by Rachel Cross
He stiffened, his arms releasing her, and straightened. “I can’t. I’ve created an entire life in L.A. One I’m proud of because it’s mine. Not my father’s, but mine. I built it, from the ground up, with nothing but my hands and a dream. I’m not ready to leave it.” He was silent a moment, his fingers stroking along her shoulder and down her arm. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready to come home yet. It hurts too much.”
• • •
Cat put the last of the books on the shelf with a sigh. It was late. The bookshop had closed an hour ago, the town long since having quieted, but she stayed to shelve new products and clean up the store a bit. She needed something, anything, to do. Michael didn’t want her going back to her apartment without him. The repercussions of the engagement party had yet to be seen. She didn’t want to go to his place, either. Not yet. Her mind wouldn’t stop turning, wouldn’t stop rewinding back to the night before.
After their candid conversation at the engagement party, something shifted between them. Michael went through the motions, but he’d closed himself off. He didn’t look at her the same way, didn’t touch her the same way, wouldn’t look her in the eye.
When they got back to his place, however, he reached for her with an almost desperation. They’d made love last night with an intensity that left her shaken. She couldn’t shake the feeling he was somehow telling her good-bye. It left her torn between wanting to cherish the last of their time together and needing to put distance between them.
The chime over the door rang, announcing the entrance of a customer.
“I’m sorry, but we’re closed.” She set the last book on the shelf and stepped out into the aisle.
She immediately recognized the woman standing in the shop. It was Mrs. Hartman. Trish Hartman’s mother. Michael’s Trish. The older woman had become a repeat customer in the last few weeks. She stood inside the front door, looking slightly lost, wearing, of all things, a long tan trench coat. Entirely too warm for the humid weather.
She smiled at the older woman as she moved up the aisle to the front counter. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs. Hartman. I’m afraid I forgot to lock the front door.”
For a moment, Mrs. Hartman didn’t move. She remained silent, her hands in the pockets of the coat, her face impassive. Finally, she moved toward the front counter.
“You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” A touch of restrained animosity trembled in her voice.
A cold shiver ran up Cat’s spine, unease twisting in her stomach. “I’m sorry?”
Mrs. Hartman’s face twisted in fury, and she pulled her right hand from her pocket to reveal a small black handgun, the muzzle pointed at Cat. “I warned you to stay away. That you’d pay for your indiscretions if you didn’t, but you didn’t listen.”
Cat froze. For several moments, chaos spun all around her, her heartbeat pounding in her ears as her mind raced a million miles an hour. “Mrs. Hartman, please, put the gun down.”
“I know who your mother was. You’ve been just like her since you moved back into this town. You sleep with anything that walks upright. It’s disgusting. Did you really think you could just waltz in here and take him? Did you really think I’d let a little tramp like you undo all our hard work?” The older woman sneered at her, her voice rising in pitch as she waved the gun, her finger startlingly shaky on the trigger.
Mrs. Hartman’s words hit like a lead ball straight to her chest. Scenes from her life flashed through Cat’s mind. The little girl she’d once been, watching her mother drag her around from town to town like baggage, too busy living her life to bother with her. Leaving her alone for hours on end, only to bring home man after man. Some who were nice, some who peered at Cat in a way that made her feel dirty.
The sixteen-year-old girl, a newcomer in town, fending off yet another guy who assumed she’d “put out” and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
All the nights of crying herself to sleep, wishing she could be anyone else.
In those memories rose the anger, the resentment. It boiled up from the pit of her stomach, spreading outwards like wildfire over a dry field, consuming everything in its path, until her hands curled into fists at her sides. No. This was the last time.
Squaring her shoulders, she met Mrs. Hartman’s glare with one of her own. “I haven’t seen or heard from my mother since she abandoned me to my father nine years ago. I am not now, nor have I ever been her. Nor am I to blame for your daughter’s failings. Michael is a grown man, capable of making his own decisions. I’ve slept with all of three men in my entire life. Whatever stories you’ve heard were spit out by boys with big egos who couldn’t handle being told no.”
As the words exited her mouth, they left in its place a sense of strength she’d never had before. From this day forward, she was just Cat. With a lift of her chin, she stood her ground but sent up a silent prayer Mrs. Hartman would come to her senses and put the gun down.
Mrs. Hartman’s face twisted in anger. She let out a primal scream and surged forward.
“You stupid little whore!” Her voice rose in pitch as she waved the gun. “He doesn’t belong to you, do you hear me? You are nothing! Nothing but a gold-digging little tramp, who—”
“Enough.”
Cat pivoted in the direction of the voice. Michael stood inside the entrance, one hand holding the door open. Her heart lurched and swelled at the same time, a mixture of relief and fear drumming within her. If she had to choose who she wanted to show up right then, it would’ve been him.
Except Mrs. Hartman whipped around and aimed the gun in the direction of his chest. Cat’s heart stopped as fear rose like a tide within her.
“Don’t move!” Mrs. Hartman spat the words, her voice shaking with fury.
Michael released the door, sending the bells tinkling again, concern lighting his eyes. “Are you all right?”
She nodded and wished she could run to him and wrap her arms around him. “I’m fine.”
He turned back to Mrs. Hartman. “What are you doing?”
Mrs. Hartman’s face twisted in fury. “This is your fault. My daughter paid the price for loving you. With her life. My poor Trish.” Her voice cracked, grief flooding the woman’s face, and for a moment, the gun lowered a tad. A breath later, however, she squared her shoulders and re-aimed the gun. “Now it’s your turn to pay. You took something from me, now I’m going to take something from you.”
With the older woman’s attention off her, Cat took a chance and ran to the other end of the counter. She managed to pick up the phone when Mrs. Hartman jerked the gun back in her direction. “Say good-bye to her, Michael.”
The instant she turned, Michael lunged for Mrs. Hartman. He grabbed her wrist and yanked, pulling the gun’s muzzle away from Cat. Startled, Mrs. Hartman pulled back and twisted toward him. Her face contorted as she howled in rage. She closed her fingers over the trigger, waving her arm around to loosen his grip. He swore, fighting to gain control. Somewhere in the struggle, the crack of a gunshot rang through the shop, the smell of gunpowder filling the air.
Cat’s heart leapt into her throat. “Michael!” Tears welled in her eyes, the horror of losing him flooding her mind. She whipped her head toward Mrs. Hartman, glaring at the old woman. “You shot him!”
Mrs. Hartman blinked, no longer angry but in wide-eyed shock. The gun trembled violently in her hand.
“I didn’t mean to shoot him.” She whispered the words and shook her head. A heartbeat later, her brow furrowed in anger, and she shook the gun at Cat. “I was aiming for you!”
In one swift movement, Michael’s hand shot out from his side. He caught the top of the gun and twisted it back toward Mrs. Hartman. Her wrist and arm turned in an eerie, unnatural direction, and the older woman released the weapon with a cry of pain and crumpled to the floor.
Chest heaving, brow furrowed, Michael glared down at the old woman. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mrs. Hartman, but I will if I have to. Stay down.”
Cat’
s heart pounded in her ears as she watched him disarm the gun. He dropped the clip from the base of the handle, then cocked the top of the gun, ejecting the bullet from the chamber. He tossed the empty pistol toward the front of the shop before looking back at her, concern in his gaze. “Are you all right?”
Cat could only stare at him, stunned and overwhelmed. “She shot you.”
“I’m okay.” Without looking down, Michael pulled his shirt from his jeans and lifted it enough to show her the wound. Blood oozed from what appeared to be a deep gouge in his side. “See? No bullet hole. Just a scratch.”
Cat released a breath she wasn’t aware of holding, relief flooding her, and wrapped her arms around herself.
“I’m okay.” He spoke softer this time and stepped in her direction.
Tears welled in her eyes. She nodded, her limbs beginning to tremble.
Sirens wailed outside, loud and eerie, drawing their attention to the front window. Several vehicles came to a screeching halt out in front of the shop, blue and red lights swirling, coloring the night, the buildings, the interior of the shop.
As Michael reached her side and wrapped an arm around her back, Sheriff Dewitt burst through the front door, weapon drawn. He glanced down at the empty gun on the floor, then up at them in concern and confusion. “You guys all right?”
Michael nodded. “We’re fine. I managed to get her gun.”
The sheriff nodded and holstered his gun before pulling handcuffs from his belt. He pulled Mrs. Hartman off the floor and set the handcuffs on her before escorting her outside.
When the door closed behind the sheriff, the bell tinkling, Michael wrapped his arms tightly around Cat, crushing her against him, and buried his face in her hair. “Jesus. I thought for a moment I was going to lose you.”
Shaking with an overwhelming sense of relief and leftover fear, she clung to him in return. “You’re the one who was shot.” She pulled back, needing to see his face, to see his eyes. Her voice wobbled. “That was a stupid thing you did.”
He shook his head as he reached up and stroked her cheek. “What was I supposed to do, let her shoot you?” He paused and lowered his voice. “I never realized how deeply Trish’s death affected her mother. I couldn’t let it happen again. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
“You could have been really hurt.” The words slipped from her lips with far less intensity than she intended, her voice trembling. The thought of him leaving town hurt, but imagining a world without him scared her more than she cared to admit, even to herself.
He stroked her cheek. “I wasn’t. I’m okay. It’s just a scratch.” He lifted the hem of his T-shirt, peeking up at her as he did. “See? I’m okay.”
Tears flooded her eyes, every part of her suddenly shaking uncontrollably as the events rushed over her. Things could have turned out so differently . . .
Michael pulled her against him and wrapped his arms tightly around her. His hands stroked her back, and he murmured in her ear. “It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
• • •
Standing with Michael in the back room an hour later, Cat bit her bottom lip as she pressed a dampened paper towel to the wound in his side, gently cleaning away the now-dried blood.
After the sheriff took Mrs. Hartman outside, a three-ring circus erupted in the shop. The deputies rushed in to make sure the two of them were okay, eventually taking their statements. Somewhere in the midst of it all, somebody called her father, who was now in the front cleaning up the mess the bullet created when it exploded into a bookshelf. Eventually the place cleared out, finally leaving Cat and Michael alone.
The air between them had charged the instant she pulled him into the back room to clean his cut.
“Are you sure you won’t go to the hospital? I’m not a doctor, Michael. You really should have this looked at.” She wiped away the last of the blood, then tossed the towel into a nearby trashcan and reached for the tube of antibiotic ointment on the counter beside the first aid box. She was attempting to distract herself.
“They wouldn’t be able to do any more than you are right now.” His voice lowered, softened. “I’m fine.”
His reassurance didn’t ease the worry seated in her chest. As she ran her finger gently over the wound, the crack of the gun firing rang through her mind, and she flinched.
He reached a hand up and touched her chin. “I heard what you said to her. I’m very proud of you.”
She shook her head. “I’m done. Done being that person, my mother’s scapegoat. I’m just me, and if that’s not enough for them, then to hell with them all.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.” A soft wistful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He dropped his hand. “I faced my own demons tonight. It’s where I went when I dropped you off earlier. I went to see Kaylee’s family.”
Her heart lurched, and she laid a hand against his chest. “How’d it go?”
He turned to stare at the ground. “Better than I expected. I’ve never been able to face them. I let my guilt convince me they’d never forgive me, that I deserved it.”
“And?” She bit her lip, nervous for him.
He lifted his head. A soft smile curled across his face, the relief palpable in his eyes. “I spoke to her brother, Taylor. Turns out they never blamed me in the first place. He said, ‘People make mistakes. We all do things we regret. You didn’t pull the trigger that killed her, and that’s what matters.’”
Joy settled like warmth in her bones. Too well, she remembered the pain in his voice when he told the story, and her heart swelled to near bursting with happiness for him. She smiled at him. “That’s wonderful. That must be such a relief.”
He nodded. “It lightens the load by quite a lot. I think I needed to hear it.”
As she continued to stare into his dark eyes, a single thought thrummed through her mind, taunting her—there was nothing holding him to her anymore. Now they’d caught the person threatening her, and he’d settled his debts, there was no reason for him to stay in town any longer.
Which meant Michael would be going back to his life. Without her. Her chest ached with the wrongness of it. For all the things she wanted but couldn’t have.
Michael cupped her face in the warmth of his palms. His dark eyes caught hers, reaching, searching, his expression almost pained. “Come with me.”
Her eyes flooded and overflowed. She reached up, put her hand over his. “Stay.”
Regret and pain flashed in his eyes. The air hung heavy between them. They were at an impasse. She couldn’t leave and he couldn’t stay. The ending she’d known was coming had arrived, and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. He was taking a large chunk of her heart with him.
Chapter Eleven
“So, Abby tells me Michael’s leaving town tonight.”
Deceptively light and casual, Cat followed the sound of her father’s voice to where he stood at the front counter. He flashed a smile.
Cat sighed. She knew that tone. He was digging. Which meant he knew something was up. She’d stayed at the shop to help him rather than spend her last few hours with her supposed fiancé, who was leaving town for who knew how long.
The knife twisted in her chest. Abby had called her this morning as well. She called to chat, to make certain Cat would come Sunday evening for their first cooking lesson. Of course, his mother had also casually mentioned Michael’s plans to leave town tonight and asked the one question Cat wasn’t prepared to answer—why wasn’t she going with him?
She’d managed to talk her way out of that one, but ever since their conversation, a permanent ache had taken root inside of her, tears forever pooling in her eyes. She knew very well Michael was leaving town, had been unable to think of little else since.
“Yeah, Dad.” She turned back to the shelf and re-straightened the same line of books. “I know.”
“You don’t have to be here, you know.”
Her heart stuttered. Yes, she di
d. If she went home, Lisa would only try to convince her—again—to go stop Michael from leaving. This time, she might succeed.
That was the problem. She wanted to see Michael so badly her chest ached with the need. What good would it do? Nothing would change. Seeing him would only prolong the inevitable and make them both more miserable.
She’d learned from her mother, when you had to end something, make it quick and clean. Her mother had done the same thing with every relationship she’d ever had. When they ended, she simply cut her losses and moved on to the next one. It was easier, less painful, her mother said. Then again, her mother hadn’t ever lingered over emotions. Emotions were useless things that got in the way.
“It’s okay.” She returned to the front counter for another stack of books. “I’m not going to meet him. You should go home. I’ll close up.”
Her father crossed the small space between them, gently took her chin in his palm and forced her to look at him.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.” The quiet tone of his voice was one she knew well. The one that always made her heart lurch with the need to spill her guts.
The same emotion was in his eyes and the truth bubbled from her mouth before she could stop it. While twisting her hands together and staring at the floor, she spilled the entire story, about the pretend engagement and why they’d done it, and more importantly, why she was here instead of with Michael, where she wanted to be.
“The engagement wasn’t real. It was for show. To keep me safe. Our relationship, if you can even call it that, was just a fling. It’s over.”
Her father stood with his arms folded and a thoughtful look on his face.
Cat worried her lower lip. “Are you mad? Michael wanted the charade to be as real as possible.” Her father had only one rule growing up: She would always tell him the truth. She’d never lied to him before, had never been able to. She couldn’t help wondering if he’d be mad they lied not only to him but to everyone. She only hoped he’d understand why.
