by C. B. Clark
Table of Contents
Excerpt
Cherished Secrets
Copyright
Dedication
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
A word about the author…
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Her breath caught in her throat.
A small fragment of cloth lay atop her purse, the vibrant colors glowing in the meager, late afternoon light. With a shaking hand, she picked up the cloth. The smooth silk slid between her fingers. Mesmerized, she studied the scrap of torn fabric.
The air in the car was suddenly too thick to breathe. Fingers shaking, she turned the cloth over and jammed her fist in her mouth stifling a scream. Written across the silk in thick, black letters was a single, condemning word. Guilty.
She dropped the cloth as if it burned and gulped air. While she’d been traipsing around the forest looking for where the killer had dumped Skye’s body, someone had been inside her car and left this piece of Skye’s scarf for her to find. The same person could still be here, watching her, waiting.
Her hand shook so much she dropped the keys on the floor twice before finally fitting them in the ignition and starting the car. The engine choked, sputtered, and died.
Cherished Secrets
by
C. B. Clark
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cherished Secrets
COPYRIGHT © 2016 by C. B. Clark
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Crimson Rose Edition, 2016
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1046-6
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1047-3
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
Thanks to my family and friends.
I couldn’t have achieved this
without your love and support.
Chapter 1
Carrie Ann Hetherington couldn’t believe her bad luck. Stranded in the dark on the side of the lonely, rutted gravel road, with rain pelting on her head, running down her face, drenching her hair, and ruining her new suede coat. “Piece of junk.” She kicked the flat tire on the small, red rental car. “Where the hell’s the spare?” Her other foot slipped out from under her, and she let out a shriek as she fell, landing with a splash in a muddy puddle.
Icy moisture seeped through her thin, wool pants, raising goose bumps on her arms and legs. “Okay, you win,” she shouted into the storm. “You’re right. I should’ve never come back to Cooper’s Ridge.” As if agreeing with her, lightning crackled overhead. She lifted her hand to brush back the hair hanging in her eyes but stopped short at the muck dripping off her fingers.
What the hell was she going to do now? Cell service didn’t reach this far out in the country, so she couldn’t call a tow truck. She shuddered at the thought of walking ten long miles to town on dark roads without a flashlight in this downpour.
The deep roar of a diesel engine sounded in the night, echoing off the surrounding forested hills.
She staggered to her feet as a large pickup truck sped around the bend and skidded to a stop, pinning her with twin high beams.
The driver’s door swung open and Blake Shelton’s voice blasted through the truck’s radio into the rainy night. A figure stepped out and slammed the door, cutting off the twang of a steel guitar.
Peering through the rain, she made out a large, masculine shape. “Thank goodness you came by.” She tried not to sound too desperate. “My tire’s flat. Can you help me, please?”
The man remained a dark blot.
A bright flash lit the sky, and the ground trembled under another crash of thunder. Unease flickered low in her belly. “Mister? Did you hear me? I said my tire’s flat.” Her voice squeaked. What was wrong with him? Was he some kind of pervert? Would he attack her? Her canister of pepper spray was in her purse in the car. What would she protect herself with? Mud?
He stepped closer.
Holding her muddy hands up to her eyes to block the dazzle of the bright headlights, she squinted at the blur of his face.
“I should have known it was you.”
She shivered at the venom in his husky voice. The deep tones and laconic drawl sounded familiar. “Do I know you?”
His harsh, abrasive laugh chilled her. “Carrie Ann Hetherington.”
Her unease morphed into shock. “Declan?” He stepped out of the glare of headlights, and a wave of dizziness washed over her.
“In the flesh. Bet you never thought you’d see me again.” His gaze roamed over her, and he snorted. “My dog’s dragged in cleaner-looking roadkill than you.”
She bristled. “It’s raining, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“Looks to me like you fell in a mud puddle.” He smirked. “Can’t say anyone deserves it more than you, sweetheart.”
“Are you going to stand here in the rain all night, or are you going to help?” She glared, stuffing years of bitterness into the look.
He narrowed his eyes and leaned against the side of her small, red, two-door coupe, seemingly oblivious to the cold rain pouring down on him, plastering his dark curls to his head. His long-sleeved shirt clung to his chest, revealing a well-defined set of pecs. He motioned to the dark outlines of dripping trees looming along the sides of the road and the acres of farmland beyond. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid, Carrie Ann?”
She shivered at the ice in his voice, but knew he was taunting her. She felt so many emotions about him—anger, betrayal, guilt, to name a few—but not fear. Never fear.
“Come on, you can tell me the truth. You’re afraid of me, aren’t you?” His gaze was probing. “Like everyone else in town.”
“I see you haven’t changed.” She clasped her hands behind her back before he noticed their trembling.
“Me? Look who’s talking? At the first hint of trouble, you ran away like a scared little rabbit.”
She straightened, trying to add inches to her five-foot, four-inch frame, and jammed her hands on her hips. “I have no intention of rehashing the past with you, Declan. If you won’t help me, leave. I’ll wait in my car until someone else comes along.” As she reached for the handle to the driver’s door of her car, her foot slipped in the ever-deepening quagmire. She grabbed for the door, missed, a
nd yelped as she fell. Not again. Not with him watching.
In the next breath, she was hauled against a firm chest. A flash of memory thundered through her, of running her hands over this same chest, her fingers twining in crisp, dark hair. Heat rushed up her neck and flooded her cheeks.
****
Declan gritted his teeth against the torrent of remembrances…the swell of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, the smell of her… He cursed, released her as if she burned, and backed away, sucking in a ragged breath. Even though two feet of watery air now separated them, the softness of her curves was still branded on him. His hand shook as he swiped at the rain washing over his face. The last thing he wanted was for her to see the effect she had on him. His eyes narrowed against the downpour as he inspected her.
Her shoulder-length, auburn hair was a tangled mess. Rain sluiced off the planes of her pale, mud-spattered face and dripped from her chin. Smudges of mascara rimmed her eyes. Even in the storm her eyes shone with an intensity he remembered. The darkness hid the color of her eyes, but if he closed his, he remembered their amber lights. Cat’s eyes, he’d called them. He balled his hands into fists and squeezed until his nails dug into his palms, hoping the pain would remind him of the hurt she’d caused.
She shivered, her slender body shaking with the cold.
Damn and double damn. He had to do something or she’d catch pneumonia. He swore again for good measure. Bad luck plagued him, especially when she was around. Why the hell had he taken this back road tonight of all nights? With a resigned sigh, he grabbed her hand and towed her behind him toward his truck. “Come on.”
She let out a squeal and shoved against him, trying to yank her hand free.
He tightened his grip. Jesus. She hadn’t changed a damn bit. He winced as a blow struck him on the arm. “What the hell?”
“Let me go!”
“You might not have any common sense, princess, but I do. I’m putting you in my truck so you can warm up. All right?” He opened the driver’s door of the truck and lifted her onto the seat.
The second he released her, she scrambled over to the far side of the cab, her eyes flashing fury.
His gut twisted. He didn’t have time for this. Not tonight. Not when he needed to reach Rankin’s Farm before it was too late. But he couldn’t leave her stranded on the side of the road. He reached into the back seat and grabbed an old shirt he’d tossed on the floor after his last tennis match weeks ago. The shirt wasn’t clean, but it was dry. He tossed the crumpled shirt on her lap. “Put this on.”
He turned the keys in the ignition, started the engine, and set the heater to high. Grabbing a flashlight from the glove compartment, he slammed the door shut and trudged back to her car.
The small, mud-caked car rested crookedly on the rim. He checked the tire. It was flat all right. Leaning closer, he shone the light. The tread was worn smooth. He ran his fingers over a small, puckered hole in the sidewall, and a chill shot up his spine. He’d seen this before, years ago, when he was a kid, and he and some buddies had gone target shooting at old cars at the dump.
Rain dripped off his hair into his eyes. Had someone taken a shot at her car? He shook off his concern. The tire was bald. A sharp rock, a nail, or a piece of glass could have punctured it. The only way to tell for sure would be to take the tire into a shop and examine the hole.
He opened the driver’s door, popped the trunk, slogged through the mud, and peered inside for the spare. Empty. Damn. This night just kept getting worse. Slamming the trunk hard, he retrieved her suitcase and purse, trudged back to his truck and climbed in, tossing her belongings in the back seat.
Silence filled the cab, building until it was thick and coiled as if a living entity.
“You couldn’t fix the tire.” Her voice sounded small.
“You don’t have a spare.”
“I know.”
He wiped water off his face. “Nice of you to tell me.”
“I would have said something if you hadn’t tossed me in here like a sack of potatoes.”
He switched on the interior light and pinned her with a hard gaze. “Have you pissed anyone else off recently?”
“What?”
“Is anyone, other than me, mad at you?”
“What are you talking about?” Under the veil of dried mud, her face paled. “Declan, what is it? What’s going on?” Shadows filled her eyes.
What the hell was he doing? Trying to frighten her? He wasn’t even sure someone had taken a shot at her car. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “Forget it.” He focused on the dark road ahead.
They sat in silence, the tension between them growing with each swish of the windshield wipers.
She giggled.
What the hell? He slid her a glance.
She laughed again, the all-too-familiar sound evoking a slew of bittersweet memories. “Can you believe this? What are the odds of the two of us meeting here, on this road, in the middle of a rainstorm, after all these years?”
He couldn’t help himself. A wry chuckle broke through his tight lips. She was right. The happenstance of the two of them finding each other on this isolated road in the middle of nowhere was funny. Ridiculous, impossible, yet funny.
Their gazes met and locked.
His laughter died in his throat. In the sudden silence, the thumping of his heart was louder even than the pounding of the rain on the roof of the cab. How could he have forgotten the unique color of her eyes, or the way her impossibly long lashes framed them? His gaze shifted to her mouth, and the air blasted out of him like he’d been punched in the gut. He swallowed, remembering how sweet those lips had tasted. He tore his gaze away. He didn’t need this shit. Not again. “Where were you headed?” He cursed under his breath at the hoarseness of his voice.
“Vivian’s.”
“Really?” As far as he knew she hadn’t been back to Cooper’s Ridge in years. Not since—He ground down on his back molars, cutting off the thought.
“It’s complicated.”
Complicated. He bit back a snort. She didn’t know what complicated was. He turned off the interior light, put the truck in gear, and pressed his foot hard on the accelerator. The truck’s heavy-duty tires spun and gripped the slippery road, and the vehicle surged ahead, leaving a spray of mud and gravel in its wake.
As the truck rumbled through the storm, he struggled to think of something…anything other than the woman beside him. He smelled her. He tried not to inhale, but he couldn’t help himself. Roses, vanilla, Carrie Ann.
“Are you taking me to Vivian’s?”
The soft, honeyed tones of her voice struck him like a fist. God help him. He still wanted her after all these years, after all the anger, all the bitterness.
“Declan?”
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, the knuckles turning white. He risked a glance at her. She’d put on his shirt, and even though it was far too big, the loose folds didn’t hide the swell of her breasts. He swallowed the lump in his throat and thought of the hole in her tire. “Who knew you were coming home tonight?”
“Only Vivian and Leland. Why?”
“Are you sure?”
“What’s this all about?” She frowned. “Why do you care?”
She had a point. Why did he care? What happened to her was none of his business, hadn’t been for a long time. He refused to look at her again. Afraid of what he’d do. Afraid of himself, afraid of what she might see if he did.
Silence filled the cab, broken only by the heavy purr of the motor and the swish of the windshield wipers. The lights from a few scattered houses appeared as they reached the outskirts of town.
A headache bloomed and worsened with every mile until his head was ready to explode. He longed to rub his aching temples, but he wouldn’t show her how seeing her again after all these years affected him. How, suddenly, his whole world had been turned upside down.
He turned off the main street onto Winters Road. A minute later, he swung onto a driveway
and drove up to the house he hadn’t seen in twelve years. Like a lot of things in Cooper’s Ridge, the house hadn’t changed. The two-story, Colonial mansion was still painted white, the shutters a dark, hunter-green. Two, white Adirondack chairs sat on the wide, covered, front porch. He caught sight of the porch swing and stiffened, fighting off another surge of memories. “We’re here.” He reached across, careful not to touch her, and opened her door.
She didn’t budge.
The cab light illuminated her pale, tired, mud-streaked face, and his gut tightened. He gentled his voice. “You’d better go in. You must be freezing in those wet clothes.”
Her pale hands twisted the thin cotton of his shirt into knots.
“Carrie Ann?”
She faced him, and he flinched under the full impact of her eyes.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
He nodded. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, could only stare at her as if caught under a spell.
A smile curved her full lips, softening her face.
Warmth flooded over him.
“I know it’s too little, too late, but I am sorry. Sorry for everything.” She released her seat belt, leaped out of the truck, and ran through the rain to the porch. She knocked on the door. It opened, and she disappeared into the house.
He stared at the closed door and gave in to the relief of massaging his aching temples. If he’d chosen a worst-case scenario for tonight, finding Carrie Ann stranded with a flat tire on the road to Rankin’s Farm would top the list. He slammed his fist into the steering wheel. He didn’t need this shit, not now, especially not tonight.
A rapping on his driver’s side window made him jump.
An elderly man peered at him through the rain-streaked glass.
Even before Declan pressed the button and rolled down the window, he knew who the man was.
Leland Winters, Carrie Ann’s uncle, stared at him with cold eyes, his short, thinning, gray hair glistening with raindrops. “McAllister.”
Declan nodded, hiding a groan. First Carrie Ann and now Winters. Were they ganging up on him?
“Carrie Ann left her suitcase and purse in your truck.” Winters gestured at Declan’s truck.
