It's in His Touch

by Shelly Alexander

  Also by Shelly Alexander

  It’s In His Heart: A Red River Valley Novel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Shelly Alexander

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503948075

  ISBN-10: 1503948072

  Cover design by Laura Klynstra

  This book is dedicated to all who have fought the good fight, and to Dr. L. A. Smith because she does remember my name.

  To my husband, who never let me give up.

  And to the real Kimberly, the best friend a gal could ever ask for. Every new adventure on our list is a hoot. (But I’m still not jumping out of a plane—not even for you.)

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  “Drop the panties, or the octopus gets it.” Angelique Barbetta held out the plush doggy toy, a bottle of bitter anti-chew spray pointed at its overstuffed head. She used the predatory tone usually reserved for courtroom opponents as she glared at her four-legged adversary.

  A soft breeze whispered through the trees, wrestling autumn-hued foliage to the ground. The draft of cool air caught the silky neckline of her robe and sent a chill racing through her. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the shedding branches, and a silhouette of the snow-capped Sangre de Cristo Mountains glittered in the background. Her long black hair was up in hot rollers, and a sudden gust pulled a thick tendril loose. She blew it out of her eyes, refusing to lose a staring match to a dog.

  The ten-pound weenie dog’s posture tensed, his tail wagged a fraction, and his jaw clamped tighter around the black thong panties he’d snatched from her suitcase while she was unpacking. Hence, the reason she’d scurried outside half-dressed and sporting curlers so big they could pick up a radio frequency from three states away.

  Why’d she bring skimpy panties on an extended vacay to Red River—population 475? Pfst. Insulated long johns would’ve been a more practical choice.

  She shivered against another nippy gust of autumn breeze.

  It wasn’t like she’d ever wear the string bikinis currently lodged between her dog’s teeth. They’d been part of the risqué honeymoon trousseau given to her by her best friend, Kimberly, and the horde of female Barbettas. Of course, that was before she caught her fiancé, Gabriel, cheating. While Angelique was recovering from breast cancer.

  Asshole.

  Come to think of it, she should let the dog have them. Let Sergeant Schnitzel chew up the underwear and every last memory of what she’d thought she had with Gabriel.

  Just like she’d accidentally let the dog chew up Gabriel’s Armani jacket. And his Tumi briefcase. And the crack in his brand-new fifty-five-inch widescreen—a testament to his insecurity and belief that size really did matter—may or may not have been an accident. Golf clubs sometimes slipped out of one’s hands mid-swing. It happened.

  Sergeant Schnitzel whined, his tail wagging at lightning speed.

  “Come on, Sarge. Drop ’em. Please.”

  Jeez, she was pathetic. Had she really been reduced to begging a dog?

  Okay, admittedly, destroying Gabriel’s personal property had been a vindictive reaction, but her momentary lapse in emotional restraint was understandable. While she was in the process of moving out of their rented condo, Gabriel announced his shotgun wedding to her legal assistant, whom he’d knocked up. Now with the wedding just a few weeks away, he actually expected Angelique to attend, along with the rest of their law firm, because cohesion would look good for the junior partnership he’d just landed. So much cruelty at once probably would’ve pushed Mother Teresa over the edge. That was Angelique’s story, anyway, and she was sticking to it, because Gabriel deserved it times ten.

  She drew in a tremulous breath, the familiar sting of loss pinging off the walls of her stomach like a pinball.

  Now instead of standing toe-to-toe with a skilled criminal prosecutor, she was throwing down with a weenie dog. Definitely pathetic. She glared at him.

  The cocktail-sized wiener growled, enticing her to give chase.

  “Sergeant Schnitzel, don’t you dare run off again,” she warned, eyeballing him with her best menacing look. That stare wilted even the most seasoned district attorneys and brought witnesses to tears on the stand. Unfortunately, it didn’t intimidate this little pilferer of women’s underpants. “I swear, no more satin pillows to sleep on, and no more fancy chew toys.” She shook the octopus, its legs flouncing in the air. “And no more bacon-flavored treats either.”

  Sergeant Schnitzel whined and cocked his head to one side.

  Victory within her grasp, Angelique stepped closer and slipped the spray bottle into the pocket of her red silk kimono—another installment of her intended honeymoon wardrobe. When she stretched out a hand to retrieve the slobbery undergarment, the dog charged, making a quick circle around her Sesame Street slippers. The dark-brown dachshund’s lightning-fast movements stirred up a cloud of dust and autumn leaves around her legs and made the hem of her robe flutter. Sergeant Schnitzel darted across her toes, his collar snagging the hem and pulling the front loose.

  “Hey!” She grabbed at the gaping front and cinched it closed to hide the black lace camisole and matching panties. What the heck. She might as well get some use out of all those lingerie shower gifts, even if no one but her and Sergeant Schnitzel would ever see them. “That’s it! You’re the main course at my next weenie roast!” Angelique yelled after the dog as he raced across the vacation property and disappeared over the wooden footbridge that joined her one-acre lot to the next.

  “Maybe he won’t come back.” Kimberly, her closest friend since law school, emerged from the cabin and sauntered over to Angelique, orange and yellow leaves crunching under her steps. “I still can’t understand why you didn’t give that demon dog to Gabe the Douchebag.”

  Clad in leopard tights, Kimberly stood next to Angelique. Kimberly pulled her hot-pink mohair cardigan tighter, folding both arms across her well-endowed bust. A petite gal with spiked bleached-blonde hair, her excessive bust line didn’t exactly match her five-feet-two-inch frame, and when she wore a fitted shirt . . . well, armed and dangerous was the only way to describe her. Really, many a man had never been the same after seeing her in spandex workout clothes.

  “Sarge isn’t a demon dog. He’s just a little spoiled,” Angelique said, as they both stared at the empty footbridge, Sarge long go
ne.

  And who could blame her for that, really? He was the closest to a child she’d ever have, now that she planned to keep her body to herself and focus solely on a career.

  She looked at the stuffed octopus and tossed it up, catching it again. “No way was I leaving Sergeant Schnitzel with her. Gabriel gave him to me right before I was diagnosed.” Angelique’s hand went to her chest and rested there. “That two-faced . . .”

  Angelique caught herself. Gabriel and his new squeeze weren’t worth the energy it would take to stay angry. She drew in a deep breath, and the fresh mountain air filled her lungs and steadied her emotions. “She got everything else that was supposed to be mine—my fiancé, his baby in her womb, even the dream house he and I were building together.” Angelique’s fingers fisted around the fabric at her neck. She tucked the toy into the other robe pocket. “The dog is mine.”

  “Not much of a prize, if you ask me.”

  “It’s the principle of the matter,” Angelique said, adjusting the flaps of her robe. She cinched the belt tighter and retied it.

  “Would’ve been a nice wedding gift. Sergeant Schnitzel could be chewing up the Cheerleader’s undies right now instead of yours.”

  Since Gabriel’s new soon-to-be-wife was seven years younger than Angelique and perky from her twenty-four-year-old boobs all the way to her petite size five-and-a-half shoe, Kimberly had officially dubbed her the Cheerleader. Gabriel couldn’t have cheated with someone more different than Angelique if he’d tried. The Cheerleader was blonde, had hazel eyes, and was sweet. Or so she’d pretended to be. A sharp contrast to Angelique’s dark Sicilian features and barracuda personality.

  Rolling one foot onto its side, Angelique looked down at her size nines.

  “Well, I think he should be skewered and roasted over an open fire,” Kimberly announced. The small diamond in her nose glinted against the afternoon sun as she ran splayed fingers through her spiky hair.

  “It’s not that big a deal. I just need to keep my lingerie put away where Sarge can’t get to it.”

  “I meant Gabriel.”

  Angelique threw her head back and laughed. “That’s why I keep you around.”

  “Because I make you laugh?”

  “No, because you’ll help me dispose of a body should the need ever arise.”

  It was Kimberly’s turn to laugh. “What else are friends for? Just let me know, and I’ll bring the shovels.”

  “Maybe I should go after him.” Angelique sighed, her gaze returning to the footbridge.

  “Maybe you should relax and let him find his own way back home. You came to Red River to work on an easy case and do some more recuperating in the process.”

  “Real estate development cases aren’t my field of expertise, but it’s pretty open-and-shut. The firm was doing me a favor. It’ll be like a three-month paid vacation while Gabriel’s wedding and honeymoon hype blows over.”

  “After what you’ve been through, you deserve it.”

  Right. The emotional scars of losing both breasts ran deeper than she’d ever expected.

  Thank God she didn’t have to go through chemo, too. Losing her hair would’ve added insult to injury and probably pushed her over the edge. Reconstruction had been an even bigger horror. If she’d known how painful it was going to be, she’d never have done it. But she’d been scared to wake up without breasts. Terrified, in fact. And the thought of intimacy with Gabriel if she wasn’t a whole woman nearly had sent her plunging over an emotional cliff.

  “Speaking of, I need to get busy and study the case file.” Angelique walked to her pearl-white SUV and opened the door to get her briefcase and a stack of correspondence from the firm.

  “Not tonight, sweetie.” Kimberly snatched the bundle of papers from Angelique’s hands as soon as she got close enough. “Tonight we focus on the bucket list.”

  Angelique couldn’t stop an eye roll. Unfortunately, neither Kimberly’s annoying bucket list nor reconstruction had been able to replace all that her illness had cost her.

  When Angelique looked in the mirror for the first time after the first surgery, she’d cried a river. Now it was time to suck it up, build a bridge, and get the hell over it. Grief and self-pity weren’t going to keep her from the partnership she deserved.

  She’d stay in Red River through the holidays, then go back to Albuquerque and kick butt. Cancer and cheating exes be damned. Once she returned to the firm, the C word would never pass through her lips again. A partnership called to her from the not-so-distant future, chanted her name like a chorus. At least that’s what she hoped she heard and not voices that required medication. Some days she’d wondered, because her emotions had been all over the place since the diagnosis.

  What didn’t kill her made her stronger.

  Her new motto. Maybe she’d have it tattooed across her backside as a reminder that she’d be just fine on her own. Her large, obnoxious family believed it their duty to smother her with love, and she had a great career going. That would be enough to fill the emptiness left inside her by a disease that she carried in her flawed DNA.

  Blake Holloway sat on his back porch steps and looked at the bologna sandwich he’d thrown together for Sunday dinner. It tasted like cardboard, but it was better than nothing. With a small grunt of disapproval, he took another bite and washed it down with a long swallow of ice-cold beer.

  As he set the glass bottle on the porch, a small dachshund tore into his backyard carrying something in his mouth. The dog stopped about ten feet in front of him, and they stared each other down. Too well groomed to be a stray, it probably belonged to his nearest neighbor, a new renter who’d just moved in.

  “Hey, little buddy. Come here.” Blake tried to coax it closer with a kind voice.

  The dog squatted like it was about to leap up and run away.

  Tearing off a hefty piece of bologna, Blake held it out and laid the sandwich on a plate next to his beer. The dog inched forward, finally snagging the bologna after he dropped the . . . um, black panties?

  Holding the tiny strings up for a quick look, he supposed they were women’s panties. He’d used dental floss that would cover more. Probably be more comfortable, too.

  He tore off another bite and coaxed the wayward pup into his arms. Blake pulled him closer, giving him a scratch behind the ears. Reaching for the heart-shaped piece of metal that dangled around the dog’s neck, he angled it for a better view. The name “Sarge” and a New Mexico phone number were engraved across the first and second lines. Blake lifted the pup a little higher to read the last line in small script. “Love, G.”

  Blake dropped the tag and scratched the dog’s chest. Sarge whined back at him.

  “One more piece, and I’m taking you home.” He wrenched off a generous piece and the dog inhaled it.

  Blake polished off his beer and set out for the neighbor’s cabin.

  The babbling stream cascaded under foot as he trekked across an old footbridge, the rogue weenie dog bundled in his arms.

  He’d stuffed the small wad of strings into his pocket before heading next door. Returning the dog wasn’t a problem, but he just couldn’t bring himself to hand over a pair of G-strings to a neighbor on their first meeting. Maybe he should throw them in the trash and pretend they didn’t exist.

  Halfway across the old bridge, a rotted board creaked under his foot, and he readjusted his weight, taking a quick sidestep around it.

  Something else to add to his long repair list. The new cabin was an improvement over the crummy apartment above his downtown Red River medical practice. He’d made do in the small converted loft over his business for two years, until he finally bought a real place of his own. For all the good it had done. The bank might force him out before he could unpack the moving boxes still strewn around his cabin.

  Heat roiled in his veins.

  Now that the Red River Community Bank, courtesy of its new owners, planned to call in most of the small business loans in town, he stood to lose both his practi
ce and his new cabin. So did most of the business owners in this quiet little community.

  The only lawyer they’d collectively been able to afford didn’t exactly inspire confidence. The guy was still putting off a face-to-face meeting, rarely returned their e-mails, and said he practiced out of his home where telephone reception was sketchy.

  A gust of wind rustled the trees on the riverbank, sending a spray of autumn leaves fluttering past. The small dog folded under Blake’s arm barked.

  “Get ’em, boy.” Blake laughed and stroked the dog’s head. “You’re quite the guard dog, aren’t you? Women’s underwear and falling leaves should beware.” Blake chuckled. “I feel safer already.”

  Blake stopped short to examine the rotting handrails. New paint wouldn’t help. The whole bridge needed to be torn down and rebuilt. He sighed. If the bank owners got their way, he wouldn’t live here long enough to repair anything.

  So much for his dream to live a quiet life serving in a community where people weren’t just file numbers. Doctors Without Borders would’ve been a wiser choice.

  He lifted the dog and scratched it’s head as he stepped off the bridge. “Stay away from that bridge, little buddy. You might fall through into the stream.”

  The dog’s tongue shot out and swiped at Blake’s cheek.

  As Blake dried his jaw with the back side of his sleeve, the neighboring cabin came into view. Two thirtysomething women, one of them in a robe and sporting a gigantic head of hair, disappeared through the front door.

  Lorenda, his Realtor and general know-it-all on every property in Red River, couldn’t find out much about the new tenant. Amazing considering news spread faster in this town than an outbreak of influenza in the middle of winter.

  As he reached the small flight of steps that ascended the wooden front porch, the autumn breeze kicked up, shifting a small pile of leaves. Underneath, an envelope lay on the ground. He picked it up and read the return address. His eyes scanned the expensive stationery, and every muscle in his six-foot frame went rigid.

  Riggs, Castillo & Marone, Attorneys at Law—the same law firm representing the new bank owners. Henchmen tasked to drive out Red River’s lifeblood of small enterprise so they could build a corporate-owned resort complete with high-rise condos that would be marketed to the rich and famous. Huh. And it was addressed to one Angelique Barbetta, Attorney at Law.