Identity of the Heart (A Hidden Hearts Novel Book 1)

by Mary Crawford

  “Oh, look at all those big words coming from somebody who shovels horse crap for a living.” I roll my eyes.

  A strangled gasp sounds from behind me. “Madison Paige LaBianca! Did you leave your manners in the baggage carousel or something? Why on God’s green earth would you talk to Trevor that way?” my sister scolds.

  “I don’t know the man from Adam,” I argue defensively.

  “Exactly. You have absolutely no reason to treat him like pond scum. You’ve been hanging around Mom and Dad too long. Obviously, I need to help you reintegrate into polite society.” Heather shakes her head in disbelief.

  “You can’t be too careful these days. He might’ve been here to hurt you,” I trail off, not quite willing to give up the point.

  “For the record, I was doing the functional equivalent of cleaning fungus out of Velvet’s toenails when you came bursting in here like there was a shoe sale at Neiman Marcus. How many evil guys with nefarious intentions do you know who would take the time to give a horse a pedicure?”

  Crap. The man makes a good point. “It’s hard to know what to think. You’re out here mucking out barns like a high school dropout, but you speak like a college professor. Talk about your mixed messages,” I sputter defensively as I find another bit of spider web on my face. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “All you had to do was ask. I’m Lieutenant Trevor Black. It’s been an interesting experience meeting you, to say the very least.” He turns to Heather. “I’m still not used to calling myself Lieutenant. Has Colton gotten used to his new rank?”

  Heather smiles at Trevor. “I don’t know—it’s still so odd for me to hear Tyler called Colton. He doesn’t talk about his rank very much. So, I’m not sure how he’s adjusting,” she admits with a sigh before announcing, “I just got off the phone with him. He sounded weird and secretive again like he always does before something big is going to go down. This cloak-and-dagger stuff is killing me. I don’t suppose you’re in the loop on this one?”

  A pained expression crosses Trevor’s face. “No, they won’t let me talk mission stuff with anyone from the unit since I appealed the decision about the separation. But, I would take it as a really good sign that he has the time to call you. It shows they’re not in bug-out mode, ma’am.”

  “That’s kind of the way I read it too. Tyler sounded excited, but not in a doomsday way. You know how he gets. He wasn’t asking me to double check that the life insurance premiums are paid this time. Maybe it’s good news for a change,” Heather replies with a slightly watery grin.

  Trevor gently smiles at her. “I hope so, ma’am. I really do.”

  When I see the compassionate expression on Trevor’s face, I’m even more embarrassed by my snap judgments earlier. When exactly did I turn into such a bitch?

  “Trevor, I’m sorry for the belated introduction, but this lovely creature is my pesky little sister, Madison LaBianca. You’ll have to excuse her. She’s from the East Coast. They do things at a different pace there. It’s going to take her a while to get acclimated to farm life in Oregon.”

  I smirk at the accuracy of Heather’s explanation. There is more truth to it than she could ever know. There are about a million and one reasons I can’t be in Boston right now, and I can’t tell my sister about any of them. Fortunately, her upcoming wedding gives me the perfect excuse to hide in the middle of nowhere, all the way across the country.

  Trevor is examining me carefully. I don’t blame him. The difference between my older sister and me is astounding. It’s hard to believe we’re sisters at all. She’s cute and fashionable in her vintage-looking retro clothes, and I’m just not. I easily fade into the background. I look like a nondescript vanilla bean. Nothing really stands out about me. I’m tall and skinny and basically brown. I’ve got brown eyes, brown hair, and olive-toned skin. When I stand next to my sister, people are always asking if I’m adopted because my skin tone isn’t the nice peaches and cream tone of Heather’s. I look like I could be working in the wine vineyards in Italy like my ancestors.

  I stick my hand out. “It’s nice to meet you, Trevor. Look, I’m sorry for being a putz. I’m not usually such a jerk. Can we chalk it up to jet lag or something?”

  Trevor nods at me, but doesn’t take my hand. “I don’t think you want to touch these hands. They’ve been in some pretty nasty places today, and I haven’t had a chance to properly wash up.”

  “Oh, I’m familiar with the dirty side of horses. Didn’t Heather tell you I own four Arabian horses?”

  I GUESS I’M NOT the only one with a few surprises up my sleeve. Although, Madison can’t be hiding much of anything under her outfit. It’s not as if she’s trying to be deliberately provocative, but it’s downright sexy nonetheless. She’s wearing a burnt orange turtleneck sweater and a pair of dark skinny jeans. She has a scarf with fall colors casually draped over her shoulder that highlights her stunning copper brown eyes. Her hair is a rich, deep brown that flows softly around her shoulders. She looks like she has far more in common with the model who might walk on fashion row in New York City than someone who would own Arabian horses.

  I’m actually confused. I thought Tyler told me that she was an investigative journalist and her specialty is looking into bogus charities. Raising and breeding Arabian horses isn’t a cheap hobby. My confusion must be showing on my face because Madison snaps at me, “Please don’t tell me you’re one of ‘those guys’ that thinks that only men should own and raise Arabian horses.”

  My jaw drops open for several seconds before I think to close it and answer, “Excuse me? I didn’t say anything like that.”

  “You don’t have to. Your face said it all.”

  “I think not. My face said, ‘Wow, that’s impressive. She must be doing really well as a journalist. Arabian horses are hellishly expensive.’ If you read anything else into that, I’m sorry.”

  Madison flushes and hides her face behind her hands as she says, “Wow, I’m really batting a thousand with the bad judgment calls today. I think I need to go inside and take a nap.”

  “Maddie, if you’re hungry, I made you some tomato bisque soup with some homemade sourdough bread,” Heather offers. “It sounds like you could use something to eat. You always get obnoxiously cranky when you’re hungry.”

  For a second, it looks like Madison is going to take offense at Heather’s words. But, then her stomach lets out an audible growl. Madison blushes slightly and shrugs as she concedes, “I just hate it when you’re right. I’ll admit, I could eat an entire buffet at the Golden Corral. I couldn’t believe it, the cut-rate airline I flew didn’t even offer peanuts or pretzels. It’s such a rip off to fly these days. That is one long flight. Why didn’t you remind me?”

  As she has to stop and take a breath, I take a moment to admire the color in her cheeks and the fire in her eyes. Tyler was right on a certain level. The sisters are quite different. You have to look really close to find any family resemblance. Madison has rich mahogany brown straight hair, whereas Heather’s hair is a mass of curly blonde corkscrew curls. Madison is tall and thin, and Heather is well endowed. But, as different as they are on the surface, I have a hunch deep down, they’re probably a lot alike.

  When the living conditions in Iraq started to cause maintenance issues with my prosthetic and contributed to pressure sores on my stump, the National Guard ordered me to bail on my team early. I’m part of a pilot program to see if injured vets who have lost a limb have what it takes to re-enter the military. To say I’m less than pleased with some bureaucrat’s random decision when they’ve never even met me is the frickin’ understatement of the century. I had it handled. They just needed to give me a couple more days of healing time. Hell, they showed more leniency to people who are sleeping off hangovers than they did for one small decubitus sore.

  Heather and Tyler allowed me to patch my skills together and build a semblance of a career. I’m extremely grateful they gave me a chance to salvage my pride here on their farm. But, one
of the things I’ve learned is although Heather looks like she might be about as ferocious as a Maltese puppy, she’s every bit as tough and tenacious as my soon-to-be-former commanding officer. Tyler did the right thing when he married Heather before he shipped out—even if it was only a simple civil ceremony. He can get all fancy about it when he gets back.

  As I watch the sparks fly from Madison’s eyes, I wonder if she’s always this prickly or if it’s simply the fatigue from the trip. Yet, as I observe her when she thinks no one is watching, she seems to be surreptitiously looking over her shoulder and checking her text messages.

  “Got a husband or boyfriend back home?” I ask before I can stop the question from popping out of my mouth.

  She is so startled by the inappropriateness of my inquiry that she reflexively answers, “Good God no!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I should’ve said, ‘significant other’.”

  “That’s just sad that you think just because I’m plain I must be playing for the other team,” Madison replies with a menacing glare.

  “Hey now! Don’t put words in my mouth.” I argue. “I never said that. I don’t think you’re plain at all, nor do I think you’re gay. I just didn’t know what you call your boyfriend. I was trying to be sensitive and all that. In case you haven’t noticed, figuring out relationship statuses is like navigating minefields these days. Have you looked at options on Facebook? It’s more complicated than a voter’s ballot in November.”

  “Not that this is even remotely your business, but I have enough stuff going on in my life right now without having to worry about adding a guy to the mix. With all due respect, you’re not worth the trouble.”

  “Yes, ma’am, you’ve made your opinions clear on the subject,” I respond, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  Madison cringes. “I suppose I did at that. Knock it off with the ma’am stuff; it’s likely I’m younger than you and it just makes me feel weird— like I’m some strange dominatrix.”

  I choke as my coffee goes down my windpipe. “Pardon?” I wheeze.

  “You know, ‘Red Room of Pain?’ Ma’am, Sir and all that jazz? Where have you been lately—living under a rock?”

  Her casual question is like a right uppercut out of nowhere. I’m not even sure how to form a socially acceptable answer to her tossed away punchline.

  “You could say that,” I respond dryly.

  “Turnabout is fair play. What about you, Mister Nosy-Pants—where is your ‘significant other’?”

  I know that Madison intends her question to be taken as yet another example of her snarkiness. But, there is just enough of a hint of pain in her eyes that it prompts me to be brutally honest for once. I’ll probably regret this later. Hell, there is no probably about it. I will regret this, I can pretty much count on it.

  “I lost her,” I reply, my gruff voice betraying my emotion. Damn, it never gets any easier to say that out loud.

  “What? Who did you lose?” Madison asks, her face full of confusion. “How do you lose a person?”

  I carry my dishes over to the kitchen sink and rinse them off. Topping off my mug of coffee, I head to my favorite leather chair in Heather and Ty’s den. I motion for Madison to proceed in front of me.

  She takes one glance at the recliner and whispers softly, “Oh, look! She rescued Grandpa’s favorite chair.” When Madison spots Ethel laying on the couch, she gasps with delight. She practically skips over and cuddles up beside her, kicking off her boots and tucking her feet underneath her. Ethel responds by plopping her big blood-hound head on Madison’s lap and thumping her tail wildly. “I missed you too, Sweetie,” she murmurs as she strokes Ethel’s long velvet-soft ears.

  Well, I guess there is more to her than prickles after all. Madison glances up and notices my bemused curiosity. “What can I say? Ethel used to be my grandma’s dog. I’ve known her since she was barely bigger than my hand. I just miss her that’s all,” she explains defensively.

  “Did I say anything negative? I think it’s cute. It makes you seem almost human.”

  “Almost human? What the heck do you mean by that? I’m certainly not a robot or zombie? Although after that flight, I might argue with the zombie part,” she adds with a quick grin.

  I’m a little stunned by the difference one small facial expression can make. If I thought she was pretty before, Madison with a sincere, unaffected smile is simply breathtaking.

  “Well, even you can admit you’ve been giving a pretty good impression of a ticked off porcupine today.”

  Madison takes such a deep long shuddering breath that I think she might start to cry. Instead, she acquiesces. “Part of me wants to take issue with that characterization of my behavior, but the more honest part of me knows that you pretty much nailed it. I don’t suppose it would do me any good to argue that I don’t usually act this way.”

  “This is America, you’re free to tell me anything you want to.”

  “I can read between the lines. What you’re saying is you may not necessarily believe me, right?”

  “I don’t really have enough information to make that decision right now, but I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Speaking of information, you never did share the rest of your story. How exactly does someone lose a girlfriend?”

  Immediately, my expression sobers and my stomach crunches painfully as it does every time. I turn to look in Madison’s general direction. I choose to look at a spot on the wall right above her left ear. Experience has taught me that I can’t stare directly at people while I share my story because it just gets too intense. However, if I look away to avoid the onslaught of pity, people draw all sorts of negative conclusions, so this has become my coping mechanism.

  Even though I’m trying not to specifically focus on the expression on Madison’s face, it’s impossible to miss the avid curiosity displayed there. I have a hunch that she’s sliding comfortably into investigative reporter mode as she looks at me with an expectant gaze.

  Finally, I take a deep breath and swallow hard as I admit, “I lost my wife, Melinda Jo.”

  “You’re married?” Madison asks incredulously.

  “No ma’am—not anymore. Melinda Jo is most likely dead,” I answer, fighting the words. I still wince as the words leave my mouth.

  Madison pales and sways slightly. “Oh no! What happened?” she asks, her tone hushed.

  “The only girl I ever loved finally decided to listen to me when I told her to get the hell out of my life. She disappeared and is presumed dead. She disappeared while I was overseas, leaving only her car and her purse behind.”

  “I don’t know if you can shoulder all the blame. There might be other factors involved you don’t even know about.” Madison tries to comfort me. I have to give her credit for trying. Most people don’t know what to say and can’t stand to even look at me after I tell them my story.

  “We didn’t really have any secrets from each other,” I explain.

  Madison shrugs and responds, “Everyone’s got secrets.”

  “So, Madison, care to share a few of yours? You might be here for Heather’s wedding-for-show, but I’ve got a very real hunch that there is much more going on.”

  “How can you tell?” she asks quietly, her voice barely above a whisper as she draws her hands and legs together and curls up into a little ball on the couch. Ethel tries to lick her hands to comfort her.

  “Madison, you play the game well, I just play it better because secrets and lies are my job.”

  To all of the men and women who serve:

  There simply aren’t enough words in

  any language to say enough thanks for what you do.

  To the families who hold their whole

  world together while they’re away,

  you give the term heroic a whole new meaning.

  It’s hard enough to try to work in this shoebox-sized food truck while slamming my head on the ceiling every ten seconds, but right now I’ve got an overly helpful witness do
gging my steps like a bloodhound. “Gidget, dammit. You have to let me do my job here. Do you go out of your way to annoy everybody or is it just me?” I glare at her, trying to get her to back away from the broken glass. True to form, she’s entirely fearless and crazy bossy. It’s always more difficult to be out on calls for people you know, especially when they are pretty little spitfires who make your blood boil—and not necessarily in totally negative ways.

  “Hold your horses, Cowboy!” Heather argues. “This may seem like a bunch worthless junk strewn all over the counter to you. It took me a week to make all those flowers by hand for a wedding this weekend. I’d like to save as many of them as possible before you go in there with those overgrown tennis rackets that you call hands and smash everything to smithereens.”

  “Do you mind if I go ahead and take some pictures here? The evidence team is tied up doing a huge drug bust,” I ask, as I pull my camera out of my gear bag.

  “Fine, knock yourself out. Not that it’s going to do a whole lot of good. We did all this last time, and all it did was make my insurance rates go up. The punks messed up my truck and got away scot-free. This sucks rotten moose-balls,” Heather laments.

  I smile at her colorful use of language. “Hey now, Gidget, are you casting aspersions on the county’s finest?” I ask, tossing the question over my shoulder to keep the mood light.

  “Well, Lord knows someone has to. Otherwise that head of yours would get so huge that your ratty ole’ cowboy hat wouldn’t even fit on it.”

  Heather grabs a broom and a garbage bag from a small cubbyhole behind the driver’s seat. She’s about to start sweeping up the glass when a glint of metal catches my eye.