The Southern Comfort Series Box Set

by Clark O'Neill, Lisa

  “Like I’ve been shot,” she deadpanned, not wanting him to worry, but her attempt at humor was sorely underappreciated. Josh flashed her an ugly look before moving in more closely so that he could get a peek at the bandages, which he attempted by looking down the front of her gown.

  “Do you mind?” she hissed, fighting the laugh that threatened to spill over. She shot an embarrassed glance toward her brother.

  “Not in the least,” was his soft rejoinder, the faintest trace of amusement back in his tone.

  A pointed ahem from across the bed brought them both around.

  “We’ll be going now,” Karen said, hands resting on the wheelchair’s handles. “Donnie has to get to his therapy session.”

  “Oh joy.” He shot a rueful glance over his broad shoulder, still impressive despite his loss of weight. “Do you think I could pick up some pants on the way so that my rear end isn’t flapping in the breeze?”

  “We’ll ask.” Karen winked at Sam. From the way she’d been looking at her brother, Sam thought that Karen might have enjoyed the flapping.

  After she’d watched them wheel out of her room, Sam turned to Josh. He’d been keeping himself cool in an impressive outward display, but she knew he had to be seething. “Are you okay?” She trailed one hand along his cheek.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted, turning his lips to press against her palm. “I think a big part of me shut down from sensory overload a while ago, and the rest is just running on autopilot. I’m… numb, maybe. There’s anger, and joy, and fear, plain and simple, but it’s like I’m experiencing them through a sort of anesthetized haze.”

  “I believe that’s normal.” Her feelings were fairly similar. Any event as traumatic as the ones they’d both experienced took a while to truly sink in.

  “You’re amazing.” Josh drew her attention back from wayward thoughts. “To have endured everything you’ve gone through and yet to be so concerned with everyone else. There’s not another person,” he told her, lifting her hand for another caress from his lips, “who inspires me the way that you do. You’re my muse. You always have been.”

  “The drawing!” she exclaimed, having been reminded by the talk of muses. “Did you –”

  “I have it,” he assured her with a smile. “It’s hanging in our master bedroom.”

  “So… we still have a master bedroom?”

  “The fire didn’t reach that far. There was a little bit of smoke damage – the smell’s still lingering and I’ll have to have my entire wardrobe dry-cleaned – but otherwise everything’s intact.” Josh’s eyes went watery for a moment. “When I saw that drawing and heard what Simms had to say –”

  Sam touched a finger to his lips. “I know.” .The thought of him living brokenhearted without her was what had given her courage through it all. She’d had no choice but to make it back to him.

  He gathered himself together, dipped his hand into his pocket. It emerged with a small velvet box in the palm. Sam felt sunshine break out all over. All the darkness suddenly banished.

  “For me?” She reached to open it with eager fingers, and Josh laughed at her expression of delight. “It’s a butterfly!” The platinum wings seemed to flutter with the sparkle of inlaid diamonds.

  “YOU like it?” It was so unlike Sam to get girly over anything that he was thrilled to be the one to make it happen. “I started with a two-carat solitaire, but…” That had been more about him proclaiming his ownership than anything to do with Sam’s tastes. Not the foot on which he wanted to get started. “Then I saw this.” His voice went husky as he thought of all that Sam meant to him. Past, present, and future. “It reminded me of you. Not just your tattoo, but…” He hesitated to gather his thoughts. As artistic as he’d always been, his gift wasn’t with words. “You’re like this magnificent, delicate creature that fluttered into my life. And yet you were strong enough to cocoon yourself through some of the worst that life has to offer. It’s sort of a double reminder – how lucky I am to have… caught you, and how beautifully you’ve emerged.”

  Awkward now that the words were out, Josh cleared his throat and stared at the ring. “I can get another if you don’t like it.”

  Sam looked appalled and snatched the box. “It’s perfect,” she told him simply, sliding the butterfly onto her finger. She held it out and waggled it around to watch it play under the fluorescent lights. “So are you.” She grasped his cheeks between her hands and kissed him full on the mouth.

  “As soon as you’re back on your feet again, I’m dragging you down the aisle. Or to the courthouse.” He’d already alerted his family to the fact that they’d better get their suitcases ready.

  “You won’t have to drag me,” she assured him, “I’ll walk right down of my own volition.”

  “You want a big to-do?” he asked, “Or something that can happen quickly?”

  “Quickly,” she said, and Josh realized they were in perfect accord. Given the eight years they’d already spent separated, it couldn’t happen quickly enough.

  EPILOGUE

  “SHE’S amazing,” Josh gushed, besotted with love and a bit of whiskey as he stared across the crowded room at his wife of all of one week. She was costumed as a bright blue butterfly for the Murphy’s Halloween party. She shifted into the light, the glitter on her cheeks dazzling him like magic dust that caused his breath to catch in his throat.

  “If I ever get that sappy over a woman,” Rogan Murphy proclaimed, “I expect you to put me down.”

  He’d addressed the comment to newlywed Clay, tanned from his recent honeymoon. Then Rogan, who’d shown no great stretch of imagination by appearing outfitted as a pirate, eyeballed Clay’s cutesy jailbird costume, the counterpart to Tate’s warden.

  “Never mind.” He sighed as he poured Clay a beer. “Any man in leg shackles who manages to look that damn happy about it isn’t exactly up to the task.”

  Clay laughed, turning to look at the lovely jailor conversing with the eye-catching insect. “I’m happy to see that Sam got over her wariness regarding Tate.”

  Josh waved a dismissive hand, inadvertently catching his fingers in part of his netting. As he worked to extricate himself, Rogan made another noise of disgust. “Couples costumes,” he muttered, sliding the tall pilsner to Clay. “Egad.”

  Ignoring the antagonistic pirate, Josh leveled a friendly look at Clay. “With everything else that’s happened lately, a little social awkwardness was small potatoes. But if any of you ever bring up that bachelor party, I’ll be forced to kill you where you stand.”

  Clay laughed and Rogan snorted. “Whipped.” Rogan shook his head. “My man is an embarrassment to the species.”

  Just then the front door to the bar eased open and the three of them checked out the newcomer. A lovely pirate wench, auburn curls spilling fetchingly from beneath a black silk scarf, peered into the dim interior.

  Rogan emitted a strangled noise.

  As one, Josh and Clay turned to give him bland looks.

  “Your shackle, I presume?”

  Rogan shot Josh a dirty look. “She said she couldn’t make it,” he muttered by way of excuse. His tone was a mixture of chagrin and a note of terror running underneath. Then the look on his face as he glanced at Kim proved his bluster for what it was. All the ducking and running he’d been doing lately had merely turned the key in the lock. “I’ll, uh, catch up with you guys later.”

  “The man’s whipped,” said a feminine voice, and Josh turned to smile at Kathleen. She’d been late to arrive at this particular shindig, so it was the first that he’d seen her.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked, slipping an arm about her shoulder.

  “My stupid brother – the non-whipped one – forgot part of my costume. He was supposed to bring the stuff with him tonight but left it at the house. I had to run all the way out to Dad’s.”

  “What the hell are you supposed to be?” Clay asked, stepping back to look her over.

  Kathleen pointed to the pillow
perched atop her head and the sheet which draped her body. “I’m a bed of roses,” she explained in drawn out syllables. “Obviously.”

  Josh was too close to get the full effect so he moved away to check it out. Sure enough, aside from the linens, she was covered in pinned-on rosebuds. He opened his mouth to make a snide remark but something about her stopped him cold.

  “Where did you get these?” He yanked a rosebud from where it was anchored.

  “Hey,” Kathleen smacked the flower out of his hand. “Get your own costume buddy.” She bent down to pick up the rose.

  “Seriously,” Josh demanded, no trace of humor in the question. “Where did you get those flowers?”

  Kathleen stood with a questioning look on her face and Josh’s tone brought Clay to attention. “From my mom’s rose garden,” she said slowly, obviously wondering what was up. “Well, Declan’s garden, now. He’s been tending it ever since Mom died.”

  Josh sat his whiskey on the bar top. “I’ll kill him,” he said succinctly, and went off to do just that.

  “Josh, wait!” Kathleen called, but he was already scanning the crowd. He spotted his prey lurking as Dracula in a dark corner, deftly sliding his hand around a victim’s neck.

  Josh launched through the air like a rocket.

  “Hey!” Declan yelled, just as Josh seized him by the shoulders. But before he could send his fist through those fangs Clay grabbed Josh and hauled him back.

  “Didn’t we go through this already? I’ve got a weird sense of déjà vu.”

  But Josh was too blindingly furious to pay heed to his friend’s bland comment. “You son of a bitch,” he sputtered at Declan, fighting against Clay’s iron grip, “You’re the one who’s been stalking Sam!” It was the last piece of the puzzle, and Josh finally saw how it fit.

  Declan stiffened for a moment, his gaze darting about at their audience, then he rolled his eyes. “Overdramatic as usual, Harding. Sending your girlfriend a couple tokens of affection could hardly be considered stalking.”

  “She’s my wife,” Josh corrected angrily.

  “Now. Not then.” Declan’s eyes flashed annoyance. “And how was I to know all that when I hired her to strip for Clay’s party?”

  “Easy,” Clay murmured when Josh lunged with renewed vigor.

  Declan backed up a step. “I was just messing with you, Harding. A little payback for that sucker punch.” His eyes darted over Josh’s shoulder and landed behind him with a touch of chagrin. “You’ll have to forgive me, Mrs. Harding. I never meant to cause you alarm.”

  Jerking about to see Sam behind him, Josh’s anger cooled considerably. “Honey,” he greeted her placidly, as Clay released him from his grip.

  “You’re forgiven,” she said pointedly to Declan. The message her eyes telegraphed to Josh was enough of this already.

  Feeling like a couple rowdies hauled into the principal’s office, Josh offered a begrudging truce to Declan. When the other man accepted his outstretched hand he leaned close and whispered a promise. “I ever catch you near her again and they’ll never find your body.”

  Eventually the crowd drifted away, seeking entertainment in other quarters, and Sam ran a hand up her husband’s arm as she smiled over her club soda. “You threatened him, didn’t you?”

  Josh winced and considered a lie. “If I try to deny it will you make me pay for it later?”

  “In the most lascivious manner possible.”

  Josh grinned in open delight. “In that case, Mrs. Harding, I threatened him not at all.”

  Nemesis

  Book Four in the Southern Comfort Series

  PROLOGUE

  SADIE Rose Mayhew was personally acquainted with the devil, and his name was Declan Murphy. She’d suspected as much from the time she was two years old – an angelic cherub of a toddler with platinum wisps of curls that rivaled the gossamer of angel wings – and caught the stench of brimstone emanating from her best friend Kathleen’s new baby brother. His identical twin, Rogan, had lain still and adorable as her most-favorite baby doll when she’d touched a tentative finger to his downy cheek, but Declan had howled like all the hounds of Hell and immediately began reeking of sulfur.

  In retrospect, it was probable that had merely been a bowel movement, but given what she knew of him now she preferred to recollect it as an omen.

  Nothing good would ever come from that boy.

  Nothing good.

  Any proof she needed of his iniquity was standing before her now, dirty-faced and grinning wickedly as he taunted her with a serpent.

  “You get that snake away from me, Declan Fitzgerald Murphy!” Sadie hoped that her use of his full name might have a similar impact on his wicked behavior as when it came from his mother, but apparently she lacked the authoritative tone necessary for the effecting of shamefaced piety. In fact, there was an embarrassing note of desperation in her voice for which she compensated by crossing her arms.

  Declan merely grinned wider, thrusting the wriggling green creature her direction.

  “It’s just a snake,” he said mildly, trying to swallow his expression of delight. The one deep blue eye that wasn’t covered by his messy hair – a sort of deep brown streaked with red that his mother affectionately called “chestnut” – fluttered in a series of blinks that was probably supposed to convey innocence.

  As if.

  He was rotten to his black little soul. Declan had her backed against the old live oak in her grandmother’s backyard – Sadie had lived with her Granny since she was an infant – and the low-hanging branches which swooped to the ground on either side of her, like the gnarled fingers of some ancient tree spirit, proved an effective barricade for blocking any escape attempts. Her eyes, pure and cerulean as the sky which stretched over the creek and acres of chartreuse marshland undulating behind them, fixed helplessly on the nasty little reptile.

  The snake, that is. Not Declan. Its forked tongue darted out and flickered like it wanted to taste her, sending Sadie into a paroxysm of disgust. All their lives he’d known just what buttons to push to send her into fits of either terror or embarrassment, or sometimes a humiliating combination of both. Like the time he’d caught Sadie and Kathleen trying on Kathleen’s older sister’s bra, whooped loudly about them having “boob envy,” and then ran off to tell all of the neighborhood boys, of which he was the evil and undisputed ring leader. There’d been knowing looks and poorly concealed snickers and taunting remarks about her “swollen mosquito bites,” and even a horrifying nickname that it had taken months to make go away: “C.D.”

  Short for Carpenter’s Dream. The old classic “flat as a board and never been nailed.”

  Sadie wished she’d been cool and composed enough to point out their lack of originality, not to mention the fact that at twelve years old she could hardly expect to be either experienced or voluptuous. But ten year old boys weren’t exactly known for their common sense, or for their originality. They still thought that limericks about bodily functions were the funniest thing anyone had ever heard, and that cornering their neighbors with potentially lethal reptiles constituted a Good Plan.

  Sadie glowered at her tormentor, because it was either that or cry over her proximity to the snake, and he did a sort of awkward little dance. She supposed his maneuvering was intended to mimic the snake’s slithering, which he knew from experience gave her the screaming meemies. But in reality it made him look like the idiot he was and she felt her flagging courage rally. This boy – who’d been like her own personal crown of thorns ever since that first incident beside his bassinet (she’d been reprimanded by her grandmother for “messing with the baby and making him fuss”) – deserved to be taken down a peg or two. He couldn’t bully her if she didn’t allow it. They’d been learning about some president or dignitary or… something at school, just before vacation, who’d been made famous for a quote about fearing nothing but fear itself, and so she decided to adopt that laudable attitude.

  Of course, he’d probably never been
eyeball to eyeball with a snake.

  Or with Declan Murphy.

  “You’re right,” she finally said, swallowing hard so that she didn’t choke on the lie. “It’s… just a snake. Nothing to be afraid of.”

  Declan straightened his hipshot stance, looking confused for a moment, but then that single eye narrowed. His dirty cut-offs slid lower and sweat dripped down his skinny expanse of naked chest. “So you’re not afraid of it, Sadie Rose?” His own tongue darted forth dangerously snake-like to lick at his chapped lips, and Sadie shivered compulsively. Just at that moment Declan looked every inch the reptilian predator, waiting to devour her whole in one fell swoop as if she were a rodent in his mother’s garden. He inched forward, close enough that she could smell the stench of brine from where he’d been playing near the creek bed, close enough to see that the mud which smeared his cheek had dried and cracked around his stupid dimple, close enough that he could touch her if he so desired, and judging by the look in his eye that was an option he was considering. Knowing the way his little pea-brain worked, a challenge of some sort was imminent. Probably along the lines of if you’re not scared, then why don’t you touch it?

  “If you’re not scared, then why don’t you touch it?”

  Sadie wished she could feel triumphant over the fact that she’d been able to predict his words before he uttered them, but knowing Declan Murphy like the back of her hand was not a state to which she aspired. In fact, she’d be perfectly happy to forget the little toad ever existed, if he wasn’t constantly reminding her by presenting himself in her presence. She might have been able to avoid him, despite the fact that he lived next door, if it weren’t for the twin curses of being best friends with his sister and the fact that it was summertime in South Carolina. No child in her right mind would spend the endless dog days inside a non-air-conditioned old house that had the unfortunate tendency to reek of mothballs when there was a perfectly lovely tree-house in which to while away the hours, reading Sweet Valley High or sketching the passing shrimp boats.