Home Again (The Shepherdsville Series Book 2)

by Shawna Lynn Brooks

  “Maren…” he trailed off. “All of this has gone far enough, don’t you think?”

  What? The arguing? The posturing over the farm?

  The kissing?

  Definitely.

  “Yeah, it has.”

  “Are you ready to do something about it? We can solve some problems and return your life to normal.”

  Am I? She did want to take charge of her life—to stop reacting and start fixing. She wanted peace.

  “I don’t know.”

  “We—” The phone on his desk buzzed, and he scowled down at it. “I’ve got to take that. But we can settle this, okay? Just keep an open mind.”

  An open mind. I know what that means.

  Let go of the farm. Her heart ached at the thought.

  “I’ll let you get back to work.” She stepped towards the door. “I’ll call the Register and see what I can do to repair your reputation.”

  “Don’t worry too much about my reputation.” He picked up the receiver with a roguish smile. “I like being called a scoundrel every now and again. Kind of has sex appeal, don’t you think?”

  Oh, brother. “Goodbye, Jack.”

  Maren made her way through the building, her grandparents’ farm weighing heavily on her mind. When she’d admitted how much she wanted Jack, she’d realized how close that came to caring for him. As long as she had an anchor here, she would hang on to the past and the wish that she and Jack could have been something more. Could she let go of the farm?

  I don’t know. Giving up her grandparents’ home would be almost as painful as giving up her grandparents had been. But she had to do something.

  Maren pushed open the outside door and a blast of warm wind blew across her face. The sky had darkened, and beams of sunlight shone in patches through thick, dark clouds. She hoped she could make it home before the rain came. At least she hadn’t shown up in Jack’s office looking like a drowned kitten.

  Inside her purse, her cell phone chirped. She frowned and stuck her hand inside, then rooted around while the phone rang two more times. Jack had sensed her weakening, and he wanted to push his advantage. Why else would he call her before she could even get out of the parking lot?

  Her fingers bumped against the phone’s edge, and she fished it out and slid her finger across the screen without even looking.

  “I’m leaving, Jack,” she laughed.

  “Maren?”

  The blood drained from her face. That voice didn’t belong to Jack.

  Francie.

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter Ten

  She swallowed hard, and her fingers tightened on the phone. “Sorry. Hi, Francie.”

  “I left you a voicemail. I haven’t heard from you.” The polite concern in the other woman’s voice barely hid her impatience. “Did you drop off the face of the earth?”

  Maren took a steadying breath. “No, just busy.”

  “Really? Thought you were going back home to relax.”

  What’s going on? Why had she called? She liked Francie, but Maren couldn’t handle much idle chit chat when she knew the call had to have a purpose. Maren slid into her car just as the first drop of rain landed on her windshield, cradling the phone against her ear. “I’ve been gone a long time. There were a lot of things that needed my attention. What’s up?”

  “Who’s Jack?”

  Maren almost groaned out loud. She and Francie had known each other for several years, ever since Maren had worked for her as a law student. When things had fallen apart with Bill, she’d called Francie first. Francie was a good enough attorney to know everything that had gone wrong over the last year, and a good enough friend to know how Maren felt about it.

  Bill hadn’t even been gone a month. Francie would think Maren had lost her mind.

  “No one. What gives? Should I be worried?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Uh-oh. She cranked the engine and laid her phone on the console. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Carson has a search warrant for your storage unit.”

  A cold chill trickled down her neck. “Why? I didn’t do anything. They let me go. Why are they still after me?”

  “Because Bill isn’t here for them to harass.” She sighed. “They want blood, and if they can’t have his, they’ll settle for yours.”

  Maren leaned back against her seat and stared out the window. “They think I helped him, don’t they? They think Bill and I were a team.”

  “Probably. To them, everyone is a suspect.”

  Her shoulders sagged. A small part of her had hoped her cooperation would convince Agent Carson she was innocent. Apparently not. “Fine. Let them look. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  Francie snorted. “Too late. I didn’t find out about it until they were executing. Your storage unit is a wreck. They took a couple of boxes, but I don’t know what was in them.”

  Maren swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. “What were they looking for?”

  “I have no idea.” Francie hesitated before continuing. “You didn’t have anything of Bill’s in there, did you?”

  “We were engaged, and he took off without warning. Of course I had some of Bill’s things. That doesn’t mean anything. Does it?” Laughter caught her attention, and Maren glanced out the side window. A man and a woman strolled through the parking lot in the sprinkling rain, the man holding an umbrella over her head and the woman reaching up to kiss the man’s cheek. Maren’s stomach tumbled. Had she ever felt that way about Bill?

  No. In high school, she’d felt that way about Jack. Not Bill, though. Their relationship had been more about intellect and mutual respect and less about affection.

  Ha. It had been short on respect and intellect, too. What a mess.

  “I would love to say no, but Carson was awfully proud of himself. He thinks he’s on to something.”

  “How could he be?” Maren asked. “I gave him everything I had.”

  “Look,” Francie began, her voice the calm and reasonable tone usually reserved for toddlers, “I know this hasn’t been easy for you, but I need you back here. Leaving town made them wonder what you have to hide.”

  “Carson already wondered what I had to hide,” Maren shot back. “And I do plan to come back soon. I just have a few more things to tie up here.”

  “Do any of those things involve jail time?”

  Ouch. “No.”

  “Then your problems here are more serious. Come back.”

  Maren fought off a wave of panic. They had questioned her and let her go. Didn’t that mean anything? “I will. I just need a little more time.”

  Francie was silent for a long moment, and dread rose in Maren’s chest. “Maren, if they searched your unit, it’s only a matter of time before they issue a warrant for your house in Alabama.”

  What? “You think they’ll come here?”

  “Yes, I do. If they think you were an accomplice, they’re probably waiting for Bill to find you. The only reason they haven’t bothered you yet is because they don’t want to spook him.”

  She took a deep breath, then let it out again. Hadn’t Jack said the same thing? She glanced around the parking lot again, sure she would see a black car being driven by a man in sunglasses and a dark suit. Had her phone been tapped? Her house bugged?

  So what if they were? They wouldn’t find anything except…

  Jack. After she’d smeared his name all over the morning paper, she couldn’t bear the thought of sending the FBI after him, especially if he’d made deals that might get him in trouble.

  No. She refused to drag him down with her. Whatever she had to do, she would protect Jack. Even if it meant giving up her home.

  She winced.

  “What about Bill? Anything yet?”

  “No luck yet,” Francie answered, her voice heavy. “I’ve got an investigator on it, and he’s chasing a few leads.”

  An investigator. Hmm.

  “Hey, Francie?”

  “Yeah?”


  “There’s someone else I need you to find.”

  # # #

  Maren blinked, then forced her hands to release their death grip on the steering wheel. What just happened? The windshield wipers took another swipe, smearing the globs of red clay into a muddy haze.

  Jack was right about my car. That’s what just happened.

  But how? Her car might not have been the best choice for the farm, but there hadn’t been that much rain. The fresh ruts left by the last car had lulled her into a false sense of security. Those ruts had only been a couple of inches deep, which meant the road shouldn’t have been impassable.

  Then why is my car sitting backwards in a ditch?

  Her brain replayed the last thirty seconds with nauseating clarity—the oncoming truck cresting the hill, her foot pressing the brake, then the sudden shift in balance as the car swung out of control and slid backwards. She’d seen this happen dozens of times in her youth. Grandpa and Mark Farriday, who lived half a mile down the road, had taken turns pulling stranded motorists from the soup of mud and clay that the road turned into during a heavy downpour.

  Ugh. She pressed the gas pedal, but she knew what would happen. The engine revved and the tires spun. The car went nowhere.

  What now? She had seen Grandpa pull plenty of cars out of the ditch, but she’d never tried it herself. It couldn’t be that hard, could it? Right. Nothing to it. Aside from the fact that she had to trudge through ankle deep mud up a quarter mile driveway. In the rain. Hoping the tractor would start.

  She slammed her fists against the steering wheel. How had Grandma lived on this farm her entire adult life without ever uttering a single frustrated curse? The woman had been a saint.

  A loud tap on her driver’s window startled her out of her thoughts. She rolled the window down and inhaled sharply at the sight of her savior. “Sam!”

  “Hey, yourself.” White teeth flashed at her from beneath a dark baseball cap. His striped button-down shirt and jeans darkened in the steady rain.

  She smiled back at him. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “You sure about that?” He laughed. “If I hadn’t come over that hill, you’d be home by now.”

  “It’s not your fault. I forgot to go easy on the brakes.” She pushed open the door.

  “You need a four-wheel drive, you know. That thing—” He gestured at the hood.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she interrupted. “Not practical. Are you going to help me or not?”

  “Of course. Come on.” He pulled her door open wider, and she stepped out into the rain. The ground let out a wet sucking noise, and her shoe disappeared into six inches of red clay.

  “No!” she yelped.

  Sam chuckled. “Watch your step.”

  “Thanks,” she shot back.

  He held out a hand and pulled her from the ditch. Her foot slipped out of her shoe and landed, bare, next to him. “Crap. Crap, crap, crap.”

  “Hang on.” Sam stepped down into the ditch, shoved his hand into the rapidly closing hole where her foot had been, then retrieved a dripping, muddy sandal from its depths.

  Maren glared at the shoe. “I think it’s beyond redemption.”

  “Put it on.” He held the dirty shoe out to her. “One sharp rock in the sole of your foot, and it’ll be more than your sandal in that mud.”

  She groaned, grabbed him by the shoulder for balance, then tugged the shoe back onto her foot. Slimy clay oozed through her toes. “Eww.”

  “You big baby.”

  “Bite me.” Maren dropped her hand and picked her way across the road. Her feet slid beneath her, and Sam grabbed her hand to steady her.

  By the time they reached his truck, mud covered his boots and jeans. Her shoes and slacks had disappeared under a layer of red goo, and her wet blouse clung to her like a second skin. Sam gestured at the door. “Hop in.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” She held her mud splattered hands in front of her.

  “A little dirt never hurt old Nelly here.” He patted the car on the hood. “Go ahead.”

  Maren poked her head in the door, and a bark of laughter escaped her. “Sam, your car is dirtier than I am.” Boxes, bags and papers littered the floor. He reached in front of her and swept a few empty paper cups off the seat, uncovering grey fabric stained with something that looked like coffee. And oil. And something red.

  He grinned at her without apology. “That works out for you, doesn’t it? I wouldn’t let you in looking like that if it were clean.”

  She slid into the passenger seat. “Such a gentleman.”

  “Fine. Close your own door.” He left the door propped open and walked around the front of the truck.

  Maren grabbed the handle and tugged the door shut. “My hero.”

  Sam slid behind the wheel, then eased the truck down the road and up into her driveway. He pulled to a stop in front of the house. The rain fell in fat, wet drops, and Maren hesitated with her hand on the door handle.

  “You afraid all that water will make you too clean?” Sam asked.

  “Nope.” She laughed. “Just worried it might actually wash your truck for you.”

  She shoved the door open and sprinted for the shed. She skidded to a halt in front of the old wooden door a moment later, rain dripping from her hair and into her eyes.

  Locked.

  Well, dang.

  “You all right?” Sam asked from behind her.

  “Yeah.” She flipped the lock with the tip of her finger. “I have no idea where the key is.”

  Well, not entirely true. Jack had locked the shed when he finished the yard work last week. She glanced at Sam. She hadn’t told him about her truce with Jack. He wouldn’t understand. He’d think she was setting herself up for another fall. Would he be angry with her or just disappointed?

  He brushed by her and reached over the door frame, tipping the key off in his palm. “This what you’re looking for?”

  She plucked it from his hand. “Of course. Over the door, where no respectable burglar would look for it. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “No respectable burglar would plunder in your shed,” he reminded her. “You’re in the country now, remember? People get shot for doing that.”

  She jammed the key in the lock and opened the hasp. Warm, dry air drifted past her, smelling faintly of oil and arthritis medicine. Like Grandpa. She swallowed hard. Am I really considering giving this place up?

  She shoved the thought aside and scanned the far wall for the thick length of chain. She spotted it almost immediately, and she picked across the box and tool littered floor to the far corner. A length of rope on the floor caught her eye and her heart picked up speed. “Sam, tell me I’m not going to see a snake back here.”

  “You’re not going to see a snake back there,” he said obediently.

  “Why don’t I feel any better?” She unhooked the chain from the wall, and it fell to the floor with a thud.

  “If you’d hurry the heck up you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

  “I don’t see you back here helping,” she called.

  “You didn’t see me driving my car into a ditch, either,” he shot back.

  “I need to have a talk with your mama.” She stepped out of the shed and into the rain, dragging the heavy chain behind her. “I can’t believe she lets you out in public.”

  “She doesn’t know I got out.” He took the chain from her, looped it over his shoulder, and dragged it back to the truck.

  Uck. The wet clothes and muddy feet weighed fifty pounds, and the grit and muck ground between her toes. What I wouldn’t give for a hot shower and a change of clothes. Instead, she trudged back to the truck and plopped down in the grungy seat.

  When they pulled up next to her car, Mark Farriday, a sixty-ish man in a khaki work shirt and blue jeans, greeted them with a raised hand. Maren almost smiled. With Grandpa gone, she supposed Mark had to carry the burden of saving lost cars on his own.

  “You know whose car this is?”
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  “It’s mine,” she said.

  He raised the bill of his ball cap and scratched his forehead, frowning down at the mud covered back end. “You need a hand?”

  Fifteen minutes later, Maren’s car sat in her driveway again. She tried not to cringe when Sam stepped out of her car, his mud-covered boots shedding huge clumps of dirt when they hit the ground. She’d never get that mess out of there, but at least the car wasn’t in the ditch anymore.

  Mark unhooked the chain from his truck and handed the grimy, clay-coated mass of metal back to Maren. As she curled it against her chest, she almost laughed out loud. At this point, what’s a little more dirt? “Stop by the house sometime, when you get a minute,” he said. “Sarah would love to see you.”

  “I will. Thanks, Mark.”

  He nodded silently, touched the bill of his cap, and then disappeared back into his truck.

  Maren glared at her car with amused disgust. “Thanks, Sam. I was lucky it was you that ran me off the road.”

  “There wasn’t much luck involved.” His gaze dropped to his shoes. “I was coming to see you.”

  “Oh? Good.”

  “Yeah.” He lifted one shoulder, then let it drop. “I thought you could look at my divorce papers when you get a few minutes.”

  She smiled. If Francie delivered, Maren would be able to do a lot more than that. “I’d love to.”

  “Thanks. I know you’re busy right now.” Maren dropped the chain on the grass and took the envelope he pulled from his back seat. His gaze met hers, his eyes dancing. “I got my copy of the Times.”

  She shuddered. “Don’t even. I really did it this time, didn’t I?”

  “That’s the other reason I came by.” His lips curved into a lopsided smile. “I wanted to make sure they didn’t string you up in your front yard.”

  “No, they haven’t.” She rolled her eyes. “But not because they didn’t want to.”

  His eyes focused on a spot over her shoulder. “Bet Jack’s pretty upset with you.”

  “Yep.” How much should she tell him? He had protected her, and he would be upset with her for forgiving Jack so easily after the heartache he’d caused her. Sam was her friend, though, and he’d lost a long-time buddy over the break-up. Even if he lost a little respect for her, didn’t he deserve the truth?