by Debra Kayn
New to her, but old.
The abandoned cabin had always been her dream to own, and she finally achieved another goal she'd set for herself.
She inhaled deeply in satisfaction and removed the pots from the box. It took her four months to pay to have the repairs done to the roof and new appliances installed before she could move from Colorado back to Idaho, where she'd grown up. For as long as she remembered, the cabin had sat vacant. She'd assumed it was used for hunting or maybe for a group of men who enjoyed spending a couple weeks in the mountains on their snowmobiles.
The location was perfect for her to work from home. She had shows booked for the next two years and needed the solitude and the time to create her new jewelry line.
Putting the last pot in the cabinet, she carried the empty box outside and dropped it on the porch. She stomped on the cardboard, flattening all sides, and added it to the pile that would go to the recycling center. After three days of unpacking, she had everything in its place and her workroom set up.
All she needed was food for her kitchen.
Hating to cook, she went inside and grabbed her purse. She'd tackle shopping tomorrow. Tonight, she'd go into town to eat. She was dying for a Reuben sandwich and a hot fudge sundae that she'd seen advertised in the window of a small bar when she'd visited the realty office.
Halfway to her car, she remembered her phone she'd left in the house. Hurrying back inside, after searching three rooms, she found the cell in her back pocket. She hated carrying the thing but there was no landline to the cabin, and with a show last week, she wanted to be available to the gallery owner in case any details were needed.
In the car, she gazed back at her house and smiled until the long gravel driveway took her out of view. She never thought she'd come back to Federal, but she'd reached the time where she wanted to take her career to a new level, and she found herself wanting to move back where she became the most motivated. On a whim, she contacted a local realtor in the area to find and approach the owner of the cabin with an offer.
The day the acceptance came, she let herself get excited. Now that her parents were living in Arizona, she could finally return to her home state without having them influence her life. She looked forward to living remotely and concentrating on her work.
It'd been twenty years since she graduated high school and moved away. People have come and gone in Federal, it wasn't like anyone would remember her unless she used her family name. But, she bought the house and opened the bank account under her artist name.
Jolene Shayne was long gone. She was simply Jo Smyth. The reclusive jeweler.
She turned the volume up on the stereo, shut the air conditioner off in the car, and lowered the window. Inhaling deeply, she let the clean, pine-scented air, rejuvenate her after a long day of unloading boxes.
A soft beep sounded, and the gas tank sensor flashed red on the dash. Slowing down in case that helped save gas, she headed straight to the gas station on the edge of town. Pulling in beside the pump, she stopped the car and found her debit card in her purse.
One step out of the car, she groaned. Her gas tank was on the other side of the vehicle. Glancing around, she exhaled and slid back into the driver's seat and turned the car around. Thankfully, no other customers were around to witness her mistake. She'd only had the car for a month, deciding she'd need an all-wheel drive to handle the snow. Winter came fast, and Northern Idaho was known for having snow for at least half the year. She'd need the reliable transportation to make it back and forth to town.
After sliding her debit card through the reader, she put the nozzle in her car and stepped back to let her tank fill. To her right, Federal Inn still used their old billboard to welcome specific guests for their stay. Apparently, the Starlight Festival was this upcoming weekend. She'd need to get her shopping done tomorrow and make sure she stayed out of town for the duration.
To her left, the North Fork river flowed, leaving town, and disappeared under the interstate. She crossed her arms and brought her attention back to the dollar sign growing higher on the pump. As long as she made a conscious effort to forget her previous life in Federal, she'd be fine. All she had to do was look for the changes. Like...she peered past the Inn. The tree in front of the library was twice as big, and the mural on the side of the high school had changed.
No doubt, Mr. Granger, the principal, was dead. He was ancient when she was in school.
The nozzle clicked off. She removed the hose from the tank and screwed on her gas cap. Brushing off her hands, she waited for the receipt to come out and found the read-out display telling her to go inside and see the cashier.
Her stomach growled. Grabbing her purse out of the car, she walked around the bumper and pushed through the front door. A bell jingled.
"I'll be right with you, honey," said a female voice.
Jo looked around the small convenience gas station, not seeing the woman who'd spoken. She grabbed two Ice Cube chocolate pieces out of the container and laid them on the counter, then dug a dollar out of her purse.
"Sorry about the wait." A slender woman wearing a red apron walked behind the counter. "It's delivery day, so when I get a break from the rush of customers, I like to stock the shelves."
Jo smiled and pushed the chocolate toward the cashier. "I'd like to get these, and I filled my car up with my debit card and the pump said to come in here for my receipt."
The woman sighed. "Let me ring you up, and then I'll get your receipt. The tech that keeps our equipment running is due in the morning to fix the problem. Most people don't want a receipt, so..."
"Sorry, but I do need a receipt." Jo grabbed her candy and her penny change and tossed everything in her purse. "Tax purposes."
The woman picked up the phone and turned her back toward Jolene. "Hey, I need a receipt for pump two."
Jo stepped away from the counter and looked over the selection of beef jerky, pondering if she bought three or four sticks it would count for dinner, and she could skip eating in town. Her personal quota on dealing with people for the week already met, she could go home and separate the garnets that were delivered yesterday. She'd put off opening the package, knowing once she got a glimpse, she'd spend all night peering at what would soon turn into perfection once she cut and polished the gemstones.
The cashier opened a carton of cigarettes and proceeded to put the packs above her head in the dispenser. Jo tapped her foot and looked out the door. How long could it take to print out a receipt?
She walked back to the counter, set her purse down, and took out a business card and a pen. "Never mind about the receipt. I'll just write down how much I spent and get out of your hair."
Her accountant was going to chew her out. A stickler for proper tax deductions, Jane Carrows, wanted receipts, framed and signed, when dealing with the IRS.
"Oh, here he is with your receipt," said the cashier, pointing behind Jolene.
Jolene turned around, reached out, and froze. She couldn't hear, breathe, think. Imploding inside, her muscles lost their fight or flight tendencies. Maybe the man holding the receipt wouldn't recognize her.
She barely recognized him. Gasping, she swallowed her shock. That wasn't true.
He was different.
He was bigger.
He was more intense.
He had a beard with some gray.
But, it was her Caiden. Caiden Hall. The man who she'd lost her virginity to and had changed her life forever. The man who'd gone to prison for murder when she was at her happiest. The man she hadn't seen in twenty years and had thought about every day since.
Wearing a pair of Levis that hugged his solid thighs, a flannel shirt that was unbuttoned one too many holes to be considered appropriate, Caiden stood in front of her looking right through her with stormy, gray eyes that gave nothing away.
Cold.
Impersonal.
Hers.
"You either want the receipt, or you don't." Caiden held the piece of paper between his index
and middle finger.
His gaze challenged her, dared her, mocked her. She reached blindly behind her, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door without her receipt.
She fell into her car, started the engine, and gunned the accelerator. The next thing she was aware of was pulling to a stop in front of the cabin. She stared out the windshield. Caiden Hall.
He was supposed to be long gone. What was he doing back in Federal?
CHAPTER 2
To be angry is to revenge the faults of others on ourselves. — Alexander Pope
Jo Smyth.
17B Black Bear Road
(208)659-0011
Caiden tapped the business card Jolene left behind at the gas station against his thigh. He would've recognized her anywhere. She hadn't changed, and yet the expression on her face was new. It was one he'd never been given before.
A mix between fear and shock, she'd gawked at him.
He kicked the desk, shoving it halfway across the room and slipped the business card into his pocket with the receipt Jolene refused to take from him. He couldn't face her yet, but he also couldn't stop thinking about her. He had so many questions.
Grabbing his jacket, he left through the back door of the gas station. Texting Kurt Ramchett, president of Bantorus Motorcycle Club and a longtime mentor in the boxing ring, Caiden got in his truck and drove out of town, knowing instead of going to Kurt, he should go home and go to bed.
But, he was wired.
After spending ten years in prison for involuntary manslaughter, there was only one man willing to face him in the boxing ring whenever he showed up needing to let off steam. Though many men had gone against him in the ring since his release when he was in control and could handle himself. Money was a great motivator and for other boxers, facing Caiden gave them bragging rights, even when they lost.
They all wanted to be the man who beat Hall, the murderer. Ten years in prison had given him time to make a name for himself. It beat the boredom and kept the different gangs away from him. When he walked out of the state penitentiary, everyone working the underground boxing ring already knew him by reputation. He'd paid his time for killing Logan Chapman, but others remembered. Even those who hadn't witnessed the punch knew what had happened by the talk going around town. The talk that continued to follow him for the last twenty years.
Those rumors tempted most men. A week after his release, he'd found himself living in a motel room wondering what he was going to do with only twenty bucks in his wallet. Fast money turned into wanting more in his life. He saved his winnings, bought a couple houses to use as rentals for extra income, and then bit the bullet and purchased the gas station in town. He no longer needed to put on the boxing gloves to make money.
Today's visit to the clubhouse was for him.
He parked outside the Cyclone fence surrounding the Bantorus MC clubhouse, lifted his chin at the prospect manning the gate, and jogged up the stairs and opened the door. He couldn't shake the sight of Jolene standing shell-shocked in front of him. Even more, the blood in his veins ran hot, because she hadn't returned to the station knowing he was there.
She hadn't returned to Federal ten years ago when he was released.
She hadn't held up her part of the promise he'd made her give twenty years ago.
Kurt stood from the couch, leaving his MC brothers and the conversation, and headed toward Caiden. In the president's steely eyes, he recognized understanding. "Follow me."
Caiden took the stairs as Kurt flipped on the lights. He rubbed his knuckles. Adrenaline pounded inside of him, and he lost his normal focus the second Jolene's eyes had collided with his.
"Want to tell me what's going on?" Kurt removed his Bantorus vest, his shirt, and swung open the locker, throwing Caiden a pair of practice gloves and headgear.
Caiden swept his hair back and put on the protection. "I need to think things out."
"Let's get to it then." Kurt bent at the waist and entered the ring.
Older than Caiden by fifteen years, Kurt started in the ring at a young age, fought his way through the underground and the legal boxing events while starting a charter of the Bantorus Motorcycle Club. Size wise, Kurt matched him height and weight. He was the only man Caiden believed could kick his ass.
Caiden slipped on his gloves. The thinner padding only protected his knuckles. Unlike the regulation gloves that he'd worn when he killed Chapman, he'd need to force himself to stay in control. The added struggle helped calm him. His focus centered, he remained responsible for Kurt's life, and vice versa. Both of them could kill someone with the right hit.
Placing the mouth guard between his teeth, Caiden bounced on his toes and sparred lightly with Kurt. The tension in his neck eased, and he rotated his shoulders. Keeping his hits to Kurt's body, he traded jabs. Each punch precise, calculated, and expected, while he let his thoughts out.
Jolene never even spoke to him. She stood in front of him after twenty years, and couldn't fucking open her mouth.
His body warmed. "One, two's."
"Got it." Kurt shifted, putting his left arm up higher.
Jab. Swing and hit.
Caiden grunted at the impact from Kurt's upper punch, nodding his head. His energy went to the combat. The sting. The pain.
Ten minutes later, Kurt's glove slid off Caiden's sweat soaked upper body. Warmed and ready to move to the next level, Caiden dropped his hands and asked, "Full?"
"Whatever you need." Kurt changed his stance.
Caiden swayed. "You take it."
The first facial hit came, and Caiden remained loose, absorbing the impact. He returned the same to Kurt. Trusting each other, they went back and forth with a one, two, three hit, setting into a rhythm. One wrong move and he could do damage. He could kill. He could go back to prison.
Prison, where he'd never see Jolene again.
He punched Kurt in the face, and before his arm came back, he took a hit that whipped his head hard to the right. Inhaling through his nose, he tasted blood at the back of his throat. Kurt never hesitated, giving Caiden what he needed.
Kurt hit, hooked, jabbed.
Caiden pummeled him back. His second wind came. Jolene hadn't even visited him after his trial. He'd asked his mom about her, and she refused to tell him anything more than Jolene had moved on with her life.
Moved on without him. She'd promised to stay with him.
Kurt dropped his hands and spit out his mouth guard. "Enough."
"Come on. Let's keep going." Caiden bounced on his toes. "You can go five more minutes."
"You're through." Kurt took off his gloves and removed his headgear.
Caiden spit out the guard, flung off his gloves, and ripped off his gear. Hyped and still ready to pound flesh, he walked the perimeter of the ring to cool down. Jolene had fucking promised him she'd belong to him. Ten fucking years, he waited for her every time the guard announced visitors for other inmates. She never showed.
"Say the word, and I can put you back in the ring on Friday if you need to get yourself back under control." Kurt slid through the ropes and grabbed two beers out of the fridge against the far wall. He returned to Caiden.
Boxing took discipline. It was a sport that he'd leaned on while trying to stay in school and struggling with growing up poor and realizing he was treated differently because of where he lived, who his mother was, and his attitude hadn't help matters.
"No, I'm done boxing for money." Caiden opened the beer and tipped the bottle back.
"Your control slipped today. That's why I stopped you." Kurt leaned his forearms against the top rope.
Caiden flexed his fingers. "Only with you."
"Damn." Kurt huffed a noise that came as close to a laugh as he ever gave. "I am the one who taught you and let you work me over."
Since the age of sixteen when Caiden got caught stealing a car for a joy ride and ended up doing community service, he realized his need to catch a high had to stop, or he'd end up in jail. Kurt picked him up the next day s
tanding on the corner by the bar and brought him to the ring. Then, he'd promptly got his ass handed to him. Alone with the president of the motorcycle club, he'd had his first lesson on the proper way to take out his anger in the basement of the Bantorus clubhouse.
"She's here," said Caiden. "Stood right in front of me at the gas station."
Kurt lifted his chin in interest and remained silent.
Caiden ran his hand across his jaw. "I expected her to be here waiting after I got out of prison. Every morning, I'd wake up and hope today was the day she came back. It's been twenty fucking years since I've seen her, and last week she came into the station and never said a word. Just turned her back on me."
When he went to prison at twenty-two years old, he was looking at fifteen years. He got released at the age of thirty-two for good behavior. That was only because Kurt had contacted the president of Moroad Motorcycle Club and asked them to help. Most of the freedom riders in Moroad were inside the prison and had ways to make things happen —like an early release. Without their help, his sentence would've been longer.
"I take it you're talking about the young girl you were seeing before you got arrested." Kurt widened his stance and folded his arms. "Jolene."
"Yeah, that's her."
He'd spent the first thousand dollars he'd earned after his release to hire a private detective. All he'd received were the basics on her. Her name, which she'd changed. Hell, he thought she'd gotten married. She lived in Colorado and sold jewelry. The night he received the information, Kurt had found him at home passed out with a six-inch gash running across his forehead and into his hair.
He'd gone into a rage believing she belonged to someone else and couldn't remember what had happened. Except he'd trashed the motel room.
"She changed her fucking name on everything. Jo Smyth. That's not who she is." Caiden slipped between the ropes and stopped beside Kurt. "It's not her."
"People change," said Kurt.
"Not Jolene." He grabbed his shirt and pulled it over his head.
Kurt uncrossed his arms. "What are you going to do?"
"Nothing. That woman was not my Jolene." He shook his head. "I need to get going. Thanks for the ring time."
