Wounds That Won’t Heal
Calle J. Brookes
Lost River Lit Publishing, L.L.C.
Contents
Also by Calle J. Brookes
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
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Epilogue
Excerpt “Ruining the Rancher”
Also by Calle J. Brookes
Other Titles by Calle J. Brookes
* * *
Paranormal
* * *
DARDANOS Paranormal Romance
* * *
Live or Die
The Blood King
The Seer’s Strength
The Warrior’s Woman
The Healer’s Heart
Once Wolf Bitten
Awakening the Demon’s Queen
The Wolf’s Redemption
The Wolf God & His Mate
God of Nightmares
* * *
DARDANOS: THE LAQUAZZEANA
* * *
A Warrior’s Quest
Out of the Darkness
Warrior Blind
The Witch
Balance of the Worlds
The Healer’s Soul
* * *
DARDANOS: THE ADRASTOS
* * *
The Outcast
The Forlorn
The Beloved
The Betrayed
* * *
Romantic Suspense
* * *
PAVAD: FBI ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
* * *
Beginning (Prequel 1)
Waiting (Prequel 2)
* * *
Watching
Wanting
Second Chances
Hunting
Running
Redeeming
Revealing
Stalking
Ghosting
Burning
Gathering
Falling
Hiding
* * *
Suspense/Thriller
* * *
PAVAD: FBI Case Files #0001
“Knocked Out”
PAVAD: FBI Case Files #0002
“Knocked Down”
PAVAD: FBI Case Files #0003
“Knocked Around”
* * *
FINLEY CREEK SERIES
* * *
TRILOGY ONE
* * *
Her Best Friend’s Keeper
Shelter from the Storm
The Price of Silence
* * *
TRILOGY TWO
* * *
If the Dark Wins
Wounds That Won’t Heal
* * *
MASTERSON COUNTY SERIES
* * *
Seeking the Sheriff
Discovering the Doctor
* * *
COMING SOON
* * *
As the Night Ends (Finley Creek Trilogy 2)
Seeking (PAVAD: FBI Romantic Suspense 15)
Ruining the Rancher (Masterson County)
Denying the Devil (Masterson County)
* * *
Calle J. Brookes is first and foremost a fiction writer. She enjoys crafting paranormal romance and romantic suspense. She reads almost every genre except horror. She spends most of her time juggling family life and writing while reminding herself that she can’t spend all of her time in the worlds found within books. Calle J. loves to be contacted by her readers via email and at www.CalleJBrookes.com.
* * *
Calle has several free reads available at CalleJBrookesReads.com
* * *
For my grandfather, the best man I have ever known.
You will be missed.
Oct. 2015
* * *
For my grandmother, who gave m
e the courage to try. Without you and your love of romance, I never would have made it this far.
Feb. 2016
* * *
Sign Up For Calle’s Newsletter to receive
Updates and exclusive scenes here!
* * *
Wounds That Won’t Heal
* * *
Calle J. Brookes
* * *
Lost River Lit Publishing, L.L.C.
Springs Valley, Indiana
Est. 2011
* * *
The Lost River Lit Publishing, L.L.C. name and imprint are the sole properties of independent publishers Calle J. Brookes and B.G. Lashbrooks. They cannot be reproduced or used in any manner; nor can any of their publications or designs be used without expressed written permission.
* * *
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, or locations, is entirely coincidental.
* * *
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
* * *
Copyright © 2017 Calle J. Brookes
Cover by Lost River Lit Publishing, L.L.C.
All rights reserved.
* * *
Wounds That Won’t Heal
* * *
Finley Creek
Book 5
* * *
FINLEY CREEK
BOOK 5
“O what to me my mother’s care,
The house where I was safe and warm;
The shadowy blossom of my hair
Will hide us from the bitter storm.”
* * *
-WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
1
Dr. Rafael Holden-Deane followed the directions listed on his phone to the address that had been on the letter he’d received. The neighborhood was nice, but he hadn’t expected to have to show his ID and state his purpose for entering a public street. The guardhouse just beyond the intersection had been surprising, to say the least.
The hassle pricked his already frayed temper and made him even unhappier about his current situation. He’d expected a business office; something sleeker, more professional than what appeared to be a garage. It was attached to a decently large house that had been well-maintained, but it was still a garage.
The rest of the neighborhood was a little more upscale, but appeared deserted. And if he wasn’t mistaken, there were security guards driving around. Watching him.
Rafe rang the doorbell to the house impatiently. No one answered, which just increased his impatience. He had a full schedule of appointments that morning and this was one distraction that he did not need.
He crumpled the letter in his hand and cursed his own antecedents for a moment. As he waited, and waited. As he rang the doorbell again, and again.
The garage beckoned and he headed that way before he heard the singing.
Feminine, and very beautiful.
He turned toward the sound. He walked in the direction of the back of the house and kept going. The singing got louder. He found the siren bent over a bed of flowers, with earbuds in her ears.
Rich red hair was pulled back into a bun, and a sweet little rear end was wiggling along to the music in her head.
Rafe took a moment to appreciate the sight.
The woman turned, and screamed.
He grabbed her just before she tripped over the potted plants behind her. Or brought those damned security guards running. “I apologize, miss. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
She pulled the earbuds from her ears and jerked out of his arms. “Who are you? What are you doing back here? Where are the security guards?”
Rafe stepped back. He recognized real fear. He’d lived with it as a constant visual for the last four years. “They allowed me in.”
“You had to be on a list to get in here.”
“I heard the singing. Are you Ms. Beck?”
“Yes—”
Some of his annoyance returned. He waved the letter between them. “Then you can take this and know that whatever these leeches are wanting, I want nothing to do with them.”
He thrust the letter into her hands. Light brown eyes widened and her hands came up defensively. As if she expected him to strike her. To hurt her. Rafe stepped back again.
She looked down and read the letter quickly, eyes widening slightly. “This...you’re...”
Rafe still had ahold of her with one hand. The skin he touched was incredibly soft. Pale and beautiful, with a light smattering of golden freckles. He dropped his hand quickly. She only came up to his mid-chest—he was a tall man at almost six-seven—and he could probably just scoop her right up. Did she realize how vulnerable of a position she was in? A woman wasn’t always safe even when at home. “And you should really lock your damned gate. Even with those security guards. I could have been anyone coming back here. Don’t you have some sense of self-preservation?”
* * *
Jillian Beck stared at the huge man glowering at her for a moment. Was he actually lecturing her, in her own backyard? “Mr. Holden-Deane, I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. I’m not—”
“I rarely make mistakes, Ms. Beck. I’ve seen gold-diggers before. All types. Though you don’t look like you’d be the type to get involved in that.” He shot a look at the old shorts she wore and the light flannel shirt she’d removed the sleeves from years ago. The derision wasn’t hard to miss.
Oh. One of those kinds of men, then. She’d met her fair share of them over the last few years—the medical profession was full of arrogant men. “There is more than one Ms. Beck, you moron. In fact, counting cousins, there are thirteen of us. I think. I’d need to recount after recent marriages. Something I think you should consider. This is my sister Melody. She uses her maiden name professionally, as a safety precaution. I’m Jillian. Her younger sister.”
He scowled at her. “Then you can deliver the message to your sister. I don’t want anything to do with the people she mentioned in that letter. They’ll need to find their meal-ticket some other way.”
Jillian thought of the people in that letter needing a meal ticket and she almost doubled over laughing. If there hadn’t been a giant right in front of her, she would have. But men didn’t like to be laughed at—even when they deserved it—and she hadn’t missed the fact that she was alone with this…creature. “Believe me, they don’t need someone like you as a meal-ticket. They do just fine on their own.”
One of the names on that list was the wealthiest man in St. Louis. The others were his younger sisters and brother. All friends of Jillian’s. And other than the teenaged boy being raised by the eldest sister, fully capable of taking care of themselves.
“I don’t appreciate being laughed at.”
Something about his words triggered an immediate hostility in Jillian that she didn’t expect. He reminded her of someone; someone who still gave her cold chills deep in the middle of the night when she was alone and vulnerable. When the nightmares came and the wounds reopened.
Her hand rose to her neck, where the three-inch scar would always serve as a permanent reminder. That monster had said something similar before he had nearly slit Jillian’s throat ago. Jillian sobered as just how alone with this man she didn’t know she actually was.
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