Sticks and stones may threaten bones, but her words can conquer both body and soul.
Books of the Kindling, Book 3
During his law enforcement career, Sheriff Jake Moser has been called to Woodruff Mountain a few times to deal with some rather weird situations. Now, recovering from a bullet wound that should have killed him and fending off his mother’s ravings about the evil that lurks on the mountain, he’s making alternate career plans.
Just as those plans begin to take shape, someone starts kidnapping newborn babies, then returning them unharmed. To make things even more interesting, an irritating adversary from his past has returned to bedevil him in a whole new, delightful way.
After her erratic psychic gift forced her to abandon her home and a promising musical career, Thea Woodruff has spent years trying, unsuccessfully, to atone for the death of Becca Moser, Jake’s sister. Once she has mourned those she’s lost and apologized to those she’s failed, she intends to flee her mountain once again.
Jake would rather she stay to compose a new tune—with him. But their complicated harmony reveals a guilty secret that threatens not only their future, but their lives…
Warning: A temperamental flute-player returns to torment an old flame, but he has other ideas, and the music they make together is combustible—and magical.
Making Magic
Donna June Cooper
Dedication
To Holly, who always says “You can do this”
Prologue
For a moment he thought he actually saw the bullet in midair. It was spinning hot silver sparks as it sped toward him. That was impossible, of course. But Sheriff Jake Moser was well acquainted with the impossible.
It plowed into his stomach, folding him up and dropping him to the ground. His skull bounced off the wood floor and stars flickered before his eyes.
Dammit.
There were frantic screams and what sounded like people pushing over chairs as they scrambled to safety. Someone stepped on his leg. Oddly, the pain was reassuring. At least he could still feel his leg.
“Get him!” one person yelled.
“Stop him!” shouted another.
The noise seemed to recede. With a start, Jake realized he was the one who was fading.
“Jake, Jake, Earthquake. Jake, Jake, Beefcake. Jake, Jake, Cupcake. Jake, Jake, Hotcake.”
Becca?
Why in the hell did he do this? Give up his own dream to walk in his father’s shoes—walk right into a damn bullet. Just like his father.
“Hang in there, Jake.” That was Evan Meade, Chief of Police of Patton Springs.
Nothing to hang on to down here except floor, thanks, Jake thought, still clinging to the echo of his sister’s voice singing that silly rhyme in his head.
Someone pressed down on the pain, shoving it right up into his head and making those stars flicker again. “Shit.” Jake hissed.
It was Evan, checking him over for an exit wound.
“He’s conscious at least,” someone said.
He’d always thought this would happen one day, but not at a town council meeting. Sheriff Jake Moser was destined to get shot answering a domestic violence call or on a drug bust, not at a damn town council meeting.
“But he’s not bleeding that much.” A woman said somewhere above him.
“It’s the internal bleeding we have to worry about.” Evan answered in a quiet voice. Probably thought Jake couldn’t hear him.
Jake heard a siren wail to a stop outside, but it wasn’t the paramedics. They would take longer. He needed to fight his way out of this fog. He needed to stay lucid.
“Is she okay?” Jake asked, or thought he asked. It may have sounded different to Evan.
“Take it easy, Jake.”
“He’s asking about the mayor,” the woman said.
“She’s fine, Jake. We got the shooter,” Evan said. “One of your guys is taking him outside. Just relax.”
“That was her ex-husband, you know,” the woman said to Evan. “The mayor’s.”
He finally recognized the speaker. One of the trio of women who had been sitting at the back of the room before all the fun started. Long ago Jake had labeled them the Patton Springs Triumverate. They were the backseat drivers at every council meeting—trying to drive the town back into the past. Now he imagined all three of them hovering above him, cackling like those crazy witches in Macbeth. Shit.
But this particular witch was right. It had been the mayor’s ex. And her ex had clearly either been on some drug or in desperate need of one. Probably jonesing for hillbilly heroine—oxycodone. He’d seen it on the man’s sallow, sweaty face and wild eyes as he had shambled toward the council. Of course, Jake had been more focused on the huge gun the guy had been waving around, especially since Jake had come to the meeting in civvies. Without his vest.
He had been sitting there listening to the Triumverate’s loudly voiced complaints about the criminal element that the annual music festival brought to town. In their esteemed opinions most of the musicians were deviants or worse. He’d ignored their hushed whispers about how the county sheriff—Jake himself—played in one of the bands they were complaining about. Instead of worrying about the area’s drug problem, which was growing by the week, the Triumverate was more worried about the damn noise level from the music festival, and blamed the annual event for year-round crime issues.
All he had intended to do was answer any questions about law enforcement coverage for the event—street closures, security and so on—and get out of there before the usual gossip fest began. But the mayor’s ex had shown up, apparently upset about his child support payments. A few moments later and Jake was on his back with a hole in his gut.
Funny thing, Jake didn’t feel as bad as he knew he should. Maybe he was dying. Or worse, maybe he wasn’t.
That thought made him open his eyes.
Yep, the Triumvirate was looming over him, along with Evan. What looked like half the populace lurked beyond them.
“Stay with the sheriff while I get these people outta here, will ya, Charlie?” Evan growled. “And keep pressure on this. I’m gonna find out what’s taking the ambulance so damn long.”
“I’m on it,” Charlie said.
Charlie Sloan was his best deputy and the one slated to step in for Jake if he was out of commission. He was definitely out of commission now.
Jake watched Charlie’s face come into view above him, pale and concerned. Oddly, even though Charlie was practically leaning on the wound, the pain had become distant and dull. He heard Evan and another of his men rounding up the gawkers.
“Dammit, Jake. Were you that desperate for a vacation?” Charlie said. The look on his face belied his words.
“Hell no,” Jake croaked. “I’m in this…for the long term…disability.”
“I knew it. You’ve been angling for more time to fiddle around in Donnie’s shop.” Charlie’s smile looked forced. “Get it? Fiddle?”
“You trying to…kill me…with that crap?”
The building had gone silent. The three witches had been corralled outside with the rest and he heard the ambulance siren at last.
“You ain’t gonna die, Moser. Your hide is too thick.”
If the bullet was where he thought it was, he wondered what the EMT guys would make of his thick skin. Shit. “Charlie?”
“Yeah, Jake.”
“Get to my…mom before someone else does. Tell her I’m…okay.”
“I’ll bring her to the hos
pital myself,” Charlie said. “And I’ll keep an eye on her for you.”
“Thanks.” He knew his voice was a slur. He was so…very…tired.
“Anyone else you want me to call? Eric? The Woodruffs? They’ll wanna know.”
His brother Eric had fled across the continent to get away from all the drama. And this past year had been bad enough for the Woodruffs without adding this kind of trauma.
Some befuddled part of his brain offered up a memory of Thea Woodruff dressed all in black standing in the shadows at her grandfather’s funeral.
“No,” he answered as everything slid away into darkness.
Chapter One
Thea swiped ineffectually at her dripping nose with a wad of tissues as she stood at the desk of her father’s personal assistant. It would be very ironic if a microscopic virus derailed years of careful planning.
“Your daughter is here to see you.”
The announcement had the condescending tone her father’s assistant always used. It had never been “Ms. Woodruff,” but always “your daughter”. From the moment she’d walked in the doors of Hartford five years ago, that little cloud of nepotism had hung over her head.
But it didn’t matter. When she walked out of here today, she would never have to hear that tone again. And she would take that oh-so-perfect flower arrangement out of the vase on the witch’s desk and pour the water over that oh-so-perfect blonde chignon of hers. Or at least she would visualize doing it.
The thought made Thea smile as she stuffed the tissues back into her pocket. Her father opened the door to his office for her and she stepped inside.
Marshall James Woodruff exuded health and vitality—and power. With only hints of gray in his auburn hair and very few wrinkles in his pale freckled skin, he looked much younger than his fifty-six years would suggest.
“That went even better than we expected. Even if the stock takes a hit, it will recover even higher in a few days. I call that a gigantic win, considering how it could have gone.” He reached for the decanter of brandy waiting on the credenza. “Will you have a drink to celebrate, Althea? I would invite you out to celebrate with Dave and Hal and I, but you know how that would look.”
“I imagine it would look as if you were actually celebrating paying out four billion dollars in fines and forfeitures,” Thea said in a cool voice. “Your marketing geniuses wouldn’t approve.”
He didn’t react, but poured himself a generous amount. “It has been a long five years.” He admitted as he turned to her. “In fact, we’ve fought this damn thing since you walked in the door, haven’t we?”
“Yes, sir, you have.”
“Are you still fighting off that bug?” He frowned. “If you would take some Synprex-D, you’d be breathing free, instantly.” He almost sang the stupid jingle.
She casually walked over to shut the door and enjoyed the slight sound of disapproval this got from his blonde gatekeeper.
He raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about?” Then he gave her one of those boyish grins that had won over the hearts of politicians and stockholders everywhere. “Are you going to hit me up for a raise, young lady?”
Thea went to pick up her briefcase and pulled out what was probably the most dangerous piece of paper in the building, if anyone understood what it signified. It had taken her days of wording and rewording to prune it down to a few concise statements. She pulled out an ivory linen envelope as well.
“No,” she said. “I am offering you my resignation, as of Monday.” Her voice was as steady as she could manage. “Since I secretly encouraged the Qui Tam whistleblowers and did everything legally possible to support the DoJ’s case, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to continue working for Hartford.”
For a moment, there was an expression of complete surprise on his face. It was rapidly replaced by fury. His green eyes turned to ice and that fair complexion flushed furious red. The amber liquid in his glass sloshed.
“You…what?”
Thea enjoyed that moment, reveled in it for as long as she dared. Then took a deep breath and used the voice. “Until I open that door to leave, you will remain quiet and calm. You will listen to everything I am about to tell you. You will do everything I say with the same determination that you have in all of your affairs. You will do nothing to indicate that these directives came from anywhere but your own mind. You will accomplish these as swiftly as possible, displaying the same business acumen and attitude as always.”
Her father’s flushed expression faded into a blank sheet. His eyes went flat as her voice reverberated around them. Thea pressed cold fingers to her temple and willed away the twinge that promised a headache soon. Between that and the damn virus, the drive home tonight was going to be an endurance test.
“Item one: you will do nothing to retaliate against any of my friends or associates because of my resignation.” Thea read on through the list. She had timed this to the minute and didn’t dare risk an interruption. It had been painful to include only the most critical demands and some things, some very precious things, had to be eliminated to save time.
The headache continued to grow as she read. All too soon she’d reached the last item on the list, but it was the best she could do. Sweat had started to bead on her father’s forehead and a trickle of red showed at the edge of one nostril. Time to wrap things up.
“You will do all of this in addition to meeting all of the demands of the five-year Corporate Integrity Agreement with the Department of Health and Human Services, and you will follow that agreement without fail, with no attempt at deceit or evasion.”
With her briefcase strap over her shoulder, Thea strode over to his desk, placed the envelope on his blotter and picked up his expensive cigar lighter. She set fire to the list and held it carefully over his trash can, making sure nothing remained but ashes. She dusted off her fingers and returned to stand in front of him.
She held out a tissue. “Wipe your nose and give it back to me.”
He did so, with stiff motions. She tucked the bloody tissue into her briefcase. To see that proud, expressive face so blank and malleable was…distasteful. She remembered seeing him like this before, but that had been ages ago, back when she had been young and much more innocent.
She had been terrified then, too, commanding him to let her and her brother and sister stay on Woodruff Mountain with their grandfather and leave them all in peace. Things weren’t so different after all. But now she recognized what she was doing for what it was—violation.
She shook her head and pressed on. “You will forget that I told you I encouraged the whistleblowers or was involved in the DoJ’s case in any way. You will forget that I planned to resign. You will remember only that we chatted about the case and I congratulated you on the settlement. You will not open that envelope until Monday. You will accept my reasons for resigning and will not question or investigate those reasons any further. You will leave Grace and Daniel and I, and our families and friends alone. You will not interfere with or pry into anything we do in any way. You will stay away from Woodruff Mountain. You will not do anything to question or challenge Pops’s will. You will not attempt to take Woodruff Mountain away from Grace or her heirs or try to develop the mountain or the land around it. Ever.” She walked toward the door. “When I say ‘dad’ you will say goodbye to me and tell me, in front of your assistant, to take a couple of weeks off because I deserve it.”
As she opened the door, she looked back over her shoulder and smiled. “I’ll be sure and tell them you said so, Dad,” she said, her voice normal once more.
“Goodbye, Althea. And you take a couple of weeks off. You deserve it after all your hard work on this case,” her father said, oblivious to the last five minutes.
“Thank you.” Thea smiled brightly at his assistant, who glared right back. Calm and casual, she walked across the elegant waiting area to the glass doors and out i
nto the quiet corridor. It was floored in plush carpet and hung with original oil paintings that were probably worth more than what Hartford would end up paying for this record-breaking settlement with the US government.
Thea felt as if shards of ice were being driven through her skull, but she kept smiling in spite of the nausea until she got past the secured doors and reached the elevator lobby. She still had to make it down to ground level and into a taxi. She had packed something in her tote that she could take for the headache. She stared at the elevator doors, willing the car to arrive. Despite it all she still managed a sigh of relief.
It was over. It had to be done, and the most distasteful part—the part that had given her a headache—was over.
No one would ever know that she had hand-picked the whistleblowers and smoothed the way for the DoJ’s case to succeed. She imagined some lawyers at the DoJ were scratching their heads over the whole thing even while they celebrated.
All it had taken was a trained attorney with unlimited access who knew what to look for and where to look and how to get it into the hands of the right people without detection. The combined years of experience and expertise of those she had found who were willing to expose Hartford’s dangerous and deceptive practices had been overwhelming. Almost all of the people she had selected had come forward and exposed Hartford’s moral and ethical wrongdoing. And she hadn’t had to use the voice once throughout the whole ordeal—until now.
There had been times when it felt as if she was living through one of those espionage movies, only she didn’t need a cloak or a dagger.
It’s over. Ten years later, Becca, and we finally kicked them in the teeth. But it’s not enough.
“And here she is—Hartford’s secret weapon.”
She nearly staggered sideways. She had been standing with her head down, like an exhausted animal. She turned to find Greg Whitehead smiling at her. The admiring expression in his eyes quickly turned to one of concern.
“Althea, you don’t look so good.” He took her arm. “Are you all right?”
Making Magic: Books of the Kindling, Book 3 Page 1
