by Jodi Thomas
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
WATCH FOR THE NEXT HARMONY NOVEL FROM
PRAISE FOR REWRITING MONDAY
“Jodi Thomas again delivers a delightful, character-driven tale of modern Texas. . . . Heartwarming, heart-tugging, and just plain good reading.” —Romance Reviews Today
“Thomas seamlessly weaves past and present into a gripping novel of contemporary romantic suspense, as Pepper begins to appreciate the accomplishments of previous generations and to enjoy true friendship and a sense of belonging for the first time in her life.” —Booklist
“[Jodi Thomas] paints beautiful pictures with her words, creates characters that are so real you feel as though they’re standing next to you, and she has a deliciously wry sense of humor. . . . I enjoyed this book from page one until the end—and thoroughly recommend it.” —Romance Novel TV
“If reading a new book is like opening a box of chocolates, then I got the one with cherry inside—my favorite—when I read Rewriting Monday. . . . This is quite a rich story with touching characters that seem real and behave like real people. ,.. I loved it.” —The Book Smugglers
PRAISE FOR
TWISTED CREEK
“Twisted Creek will weave its way around the reader’s heart. Compelling and beautifully written, it is exactly the kind of heart-wrenching, emotional story one has come to expect from Jodi Thomas.”
—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author
“Jodi Thomas is a masterful storyteller. She grabs your attention on the first page, captures your heart, and then makes you sad when it is time to bid her wonderful characters farewell. You can count on Jodi Thomas to give you a satisfying and memorable read. Twisted Creek is absolutely delightful.”
—Catherine Anderson, New York Times bestselling author
“Thomas sketches a slow, sweet surrender, keeping the tension building to a rewarding resolution in this unsentimental, homespun romance.” —Publishers Weekly
“Twisted Creek is a wonderful, character-driven tale that tells just what a family can be, even if it’s made up of a bunch of lonely friends. . . . Romance blooms slowly, but for two nearly lost souls, it’s rewarding when it does. . . . As usual, Jodi Thomas kept me up way later than normal! Twisted Creek could be anywhere, but Ms. Thomas makes it uniquely Texan with her wonderful characters and great dialogue. This is another thought-provoking novel to add to your Jodi Thomas collection.” —Romance Reviews Today
“Romantic suspense and sweet women’s fiction are an unlikely combination, but in Twisted Creek, veteran storyteller Jodi Thomas makes the pairing work quite well. Allie’s love for her aging grandmother is sensitively portrayed, while her blossoming relationship with Luke simmers unforgettably in the background. This is a moving story about overcoming hardship and bitterness and about being brave enough to make a happy ending—no matter what it takes.” —Romance Junkies
Titles by Jodi Thomas
SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY
WELCOME TO HARMONY
REWRITING MONDAY
TWISTED CREEK
THE LONE TEXAN
TALL, DARK, AND TEXAN
TEXAS PRINCESS
TEXAS RAIN
THE TEXAN’S REWARD
A TEXAN’S LUCK
WHEN A TEXAN GAMBLES
THE TEXAN’S WAGER
TO WED IN TEXAS
TO KISS A TEXAN
THE TENDER TEXAN
PRAIRIE SONG
THE TEXAN AND THE LADY
TO TAME A TEXAN’S HEART
FOREVER IN TEXAS
TEXAS LOVE SONG
TWO TEXAS HEARTS
THE TEXAN’S TOUCH
TWILIGHT IN TEXAS
THE TEXAN’S DREAM
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s
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SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY
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Berkley mass-market edition / November 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Jodi Koumalats.
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Harmony, Jexas, was founded where two streams crossed on the prairie. One running south, the other east. Water had long ago dried, but the jagged ravine still scarred Harmony’s core like an Xamarking the center of town ... the heart of Harmony.
Prologue
STELLA MCNABB CREDITED HER WILD DREAMS TO HER Gypsy blood.
Her husband of forty-two years felt the dreams were more related to the Mexican food she ate for dinner, but humored her for the sake of peace.
After enjoying the three-enchilada Tuesday night special at Mexican Plaza, Bob McNabb settled into his favorite chair and Stella went to bed.
About the time he got interested in the ten o’clock movie on the Western Legends channel, he heard Stella yelling. Bob climbed out of his recliner, turned on the hallway light, and walked to her bedside. He’d given up rushing in ’87.
He wasn’t surprised to find her pale as the moon outside and sweating.
“Oh, Bob, I’ve had another premonition.”
When he didn’t react, she shouted, guessing he’d already turned off his hearing aid. “I had a terrible dream and this time I know I was looking flat-out into the future.”
“What’s your dream, darling? Maybe I can help you interpret it.”
Stella calmed a bit and smiled, happy to oblige. “It started with a shadow moving through the streets down in the old part of Harmony. A darkness seemed to creep along that creek bed where the mud’s curled up like dead skin.”
Bob patted her hand. Stella’s dreams had become far more descriptive since she’d taken that creative writing class at the senior citizens’ center.
She took a deep breath and continued, “Then, silently, it began to spread like clouds full of poison gas and anyone in its path crumbled. The gas, barely visible, spread out and moved through the town.”
Bob nodded, even tugged on his chin, as she continued, but inside, he was thinking he should have taken her to the fish fry at the Methodist church tonight. It looked like he’d never get back to his movie.
Chapter 1
JANUARY 9, 2008
BLUE MOON DINER
REAGAN TRUMAN GRIPPED THE GREASY DINER PHONE SO hard her knuckles whitened. “You’d better be sick, Edith. . . . really sick. When you asked me to cover your shift, you didn’t mention intrigue. I thought all I’d be doing was making a few Cokes and maybe pushing the pie.”
After listening to more of the waitress’s instructions, Reagan added, “I didn’t know this was part of your job. I thought I could do my homework unless someone came in.”
Reagan heard Edith coughing on the other end and gave in. “Oh, all right, I’ll do it.”
She hung up and stared out at the empty diner. Nine o’clock, Wednesday night, she thought. No one else was coming in, not this late, not with the fog. She might as well go home. Even the owner, grumpy old Cass, had left her to lock up. All Reagan had to do was wipe off the counters, put the frozen dough in the refrigerator, and turn off the lights.
“And,” she frowned at the phone, “pack takeout for the local serial killer.”
She crossed to the kitchen hoping someone would come in to delay her mission, but the bell over the door hadn’t sounded in a half hour. She made two ham sandwiches and spooned up a quart of chili while reminding herself that Harmony was a safe town. Nothing bad ever happened here. Walking across the gully out back was no different than walking around her uncle’s orchard. Trees are trees.
After placing the food in a brown bag, Reagan tossed in crackers and a plastic spoon. Hesitating, she considered whether murderers needed napkins. On impulse, she added a bag of Cass’s homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. Maybe she’d sweeten him up just enough so that Gabriel Leary wouldn’t slit her throat tonight.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered as she headed toward the back. “Why can’t the weirdo come in the front door like everyone else?” The kids at school told stories about driving along Timber Line Road and seeing Gabriel walking over his rocky land, stabbing at the dirt like he was practicing killing.
At five feet three, Reagan figured he wouldn’t need much practice to murder her. She wasn’t really worried about herself. She’d danced near death several times while growing up, moving from foster home to foster home in neighborhoods where even rats fought to survive, but she didn’t want to die and leave the old man who’d taken her in as family. Uncle Jeremiah Truman needed her. Even tonight, he’d be waiting up for her until he knew she was home safe.
Reagan tried to keep her grab on the takeout bag from tightening. As soon as she delivered it, she could lock up and head home.
She shoved open the back door and stepped into the cold night. “I’m tougher than I look,” she whispered to herself.
Halfway to the Dumpster she decided this alley would be perfect for a crime scene. Dark, freezing night, dumb seventeen-year-old girl walking out alone. Nutcase hiding somewhere in the shadows waiting for his supper. All she needed was a vampire and she’d be starring in a hit.
As she reached the edge of the dull backdoor light, she thought she heard movement to her left. Fighting down a scream, she told herself it was only one of the alley cats looking for scraps. Problem was, herself didn’t seem to be listening. Focusing on the trees across the dry gully, she measured her steps, testing solid ground before rushing across the scar in the earth to the scattering of old cottonwoods beyond.
Once there, she froze, unwilling to step where shadows crossed. A rustling whispered in the trees as her eyes adjusted to the night.
A man stood up slowly from where he’d been huddling out of the wind. Tall, bone lean, and dressed in black.
Reagan gulped down panic. “I brought your takeout meal.”
He took one step toward her and reached for the bag. “Thanks.” His whisper seemed to circle in the wind, more shy than menacing.
She didn’t miss the holes in the fingers of his gloves or the patch on his sleeve.
Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, he pulled out two wrinkled dollar bills.
“No,” Reagan said. “That’s all right.” She turned away.
“I can pay,” he answered. “I always pay.”
She looked back, planning to say that payment wasn’t necessary, and then she saw his eyes. Pale blue eyes, almost the color of frozen water, glared down at her. Reagan had known times when money was tight and charity hard to take. She wouldn’t hurt his pride.
Leaning forward, as if her feet had taken root, she took the two dollars. “Thanks for your business, mister,” she muttered.
He straightened, and nodded slightly. “Name’s Gabe Leary.”
“I’m ...” She wasn’t sure she wanted to be on a first-name basis with this guy.
“Reagan,” he filled in the blank.
“Yeah, Reagan,” she answered, thinking that on the scale of strange, this one was off the charts. “Reagan Truman.”
“I know. Edith told me about you. You’re Jeremiah’s niece. Tell the old man thanks for me, would you?”
“For what?” For the third time in almost two years someone had thanked her uncle.
Gabe remained still, watching her with no warmth in his eyes. “He’ll know, just tell him.”
The light over the back door flickered in a sudden gust of wind. Reagan glanced back at the diner, wondering if she could outrun this guy. They seemed to have exhausted all conversation. He was probably thinking it was time for the killing to begin.
When she looked back, Gabe Leary had vanished into the trees along with his takeout meal.
A few flakes of snow brushed against her face, and she ran back inside. If she hurried, she could lock up and drive the few miles to her uncle’s place on Lone Oak Road before any precipitation made the roads slippery.
Fifteen minutes later, she drove up to the farmhouse that had bee
n her only real home. When she’d first arrived the place looked like the spook house in a Disney movie, but now with paint and some work, it seemed grand to her.
“I’m back,” she said to the dog as she jumped out of her pickup before the engine stopped rattling. Swinging her backpack, she climbed the steps and opened the always-unlocked front door. The ghosts of her almost-ancestors greeted her from their faded photos along the walls. Reagan had learned all their names and sometimes called good night to each one as if she lived with a house filled with family.
Reagan moved down the hallway to the back of the house, where a wide, warm kitchen welcomed her. They’d knocked a wall out and almost doubled the space. Now, the kitchen was on one side, a table in the center, and couches and chairs on the solid north wall with a TV that no one watched. Reagan had seen a picture of a country kitchen in a magazine and talked her uncle into making the addition. There were many rooms in the old house, but this was where they cooked and ate and talked. The room where they lived.
Uncle Jeremiah sat at the table, his coffee cup beside a stack of week-old papers. She grinned at him; he frowned at her. She’d come to consider any reaction from him an endearment. He might be in his eighties, but she thought of him as somewhere between preschool and kindergarten in his communication skills.
“Home late for a Wednesday,” he grumbled, and went back to his week-old newspapers.
“I took the last three hours of Edith’s shift at the diner. She claimed to be feeling sick, but I thought I saw a bruise on her face.” Reagan sat her book bag down and grabbed two plates and the last of the pie she’d made Monday. “I’m getting too old for you to worry about. I’ll be eighteen soon, you know.”
“I can count,” he protested, “and I’ll stop worrying about you when you’re thirty and carry a gun.” He stopped frowning when she set the pie down and cut the last big slice into two small pieces. “Didn’t they feed you at that roach café they call a diner?”
