Resisting the urge to gnaw his tongue off after his never-had-a-pet slip-up, Mick settled into the passenger seat of Sarah Jane’s truck and perused her house and front yard. A nineteen-thirties bungalow, the old craftsman style home sported a cozy front porch swing and beautiful leaded glass in the front door. Purple and red petunias, marigolds and other flowers he couldn’t name poured from eclectic pots and out of neat flower beds. Bird feeders--particularly those of the hummingbird variety--hung from various tree branches and a little koi pond gurgled happily, tucked against the corner of the house where it met the porch.

“You’ve got a nice place,” Mick said. “Did you do the renovation yourself?”

She nodded. “My dad helped me. It wasn’t in too bad of shape when I bought it, but still needed a little TLC.” Country music blared from the speakers when she cranked the ignition and, shooting him an adorably sheepish look, she quickly turned it down, then backed out of the drive and made a right toward Main Street. “We, uh... We put in new cabinets, refinished the woodwork and floors, updated the bathrooms. That sort of thing. My dad was a perfectionist in every sense of the word when it came to work,” she said, laughing softly. “Mediocrity wasn’t allowed, so everything was done right.”

From all that he’d seen, it certainly looked that way to him. And she’d obviously inherited the gene because he could honestly say he hadn’t seen a bit of sub par work in her repertoire. She was quick, careful and efficient, and it was painfully obvious that she loved what she did. He envied her that, Mick thought, missing that part of his life. Not so much the Ranger days, he admitted, but more knowing his purpose. He felt like a ship without a rudder, adrift and directionless.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Mick told her, once again making a mental note to call his grandfather. Frankly, he didn’t miss his parents--hard to miss people you never actually knew. But his grandfather? He was different. And he wouldn’t be around forever.

“Thank you,” Sarah Jane murmured. “He was such a force of nature. It’s still hard to believe sometimes that he’s gone.”

“Heart attack, right?” he asked, thankful that Mason had brought it up yesterday, which explained his knowing about it and enabled him to essentially avoid another lie.

“Yeah,” she confirmed sadly. “One minute he was helping a buddy with a privacy fence, the next...” She shrugged, leaving the worst unspoken. “Anyway, it’s been rough. My mom passed away when I was sixteen. Breast cancer,” she added. “So being officially orphaned has been rough.”

He’d pretty much been in the same boat, so he understood exactly where she was coming from. “What about other family? Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins?”

“No grandparents. My mother was an only child, so no aunts or uncles on that side. My dad has a sister, but she doesn’t live here. She’s in Little Rock. She came down for the funeral, of course, and I talk to her occasionally, but you know how it is.” She gave a little sigh. “Life gets in the way and despite tragedy, it goes on.”

So no real family to speak of, which explained her desire to hang onto her heritage--her father’s cigar, her mother’s wedding dress, her old home--not to mention the half-dozen pets that coexisted with her. She’d made her own furry family of sorts, clung to friendships and was determined to hang onto her past. He certainly couldn’t fault her for that, once again finding himself feeling like he was a traitor in the friendly camp. He grimaced.

Probably because he was.

She hesitated and a wry smile curled her lips. “I actually have a step-mother, but considering she’s stolen my home and inheritance, for obvious reasons, I, uh--“ she laughed bitterly “--don’t count her.”

Mick chuckled softly, though inwardly he felt his pulse quicken. At last. Maybe now he’d get some answers. “That’s understandable,” he said. And honestly, this acting/lying thing was not for him. He hated pretending like this wasn’t old news, that he wasn’t already familiar with every sordid detail of her troubles, that he might possibly be here to contribute to them. Though instinct was telling him that wasn’t the case. In fact, he grimly suspected Chastity was using them to keep Sarah Jane from finding the will, not any personal mementos of her parent’s.

“You met her this morning,” she pointed out, her light tone at odds with the white-knuckle grip she had on the steering wheel.

He cleared his throat. “Oh?”

“The woman you were having breakfast with when I came in--Chastity.”

Because he knew he was supposed to be surprised that her step-mother was her own age, Mick purposely widened his eyes in what he hoped was an expression of appropriate shock. This blew. Totally blew. “You’re kidding? But she’s--”

“--a money-hungry slut, I know,” Sarah Jane finished.

He smothered another laugh and passed a hand over his face. God, she was wonderful. A beautiful hellion. “Actually, I was going to say ‘so young.’”

“That, too,” she admitted. “We’re the same age. Don’t ask me what my father was thinking. I don’t know.” Her voice developed an edge. “I just know that she was never supposed to have the house and my inheritance, things that belonged to my mother.”

Paydirt. Tell me what I’m looking for, Mick thought. Give me a reason to adjust course. Let me help you. “How do you know that?”

“Because, in what was the only sound decision that came out his lunatic marriage, he took care of a will. He showed it to me because he didn’t want me to worry.” Her jaw worked. “But it has conveniently vanished from the filing cabinet where he kept it and from the attorney’s office. Did I mention that my step-monster is sleeping with the attorney?” she asked.

“Damn,” Mick said, surprised at that last little tidbit. It was all he dared say. Furthermore, he had absolutely no doubt she was telling the truth. As part of his training he’d taken several courses on body language and deceptive behavior. Sarah Jane’s posture, language and story was right on target for the truth. He mentally relaxed and decided a new course of action was in order. One that changed the status quo into Sarah Jane’s favor.

“No worries,” Sarah Jane replied, shooting him a determined smile. “I’m going to find it.”

He knew she’d been planning this, but hearing her say it made Mick a bit nervous. While he admired her and would undoubtedly take the same approach were he in her shoes, knowing that Chastity had gone so far to hire them to keep Sarah Jane away made him a bit nervous.

“What are you going to do?”

“Get it back, of course.”

“Have you tried going to the police?”

“It’s my word against hers,” Sarah Jane explained. “They can’t do anything.”

“But what about the attorney? Can’t he authenticate that there is a will even if he can’t produce it?”

“He could, but he won’t. Says it’s been so long he really can’t remember if he drew up a will for my father.” She snorted. “He’s lying, of course, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Maybe not, but he could, Mick thought, surprised at how much he wanted to track down this attorney and smash the hell out of his face.

“Anyway, you should watch yourself,” Sarah Jane said. “You get tangled up with Chastity and she’ll suck the marrow right out of your bones.”

Mick chewed the inside of his cheek, enjoying what he could only assume was jealousy on his behalf. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Mick told her. “But to tell you the truth, she’s not my type.”

Seemingly pleased, Sarah Jane’s ripe lips curved into a small smile and it was utterly ridiculous how happy that little grin made him. It was so wonderful, in fact, that he wanted to do it again and again, wanted to make her laugh so that he could feel it resonate throughout his own chest. Dangerous waters, he thought, fearing he’d already ventured out over his head.

Though he didn’t have any idea what the hell was going on with him--and admittedly his life was an absolute wreck--today, while he’d been working with Sarah Jane had been the happiest he’d been in recent and distant memory. It had taken a good bit of convincing on his part to get her to agree to let him help her, but he couldn’t deny that once he had and they’d actually gotten started together...it had been the strangest thing. The rest of the world--the constant need to move, his perpetual adrenaline craving--had simply faded away. Vanished.

Mick couldn’t adequately describe what had happened because he genuinely didn’t know. He just knew that he’d discovered the antidote to his restlessness, the remedy to the you’re-a-screw-up mantra he’d been living with in one form or another all of his life. The noise in his head had stopped and he’d been content to simply hold a hammer, do the work and be with her. Selfishly he hoped that whatever had put Mason under the weather would keep him there for a while so that he could continue to work with her on his own. Greedy? Yes. But he couldn’t help himself.

“All right,” Sarah Jane said, drawing his attention back to her. She straightened and cleared her throat. “Let’s begin your official tour. You’ve seen the town square, or course--the hot spot for all of Monarch Grove’s social activities--but there’s a little bit of interesting history here I can share.” She pointed to the gazebo in the middle of the lawn. “For instance, that pretty piece of architecture was donated to our city by Mr. and Mrs. Homer Jenkins--”

Mick nodded, though he hardly found that “interesting.”

“--on the condition that their cremated ashes be placed inside the urn built into the middle of the floor upon their passing.”

Mick swiveled a look at her and felt his eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. They’ve always been in the center of the social scene and don’t see any reason that should change after they’re--“ her lips twitched “--dead.”

“That’s not interesting, Sarah Jane,” Mick said, feeling a laugh bubble up his throat. “That’s plain old weird.”

“Oh, no,” she laughed. “We’ve got another stop before we get to weird. This is just odd.”

“Semantics,” he teased, settling more comfortably into his seat. His gaze slid to Sarah Jane, to the soft smile playing over her lips and a single long strand of hair curling around the side of her breast. He liked the shirt, Mick thought. Scoop-necked, sleeveless. It showcased the barest hint of cleavage and her toned tanned arms and put him in mind of Daisy Duke.

Particularly the shorts, he decided, sucking a slow breath through his teeth as his gaze feasted on the long stretch of bare leg next to him. He let his eyes roam over her thigh, past her knee, down her shapely calf. And there, right above her ankle, he stopped short and felt a smile roll around his lips. Well, I’ll be damned, Mick thought. She had a tat. A blackberry vine, complete with flowers and berries twined around her ankle and wound its way a little over the top of her foot.

Sarah Jane looked over and saw him smiling. “What are you grinning about?” she asked suspiciously.

“You’re tattoo. I don’t think I’ve ever seen one quite like that.”

“Well, they are supposed to be original to their owners, right?”

“I suppose. Why a blackberry vine?”

She shrugged. “I just like them,” she said, though the answer seemed a bit evasive. She swallowed. “My mother always loved them, particularly the wild ones. We used to spend hours in the summer picking the berries. She’d made jams and jellies and cobblers.” She made a humming noise in her throat, as though remembering the taste. “It’s her recipe that I enter into the fried pie contest every year.”

Ah, Mick thought, inclining his head. There’s the significance. That small wild berry represented happy memories of her mother, and much like her life, were short-lived and bittersweet.

“I can’t wait to try that pie,” Mick said, surprised to realize just how much he meant it. A sentimental hell-cat, Mick thought admiringly.

She chuckled under her breath. “I hope it lives up to the hype. What about you?” she asked. “Have you got a tattoo?”

“I do,” Mick admitted, but didn’t elaborate, instinctively knowing it would drive her nuts.

“Well?” she prodded.

Mick shot her slow smile and had the privilege of watching her breath catch in her throat. “I’ll tell you just like I told Perv--I don’t know you well enough.” He paused and purposely let his gaze drop to her mouth and linger. “Yet.”

 

*   *   *

 

Her evil plan was working, Sarah Jane thought as she released a shallow, shuddering breath. That “yet” hung like a promise between them, simultaneously raising her heart rate and the temperature inside the cab of her truck.

Mick finally stopped staring at her mouth, which had begun to water, and his blue flame gaze tangled with hers once more. “So we’ve seen odd and have another stop before weird. Where are you taking me now?”

“Back by the B&B,” Sarah Jane said. She pulled up in front of the curb and stared at the old Victorian mansion. “It’s got a unique history as well.”

He slid her a suspicious glance. “Unique?”

“Well, it’s haunted. I’d say that’s pretty damned unique.”

Mick swore under his breath and stared at the house as well. “You’re shittin’ me?”

Sarah Jane chuckled at his slightly horrified tone. “No, I’m not. The house was originally built by Byron Monarch, who founded our little town. Byron was an astute businessman, a butterfly aficionado, due to his namesake, which is why there are butterflies worked into the architecture all over town, and--“ she sighed heavily “--he was flamingly gay. If Clara, Tina and various other people who have stayed at the B&B are to be believed, old Byron is still there, occasionally copping a feel of unsuspecting male guests.”

A choked laugh broke up in Mick’s throat. “A gay ghost who sexually harasses its guests?”

Sarah Jane cocked her head and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I’m only repeating what I’ve heard. I personally have no experience with Byron, but he’s legendary in our little town. Clara actually enjoys that he’s there, says it gives the B&B a marketing edge. She’s got a whole section of her Web site dedicated to Byron sightings. Has anything out of the ordinary happened to you?” she needled.

An odd look passed over his face, then he blinked. “No,” he said.

Sarah Jane chewed the inside of her cheek and wasn’t at all convinced. “Well, Clara’s trying to get one of those paranormal programs to do a documentary on the B&B--says it’ll be good for business--so if you do experience anything odd, be sure and let her know.”

He darted her a droll look. “You mean if I feel a cold hand grab my ass, or something like that?”

Sarah Jane grinned. “Exactly. A cold hand on your ass would definitely qualify. Actually, the most common thing that’s been reported is a strong scent of aftershave in the air when none has been used.”

That odd look again. “I’ll be sure and let her know.”

Sarah Jane pulled away from the curb and tooled around town and, living up to her role as official tour guide, showcased a few points of interest. “That’s Mabel’s,” she said. “Best place in town to get a true southern meal, but don’t you ever tell Clara I said that. Mabel and Clara have got a food feud that makes the Hatfield’s and McCoy’s look like amateurs.” She chuckled darkly. “And Mabel might be an old-fashioned name, but she’s far from it. She teaches feng-shui and beginning computer classes at the senior center and holds a black belt in karate.” She pointed to a little crooked building across the street. “There’s Buck’s Barber Shop. He’s been in business since he was sixteen. He’s seventy-five, still has a steady hand, and still uses a straight-edge razor to complete a shave.”

Smiling, Mick nodded. “Sounds like my kind of man.”

She felt her lips twitch. “You use a straight edge razor to shave?”

“No,” he admitted, pushing a hand through those messy chocolate waves. “I use disposable, but you have to admire a man who still kicks it old school, right?”

“This is a small town, Mick. Old school around here is pretty much the only school.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Mick argued. “Clara’s got wi-fi.”

Sarah Jane nodded once and chewed the inside of her cheek. “You’re right. She does. But only because it’s almost impossible for her to keep up celebrity gossip otherwise.”

He quirked a brow. “Clara’s addicted to celebrity gossip?”
“And she’s been known to surf a little porn.”

Mick’s face blanked and he stared at her. “You’re yanking my chain.”

Smiling, Sarah Jane shook her head. “Mason had to fix her computer and found a little girl-on-girl action on there.”

His eyes widened further. “So she’s--“

“Either that or she stumbled on it by mistake. She’s never married, though--to my knowledge, never even dated--so my bet is on the former.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Mick said, staring at the passing landscape as they drove further out of town. “So much for small towns being boring.”

“And you thought all we had to offer was the Fried Pie Festival.”

He frowned. “When is that exactly?”

“It kicks off next Friday afternoon.”

“On the town square, right?”

“Right. Booths will go in on the Thursday before. It’s quite a spectacle, actually.”

“How so?”

Sarah Jane merely grinned. “You’ll see. Okay,” she said. “I’ve shown you interesting and odd. Are you ready for weird?”

Mick gave his head a small shake and an endearingly sexy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Something about that half-grin more than turned her on--it made an odd fluttering bubble warmly in her chest. “I don’t know,” he said. “Am I?”

Sarah Jane gestured past his shoulder. “Look there.”

A surprised chuckle erupted from his throat. “A tee pee? In Georgia?”

“That’s not just any tee pee,” Sarah Jane explained. She turned into the long drive that lead out to Carl’s new abode. “It’s an authentic hand-painted tee pee in the Sioux Indian style.” Sarah Jane smiled. “Squatting Buck will be happy to tell you all about it.”

“Has he always lived in a tee pee?”

“Er...no. That’s the funny part. Carl lived in a ninety-sixties brick rancher complete with a deck and carport right up until a fateful trip to the Smokey Mountains last fall when he discovered the Indian portion of his German heritage.” She smiled. “He found his tribe, was bestowed an Indian name by the elders and he returned home wearing lots of feathers, bones and turquoise and decided to ‘return to his roots.’”

Mick grunted, seemingly amazed.

“Unfortunately, his marriage didn’t survive the regression and he and Gladys parted ways a few months ago. Gladys kept the house and furnishings and Carl took their generator, all their camping supplies and the truck.”

Wearing a bewildered your-bull-shitting-me smile, Mick turned to look at her. “Does Squatting Buck have a job?”

Sarah Jane nodded. “He does. He’s the bank manager at our local Savings and Loan.”

Mick snorted. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or appalled.”

She shifted into park and grabbed the jar of preserves she’d brought for Carl. “My offering for his time,” she explained at Mick’s raised brow.

He inclined his head. “One question. Where does he bathe?”

“He works out at the gym every morning and showers there.”

Mick just shook his head. “I’ve heard of going green, but this... This is just unbelievable.”

“I thought we agreed that it’s weird?”

Mick whistled low under his breath as Carl emerged from the tee pee in his loin cloth. A bone and turquoise chocker encircled his neck and a feather dangled from a short stubby braid in his ever-lengthening light blonde hair. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “We’ve definitely arrived at weird.”

Sarah Jane slid out of the truck and called a greeting to Carl. “Good evening, Squatting Buck. How’re you doing?”

“Blessed with a cool breeze, Warrior Bleeding Heart,” Carl replied, wrapping her in a warm, slightly sweaty hug.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, handing him the preserves, “but I brought a friend along with me.”

“Certainly not,” Carl told her. Morphing smoothly into bank manners, he extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, young man. Any friend of Sarah Jane’s is a friend of mine.”

“Mick Chivers,” he said, shaking Carl’s hand. He glanced at the tee pee. “This is an interesting set-up you’ve got here.”

“Hardly conventional, I know, but intensely freeing. Popular thought is that I’m having a midlife crisis or that I’m crazy, but I ignore the naysayers. No mortgage, no bills. Just me and my thoughts, and a better ability to listen to the land.”

Sarah Jane wondered how he heard it over the Braves baseball game she heard blaring from the radio inside, but wisely kept that little thought to herself.

Carl gestured toward his leather and canvas home. “Would you like to see the inside? It’s quite remarkable, actually.”

Mick nodded, seemingly intrigued despite himself. “If you’re sure it’s not an inconvenience.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Carl told him. “Come on in.”

“Warrior Bleeding Heart?” Mick asked from the side of his mouth as they ventured inside the tee pee.

Damn, Sarah Jane thought. She’d hoped he’d missed that. “It’s not an official Indian name like Carl’s--tribal elders bestow those and it’s actually a great honor to get one,” she explained. “But Carl thinks it fits and I appreciate the gesture.”

His voice dropped low. “Are you a warrior, Sarah Jane?”

She felt a wry smile curl her lips. “I think that’s just a noble way of saying I’ve got a nasty temper.”

Mick turned and studied her intently for a minute and the unexpected scrutiny made her stomach fill with fizzy air. She saw admiration and respect, longing and the briefest shadow of what looked curiously like regret in those twin blue pools. He slid the pad of his along her chin, snatching the breath from her lungs. “Depends on who that temper is directed at and for what reason, doesn’t it, Warrior Bleeding Heart?” And with that parting comment, he ducked inside.

For the first time in her life, Sarah Jane wished she owned some sort of clairvoyant talent because she’d give anything to know just exactly what was going through Mick’s mind at that moment.

As for what was going through hers...more of that lunatic get-her-heart broken wishful thinking chockfull of if-onlys and a commingled breath, a racing heart and naked skin.

His...and hers.