by Paula Graves
He cradled her face between his palms. “I can’t take you to Iraq.”
“So I’ll wait for you in Alabama.”
He kissed her forehead, the touch almost reverent. She wrapped her arms around his waist and melted against him. “I love you, Ivy Hawkins. I’ve loved you for half my life. It just took me until now to realize it.”
“I knew it fourteen years ago,” she murmured against the side of his neck. “I just never thought I’d get to tell you.”
He stroked her hair, brushing his lips to her temple. “Know what I think? I think it was no coincidence that we grew up together on Smoky Ridge. We were meant to find each other back then, and become friends when we both needed someone to trust.” He tipped her head back, making her look at him. “I remember, when Jesse told me about this case in Bitterwood, I thought, ‘What are the odds I’d be going back there after all this time?’ But now it seems so clear I was supposed to come back. To you.”
“You really believe that?” she asked, both thrilled and terrified by the idea that something out there had brought them back together.
“Don’t you?”
She did, she realized with surprise. It sounded crazy and fanciful. It sounded like something her mother would believe. But she knew it was true, deep in her soul where a part of Sutton had always remained, long after he was physically gone. A part of her had always believed he’d be back for that piece of his soul. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”
He hugged her close, his embrace both heated and oddly gentle, a perfect melding of their platonic past and their passionate present. She kissed the side of his neck, making him groan.
“I’m going to quit my job at Cooper Security, Ivy. Everything I want in this world anymore is right here in Bitterwood.” His voice was thick with need. “I guess I’ve missed this place more than I ever wanted to admit.”
“Are you sure?”
He brushed a kiss against her forehead. “Yeah. You’re here.”
She felt her insides melt into a hot puddle. “Your dad’s still here. All that history—”
“Leavin’ this place didn’t change that history,” he murmured against her temple. “I am who I am. I come from the people I come from. All I did by running away was let the people around these parts think there’s only one kind of Calhoun. I’d like to challenge that notion.”
“I guess, if I’m honest with myself, I never really wanted to leave here. I could have gone anytime. I was using my mother as an excuse.” She’d realized that embarrassing bit of truth while watching her mother drive away. “Smoky Ridge has a way of getting into your bones.”
“It does,” he agreed, his tone serious.
“So if you quit your job, how do you plan to make a living?” She arched a look at him. “I’m a liberated woman, but that doesn’t mean I plan to support you while you sleep all day. Too damned much of that going on in these hills as it is.”
“I’ll find something to do here. I have skills, you know.”
She shot him a wicked smile. “I’m countin’ on that, Calhoun.”
He laughed and kissed her again, sending fire pouring through her veins once more. If she didn’t watch out, she’d become completely addicted to his touch.
She stepped out of his embrace but held on to his hands. “When do you have to meet the helicopter?”
He glanced at his watch, his expression alarmed. “Too damned soon. I’d better get moving. I still need to pack.”
“Why don’t I take you to meet the helicopter? You can leave your truck here until you’re back.”
“Delilah’s coming to take my place,” he told her as they went to gather the rest of his belongings. “She’ll be without wheels, so I reckon she’ll be borrowing the truck until she’s done with the mop-up of the case. But she can bring you back here.”
They walked together out to his truck. He opened the passenger door, stopping her from getting in with a kiss. “Are you really sure about this? I know it’s all happening so fast and I’m not exactly being my usual practical self about things—”
“I’m sure,” she said with a smile. “I love you, Sutton Calhoun. I’ve loved you for years. And I’m damned well going to love you the rest of my life, so you’d better just get used to it.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said with a wicked grin, and bent to kiss her again.
Epilogue
Rachel Davenport’s silver Honda Accord sat parked next to her father’s old Volvo in the back lot of the trucking company. Most of the other employees had left at six, but George Davenport had always been a workaholic, from what Seth had learned over his time with the company, and his terminal cancer had only driven him to work that much harder, as time ran out on him.
Rachel’s mother had been gone since she was a teenager, and her father was fading away in front of her eyes. Now Mark Bramlett had ripped away four more people she was close to, including a woman who had almost been a second mother to her. And he’d done it deliberately, with Rachel’s heart in his crosshairs, because someone else had paid him to do it.
Seth wanted to know who.
His cell phone rang, giving him a small jolt. The name on the display evoked a grimace. Adam Brand. Mr. FBI himself.
He answered. “Yeah?”
“Hammond, it’s Brand.” The voice on the other end was deep, with a drawl that placed him squarely south of the Mason-Dixon Line. Brand was from Georgia, and over a decade in Washington hadn’t erased his drawl.
“So my phone says.”
“Did you know your sister’s on her way there?”
Seth arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, but how did you know? Never mind, need to know and all that.” After three years of doing jobs for Brand, Seth had grown used to working with only half the information he’d have liked to have. The secrecy wasn’t something he’d enjoyed, exactly, but he’d put up with it in order to have a chance to do something decent for a change.
But he wasn’t inclined to do more jobs for Brand after the last one.
“I have another job for you.”
Seth’s gaze slid back toward Rachel Davenport’s Honda. “I told you after last time, I’m not interested in doing any more jobs for you and the feds. Damned near lost my head that time.”
“This one shouldn’t be as dangerous,” Brand said firmly. “And you’re already uniquely positioned to do what I need.”
“Yeah?” The back door of Davenport Trucking opened and two people emerged, one gray and hunched, the other tall, slender and outwardly composed. But Seth knew if he were close enough to look into her blue eyes, he’d see Rachel Davenport’s fear and pain. She was trying so hard to be strong for her father and for herself.
And someone was trying damned hard to knock her down until she couldn’t get up again.
“I need you to find out who hired Mark Bramlett to kill the people around Rachel Davenport,” Brand said.
“How do you even know about that?” Seth asked, suspicious.
“I just spent a half hour on a satellite phone with Jesse Cooper,” Brand answered. “He’s apparently been talking to Sutton Calhoun, who told his boss everything that happened today. And given that surveillance job you did for us in Alabama last year—”
Phantom pain pricked his scalp at the mention of that particular job. “Not smart to remind me of that job again, Brand.”
“You’re good at lying low and getting information. That’s what we need in this case. I want someone who can keep an eye on Rachel Davenport and her family without drawing attention.”
“What’s it to you? Sutton Calhoun solved the murders. Isn’t that all the FBI should give a damn about?”
“The FBI isn’t involved in this one, Seth. This is for me.”
That was new. “Could I get arrested for any of this?”
�
�Not if you don’t break any laws.”
Easier said than done, Seth thought.
“Do you want the job?”
Seth looked across the parking lot. George Davenport insisted on driving himself while he still could, but it wouldn’t be long until he’d have to give in to his growing weakness. Rachel watched him drive out of the parking lot before she unlocked the Honda and slid behind the wheel.
He waited for her to start the car. But she just sat there a moment, her posture ramrod straight.
“Hammond?” Adam Brand prodded.
Rachel crumpled forward slowly, terribly, and buried her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook, and Seth felt a dart of pain in his own chest.
“I’ll do it,” he said aloud, his eyes never leaving the spectacle of grief playing out in front of him. “I’ll take the job.”
* * * * *
Award-winning author Paula Graves’s brand-new
miniseries, BITTERWOOD, P.D., continues next month with THE SMOKY MOUNTAIN MIST.
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Chapter One
“This special news report just in—an amber alert has been issued for six-year-old Hank Forte. Hank was last seen at the county fair in Amarillo.”
Brody Bloodworth’s heart clenched as a photo of the boy appeared on screen. The little boy had blond hair, was wearing a black T-shirt, jeans and cowboy boots. He could be one of the kids on the BBL, the Bucking Bronc Lodge he had started for needy children.
But he reminded him more of his own little brother, Will, and launched him back seven years ago to the day Will had gone missing.
Not from a county fair but from the rodeo where he was supposed to be watching him.
Self-loathing and guilt suffused him, once again robbing his lungs of air. He understood what the family of that little boy was going through now. The panic. The fear.
The guilt.
If only they’d kept a better eye on him. If only they hadn’t turned their head for a minute.
What was happening to him? Had he just wandered off? Would they find him hiding out or playing somewhere at the fair? Maybe he had fallen asleep in a stall housing one of the animals...
Or had someone taken him? Maybe a desperate woman who’d lost a child and was out of her mind? A child predator who’d do God knows what?
A killer?
The reporter turned the microphone to Hank’s parents, a couple who were huddled together, teary-eyed and frightened. A second later, they began to plead for their son’s return, and the mother broke down into sobs.
Brody hit the remote, silencing the heart-wrenching scene, but it played over and over in his head. But it wasn’t the Forte family’s cries he heard; it was his own family’s.
His father who’d blamed him from the get-go.
Because it was his fault.
He glanced through the window at the sprawling acres and acres of land he’d bought, to the horse stables and pens and the boys that he’d taken in. All kids who had troubles, boys who needed homes and love and guidance.
But no matter how much he did for them, it wouldn’t make up for losing his little brother.
The clock in the hall struck 6:00 p.m., and he stood, pulled on his duster jacket and headed outside. One of his best men, Mason Blackpaw, and his fiancée, Cara Winchester, were getting married on the ranch in a few minutes. He’d promised he’d be there, and he was happy for his friend, but weddings always made him uncomfortable.
And he’d attended a hell of a lot of them lately. In fact, all of his original investors had tied the knot. First Johnny Long, then Brandon Woodstock, Carter Flagstone, then Miles McGregor, and now Mason.
Yanking at his tie to loosen the choking knot, he glanced at the field to the right where Mason had built a gazebo. Cara had rented tables and chairs and had decorated them with white linens, bows and fresh day lilies.
Half wishing he could skip the ceremony, he started to turn and go back inside, but Mason strode up to the steps of the gazebo then glanced his way with a smile.
Brody forced one in return. He couldn’t let his foul mood ruin his friend’s day.
Still, it was all he could do to put on a congenial face as he took a seat in the back row. Weddings made him think of Julie Whitehead, the only girl he’d ever loved.
The girl he’d snuck off to make out with at the rodeo, leaving his brother alone and unprotected.
In the panicked and horrible days after Will had disappeared, he’d lashed out at Julie. He’d blamed her.
But it was really himself he hated.
Dammit, that news report had stirred it all up again, all the haunting memories. He needed to check the database for missing and exploited children, make sure Will’s information was still there.
Over the years, he’d focused on making sure local law enforcement agencies as well as statewide ones didn’t give up looking. Even all these years later, he still had hope he’d find his brother.
Although that hope was harder to hold on to every day.
Worse, worry over what his brother had suffered ate at him constantly.
Still, he had to know if he was dead or alive.
* * *
SPECIAL AGENT JULIE WHITEHEAD ran her finger over the embossed wedding invitation from Cara Winchester and Mason Blackpaw, then tossed it into the trash. She had worked with Mason on the Slasher case along with Detective Miles McGregor, tracking down a notorious serial killer who’d committed horrific crimes against women. During the case, they’d made friends, but she couldn’t bear to attend the couple’s wedding—not when it was taking place on the Bucking Bronc Lodge.
Not when Brody Bloodworth would probably attend.
After all, he was the founder of the ranch for troubled boys, a project she whole-heartedly admired, but he was also the man who’d broken her heart. Even after seven years, the thought of seeing him again tore her in knots.
Of course, she hadn’t blamed him for hating her after his little brother had disappeared. If it hadn’t been for her selfishness, her eagerness to seduce him away from the rodeo, he would have been with Will, and the little boy never would have disappeared.
She’d never forgiven herself for that.
And she’d made it her sole mission in life to see that one day he was found.
The very reason she’d joined the TBI.
Agent Jay Cord, one of the agents who specialized in missing children cases, cursed as he strode over to her desk. “Dammit, did you hear that another little boy went missing?”
Julie’s lungs tightened. “Hank Forte. I feel so bad for that family.” Memories of the torturous hours after Will’s disappearance flashed back. “Any leads?”
“We’re still questioning all the workers at the fair, but so far nothing.”
She squeezed the stress ball on her desk, knowing the routine all too well. The family was always suspect, a fact that appalled her on their behalf and
made her sick at the same time because a large percentage of the time they were guilty.
Next on their suspect list—their friends and relatives. The police and TBI would look into financials, search for motives, the whole time putting out feelers for pedophiles, ex-cons and mental patients. Then the wait for a ransom call. And what to do then?
And if one didn’t come...the terrible realization that their child might be dead. “The parents check out?” she asked.
“So far. Both seem devastated. No financial problems. No custody issues. No enemies that they know of.”
Julie frowned, thinking of all the cases they’d seen. The first forty-eight hours were crucial. Every second after lessened the chances they would find the child alive.
“I’m headed to Amarillo now,” Jay said. “Want to grab a bite of dinner with me on the way? There’s a great Italian place I’ve been wanting to try.”
Julie offered him a smile and considered the offer. She knew Jay wanted more from her than friendship or to be coworkers. But even though she liked and admired him, she didn’t have it in her heart to get involved with him.
Because your heart belongs to someone else.
No...because her heart had been broken, and she wouldn’t take the chance on love again.
Still, maybe she should give him a shot.
Julie stood and reached for her jacket to go with him, but her section chief Lee Hurt, strode in. “Wait a minute, Whitehead. I’ve got another case for you.”
Julie frowned. What could take precedence over looking for Hank Forte?
He strode to her computer, inserted a flash drive, then a second later clicked to open the file. Jay followed, probably wondering if it had to do with the Forte case.
“You’ve been looking for that kid William Bloodworth for years, haven’t you?”
Julie narrowed her eyes. Was he going to reprimand her? “Yes.”
