry—and failed.

“It’s gonna be okay, little one,” he’d said. Giving her comfort, when it was he who would sit at the table up front, his life that hung in the balance.

In his hand around hers, she’d found the strength to cross that terrible threshold, and now she sat just behind him, every day, all day, with his father, brother, and sister, and listened to her life and family deconstructed, saw the horrors of its looming destruction thrown up on a screen for the judgment of strangers.

The state presented its case first. For two weeks, every day, all day, the prosecutor offered evidence and testimony, from experts and law enforcement, and people who knew Heath and Brandon Black, and built his story of the murder. Almost every single day, he found a reason to put up the crime scene photos. Gabe had seen the bloody, gory images so often they were etched into her brain. Black’s face torn almost in half, his swollen eyes wide open in a perfect rictus of terror, his torso a lake of blood, his inside parts spilling out of him.

Heath’s hat, lying innocuously on the grass, a couple of feet from Black’s curled fingers.

There were photos of Heath’s clothes from that night, and his boots. Of his hands. There were older photos, too, of Black after other beatings.

And the testimony. People who’d known Heath all his life, sitting before him, recounting the crash and Heath’s consuming, furious grief. They described the times he’d beaten Black, recalling how ‘wild’ he’d been, how difficult it had been to restrain him, how he’d shouted things like I’LL KILL YOU, I’LL KILL YOU and I’LL TEAR YOU APART. For every point in his theory, the prosecutor called multiple witnesses, each corroborating the others.

Catherine Spelling and Pearl Wilkes both testified about Heath’s outburst at the Moondancer, the threats he’d made to Richard Cross, his shouting match with Catherine, and the damage he’d done. They’d characterized what had happened to Gabe as nothing more than a misunderstanding and Gabe and Heath’s responses as extreme.

People sat in the witness box and described Black as a good man, a loving son. They told of his remorse for running from the crash, his desperate wish for forgiveness, his crippling fear of Heath. Black’s mother had stared steadily at Heath and described how her son had gotten sober in the aftermath of the crash and had gone almost three years without a drink before he’d returned to Jasper Ridge. She’d blamed Heath’s hatred for his relapse into drunkenness.

The medical examiner explained the forensic evidence—especially Black’s blood on Heath’s clothes and Heath’s skin in Black’s mouth. They showed an animated reconstruction of their story of the murder, and the ME talked over it, slowing it down and explaining the tremendous force required for the damage to the body.

Scientists described cases of humans managing superhuman strength, how powerful emotions could fuel unusual physical power.

The jury paid rapt attention, and it was easy to see, in their reactions to the evidence and the looks they turned on Heath, that they believed the state’s case.

And why wouldn’t they? All of the evidence presented was true. Heath was going to be convicted of a crime he hadn’t committed, and all of the evidence that would do it was true.

Honor cross-examined every witness, finding a tiny chink in each one—not a lie, nobody was lying, not even Catherine or Pearl had lied, but a possibility for another truth. She got the ME and the scientists all to concede that it was possible Heath’s DNA was present because of the earlier beating. She got the scientists to concede that the strength required was not necessarily superhuman but possibly simply unusual. She got Catherine to admit that she hadn’t seen the encounter between Cross and Gabe, so she didn’t know whether it was a misunderstanding, and she got Pearl to shakily concede that Cross had a reputation among the staff.

She got the Jasper Ridge witnesses to admit to times when Black had provoked Heath, or had done something reckless like drive drunk, or had done something else that would tarnish the image of the sad, sorry, persecuted man.

But none of it was enough. The evidence against Heath was so overwhelming that sometimes Gabe couldn’t stop herself, sitting in that terrible room while huge images of a destroyed body glowed on a screen, from wondering how anyone else could have done it. The story the prosecutor was creating fit the facts so neatly that, though she didn’t doubt his innocence, a strange double image was emerging in Gabe’s mind, a truth that he both had and had not done it, that he was both innocent and guilty. She fought to shove it away, but it wouldn’t go.

She would not have found it hard to believe that his spirit had left his body that night and done what Heath had, in his heart, wanted. It frankly seemed to Gabe the only possible explanation, since she believed he had not committed the murder, but the evidence was overwhelming that he had.

Late in the afternoon on the Friday of the second week of the trial, Jackson Hayes, the prosecutor, dismissed his last witness and rested the state’s case.

The judge turned to Heath and Honor. “Is the defense ready to proceed?”

Honor stood. “We are, Your Honor, but considering the lateness of the hour, might we recess until Monday?”

“I think that’s reasonable. Any objection, Mr. Hayes?”

Looking smug, Hayes stood. “No, Your Honor. No objection at all.”

“Very well. We are in recess until nine a.m. Monday.” He struck the gavel.

Gabe and the others stood immediately, as did Heath and Honor. Heath was pale and haggard. Every day of the trial took away another layer of the armor that was his hope and will.

Honor turned to the little circle they’d made. “We need to talk.”

Morgan nodded. “We do. Somewhere private and close. I’ll call Angelo’s and get us a dining room.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“Hell, I more than half believe I did it.” Heath loosened his tie and slumped back in his chair. He drank his bourbon down in three long swallows.

Angelo’s had turned out to be a steakhouse a couple of blocks from the courthouse. Morgan was friends with Angelo, so when they arrived, they were ushered back to a private room, ornately decorated with red flocked wallpaper, plush carpeting and heavy furniture. Two servers in crisp uniforms took their orders and brought their drinks, and then they were left alone in a room so quiet it seemed hermetically sealed.

Honor sipped at a glass of white wine. “We knew the state’s case. Nothing presented was a shocker. You knew that this part was going to be bad, and it was. But I think I made some room for doubt.”

“Reasonable doubt?” Logan asked.

“Honestly, no. Not yet. But something to build on. Melina and Art are still digging into this Devlin guy, but they need more time. So far, what we have is a very large man with a record of violent crime. We have his Instagram with lots of gym photos. We can argue that he is strong and violent enough to have accomplished the act. But he didn’t know the victim or Heath. We have no motive yet, and we can’t explain why the victim would have met him out by the creek. Without that, we can’t tell a good story.”

“Out of the blue, Catherine hired a convicted felon as a hand on her dude ranch,” Morgan said. “That itself says something.”

“Yeah, it does. It’s suspicious, and it could feed a narrative that Catherine is the mastermind. But it doesn’t get the victim and Devlin to the creek, and it doesn’t show the motive for Devlin. It’s a big move to suggest that even a guy like him would kill like that to keep a minimum-wage job, and we haven’t found anything else yet. Hayes could argue that she hired him because she was crippled by Heath running Richard Cross off, and her options were limited. Or just that she was giving somebody a second chance.

Logan nearly spat his derision at that idea. “Catherine Spelling’s never given a second chance to anybody in her goddamn life.”

After a glance Logan’s way, Honor returned her attention to the table as a whole. “I’m going to open on Monday with our character witnesses. We need to tell the story of the Heath you know. And I’ll chip away at what chinks I’ve made in the state’s case. If we can create a better image of you in their heads and I can develop the points of doubt we’ve got, maybe I can make some magic. Family goes up first thing. I’ll come by the ranch on Sunday to do some prep with all of you. Gabe, I want to put you on the stand first.”

This was the first Gabe had heard of that. She’d do anything she needed to do to help Heath, but the thought of the witness stand terrified her. She must have shown that fear, because Heath gave her a look and then turned to his lawyer.

“No. Leave Gabe out of this.”

“I’ll do it, Heath. It’s okay.”

“No. I’m not putting you through that.” He turned back to Honor. “Leave her alone. Leave all my family alone. I want to go up on the stand myself.”

Honor dismissed that with a sharp shake of her head. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? You said you want a better image of me. Then put me on the stand and let me show them who I am.”

“No. You’ll do more harm than good. Your family and friends will show them who you are. Let me do my job.”

Heath slammed his hands flat on the table, making the glasses and silverware rattle. “Then do your fucking job! I didn’t do this! Let me tell them so! Let me tell them who I am!!”

Honor finished her wine. She set the glass down, crossed her arms on the table, and leaned in. Her blue eyes stabbed at Heath. “Who you are is a hothead who wanted the victim dead. What you just did right now? I’m on your side. Hayes is not. If you get on the stand, you will be subject to cross-examination. Exactly how long do you think it will take him to have you foaming at the mouth? He will poke and poke, trying to get you to react violently, and what’s the chance he’ll succeed? Just about one-hundred percent. The more stressed you are, the less control you have. Giving testimony is a high-stress situation for somebody not on trial for murder. Exactly what do you think the jury will think when you shout and pound your fists? Or maybe he’ll really get you going, and you’ll go after him the way you went after Logan last week. The jury would love that. No, Heath. You didn’t commit this crime, but I think everybody at this table, you included, knows that, in a different situation, you absolutely would have killed him. And we are the people who believe in you most. If you get on the stand, you will ruin any chance there might be to get you out of this. Let me do my job.”

Heath threw his empty glass across the room. When it shattered against the flocked wallpaper and the pieces fell almost silently to the carpeted floor, everybody in the room stared at the spot it had struck the wall. Gabe didn’t think he could have made Honor’s point for her any more clearly.

Probably thinking the exact same thing, he jumped from his chair and stalked to a corner of the room. He punched the wall twice and then just deflated. His shoulders drooped, and he dropped his head, letting his forehead hit the wall.

Gabe had sat quietly at his side, feeling sad and afraid. Now she got up and went to him. Leaning on the wall beside him, she set her hand on his back and was simply with him.

After a moment, he sighed and swiveled his head to see her. “She’s right, you know. I’d’ve killed him with my bare hands any number of times. Only reason I didn’t is people stopped me. Maybe I deserve this. Maybe this is justice.”

“No. You didn’t kill him. That’s all that matters. And you were going to leave him alone.”

“I should’ve left you alone. Back when you first came to town, I knew I was no good for you. I should’ve left you be. Now I’m just dragging you down with me.”

“Shut up. Shut up right now. Don’t take how I feel for you and just toss it aside like that.” Grabbing his hand, she opened it and pressed it flat on her belly. “You gave me something I thought I’d never have again, and it’s better than I ever had before. We’re a family. I love you.”

He stared at her belly. “You’re showing. I noticed this morning.”

She smiled. She was fifteen weeks along and thought she was showing, too, but she hadn’t decided for sure. She’d expected her belly to look rounder instead of just puffy. “Maybe I’m just getting fat. Emma keeps baking me cookies.”

“No, little one. The baby’s growing. Pretty soon, you’ll feel her kick. I’m going to miss everything. She won’t even know me. Her whole life, I’ll just be a strange man in a scary room.”

Gabe was terrified of raising their baby alone. It was so hard to be strong for him when all she wanted was to curl up in his arms and have him tell her everything would be okay. “Yes, he will know you. He’ll know what a great daddy he has, and he’ll love you. Please, Heath. Remember our magic words. It’s gonna be okay.”

His laugh was the saddest sound she’d ever heard. “They’re not magic. They’re a fairy tale.”

 

 

*****

 

 

That weekend was hard. Heath had decided in the private dining room at Angelo’s that what was happening was justice, and his will ebbed away. By the time Honor left on Sunday evening, he had given up.

He’d sat in the big house and watched as Honor had prepared Gabe and his father and siblings to give testimony. He’d sat silently, drinking bourbon and barely reacting to anything going on around him.

While Gabe and Emma were in the kitchen putting together a cold dinner for everyone, Gabe felt something flutter inside her. Nothing big, certainly not a kick, but she had a pregnancy app, and the past couple of weeks it had been telling her to keep a lookout for ‘quickening.’ It would likely feel, the app told her, like she was being tickled from the inside. Or maybe like gas.

It felt like someone drumming their fingers on the inside of her belly. When it happened a second time, while she was making Heath’s sandwich, she stopped and paid close attention, laying her hand over the spot. It happened again.

Emma noticed. “Oh! Do you feel her?” Emma had taken to calling the baby ‘her,’ just like Heath. Gabe didn’t care either way, but she called him ‘him’ just for parity’s sake, so that everybody wouldn’t get so used to thinking of the baby as a girl that they’d be disappointed if he was a boy.

“I think so. Just like little taps.”

“Yes! Isn’t that the best feeling? Like she’s saying ‘Hi, Mama!’ You have to go tell Heath! He needs some good news.”

Gabe resisted Emma’s pull. “I don’t know. He’s so sad. He’s so worried he’ll miss everything. What if it makes him sadder?”

“What’ll make me sadder?” Heath walked, mostly steadily, across the kitchen and opened the cupboard next to the double refrigerator. He stared into it, then turned to Emma. “Bourbon?”

“I put four bottles at the bar Thursday night.”

He only stared.

Emma put her hands on her hips. “Heath…”

“Don’t start, Em. Are we out?”

“I guess so.”

He stared at his sister for a couple of blinks, then turned back to the cupboard and pulled a bottle of some other kind of booze down instead. “What’ll make me sadder?”

Gabe had trouble forming the words. “I—I—think the baby moved. I think I felt him.”

His eyes shifted to her belly, and Gabe stood where she was, holding a butter knife smeared with yellow mustard, while every emotion she could name played over his face. She waited for one to land and form an expression.

The one that landed broke her heart. Despair.

“That’s good,” he said. He took the bottle of booze and left the kitchen.

 

 

*****

 

 

Since the start of the trial, he’d backed off the bourbon a bit, preferring restless sleep to sitting in court with a hangover, but he spent that whole weekend after the state rested its case drunk, and by Sunday night, Logan and Wes had to drive them down to their house and carry him to bed. They helped her get him down to his boxer briefs, and then they’d left her alone with him.

She’d lain at his side and watched him sleep the snoring death of deep drunkenness, more worried and afraid than she had been since those days right after the Fourth, when he’d been in jail.

But she had to stay strong. Especially if he was weakening, she had to be strong for both of them. She had to ease the burden of his worry for her. She had to remind him of their love, that that wouldn’t change, wherever they were. She had to remind him that he was a Cahill and Cahills didn’t give up. She had to tell him everything was going to be okay.

She had to be strong to take care of their baby.

Now that she had figured out that she could feel the baby, she felt him often, little taps and flutters. She lay quietly next to Heath with her t-shirt scrunched up below her boobs and stared at the thickening that was her bump. Heath’s baby was in there. Their baby.

She fell asleep that way, on her back, her hands laced over her bump.

 

 

*****

 

 

Heavy pounding, like a hammer, woke her, and then a crash. Just as she realized that she was alone in bed, she heard Heath’s voice.

“Fuck! Fuck you! Motherfucker!”

And another crash.

Gabe jumped from the bed and ran to find her husband.

She found him in what had been Ruthie’s room and would soon be a nursery for their baby.

When Gabe had moved in, the room had still been Ruthie’s room, with all of her furniture and clothes and toys. Heath had closed the door and simply left it as she’d left it. He didn’t go in there or talk about it. He hadn’t told Gabe until she’d asked directly.

Their house wasn’t big, and the third bedroom was tiny and awkward. Heath was using it for storage. So when Gabe found out she was pregnant, Heath had opened Ruthie’s door and packed up her things. That had been a long, difficult, bittersweet day. Everything was in the attic at the big house now.

The weekend before, Wes and Heath had brought down Ruthie’s nursery furniture: a sleigh crib in cherry wood, a matching changing table, and a rocking chair. The changing table and crib had been taken apart for storage, and they’d leaned the parts against the wall and called their work done for the day.

Sometime in the middle of this night, Heath had decided to build the crib. He was sitting on the floor in his underwear, with a bottle of Jim Beam, his toolbox, and the various parts of the crib.

Gabe stood in the doorway. Something—maybe all the crashing and cussing—made her reluctant to go into the room.

“Heath? What are you doing?”

“I need to get this done. I’m almost out of time.”

“It’s three in the morning. We can work on it next weekend.”

He shook his head wildly. “I’m almost out of time. She’s gonna need her bed.”

He was trying to screw in a screw, but his hands shook, and the screw kept bobbling and falling away.

“Fuck! Fuck!” He shoved the side rail away, but it got tangled up in the fluffy pink area rug and didn’t go far. That set him completely off. He picked up the side rail in both hands and slammed it down again and again, roaring incoherently. When it cracked, he threw it away and stood up. He charged to the wall and picked up another piece of the crib.

Gabe saw that he was bent on destroying the room. Still too afraid to go in, she stood at the doorway and screamed his name. “Heath! Heath! HEATH!”

Finally, he heard her, and he stopped. For a few seconds, he stood panting in the middle of the room, holding the other side rail, looking like he’d phased into a world he didn’t know.

Then he came back to himself, and he realized what he’d done. The bottle had been upended, and booze glugged onto the rug. His tools were scattered. One rail of the crib was broken, and there was a deep divot in the pink wall where the rail had hit when he’d thrown it aside.

He’d broken his children’s crib. Gabe could see him understand that, and his immense sorrow pulsed from him and slammed over her. She began to cry.

“God, oh God. Oh God.” He dropped the other rail and fell to his knees. “Oh God. Gabe!” Dragging his hands through his hair, he began to sob. “Gabe…please.”

“I’m here.” She went to him and knelt at his side. “It’s gonna be okay.”

His head flew back and forth. “No, no, no, no. I tore everything apart.”

She knew he wasn’t talking only about the crib. “No, you didn’t. We’re together. I love you. I’ll always love you.”

“I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to miss our life.”

Gabe couldn’t do it; she couldn’t be strong. She didn’t want him to leave her. She didn’t want him to miss a minute of their life.

Unable to stop her own tears, she crawled onto his lap and held him close. His arms came around her, and they sat in the chaos of a dead little girl’s room and allowed each other to be weak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Heath sat in the corner of the tufted leather sofa in his father’s study and stared down into the dark amber liquid in his glass. Gabe was upstairs resting; ever since she’d given testimony early in the week, she’d been pale and tentative, and he hadn’t wanted her to sit through another of these cursed postmortems.

Around him sat his family, as usual. Every night, they all came back to the ranch and picked apart what had happened in court. Almost every night, Honor joined them. Often, her minions joined them, too. Tonight, the whole expensive fucking team was present.

They sat around and combed through every word, every nuance, and it was all meaningless. He’d stopped participating in these discussions days ago. None of it mattered. He was going to prison, and all this scrambling around trying to save him was doing nothing except weakening a family heritage older than the state of Idaho.

His father had just sold a big chunk of Cahill forest to the government to keep Honor and her minions paid. Four people—Honor; Melina, her investigator; Art, her science consultant; and Debbie, her paralegal—were on the case full-time, working overtime, at an average combined rate of close to two thousand dollars an hour. Plus expenses.

For all the years since the claim was first staked, the ranch had only grown. The Twisted C had survived the Great Depression and the Great Recession without losing a single tree or a blade of fucking grass. But it might not survive him. He was tearing his family down.

“I need to sell the shop,” he said, and everyone in the room gaped at him like a piece of furniture had spoken.

“No, son. We’ve had this out already. I want that there for you to reopen if you can, and if you can’t…well, we’ll put it up for sale then. But what comes of it, that’ll be Gabe’s money. That’ll be for your wife and child. You take care of your child, and I’ll take care of mine.”

His father had always hated that he’d worked away from the ranch. That he was trying to save the smithy as long as he could told Heath that he’d lost hope, too.

Wes came to the door. “Em, they want you to do stories tonight. Why don’t you take a break from all this and put the kids to bed. It’s been a long time.”

Emma stared at her husband like she was trying to figure out who he was. Heath was tearing that down, too, consuming his family’s attention to such a degree that his sister had almost forgotten that she had a family of her own.

“Go on, Emma. Take care of your kids,” their dad said.

“Um…okay. Okay. I’ll be back.” She stood and came over to Heath. With a squeeze of his shoulder, she repeated, “I’ll be back.”

It didn’t matter whether she came back or not.

When Emma left, Wes lingered but didn’t sit down. Honor picked up as if she’d been in the middle of a comment, but Heath couldn’t remember what she’d been saying or even that she’d been talking.

“Anyway, friend testimony went well overall. Almost as well as family. I don’t think Victor’s cross will hurt us, since we’re not arguing that Heath isn’t violent, and he didn’t fumble too badly. I saved it on redirect, I think. We needed a picture of a good man, and we made one. Now we call our own experts and chip away at the circumstantial evidence.”

“Can I—” Wes started and then stopped.

Honor looked over her shoulder but didn’t say anything. Her expression must have been expectant, though, because Wes stepped closer to their circle. “I think I found something. I don’t know if it’ll help, but…”

“I’d say we’re desperate, Wes, so throw it out there.” Logan stood and took Heath’s empty glass from him. He went to the bar and refilled both of their glasses.

“I’ve been goin’ through the files last couple of weeks. Started out just curious, all these boxes of papers sittin’ around, then I started seein’ shit and tryin’ to make sense of it. I think I saw somethin’.”

“Get to it, Weston,” Heath’s father growled.

Wes threw him a sharp look and then went to a box that sat before Art, the science consultant. “May I?”

“Sure,” Art said. “I’ve been through everything in here with a comb, but if you saw something, then show me.” There was a territorial bite in his words, and Heath got a little bit interested.

Logan brought Heath’s refreshed drink to him and sat down. Everybody watched while Wes flipped through the files in the box. He finally pulled out a blue folder and opened it. “Here. This water test report.”

Art leaned back. “The body was found in water. Crime scene team always takes a sample of the water. Standard procedure.”

“Yeah, but look at this.” Wes pointed to something on the paper, showing Art. Everybody else, even Heath, leaned forward.

Increasingly on the defensive, Art glanced at the page. “Yeah. ‘Au.’ That’s the chemical symbol for gold.”

“Everybody here knows what ‘Au’ means.”

“There’s trace gold in all the water around here. But the veins were depleted a long time ago.”

“You sure about that? Look at the concentration.”

Art looked and went pale. “Oh shit. Shit.”

Honor snatched the folder from Wes’s hands and studied the paper in it, frowning. “What should I be seeing here?”

Wes answered. “The concentration is hundreds of times higher than normal for this area. There’s a live lode somewhere out by the creek. A big one. Somethin’ must’ve shifted underground, and the lode’s started leechin’ into the water”

Logan snatched the folder from Honor. “Holy fuck. Dad—check this out.”

Their father put his reading glasses on before he took the folder from Logan. “I’ll be.” He looked up at Wes and smiled. “I’ll be.”

“Goddammit, Art, this is your job.” Honor snapped.

“I wasn’t looking for naturally occurring mineral deposits,” Art rejoined, his hands up as if he were anticipating a blow. “That might mean big money for y’all, but I don’t know what it has to do with the case.”

“It’s motive for Whitt,” Honor said. “What we’ve been missing.”

Wes nodded and sat down among them. “I might’ve worked it out. If Whitt found out about the gold, then the land buys make sense. Small parcels, the only flat land on Granville’s creek access. I think he bought them to do core samples.”

“Gold mine would tear hell out of the land,” their father said. “Ruin it for ranching.”

“That’s why he went after Heath. He knows you’d never mine on this land, and you’d never sell to him or anybody else who would. Unless you had to sell to save your family.”

Honor finished her wine and poured another full glass. “That’s a big heap of forward thinking. Too big for a jury unless we have concrete proof.”

Wes, flourishing in the sun of the family’s full attention, shook his head. “I don’t think he planned any of it so far in advance. I think he found the gold, bought the parcels, and then shit went haywire in town, and he took advantage. That’s how he made his big money, you know—he bet against the housin’ market and made a killin’ when it blew up. He knows how to take advantage of an opportunity.”

“Tell me the story, Wes,” Honor said.

For the first time in a week, Heath was fully invested in a discussion about his case and even felt a little twitch of life in his heart. It scared him. The full glass of bourbon sat on his knee; he set it on the table before him.

Their dad turned to Logan. “Get Wes a drink, son.”

Officially the nicest thing their father had ever said about or to Weston Taylor.

With a smile and a nod, Logan got up again and did as he was bid.

Wes took a deep breath. “Whitt finds out there’s gold here—he’s got government connections all over the West. Maybe he saw it in one of the regular test reports from the Feds. He figures we either don’t know about it or are keepin’ it quiet because we don’t want it mined. He buys up some land so he can take his own samples without permission. At about the same time, Gabe”—Wes scanned the room furtively, like he wanted to make extra sure she wasn’t in the room—“comes into town, and Heath goes all lovesick crazy and protective, starts goin’ after Black again. While Whitt is tryin’ to plan how to make his move, the feud with Catherine blows up, and she goes to him for a loan. He sees her as his wedge with us. He hires Black for the same reason: because he’s a trigger for Heath, and he might be useful. He makes sure Black’s around town a lot, tryin’ to get him in Heath’s way. He puts Devlin up at the Moondancer because he wants muscle on call. Maybe he tells Catherine she needs protection. I don’t think she’s in on it any deeper than that. What’s goin’ on with her and Heath, that’s family shit. She’s a town girl. Bitch she might be, but she’s got jasper in her veins like the rest of us.”

He stopped and took a swallow of his drink, grimacing as it went down his throat. “Then Heath beats Black up on the Fourth, leaves his hat behind, and Whitt sees his play.”

“He gets the vic patched up and sends him out with Devlin on the pretense of some kind of job,” Honor mused, taking over the story. “Devlin kills him and leaves Heath’s hat at the scene. Why doesn’t he leave his own DNA? And why would he kill for Whitt? What does he get?”

“Money,” Melina answered. “It has to be money. One of his convictions was for contract work. He pled it down, but the arrest was aggravated assault. Vic was in ICU for three weeks. If he took cash, there wouldn’t be a trail. And DNA—he could have guarded against it. He’s got the experience.” She lunged for another box and grabbed a file. After perusing it for a few minutes while everybody stared, she nodded. “He left no DNA in that case. He was collared on a flip.”

“We’ve been on him since right after the arraignment. Have we seen him do anything that looked like he was moving a large sum of cash?”

“No,” Melina answered. She and Honor were talking like they were the only people in the room. “I’d’ve made a note of it. Maybe he’s got it with him. In his room at the Moondancer?”

Honor sat back in the leather wingchair and steepled her fingers as she thought. Heath focused hard on her, fighting the urge to feel hope again.

“We need to get in that room,” she finally said.

Logan finished his drink. “If Catherine’s not in on this, can we bring her to our side?”

Honor shook her head. “She’s a witness for the state. We can’t interact with her outside the trial.”

“Can I?” Wes asked. “I’m not a witness or involved with the trial. I haven’t even been in the courtroom.”

“But you’re family.”

Honor nodded. “Morgan’s right. This is too good to lose, and it’s delicate. We don’t want to do anything to break it.”

“Ellen.” Everybody turned to Logan, and he continued, “She’s the desk manager or something up there, but nobody called her as a witness. She’s got to have a master key. She’s been around a bit the past few weeks. Helped out with the wedding and all. Gabe thinks she’s a friend.”

“And if she’s not?” Heath figured her for a spy.

Again, everybody reacted as if they’d forgotten he possessed the power of speech.

“That is a risk we should take. If she’s willing to enter the room under some plausible pretense, and she finds the money or something else suspicious, then we’ve got our story. If not, we’re no worse off than we already are.”

“Is that admissible?” Wes asked.

Honor smiled. “We’ll get some latitude, especially if Ellen has a reason for entering the room. We’re not bringing charges against anyone. It’s not up to us to do the state’s job for them. We only have to tell a story that the jury will believe. All we need is to create doubt. I think we’re going to tell them the truth, but that doesn’t even matter.”

Heath chuckled, but not because he found anything funny. Ironic, maybe. He thought it was interesting how little the truth ever really mattered.

Honor met Heath’s eyes. He’d never seen her smile so broadly before. “This is good, Heath. This is the best news we’ve had, by far, since your arrest. This is a story I can tell.”

Heath sighed. It was good news. It was a chance, and there had been damn little of that. But hope was too dangerous anymore. He was better off where he was, waiting for the end.

He picked up the glass of bourbon, lifted it at Honor in a parody of a toast, and drank it down.

 

 

*****

 

 

Gabe was under the covers in one of the second-floor guest rooms. This room had been his, once upon a time, but his mother had made it over into something like a hotel room when he’d moved into the bunkhouse with Sybil.

It was late, and he was drunk and exhausted. Heath didn’t want to sleep in this room. He’d pushed aside the possibility that they had found the story of his innocence; he was more comfortable staying in the bleak place he’d been, expecting to be convicted. So he wanted to sleep with his wife in their own bed. There were probably only a few more nights in his life that he could.

But Gabe was sleeping deeply and quietly, and he didn’t want to disturb her, so he stripped to his skin and slid in beside her.

As he pulled her into his arms, tucking her body against his like nested spoons, she woke with a little moan.

“Hey.”

“Hey, little one. Sorry I woke you.”

“I missed you.” Her voice was only half awake. She took his hand and set it on the new curve of her belly. Their child.

Closing his eyes against the anguish that clenched around his heart whenever he was near her now, and had tightened near to crushing at the thought of missing her for the remainder of his life, Heath rested his forehead on her shoulder.

“I’m here now. Go back to sleep.”

 

 

*****

 

 

The next day, while Honor called her expert witnesses to spin other explanations for the mountain of evidence against Heath, Melina and Art were off seeking help from Ellen Emerson.

Heath didn’t trust her. He’d liked her fine. She’d never been someone much in his notice, actually, but he knew her well enough. She was a town girl, a few years younger than he. They’d never had cause to be true friend or true foe. But she was on staff at the Moondancer, and she hadn’t gotten fired for befriending Gabe, so Heath couldn’t see how she was anything but a spy.

Today was the first time she’d been in a position to do more damage than the usual gossip, but it didn’t matter. There wasn’t much more damage that could be done. Heath put her out of his mind and focused on the legal pad in front of him. He’d been doodling all week. Honor had shouted at him about it at lunch the day before, saying that the ‘optics’ for the jury were bad, made it look like he didn’t care. He’d just shouted right back. It did not matter.

Gabe sat behind him, looking beautiful as always but fragile. She hated sitting in the courtroom. It brought back old, horrible memories for her, and it was making new, horrible memories every day.

When she’d given her testimony, the fucking prosecutor had made her talk about her family. She’d done it, she’d answered every awful question, but Heath had heard the pain in her shaking voice, and he’d wanted to kill that bastard.

Honor had stabbed her silver pen into Heath’s thigh to keep him in his chair. She’d drawn blood and ruined his suit.

He really was capable of murder. It was little more than an accident that he was innocent of the crime he was about to be convicted of.

Honor had just dismissed some science guy and was preparing to call another science guy when there was a rumble of activity at the back of the room, and Melina ran up and waved Honor to the rail. They spoke with somber speed for a minute or two, and Heath could see that it was something important. She turned to the bench.

“Your Honor, request a sidebar.”

The judge nodded, and Honor and the prosecutor went up.

Heath heard his brother’s voice ask, “What’s going on?” and he turned to see that he’d asked Melina—who only shook her head and pointed toward the bench.

As the attorneys stepped back, the judge said, “Court is in recess until nine a.m. tomorrow.”

Now Logan asked Honor, “What the hell is going on?”

She spoke to the whole cluster of Heath and his family. “Ellen’s in the hospital. Devlin caught her in his room and beat her. He’s in custody. Let me find a conference room here where we can talk.”

“No—somebody’s got to get to the hospital,” Morgan said.

“Art’s already there. I’ll go as soon as I debrief you. Which I guess I can do right here: You all absolutely need to stay away from Ellen until this is done. Heath—Devlin is already asking for a deal. He asked for a deal before he asked for an attorney. He’s taking Whitt down. I think once he gets his head around the idea that his perfect case was wrong, Hayes will withdraw the charges against you in the morning. So let me get out of here. Go home and wait. I will call when I know more.”

Heath had heard all of her words, but they didn’t get through the dead space inside him. It seemed ridiculous that after the past nearly four months, everything would just be over, that they would just stop and let him go on with his life.

“Heath.” Gabe took his hand. “Heath, it’s gonna be okay.”

There was color and life in her face again, and a smile that didn’t seem quite so intentionally brave. She believed it. She believed the words she’d said. They weren’t just a mantra anymore. She believed that they were true.

He nodded. “Okay.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Ellen had a concussion, a broken collarbone, and a host of bruises and lacerations. But she was conscious and able to talk, and she had told her story. Devlin had done all that damage in a matter of seconds, before Luke, one of the other ranch hands, had heard Ellen screaming and burst into the room. He’d knocked Devlin out with a metal softball bat to the back of his bald head.

While he was out, Luke had hogtied him and called for help.

He’d started talking as soon as he was in custody. Denham Whitt had been arrested in his home late the same evening. Catherine Spelling had been arrested as well.

Now, Heath sat yet again at the table in the courtroom, with Honor at his side and his family at his back. The jury box was full of confused and expectant strangers. As soon as the bailiff got the morning started and called the court to order, Jackson Hayes stood up. “Your Honor, in light of new evidence, the State withdraws all charges against the defendant.”

The judge, with whom Honor and Hayes had met first thing that morning, turned to Heath. “The defendant will rise.”

Heath rose, as did Honor.

“Heath Cahill, all charges against you have been withdrawn, and the case against you is dismissed. You are free to go. Members of the jury, you are released from your duty. The Court thanks you for your service. We are adjourned.”

It was over.

Just like that.

His brother whooped and hugged Honor. Emma, sobbing loudly, grabbed Heath and hugged him until he thought she’d cracked something in his back. His father pulled Gabe close and kissed her head.

And then they all backed off and let Gabe come to him.

When he had her in his arms, when he lifted her off the floor, with the rail yet between them, and tucked his face against her neck, when he heard her whispering It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay—then, and not before, Heath knew it was true.

Magic words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Daddy! Daddy! Look!

Heath opened his eyes.

He’d dreamt of Ruthie, but the dream hadn’t turned dark and filled with flame. It hadn’t been a memory brought to life, though it had been enlivened by memory. Just him and his little girl, taking a walk through the Cahill woods, her baby-soft hand in his leathery one. A white bunny had bolted from under the brush, and she’d called out, giggling and pointing.

The watery-bright glow of the moments just before sunrise filled the room, and he smiled at his view of fair olive shoulders and thick, sable waves against the white sheets. Gabe slept in her favorite position, almost on her belly.

Almost, but not quite. Her belly, their child, was beginning to put itself in her way.

His wife. Their child. Their bed. Their home.

On this morning, the day after his case had been dismissed, he had dreamt his first dream about Ruthie in four years that hadn’t ended in the horror of her death. On this morning, he’d woken full of happy thoughts about his girl, in his bedroom full of morning light, in a bed full of his wife, who was full of their child.

He was still in turmoil, trying to make sense, to find balance against the great yaws of his life. Yesterday, he faced a life in prison. Today, he faced a life of…everything. Like coming up from the ocean floor too quickly, he felt sick and disoriented. All around him last night had been celebration, but he’d been unable to find the same joy—or at least to express it. He was relieved, and he was happy, but he felt the need to grab hold of something—Gabe—lest his life take another violent pitch and throw him out of reach.

He had to wake up again. As he watched the calm rise and fall of Gabe’s tranquil breaths, as he felt the ease of her presence weave in with the lingering peace of his dream, Heath had the feeling that Ruthie had done just that. She’d walked him to his future.

A silly thought, but it felt good.

He scooted to Gabe and smoothed his hand down the silken plane of her back. She woke at once with a little purr and tried to roll toward him.

Pressing his hand between her shoulder blades, he stopped her and leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Don’t move. I love you in this position.”

Oh, and he did, too. She was laid out before him, and he could get his hands all over her and touch every single part that made her tremble and moan.

Her body was changing with the baby, more than simply the roundness of her bump. Sybil had changed very little, developing a nearly perfectly round bump and little else—not even her breasts had grown much. She hadn’t breastfed, so what little change there had been had gone quickly away.

Gabe, on the other hand, was changing everywhere. Her hips were filling out, her ass, her breasts, her face. She was self-conscious about it, worried she was gaining too much weight, but Heath loved it. She seemed truly full of their child.

His hand roamed over her shoulder and back up. He curled his fingers in and drew his coarse knuckles down her spine, smiling as she writhed and gooseflesh roughened her skin. Then he opened his hand again and eased over that plumping swell of her hip and ass.

She had brought her top leg up high, knowing exactly where he was headed and opening wide the way for him, but for now, he held off and retraced his path over her back and arm again. Leaning close, over her, but holding his weight away, he brought his lips to her skin and traveled the same journey. Her skin smelled like sandalwood, left over from their bath the night before.

“Heath…” she gasped as his mouth latched onto the back of her neck. Her hair covered his face like a satin drape.

“Shhh.” He made his way down the beads of her spine. “Let me do what I want.”

With a nod and a moan, she settled and moved her arm, offering even more of herself to his desire.

It was more than want, more than desire. It was need. As he touched her, tasted her, on this morning after, the world—this world, its future—seemed to fill in for him, to gain a weight and permanence it hadn’t had since long before he’d met Gabriela Kincaid. Gabe Cahill. His wife.

His kisses reached the small of her back, and he licked a line over to her side. He slid his hand over the curve of her ass and found her core, wet and spread wide, waiting for him.

Flinching at his touch as if his fingers carried an electric charge, she grabbed her pillow in both arms. With the baby, she was even more sensitive, and he knew to be gentle at first, to touch lightly until she was ready for more, until she was begging for everything he could give her.

He played lightly through her folds, danced over her clit, dabbled in her wet until she was quivering in his arms, sending wee little moans into the light air of the morning. His cock, pressed so firmly to her body they might have been melded together, strained for more, aching at the feel of her shaking muscles vibrating against him.

Holding her tightly, his face buried against her side, his mouth pressed into the soft flesh of her hip, Heath pushed two fingers into her dripping, swollen center, and she cried out and tried to curl over, her body clenching hard around his fingers. Now she was ready for something other than gentle attention. Keeping her in the vise of his embrace, forcing her body to keep the shape that gave him access wherever he wanted it, he curled his fingers inside her and drove hard at the spot he knew would send her from sanity. Biting down on her hip, he slammed his fingers into her again and again, shaking and twisting and probing, until she shrieked into her pillow and her body flailed wildly against his grip. When she came, drenching his hand, she went utterly silent and still but for a series of rhythmic spasms that racked her from head to toe.

The very second he felt her body begin to loosen from its orgasmic clench, before she had come down completely, Heath pushed his body up fully behind hers, wrapped her up in his arms and legs, and shoved himself deep into her hot, wet, spasming core.

Her head flew back and collided with his chest. “Oh God! Go hard, go hard!”

He went hard; he doubted he’d have had a choice. His need for her was piqued to a feverish extreme by her wholehearted, full-bodied response to him, but that wasn’t so unusual between them. What drove Heath now was deeper than that, deeper even than the spiritual, elemental bond he’d always felt with Gabe, even before they’d been intimate.

In this moment, on this morning, with his body inside hers, her body inside his, Heath felt his life in his hands—truly, firmly, real and concrete. He felt alive. He was awake. Fully, in every atom, every cell.

His past had no more hold on him. Now he only had this present and the future they would make together.

Gabe came again, nearly weeping as it crashed over her. He held her yet more tightly and murmured at her ear, his voice erratic and strained as his own climax slammed through him. “I’ll never leave you. I love you. Forever.”

And he knew it to be true.

 

 

*****

 

 

“Are you sure about this?”

Heath stepped back from the wall and considered the color. A couple of days earlier, he’d covered Ruthie’s pink walls with primer—that had been a little hard, but not as bad as he’d feared—and now he was painting the room the color Gabe had picked out.

First, he’d had to patch the wall. And they’d bought a new crib. Heath counted that night, when he’d lost his shit in this room—what he remembered of it—as his lowest point since the night of Ruthie’s death. He hoped it would be the lowest point of the rest of his life.

Gabe leaned against the door jamb, smoothing her hand over her bump, as she so often did now. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”

“I thought it would be blue. It’s grey.”

“It’s called ‘Dewy Dawn,’ and it’s perfect. Hold on.” She disappeared from the doorway and was back in a few seconds, with her phone in her hand. “Look.” She came into the room, holding the phone out. He saw a couple of small photos of decorated nurseries. “See? The pale grey and yellow and brown? They look great together. Blue is so obvious for boys.”

Heath thought it was awfully sedate for a baby’s room. He’d loved turning the room into a pink princess hideaway when Ruthie had been on her way. But he wasn’t about to fight the point with Gabe. Whatever he could give her to make her happy, she would get. Forever. “It’s what you want?”

She rolled her eyes and took her phone back. “Obviously. That’s why I picked it. When we decide on a name, Emma’s going to show me how to make quilted letters to hang on the wall over the crib.”

The week before, they’d gone in for her sonogram. The baby was healthy and strong. And male. The sonogram machine was higher-tech than he remembered with Ruthie, and they had a little photograph that actually showed his perfect face, and his little hand under his chin, like he was thinking serious thoughts.

Heath was going to have a son.

He went back to painting. Gabe had bought ‘baby-safe,’ zero-fume paint, but he still had to bite off the urge to shoo her from the room. His protective instinct had always been strong, but in the weeks since he’d been freed to live his life again, he found himself especially anxious that something new would happen to snatch it all away from him.

He was keeping control of it, hoping it would back off as he settled again into his life. They had been through enough. He had been through enough. They would be okay.

As he filled the roller with paint and pushed it over the wall, he said, “I have another idea for a name.”

They’d already discussed and dismissed a handful of ideas. They had months to go yet before the birth, but Gabe wanted a name for him now. She wanted to think of him by name.

“Hit me.” She was leaning against the door jamb again, scrolling through her phone, probably shopping for baby stuff.

“He should have part of your name, too. What do you think of Kincaid? That’s a strong name—Kincaid Cahill.”

“No.”

Her answer was so short and sharp that Heath took the roller from the wall and turned to face her. She was pale and frowning, her phone forgotten.

“Gabe?”

“I don’t want him to have my father’s name.”

“It’s your name, too.”

“No. I’m a Cahill.”

Heath had found the limit of the power of his past, but Gabe, he thought, had not. She spoke almost never about her life before Jasper Ridge. He knew virtually nothing about that part of her history—almost her whole life. He, by now, was an open book to her. He, his brother, and his sister had shared with her just about everything about him there was to share, and his life had been laid out for public consumption during the trial, too.

Gabe, on the other hand, was a locked diary. Not because she was keeping secrets from him, but because she had turned her back on her history.

He didn’t want to press her, however. It was her history, her story, to keep or tell as she wished. That story had made her who she was, the woman he loved, and beyond that, he had no significant investment in it. Except that he wanted her happy, and every night that she woke gasping, he worried about the way her past still pulled on her.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He set the roller down and went to her.

“It’s okay.” She smiled, and there was just a tinge of that brave affect that told him she’d had to shove a hard memory away. “We just need a better name. How about Hogan—like Heath and Logan combined.”

Thinking that was an interesting idea, he tried it out. “Hogan Cahill. Not bad…but it’s so close to Logan. Could be confusing when Emma hollers it.”

Gabe laughed. “Good point.”

He wanted her in their son’s name. “How about your grandfather? What was his name?”

“Edgar.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, I don’t think it works.” Her eyes shifted from him and focused on a point that seemed elsewhere than the room they were in. “That’s a nice thought, though. I loved him.”

She’d said the name with an accent; Heath had never heard an accent in her voice before. He realized that he didn’t know if she, his wife, of half-Mexican heritage, was bilingual.

They really had moved quickly into their life together.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

If she was surprised by the question, she didn’t show it. “Not enough to say so. My father didn’t, and he didn’t like my mother speaking Spanish around him. He thought she was talking about him, and she probably was. He didn’t want me to learn at all. My grandparents spoke it around me enough that I picked up a few things. I could probably get us by on vacation, but I couldn’t hold a deep conversation or anything.”

He felt greedy about the bits of her that seeped out around the edges of her locked past.

A puckish twinkle glinted in her eye. “Do you speak any other languages?”

“No. Strictly monolingual, me. How about your grandfather as a middle name?”

She made a thoughtful face, considering it. “What about Matthew Edgar?”

Matthew Cahill had staked this claim. Heath had been given his name for his middle name, and he hadn’t been the first. It was a good family name. And Gabe’s grandfather’s name. He rolled it over his brain a bit.

“Dad will love it,” Gabe added.

She called his father ‘Dad.’ It made Heath smile every time. She was truly a Cahill. He wanted to hold her, but his hands were sticky with stray splotches of ‘Dewy Dawn.’ “Yeah, he will. I like it. Matthew Edgar Cahill.” He tried to pronounce it as she had, but he failed, and she chuckled.

“Just Edgar.” She dropped the accent. “No need to make him have to pronounce it for everyone forever. Just Matthew Edgar Cahill. I like it.”

“Yeah. It’s a good name. A rancher’s name.” Unable to resist, he put his paint-splotched hand on his wife’s round belly.

 

 

*****

 

 

For generations, the Cahill family Thanksgiving tradition had been to serve two meals: a big meal for the ranch workers the day before, and then, on Thanksgiving itself, another big meal just for family. Occasionally, one or two select guests would be invited to share the family meal. This year, they’d invited Honor Babinot, but she’d declined with polite thanks, explaining that she was going home to Wisconsin to spend the holiday with her family. For all the hundreds of hours she’d spent with the family in the months before and during the trial, when it was over, it was over. Until she had declined the invitation to Thanksgiving, the last they’d heard from her had been the day her final bill had arrived in the mail.

Logan had seemed surprisingly disappointed that she wasn’t joining them—enough to get Emma’s antennae twitching. Heath was enjoying his seat on the sidelines, watching their baby sister try to work out whether their older brother, who was pushing forty-one and had never had a girlfriend in his life, might have caught a case of crush.

Heath doubted it. Logan was not remotely interested in sharing his life. He was married to the ranch.

But he loved women. Lots of women, though he was discriminating in his way. He got interested all the time. He especially liked smart women, successful women, women who didn’t need him. Women who were just as happy as he was to share a few tumbles and move on.

Honor seemed to fit that bill, sure—she was sexy, smart, successful, self-sufficient. But if Logan was disappointed that she wasn’t joining them for Thanksgiving, Heath was sure it was only because he’d been hoping she’d be game for a tumble.

Because he was damn sure they hadn’t been fucking during the trial.

They had a lot to be thankful for—Heath’s very presence at the table, Gabe and the baby she was growing joining the family, that the ranch had survived their troubles. Their father made a long, poignant toast—and then turned the carving duties over to Wes.

Emma and Wes had been married for ten years. Only now had Morgan Cahill accepted him as a true member of the family.

The Cahill family was in real harmony for the first time in many years.

During their meal, Emma kept trying to toss sidelong questions and comments about Honor into the conversation, and Logan just lobbed them all right back at her. Heath thought it was nice not to be the subject of family scrutiny for once.

Emma and Gabe had put out a spread that would easily have fed a family four times their size. Most of it was their traditional Thanksgiving foods: a massive, plump-breasted turkey, gravy, stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans and bacon, cornbread, cranberry sauce. Probably the same meal millions of people across the country were eating. But this year, Gabe had offered a couple of dishes from her own history: tamales and a blazing-hot rice dish.

There was wine and bourbon and beer, and juice for the kids. And for Gabe.

And water for Heath. He’d promised Gabe he’d ease off the booze. She’d pointed out that he lost control only when he was drunk. He’d disagreed with that point. He’d thought the booze was keeping him calm, that he would have lost his shit much more quickly sober.

Then she’d told him that it made her afraid. For the baby.

So he was drinking ice water these days.

He hadn’t thought he had a problem, but it had turned out to be a lot harder than he’d expected to pass the bottle by. Especially in the evenings. And at family meals.

After his arrest, it had taken him weeks to become comfortable eating at the family table again, to stop calling up the memory of that Sunday breakfast and play the whole thing over again like a movie in his head, to stop waiting to hear the doorbell. But he finally felt normal again in the family dining room, at this familiar table, with the people he loved best in the world.

He reached over Gabe and grabbed himself another hunk of cornbread.

“Hey—is that the last one?” she asked.

Grinning, he picked her another as well.

They’d interrupted Emma and Logan bickering, and Logan jumped on the chance to get their sister off the topic of sexy lawyers. He made a not very subtle topic change. “So! Gabe! You figure out your classes yet?”

Gabe had just taken a bite of bread. Around it, she said, “I think so.” She swallowed. “There’s not that many online courses I’m interested in, but I signed up for child psych and world history.”

“Child psych, huh? Gonna experiment on the shorty? Or maybe Heath?”

Aware of the children sitting at the table, Heath made a performance of scratching his nose with his middle finger. Logan just grinned.

Gabe had had to postpone starting classes because of the trial, and Matthew’s pending arrival in the spring kept her from signing up for regular classes. She’d briefly given up the thought of college altogether, but Heath had talked her out of that. Most of the issues that had been troubling her, and him, before the Fourth of July remained true: she had given up her life and been absorbed into his, and she had little that she could claim as simply hers.

In fact, that had been even more true since the Fourth, as his troubles had consumed the entire family for months, and they were still climbing up from that dark place. Only that week had his father received back the massive bail he’d posted.

Gabe was young, so young. Heath didn’t want her to look up one day and realize that she had never had a chance to choose her own life. He’d pressed her to think about whether school was important to her, and, if it was, not to let it go.

So she was taking a couple of online classes now, and the following fall she’d go full-time. When the time came, if she wanted a four-year degree, they’d figure that out, too.

He wasn’t married to the ranch.

 

 

*****

 

 

They were sitting around the table in a daze of food consumption, nursing cups of coffee, contemplating, with some alarm, the idea of dessert. The kids had run off to watch Christmas cartoons.

Dusk had fallen, and the room was lit mainly by the candles in the centerpiece.

“I can’t do pie yet,” Gabe moaned, propping her head on her hand. “I’m going to explode.”

“Yeah,” Wes agreed. “Pie later.”

Emma stood up. “Well, let’s get this table cleared, then, and we’ll do pie before we take the kids back to the house for bedtime.”

She went to the light switch. At the same time that the overhead light came on, the doorbell rang.

Gabe jumped and let out a little scream. So did Emma, a harmony of shock.

Heath’s stomach seemed to lurch into his throat and then drop. It was crazy—he had nothing more to fear. Denham Whitt was facing trial for Black’s murder now. Jared Devlin had confessed to killing Black under contract with Whitt. Wes had gotten the story right, almost point by point.

Catherine Spelling had been questioned but not formally charged. She was providing evidence against Whitt as well. They had the real murderer. They knew the true story.

Heath had nothing to fear.

And yet the meal he’d just enjoyed curdled at once.

“I’ll go,” Logan said, after a stunned moment. Even his voice quavered.

“No,” Heath said. “I’ll go.”

Gabe clutched his hand. He smiled and lifted their hands, kissing hers. “It’s okay, little one. We’re okay now.”

He wanted so badly to believe that.

He left his family sitting at the remnants of their Thanksgiving feast and went to answer the front door.

Catherine Spelling stood alone outside it. In the month since the end of his trial, he’d not seen her even once. It had been months since he’d spoken a word to her.

Heath had expected the Sheriff. He didn’t know whether to feel relief or not.

“Catherine.”

She cleared her throat. “Heath. I’m sorry to bother you on Thanksgiving. I hope I’m not interrupting your meal.”

Still deeply wary, Heath didn’t assure her that their meal had ended. “What do you want?”

“I…I’d like to talk. Can I…can I come in?”

He’d sensed members of his family coming up behind him; now his father pulled him aside and stepped forward. “Friend or foe, Catherine?”

“That’s why I’m here. Friend, I hope.”

“Then come in.”

“No.” Heath said, putting out his hand to stop her from stepping up on the threshold. He turned and saw Gabe, lingering back, eyes wide. “C’mere, Gabe. It’s okay.”

The other members of his family stepped out of the way, and she came to him. When he had hold of her hand, he faced Catherine again. “You are not welcome in this house until you’ve apologized to Gabe and she says you’re welcome.”

“Heath…” Gabe muttered, pulling on her hand. He held fast. There were some things that couldn’t simply be locked away.

Catherine had gone pale, but then she took a deep breath and stood up straight. “I came to apologize to Heath, but he’s right. I owe you an apology as well. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I know what kind of man Richard Cross is, and I know you told the truth. I should have turned him away years ago. Instead, I let my business rely more and more on him until I was afraid I couldn’t lose him and stay open, and I let him do whatever he wanted. I’m sorry.”

Heath could feel Gabe’s hand shaking in his, but no one else would have known of her turmoil. She stood still and firm. After a moment’s consideration, she nodded. “Okay. I accept your apology.” With a quick glance up at him, and getting his nod, she added, “You can come in.”

 

 

*****

 

 

“Why apologize now? What’s your angle? We all know you got one.” Logan took a swallow of his bourbon before handing Catherine a glass of her own.

“No angle. It’s not easy for me to apologize.” Except for a long blink, she ignored Logan’s snort at that. “But it’s Thanksgiving, and it’s been weighing on me.” She sipped at her drink.

“Well, Miss Catherine,” their father put in. “Logan’s not being a gentleman, but he’s not asking bad questions. I gotta say I’m wondering the same thing. You were cleared of breaking any laws helping Denny, but the Moondancer’s still closed. You’re in trouble.”

Catherine focused on her drink.

“Christ,” Heath said, getting it. “You want money. You’ve got to be kidding.”

She looked up. “It’s not just about me. I employed a lot of people. Town people—who are out of work now, at the holidays.”

“Do you know how much that trial cost my family? And you could have stopped it.”

“I didn’t know for sure what happened. I know you got your bail money back.”

Heath stood up. “Get the hell out of this house.”

“Heath,” Gabe said, her voice low. She’d been sitting beside him with one arm around her belly and the other hand around her throat. “There are a lot of people out of work. Ellen’s out of work.”

“Ellen will always be taken care of, honey, you know that,” their father assured her. “We owe her a great debt.”

“I know, but…” she shrugged.

“You’re right. Sit down, son. Let’s hear Catherine’s proposal.”

Heath sat. “I thought Whitt paid you off.”

“Not a lump sum. He paid bills as they were due. That stopped when he was arrested and his accounts were frozen. I’m not asking for a loan. I’m…” She paused, clearly preparing to say something difficult. “I’m asking for a partner.”

Heath laughed. “No. Christ, no.”

“When the ranch is running, it makes good money. It has a great reputation. I have a great reputation—I did, anyway. It runs at capacity most of the year. It brings money into Jasper Ridge. It brings jobs. I’m not the only one hurting with it closed.”

“I got no interest in being your silent partner, Catherine.”

“I know, Morgan. I’m not asking for a silent partner. I need someone present at the ranch. Someone people trust. Right now, that’s not me. I need an active partner. A…an equal partner.” She looked downright ill.

Heath laughed again. “We all have our own shit to do.”

“I could do it,” Wes said. “Logan’s got the Twisted C. I’m mostly excess baggage here. I could run the Moondancer.”

“No,” Heath and Emma said at the same time.

“Why not? Heath, you’re angry, and I understand, but it doesn’t change my mind. Ems, you know damn well I’m not needed here.”

“I like having you here, close.”

He smiled and picked up his wife’s hand. “Moondancer’s not that far off.”

“I guess…” Emma conceded.

“It’s not a bad idea, Dad.” Logan had been sitting quietly, his brow furrowed. Heath felt a sharp blade of anger. No one seemed to be on his side here. Not even Gabe.

Which meant that he was being unreasonable. But fuck! Catherine? A partnership?

When his father sat forward, Heath knew that he’d made up his mind. “Controlling interest. No less than fifty-one percent. Market value, not a penny more. Current market value. And Wes runs the property. You’re his second.”

Catherine shook her head. “I built the Moondancer up from the ground.”

“And drove it right back down into it. You have my terms.”

She stared into her half-finished glass of bourbon. Then, without looking up, she nodded.

“Good, then,” their father said. “I’ll have our lawyer work up the papers.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath didn’t sleep much that night. He’d been finding sleep elusive most nights anyway, without the help of his buddy Jim Beam. He spent big chunks of his night hours sitting up against the headboard and reading on a tablet, with the screen as dim as possible. He preferred to read actual books, but the light bothered Gabe.

On Thanksgiving night, he was doing little more than staring at the tablet while his mind whirred. Anger and resentment churned through his blood, with nowhere to go. Everybody was right—going in on the Moondancer helped Jasper Ridge, and it was a good investment. It could help recoup the money they’d spent on his trial. They’d likely never get the woodland back from the Feds, and they’d never mine that gold, but with the Moondancer, the ranch could be strong again and all but invulnerable. Controlling interest would keep Catherine at heel, so his trust issues should have been assuaged.

But he wanted her to suffer. He did not accept her apology. She’d hurt Gabe, and him, and nearly torn the town apart.

He was a vengeful son of a bitch.

Beside him, Gabe moaned and muttered in her sleep. “No—what—no, stop!”

He knew what she was dreaming. Setting aside the tablet, and his thoughts of the Moondancer, he shifted down on the bed and curled his arm over her. “Shhh, little one,” he breathed at her ear.

Sometimes, if he caught her at the right time, he could settle her back into deeper sleep, but this time, she flinched at his touch and twisted. “Stop! Stop!”

She went stiff and stopped breathing. He knew this, too. “Gabe! Gabe, wake up!”

Her eyes flew open, wide and stunned but unseeing. After a too-long, too-frozen pause, she took in a loud breath and was awake. He hated that moment when she didn’t breathe.

As soon as she was oriented, she relaxed and smiled sheepishly at him. “Sorry, sorry. Did I wake you?”

He settled her on his chest and pressed his lips to her temple. “No. I was reading.”

“What are you reading?”

“Blood Meridian.”

“Again?”

He chuckled. “I like it. I’m worried, Gabe. I don’t like that dream.”

“It’s not my favorite, either. But I’m okay.”

He wondered if that was really true. A thought had been brewing at the back of his head for a while, and he decided to throw it out and see how she’d react. “I have a thought about something I’d like to do before the baby comes. After the holidays. I’d like to take a trip.”

She looked up at him. “Like a vacation? But you’re reopening the shop after the holidays.”

“I can put that off another week or two. What do you think?”

“Sure. That sounds…that sounds nice. I’d have to bring my laptop and do my class stuff. You have somewhere in mind? The beach, maybe? I’ve never been to the beach.”

She was happy at the thought of a vacation, and Heath nearly lost his nerve. “I was thinking Santa Fe.”

Her expression dimmed instantly, and she pushed up from his chest and sat up. “No. Why—why would you even…no.”

He sat up, too, and wrapped his hand around her arm. “You know everything about me, from the time of my birth. I know almost nothing about you before what your father did.”

“You think you don’t know me?” She tried to free her arm, but he held on.

“No, Gabe. That’s not what I meant. I feel like I’ve always known you. But every time I get a little piece of a story about how you grew up, I realize how little I know of that story.”

Her frown deepened, but she stopped trying to pull away. “I don’t want to remember. It’s all ruined now by what he did.”

“Maybe that’s because you’ve turned your back. The dream is happening more often. Maybe you need to reclaim the life you had, take it back from what your father did.”

“And you think going back there will do that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe…I just know I want to be with you when you try.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Wow. They painted it.” Gabe ducked her head and looked out the window at the house Heath had just parked the rental car in front of. Beige stucco with a flat roof.

Most of Santa Fe seemed to be stucco and flat-roofed. It wasn’t much of a town, in Heath’s estimation. Boise was a lot bigger.

This neighborhood wasn’t much, either. Scrubby yards and older-model cars and trucks. On the poorer edge of working class.

“It used to be kind of orange. And they took down the big tree.” She sat back and stared out the windshield, rubbing her hand over her belly.

Heath reached over and squeezed her knee. “You want to knock, see if—”

“No. It’s not my house.”

His wife had agreed to this trip, but so far, she wasn’t really participating in it. Not since they’d gotten off the plane, anyway. She’d never been on a plane before, and she’d enjoyed that.

“Gabe…”

“You want memories? I had about a billion screaming fights with my mother in that house. When I was little, she used to lock me in the coat closet for time-out—really lock me in. My dad used to get drunk every Christmas Eve and have a shouting match with my grandfather so that nobody was talking to anybody when I got up on Christmas morning.”

“I know you have better memories than that. You loved your family.”

“Those are the ones I remember.”

He picked up her hand. “There must have been good times, too. Tell me a good one. One good one.”

After a moment’s resistance she said, “She loved music. When she cleaned, she turned the radio on super loud and danced.”

“Your mom?”

Gabe nodded. “She liked Madonna.” A grin fluttered at the corners of her mouth. “She used to vogue with the feather duster and dumb stuff like that. Or sing into the mop handle.”

Heath laughed. “That’s cute.”

“She loved musicals, too. One time, when I was like ten, I had a sleepover with a couple of girls in my class. We watched Grease and she had us doing the songs in the middle of the living room, with props and everything. We were the Pink Ladies. My dad came in and was Danny to her Sandy.”

She turned and looked out the side window again, at the house she’d grown up in. “Can we go?”

“Sure, little one. You want to go back to the hotel?”

“No. Let’s finish the Gabby Tour. I’ll show you the cantina. Seeing where he killed my whole family will get me in the right place to deal with tomorrow.”

When they went to visit her father. That had been her idea.

 

 

*****

 

 

Heath had been shocked when she’d declared that she wanted to see her father, but he’d known better than to question her. She’d said only that she wanted him to see her.

It had taken some planning. Gabe had called the prosecutor of her father’s case and asked for her help, and there had been some back-and-forth negotiating with the prison. Her father had never had a visitor other than his attorney. But he’d put Gabe on his list, and they’d eventually managed permission to visit—Gabe and her new husband both.

Walking into the prison made Heath feel more than a little sick. Everything about it screamed that hope had been abandoned inside its perimeter.

He’d come so close to living a grey life like this. As they went through the process to be allowed into the visiting room, he could almost feel the walls reach out to snag him.

Gabe was pale, too, and in that still, stoic place she went to when she was forcing herself to be brave. Someday, he wanted to be able to give her a life in which she never had to go there.

The guards were gentle and kind to her, in her obviously pregnant and nervous state, and they treated him with respect as well. They were finally cleared to go into the room—a large, blank, dull space, with bolted-down tables and flimsy plastic chairs. A small room off to the side held vending machines.

They sat side by side. Gabe had twisted her arm around his so tightly that he wondered she hadn’t dislocated her elbow. Since they’d arrived at the parking lot, she’d spoken only to answer direct questions. Now, she simply held onto him and stared at the door through which her father should come.

When he did, Heath was surprised. He’d never gone looking for news stories about the murders, and Gabe had no photographs, so he’d never seen any image of her father before except the one his mind had conjured on its own. The reality was…less significant. He was a smallish man, maybe five-eight or so, and very thin, with sharp cheekbones and deep-set blue eyes. His hair was shaggy and grey, and his face showed about two or three days’ worth of dark stubble. He wore black-framed glasses. A gauze bandage was taped over his temple.

He wasn’t much older than Heath, about Logan’s age, but he looked a good twenty years older.

Gabe gasped quietly when he came in, and Heath thought it sounded like surprise. As her father approached, she shifted in her seat. Realizing she meant to stand, he helped her up.

Seeing her condition, her father’s eyes went wide behind those thick glasses. “Gabby? Oh, baby. Look at you.” He held out his arms as if for a hug, but Gabe took a step back, and he dropped his hands to his sides.

He turned his attention to Heath. “I understand you’re my son-in-law.”

“Heath Cahill.” He held out his hand. He didn’t know how else to behave but with respect. This was her father. His upbringing had kicked in before he had a chance to wonder how Gabe would feel.

“Stuart Kincaid.” He took Heath’s hand in his and gave a firm shake. “I hope you’re taking good care of my girl.”

Gabe made a strangled laugh, but Heath answered, “I am.”

“Please don’t pretend you care, Dad.”

Stuart Kincaid let out a long, slow breath. “Will you sit with me? I guess you came a long way. If you came to be hateful, that’s okay. I’ll take you any way I can, as long as I can be with you for a while.”

Without acknowledging her father’s words, Gabe sat. Heath and her father followed suit, and they sat in silence while seconds ticked by at a crawl.

“When’s the baby due?” Kincaid finally asked.

“March.”

“Yeah? Wow—that’s…” He frowned at Heath. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-six.” Coming up on thirty-seven, but that didn’t need to be said.

Those blue eyes narrowed into anger. “You take advantage here? Not much more than nine months since I last saw my daughter, and she’s sitting here seven months along.”

“Dad, shut up.”

Heath, however, answered the man. “We made our choices together. No mistakes.”

“She’s twenty-two years old, Heath. You sure she got to make her own choices?”

It was a question that had plucked at Heath more than once.

“This was an unbelievably stupid idea.” Gabe levered herself out of the chair, and Heath stood, too.

Her father didn’t, but he held out his hands in plea. “No, please. Gabby, I’m sorry. Please. Sit.”

Gabe stared down at her father. She put her hand around her throat, and Heath saw her father notice that and wince.

“Why did we come, little one?”

That seemed to focus her again, and she sat.

As Heath sat again, too, Kincaid asked, “Why did you come, Gabby?”

“I wanted you to see me. To see that I have a life and I’m happy.” Her tone was defiant and bitter.

“You think I don’t want that for you?”

“I know you tried to take it away from me.”

Her father’s eyes filled with tears; he blinked them away before they could fall. “I wish I could take it back. All of it—and not because I’m here. This is where I belong. I loved your mother—you know that. God, I loved her so much. I still love her. And Gabby—baby, you are the best thing I ever did in my life. I love you more than anything.”

“You killed everybody I loved. You almost killed me. You took my whole life away.”

“I live it over every day. Every single day. I’m sorry. I was drunk and so mad. So scared. I just wanted my family back.” He sighed and sat back. “There’s nothing I can say. I know that. I can’t explain because I can’t believe I did it.”

“Oh, you did it.”

“I know I did it. I just can’t believe I was capable of it. That I would hurt what I loved like that. To be so…consumed with an idea that I forgot what I loved.”

Heath thought he understood a bit too well. But he had never hurt a woman. Not directly. Even in the thick of his rage at Sybil, when he’d found out about her and Black, he’d never laid a finger on her or even been tempted. That was not the tendency of his brand of wrath. He knew his own weakness, knew he was violent and vengeful, but it took a special weakness of character to have anywhere in one’s body, even in the darkest corner, the capacity to hurt women or children. Any women or children, much less one’s own.

Stuart Kincaid had stabbed his own daughter, put a knife to her throat. No, Heath didn’t understand at all.

Gabe turned to him. “This was a bad idea. It…it doesn’t matter. Please just let me let all this go.”

“Can you let it go?”

She was quiet, and when she spoke, she didn’t give him an answer. “I need to go.”

“Okay. Whatever you need.”

They stood, and Gabe gave her father a last look. “I love you. I guess I don’t have a choice about that. I don’t wish you ill. But I don’t forgive you. And I hope someday I forget you.”

Stuart Kincaid dropped his head, and his daughter turned and walked away without looking back.

Heath thought maybe bringing her back home had been an especially terrible idea.

 

 

*****

 

 

They rode in silence all the way back to the hotel. When Heath parked, Gabe didn’t move, so he sat behind the wheel and waited. After a moment, when it became apparent that she had no plans to get out of the car anytime soon, he said, “I’m sorry. I thought coming to Santa Fe would help.”

“Help you or help me? Help what?”

“Us. Help you come to terms with what happened. Help me know you better.”

“Why do you think we need that? Do you think you don’t know me well enough? Do you think I’ll be different if I ‘come to terms’ with my family being murdered by my father? Whatever the hell that means. Am I supposed to stop thinking it sucks? Is it supposed to stop hurting? Am I supposed to be okay with it? Ever? What about you? Have you ‘come to terms’ with your daughter being burned alive?”

She’d said the last words to hurt him—the lash of her tone was sharp and clear—and she had.

“I’m worried your father is right. You’re young. Has any of this been a conscious choice? You ran away and left everything behind, and you landed in my life by accident, and then my life ran roughshod over you. I don’t want you to run again before you realize that you can’t escape your own past.”

“You say this to me now, when we’re married and I’m about to have your baby?”

They’d moved so fast, and it had been him pushing for it. He’d seen the end of his real life rushing up at him, and he’d wanted everything right away. And he now had everything he wanted, but did she? “This—us, you, Matthew—this is the life I want for the rest of my life. I love you. I don’t want to lose this. I want to be sure you have what you want.”

“Can’t you just believe me when I say that I do? I think I’ve lived enough to know what I want. I love you. I love being married to you. I love our baby. I love our family. I love our life. We already fought like crazy to have a future together. Why do I have to care about the past?”

Because she still dreamt of it, and that meant something. But they were fighting in circles. He didn’t know how to fight with her; they never really had. “You still dream about it. I just want to be sure the road ahead of us stays clear.”

He didn’t know what he’d said that was particularly significant, but she blinked and went still, as if an important idea had occurred to her.

“Gabe?”

“I know what I need to do.”

Nerves twitched in his gut. They seemed far too close to the edge of a cliff, and he wasn’t sure what to say or do to pull them to safety. No—she had to come on her own. That was the whole point. “Whatever you need.”

“Can we cancel the flight back and keep the rental car? I want to drive home.”

He didn’t understand, but he wouldn’t deny her anything he could give her. “Whatever you need.”

He was repaid for his answer with a smile and a hug, and they were okay again.

 

 

*****

 

 

That night Heath canceled their flights. They drove back down to the Albuquerque airport the next day anyway, to turn in the rental sedan and exchange it for a truck. He didn’t want to drive a thousand miles in January in some flimsy car. The weather had been clear and not unusually cold, but he just felt better with some heft around him, especially when his wife was with him, and their baby was in her.

Once they’d decided to drive home, Gabe’s mood and attitude about the trip changed markedly. She was, in fact, excited, though she didn’t really explain why. And Heath didn’t question it; their few days away had been the most tense of their relationship, and he’d been growing increasingly concerned that he had fucked up badly—or that he had exposed something badly fucked up between them. Either way, he’d felt real worry that the life he wanted was slipping from his grasp after all.

But Gabe woke that morning in good spirits, in high spirits. She was randy and wild in a way that she hadn’t been for several weeks, since she’d really started to get big with their son, and they got a later start on their day than they’d planned.

The first leg of the drive was good. They talked comfortably, as usual. Not about Santa Fe, but about home and family, about their plans for the baby. While Gabe spent a couple of hours doing homework for her new classes, Heath drove and thought, considering the sparse beauty of the southwestern landscape, so different from the lush world of the Sawtooth Range. It seemed another world entirely.

Heath began to feel like he’d simply read everything wrong about what she did or did not need to work out about the past she’d run from. He was coming to understand that she hadn’t run from it. She had rejected it. And that was her choice to make.

They’d driven out of New Mexico, through the southwestern corner of Colorado, and were maybe an hour or so into Utah, coming up on a little town called Moab, when Gabe said, “Can we stop here for the night?”

It wasn’t quite sundown yet—not even the early sundown of January. “It’s pretty early still. If you’re hungry, we can stop to eat, but I’d like to get to Salt Lake City before we stop for the night.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to stop in Salt Lake at all. I hate Salt Lake City. I want to stop here. Please?”

This was her trip, so—though he couldn’t hold back a rhetorical shrug—he slowed to turn off into Moab.

“No, I don’t want to go into town yet. Let’s keep going. I want to see the Arches first.”

There had been brown signs for Arches National Park along the way for a while. Heath nodded and kept going. He might have been behind the wheel, but he was only along for the ride.

In the park, they stopped at the visitor center. Gabe was obviously nervous as they got out of the truck and walked into the low building at the base of towering red rocks.

It was winter, and nearing the end of business hours in the middle of the week. The center seemed to be empty, except for a blonde woman in a ranger uniform, who smiled when they came in.

“Hi. Welcome to Arches National Park. We’re closing soon, but if you hurry you can catch sunset out on one of the trails. A day like today, it’s bound to be a beaut.” She cast her eyes over Gabe’s belly. “I wouldn’t go too far out, though.”

“Um, thanks. We will. Is Chuck here? Or Lori?”

Surprised, Heath shot Gabe a look. “You know people here?”

Gabe didn’t answer; she was focused on the ranger, who shook her head. “Lori’s off today. Chuck’s at a different park now. Would you like me to tell Lori you stopped by?”

Blushing hard, Gabe shook her head. “No…no. That’s okay. Thank you. We’ll just go watch the sunset.”

After a quizzical look, the ranger smiled. “Well, sure. You have a nice evening.”

 

 

*****

 

 

They drove a bit through the park before they stopped at a trail head Gabe wanted. With all the stark rocks and crevices throughout the area, Heath was not thrilled at the idea of Gabe hiking in her condition, but the trail she picked seemed, on the map he’d picked up in the center, one of the easiest and safest in the park.

Before them as they walked was a massive arch. They had the trail to themselves, and after a few minutes, Gabe sat on a rounded rock. Heath sat next to her and picked up her hand.

She had become pensive again since they’d left the visitor center, and he let her be quiet and take in the stark, imposing scenery. He had questions, but it seemed better to let her speak when she wanted to. They were here for a reason; that much was obvious.

As the sun began to set enough to change the light around them, Gabe spoke. “When I left Santa Fe, I got this far before I realized what I was doing—I’d left everything behind except a couple of changes of clothes and the cash I had in the bank, which was all that was left from my grandparents’ insurance. I left my whole life behind, with the key to it all on the counter with a thank you note for the landlord. I didn’t even take my phone. I got this far without thinking about it, and then I freaked out.”

She paused and took a deep breath—not like she was trying to calm herself, more like she was savoring the air. Heath didn’t fill that moment with a question. He simply waited.

“I thought I’d stop here for the night and regroup, figure things out a little bit, decide where it was I was going. I hadn’t decided anything—just that I wanted to get away and I wanted to go somewhere new. Where people didn’t know what my father did. I picked north for dumb reasons, like by default. And when I got this far, I got really scared that I was being stupid. But they were having a festival or something like that, and all the motels were booked. Even the campsites. Everything was booked. I was too scared to keep driving. So I spent the night in my dad’s truck, in the visitor center lot. It was a hard night. I decided that I was going to go back home, that I wasn’t strong enough to make a new start. The next morning, Chuck and Lori found me. They were totally nice. They gave me coffee and donuts, and they…they were just nice. It helped. They gave me a map and some suggestions about where I could get a phone, and…I don’t know. They knew about my dad, but it was different. They were like my first friends in my after, and that made it so I could keep going north. I wish I could have thanked them, shown them you and this”—she patted her belly—“and told them everything turned out good.”

Another contemplative pause. The sun had gone down enough that all the red rock formations were gilt with the last gold of sunlight. “After I left the center, I drove around the park a little. It’s so…obvious here.”

“Obvious?”

“Time. Life. It’s so obvious here. All of these arches, all the patterns and colors in the rocks, all of it. You can see how every little thing makes a difference. That’s what I thought that day—God, just last April—that here you can really see how everything changes everything. Little bumps and huge crashes, they all shape what comes next.”

She pointed to the enormous arch, longer and flatter than many others. “That one there? There’s signs around that say that it doubled in size overnight, back in the Forties or something like that. A big hunk just crashed out of it. I wonder how long the cracks or whatever that made it crash were there, inching along over years, or centuries, nobody knowing, until one day, BAM!”

He smiled at her enthusiastic onomatopoeia. “You’re right. It’s…humbling, I guess. But I don’t think I understand why this is so important to you right now.”

She turned and faced him for the first time since they’d come onto the trail. “Everything changes everything. That’s what I realized that day. Everything that happens in our past shapes our future. And the things that happen next can change how we understand what happened before. The past can change, too, because it’s only memory. What my father did—it took away my past. That’s just a truth. I can’t ever again see the life I had the way I saw it when I lived it. Now I see the cracks that were always there. No matter how good a memory was, how beautiful or happy it was before, now I see that it was ready to crash down on me.”

She took his hands in hers. “I’m going to have that dream I have because it still hurts that he did that to my family. It will always hurt, and I don’t want it not to hurt. But what he did sent me to you. I had to find somewhere new, somewhere I could make a life that started from my after, and I did. I’m a Cahill now.”

With a smile, she set his hands on her belly. “We made a new Cahill. I love my life with you. You told my father the truth—you didn’t make my choices. We chose together. I didn’t know you before Ruthie died, and you didn’t know me in Santa Fe. I love who you are now—and when you become who you’ll be, I’ll be with you, and I’ll grow with you and love you for it. In every moment, we’ll love each other for who we are, not who we were. You are my somewhere.”

Christ, he was an idiot. Closing his eyes to find composure before he spoke, Heath took a deep breath. He cleared his throat. He caressed his wife’s beautiful, round belly.

“I love you, Gabe Cahill. Forever and always. You’re so young that sometimes I forget how old you really are. I won’t again.”

She lifted his hand and kissed his knuckles, in an echo of the first time she’d ever kissed him. “Good. See that you don’t. Now, can we please go home where we belong?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

On a Saturday at the end of February, during one of those late-winter spells when Nature loosened her fingers from around the throat of the world, when the sky opened its blue eyes and the earth took a deep breath and shook off the long stillness of the cold, when people threw open all their windows and let the curtains billow with fresh new air, Heath sat astride Maggie, side by side with his brother and father, on the bluff overlooking Cahill Creek, where the Twisted C and the C Bar G ranches ran up against each other.

The land that Denham Whitt had bought rolled out below them. Charlie Granville was in the process of buying the parcels back from the state, which had seized them from Whitt.

Whitt’s trial had ended in early February. Life in prison, with parole in twenty-five years.

They’d ridden out simply to enjoy the warm Saturday; it was something of a tradition to share the first spring ride together. Emma often joined them, but this year, she and Wes had taken the kids to Sun Valley for the weekend.

When Logan had called down to ask Heath if he was up for a ride, he’d hemmed and hawed a bit. He’d wanted to go out, no question, but Gabe was only a bit more than two weeks from her due date, and it made him nervous to think of riding out on horseback for a day. They’d already had one long late night at the hospital the week before, over what had been declared false labor, and she had been crabby and uncomfortable ever since.

Very uncomfortable. And very crabby. She was over being pregnant, and she was over his fussing, and when she’d heard him talking to Logan that morning, she’d nearly shoved him out of the house.

In all honesty, he’d probably been having a much better day, riding Maggie out in the warm sunshine with his brother and father, than he would have had dancing around the minefield of his wife’s mood.

So he lifted his face into the sun and took a deep breath of air rich with the promise of spring.

“Whole lot of money under our feet,” Logan said.

Heath blinked and focused on his brother. There was gold on the ranch, probably a lot. But a gold mine would lay waste to the earth. They had enough money—and they were richer than money could ever make them. He couldn’t believe Logan would be considering tearing up their true wealth.

Their father adjusted his hat with a sigh. “Now’s as good a time as any for this talk, I’d say. You boys know I don’t have much longer at the head of this ranch—or this family.”

“Dad—” Logan tried to interrupt.

Their father held out a hand to shut him up. “I’m not saying I’m gonna fall down dead right here. I know I’m strong. I can still ride Hollywood here”—he patted his big, white-faced Palomino gelding on the withers—“all day and still make my way out of bed the next morning. But I’m past eighty, and I’m not immortal. You know I’m gonna leave the ranch to you. I’ll take care of Emma and Wes, ‘course I will. But now I got the Moondancer to do that. You two, this is yours. I need you to make me a promise. Solemn as ever you made a promise. Leave the gold where it is. Don’t mine it, and don’t sell the land so anybody else can mine it. Unless the family itself is at stake, leave it be. What we see around us when we stand here, no pile of cash will ever be worth this.”

Logan nodded. “You didn’t have to say it, Dad. We both feel the same way. Right, Heath?”

“Right. I promise, Dad.”

Their father turned to Logan. “You’re the one said the word ‘money,’ Loge. I need to hear your promise.”

“I promise.”

 

 

*****

 

 

Later, back in the stables, they rubbed down their horses. In one of his few concessions to his age, their dad handed off Hollywood’s grooming to their hand Steve, but Logan and Heath took care of their own horses.

Heath finished first and fed Maggie a few cookies before he released her into the pasture for a few hours of grazing with her buddies.

Logan, smoothing conditioner into his buckskin gelding’s mane, asked “Hey—you want to come into the big house, shoot some pool, get another hour or so of mellow before you head back?” Everybody knew how Gabe’s mood had been. She’d shared it with them all. Liberally.

“Nah. I need to get back and check on her. I’m thinking I’ll draw her a hot bath, see if that helps.”

His brother laughed and shook his head. “I’m glad as hell you’re such a damn nester, little brother. Keeps the pressure right off of me. Go on, take care of your little baby-maker. Tell her I love her grumpy ass.”

 

 

*****

 

 

The house was quiet when he came in, but that wasn’t so unusual. Gabe had been sleeping for shit at night the past few weeks, so she napped throughout the day. In case she was sleeping, he didn’t call out, but he went right to the bedroom to check.

He found her on the floor in the corner of the room. She looked absolutely terrible—bathed in sweat, her hair a matted mop, her skin flushed. She wore only one of his t-shirts, stretched over her belly. The sweatpants she’d been wearing when he’d left that morning were wadded on the floor in a discarded heap.

The room smelled—wrong. Just wrong, somehow.

“Help me,” she gasped.

“Christ!” He ran to her and dropped to his knees. “What’s wrong?” The wood floor was wet all around her.

“My water just broke. He’s coming. I think he’s coming.”

“What? No! How can he be coming? You were okay this morning! We need to get to the hospital!”

The hospital was more than an hour away. She shook her head—and then screamed a scream that he never wanted to hear again in his life. No human should ever feel the kind of pain that would impel a sound like that.

Not knowing what else to do, he grabbed her and held her until the pain passed, and she sagged in his arms, panting and whimpering.

“That one was so bad…so much worse…I can’t…oh God.”

She’d been alone with this, while he was out enjoying the day. “Why didn’t you call me, little one? Jesus. I need to call 911.”

“My phone’s in the kitchen. It came on so fast, when I knew what was happening, I couldn’t get off the floor. Heath, I think I need to push.”

“You can’t push! Don’t push! I need to call 911.”

“No, don’t leave me!” Another unholy scream, and her short nails dug into the meat of his arm until he thought he might scream right along with her. From between her legs, fluid poured in soft, pulsing gushes. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and dialed 911.

“I need to push, I need to push, I need to push,” she gasped when she could relax again.

“911. What is your emergency?”

“My wife needs to push!”

“Okay, sir, is she pregnant?”

What a stupid fucking question. “YES! Thirty-something—thirty-seven weeks. And some days. I don’t know what to do!”

“Are you at home, sir?”

The woman was far too calm and asking questions that were far too stupid. “Yes! We’re fifty miles from the hospital and she needs to push! What do I do?!”

“Okay, sir, I’ve dispatched an ambulance to your location. It will be there as soon as possible. Where is your wife now?”

Gabe screamed again, and he threw the phone and held her. This time, she pushed. He didn’t know if she was supposed to, or if he was supposed to do something, but she was fucking pushing, making an entirely new, still entirely horrible sound, and it ended with yet another horrible noise.

She had some kind of baby app on her phone. She was obsessed with the thing. Maybe there was information on that—but her phone was in the kitchen, and Gabe had implanted her fingers into his arms.

And now his phone was God knew where—somewhere in the room.

When she relaxed again, he said, “Let me get you on the bed.”

“No!”

“Gabe, the floor is hard. Let me make you comfortable.”

“I can’t be comfortable, and I don’t want to get on the bed! I like our bedding and I don’t want to make it gross!”

“Jesus fucking Christ. Hold on.” He wedged her hands free and stood, then ripped the bedding off the bed, pillows and all, straight down to the bare mattress, in one yank with both hands. Then he bent down and swooped his wife up and laid her as gently as he could in the middle of their bed.

“Heath! Gabe! What the hell is going on?” Logan’s voice preceded him by about three seconds, and then he was at the door. “Oh shit! Holy shit!”

His wife’s bare business was spread out for his brother to see, but that was the least of his worries just then. “Find my phone. I called 911 but…” Too much to explain. “Just call 911 again. They’re sending an ambulance, but I don’t know what the fuck to do right now!”

He’d seen dozens of animal births, but damn, that was nothing at all like this. And Ruthie’s birth had been a planned C-section. The doctor had played fucking Mozart.

Gabe screamed and pushed, and holy Jesus God, there was his son’s head, coming right out of her body. Right the hell now.

“Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!” Logan yelled.

“CALL!” Heath yelled back.

“Get him out! Get him out!” Gabe cried. “OW OW OW! GET HIM OUT OF ME!”

“I can’t! I don’t know how!”

Another push, and the problem was solved, because there was his whole head and part of his shoulder. Without thinking more about it, Heath reached between his wife’s legs, into her, and helped his child into the world. When his little shoulder was clear, he just slid right on out and was in Heath’s hands.

Gabe fell back in sudden, exhausted relief.

Heath was holding his son in his arms. Using the edge of his shirt—fuck, that was probably dirty—he wiped the goop from the little face, and Matthew Edgar Cahill took his first breath in the world. And then he screamed angrily.

“Holy shit,” Logan said, this time in little more than a reverent whisper.

 

 

*****

 

 

The ambulance made good time, but when the EMTs came into the house, Gabe and baby were quiet and comfortable. Heath had helped her deliver the placenta, and he’d placed it in a plastic container they would never, ever use again. Apparently, the doctor wanted to examine it. The placenta was still attached to the baby by the umbilical cord; Gabe’s app, and the 911 dispatcher, had instructed them not to cut the cord themselves.

Gabe and Matthew were cleaned up and snuggling happily, and Matthew had even had his first meal. The EMTs helped Heath cut the cord and clamp it, and then they loaded mother and baby onto a gurney for a trip to the hospital to make sure everybody was as okay as they seemed.

And they were. Gabe and their son were both perfect. They kept them overnight, mainly because it was already evening by the time they’d arrived. Up to and beyond visiting hours, the maternity ward hopped with friends and family, and Gabe’s room teemed with flowers and toys. Emma and Wes and the kids came back early and straight to the hospital. Matthew never saw the inside of that little plastic bassinet.

Gabe had a private room, so the nurses let the end of visiting hours go by without much fuss. But his wife and child needed to rest, so Heath pushed people out until it was only immediate family. Wes said good night, then took Kendall and Anya down to the vending machines for an evening snack. Then Emma and Logan said their good nights. And then it was just Heath’s father, standing at the foot of the hospital bed, smiling down at Gabe and Matthew.

“I’m proud of you. You made us a strong boy, little mother. And you brought him into the world like a pioneer woman. Annabelle would be proud.”

Gabe seemed especially emotional at that, and Heath wondered if he’d missed something.

“I love you, Dad,” she said mistily.

“And I love you.” He turned and put his hand on Heath’s shoulder. “You did a fine job. This is where it starts, son. Clear path. Bright sun.”

His own emotions made speech nigh impossible, so Heath simply nodded.

 

 

*****

 

 

Two mornings later, Heath woke to a room filled with bright sun. The morning was already aging, but it was hard to be an early riser when you’d last closed your eyes in the new dawn light.

He lay facing the center of the bed, on their brand-new mattress. Gabe faced him, sound asleep, her nursing bra still open and a little wet. Matthew lay in the crook of her arm, swaddled snuggly in a light blanket, staring up at the ceiling. His little body struggled against the bind of the swaddle. Pretty soon, he’d be complaining. At two days old, their son already had a lot of opinions about the world.

Heath reached out and brushed his son’s nose with the tip of a finger. “Hey, little man,” he murmured, low enough not to wake Gabe. “Let’s let your mama sleep.”

Easing his hands under Matthew’s body, he cradled him to his bare chest and slipped carefully from the bed. Gabe didn’t move at all; she was exhausted.

He closed the bedroom door behind them and carried Matthew into the living room. Their house was already taken over by baby gear. The one room in the house that didn’t look like a baby superstore was the nursery. So far, except to run in for supplies or fresh clothes, the room, decorated so lovingly, with Matthew’s name spelled out in patchwork letters over the new crib, had been unused. Their son stayed with them—in their bed, in the funky sling Gabe had figured out immediately and Heath had no idea yet how to use, in his little car seat, in their arms.

Heath stood in the middle of the chaotic living room and, in the vivid light of Matthew’s first morning at home, saw more than all the baby stuff. He saw Gabe—her laptop sitting on a table at the side of the sofa, a couple of school books on top of it. Some big floor pillows that she’d made over at Emma’s place, because she preferred to sit on the floor when she watched television. A photo from their wedding, framed and sitting on the bookcase. The new storage unit she’d bought and installed near the front door, for boots and bags and coats and hats. Her boots and coats on that unit. The hat he’d given her as his first gift. Her mug, left out from the tea he’d made her the night before.

To make room for the big storage unit, his show saddle and tool chest had been moved from the living room to the small third bedroom, which was now his office. He’d offered to make it hers, for studying, but she hated to sit at a desk.

She’d moved in, really moved in, a long time ago. Though he’d felt secure in their life since their talk in Utah, until this moment, amidst the casual chaos of their new family, he hadn’t realized how very deep her roots had gone. She was a Cahill, through and through.

In his arms, Matthew made the first grunt that would, in time, become a wail. “Shh, shh, shh.” Gabe hadn’t figured out how to nurse and pump both yet, and her milk hadn’t come fully in yet, anyway, so he couldn’t do anything to let her sleep except try to keep their boy distracted as long as possible.

He walked him over to the wall of photos. That hadn’t changed—all those pictures still told the story of his life before Gabe. He scanned the symmetrical rows of images and wondered which he could set aside to make room for his new life. The one of Sybil when she was pregnant. He’d left that because it was Ruthie, too, but that could go. His eyes were drawn to the other pictures of Ruthie—in her little pink tutu and cowboy boots, just a few weeks before she died. Playing in the mud when she was four. Giving Heath a kiss when she was only two. His pretty little sprite of a girl. She would always stay, always be part of their life in the small ways she could.

It didn’t hurt to think about Ruthie anymore. His memories of her were happy, and only tinged with bittersweet. He could remember her laugh without thinking of her scream.

“Look there, little man. That’s your big sister, Ruthie. She loved babies. She wanted a baby brother. She would’ve loved to help take care of you.”

Matthew screwed up his face and threatened to yell, but he only grunted again and relaxed.

“Good morning.”

Heath turned. Gabe stood at the end of the hallway, looking surprisingly awake and fresh.

“I wanted you to sleep a little more.”

“That’s okay. I was lonely on my own.” She came to his side and brushed her fingers over his cheek. “Are you okay?”

Cradling his son, Heath put his other arm around his wife and drew her close.

“I am wonderful. I am wide awake, and I am happy.”

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

 

 

Susan Fanetti is a Midwestern native transplanted to Northern California, where she lives with her husband, youngest son, and assorted cats.

 

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