by Lia Riley
Well, she was alone now and would have to deal with whatever came.
As a rule, killers and extraterrestrials didn’t announce themselves at the front door. Still, this was no time to start taking chances. She grabbed her father’s single-malt by the neck and padded into the living room. The change from bright kitchen to gloom skewed her vision as blood shunted to her legs. Shadows clung to the beamed ceiling and brick fireplace. If the rocking chair in the corner moved, she’d pee her pants. That old gooseneck rocker starred in more than a few of her childhood nightmares—ever since her sister had mentioned that Great-Grandma Carson had died in it.
“Hello?” she called, her voice calm—but, darn, an octave too high. “Who’s there?”
Silence.
The door didn’t have a peephole. This was the Eastern Sierras, a place where shopkeepers left signs taped to their unlocked front doors saying “Went to the bank, back in five minutes.”
Think! Think! What’s the game plan?
Retreat—not a choice. But more whisky was definitely a viable option. She opened the bottle, and the gulp seared her throat. At least the burn helped dissipate the cold fear knotting her stomach. She pressed her lips together while screwing the cap back on. Here goes nothing. Brandishing the bottle like a club, she flung open the door.
A light breeze blew across her face, cool despite the fact it was early July. Five Diamonds Farm sat at four thousand feet in elevation. She glanced around the porch. Empty. Unable to stand the suspense, she stepped forward, her bare toes grazing warm ceramic. A baking dish sat on the mat. Annie knit her brow and crouched—a neighborly casserole delivery? At this hour? Fat chance, but one could hope. She removed the lid, and an invisible fist squeezed her sternum.
If hope was a thing with feathers, all she had was chicken potpie.
Literally.
A toothpick anchored a Post-it note to the crust.
Caught your hen in my tomatoes.
Chicken #2 will be nuggets.
Welcome home.
She tightened her shoulders. No name, but none was needed. This had Grandma Kane’s fingerprints all over it. The crotchety old woman ruled the spread next door, Hidden Rock Ranch, like it was her own personal empire, and she regarded the Carsons as unwelcome squatters.
Annie smashed the note in her fist and hurled it as far as possible. Crud, such a crappy toss—the wadded paper barely cleared the bottom step. She couldn’t even throw right. Three seconds later litterbug guilt struck, and she scrambled to retrieve it.
An engine roared to life near the barn, brake lights illuminating the ponderosa pine grove. Tires kicked up gravel and the horn tooted twice before turning onto the main road.
Enough was enough. The Kanes had once made her life a living hell, and that old woman’s capacity to nurse a grudge went beyond anything remotely sane or reasonable. The one-hundred-and-fifty-year-old feud had to end. This was the twenty-first century, time to leave behind the kerosene-lit dark ages once and for all. After the last terrible year, she was due a little peace.
She tucked her chin to her chest and strode around the house to assess the poultry situation. Five Diamonds might have become a farm in name only, but at least the chicken coop remained operational. As a girl, she loved collecting the eggs, selling them for a few bucks a dozen. The money went to her college fund, but that wasn’t the reason she took over the chore. She loved how when she appeared with cracked corn, the flock approached at warp speed, offering nothing but cheerful clucks. The comical sight never failed to induce a giggle.
Tonight, the hens were quiet in the brooder box and nothing appeared amiss. Relief drizzled through her veins. Grandma Kane must be playing a joke. She probably shopped the poultry specials at the local Save-U-More and—
“Oh, no.” A corner of rusty wire bent at an awkward angle. Annie yanked it as her groan rose to the moonless sky. Nearby, a coyote joined in, harmonizing with a single, mournful note.
There was more than enough wiggle room, even for the fattest hen, to escape. The back fields were overgrown, the orchard was a gnarled jungle, and the house was more weatherboard than paint. Backbreaking chores stretched in every direction. Couldn’t Dad at least have kept the coop in one piece? She fought back a sniffle, dropped the whisky bottle, and wiped her nose before twining the wire around a nail, shaking it a few times to ensure the quick fix held. A better shoring of defenses would have to wait until morning.
In the distance, atop the low rise, a light flicked on. Grandma Kane must have been arriving home. She probably sat on a throne of chicken bones and gnawed drumsticks like a wrinkled Genghis Khan.
Annie clenched her jaw, eyes narrowing. As much as she wanted peace, all necessary recourses were on the table if that woman so much as inched a toe on her property again. There were laws, and they existed for a reason, such as protecting respectable people from bloodthirsty octogenarians. Five Diamonds and its inhabitants were now her responsibility.
Dad packed up his painstakingly restored ’68 VW van and left for his artist residency in Mexico yesterday. He was ready to sell the farm and move on. Before leaving, he mentioned that offers had started to come in for neighboring properties last year—unsolicited and mind-bogglingly high. Brightwater was on the map after Tumbleweeds filmed in the valley, won an Academy Award, and captured the public’s imagination. Sunset Magazine followed up with a feature, “Last Best Secret in the West,” and local property values skyrocketed, LA types snapping up second, third, even fourth homes.
Chest caving, she trudged to the front porch to gather what remained of the wanderlusting hen. A committed vegetarian for years, choking down even a single bite was out of the question. It was hard enough to swallow the fact that with Dad off to Puerto Peñasco and her sister, Claire, running a food truck in San Francisco, Annie was the only person left with the time to deal with Five Diamonds.
Her summer could be distilled to one simple goal—get the old farm ready for sale. With her share of the profit, she would be able to afford the astronomical housing in the Bay Area and move Atticus closer to his beloved aunt. Her mother died not long after Annie’s birth, and Dad wanted to retire south of the border. This was a way for her and her son to have a taste of family life.
The city also had a vibrant tech scene, perfect for an ambitious blogger ready to re-enter the workforce. Atticus would start kindergarten in the fall, and at last she could blow the dust bunnies off her journalism degree. Perfect timing, as Musings of a Mighty Mama exploded this year, going from a hobby mommy blog to pulling in five figures in advertising revenue—low five figures, but a more than promising start. Gregor was legally committed to providing child support, but she needed to figure out a way to stand on her own two feet. A robust blog presence could open the door to a syndicated column on a national website, or a book deal, or—
Something.
But right now what she needed was more coffee cake. After scraping the potpie into the garbage, she snagged the last slice from the Bundt pan. Cinnamon sugar dusted her front as she trekked upstairs to bed. The bathroom’s toilet ran while she brushed her teeth. Wonderful. Add another bullet point to the near-biblical-length “to do” list. Everything in Five Diamonds was leaky—including her.
No! No tears. She practiced water conservation as a rule.
“Nature doesn’t deal in straight lines,” Dad said once, while taking her on one of his “scouts” as he called it, hunting for inspiration. He’d spend weeks trolling river bottoms for just the right stones to place in just the exact swirl, or days creating an elaborate nest from twigs. People called him a genius, and perhaps they were right. He certainly didn’t inhabit the same world as others, floating past broken chicken coops, leaking toilets, and dripping faucets as if they were background static. Reality didn’t interest him, only the beauty and possibility hidden in flotsam and jetsam.
“Look at that tree branch, see the jags and bends?” he had muttered. “Or how about the groovy arc to that pebble? The world isn�
�t a perfect Point A to Point B, Annie. Life’s infinitely more complex.”
It sounded nice the morning he said it beside the river bend, under cottonwoods starting to change color. But alone, in the dark, when you’re almost thirty, divorced, without a clue where you’re going—perfect lines, simple and clear-cut, were infinitely more appealing.
Growing up wasn’t magical; it sucked.
Annie tiptoed into her childhood bedroom and quietly slipped into her pajamas so as not to wake her son. She could always crash in the master, but this room felt right. The matching brass beds, hers and Claire’s, were still covered by the same nine-patch quilts they’d sewed during one long winter in their teens. Atticus slept in one, curled on himself, butt in the air, the awkward pose no adult would find comfortable but kids returned to time and again. She glanced at the empty bed and back to her little one. Not even a question, really. Crawling in beside him, the big spoon to his little, Annie inhaled his scent, a comforting blend of hot chocolate, fabric softener, and boy. The perfect antidote to the farmhouse’s forlorn mustiness.
But the night was an honest time.
She was lost.
The pressure to keep a brave face and feign optimism since the divorce threatened to buckle her knees. But who wanted to hear that story? No one. She needed to be Mighty Mama, the superwoman who taught Atticus a hundred infant signs, ensured there was always a seasonal décor project on the go, and cheerfully concocted homemade laundry powder.
The suitcase against the far wall didn’t hold thongs or sexy lace. It was time to hike up her practical cotton briefs, grab a glue gun, and get back on track. Her career, and more importantly, her son, counted on it.
“I’m going to take care of you, little man.” Atticus stirred at her whisper, murmuring a few jumbled syllables. Outside, the coyote yipped again and the air seemed to vibrate from the melancholy pang. “I’ll take care of everything.”
Tomorrow she’d figure out how.
About the Author
AFTER STUDYING AT the University of Montana-Missoula, LIA RILEY scoured the world armed with only a backpack, overconfidence, and a terrible sense of direction. She counts shooting vodka with a Ukrainian mechanic in Antarctica, sipping yerba mate with gauchos in Chile, and swilling fourex with station hands in Outback Australia among her accomplishments.
A British literature fanatic at heart, Lia considers Mr. Darcy and Edward Rochester her fictional boyfriends. Her very patient husband doesn’t mind. Much. When not torturing heroes (because, c’mon, who doesn’t love a good tortured hero?), Lia herds unruly chickens, camps, beach combs, daydreams about as-of-yet unwritten books, wades through a mile-high TBR pile, and schemes yet another trip. Right now, Icelandic hot springs and Scottish castles sound mighty fine.
She and her family live mostly in Northern California.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Lia Riley
Last First Kiss
Coming Soon
Best Worst Mistake
Give in to your Impulses. . .
Continue reading for excerpts from
our newest Avon Impulse books.
Available now wherever e-books are sold.
CLOSE TO HEART
By T.J. Kline
THE MADDENING LORD MONTWOOD
THE RAKES OF FALLOW HALL SERIES
By Vivienne Lorret
CHAOS
By Jamie Shaw
THE BRIDE WORE DENIM
A SEVEN BRIDES FOR SEVEN COWBOYS NOVEL
By Lizbeth Selvig
An Excerpt from
CLOSE TO HEART
by T. J. Kline
It only took an instant for actress Alyssa Cole’s world to come crashing down . . . but Heart Fire Ranch is a place of new beginnings, even for those who find their way there by accident.
Justin stared at the woman across from him. As familiar as she looked, he couldn’t put his finger on where he might have seen her before. Alyssa wasn’t from around here, that much was certain. There weren’t many women in town who could afford a designer purse, impractical boots, and a luxury vehicle more suited to city jaunts than the winter mountain terrain. But there was something else, some memory niggling at the back of his mind, teasing him, just out of reach.
Her waifish appearance reminded him of a fashion model. She was certainly lovely enough to be one, but the idea didn’t suit the woman standing in front of him. Justin assumed models would be accustomed to taking criticism and judgment, and this woman looked as if she’d crumble if he so much as raised his voice.
That was it, he realized. Behind her sadness, he recognized fear. Justin felt the uncontrollable instinct to protect Alyssa swell in his chest. She might not be his responsibility, but he couldn’t stop the desire to help her any more than he could have let the dog die. When she glanced up at him again, his mouth opened without acknowledgment from his brain.
“D’you know anything about accounting or running an office? You did pretty well with these guys. You could work here for a while, at least until you get your car fixed or figure something out, since my regular help doesn’t seem inclined to answer her phone.”
“I guess, but I couldn’t let you fire her . . .”
What the hell are you doing? He knew she came from money, since she wore a huge wedding ring. Hell, that ring alone should have been enough reason for him to keep his mouth shut, since she was another man’s wife, but his lips continued to move.
Justin laughed out loud, but he wasn’t sure whether it was at himself for his stupidity or her comment. “I can’t fire her; she’s my cousin. But maybe this would be a wake-up call to be more responsible.”
Alyssa gave him a slight smile before ducking her head again. He didn’t miss the fact that she wasn’t able to meet his eyes for more than a few seconds.
“My sister has a ranch with a few guest cabins. I can see if she has one empty. I’m sure she’ll let you stay as long as you need to.”
Her eyes jumped back up to meet his. He could easily read the gratitude, and a hopeful light flickered to life in her eyes. But there was more—a wariness he couldn’t explain and that had no reason to be there.
“Why are you being so nice? You don’t know me.”
Justin shrugged, as if car crashes and late-night emergency puppy deliveries were commonplace for him. “It’s the right thing to do.”
The light in her eyes darkened immediately and she frowned, not saying anything more. He reached for the runt, still in front of the oxygen and barely moving. “I don’t know if this little guy is going to make it,” he warned, slipping the dropper into the puppy’s mouth. He wasn’t surprised when the puppy didn’t even try to suck. It wasn’t a good sign.
“We have to help him,” she insisted, her voice firm as she set the puppy she was feeding back into the squirming pile of little bodies.
Justin looked up at the determination he heard in her voice, the antithesis of the resignation he’d seen there only moments before. His gaze crashed into hers, and he felt an instant throb of desire. He cursed the reaction, especially since she was right, he didn’t know her or her story.
“We? Does this mean you’re staying?” The corner of his mouth tipped upward in anticipation of spending some time with her, finding out how a woman like her ended up in the middle of nowhere like this.
Easy, boy. You’re allowed to help and that’s all. That ring on her finger and that belly say she’s committed to someone else.
Yeah, well, that sadness in her eyes and the fact that she’s alone say something completely different, he internally argued with himself. Justin wondered what happened to his “no romantic entanglement” resolution and how quickly this woman was able to make him reconsider it. But he couldn’t just leave a damsel in distress to figure things out on her own. His father had taught him better than that.
An Excerpt from
THE MADDENING LORD MONTWOOD
The Rakes of Fallow Hall Series
<
br /> by Vivienne Lorret
Lucan Montwood is the last man Frances Thorne should ever trust. A gambler and a rake, he’s known for causing more trouble than he solves. So when he offers his protection after Frances’s home and job are taken from her, she’s more than a little wary. After all, she knows Lord Montwood’s clever smile can disarm even the most guarded heart. If she’s not mindful, Frances may fall prey to the most dangerous game of all—love.
“You’ve abducted me?” A pulse fluttered at her throat. It came from fear, of course, and alarm. It most certainly did not flutter out of a misguided wanton thrill. At her age, she knew better. Or rather, she should know better.
That grin remained unchanged. “Not at all. Rest assured, you are free to leave here at any time—”
“Then I will leave at once.”
“As soon as you’ve heard my warning.”
It did not take long for a wave of exasperation to fill her and then exit her lungs on a sigh. “This is in regard to Lord Whitelock again. Will you ever tire of this subject? You have already said that you believe him to be a snake in disguise. I have already said that I don’t agree. There is nothing more to say unless you have proof.”
“And yet you require no proof to hold ill will against me,” he challenged with a lift of his brow. “You have damned me with the same swift judgment that you have elevated Whitelock to sainthood.”
