Stay with Me (Misty River Romance, A Book #1)

by Becky Wade

  Once, I had to go to the bathroom really bad. I tried to hold it and go back to sleep, but couldn’t. I felt my way to the corner of the space that we set up last night as a bathroom. We didn’t want anyone else to see or hear when we have to go, so we worked together to stack pieces of broken concrete until we made a wall almost as tall as me.

  I busted one of my knuckles building that wall.

  I’ve been pushing at that knuckle and trying not to think about how hungry I am while those of us who are awake stay quiet and wait for the other kids to finish sleeping. Finally Natasha, the last one to wake up, starts stirring. She blinks her eyes open and pushes herself to sitting. Her hair is a mess and her dress is dirty and there are gray circles under her eyes.

  We all look terrible.

  “I’m sure they’ll come for us,” Natasha says, mostly to me and her sister. “Very soon.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Be strong,” Genevieve whispered on Thursday morning to the thick white mug containing her harvest spice latte.

  She’d just settled upon a tall chair next to her sister at The Grind Coffee Shop. They sat facing a window overlooking Misty River’s historic downtown square.

  “Recovery update?” Natasha asked.

  “Still clean.”

  Natasha pulled Genevieve to her in a congratulatory one-armed hug. Her sister had been monitoring Genevieve’s recovery expertly. Checking on her, encouraging her, providing accountability, listening. But not beating the subject into a pulp.

  Natasha had come straight from dropping her kids off at Mother’s Day Out and could only spare thirty minutes for research before she needed to rush off to complete the one thousand things she hoped to squeeze into her kid-free hours.

  “I have a gift for you,” Natasha announced.

  Let it not be knitted handicrafts.

  “Mittens!” Natasha tugged a mass of pink yarn from her purse.

  Knitted handicrafts.

  “I couldn’t figure out how to knit the thumb,” Natasha said, “but then I thought, why do mittens need thumbs anyway? Why can’t mittens just be like roomy socks for our hands?”

  “Right!”

  “I really think I might be on to something. I could open an Etsy shop and make a mint. Try them on!”

  Bravely, Genevieve donned them. Unlike the hat Natasha had fashioned for her, the mittens were too loose. They gaped around her wrists like an old man’s double chins. “Thank you!”

  Natasha snickered. “Without thumbs, they make you look like you have hand wounds. People are going to love them!” Natasha whisked open her laptop as Genevieve stowed the mittens, which did indeed resemble enormous hand bandages, in her purse.

  Together they bent over the computer while Natasha, no stranger to the law, looked up Angus Morehouse’s arrest record. Genevieve was, as always, content to let her older sister be good at the things she was good at (knitting, not among those).

  The end of Natasha’s blond ponytail feathered against the shoulder of the tight-fitting exercise jacket she’d zipped up to her chin. “Ah. Here we are. I think this is the site that will allow me to access his arrests. If there’s anything to find about you, Angus, we will.” Her fingertips sped over the keys. “Voilà.” Natasha pointed to the screen and read off each charge and the year.

  Angus had been charged with misdemeanor battery three times, plus felony battery once. His felony conviction had sent him to jail.

  “Angus doesn’t exactly seem like a rosebud of a person,” Genevieve commented.

  “No.”

  “Is there any way to tell who he fought with on each of these occasions?”

  Natasha shook her head. “The site doesn’t give me that much detail.”

  “Well, we have reason to believe at least one of these arrests for assault may have been for the fight he had with Russell.”

  “If so, it would probably be this one.” Natasha tapped a misdemeanor arrest that had occurred in the early spring of 1983. Russell had died later that summer.

  “What if we look up Russell’s arrest record? If both men were arrested for the same fight, we’d be able to cross-check the dates and confirm, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  While Natasha fed the website new information, Genevieve relished her latte and wondered if work was going smoothly for Sam over at The Kitchen this morning. It wasn’t far from here. Just down a block and around the corner. Was he content? Irritated? Happy? Down?

  She wished she knew his state of mind. Unfortunately, she didn’t. It had been a week since their steak dinner. Their first interaction afterward had been at The Junction.

  What a debacle that had been. Her, so falsely jolly. Her, so immaturely pleased that other men were hitting on her in front of Sam so that he couldn’t assume that just because he didn’t want to date her, nobody did. Him, saying so little. Him, with seething eyes that spoke a hundred things she couldn’t decipher.

  Two days ago, she’d banged around in his laundry room until he’d appeared. He’d spoken to her politely, but his face had been guarded and he’d kept the interaction brief. Yesterday, she’d joined him in his garden. After twelve minutes of small talk, he’d nodded to her the same way he’d nod to a stranger passing on the sidewalk, and left.

  She’d known, when she’d launched herself at him, that she was recklessly crossing a line. In that moment, though, the recklessness had added to the spontaneous exhilaration.

  Only now did she fully realize just how important the line between them had been to Sam. And how much she’d put at risk when she trampled over it.

  She missed him. More than was logical or wise. She wanted to spend real time with him having real conversations. Combine missing him with the rough patch she’d hit in the writing of her study this week, and her mental state had been backsliding.

  She’d made it to day sixty-five. More dopamine was supposed to be flooding back! Only twenty-five days left and she’d hit that crucial ninety-day goal.

  Overall, she could acknowledge that she was improving. That said, the improvement wasn’t like a consistent upward-slanting diagonal line. There were dips in her line. This week was a dip. This week she’d said “Not today, Satan” several times each day. She’d cried in the shower again last night, then put herself to sleep on wistful memories of how heavenly she’d felt when taking Oxy.

  Oxy was her enemy. But, unfortunately, it didn’t always feel that way. When she was at her lowest, Oxy seemed like a long-lost friend.

  “Here’s Russell’s arrest record,” Natasha said.

  Genevieve had expected one arrest to pop up—from Russell’s fistfight with Angus. Instead, she saw that Russell had just as many arrests as did Angus. Four. All for misdemeanor battery. “I’m surprised to see so many.”

  “I am, too.” Natasha frowned. After a moment, she indicated the final entry. “This arrest occurred the same day as Angus’s arrest. Early spring, 1983. So as we suspected, this is when they fought each other. Russell’s first arrest would date back to his final year of high school and the middle two would have happened during his college years.”

  “If Russell was arrested four times, we can guess that he was probably in several other fights he didn’t get arrested for,” Genevieve said.

  “No wonder he fought back when the Shoal Creek Killer attacked.”

  “No wonder. So . . . what else can we find out about Angus?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve already looked him up on genealogy sites and social media sites and come up empty. If I can think of anything else to try, I will.”

  “And I’ll see if I can find anything online about Mom and Dad’s years in Savannah.”

  “Will you be conducting that research before or after mooning over Sam?”

  “Natasha! Can you please take pity on me and not mention his name?”

  “Sam,” she said, clinking her coffee mug with Genevieve’s. “Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam.”

  The following Saturday, Genevieve created a scene.


  The scene was not premeditated. In fact, it snuck up on Genevieve and surprised her the way a lioness surprises a gazelle.

  Anna had asked for the first shift at today’s Fall Fun Day. Her request had included something about a cute boy, plans to go to Amicalola Falls, and the word please. Genevieve had told Anna she’d happily take the second shift. Thus, she’d slept late and was catching up on Instagram when Anna’s text arrived.

  There are a lot of people here to see you.

  Two seconds later, Anna added, Bible study people.

  Genevieve, still in her pajamas, sprinted to the cottage’s tiny bathroom to begin her morning prep.

  She’d taken time during the last Fall Fun Day to stage shots of the event that showcased just the right mix of charm and farmhouse chic. She’d shared the photos on her platforms and mentioned how much she’d enjoyed volunteering. In each case, she’d tagged Sam’s accounts (which she’d been working to bolster) and informed her followers of the day and time of the next Fall Fun Day.

  Her intention: to give the farm a boost.

  At no time had she mentioned that she’d be present at today’s event. Unless she was participating in an event that offered security forethought, she didn’t announce her future plans online. Maybe it was her mother’s influence, but she was savvy enough—or anxious enough—to understand that if she announced to the world that she was planning to eat dinner at Pizza Hut in Misty River, she should then expect a gunman with religious views different from hers to show up at Pizza Hut in Misty River.

  It sounded like her “Bible study people” had made their way to today’s event just in case she showed.

  After finishing her makeup and dressing in a pale blue sweater, a long necklace, and jeggings tucked into boots, she hurried toward the farm stand. Thirty or more people were milling about. She could see at a glance that Sam wasn’t among them.

  Sam.

  Anna rushed up to her. “So.” The girl’s blond hair fell into place around her shoulders. “Most of the ladies saw your posts from the last Fun Day. But some had friends who came that day and took pictures with you. And they saw their friends’ posts.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Genevieve’s forward progress didn’t slow.

  “Yeah! I don’t know where all they’re from. I asked one and she said Alpharetta. And I was like, wow. I enjoy Alpharetta’s North Point Mall. They have a Vans there.”

  “I see.”

  “Oliver’s getting really overexcited by the crowd.”

  “Yikes.”

  “He’s talking to a few women right now about horticulture, and I don’t even know what that means. All I know is that it sounds like vultures. And they eat dead stuff, right?”

  “Right. Although, horticulture means gardening. It doesn’t have anything to do with vultures.”

  “Bummer. Vultures are kind of cool.”

  The crowd watched her approach with shy and excited expressions. In response, her professional persona came fully awake. Genevieve smiled, then had to work to keep the expression in place as a visceral memory split into her consciousness. Her, waking up in Sam’s guesthouse, shaken because she didn’t know where she was.

  Her shiny exterior wasn’t an accurate reflection of who she was.

  Nope. This wasn’t the time or place to go into a funk. A large group of women were waiting and watching.

  Gathering her energy, she put on her public identity.

  Genevieve Woodward, Christian author and speaker.

  Later, when Sam exited his barn, he immediately noticed the crowd gathered near the farm stand. His steps slashed to a halt.

  Genevieve. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that Gen must be the source of this crowd because if there was trouble on his farm or in his life, he could be sure to find Gen at the center of it.

  He turned his steps in the direction of the farm stand, concern thinning his mouth.

  When he’d opened the farm’s front gate an hour and a half ago, he’d noticed that a large number of cars waited on the side of the road. He’d chalked it up to luck and to the solid effort he and Genevieve had put into the last event. He’d thought that positive word of mouth had spread.

  Now that he was drawing closer, he could see that the group of women surrounding Gen looked to fit into the “Christian women between the ages of eighteen and thirty-eight” demographic Natasha had told him about. Clearly, the extra visitors hadn’t come because of luck or word of mouth. They’d come for the chance to meet Gen.

  These people were probably all fans, just like the women at The Kitchen last month had been. But if her fans expected her to appear here today, then her detractors might also expect her to appear here.

  He cut straight to the middle of the gathering and wrapped a hand around Gen’s elbow. “Excuse us for a moment, please.” He guided her several steps away and out of earshot.

  Her hazel eyes and the feel of her delicate arm beneath his fingers derailed his train of thought.

  What had he been about to say? That’s right. “Hello.” Then he added, “Troublemaker.”

  “I’ve never in my life thought of myself as a troublemaker. It’s actually quite thrilling.”

  “Since the day I met you, I’ve thought of you as nothing but a troublemaker.” He forced himself to release her and put more space between them. “Did you tell people where you were going to be today?”

  “I didn’t. I simply posted about the farm on the last Fall Fun Day.”

  “Why?”

  “To give your business a leg up.”

  “I’d never want you to give my business a leg up at the expense of your safety.”

  “These ladies simply saw that I was at the last Fall Fun Day, and they came by on the off-chance I’d be here again to say hi. And,” she hurried to add, “to enjoy all the farm has to offer, of course.”

  The women seemed to care nothing for what the farm had to offer. “Your shift isn’t supposed to start until one-thirty. Why don’t you stay in the guesthouse until then, at least? I can handle this.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’m staying. I adore the women who do my studies.”

  He looked to the women, then back to Gen.

  “I’m sure about this,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

  Sam stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The sound cut through the chatter, and female faces swung in his direction. He raised his voice. “Kindly move this way.”

  The group migrated, which cleared the area around the farm stand.

  “Welcome to Sugar Maple Farm,” he said. “I’m Sam Turner, the owner. Thanks for visiting today.”

  A plump young woman looked between him and Gen, raised her phone, and snapped a picture.

  He paused, not sure how to respond to that oddness. “If you’re here to meet and speak with Genevieve Woodward, please raise your hand.”

  Every person raised their hand, except for a confused-looking man who he guessed was of Indian descent.

  “Sir, please see the woman named Anna at the stand, just there, yes.” He faced the women again. “Has anyone been waiting for Genevieve for more than an hour? Raise your hands, please.”

  Taking his time, he assembled a line based on how long people had been waiting. Then he stepped back and assessed each and every person. They all looked harmless.

  He made his way to the farm stand, where Oliver and Anna stood.

  “It’s wonderful that these guests have read Genevieve’s books,” Oliver crowed. “Literate people! If it’s all right with you, I may treat them to some amusing historical anecdotes while they’re in line.”

  “That would be terrific.” He managed to keep every trace of sarcasm from his voice. The line didn’t look like a fast mover, so Oliver would have a captive audience.

  Oliver’s chest swelled as he approached a foursome of women at the back of the line and made opening remarks. He braced one hand against his hip, gesturing grandly with the other.

  “This situation is so cool,” Anna
said to Sam. “It reminds me of a food truck.”

  “How?”

  “You know how food trucks just show up anywhere? Genevieve’s like a food truck. A really popular one. That serves tacos. I’m starving. I could totally go for some tacos right now.” She thrust her phone in her back pocket. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

  “No.” He wasn’t in a smiling mood, but he gave the girl a small smile to soften his answer.

  “In that case, I won’t ask if you and Genevieve are a couple even though I’m dying to know.”

  “Thanks for practicing restraint.”

  “You guys would be great together. You’re both older—”

  “Excuse me?” He lifted an offended eyebrow.

  “Oldish,” she qualified. “She’s down to earth and nice and pretty and . . .”

  “Like a taco?”

  “Yes! How can you resist tacos? I totally love them.”

  How was he supposed to resist Gen? He wished he knew.

  He made a trip to the barn for more cider. Helped a couple who’d come to pick their own produce, then waited on some farm stand regulars. A family drifted up, interested in the next farm tour.

  There was no way he was going to abandon Genevieve here, so outnumbered, while he took guests on a farm tour. Nor did he trust Oliver to drive a flatbed full of people. The older man might get sidetracked talking about Bogotá and drive them into an apple tree.

  Five minutes before the tour’s scheduled start time, Sam took up a position near Gen and announced, “Genevieve is going to take her lunch break now.” She needed food. A chance to sit down. A rest from everyone’s attention.

  “I am?” She spoke with quiet amusement. “You know, Sam, you’re not the boss of me.”

  “I’m definitely not the boss of you. I’m a concerned friend who’s not going to take people on a farm tour if it means leaving you here alone. Are you willing to take a break?”

  “Yes, I’m willing. Have you had a lunch break?”

  He let that pass. “I invite you to come on the tour I’m giving,” he said to the women, “to the farm’s orchard. Right around the time we return, Genevieve will be back.”