by Melissa Tagg
“And she just had a baby, which is why I’m here. I’m simply a replacement. Today magazine isn’t trying to pull anything on you.”
“It’s not the magazine I’m worried about.”
Which meant Brad Walsh probably knew everything about the 2008 fiasco. In the distance, a woodpecker pounded out a rhythm. “I’m not out to play ‘gotcha’ journalism.” Though, if the opportunity presented itself, wouldn’t he take full advantage?
Absolutely. For Cee. And fine, okay, also for the career comeback. Not how he’d imagined it—and yes, it stabbed at his dignity—but when options were limited, what was a man supposed to do?
Brad’s eyes focused on him, and Knox wondered what he saw. A wannabe writer in faded jeans, blue hooded sweatshirt, and Converse shoes? Someone too old to still be floundering in his career, questioning his life’s purpose, his identity.
“You slammed your own father in a front-page exposé.”
Brad’s flat-toned statement dug into Matthew like claws, any response lost in the emotional puncture.
“We had a source.” But the argument had as little weight now as it had five years ago.
“You pinned a target to his back with newsprint, only to find out weeks later he was innocent. That had to sting.”
No, it had burned. And after it was all over, his career, his confidence, his reputation lay in ashes. He’d basically co-written the article, kept it under wraps until deadline. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t his name in the byline.
A distant scent of burning leaves wafted in with the breeze. Finally he found words. “The police were investigating my father. I wasn’t blindly grasping at straws. You have no idea what you’re talking about.” No idea Matthew had more reason than anybody to suspect Gordon Knox of the scandalous embezzlement that rocked the Twin Cities financial district that summer. Of course he’d believed his businessman father capable of the scheme.
After all, the man had emptied the family bank account before leaving Mom years before. Not such a leap to believe he’d orchestrated the embezzlement scheme.
If his personal experience wasn’t enough, there’d been his source—his father’s former financial advisor. He’d come to Matthew claiming to have proof of Gordon Knox’s illegal activities, said no one else would listen, no one else believed him.
Turned out, they were right not to listen. The State’s case against his father crumbled quickly, and the real embezzler was convicted mere months after the crime.
But not before Matthew had green-lighted the scathing article that drew attention not only for its biting portrayal of Gordon Knox, but also for the shared last name of the subject and the paper’s editor. Or as the Star Tribune publisher had described it seconds before inviting Matthew to resign, “glaringly obvious conflict of interest.”
“My source was unreliable,” Matthew said to Walsh.
“Your judgment was unreliable.” Brad’s tone was unflinching.
If the whole thing wasn’t bad enough, the reporter whose name appeared under the article? Delia Jones. Matthew had fed her the article. And even worse, they’d gone out one night after a day of piecing together their research. He’d considered it a working dinner; she, a date. Either way, it didn’t end well. He’d hurt the woman personally and professionally.
And while he had been given the chance to resign, she’d been sacked.
Was it any wonder she plagued him still?
Brad leaned forward, expression intense. “You play that kind of shoddy reporting with Randi, and I’ll have you outta here so fast the Road Runner will be coming to you for advice.”
“Point taken—on one condition.”
Brad almost relaxed, apparently pleased at the outcome of his interrogation. “What’s that?”
Matthew forced his voice into even tones. “Leave my father out of this from now on.”
Because he’d learned the hard way, that was the best way to deal with Gordon Knox—who, as it turned out, had relocated to the South without so much as a good-bye after the case. And history repeats itself.
Brad shrugged. “All right, fine—consider the subject closed. And now, about what you said earlier, about Randi knowing her stuff, as if it was a surprise . . .”
That again? “I didn’t mean anything by it.”
Brad cocked an eyebrow.
“Okay, so maybe I wondered. But people always wonder about these TV types. Can Rachael Ray really cook? Can Martha Stewart really make her own candles?”
“If you insinuate Bob Ross couldn’t actually paint, you’ll throw me into a state of serious disillusionment.” Finally the guy cracked a smile. “But seriously, have Randi show you her workshop sometime. Sure, she’s a whiz at the home-improvement projects she does on television. But her real love is working with wood. It’ll be good blog material for you.”
They eased into conversation that belied the strain of only moments ago.
And yet, the folder in Brad’s hands mocked Matthew. He clenched his pop can, squeezed it with a crunch. Would he never escape the stigma of his five-year-old fatal career move?
Under a star-studded dusk, Miranda shuffled the path from the cabin to her house. Moonlight-tipped trees and shadowed ridges beckoned, the tension of the day begging to float off like the white of her breath in the evening chill.
But there wasn’t time. Matthew might return any minute.
“What’s the rush?” Blaze huffed from the opposite end of the antique trunk swinging between them. The weight of it pulled Miranda’s arms taut. No way would she have been able to lug the thing without him. “You must really not want Knox to see whatever’s in here.”
A nighttime wind rustled through the trees circling her property. “Nothing important. Just personal. I’d rather not have a reporter digging through it.”
The memory of the trunk in the cabin had hit her out of the blue after arriving home from work. She’d waited all evening for a chance to swipe it from Matthew’s prying eyes, had practically choked on a sigh of relief when she heard his car rumble to life. The second his headlights disappeared down the road, she’d bolted from the house.
She hadn’t expected the cabin to be locked, though. Who did Matthew think would break in? Smokey the Bear? And she’d given him her only set of cabin keys.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you climbing in that window,” Blaze said with a chuckle as they hefted the trunk up the porch stairs. “First you burst from the house like a greyhound, then you break into the reporter’s cabin. This husband gig just keeps getting better and better.”
Her forearms strained at the heaviness of the trunk. She shifted to free one hand and nudged open her front door. “It’s not technically breaking in since it’s my cabin.”
Yes, perhaps removing one of the cabin’s side windows and limboing in like an acrobat was extreme, but the contents of the trunk told more of her story than Matthew ever needed to see.
Inside the house, they dropped the trunk in the entryway. “I hope there’s not a body inside. I’d hate to think I aided and abetted a murder,” Blaze said.
Eventually they’d move it—maybe up to her bedroom or her office next door. But for now, she needed to get back to the cabin, re-lock the front door, and replace the window. “Don’t worry. This won’t add to your criminal record.”
“Not sure how I feel about the fact that you assume I already have one.”
“I’ll go clean up the crime scene. Watch for Matthew, and if you see him drive in before I’m back, stall him.”
“Aye aye, oh, wife of mine.” He saluted. “You can count on me.” Tan legs poked from Blaze’s shorts and his windswept hair brushed over his smiling eyes. The man did serious about as well as she did makeup.
She sprinted back to the cabin. The three-room structure had been the only building on the property when she’d purchased the land a little less than four years ago. For over six months she’d called it home, woken up every morning in the double bed edged up against one wall, covered in
Grandma Woodruff’s quilt . . . Robbie at her side.
Earlier, she’d been in such a hurry to retrieve the trunk, she hadn’t allowed the tide of memories to rush over her. But this time, before she even walked through the door, the flashbacks returned so thick she could smell the sweet of the cedar walls, feel the poking springs of the old bed, hear the whispering voice of her guilt.
Miranda shook her head, dislodging the pull of the past.
The storm window sat on the ground where she’d left it, propped against a caulked wall. Quickly, she replaced it, then marched inside. She looked into the bedroom to make sure all was as she’d found it: Matthew’s duffel bag in the corner on the rough-hewn floor, the doorless cutout closet empty, frayed braided rug at the foot of the bed.
Miranda’s cheeks warmed at the sight of the bed sheets thrown back, the familiar chiding of her conscience like a gong. Because, while she and Robbie may have lived like it, they hadn’t been married. Robbie—handsome, vibrant Robbie—had been irresistible. Her convictions, no match.
She took a breath now. Even without his clothes in the closet or his work boots lined up against the wall, the cabin still resonated with Robbie’s presence.
Another labored breath. And then . . . she froze. The sound of footsteps on leaves, the crinkle of a grocery sack. The jiggling of the doorknob.
“Oh dear.” How could Matthew be back so soon? She hadn’t heard him drive up. So much for Blaze keeping watch. Oh, why hadn’t she ever put a door on the bedroom closet? She could have hidden inside. Maybe under the bed. And what, stay there all night? Or maybe . . .
Too late. The door creaked open. Her heart thudded. Think.
Only one thing she could do. Miranda plastered on a smile and lifted her hand in a wave. “Hi!”
Matthew yelped and dropped the bundle in his arms. “What are you . . . I thought I locked . . . Way to freak me out, Woodruff.”
“Sorry. Um, I thought I’d clean the place up a bit while you were out.”
Suspicion crawled into his eyes above stubble-covered cheeks. He shook his head. “Not buying it. The place smelled like a forest when I got home earlier. Someone already went Pine-Sol ballistic.”
That’s right, Blaze had offered to clean the cabin while she and Matthew were out for the day. He’d also stocked her fridge with groceries and washed a load of towels. She should’ve brought home a fake husband years ago.
Matthew’s eyebrows lifted a notch.
“Well, the truth is . . .” Nothing, I got nothing.
“I know what’s going on here, so you might as well admit it.”
See, this was why a person up to her neck in secrets didn’t play hostess to a sniffing reporter—even if said reporter could easily qualify as cute in his startled state.
Matthew bent to pick up his grocery sack. “You snuck out here so you could get a peek at my first blog for Today’s website.”
She held back an instant grin. Saved by the man himself. “Yes.” Serious face, apologetic eyes. This mock guilt was so much nicer than the real thing. “Yes, that is exactly what I was doing.”
“Too late—already sent it. Sorry. But as long as you’re here, want some ice cream? Sadly, the selection at the mini-mart was limited. We’ll have to make due with Neapolitan.”
He kicked the door shut behind him and walked to the kitchenette spanning one wall.
An old couch sat in one corner and a small round table occupied the center of the room, Matthew’s laptop open atop it.
“I don’t know if I should—”
“Or we could bring it over to the house in case Blaze wants some, too.”
She thought of the trunk, likely still sitting in the entryway. “Uh no. He’s a healthy eater.” She had proof. Blaze had insisted on broccoli and apple slices with dinner tonight. “But, sure, I’ll have a scoop. I never say no to ice cream.”
“I can’t go more than a few days without it myself. I think my internal organs would start shutting down.”
“It’s possible we share DNA.”
Matthew pulled a bowl from the sink. “Found the dishes in one of the cupboards. Do you have guests out here often?”
No, she’d simply had no energy to clean the place out after Robbie left. Interesting, though, how seeing the ease of familiarity with which Matthew moved around the cabin blurred the ghost of Robbie.
“Thank you for letting me stay here, by the way,” he said as he dug a spoon into the box of ice cream. “Brad told me yesterday he’d neglected to okay the arrangement with you. I know he was expecting a female reporter. Hopefully this isn’t too awkward.”
Considering she also had a man sleeping on her couch, it was practically run-of-the-mill.
“I wanted to ask you about these dishes. They look like handmade pottery.” Matthew tapped on the bowl, glaze swirls of red and blue and green ornamenting the upper rim. “I know you spent several years in Brazil. Is that where you got them?”
“Is this an interview?”
He handed her a bowl, pausing with a thoughtful study. “Nah. Off the clock.”
“My parents brought that set home during one of their furloughs. They are missionaries in Sao Paulo, but they come home every four years.”
He grabbed his own bowl and motioned for her to sit. “So you lived here in the States with your grandparents growing up, and then you joined your parents in South America after college?”
She choked on an icy bite of vanilla. “Joined them? No, I only saw them five or six times during my three years down there.”
His quizzical expression fought with her reluctance to tell the story. Lord knew she’d have made any psychiatrist’s day at the stacks of repressed memories piled inside.
But there was something about Matthew Knox’s patient interest and relaxed gaze. The man may not have the magazine-cover looks of Robbie—or Blaze, for that matter—but that slow-spreading smile of his, under greenish-hazel eyes rimmed by eyelashes longer than any man had a right to have . . . Well, he drew her out.
Or maybe she’d breathed in too much Pine-Sol. “My mom and dad brought me down to Brazil when I was seven. But I couldn’t adjust. I was scared of every little noise at night, didn’t like the food, couldn’t communicate. Eventually they decided enough was enough.”
He nodded. “So they took you home.”
The words sped out before she could put on the brakes. “Sent me home. Put me on a nonstop flight to Charlotte.”
His spoon landed on the table with a clink. “They abandoned you.”
“They were trying to do the right thing. They promised when I was older, they’d send for me, but . . .” They never had. And for years, she’d battled the lies in her head: They didn’t care about her. They loved their mission more than her.
That combined with her guilt at knowing they’d never approve of the lie she lived now was why, more often than not, she chose not to read their chatty letters and e-mail updates. It was too hard pretending all was fine. Thus, the letter still stuffed in her robe pocket up in her bedroom.
She locked eyes with Matthew. “I don’t normally talk about this.”
“To the press?”
“To anyone.”
Something shifted in his jaw, and his voice turned husky. “I understand. My dad left us when I was fifteen. Not my favorite topic of discussion, either.” His pause stretched, the quiet of the cabin marred only by the drip-dropping of the kitchenette’s leaky faucet. And a connection, soft and appealing, filled the space between them. That look in his eyes, pure empathy.
Finally, Matthew cleared his throat. “So why’d you go back after college?”
She chewed on the question before answering. “The breaking point in Brazil for my parents was when they found me crying after getting beaned by a ball during a soccer game with the neighborhood kids. They’d encouraged me to play, wanted me to try fitting in. Didn’t work so well.” She allowed a smirk. “Ten years later I was named the captain of my high school soccer team. We took state two years
in a row. A big part of the reason I returned was I wanted to prove to them—and myself, I guess—that I could overcome my fears.”
The creases in the corners of his eyes and the dimple in his chin deepened, and he leaned toward her, the spice of his cologne enticing. “I like the way you work, Miranda Woodruff.”
He held her gaze, perhaps understanding more than she’d intended to share. Like the hurt that even proving she could make it in Brazil hadn’t wiped out.
Don’t look so deep, Matthew.
She couldn’t afford to have what he might find be revealed.
Chapter 5
Smudges of red and orange and brown blurred the landscape of the mountains. Matthew palmed the steering wheel, awe streaking a trail through his senses. It was as if he’d driven the rental Jeep into an Impressionist painting. Something Monet or Renoir would’ve brushed onto canvas.
To his right, Miranda’s nose pressed to her window. A handkerchief tied at the back of her neck covered her hair, and she wore baggy overalls over a long-sleeved shirt. He felt his lips curve into a smile, and couldn’t help himself. “Still not talking to me?”
She huffed, sending a few loose strands of hair floating.
“Come on, it was funny.”
She turned to him, gray eyes narrowed. “I could’ve been injured.”
“But you weren’t.”
“But I could’ve been.” With a stubborn flounce of her handkerchief-covered ponytail, she crossed her arms.
Fine, okay, maybe he shouldn’t have laughed at the woman when she’d tripped down the porch steps this morning. No, not tripped—flailed her way down. He’d been pressing Blaze for an interview, when Miranda had burst out of the house. Halfway down the stairs, her feet knotted and she skated on her backside to the ground.
He hadn’t been able to contain his laughter.
“Miranda, I’m sorry I laughed when you fell down the steps.” He spoke in measured tones now, forcing his mouth into a straight line. “And I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”
