by Stacy Finz
“What’s this?” Cash held up a plaque that said, “The Sangiovese.”
“It’s the name of one of the models in a new development I was staging. Each floorplan is named after a wine varietal. ‘The Albariño,’ ‘The Grenache,’ ‘The Colombard.’”
“Hmm.” He lifted a brow. “Given my love for the bottle, maybe I should move there.”
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” She took the plaque from him and tossed it back in her trunk. Technically, it was the property of Reynolds Construction. When Mitch got around to explaining himself, she’d return it.
Cash dropped the last batch of fabric swatches onto Aubrey’s back seat. “That should do it.”
She kind of wanted to hug him for getting her out of a jam but wasn’t sure he’d appreciate the gesture after she’d practically called him a raging alcoholic. “Thank you,” she said and wondered if she should shake his hand only to reject the idea. Too formal. “And I’m sorry for getting in your face this morning. I shouldn’t have prejudged you.”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and nodded. She got the sense he was searching for a pithy comeback but instead settled on, “See you around.”
“Okay, then.” She started to get in her station wagon.
“Wait a sec, you forgot something.” He jogged back to the side of the building, swiped her hat off the ground, came back, and popped it on her head. “Jace is up for reelection next year.”
Complete non sequitur, but Aubrey got his meaning loud and clear. “I know that.”
Cash gazed at the open window in Aubrey’s old office. “Good.” And with that, he walked away.
She watched him cross the road to Dry Creek Storage. The truth was, she couldn’t take her eyes off him and waited until he disappeared behind one of the storage units before getting in her car. Too moody, she told herself. But at least they had one thing in common: They both cared about Jace. This rumor about her and him had to stop. But how did she nip it in the bud without doing any more damage?
It was a question she pondered as she pulled onto Tank Farm and headed to Sew What to pick up a pair of drapes she’d had custom made for one of her clients. Occasionally, she took on outside business, usually locals she grew up with or friends of friends. Now, the freelancing would come in handy until she found a steady gig. She was a little low on cash after pouring a good chunk of change into wedding deposits. Mercedes had been wrong about sticking Mitch with the bills. Aubrey had paid for half of everything, and there were no refunds this close to the reception date. She was now the proud owner of a truckload of linens, which, in her prewedding delirium, she’d decided was more cost-effective to buy than to rent.
Yet, despite all the fussing and planning—and years of envisioning herself as the future Mrs. Reynolds, as well as fulfilling everyone’s expectations that she and her hometown sweetheart would find matrimonial bliss—Aubrey felt like she could breathe again. After Mitch had ruined everything, she’d come to the very swift conclusion that she didn’t love him, at least not in the way you were supposed to love the man you were about to marry. She’d loved things about him—his warmth, his wry sense of humor, his natural charm, his capacity to take nothing and build it into an impressive enterprise—but there’d always been a part of him that he kept locked away from her. It was as if he only let her know the person he wanted to be instead of the person he was.
She swung her car into Sew What’s tiny parking lot, got her purse, and stepped outside into the oppressive heat, hoping Wren’s air-conditioning was working. The seamstress’s shop was as ancient as Dry Creek itself, but her work was magical. Wren was a perfectionist, exceeding even Aubrey’s exacting standards.
The bell on the door chimed as Aubrey stepped inside to a blast of cool air. It was working, thank the sweet baby Jesus.
“Yo, Wren,” she called to an empty shop. “You back there?”
A few seconds later, Wren appeared, brushing past the bead curtains left over from her hippie days, holding a bowl of soup. “Well, if it isn’t the talk of the town.”
Aubrey huffed out a breath. “Don’t believe everything you hear, Wren.”
“Kind of hard not to when you moved in with Jace.”
“I didn’t move in with Jace.” Aubrey planted her hands on her hips. “I moved to a cabin on his ranch. There’s a difference.”
Wren didn’t say anything, just arched a brow dubiously.
“Oh for goodness’ sake, don’t tell me you’re actually choosing sides?”
“The optics aren’t good, Aubrey. You’re living with Jace and Mitch has been a good friend. He fixed my leaky roof.”
“Seriously, you’re choosing friends based on who does you favors? If that’s the case, Wren, I give you business.” Wow, who knew she had to stoop that low? Aubrey thought she and Wren were friends. But throwing Wren sewing jobs—lots of them—should trump patching a leaky roof, in Aubrey’s opinion.
“Look, Aubrey, I don’t want to get involved. Dry Creek is gossipy enough.” She put down her bowl, reached under the counter, and handed Aubrey a package. “I’m officially removing myself from the fray.”
Aubrey stared down at the brown paper wrapping. It was the same package she’d brought to Sew What with her upholstery fabric. “This is the way you’re staying out of the ‘fray’?” She continued to stare at the package in disbelief. “You’re not going to make my client’s drapes?”
“It’s a Stitch in Grass Valley can do it.” Wren picked up her bowl and blew on her soup.
Aubrey knew first hand that It’s a Stitch did alterations and didn’t have the bandwidth to create pleated draperies. “You’re really going to turn down my business over Mitch?”
“Please don’t turn this into something it isn’t.” Wren took a sip of her soup.
“What is it exactly? Perhaps you should explain.” Aubrey had promised her client to have the drapes hung by Friday, which was only four days away. This would put her in a real bind.
“It’s not an indictment of you. I’m a feminist, Aubrey, I don’t believe in slut shaming. But I don’t want to take sides.”
Aubrey had to keep from rolling her eyes. Not slut shaming her ass. “So the next time Mitch offers you free work, you’ll turn him down, right?”
“Okay, you’re being petty and making me extremely uncomfortable. I think you should leave.”
“Wow, you’re kicking me out of your store. I can’t freaking believe this.” Even Laney, who doted on Mitch, hadn’t refused to serve her. But Aubrey’s pride wouldn’t let Wren say it twice. She clutched her package and walked straight out the door.
She opened the passenger side of her Volvo and shoved the drapery fabric next to the rest of her crap. A pickup almost as old as Aubrey’s station wagon pulled up alongside her. Other than the wheelchair lift in the back, it looked like every other truck in Dry Creek. Dinged and scraped from carrying hay, barbed wire, and other farm supplies. Jill Tucker rolled down the window, and Aubrey braced her hand on the hood of her car.
“Not now, Jill.”
Jill swung open her door and jumped down from the cab anyway. Aubrey couldn’t help noticing how much she’d aged in the last few years. There were crow’s feet around her eyes and brackets tugging at the corners of her lips. And although Jill had always been trim, her curves had given way to sharp planes. The truth was, she looked exhausted, as if stress and loss of sleep had hollowed out her cheeks and added a hardness to her face that had never been there before.
Yet Jill was still the most beautiful woman in Dry Creek. Long, silky blond hair, big brown bedroom eyes, and great shoulders. No one rocked a tank top like Jill Tucker.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“No, we don’t.” Aubrey rounded the front of her car, trying to get away.
Jill followed and effectively blocked Aubrey from opening the door. Wit
h tears in her eyes, she pleaded, “If you tell, it’ll kill him, Ree. It’ll absolutely kill him.”
Aubrey planted her legs wide. “How could you, Jill? Never mind the fact that we’re friends—once best friends—but how could you do that to him?”
Jill sagged against Aubrey’s station wagon. “It just happened. We didn’t mean for it to happen and we certainly didn’t set out to hurt anyone. But you don’t know what it’s like, Ree. The mood swings, the isolation, the—Sometimes it’s like he’s not even here on this planet. And we’re broke. Who knows if we’ll even be able to keep the house?”
“Stop.” Aubrey held up her hand. “It’s not an excuse, Jill.”
“No, it’s not.” Jill wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off the cold in the ninety-degree heat.
“I told Jace,” Aubrey said and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Other than him, I’ll never tell a soul.” She muscled Jill out of the way and opened her car door. Then, fixing Jill with a look, she said, “I’m doing it for Brett, not for you. Not for Mitch. Because to do otherwise, Jill, would destroy your husband.”
Chapter 3
Cash pulled into a 76 station somewhere east of Sacramento. The drive from the airport had been a blur, his head too filled with all the ways he could fuck up being a father. He knew he’d whisked Ellie away sooner than anyone had wanted, but it was only prolonging her pain and putting off a move that was inevitable.
Cash riffled through the console for his wallet, then checked his rearview mirror before getting out to fill his tank. Ellie lay in the back seat, sleeping. It was eighty degrees outside, but she’d insisted on wearing a tattered old sweater twice her size on the plane ride from Boston and hadn’t taken it off since.
He just sat there for a few minutes, watching her sleep. She was smaller than he expected. From what Cash could remember, her mother had been tall, maybe five ten. Other than her blue eyes, he didn’t see any resemblance between him and his daughter. But when he’d sent a picture of Ellie to his parents after the funeral, they’d texted back that she was the spitting image of him at that age. His mother had been dead set on meeting them at the Sacramento airport when they landed, but Cash wanted to give Ellie a chance to acclimate before throwing a lot of new people at her.
He closed the door softly so as not to wake her and pumped his gas. Through the window, he saw her bounce up and take in her surroundings.
He popped his head inside. “We’re a little more than an hour from home. You want to grab dinner around here?” He’d stocked the fridge before he left. But it was getting late and would probably be easier to hit a restaurant.
“I’m not eating,” she said.
“Right, hunger strike. Forgot.” She’d been threatening to starve herself if he forced her to leave Boston. He was banking on the fact that she’d eat as soon as she got hungry but was starting to think that was a flawed plan. She was already so slight.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“All right. As soon as I finish here, I’ll walk you in.”
“I can go myself.” She got out of the back seat and started for the ministore, the sweater hanging past her knees.
He topped off his tank and followed her inside. The store was empty, except for the attendant. Still, he stood sentry outside the ladies’ room door. When she finally came out she seemed startled to find him there.
“You’re gross.” She shook her head, pulled her arms up until the empty sleeves of her sweater dangled loosely at her sides, and went back to Cash’s SUV.
He unlocked the door with his fob and she climbed in the back again. “You sure you don’t want to get something to eat? There’s a Taco Bell across the street.” He didn’t even know if she liked Mexican, not that Taco Bell was remotely Mexican. Or food.
She responded by lying down, her face pressed into the seat. Ellie would eat when she was hungry, he continued to tell himself. He got back on the interstate while Ellie slept the rest of the ride. Or she played a damn good possum; Cash couldn’t tell.
“Hey, Ellie, we’re almost home.” She didn’t rouse, and he gave up trying after calling her name a few more times. It was too dark to see anything anyway.
When he was a kid, the drive from San Francisco to Dry Creek Ranch was the longest three hours of his life. He used to count the pine trees in anticipation of seeing his grandfather and cousins, memorizing landmarks to track the distance. And when they arrived, he shot out of the car like a bullet, ready to lose himself in Grandpa Dalton’s world. Riding fences until they were bowlegged, moving cattle until they were rank and sweaty, and bathing naked in the creek until their lips turned blue.
He pulled through the ranch gate and took the fork in the road to the cabin. One of his cousins must’ve had the forethought to turn on the porch light to welcome them home. Even though the place was a dump, it looked homey in the amber glow. Cash opened the tailgate and grabbed his and Ellie’s luggage. The rest of her stuff he’d packed and shipped from Boston and would arrive in a couple of weeks.
Ellie sat up and rubbed her eyes, then wordlessly peered out the window. It might not be much as far as houses went, but the scenery was breathtaking. In the morning, he’d show her the creek and take her over to Jace’s place to meet the boys.
He carried their bags up the porch stairs and called, “You coming?”
She got one foot out, then froze, like she was paralyzed.
“Ellie?”
“I don’t want to live here,” she said softly. This time she sounded more scared than rebellious.
He dropped the suitcases, jogged down the stairs, and took her hand. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. It’s late. Tomorrow I’ll show you around.”
She reluctantly let him lead her inside. The door to the spare bedroom was slightly ajar, and Cash went to close it only to find that his stacks of file boxes had been cleared away. For the first time since moving in, he could actually see the floor. A box spring and mattress with fresh sheets and blankets had been set up against the wall. Next to it sat an old wooden nightstand and one of Grandpa Dalton’s Remington lamps. Jace and Sawyer had been busy.
It wasn’t anything like Ellie’s bedroom in Boston—pink and frilly—but the room was a hell of a lot better than the way he’d left it and would do until he could come up with something better for her.
“This is where you’ll bunk,” he told her as she waited in the hallway, her arms pinned to her sides. The cabin seemed to terrify her.
“Hey, Ellie, honey, it’ll be all right.” He had no guarantee it would be for either of them, but a twelve-year-old who’d just lost her mother needed reassurance. He might be new to this whole fatherhood thing, but he at least knew that much.
He wheeled her suitcase into the room and tucked it inside the closet. Tomorrow, he’d hit Target for hangers and anything else she might need. “Let me show you where the bathroom is.” In the condo where she and Marie had lived, Ellie had had her own bathroom. Here, they would have to share. The fixtures were old as dirt and he’d done little to make it appealing other than to scrub it clean.
He led her down the hall. “You ever take a bath in one of those?” Cash pointed to the clawfoot tub.
Ellie looked appalled and Cash couldn’t tell whether it was the pronounced yellow ring around the tub or the fact that a stranger—a grown man no less—was asking her about her bathing habits.
“I know it’s a little rough right now, but we’ll go shopping and you can pick out a shower curtain and whatever else you think will gussy it up.” She didn’t respond, and he told himself to give her time.
Cash checked his watch. It was past ten. “What time do you usually go to bed?”
“Whenever I want,” she said.
He highly doubted that, but that’s what he got for asking. Eventually, he’d lay down the law about such things. For now, though, he’d let it slid
e. “There’s food in the fridge and pantry; help yourself. If there’s stuff you want and I don’t have it, make a list and we’ll pick it up at the grocery store.
“Tomorrow, I’ll take you to see Jace’s horses.” He’d been surprised to see all the dressage ribbons in her bedroom. Apparently, she was quite an equestrian. According to Linda, Marie had been taking Ellie for lessons since she was eight. She didn’t have her own horse but belonged to a stable that let her ride one of theirs in competitions.
For a second, she seemed to brighten; then, just like that, whatever trace of excitement he thought he saw was gone.
“We’ve got a big day coming, so we should probably hit the hay.” He was dog-tired. Between Marie’s funeral and dealing with a morose child, the last four days had tuckered him out emotionally. “You okay to get ready for bed by yourself?”
Again, she gave him a look of pure horror.
“Then I’ll see you in the morning.” He left her alone in the bathroom and made a beeline for his bedroom, where he found all his file boxes stacked against the wall.
To make room, he dragged a few of the cartons under the window and spotted the glow of Aubrey’s light across the creek. Aubrey: he shook his head, remembering Monday and how he’d found her hanging from her old office window with her thong-clad ass on display. It had been quite a sight. The woman was different, that’s for sure. Just thinking about her dangling ten feet in the air with her skirt rucked up over her hips put a smile on his face. And lord knew he could use a smile. The last few days had been tough, especially the funeral.
So he took that image of Aubrey with him to bed until he fell asleep, only to be awakened by a bad dream. It was the same one he always had. Casey Farmington’s mutilated body tied to a tree, her eyes wide open, staring at him.
He got up to wash his face and was about to duck into the john when he heard a faint noise coming from Ellie’s room. At first it was indistinguishable. But when it came again, he recognized it as a sob.
