Relief swept over her. She pulled up Elaine’s site and scanned for the post, which was already buried by three after it. Elaine had cropped the photo, so it only showed their faces and his ring free hand. Who needed enemies when she had friends like Elaine?
Thanks.
She wanted to send her a more heartfelt emoji, but she figured a middle finger wouldn’t be wise.
You owe me.
Goldie owed her all right. She owed her a size eight, bedazzled wedding shoe up the patootie.
If there was ever a time when she needed an intervention it was now. Desperation didn’t look good on her, but at least the dress she’d been loaned did. She sent the pic off to her other “friends” and asked them to share. Most would treat her like she was asking them to infect a nation with cholera, but all she wanted was a little attention. Attention that would get people clicking.
How the mighty had fallen. Years ago, she had been a brand ambassador. People paid her to wear their clothes and makeup. Now she was relegated to affiliate ads and an occasional podcast.
She dialed her intended husband. Sebastian picked up on the third ring.
“I see you found a stand-in.”
“A kiss in, anyway.”
He let out a whistle. “I’ve never been so glad in my life not to marry you.”
Her jaw dropped open. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means if I’d been the one in that kiss with you, Chloe would have castrated me. Who’s the guy?”
She rolled her eyes. “It’s Tilden and since you nearly ruined me today, you owe me. I need you to post something nice about us like you know us.”
“It will be a lie.”
She thought back to her and Tilden’s conversation. “No, it’s a secret.”
“What do you want me to say?”
She considered it for a moment. “Something that makes it seem believable.”
She could hear his fingers tapping on the keys.
“Done.”
She pulled up his site.
A toast to Goldie and Tilden. He’s big and burly and she’s, well … she’s Goldie. Talk about opposites attract. Is this a reboot of the old “Green Acres” series? She’s penthouse and he’s pine trees. She’s latte’s and he’s lager. She’s a social icon and he’s … #who’sTilden
“Thanks.”
“What’s next for you?”
She laughed. “A fake divorce, of course.”
“He didn’t actually marry you?”
“Why would he? He’s obviously smarter than that.”
She could almost see him shaking his head. It wouldn’t take much time for some nosy person to put the pieces together, which meant she had to stay one step ahead of them.
“You may have saved my keister with that post. I may have to go with the opposites attract then attack. No one would believe I’d settle for mountain living when there’s a new shopping center going up in Cherry Creek. You’re a genius.”
She pressed her blood red lips to the phone and gave him a virtual kiss.
“Good luck, Goldie.”
Outside, the familiar scenery of her neighborhood passed by. The car stopped in front of the old miner’s exchange. What had once housed millions of dollars in gold now housed her—or would as long as she could come up with the rent, which was a month past due.
“Got to go. There’s a bottle of wine and a frozen dinner waiting for me inside.” If she’d been talking to Elaine, she would have said a bottle of Cristal and Almas Russian Gold Caviar on toast points. Sebastian knew better. He’d seen her penthouse apartment. Elaine was still wondering.
Hank, the doorman, opened the glass doors of the building at the same time Ted opened the limousine door.
Goldie grabbed her shoes and her tiara, clutched them with her purse and phone to her chest, and made a mad dash to the door. It wasn’t as if there would be a string of photographers in wait. That hadn’t happened since her mom’s funeral.
“Welcome home, Goldie,” Hank said. “Where’s the groom?”
She rushed into the elevator and laughed. “That seems to be the question of the day.”
When the car stopped on her floor, she exited and walked into her home, dropping her wedding attire in piles as she went. To the average eye, it might appear that Tilden had stripped her on their way to the bedroom. She snapped a picture and posted, Time for the honeymoon.
In her lace panties and shelf bra, she opened the refrigerator. All that was left was the dregs of a box of white wine and a half-eaten box of Chinese takeout.
She carried them to the spot on the carpet where her sofa used to be and sat on the floor to stare at where her television used to hang on the wall. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
Chapter Four
How many soil samples would he have to test before he could prove or disprove the rumors that his ancestors killed their rivals?
On the table in his cabin sat another dozen vials of dirt. Next to those was the diary of his great-great-grandmother, Treasure Coolidge. He opened it to the middle page. The part he’d read at least a hundred times. Old man Carver was dead. Cattle carcasses littered acres of land. The smell was so foul not even the vultures would fly overhead.
He’d followed the creek bed for miles. Sent sample after sample for testing, but all that came back were reports of nutrient-dense soil perfect for farming.
He’d come across his family mystery accidentally. He’d been told since he was knee-high that he was a Cool. The name Coolidge didn’t enter his existence until his father died, and he inherited his father’s belongings, which was comprised of a Colt 45 handgun and an old trunk with the hinges rusted shut.
Giving Tilden a trunk was like giving a robber the combination to the bank safe. All he had to do was get past the obstacles. He was a history buff and the old trunk intrigued him. It took him a full week to pry the lid open. He had no idea what he was looking at until he found a wedding dress wrapped in tissue paper and a diary. Everything inside belonged to Treasure. Her entire life had been shoved inside a wooden box.
He grabbed a soda from the refrigerator and made his way to his truck. Inside was his box. A box of empty vials he hoped one day would answer all the questions he had about his family.
He hated to enter the property during daylight. If what the diary suggested was true, then he’d be persona non grata.
He’d come to Aspen Cove two years ago when he found the name in Treasure’s diary. There were several Aspen Coves around the country, but only one in the Rocky Mountains. There was another clue when she mentioned Mount Meeker.
He popped the top of his soda and drank deeply. His life had been full of surprises since he’d arrived here. The latest being Goldie.
It had been several days since he’d kissed her and walked away. He wasn’t sure why that kiss was still on his mind and his lips. Could be that she tasted like spun sugar, but more than likely it was because he hadn’t kissed a woman in a long time. Years, actually.
Living off the grid in the mountains didn’t lend itself to social calls. Few women would be thrilled with the amenities he offered. His shower was heated by the sun or firewood, and his water came from a pump in the back yard.
That was another surprise about Aspen Cove. He hadn’t expected to like it here so much. Hadn’t planned on staying, but when Ray Bradley offered him his couch, he couldn’t refuse.
Then he got to know the local bootlegger Zachariah Tucker and he didn’t have the heart to not help. The old duffer needed someone to deliver wood to his customers after one of his stills blew up and nearly burned off his arm.
He drove up the mountain road to the old man’s house, hoping he’d have a few deliveries. Maybe one to Abby Garrett.
Per usual, Zachariah was feeding the stills because once burned didn’t make the old man twice shy. He’d upped his production because life was uncertain, and he didn’t want to disappoint his best clients.
“Tilden, just the man I wanted to see.” Z
achariah walked over and spat a mouthful of sunflower seed shells that showered the forest floor in front of him.
“You got any deliveries?” With winter pressing forward, he was busier than usual, which was good. The money he’d make helped fill in where his editing job and research gigs fell short.
“I got a few.” He pulled another handful of seeds from his pocket, stripping out bits of lint before he shoved them into his mouth. Once his cheek bulged, he continued. “Are you sure you won’t deliver my mash?”
He made it sound like a takeout dinner, but it was the real thing. Mash was whatever Zachariah threw together to make his potent brew. Potato skins. Apple peels. Anything that could ferment and make alcohol.
“Not a drug runner. I told you before. I walk on the good side of the law.”
“It’s not illegal to homebrew.”
They’d had this discussion many times. “Nope, but it’s illegal to sell alcohol without a license.”
The old man rubbed his beard, which had finally grown back after the last time he’d singed it to his chin from a fire that got away.
“It’s not illegal to barter. I barter my brew for small pieces of green paper.”
Tilden laughed. “Most people call that money.”
Zachariah threw his arms in the air. “I call it happiness. Buys me a few dances at Buttercups. Got me a case of canned stew and some good videos from the pawnshop for when the next snowstorm hits.”
There was no doubt in Tilden’s mind the videos weren’t action-adventure, unless “Debbie does Dallas” got reclassified.
“You’re all set then. As for me, I’ll take any firewood deliveries you’ve got, but I’m leaving the booze to you.”
Zachariah kicked at the spent seeds on the ground. “How’s that place of yours? Got water to the house yet?”
“I’ve got water, but not in the house.”
He moved toward a trailer filled with two cords of firewood.
“If you upped your deliveries, you’d be able to run that last line to the taps. I know Ray was hoping to get it done before winter. Then the bastard had to die. But hell if he didn’t do it in style. Fell straight into a set of double Ds and smothered to death.”
Tilden tried not to laugh because dying wasn’t a laughing matter, but everyone spun their own story about Ray’s death, and he rather liked Zachariah’s version even though the poor man had actually died from a heart attack.
“I think he was gone before he face-planted between Brandy’s cleavage, but what a way to go. Whiskey in one hand and a stripper’s ass in the other.” He hoisted the trailer hitch and tugged the load the few feet to his truck before setting it in place. “Where’s this delivery going?”
“One chord is going to the Dawsons’, the other to Abby Garrett.”
Tilden nearly jumped for joy. He knew Abby got her wood from old man Tucker and had been waiting to make a delivery. Ray had done it the last year so, outside of sneaking onto her property, Tilden had no reason to be there. But today changed that. The house sat at the far west of the acreage, which meant he’d have to travel the entire length of the land to get there.
“Did you already collect the money?”
“Yep, went straight to my PayPal account. I’ll have your fees sent to yours before you bring the trailer back.”
He gave Zachariah a playful punch to the shoulder. Handshakes were out of the question. Old man Tucker had running water, but Tilden wasn’t sure if he ever used it. Grasping hands was like asking for a dose of the plague.
He climbed in his truck and headed straight for the Dawsons’. He wasn’t responsible for stacking the wood. All he had to do was shove it off the tail of the trailer into a pile.
When he arrived, Basil was sitting on the porch. “Dad said you were coming.”
Tilden walked around the trailer and unlatched the back. “Zachariah must have called to say I was on my way.”
“I hate wood delivery day.” He set a tray of brownies down and wiped his hands on his jeans. “I always end up with a splinter or two.”
“Gloves, they’re a wonder.” He pulled a pair from his back pocket and tossed them to Basil. Poor kid had to live with that name, the least he could offer was a pair of gloves. He had three more pair in his glove compartment. “My gift to you if you share a brownie.”
“Help yourself. They’re day old but taste good just the same.”
He climbed on the trailer while Basil put on the gloves. It only took a few minutes to shove the first load onto the ground.
“I hear you were swapping spit with some bride in the park. Good way to get your ass beat if you ask me.”
Tilden laughed. “Didn’t ask you. But she asked me.”
“To stick your tongue down her throat? Where am I when something like that happens?”
“On the range or behind a range in the culinary school, I hear.”
He tossed logs neatly into a stack by the front door. “No, seriously. Why is it that a girl comes into town, and I never know until the wedding is announced?”
“Woah, wait a minute. I’m not getting married. She needed a groom. I sold her a few minutes of my time for two hundred dollars.”
Basil stopped stacking wood. “Turning gigolo now?”
“Nope, she only wanted a picture. The kiss was a bonus.”
“Aw, man, I would have kissed her for nothing. Word has it she was beautiful.”
He hadn’t considered her beauty all that much. She wasn’t his type. Couldn’t explain what compelled him to kiss her. It had simply happened.
“High maintenance. You know, the girl that spends her check and yours on boob jobs and facials.”
“Never met one like that, but I’d like to.”
He picked up a brownie from the pan and brought it to his nose. Day old or not, it smelled divine, just like Goldie. Only a brownie was a whole lot less trouble. A few bites and it would be gone for good. Then again, Goldie was gone as well.
“You need to broaden your horizons. Get down to the brewhouse. Venture into another town to meet some women your age.”
“What’s the opposite of a cougar?”
Tilden didn’t know how to respond to that. “I have no idea. Why?”
Basil shrugged. “I have a thing for older women so what does that make me?”
“Like how old?” Was he talking grandma or a few years his senior?
“Just don’t want to put up with the bullshit. I’m thinking anything between thirty and forty is good for me.”
“How old are you?”
“I just turned twenty-four.”
He rolled his eyes. “Stick with girls your age. The older ones will eat you alive.”
Basil laughed. “That doesn’t sound half bad either.”
“You’re still a puppy.” He took a bite of the brownie and made his way to the driver’s side of the truck. “I’m outta here.”
“Thanks for chatting. I think that’s the most I’ve heard you speak at one time.”
He shrugged. “I’m more of a listener than a talker. Don’t have much to say.”
Basil lifted his chin. “See ya around.”
Tilden climbed into his truck and headed toward Abby’s. She was an odd one like him. She stuck to herself and didn’t socialize. The only time he saw her out was when she had a crush on Thomas and was at the diner when he arrived. She did nothing but sit in a nearby booth and watch him.
In many ways they were alike. He wondered if she knew the history of her family, and if the long-ago scandal had molded her into the woman she was today. Every closet had a skeleton. Sometimes the bones hung there clanking noisily together. Sometimes they hid in a trunk, tucked in the center of an old pioneer’s diary just waiting for discovery.
It took him nearly an hour to pass through her property. Not because it was that long but because he stopped to take more samples from dry creek beds and areas where it was obvious water had run in the past. If his ancestors had poisoned the water, there would be traces of e
vidence left behind.
One reason he befriended Zachariah and Ray was because they were bootleggers and often their byproducts were dumped illegally. So far, nothing he’d tested from Zachariah’s land proved poisonous.
There were definitely drunk animals from the hops and mash they consumed but nothing that would kill a herd of cattle or a man.
He passed a wall of white boxes, no doubt Abby’s beehives, and hoped they were dormant. He didn’t have a problem with the concept of raising bees, just an issue with their stings. Bees were territorial and he was trespassing.
Abby must have heard the trailer bouncing up the drive. The wood shifting and moving sounded like an avalanche or a rock slide. She popped out the front door and waved as he parked and exited the truck.
She was a pretty woman. Hard to tell how old she was, but he’d give her mid-thirties if the crinkling in the corner of her eyes was an accurate indicator.
“Tilden, it’s good to see you.” She held up a jar filled with amber. “I’ve got a few goodies for you. Honey. Soap. Lotion.”
He walked toward her. “Thanks. I hear you make the best honey.”
“I don’t make it.” She pointed in the distance to where the white boxes rose from the ground. “They make it, and I steal it from them.”
“Where do you want the wood?”
“You going to stack it for me? That’s not part of the deal, but I’ll take it.”
He looked at the bag in her hand. “Gifts aren’t part of the package either, but I’ve got time, so why not?” He thought if he could get her talking about her land maybe he’d learn a thing or two. “If you help, we can get it done twice as fast.”
“Deal.” She handed him the bag and reached into her back pocket for a pair of gloves.
He dropped the bag into the cab and opened the bed of the trailer. It would have been easier to shove it off, but they picked it up by armfuls and carried it to the porch, where they stacked it near the front door.
“Has this property been in your family for a long time?”
She swiped a bead of sweat from her brow.
“Hundreds of years. It’s Carver property. My mom was a Carver, although she never held the name. Her mom was a Kirkenheifer and my dad was a Garrett. It’s all so muddled after so many marriages.”
One Hundred Secrets (An Aspen Cove Romance Book 10) Page 3
