by Jane Porter
At the corner he flipped a U-turn and headed back down Bramble to pick up Highway 89 north of the high school.
It’d take him at least twenty minutes to get to the Sheenan ranch, and he drove slowly, mindful of the black ice on the road. He was in no great hurry to return to the old two-story log cabin. The old Sheenan homestead wasn’t his home, and the longer he was there, the more uncomfortable he became.
He did not belong.
He wasn’t supposed to be there.
His certainty had little to do with Cormac and the other Sheenan brothers, but the heaviness that filled him every time he entered the house.
He hadn’t believed in spirits before he moved in. He did now.
He was most definitely not alone in the house. His mother’s ghost—sad but benign—and another one, far more aggressive. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was his father’s spirit as it seemed to go out of its way to make him feel unwelcome, reminding Shane he didn’t belong. That he’d never belonged. And yet whenever he felt the hostile presence, the other one was there, too, as if trying to be a buffer, determined to protect Shane.
God, he’d love to know the truth.
Why was he given away? Why had his father’s name been stripped from the birth certificate—because Bill Sheenan was his father, the DNA test four years ago proved it—but Shane had waited too long to confront his father? Bill Sheenan was dead. The brothers had all abandoned the family homestead. And now Shane was here, still the outsider, still the interloper.
Shane hadn’t expected a warm welcome from the Sheenan brothers, but he had thought maybe—and now he could see how silly he’d been—just maybe, they’d help him. He’d thought they’d be civil, possibly friendly. He’d thought he could get them to trust him and sit down and talk to him about what had happened leading up to the massacre on the Douglas property.
Before signing the lease, he’d hoped he’d get to know these brothers, not as brothers, but as people. Men. There was no need for a big, bonding thing, and no need to become close as they’d never be a family, but he hadn’t anticipated the freeze-out.
To be fair, Dillon had been friendly enough when Shane had talked to him about leasing the house. He’d enjoyed their lunch at the Graff. Dillon had been somewhat guarded and Shane hadn’t known if that was just Dillon’s personality or a family thing. Nine months later Shane knew it was a family thing.
There was nothing soft about the Sheenans. They’d obviously been raised with a firm hand…taught from birth what it meant to be a Sheenan, and a man.
More than once Shane had tried to imagine growing up in that house, as a Sheenan. In terms of the lineup, he would have been near the end, sandwiched between Cormac and Dillon.
His birth date was less than a year after Cormac. He and Cormac were Irish twins, with Cormac’s birthday on April fifth, while Shane’s was fast approaching, February twenty-seventh. Cormac would have been just a couple months old when their mother conceived again.
Shane had wondered if that might have been part of the problem, if there had just been too many babies too quickly. Perhaps the family had been having some kind of financial difficulty or his mother had been ill, necessitating the need for her mother to step in and help take care of the new baby.
So odd to think of how it might have been, the lineup and pecking order—Brock, Troy, Trey, Cormac, Shane, and then Dillon.
For the first two weeks of his life, he’d been a Sheenan, and then mid-March the birth certificate was amended and he became a Swan.
Bill Sheenan was not crazy. He was a tough man but smart, successful, and respected by all but neighbor Hawksley Carrigan.
Why would he remove his name from the birth certificate?
For him to do that, he had to be sure that Shane wasn’t his.
Except Bill Sheenan was wrong. The private investigator Shane had hired four years ago had been able to run a DNA test off a Starbucks coffee cup that Troy discarded after a meeting with a potential investor—Shane’s investigator—and Troy was a ninety-nine percent match for a sibling, which meant Shane was as much a Sheenan as Trey and Troy, since they were identical twins.
Arriving at the ranch, Shane parked in the gravel area between the house and barn and headed for the two-story log cabin.
He discovered a white envelope tacked to the wooden front door.
Cormac, he thought. Cormac had put the notice in writing.
Shane removed the envelope, unlocked the door and stepped inside to read the paper. He’d been right. Thirty-day notice. In writing.
For a moment Shane didn’t know what to think. He’d been expecting this for awhile but, now that it had come, he was numb.
These past nine months hadn’t been easy or comfortable. But what had he hoped? That living in his parents’ house would heal something inside of him? That sleeping in his brother’s bed would knit that gaping hole in his heart?
Irritated and frustrated, he walked through the house, flipping switches until the entire downstairs blazed with light. But it wasn’t enough. The house seemed to be listening, waiting for something, and Shane synced his phone with his Bluetooth speakers, filling the house with Aerosmith, upping the volume until the glass figurines in the dining room’s china cabinet rattled. Nothing like a good, old 1973 classic to wake the house up. And the ghosts…if they were sleeping.
Did ghosts sleep?
Sing for the laughter…
Shane had been born in 1982—at least that was what his grandmother claimed—but he loved seventies rock, not the disco stuff sweeping Europe and the US, but rock with all its genres…punk, glam, hard, progressive, art, heavy metal. But, by far, hard rock was his favorite and his iPod had been filled with Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Queen, Black Sabbath, AC/DC, Kiss, Aerosmith, Van Halen, and more.
Whenever there was friction in one of the homes, the music was always blared.
The ultra-conservative far right folks would warn that he was going to hell, and complain to the agency that Shane was always listening to satanic music.
Shane would just put on headphones and turn the volume louder.
Knowing no one was within ten miles of the cabin, Shane turned the speakers all the way up now, the music blasting through the house.
Sing for the tears…
He drummed his hand against his thigh as he walked from room to room, circling the downstairs, kitchen to hall, hall through the dining room, dining room to the entry, past the stairs and into the living room.
Standing in the living room, he faced the neat built-in bookcases that framed the lower half of the fireplace. The shelves held maybe a dozen books total, one of them an old dictionary, and the other, an even older Bible.
He took the Bible from the shelf, the black leather scuffed and cracked, and flipped through the tissue thin, gilt-edged pages. Here and there select passages were delicately underlined in pencil. A church program was tucked in the New Testament, in John. Shane wondered if it was there by chance, or if someone had left it there deliberately. A bookmark perhaps. He opened the book more fully, inspecting the pages. More light pencil marks quoted a passage from John 4:16: And we have known and believed the love that God hath to us. God is love; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.
Steven Tyler’s voice rose in the background. Dream on…
Shane closed the book, unable to read scripture in King James English with Tyler’s piercing wail filling the air.
Dream on, indeed.
Jet fell asleep feeling strong and brave and more than a little bit defiant. But when she woke, her first thought was, oh, no…Harley.
She had to call Harley soon and it wasn’t a call Jet wanted to make.
Dragging herself from bed, she opened the curtain and glanced up at the sky. The sun was shining, and during the night the gusting wind had blown the storm clouds away, leaving the winter sky a vivid blue. It looked like a gorgeous day, a gorgeous, cold day, since the blanket of clouds had kept temperatures warmer.
/> Jet had planned to go to the schoolhouse after breakfast to change her bulletin boards and prepare lessons for the week, but the school would be freezing—the school board turned off the heat on the weekends—and Jet dreaded the layers she’d have to put on to get through the morning there.
Fortunately, Kara kept her house warm and, even better, she’d left coffee warming in the kitchen. Bless her, Jet thought, as she filled her mug and then topped off the coffee with creamer before glancing out the kitchen window towards the driveway.
Kara’s car was gone, already on the road to Billings, which meant Jet had the house to herself all day. Nice.
Jet grabbed the paper from the kitchen table, carried it into the living room, and curled up on the couch to read and savor her coffee.
She was still on the front page when her phone rang minutes later. Jet’s heart sank, certain it was Harley.
She dashed to the bedroom and retrieved her phone from where it was still charging. “Morning,” she greeted her sister.
“Glad you answered. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me,” Harley said crisply.
“Not avoiding you. I just woke up.”
“I texted you earlier.”
“I literally woke up ten, fifteen minutes ago. Haven’t even gotten through my first cup of coffee yet, and you know how much I love my coffee.”
“But you never sleep this late.”
“Because I have to be at school early every day, but its Saturday. The weekend.” Jet sat down again on the couch, and grabbed the blue, crocheted afghan from the back of the couch, spreading it over her lap. “What’s up?”
“You know what’s up.” Harley sighed. “I’m sure Kara talked to you last night. And I know you spoke to Cormac last night, too.”
Jet sipped her coffee, letting her sister talk.
“And you know how everyone feels about him,” Harley added. “He’s got everyone in the family upset.”
“But he’s not writing an expose, Harley. And he’s not a hack. He’s one of the most talented, respected writers alive. His books are works of art—”
“Maybe, but this particular book will cause tremendous pain. It’s already stirring everyone up. Brock is really unhappy about it, and there isn’t a lot that bothers him. You know that.”
“But what if Shane’s able to help solve the crime? Wouldn’t McKenna and her family want that?”
“It’s been eighteen years since the home invasion. The case is cold.”
“Shane thinks he knows what happened.”
Harley was silent for a long time. When she spoke again her voice was pitched low. “The Sheenans do not approve of him profiting from the Douglas’ loss. He will make a fortune, Jet. It’s selfish and exploitive and it just feeds people’s insatiable hunger—”
“He’s not writing a sensationalized version of a crime. That’s not the kind of books he writes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve read his books. All six of them. He’s an award-winning writer, and an honest, respected researcher. I trust him.”
“The Sheenans don’t.”
“Why not?”
“He was sneaky. He should have told them what he was writing when he asked to lease the house. But he didn’t, because he knew they would say no.”
“That’s probably why he didn’t tell them.”
“Are you defending him?”
“I’m saying there are two sides to every story—”
“You are not taking his side, Jet!”
“I’m not taking sides. I just don’t agree that it’s necessary to escalate this. He won’t be here forever—”
“You can’t go out with him again,” Harley interrupted, her voice cool and sharp.
Jet pulled the phone from her ear and stared at it a moment, shocked. Did Harley really just say that?
When Jet didn’t immediately answer Harley cleared her throat, adding a little more gently, “Are you there, Jet?”
“Yes, I’m here. And I heard what you said, but no.”
“No?”
“Yes, no. I don’t agree. I’m not agreeing, and I’m not going to cold shoulder him just because the Sheenans don’t like the book he’s writing.”
“This man can’t be that important to you after one date!”
“It wasn’t even a date. It was just dinner.”
“So it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“Then don’t make it one, Harley.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Jet could feel the tension humming between them. Jet never argued with Harley. But Harley was usually reasonable. Levelheaded.
“Would it make more sense if McKenna explains it to you?” Harley asked after another tense beat of silence. “Would you understand how sensitive this is if she were to share her perspective?”
Jet couldn’t imagine putting McKenna through that. “No.”
“Or Trey can explain—”
“No.” Jet shuddered. Trey was intense and fiercely protective of McKenna and the last thing Jet needed was a little chat with Trey. “And Brock doesn’t have to, either,” she added hastily. “I understand what you’re saying, and it’s not necessary to threaten me with your family.”
“Now you’re being silly. I’m not threatening you. I’m trying to make you understand how traumatic this is for all of them. You and I weren’t here when it took place, and it’s just a story to us, but they lived through this. Jet, McKenna lost her family. Her mom and dad. Her three younger siblings. The baby, Grace, was just two. And they were all killed. Violently.”
Jet closed her eyes, trying to block the pictures Harley was putting in her head. “I don’t know that much about what happened,” she admitted.
“Well, maybe you should find out. Maybe if you did a little research you’d understand why everyone wants to protect McKenna and her bothers from more pain.”
Jet didn’t answer, too busy trying to process everything her sister was saying.
Harley waited, and then asked quietly, “So you’ll keep your distance from Shane? No more dates? No more coffee chats?”
Jet’s heart sank. What all did Harley know? “Coffee chats?”
“Taylor saw you with Shane at Java Café Wednesday afternoon. You were having coffee together—”
“He needed a place to sit until a table opened up.” Jet battled her frustration. She’d grown up in a small town, but Marietta was ridiculous. “We talked briefly.”
“Is that when he asked you to dinner?”
“Harley.”
“I’m not trying to make waves, Jet. I’m trying to protect you. I promise. This could get ugly and I don’t want you in the middle.”
Jet silently counted to five, and then exhaled. “Got it.”
“So you’ll stay away from Shane?”
“We’re having brunch tomorrow at the Graff.”
“Cancel it.”
Jet counted to ten this time. “I can’t do that. It’s not fair to Shane.”
“And how is it fair to the Sheenans that you’re having brunch with Shane at the Graff? It’s going to be a slap in their face. It’s the family hotel. And Shane knows that. That’s why he’s taking you there. He’s using you, Jet. Can’t you see that?”
When Jet didn’t answer, Harley’s voice dropped. “Have I ever lied to you, Jet? Have I ever deceived you in any way?”
“No,” Jet whispered.
“No. And I wouldn’t. Because you’re my sister. And family is the most important thing in the world to me. I’d never lie to you. Do you believe me?”
Jet closed her eyes, squeezing them shut, holding the air in for a moment before she exhaled. “Yes, I believe you care about me,” she said quietly, because she did.
Harley might be a bossy, big sister but Harley always put family first. “But I don’t think Shane is using me.” And then she hung up.
After ending the call, Jet sat motionless on the couch, coffee and paper forgotten.
She’d
told Harley that Shane wouldn’t use her, but honestly, she wasn’t sure, not anymore. Not after Harley had planted the seeds of doubt.
If Jet was being honest, Shane was way out of her league, and had been out of her league from the moment they’d met.
She hadn’t thought of dinner as a date. They were going out for a meal, two acquaintances, not yet friends. But then, leaving dinner, he’d kissed her and the kiss was so good and so hot, bone meltingly hot, that she’d lost all perspective.
Had the kiss fogged her brain? Was she being blinded to what was happening in front of her?
And yet when she thought about the kiss, it made her feel fizzy all over again. On paper, a thirty-four-year old, internationally acclaimed writer and twenty-four-year old teacher should have little in common, but when they were together it felt right. It felt natural and interesting and exciting.
The kiss had been exciting. It made her hope for things, and feel things…
Jet reached for her mug and clasped it to her chest, her hands tight around the ceramic, letting the heat warm her, as she tried to wade through Harley’s argument. Harley was always good at presenting facts. She was the logical, pragmatic Diekerhof. Jet was the passionate, adventurous one.
But being passionate and adventurous did get her into trouble sometimes.
Was Shane using her?
She tried hard to see it, she did, but when she remembered how she felt last night at dinner, and how she felt when he kissed her goodnight, she didn’t feel used. She felt connected to Shane. Protective, even.
She didn’t see him anymore as this big New York writer with the fancy website and the movie deals. To her, he was Shane Swan, the boy who’d been raised on a reservation near Flathead Lake before being put into foster care.
But if Harley was outraged and Brock was upset and sides were being drawn, Jet couldn’t risk alienating her sister and her sister’s new family.
Blinking, Jet cleared the salty sting in her eyes and reached for her phone. She sent Shane a quick text. “Something came up. Can’t meet for brunch. Good luck with your book. Jet”
And then before she could cry, she grabbed her coffee, headed to the bathroom, and turned on the shower and stepped beneath the spray while it was still cold. The chill shocked her and shivering she turned in a slow circle, letting the icy water pelt down, using the cold to stiffen her resolve. She wasn’t going to cry over another guy. She wasn’t going to be that girl. She wasn’t going to be a weak, blubbering, overly emotional girl who needed a guy to be happy.
