by Nash, Willa
I didn’t have much of a fucking temper and I would never hit a woman.
But April was successful in tainting my name around town. During the twenty months I spent in a cell in the state penitentiary, not a soul reached out to me. Not my parents. Not my friends.
Except Katie.
She wrote me a letter about a year into my sentence. We didn’t communicate much beyond a short note here and there, but the day I walked out with four months of parole to go before I could put it behind me, Katie was the one waiting to pick me up.
She let me crash at her place while I finished out parole. She stuck with me as I put my life together.
Katie was the one to tell me about April.
Five days after our divorce had been finalized, April had remarried a lawyer in town. Julian Tosh was twelve years her senior. And five months into my sentence, April had given birth to a baby girl.
At first, I thought April had cheated, that her daughter was this lawyer’s kid. Bullet dodged. But then the color drained from Katie’s face and I knew.
That baby was mine.
Almost two years in prison and no one had told me, not even Katie. In her defense, Katie avoided April at all costs, and April had let everyone believe that the baby was Julian’s. But as the baby grew and her features—my features—became more prominent, there was no hiding the truth.
I could have gotten over the divorce. The money. The lies. But I’d never forgive April for keeping my daughter from me.
I returned to Calamity a father, and it took me ten months before I was able to meet Savannah.
Ten. Months.
I begged April. I pleaded. And she refused me at every turn. Finally, I found a lawyer.
April’s son of a bitch husband, Julian, ran the biggest firm in Calamity, so I had to go out of town to find representation. I wasn’t able to afford much anyway. Luckily, I found Aiden.
Aiden Archer lived in Prescott, a town in the neighboring county. For ten months, every petition he filed was immediately denied.
Julian wasn’t a better lawyer than Aiden, he just had more leverage. No matter how hard Aiden pushed, there was no overcoming the facts.
I was an ex-convict. A man convicted of a violent crime.
Coincidence was the only reason I even met Savannah. If April and Julian had had their way, I wouldn’t have been allowed to lay eyes on her.
April’s mother was babysitting Savannah and took her out for a special lunch. I was walking along First Street, having come downtown to drop off my paycheck at the bank, when I spotted the most beautiful little girl through the window of the White Oak Café.
April’s mother wasn’t as sadistic as my ex-wife. She let me stand there, awestruck at Savannah, for a solid two minutes before she waved me away.
Two minutes with my daughter, with a glass window between us.
Two-minute glimpses became my reason for living.
Two minutes at the park. Two minutes on the school playground when she snuck away from her friends and teachers to say hello at the chain-link fence.
Calamity was a small town and though it was impossible to escape the sins of my past, it was worth suffering here on the off chance I could see my kid.
At first, I don’t think she even knew I was her dad. Julian had stolen my place as her father. So I stood in the wings, waiting for my two minutes, determined that even if she didn’t know exactly who I was, she’d know she was my entire world.
Eventually, Savannah learned the truth about my identity. After years of begging to see my child, a judge granted me weekend visitation. Supervised, of course. For a short, perfect time, my Saturday afternoons were spent at the park, pushing Savannah on the swings or helping her across the monkey bars.
Until April decided that visitation wasn’t healthy for Savannah. She made up some bullshit story that Savannah screamed and cried each Saturday morning, dreading our playtime in the park.
Goodbye, visitation.
That had coincided with my purchase of the gallery. April had been jealous that I was making something of my life, so she’d punished me for it.
The family services lady who’d been supervising visits hadn’t been able to change the judge’s mind. No surprise. That judge played golf with Julian every Friday.
Petitioning the court had become a dead end. And finally, it had been too much. For my sanity. For my heart. I’d settled for those two-minute windows, giving up the big fight.
I wanted to kick my own ass for that mistake. For letting Savannah down.
But it was time to step up. Savannah had been through hell lately and she needed her father.
Just like I needed her.
Savannah was sixteen years old. It was time to battle, this time until the end. No matter what. No matter the cost. I was getting my daughter.
I dug out my phone from my pocket and pulled up her name.
There were a lot of benefits to having a rebellious teenager as your child. Savannah didn’t give a shit about her mother’s or stepfather’s rules. And she didn’t give a shit what the courts had to say. She was sixteen and when she wanted to see me, she did just that.
Hey, baby girl.
It was her lunch hour so I wasn’t surprised to see three dots appear.
Hey.
A girl of many words, my Savannah.
You okay?
A thumbs-up. I hated that damn emoji. It ranked right up there with the brown smiling shit pile.
Got time to come over later?
K
Probably be in the studio.
K
I doubted April and Julian would notice Savannah sneaking over to my house. The few times they had, they’d thrown epic fits, going so far as to call the cops to haul Savannah home.
Assholes. How was I the unworthy parent when they only drove her to trouble?
In the past year, my daughter had been caught riding around Calamity and the countryside on a dirt bike, acting like it was street legal. She’d disobeyed curfew. She’d been caught vandalizing property and spray-painting trees downtown. If there was a group of rough kids within a fifty-mile radius of Calamity who Savannah hadn’t befriended, then I was Judge Judy.
It had escalated so much, she’d thrown a rock through a farmhouse window, all because the sheriff had been parked out front.
It didn’t take a genius to realize Savannah was acting out.
She must have thought if she got into enough trouble, a judge would take her away from April and Julian. Sixteen-year-old logic at its finest.
She hadn’t caused much trouble lately, though I was more worried about her than ever before.
Five months ago, at the same farmhouse where she’d thrown the rock, she’d been held at gunpoint. She’d witnessed a psychopathic stalker try to murder Duke’s woman, Lucy. Savannah had watched as Duke had shot and killed the stalker.
She’d watched a person die.
Savannah refused to talk about the farmhouse. She pretended it hadn’t happened. But I’d find her staring at a wall when she didn’t think I was looking.
Maybe she’d talk to me if we had more time together, if there wasn’t the fear of breaking the rules looming over our heads. It was time to get her out of April and Julian’s house before it was too late.
Maybe it already was.
I swiped my keys from the desk and strode out of my office. At her corner desk in the showroom, Katie sat with the phone sandwiched between her ear and shoulder.
“Correct. No blue.” She spotted me and rolled her eyes.
I waved, striding past her to the gallery’s main entrance on First. Normally, I parked in the alley because it was guaranteed parking and I liked to come and go without fanfare.
I blamed Saturday night for the reason my truck was parked out front today.
I blamed Everly.
When she’d come into the bar Saturday night, I’d lied. I’d known exactly who she was when she’d slid onto that stool. She’d been at the farmhouse with Savannah. She was
Lucy’s best friend from Nashville.
Everly Christian.
I didn’t frequent Jane’s often. I preferred to stay on the fringe of Calamity society. People here didn’t like me. And I didn’t like them.
But I’d been at the gallery on Saturday, dropping off some of my latest pieces from the studio. It was dark. The snow had started to fall. And I’d just felt . . . I don’t know what I’d felt. Lonely? Bored?
Jane’s was a couple doors from the gallery. There’d only been two cars out front. With the snow, I’d figured it would be a slow night, so I’d gone in for one drink.
Then Everly had walked in and my entire body had craved hers. The hair. Those eyes. The perfect pout to her watermelon-pink lips. Fuck, but I couldn’t stop thinking about their sweet taste.
I shot a glance across the street as I opened the door to my truck. Everly’s window reflected the bright afternoon sun and the snow-covered streets.
It had been reckless and stupid, but damn, Saturday had been fun. More fun than I’d had in a while and it had everything to do with the woman I desperately needed to get off my mind.
Shoving thoughts of her aside, I drove across town to my house. The ten-block trip was slushy with streets full of melting snow. My place wasn’t much, three bedrooms with an updated kitchen and a damp, unfinished basement that leaked in the spring. But I’d bought it because of the yard. It had a huge backyard, enough space for me to set up a separate studio.
I parked in the garage and went straight to the studio. My jeans had a drop of green paint at the hem and my gray flannel shirt had some white on one of the sleeves. Most of my clothes carried evidence of my profession, so it was no use changing before I got to work.
This was where I should have come on Saturday.
The smell of oils clung to the air as I walked inside and flipped on the lights. It wasn’t much, about the size of a one-car garage, but it was plenty of space to paint. On the back wall, rows of blank canvases waited for me. I picked one up and dug through my workbench for a pencil, then settled onto the stool in front of my easel. Paint drops of all colors—crimson, marigold, butterscotch, chartreuse, sapphire and iris—flecked the wooden floor.
I began a sketch, falling into the zone. The world disappeared, leaving only me and the art behind. The pencil’s dagger tip skidded across the ecru canvas, leaving strokes of charcoal in its wake.
An elk. Maybe I’d do an elk. I began to outline the antlers, the shape of the beast’s nose, but when I dropped the pencil and leaned back, it was . . . unsatisfying. It looked like an elk but the idea of adding colors today—blah.
So I put that canvas against the wall and retrieved a fresh one. Maybe I’d start on this custom piece. I had no doubt that Katie would convince the buyer to pay the additional price for her ridiculous request.
I outlined the skyline. The trees. The grasses and meadows and bend of the river as it cut through the earth. But the rough outline did nothing for me.
Fuck.
I knew what I wanted to paint.
I’d had the image in my mind for days.
A dangerous, beautiful image. One I should ignore.
Instead, I went for my third canvas, skipping the pencil entirely, trading it for a brush, the palette and my favorite carob oil.
And I painted the image I couldn’t seem to banish from my mind.
Chapter Three
Everly
“What are you looking at?” Lucy asked, following my gaze out the White Oak Café’s front window.
The gallery. I’d been staring at the gallery for a damn week.
“Nothing,” I lied. “Just people watching.”
Kerrigan leaned forward, staring past Lucy on their side of our booth to gaze outside. “What people?”
The sidewalks were desolate. “Uh . . . there was a guy walking by.”
Lucy studied my face. “You’re acting strange.”
“No, I’m not.”
She gave me that look. The one that reminded me we’d been friends since pigtails, and she knew me well enough to know when I was full of shit.
The remains of our breakfast had been cleared away, but we lingered, visiting and refilling coffees from our carafe.
“Fine,” I muttered. “I’m just . . . distracted.”
“Is it your parents?”
I gave her a noncommittal shrug. No, it wasn’t my parents, but that was a good enough excuse for why I’d been a space cadet at breakfast. I was most definitely not telling them about Hux.
“Have they talked to you since last week?” Lucy asked.
“Does email count?”
The scheduled meeting with my parents had gone as well as expected, meaning awful. I’d received a stern lecture from my mother and complete silence from my father. They’d called me from their firm and he’d probably been in his office while Mom had been in hers, each on their own headsets. Either he was so disappointed that I’d stunned him speechless, or he’d had the call on mute and only chimed in at the beginning—to remind me that most successful adults had a five-year plan—before going back to work.
“They want to know what I’m doing with my life.”
“What are you doing with your life?” Lucy asked.
I groaned. “Ugh. Not you too.”
She held up her hands. “Sorry. I’m just worried about you.”
“I’m fine.”
Kerrigan gave me a small smile. We didn’t know each other well enough for her to lecture. Lucy on the other hand . . .
“At some point, I need a job,” I said. “But I’ve got my savings, and I’m not out spending a bunch of money every day.”
“Once the gym opens, you’re welcome to work there,” Kerrigan said, tucking a lock of her chestnut hair behind an ear before picking up her coffee mug. “If the gym ever opens. The permits are on hold because the city is worried my design will be too modern for the downtown aesthetic. If big windows are considered modern.”
“Uh-oh.”
“They’ll approve it.” She waved it off. “Eventually. It just delays the remodel and costs me more money to heat an empty space. Anyway, think about a job. I’d love to have someone there who I trust.”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks.”
Did I want to work at the gym? It wouldn’t be the worst job in the world. But I also liked having Kerrigan as a friend, not employer. She’d become a fast friend to both Lucy and me since we’d moved to Calamity. Kerrigan had these pretty brown eyes that were so kind and compassionate. She was smart as hell and as hardworking as they came.
Dad would drool over Kerrigan’s five-year plan.
Lucy opened her mouth—from the look in her eyes, it was to bring up singing again—but I cut her off. “Your hair looks great.”
She narrowed her gaze, knowing exactly what I’d done. But she let it go, glancing at the long strands of her hair and threading a lock between her fingers. “One more treatment and I’ll be back to natural.”
“It’s going to take me some time to get used to the blond,” Kerrigan said, making us laugh.
When she’d run away from Nashville, Lucy had dyed her hair black. But black wasn’t Lucy, and I was glad to look at her and see golden strands kissed with sunshine. Even if the color had come from the salon.
The bustle of the restaurant filled the silence as we each sipped coffee. The Saturday-morning rush was beginning to slow. I rarely ate breakfast here, but the White Oak had become my favorite spot for a late lunch.
From the outside, the café looked like a rustic greasy spoon. But according to Kerrigan, the owners had remodeled about five years ago, giving the interior a trendy vibe.
The white tile floors sparkled. Chalkboard paint coated one wall, the daily specials written out in blocked letters. Three coveted booths hugged the front glass window, and we’d been lucky to snag one this morning. The back wall had a long counter where I’d sit for my solo meals. Otherwise, the space was filled with white oak tables and chairs.
“Does this place remind you of Hunt’s?” I asked Lucy.
She smiled. “I thought that the first time I came here. All it’s missing is the patio and corner street musician.”
The two of us had spent a lot of Nashville mornings at Hunt’s—before the stalker bitch had ruined the restaurant. After enough pictures of one or both of us sitting on the patio had found their way into our mailbox, we’d started sitting inside. Until the inside pictures came, and eventually, venturing to Hunt’s just hadn’t been worth it. Not when we could eat takeout in our pajamas and not be photographed.
As Lucy had risen to stardom, she’d caught the attention of a stalker. A sick bitch who’d put us both through hell. Lucy had escaped Nashville, coming to Calamity to hide out. The stalker hadn’t liked that much so in Lucy’s absence, I’d become her next target.
After threats and bullet holes and protective custody, I’d fled Nashville too. Hiding in Montana with my best friend had seemed like a much better idea than waiting for another creepy letter or text or photo.
Except when I’d come to Montana, I’d led the stalker straight to Lucy’s front door.
If not for Duke, the stalker would have killed us. He’d taken the bullet intended for Lucy while firing one of his own, ending the stalker’s life and her tirade of fear.
Five months had passed but there were days when I could still hear the boom of the gun’s blast. When I could still smell the blood and death. When the hairs on the nape of my neck tickled, like I was being watched.
I turned to the window again, but this time, my gaze didn’t snap to the gallery down the street. This time, I scanned the sidewalks. “Will we ever stop looking over our shoulders?” I whispered.
“I hope so.” Lucy stretched a hand across the table, covering mine. When I glanced at her, she was looking out the window too.
The stalker had ruined too many restaurants and I wasn’t letting her take this one too. I forced my eyes away from the window. “Any word on a renter for the farmhouse?” I asked Kerrigan.
She groaned. “No.”
