by Mazzy King
He gives me a cocky little shrug. “You bring out the devil in me. Can I see your guitar?”
Lifting my brows, I hand it to him. For the past couple months, I’ve been teaching him how to play. It’s something he’s always wanted to do but never made the time for. He’s a pretty quick learner, actually, and he says one day he wants us to write a song together.
He takes the guitar and slings it over his shoulders, then leans back against the railing beside where my feet are propped up. Brow furrowed in concentration, he strums a few major chords, then plays some mid-tempo, country like song and affects a twangy accent as he sings.
“‘Oh, Savannah’s the only girl for me,’” he croons in a silly voice. “‘Oh, Savannah’s the prettiest pearl to see.’”
I giggle.
‘“Oh, Savannah, she always drives me wild,’” he sings, grinning and strumming. “‘Oh, Savannah, sayin’ I love her is really puttin’ it mild.’”
“How long did this take you?”
“Shh, don’t interrupt. ‘Oh, Savannah, I know you love me too. Oh, Savannah, I love my life with you. Oh, Savannah, your love, it carries me. So, Savannah…’”
He lowers himself to one knee and strums chords fast.
“…‘Will you marry me?’”
My mouth drops open.
Clay carefully unslings the guitar and sets it down, then reaches for my hand. Mischief and emotion glitter in his stormy green eyes as he pulls a little velvet box out of his pocket. He springs the lid, showing me a delicate, glittering diamond ring.
I gape at it, my eyes filling.
“I’ll sing the song again,” he threatens. “You better answer me, Songbird.”
“Yes!” I shout, and it echoes through the mountains. “Yes, yes, yes!”
I throw myself in his arms, and, excited, Bramble hops up and lopes over to us. Tears stream down my cheeks as Clay kisses me with more passion than I’ve ever put into my songs.
I start to laugh. Clay grins at me. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m living every country love song I’ve ever written,” I tell him, and kiss him. “Mountain man, beautiful cabin, peaceful life, wonderful dog.”
“And it’ll all be yours the rest of your life,” he promises me tenderly. “Because I love you, Savannah Stone, and I’ll spend my life making sure you always know it.”
“I love you, Clayton Lowell,” I tell him, then kiss him, and then Bramble on top of his head.
I’ll never run out of inspiration again.
3 | FORREST
Chapter 1
Leila Grift
You’ve probably heard once or a dozen times in your life that you should never drive while upset. It’s good advice—that’s how you get yourself, or someone else, or both hurt. I know better. I really do. And yet, it’s all I can think to do when the agony of arguing with my ex-husband becomes much too much.
He showed up at my apartment in Hawk City two hours ago just as I got home from work. He was there to harass me about the money my aunt, who passed away after a courageous battle with breast cancer last week, left me in her will. I have no idea how Gary found out about it, but I suspect one of my cousins he’s still cool with said something to him that brought him to my door.
On a good day, seeing Gary would be awful. But my grief is still fresh. And to see how the woman who treated him with such kindness while we were married became nothing more than dollar signs to him further shattered my heart.
“Technically she willed it to you before we divorced, so half of that belongs to me too,” he said.
It wasn’t about the money. It was that he ever thought he still got to have a connection to or a claim over me and my family. “Like hell,” I hissed back. “Now leave me alone!”
“Leila, listen to me,” he snapped, grabbing my arms. “Things could get very ugly for you if you don’t—”
I reached my breaking point, finally.
I hadn’t reached it over the past week, after the loss of my sweet aunt who was a second mother to me. Not after bearing my own mother’s pain at the loss of her sister. Not even after a shaky first day back at work at the grocery store bakery I’ve been at for seven years, where I managed to burn an entire batch of cupcakes and screw up the decoration of a wedding cake for a reception tomorrow.
But after five terrible years of marriage to this disloyal, self-centered, self-righteous narcissist addicted to gambling and other women…I did.
I kneed him in the dick, shoved him away from me, and jumped back in my car, then sped off.
And now, as heavy rain falls in a torrential downpour as I coast into the mountains, I’m starting to regret my impulsiveness a little.
I just wanted to get away from him, to clear my head. My aunt, in her healthier days, was a nature enthusiast and an avid hiker. She loved coming up to the Hawk Valley mountains for a good, long hike. I joined her on countless occasions. We’d pack lunch and hike for a couple of hours until we got to her favorite spot, a clearing that offered a breathtaking view of the mountains, the town of Hawk Valley just below it, and the majestic nature beyond. There was no sight of the city, so I could always pretend it didn’t exist for a little while.
I figured Greg would try to follow me, so I booked it as fast as I could away from him, leaving him rolling on the ground, clutching his balls. He probably figured I went to my parents’ house. The mountains would be the last place he’d think of, though he might figure it out eventually. Whenever I hiked with my aunt, he would eye my curvy body with a sneer and tell me I should do it more often, that those once-a-month hikes, the special time I had with my aunt, weren’t enough.
I grip the steering wheel, creeping along. The rain is so heavy I can hardly see anything. Luckily, no one seems to be out and about on this Thursday night. I don’t see any globes of light in front of me or coming up behind me.
On the drive up I remember the bag I kept packed in the trunk for years—the bag with extra clothes and toiletries and cash I squirreled away in the event I screwed up the courage to leave Gary.
I know this town has an inn. Maybe I should get a room here—maybe I should stay for the weekend. My boss Susie, after my disastrous day, told me gently but firmly before I clocked out to take a long weekend and get my shit together.
“Just a few more days,” she said, patting my shoulder. “Come back Monday morning better rested, okay?”
There goes my pay for the next few days. But a weekend to get my mind right is what I need. I planned to spend it on the sofa at home binging Netflix, but maybe being in one of the places my aunt loved the most will do me a world of good.
I enter the town, still driving at a snail’s pace. The brightly lit street lamps look like splotches of light through the rain. I think the dark shapes on either side of me are cozy homes, and most are dark, or have a couple of lights inside shining. Thursday at ten thirty at night—most of the town looks shut down. Not like Hawk City, where the weekend is just beginning right now.
A bit farther down, I see more brightly colored lights—a sign, maybe? The inn? Or almost as good—some food? I haven’t eaten since lunch today, and the normally two-hour drive took three and a half with the weather.
I creep toward the light, park, and hop out of my car. Lowering my head against the cold, heavy rain, I run for the door, half expecting to slam against it and find it locked.
To my surprise and gratitude, it swings open, and I stumble inside a warm, lit room, blinking rainwater out of my eyes, my baker’s uniform sodden against me.
I swipe my fingers over my eyes, look up, and…
Meet the warm brown eyes of the most gorgeous, ginger-bearded man I’ve ever seen in my life.
Chapter 2
Forrest Thornton
My favorite time of day is late at night, when the town of Hawk Valley has turned in for the evening. Families are bunking down for the night. The last dish from dinner is being dried. Bedtime snacks for little children are being arranged. Couples are kicki
ng back on their sofas to check out a primetime TV show with a beer or a glass of wine, lamenting having to go to make the drive into the city for work the next day.
This time of day, my garage is closed. At my bar, the last chair has been overturned onto the table. The floors have been swept, the countertops and tabletops and long bar have been wiped clean, and every dish is spotless and sparkling.
Except for one pint glass, filled with crisp, cold brew. That’s for me.
I enjoy it leaning against the bar, listening to the quiet, feeling the peace and the calm. This is my time of day.
Or it was, before the front door I forgot to lock blows open with the wind and the rain and ushers in a sopping wet, miserable-looking woman.
I set the glass down quickly and step toward the door as she swipes her fingers over her eyes. She’s absolutely soaked from the downpour. Dark-blonde, shoulder-length hair is plastered to her head and neck, and the dripping-wet uniform she wears is likewise plastered to her body. It’s probably baggy when it’s dry, but now…it does nothing to hide her luscious, curvy body.
Whoa, there. Rein it in, Thornton. She needs help.
When she lowers her hands, deep-green eyes fasten to mine, and I lose my breath for a moment. She’s beautiful. Simply beautiful.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the chest.
“Excuse me, miss?” I say tentatively. “You all right?” Stupid question. Does she look all right?
She looks around wildly, droplets of water flying from the ends of her hair. “Where am I?”
“This is the Hawk’s Nest Bar in Hawk Valley.”
“Oh, the bar.” She chews her dark-pink lip as she stares off into space. “I was hoping I’d made it to the inn.”
I shrug, pointing. “It’s just—”
“Down that way, yeah, I know,” she says absently. Then her face goes alert as she pats her pants pocket. She pulls out a cell phone, lit up from a caller. She makes a face and stabs the screen with her thumb. I assume that was the “ignore” button she hit, since she doesn’t take the call.
I scratch the back of my neck. “Well, I’m Forrest. I run the place here. We’re technically closed now, but—”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean to—” She frowns and pulls the phone out again. She taps the screen again—hard—and shoves the phone back in her pocket. “I just need to get a room.”
“You need something hot to drink too,” I tell her, sweeping a chair off the table closest to me. “Have a seat. I’ll put some coffee on.”
“You don’t need to go to that trouble.”
“It’s no trouble. Hungry?”
She swallows and lowers her eyes. “No.”
Liar. I give her a gentle smile. “How about a sandwich?”
She lifts her gaze to mine, and returns my smile with a small one of her own. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” I stride behind the bar, pulling out my own cell, and dial Mrs. Morris. She runs the inn, and she’s probably at home, but luckily, her house is only steps from the inn itself.
She answers on the first ring. “Hi, Forrest. Whatcha doing calling me so late?”
I get the coffee started, glancing over at the woman. She’s outright glaring at her phone now. “Got a weary traveler, Mrs. M. You got room for one more at the inn?”
“I’ve always got a warm bed for a tired body.”
“I’m fixing her up with something to eat now,” I say, heading back to the kitchen. “Then I’ll send her your way.”
“Fine. Give me time to get the bed made for her.”
I thank her and hang up, then quickly assemble a turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich. I wrap it in wax paper and toss it in a paper bag with a bag of chips, a pickle, and a cookie.
At the bar, the small pot of coffee is ready, and I pour it in a to-go cup. I don’t want her to be stuck here when she could be comfortable in a bed at the inn.
I carry it all over to her—and stop dead in my tracks when I see her with her head buried in her hands. She’s crying. Hard.
“Miss?” I say quietly, setting a hand lightly on her shoulder. It feels stupid to ask if everything’s all right when it clearly isn’t. “Can I…help you?”
She lifts her head, her tearful green eyes wide and full of suffering and a little bewildered in only the way a truly sweet soul can be when the world is cruel to her.
“How?” she whispers. “How can someone who once promised to love you forever turn into a monster who would laugh to see you destroyed?”
Someone’s hurt her, bad. And it infuriates me for some inexplicable reason.
Before I can say anything, her phone lights up again. This time I can see the screen. No picture. It just says “Gary.”
She taps the “ignore” button, then powers off her phone. With a sniffle, she wipes her hands over her face.
“Well, here,” I say awkwardly, handing her the sandwich and hot coffee. “Mrs. Morris at the inn has a room ready for you. She’ll be waiting. Can I—can I escort you there, miss?”
The woman rises. She’s tall, maybe five-seven, but I still tower over her with my six-four frame. “No, thank you, Forrest. You’ve done a lot. More than most.” She lifts the cup and the bag. “Thank you. Truly. I’ll pay you tomorrow.”
I lift a hand. “On the house.”
She smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes, and turns for the door.
“What’s your name?” I add quickly.
The woman glances at me over her shoulder. “Leila.”
Before I can tell her how nice it was to meet her, she’s gone.
Chapter 3
Leila
By morning, the rain’s let up some. The bed in my room is comfortable, my hostess accommodating and kind in a curt way, and the sandwich and coffee Forrest gave me at the bar last night went a long way to making me feel somewhat human again.
But I’m a wreck anyway.
Gary’s texts grew more and more abusive and threatening until finally, I shut my phone off altogether. I hate doing that, though, because my mother’s in a vulnerable state and she and I are very close. But I can’t take any more of Gary.
You’re such a childish fucking bitch, Leila.
I’m going to press charges for assault, you fat cow.
I’ll have a warrant out for your arrest in minutes. You can’t hide forever.
Answer the phone, you stupid whore!
They only got worse from there.
We’ve been divorced for over six months, and separated longer than that. He shouldn’t have power over me anymore. All I want is for him to get out of my life. I don’t have his name or his ring or his house anymore. And yet, the scars he caused me run deep, and even now, he still has his hooks in me.
“Coffee, hon?”
I glance away from the window in the inn’s parlor where I’m curled up in a high-backed chair. I was supposed to be reading, but I’m still on page one of Their Eyes Were Watching God. I got no farther than the first line before my thoughts and my worry overtook me.
Mrs. Morris strolls toward me, a silver tray with a coffeepot, cup, cream, and sugar in her hands. It doesn’t seem like there are many other people in the inn at the moment. Maybe I have the place to myself.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully.
“Cream and sugar?”
I nod.
She sets the tray on the table nearby and pours me a cup. “That’s my favorite seat in this house. Comfortable chair, but I always find that view out the window to be good for my soul. Especially when it’s troubled.” She turns and hands me the cup, kindness and understanding in her eyes. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
I nod and try to smile. “I guess I’m still working through the troubled part.”
Mrs. Morris folds her hands. She’s a strong-looking older woman with sharp, blue eyes, short, gray-streaked brown hair, and skin that looks a little weathered, as though she’s accustomed to work, whether it’s in the kitchen or outdoors. She tilts
her head.
“We get our share of folks up here, every now and again,” she says quietly. “And each comes with their own suitcase. I don’t mean the one they pack their drawers and toothpaste in. I mean the one in here.” She taps her chest. “And what I’ve discovered after tending to this place for thirty years is that, one way or another, each of those folks dumps that suitcase out up here in the mountains before they leave and head back to wherever they came from. And they’re better for it.”
My smile becomes a little less forced. “That’s one of the reasons why my aunt loved coming up here so much. Whenever the city got too ‘dense’ for her, as she’d say, she’d pack up and shoot up here. She was an avid hiker, and she always told me about how clearheaded she felt after a stroll on a mountain path.”
Mrs. Morris narrows her eyes. “You wouldn’t be referring to Melissa Tanner, would you?”
I sit up straight at the mention of my aunt’s name. “You knew her?”
“She’d pop in here to say hello every now and again. Never stayed overnight, but she was always welcome to come in and sit for a spell, have some coffee or iced tea. She loved the books.” She nods toward me. “And that chair, especially.”
My eyes fill before I can stop myself. “She…died early last week. Breast cancer.”
Mrs. Morris shakes her head. “Goddamn that disease,” she mutters, and there’s real grief in her eyes. She pats my shoulder with a sigh. “Normally I’d be obliged to let you stay to yourself, but you and I both know your aunt wouldn’t have it. I didn’t just come to fill your coffee cup, darlin’. There’s a certain ginger-bearded barkeep who called up here asking after you this morning.”
I blink. “Forrest?”
“He was pretty worried about you. I told him he better come lay eyes on you himself.” Mrs. Morris gives me a little grin. “He’ll be here in a half-hour or so.”
