Resisting Samantha (Hope Parish Novels Book 10)

by Zoe Dawson

  Chase came around the bed. “Sam, look.” He pointed at the mosquito netting above the bed, the swath draped across the top of the structure.

  “What is that?” he said.

  “It’s the sigil. The one from my gris-gris bag.” I stepped closer to the bed and reached out. The symbol was infused into the netting. “AnnClaire is getting noisier.”

  I reached for her voodoo handbook and flipped to her protection spells. I found what I wanted three pages in. Must be a spell she used often. There was a distinct fingerprint of what look like soot on one of the pages.

  Chase sat down next to me. “What did you find?”

  “Black salt. I think that’s what’s in the tin, and she somehow burned it into the mosquito netting.” A shiver went down my spine. “This is what it says:”

  “During the waning moon, I like to prepare a big batch of Voodoo Black Salt. The Waning Moon means the moon is decreasing in size, moving from the Full Moon towards the New Moon. This is a time to do works that banish, release, reverse. It’s also a good time for purifying and cleansing. Since Black Salt is used for both of these purposes, I spend some time before the full moon to make a big batch of it.

  “This salt protects against negative energy and removes hexes and jinxes.

  “Ingredients: 2 parts sea salt, 1 part scraping from a cast iron pot. For extra protection, add Clary Sage oil, White Sage leaves, crushed, 1 small Jet stone, crushed.”

  I sniffed the pan of black grit. The distinct odor of sage was present, along with a strong scent of evergreen. That was white sage.

  I looked at him. “She’s stepping up her game.”

  “She’s worried,” he said. “I’m going to the shop.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “I was just about to suggest that.” He picked up the gris-gris bag and handed it to me. “Put this on.”

  “Chase.”

  “Come on. It can’t hurt. She’s obviously worried about you. I’d feel better if you wore it.”

  “All right.” I slipped the cord over my head and dropped it beneath my shirt.

  When we got inside the shop, the carnage was heartbreaking. Everything had been pulled out of the cooler—bait, fish, crabs, crawfish—and thrown around the floor, glass cases had been smashed, all the clothing torn to shreds, costly fishing poles broken in half, the fishing line snarled and tangled around lures and tackle. The register tray was open and empty.

  The gris-gris bag heated for a moment, warm against my skin. I covered it with my hand, but I felt nothing against my palm. It must have been my imagination.

  Ethan stood beside Chase, looking sick. “I found it this way. The door was wide open.” He set his hand on Chase’s shoulder. He nodded toward me in greeting. “Miz Wharton.” He held out his hand, “Ethan Fairchild.”

  I’d only seen a picture of Ethan before he went into the Marines. Verity shared it one day over a piece of pie, back before she’d been dating Boone. At the time, she seemed like the weight of the world had been on her shoulders, but I now knew it had been because she had to give up her child, a child fathered by Boone. I immediately thought about the day Scott was born, and the memory wrenched at my soul, squeezing my heart.

  “Samantha, please. Nice to finally meet you. Saw you a few times in Imogene’s.”

  He hadn’t changed, except for being taller and broader through the shoulders and wider across the chest —okay really broad, and really wide. His hair was very dark, black as jet. He still had that intense gaze, and a face made up of angles, not curves, his eyes an intelligent, piercing blue. He also had a close-cropped beard and mustache that added to his dark good looks.

  In that picture he’d looked cute. Well, cute didn’t begin to encompass the man he’d become. Handsome wasn’t the right word, either, not if it conjured up images of the pretty-faced, square-jawed men plastered all over Pinterest. Ethan Fairchild was not pretty. He was striking, serious even when he smiled, and looked like he could easily break someone in half.

  Chase had charisma in spades, and he was handsome, gorgeous, his face beautifully put together, but in contrast, Ethan had animal magnetism, along with an air of danger. I would say it was his military training, but the bad boy vibe I got off his picture had only increased tenfold since he’d grown into a man. I got the same vibe off Chase’s also very striking brother Jake. But Ethan was more centered, with a balance that put me at ease, where Jake was off-balance with more of a lost vibe to him.

  “Oh, I’ve been in more than a few times. Your food is out of this world,” Ethan said, reaching out to shake my hand, his smile broadening.

  I responded automatically, and when our hands clasped, I felt not only his warmth and strength, but his subtle awareness of me as a woman. It was in the ease of his grip, the light pressure of his fingers, and the unspoken appreciation in his eyes. As a greeting, it was both unnerving and charming, and I got the impression that I was very much in the company of a gentleman—and a maverick.

  Chase was viewing the mess, looking shell-shocked. I wrapped my arm around his waist.

  “The plane and the boats?” he asked.

  That piercing gaze intensified along with the danger. “He sank them. If I had been here…”

  “I wouldn’t want you to put your life in danger, Ethan.”

  Ethan’s strong jaw flexed. “I can take care of myself.”

  “All this can be replaced. You can’t. I have insurance.”

  “I’m sorry, Chase,” he said, looking it. “The residence is fine. Looks like he tried to break in, but something must have spooked him, because nothing’s disturbed.”

  “Can you help me pick up this mess?” Ethan nodded. “There are trash bags behind the counter.”

  I grabbed a broom to sweep up the glass.

  “Looks like you’ve had some trouble, here Chase,” Sheriff Mike Dalton, Aubree’s stepfather, she was married to Booker Outlaw, said as he picked his way across the floor. “Anyone hurt?”

  “No, thank God,” Chase said.

  “Well, let me get your report and we’ll start working on this.” He tipped his hat. “Miz Wharton, you going to have any more of that pecan pie?”

  “I do. How many do you need?”

  “Just one.” He smiled. “Lottie wants one for supper tonight.”

  We worked on getting most of the seafood and bait cleared out, and all of the ruined merchandise into trash bags. I caught a ride back to town, Chase’s break-in and broken traps on my mind. This felt personal, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t about Chase. It was about me. But I didn’t know why. Maybe I was just being haunted by AnnClaire. Maybe she had me mixed up with her mother. Maybe I wasn’t in danger at all.

  My memory went back to the day I thought I had seen Kyle Mayhew, and the missing flour. Whoever had taken the flour, he would have known I would be at the market that day.

  I was probably overreacting. Kyle was still in prison, but I would feel better if the sheriff checked.

  “Sheriff, would you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. Anything for the pie maven.”

  I explained to him what had happened, who I had been in New York City, and the day I thought I saw Kyle.”

  “That is something to be concerned about, but if this lowlife is still locked up, doesn’t that rule him out?”

  “I would feel better if you did some digging and made sure for me. Could you keep it quiet? There is no reason to upset Chase.” He nodded.

  When we got back to Imogene’s, I ran in and got him the pie and thanked him for the ride. Unfortunately, I couldn’t talk to Chase, because he still had to replace his cell phone, but he told me he’d be here to pick me up after closing.

  Chapter 17

  CHASE

  While Ethan and I worked on the traps, I called a salvage guy I knew to bring up my boats and the plane. I hoped the fuel tank on the plane hadn’t been damaged.

  “So what’s going on with you and the pretty Miz Wharton?” Ethan s
aid, the knowing light in his eyes telling me he knew exactly what was going on.

  “We’re seeing each other, have been for over a month,” I said, unable to keep the giddiness out of my voice.

  “Yeah, and you’ve got it bad for her, bro. That’s clear.”

  I checked everything that had been ruined off my list while I bagged it, the list getting shorter and shorter until I noticed that three of the high-end hunting bows weren’t anywhere in the trash.

  “Chase?” Ethan prodded when I didn’t answer.

  “The bows are gone. He must have taken them.” I called the sheriff and let him know.

  We went outside when Scooter showed up with his salvage equipment and pulled up the boats and my plane. Damn, it killed me to see my Cessna ruined. I loved that damn plane.

  I called all the clients who were expecting deliveries and let them know I was out of business for about a week. None of them complained. Said they would do a workaround until I could make good on my deliveries. I was blessed with the best kind of customers.

  “What now?” Ethan said as we sat on my front porch stairs and drank a beer.

  I took a sip. Wiped at my brow. “How would you like to do this full time?”

  “Run boats, man the register and fly a plane? Fish in the Gulf. Um…let me think. Hmmmm. Hell, yeah. It’s a no-brainer. I love being outdoors. I love to fish, and you can show me the ropes. I love the idea. I can’t wait to get my hands on those charters over on the Gulf. I saw them in your inventory book.”

  “You have experience hiring people and supervising them at Outlaws.”

  “Yeah, and I ran grunts ragged in the Marines, whipped them into shape.”

  “I’d like you to work out how much staff we need. Figure out a schedule for us. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great. I’ll work for you. What salary are we talking?”

  I grinned and took another swallow, the beer cold and crisp. “How about fifty-fifty?”

  “Fifty-fifty,” he said his brow furrowed.

  “I’m offering you a partnership. You wouldn’t be working for me. You’d be working with me. I’ve always trusted you. I’m sorry about losing touch, and I’m not going to waste any more time. You can buy in with cash, or we can work something out. You’ve seen the profit margin, but I’ll get the lawyer in town to work up a partnership agreement to make it all legal in case something happens to either one of us. How does that sound?”

  He just stared at me for a moment. “You’re serious about this?” I nodded, watching the smile spread across his face. “Working with you? What a slacker. What? Do you put in ten-twelve hour days?”

  “Something like that. But I need to cut back.”

  “You’d probably give me all the shit jobs!” He laughed and slung his arm around my neck and squeezed. “Hell, yeah! Where do I sign?”

  When he let me go we clinked beer bottles, and I was content. I couldn’t get what my momma had said out of my mind. She was right. I wanted to fight. I wanted to give Samantha a family, not drama.

  I was in love with her. That was a gut-deep given. With Ethan as a partner, I would be freed up to give her the time she deserved. I wanted that. Days of free time to make love to her, to take her over to the Gulf to fish, to fly to New Orleans for dinner. I wanted a life with her.

  Part of getting my life back in order was settling my family matters. It was time for action, and I knew exactly what I was going to do to get that on track.

  I left the shop after making plans to meet with the lawyer the next day, to set up the agreement, and for Ethan to buy in. He would also have to give notice to Brax. Braxton would probably kill me for poaching his best bartender, but Ethan was free to pick up shifts there if he wanted to continue to work at Outlaws.

  I pulled into Imogene’s packed parking lot and got out, remembering the first time I laid eyes on Samantha. She was clearing trash out of the place, and I was struck by her beauty, the sad look in her eyes, and the way the sun glinted on her soft brown hair.

  I think I knew then that she was going to be special to me. I’d been watching her a long time, and I think it was because I was waiting for my opening, which I believed would be when she had worked through the grief I saw in her eyes. Now I knew she’d never get over it, but trusted absolutely that she was strong enough to weather it.

  I went up the stairs and in the back way. She was just finishing up. “Ready to go?” I said.

  “Almost.” She picked up her old-fashioned rolling pin and wiped it down, setting it back in the special stand on the butcher block.

  She turned me on just walking around, busy doing her chef thing, and I sneaked up behind her and wrapped my hands around her waist.

  I had often fantasized about coming into the kitchen and up behind her. Doing what my dirty male brain wanted.

  I ran my hand down her back, my heart thudding.

  “Hey,” she whispered softly.

  “Hey,” I said, squeezing her breast through the silk of her shirt, kneading it. I wanted to feel her skin against my palm, her hard nipple pebbling, showing me how much she wanted this, wanted me to do this to her.

  I wrapped her up in a tight, enveloping embrace. My fingers tangling in her hair, I clasped her head against me as I brushed the back of her neck with a soft kiss.

  There was a trace of humor in her voice. “Wow,” she murmured, massaging my biceps. “If I’d known domestic chores would get you this hot, I’d have done this sooner.”

  I hauled in a lungful of air and flattened my hand against her stomach, and it was as if my touch had uncorked an even more fiery need in her. She pressed her bottom into my groin, setting my dick to throbbing. But this wasn’t about me. I slipped my hand beneath the waistband of her jeans, thumbing the tab and releasing the zipper, my fingers seeking and finding her wet, soft, core.

  “Chase,” she whispered in a voice that urged me on. “Oh, God.” Her legs widened when I moved my hand, and she made a low sound. Her head fell back and I brushed my mouth against hers, telling her exactly what I wanted to do and how I was going to do it. My words made her knees buckle, but I held onto her in a firm grip. Her entire body vibrated with need, her hips moving with my rhythm. My breath was ragged against her mouth, my fingers relentless.

  She reached up over her head and slipped her hand around the back of my neck, pulling at my hair. I wanted her to get as much pleasure as she could from my touch. I delved under her shirt and her bra, grasping her breast and pinching her nipple. Then I covered her mouth in a hot, wet kiss, and she groaned. I was the only solid thing in her spiraling universe. My touch dragged her down deeper, and she gripped me, her nails dug into my biceps, as I sent her spinning out of control.

  I tightened my hold on her, whispering dirty things in her ear as I urged her on. Her hips jerked with one last stroke, and I took her over the top. She stiffened and sobbed out my name as her release ripped through her, turning her into raw energy in my arms. My hand still hard against her, I whispered my approval, turned her so she was flush against me, wrapping her up in a fierce hold.

  “Let’s go finish this at home,” I said.

  We went at each other again when we got home and, exhausted and replete, we lay in bed afterward, the soft strains of classical music playing.

  “You think you can throw something together?” she said.

  “I’m the master of leftovers. Be right back.”

  In her fridge I found a white sauce chicken pizza, some leftover artichoke dip, steak, and some asiago cheese. Opening the cupboard, I grabbed some tortilla chips, dumped the bag of chips onto a plate, cut up the pizza, dabbed on the dip, and cut up the steak, then sprinkled the cheese. I popped the plate in the microwave and—violá—five-layer leftovers!

  I grabbed two beers and went back upstairs. “That smells amazing,” she said, breathing deep as I handed her the beers and settled in the middle of the bed.

  She rose and grabbed my T-shirt from the floor and dropped it over her head. I u
nscrewed the beer bottle top and took a swig, setting the bottle on the nightstand.

  She dug in and I handed her a napkin.

  “Oh, my God. This is so good.” She leaned forward and kissed me. “You are the master.”

  I bowed and laughed. “Living alone for so long, I got used to doing some interesting combinations. You’d be surprised how good some of them taste.”

  “I’m the chef, and I’m blown away to discover so many flavors together could be so tasty.”

  “River used to wake me up sometimes at night when she got hungry. That girl could eat. We’d go downstairs and raid the fridge. Our cook was out of this world amazing, so there was some high-end food. I especially loved caviar. It goes with anything.”

  “Oh, my God, Jeff and I used to do that. Get up in the middle of the night and throw together meals. He often cooked at the firehouse, and was very good at it. One time we made margaritas and danced around singing the ‘Put the lime in the coconut’ song, laughing like fools. I had Scottie on my hip and his laugh—”

  She froze and looked at me, her eyes a deep well of green. Inhaling deeply, I stared back at her, my stomach dropping like a rock when I saw the stark, distressed expression in her eyes. Then she covered her face and started to cry.

  I moved the plate onto her night table and hauled her into my arms, rocking her through the gut-wrenching sobs. It seemed like an eternity before she cried herself out, her harsh weeping dwindling to the occasional ragged sob. Her voice watery, her mouth pressed to my neck, she said, her voice full of anguish, “Child loss is a loss like no other. Even my ‘good’ days are harder than you could ever imagine. I have tried to get over this grief, but after two years, it never has abated.”

  “There will never come a day, hour, minute, or second when you stop loving or thinking about your son. You’ll love him unconditionally forever. You can talk to me about him whenever you feel the need. Whatever you need, babe.”

  She looked up and met my eyes, and I wished I could take away her pain, take it on myself to spare her, but I knew I couldn’t. “Only someone who has lost a child can understand the agony of enduring his death. He was the joy of my life. I loved Jeff, but—and I feel guilty about this—the pain of his loss has faded. Scottie’s just stays intense and steady.”