by Jessica Kate
He’d never thought she’d really do it without him. They both knew she had as much chance of convincing the board to do something he didn’t believe in as Tariq did of winning by knockout.
But the whirlpool in his stomach didn’t seem to believe that.
Smack!
A left jab snapped his head back.
He shook the stars off and bounced around the ring. Tariq stood openmouthed as Captain Walters smirked.
“He got you there, Sammy-boy. Distracted, are we?” He folded his arms. “Let another shot through like that, and I’ll make you spar with me.”
Sam tried not to grimace. The man was a tree trunk wrapped in a brick wall wrapped in muscle. His expression alone could strip the fight from the soul of any man—except his new best friend, Tariq.
Sam smiled at Tariq even as his eye throbbed. “Good shot, mate.”
The captain glanced at the clock. “Samuel, aren’t you due at Wildfire in fifteen minutes?”
“Yes, sir.” Sam tapped gloves with Tariq and ducked out of the ring, then froze. “Fifteen minutes?” His gaze swung to the clock located above a Muhammad Ali poster. Blinked and looked again. Seven forty-five a.m. Curse his dyslexia. Must’ve been 7:41 earlier.
“You can use my shower.” The captain tossed him his duffel bag, which vibrated when Sam caught it. “And your phone’s ringing.”
He ignored the phone, shook the captain’s hand, and dashed up the stairs. The phone call was probably just his sister Jules. Tuesday morning in Charlottesville was late Tuesday night in Australia, and she often rang him for a chat before bed. But that could wait. Five-minute shower, and his Ducati Streetfighter could make it to Wildfire in eight minutes.
So that left two minutes in the office with Kim before the board meeting. He slowed his pace. That would be two minutes too many.
He sighed and rolled his neck to release the tension building in his shoulders. Kimberly Foster. When she’d first started at Wildfire, he’d found her blunt but talented and dedicated to the ministry. On the occasions he could make her raspberry-scented-lip-balm lips crack a smile, a rush of elation told him he’d earned it. After a few months he’d even had a little crush on her—or at least her confidence and capability.
But in the past year, her single-minded mission had been to turn Wildfire into something it was not. A brand rather than a ministry. One more business conquest to put a notch on her proverbial belt.
And once she achieved that, she’d leave, off to bigger and better things. She’d leave, and their risky financial position would slide into ruin.
Not on his watch.
He finished his shower in record time, threw on his favorite flannel shirt and jeans, and was soon zipping through traffic on his motorbike. He relished the rumble of the engine and tried to focus his brain on the road and the other agenda items for today’s meeting.
But Kimberly’s words played in his mind like an annoying ad jingle.
“If you’re too chicken . . . If you’re too chicken . . .”
He shook his head. He’d wanted to support Kim’s proposal. He really had. But Kimberly had suggested an investment more than five times his annual salary. He couldn’t tell the people who’d supported him for the past five years to put their money into something he didn’t believe in. It was too big a financial risk.
He’d made that mistake before.
He roared up to the squat brick building that housed Wildfire and parked his bike. Three minutes early. Drat.
His phone buzzed, and he palmed it from his pocket. Three missed calls—and if he was reading the screen right, they’d come seconds apart. All from Jules. Their SOS signal.
In an instant his heart rate was mimicking a cha-cha. Had something happened to Mum? Had there been a farm accident? He hit the redial icon so hard the crack in his phone screen lengthened.
“Hey, bro.” Jules’s voice sounded tight, even with half a world’s worth of satellite bounces between them.
He strove for a calm tone. “What’s happened?”
“I need to talk to you about the farm. There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
* * *
Sam stumbled into the coffee-scented board room, his ear still warm from the phone and Jules’s words reverberating around his brain. He nodded at board members—both seated around the conference table or telecommuting on the projector screen—but processed nothing.
The family dairy farm back in Australia was about to miss its bank repayments. And Jules had been too nice to say it, but this was a direct result of his actions eight years ago.
He seated himself in the office chair with the finicky wheel, the weight of his past pulling on his conscience like woolen garments on a drowning swimmer. The only son was meant to take over the farm—not create more debt and then run off to America while his sister shouldered the burden.
His throat thickened.
Jules must’ve been struggling for a while now, out there in rural Queensland running the farm with just her and Mum—and Mum unable to do the physical work anymore. And she hadn’t told him until the day before the payment was due. Typical Jules.
His focus swung to Kimberly preparing something at the front of the room. Her gaze caught his and she paused, quirked an eyebrow. Were his emotions playing that clearly on his face? Or was she just rubbing in the fact that she was pushing this pitch without him? Her expression gave nothing more away. As usual.
Whatever. There were more important things to ponder than whatever was going on behind that queenly mask she called a face. Like what to do about the property that represented the life’s work of four generations.
This repayment wasn’t a problem—he’d tap a button on his phone after the meeting, and a chunk of his savings would shoot from his account to the farm’s. But looking ahead? Maybe this was the sign he’d been praying for.
He zoned back into the meeting and jolted. Kimberly was giving her presentation. Wearing his favorite light-gray skirt and jacket, the one that flattered all five feet and eight inches of her curves, and with her hair all down and wavy.
Just because she drove him nuts didn’t mean he was blind.
A teenage girl’s face filled the projector screen. Kimberly gestured to it. “This is twelve-year-old Hayley Washington. Her dyslexia means she struggles at school, but her single mother can’t afford a tutor. This is what a Baltimore drop-in center would mean to her.”
She hit a button, and the photo turned into video footage. Hayley, seated on a park bench, tucked her hands under her denim shorts and gave a nervous giggle that sounded tinny through the room’s lo-fi speakers. “If I could go to the drop-in center, Mom wouldn’t worry about me being alone so much while she works. Annnnnd . . .” She stretched the words out and looked to the person behind the camera, then straight down the barrel of the lens. “And I could get help to study and become a special-needs teacher. I want to help kids like my little brother Trey. He’s got autism.”
Sam seized a pen from the center of the table and jotted down Hayley’s name on a sticky receipt fished from his pocket. He couldn’t oppose this plan without making sure he connected Hayley with someone who could help. He, of all people, understood the struggles she faced.
Kimberly clicked to another photo. “This is Ricky Daniels.” An eight-year-old with defiant eyes and a rat’s tail stared into the camera. She described the young boy’s precarious foster home situation, then hit Play on his clip.
Sam shifted in his seat, mouth dry. This presentation was actually good. Telling the stories of the kids with their own voices? It’s exactly what he would’ve done. All this time, she’d secretly taken notice of his methods.
Sam scanned the faces of the men and women of the board—the five around the table and the four on-screen. There were nods. No fiddling. Relaxed expressions.
Oh no. They were considering it.
The tension in his shoulders slithered up his neck and pushed an ache into the base of his skull.
How had Kim
berly pulled this off? Three days ago she’d been expecting him to give the pitch. He rewound the past few days in his head. She’d been away all day Monday. She must’ve headed straight to Baltimore and filmed the footage.
Kimberly continued, telling the stories of more children and teenagers. But for every photo she flashed up on the screen, he saw a different one in his head. Lorna Franke, who’d mortgaged her house to provide Wildfire with a chunk of its seed money. He hadn’t found out until years later, and even then by accident.
Don Ward, who’d donated the life insurance payout on his wife so that good could come out of his personal tragedy.
Riley Strahovzki, one of their drop-in center girls, who was caught between her parents in the bitterest divorce he’d ever seen. Wildfire wasn’t just an escape for her. It was a lifeline.
How could he face them if he took Kimberly’s gamble and lost it all?
Kimberly’s voice penetrated his reverie. “And Baltimore would just be the start. Within the next twelve months we would look at expanding to Washington and Pittsburgh.”
Sam sat up straight. When had that become part of the proposal?
Her gaze met his. He lifted his eyebrows. She gave the tiniest of shrugs, as if to say, If you’re not on board, I can pitch what I want.
He huffed. This was way worse than he’d thought. Her desire to expand past Baltimore had been obvious from the start, but so soon? No way.
Kimberly sat down, and former Wildfire employee and new board member Stephanie Walters leaned forward. “So you’re confident that Baltimore is more suitable than Atlanta was?”
“Definitely. Atlanta was far from a failure. Had unusual circumstances not played a part . . .”
Her voice faded from Sam’s consciousness as he fumed. Unusual circumstances always played a part. The future was unpredictable. And it was possible to lose everything.
He should know.
“. . . confident that Baltimore has both the need and the support base to sustain a new drop-in center. We just need to have a little faith.” She sent a small smile his way.
“Have a little faith.”
He’d said the same words to his father just over nine years ago. And they had sealed his fate.
Thud. Kimberly dropped a stack of papers onto the table.
But in his mind’s eye, it was Mum’s hands dropping a pile of travel magazines . . . dreams . . . into the bin.
He surged to his feet. “I can’t support this.”
Every head at the table or on the screen snapped in his direction. He swallowed. “I can’t be a part of this. Kimberly wants me to head up the chaplains at every new outreach, but I don’t believe in this proposal. It’s too much financial risk. I can’t do it.” The words flew out.
A long pause.
He didn’t backpedal. Back in California five years ago, this group had come to him—a guy cooking fries at Sonic and preaching on the weekends—and asked if he wanted to work in ministry full-time. Wildfire had started because they trusted in what he was doing. Some of the board members had changed since then, but the trust remained. He couldn’t betray that now.
“Perhaps you two should give us time to discuss it,” Steph said, her fingers laced on the table. “We’ll call you back in if we have questions.”
He stared at her, his breathing rapid and shallow. They would consider this crazy plan, knowing his position?
She waggled her eyebrows at him and nodded toward the door. He scanned the faces of the board members and exited on stiff legs. The answer was written all over each of them.
Kimberly was about to win.
Well, if they wanted to follow her down the road to ruin, he wouldn’t stick around to be a part of it. Maybe this was a sign from God that it was time to move on and go home. And not to his rundown rental with its temperamental hot water and loud neighbors.
Time to go back to his real home, nine thousand miles away from Kimberly Foster—though not nearly far enough.
Chapter 3
FIVE MONTHS LATER
Julia “Jules” Payton spat dirt from her mouth as she lay in the dust of her stockyards, cool against her goose-bumped skin in the Australian spring night air. Her nose rested only five inches from a steaming cow pat. It didn’t stop her from sucking in deep breaths like the ladies on TV in labor.
She eyed the angry mama cow on the other side of the enclosure.
It was hard to tell what hurt the most. Her must-be-broken left foot and ankle, swelling faster than a birthday balloon? The massive egg on the back of her skull? Or the fact that Mick Carrigan had been right?
Please God, let someone come find me.
She dialed Mick for the fourth time and shouted at his voice mail. “Pick up your stinking phone!”
She’d called the ambulance, but town was forty minutes away, maybe thirty if Lead-Foot Larry was on duty. Butch hadn’t answered his phone. Not surprising—tomorrow was his day off, so he’d probably drunk himself into oblivion. Sam’s phone was out of service, thanks to dodgy reception on the road between here and where Mum was staying on the Sunshine Coast. What use was it having her brother home on the farm if he wasn’t here for moments like this?
An owl hooted, unconcerned with the thirty-one-year-old woman lying on the ground.
Jules reached her quivering fingers to the bottom bar of the fence and squeezed it, focusing on the cold metal, the rough texture—anything to try to distract her from the pain. Pressing her lips together, she contained her moan despite no one being around to hear. She focused her eyes on the moonlit trees that lined the Burnett River, which divided the Payton dairy farm from the Carrigan property.
Three kilometers were all that separated her from the infuriating vet who had told her less than an hour ago not to get in a pen alone with a calf and the mother cow they’d nicknamed Psycho. She’d assumed it was just the protective former boyfriend in him talking and ignored his advice. Perhaps a mistake.
Waiting on someone to rescue her was almost worse than the pain. If she could get to her vehicle, she could meet the ambulance and their painkillers halfway. She’d heard old farmhands tell stories of driving through the outback with all sorts of impalements and other horrific injuries.
But when she’d tried to move, she’d passed out. And the only thing worse than being conscious and at the mercy of this ballistic bovine was being unconscious.
Her phone, resting on her stomach, buzzed. She fumbled to hit the Answer button.
“I got your abusive message. What’s up?” Mick’s voice sounded resigned, like he was too tired to have this fight right now. Understandable, considering she’d roused him from his bed at 2:00 a.m.
Jules licked her lips and tasted blood. “I ignored what you said. Psycho got me. You’ve gotta come quick, and bring some horse tranquilizer or something.”
“You what?” Mick let loose a series of words she’d never heard from the usually unruffled man. “Where are you?”
“Lying in the yards. My foot’s broken. Just hurry.”
“I’m coming. Hold on, Jules.” His breathing turned ragged, like he was running. “Stay on the line. I’m coming.”
Jules’s vision blurred, tunneled. Mick was coming.
She could pass out again.
* * *
Kimberly scanned the Washington, DC, café for the gazillionth time, her once-fragrant peppermint tea now cold before her. No Mom. She balanced her covered plate of sugar-free brownies on her knee and tugged her phone out of her handbag. Zippo. Surveyed the street outside for any lost-looking forty-three-year-old tech-company consultants. Zilch.
She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose.
It’d been tricky to rearrange her morning for this tête-à-tête with Mom, but since the Silicon Valley tech queen’s East Coast business trips were rare, Kimberly had hummed with inexplicable anticipation for the entire two-hour drive.
Anticipation because it’d been two—no, must’ve been three—years since they’d seen each other
.
Inexplicable because their intimacy had never progressed past strained acquaintances.
Yet still, she’d hummed.
She swiped to Mom’s generic contact icon and dialed. Call Rejected. With a huff she checked her watch again. She was already late for this afternoon’s event in Baltimore. The drop-in center hadn’t been built yet, but their new chaplain was focusing his time there to garner local church support.
But what if Mom got here just after she left?
Her phone chirped. She snatched it up. A text message. Mom.
Trip canceled. Sorry.
Kimberly closed her eyes and pressed the phone against her forehead. Nice of her mother to let her know.
She took three deep breaths, collected her things, and threw the brownies in the trash on her way out.
She should never have expected today to be different.
Ninety road-rage fueled minutes later, Kimberly stood stage left in an auditorium of three thousand chattering teenagers and stared at Stephanie Walters. “What do you mean he’s not coming?” If she sweated any more in this overheated auditorium, her white blouse would turn translucent.
Steph, looking sweat-free despite her fitted black dress, held up her phone. “Your new chaplain quit. On the phone to me just now. I told him we needed it in writing to try to stall for time, and this is what he sent.”
Kimberly snatched the phone up and glared at the text message. Two words: I resign.
She pinched the bridge of her nose again and winced. It was starting to bruise.
After handing the phone back to Steph, she straightened her skirt. She could wait to fire off her raging questions, like Why? and How could I lose three chaplains in five months?
Right now someone had to work the problem.
Steph slipped her phone into her clutch. “We need Sam back.”
Kimberly flinched. And it’s my fault he’s gone. She tried not to snap. “That doesn’t help us right now.”
“Right now, I’ll handle this talk. But I’m giving you a heads-up about the rumblings among board members.”
