Maybe she’d go to college. Once she saved enough money to do it.
Okay, so getting a better job was priority number one.
Priority number two was figuring out what she wanted to do with her life.
She opened the safe, scrolled through an index file filled with recipes. The fudge recipe was right where it had always been, sandwiched between a note Alice had written about adding marshmallow and nuts to the recipe and Byron’s response: I love you for always, my darling.
Brenna didn’t know how the notes had ended up there, but they’d been there for as long as she’d been allowed to open the safe.
Her eyes were burning again.
Fatigue making her weepy.
She’d blame it on that, because she’d always been known as the practical sister, the one never prone to being overly emotional. She liked to think of herself as pragmatic. When she had a problem, she came up with a solution. Until lately. Lately, there’d been way more problems than she’d been able to find solutions for.
“So, make the fudge,” she muttered, carrying the recipe into the kitchen, the glossy laminated card yellowed with age and stained with chocolatey fingerprints. Adeline’s? She could almost guarantee her sister was the one who’d left prints there. Addie was nothing like the rest of the Lamont women. She was easygoing and uncomplicated and just plain fun to be around.
And that little baby belly of hers?
Adorable.
If Brenna didn’t love her sister so much, she might be jealous of her happiness, but she did, and Adeline deserved every bit of joy she could get out of life.
Brenna’s cell phone rang as she scooped sugar into a double boiler. She measured out some milk as she answered, the phone pressed to her ear. “Hello?”
“Brenna? Jeff Winthrop.”
Dan’s former business partner. One of the best plastic surgeons in the country, Jeff was smart, driven, and mad as hell that he’d been tricked by a guy he’d known since medical school. Brenna couldn’t blame him for that, but she couldn’t help him either. She’d told him that so many times, she should have just recorded the message and played it for him every time he called.
“What’s up, Jeff?” She turned the heat up under the double broiler, stirring chocolate nibs into the goopy mix she’d created.
It looked like crap.
She was pretty sure it was going to taste like it.
“Just wondering if... ?”
“I haven’t heard from Dan. If I had, I would have called the police first and you second.”
“You were together for a long time. Your loyalty—”
“Why would I be loyal to a lying, cheating scumbag?”
“For the same reason the receptionist I hired helped him steal six million right out from under my nose.”
“Simone wants him for the money and he wants her because she has no moral values and no compunction about following the law,” she responded as the fudge mixture began to boil, bits of chocolate goop splattering across the kitchen.
She turned off the heat, tried to stir the fudge.
It had thickened so much, she could barely move the spoon through it.
She slammed the entire mess into the sink and stalked to the front of the house.
“Simone was a very sweet young woman, Brenna. Until your fiancé—”
“Look, Jeff, I know you’re pissed and I know you want your money back.” She walked into the service area, smiling at two girls who were standing at the counter, their fists full of dollar bills. “But Dan has not contacted me. He will not be contacting me, so calling me every couple of days asking about him isn’t going to do you any good.”
“You’re wrong. You’re the best thing that ever happened to him and he knew it. He used to tell me that all the time. He got caught up in his addiction and he made a boatload of stupid decisions because of it, but he loved you and he will be contacting you. When he does, I want you to call me.” He hung up. Just like he always did. She’d never much liked the guy, but she couldn’t blame him for his anger or, even, his rudeness. He’d almost lost his medical practice because of what Dan had done.
Dan caught up in his addiction? Brenna didn’t think so. She thought he’d been caught up in the adrenaline rush that came from gambling, cheating, lying. He’d been arrogant enough to think he could keep on doing what he was doing and never be caught, but Jeff wasn’t stupid.
Neither was Brenna.
She’d been blind for a while, but she wasn’t stupid. Dan had always lived beyond his means and he’d always wanted more. She’d noticed that. She’d even talked to him about it. She’d been socking money away, making sure they had something for their future while he’d been planning their next big trip, his next big purchase, the nicer car he was going to buy. That had been a huge red flag. One she’d ignored because she’d been desperate to have all the things she’d secretly been dreaming of since she was a kid.
The house with the white picket fence. The doting husband. The cute and obnoxious children. The dog and cat and minivan.
“What can I get for you ladies?” she asked, her voice taking on the faux cheerful quality she’d been practicing for months. It was the one she used with her mother and sometimes with her sisters and always with Byron because she didn’t want him to worry.
“Fudge,” the shorter of the girls said, leaning in close to the glass, her long ponytail falling over her shoulder.
“We sold out. How about some chocolate bark? Or peanut butter bars? Those are really good.”
“We wanted fudge,” the other girl piped up, leaning in to whisper something in her friend’s ear.
“Yeah.” Ponytail girl nodded. “We’ll come back when you have some. Thanks.”
They both flounced out, and Brenna felt like a failure because she couldn’t make the sale and hadn’t made the fudge and because she was standing in Chocolate Haven pretending she was there because Byron needed help when, in reality, she was the one who needed it.
She might have gone into the kitchen and battled with the fudge again, but the door opened and more customers streamed in. They all wanted fudge. Of course. She managed to talk them into bonbons and chocolate bark, pecan bars and peanut butter balls. She was ringing up the last sale when Byron finally returned, a box in his hand and a huge grin on his face.
“Had fun, did you?” she asked as she handed a tall, skinny kid a dozen chocolate-covered pretzels. Fourteen, actually. He looked like he needed to eat and she didn’t think Byron would miss two of his product.
“I’ve always had a fondness for sweets, doll. That’s why I ended up taking over this chocolate shop.” He grabbed his apron and put it on, whistling a little as he headed straight for the kitchen and the mess she’d left.
“Grandad!” she called, and he turned, the happiness still all over his wrinkled face.
“Yeah?”
“There are more customers coming.” She could see them approaching the door. Thank God. “Why don’t you serve them and I’ll . . . start a new batch of fudge.”
“You sure you want to do that? You didn’t seem all that keen on making candy this morning.”
“I have to learn sometime. It might as well be now.” Before you get a look at the pot of crap I left back there.
She hurried into the back, grabbed the pot of hardened chocolate, and tried to dump the contents into the trash. It stuck fast. She could hear Byron talking to someone, his voice cheery and loud. Typical Byron. He never let anyone walk away without giving them a piece of advice. He loved people and they loved him. Right now, that was going to benefit Brenna.
She dropped the pot into the sink again, ran hot water into it, and tried to loosen the chocolate that way. It stayed cement hard, the brown-gray goo mocking her from the bottom of Byron’s favorite chocolate pot.
Someone knocked on the back door. She ignored it.
She had more important things to do than deal with whoever was out there.
She grabbed a butcher knife from
a drawer and started cutting the fudge, the hot water still running, chocolaty drops of it flying into her face and across her shirt.
Whoever was at the door knocked again.
And again.
She marched to the door and yanked it open.
“What do you . . . ?” The words fell away as she saw Belinda, her once-full cheeks hollowed out, her bright blue eyes dimmed by illness. The wheelchair she sat in seemed to be swallowing her whole, the black leather making her look even paler in comparison. Someone had scraped her hair away from her face, holding the short white strands with huge brown barrettes.
Belinda must have noticed Brenna looking at them. She reached up and touched the strands with her left hand, her right hand lying lax in her lap, a brace pressing against translucent skin. She looked old and frail, but when she smiled all the years fell away, and she was just the kind teacher who’d helped Brenna through some tough times.
“Belinda!” Brenna said, moving toward her.
The next thing she knew, she was on the ground, some guy with burn scars on his neck and fire in his eyes, holding her arm and growling, “You breathe too hard and you’re dead.”
“Mack!” Belinda called, her voice weak, the name just a little slurred. “Stop!”
Someone barreled into the kitchen, but Brenna was too busy trying not to breathe too hard to look to see who it was.
“What the hell is going on in here?” Byron demanded, and the guy with the scar looked into Brenna’s eyes, blinked. All the anger left his face. All the color, too.
He released her arm, scrambled up.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and she could see that he was. “I’m so sorry. The knife . . . I . . .” He shook his head, his shaggy hair falling over his forehead. “Sorry, Belinda,” he said, and then he took off running.
* * *
Police sirens screaming through a small town weren’t good.
Three police cars parked in front of Chocolate Haven? Even worse.
River pulled up behind a sheriff deputy’s vehicle and jumped out of the truck. A small group of people were blocking the entrance to the store. He barged through them, muttering “Excuse me” as he went. Byron Lamont had sounded mad as a hornet when he’d called. Something about Mack, a knife, an attack, and Belinda. That could have meant just about anything, but the guy hadn’t seemed willing to explain. He’d shouted for River to get his ass to Chocolate Haven and then he’d hung up.
River had driven like a bat out of hell and it still hadn’t felt like he was going fast enough. All he could think about was Belinda, somehow injured or worse, by a guy she’d taken in.
A deputy stood in front of the door to the shop, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes shaded by sunglasses. River had seen him around town before. Usually in uniform. He had a thick white scar that ran the length of his face, touching the corner of his eye and the edge of his jaw.
“You’re going to have to come back later,” the deputy said.
“I’m here for Belinda.”
“River Maynard?”
“That’s right.”
“Deputy Sheriff Jax Gordon.” He offered a hand, his grip firm. “Belinda is in the kitchen. We offered to call her doctor, but she’s insisting that she’s fine.”
Call her doctor why?
What the hell happened?
Why in God’s name are there police cars everywhere?
River didn’t have time to ask questions.
The deputy opened the door, gesturing for him to walk through. The shop was packed with people. A deputy sheriff. The sheriff. Byron and Janelle. Belinda and Brenna. They were the only two people in the room who weren’t talking. Brenna had a tissue in her hand and was dabbing at tears that spilled down Belinda’s cheeks.
“Belinda?” He crouched next to her, lifting her good hand. Her palm was cool and dry, her skin paper thin. He remembered when she’d kneaded bread and rolled out pie crust. When she’d hung bedsheets from the line in the back of the house on warm spring days just because she liked the way the fresh air made them smell.
Now she couldn’t even do her own hair.
Someone had done it for her, though. Ugly brown barrettes pulled her hair away from her face, but they probably didn’t do a whole lot to make her feel pretty. He needed to buy some nice headbands. Those would be easy enough for Belinda to use herself. “Are you okay?”
“It’s Mack,” she said, the words a little garbled.
“Mack?” He glanced around. No sign of the guy. “Where is he? What happened?”
“He knocked Brenna down and then he ran.”
“He didn’t just knock her down, Belinda,” Byron cut in, his voice tinged with anger. “He attacked her.”
“Don’t exaggerate, Granddad,” Brenna said, pressing the tissue into Belinda’s hand and straightening. “Belinda is upset enough without you adding to things.”
“She’s got no need to be upset,” Janelle Lamont retorted. “Mack did this. Rest assured, my family harbors no ill will toward you, Belinda.”
At her words, tears began pouring down Belinda’s face again.
“Mother, seriously,” Brenna hissed, grabbing a fresh tissue from a box on the counter and wiping at the tears.
“It’s okay, Belinda,” River said, barely managing to keep the irritation out of his voice. He was sitting there in a shop with half a dozen people and he still didn’t know exactly what had happened. Except that Mack had knocked Brenna down.
Attacked her?
He found that hard to believe. Mack had issues, but River didn’t think violence was one of them.
“It is not okay,” Belinda insisted. “Mack wouldn’t hurt a fly. You know that, River.”
“I know that you’re upset and it’s not good for you.” He touched her cheek the way she’d done to him when he was young and brash and too stupid to know how fortunate he was to be in the Keeches’ home.
“Mack—” she started to say, and he cut her off. Kindly, because Belinda had always been kind to him.
“I’ll find him and I’ll make sure he’s okay. I promise.”
She nodded, the tears still sliding down her cheeks, the tissue crumpled in her good hand. River would call her doctor once he got her home. Henry Monroe still made house calls, and River knew the guy would be happy to do a quick check of Belinda’s vitals.
He patted Belinda’s shoulder, turned his attention to Brenna. She looked fine. No visible bruises. No tears. She had a smudge of something on her cheek. Chocolate, maybe. A dot of it near her hairline and more spattered across her apron and shirt. If she’d been in a fight with anything, he thought it might have been a vat of fudge.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sure, but I’d be a whole lot better if people weren’t making such a big deal out of nothing.”
“Nothing?” Janelle nearly shrieked. “You could have a concussion. An internal brain bleed. A ruptured organ.”
“I don’t,” she said simply.
“That man attacked you!”
“Knocked me down. It was not an attack, and I already told you, I had a butcher knife in my hand when I opened the door. He probably thought I was going after Belinda.”
“Whatever his motivation, he was wrong,” the sheriff finally spoke up. He wasn’t a young guy. Not old either. From what River had heard from old Benevolence friends, Kane Rainier was fair-minded and good at his job. “I’ll need to speak with him. To make sure he knows it. You said Mack drove you here, Belinda?”
“Yes. My therapy finished early and I wanted to come see Brenna. I should never have asked Mack to drive me; then none of this would have happened.”
“How about you don’t play the blame game, Belinda?” River said gently. “There’s nothing you could have or should have done any differently. Did Mack drive your car or his truck?”
“My car.”
“Is it still here?”
“I . . . don’t know.”
“What color and make?” the sheriff’
s deputy asked.
“Dark blue Chevy Impala.”
“He drove away,” Byron offered. “Ran to the car, jumped in, and left.”
“Then he’s probably back at the ranch,” the sheriff said. “How about we head out there to see what he has to say for himself? You can go on ahead. That’ll give you a little time to talk to him before I get there.”
“Prepare him, you mean?”
“I don’t want to cart him off to jail,” the sheriff replied. “So, if you getting there ahead of me and smoothing the road will keep him from doing something we’re all going to regret, then . . . yes, prepare him.”
“Poor Mack,” Belinda said quietly, and Janelle patted her arm, all of the anger gone from her face.
“He’ll be fine, dear. How about I take you over to my house? It’s been months since we’ve had any time to talk. We women can have tea and sandwiches and catch up while the men go deal with the prob . . . find Mack.”
“I should go home,” Belinda responded.
“You should spend time with your friend,” River countered. “Let me handle this and then I’ll come get you, okay?”
“I—”
“I’ll go with him,” Brenna offered. “I want to let Mack know there are no hard feelings.”
“There damn well are hard feelings,” Byron muttered. “And I’m going out there to tell that young man so.”
“No. You aren’t,” Brenna said. “Someone has to stay to run the shop. Don’t even spend one more minute worrying about this, Belinda. Your friend is going to be just fine. Come on, River. Let’s get this done.”
Before he could respond, she grabbed his hand and dragged him out the back door.
Chapter Five
Time had not been kind to Freedom Ranch. The pretty white farmhouse Brenna had admired when she was a kid was now dingy and neglected, the porch sagging, the shutters listing at odd angles. The once lush lawn had gone dry, the grass brown and brittle. The roof looked like it needed work. So did the windows. One was cracked. The others were covered with a layer of grime.
Poor Belinda. She loved this place. It must be breaking her heart to see it this way. It was breaking Brenna’s heart and she’d never spent more than a few hours at a time at the ranch.
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