Forsaken Trail

by Devney Perry

  FORSAKEN TRAIL

  Copyright © 2020 by Devney Perry LLC

  All rights reserved.

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  ISBN: 978-1-950692-26-2

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  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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  Editing & Proofreading:

  Elizabeth Nover, Razor Sharp Editing

  www.razorsharpediting.com

  Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  www.facebook.com/jdproofs

  Karen Lawson, The Proof is in the Reading

  Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  www.judysproofreading.com

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  Cover:

  Sarah Hansen © Okay Creations

  www.okaycreations.com

  Other Titles

  Jamison Valley Series

  The Coppersmith Farmhouse

  The Clover Chapel

  The Lucky Heart

  The Outpost

  The Bitterroot Inn

  The Candle Palace

  Maysen Jar Series

  The Birthday List

  Letters to Molly

  Lark Cove Series

  Tattered

  Timid

  Tragic

  Tinsel

  Tin Gypsy Series

  Gypsy King

  Riven Knight

  Stone Princess

  Noble Prince

  Fallen Jester

  Tin Queen

  Runaway Series

  Runaway Road

  Wild Highway

  Quarter Miles

  Forsaken Trail

  Dotted Lines

  Calamity Montana Series

  Writing as Willa Nash

  The Bribe

  The Bluff

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Dotted Lines

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Aria

  “Are you here?” August asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Uhh.” He grunted into the phone. “When are you gonna get here?”

  “Soon, buddy. I’m about an hour away.”

  “An hour,” he groaned. “That’ll take forever.”

  I laughed. “Go play outside and by the time you build a fairy fort for me to inspect, I’ll be there. Now where’s your mom?”

  “She’s sick.”

  “What?” My spine stiffened. Clara hadn’t seemed sick when I’d called last night. “What kind of sick?”

  “Um . . . coughing sick? When you get here, can we open my present first?”

  “Yes, we can open your present first.”

  My nephew was five, and I’d missed his birthday. The guilt was real. My attempt to assuage it had resulted in the scooter gift wrapped in the trunk along with a Nintendo Switch game, a puzzle, three books and a remote-control car.

  August’s birthdays had always been a priority, but I hadn’t been able to get away from work this year. Summers were a hectic time at The Gallaway for the head groundskeeper. Toss in my latest duties as fill-in general manager for the luxury hotel on the Oregon coast, and even a quick vacation to see my sister had been impossible.

  Normally, Clara and Gus would take a summer trip to my home in Heron Beach for his birthday. Had this been a normal year, we would have celebrated as a family. August, born in August. But this year, their trip to Oregon had been moved up to June.

  Clara’s arrogant and demanding boss had decided that he needed his assistant along for his two-week hiatus in Aruba over Gus’s birthday.

  I couldn’t blame Clara for jumping at the lavish vacation. August had turned five in an extravagant, boutique hotel with his favorite person in the world—his mother. They’d gone snorkeling in the ocean and swimming in their suite’s private infinity pool. The chef had made Gus’s dinner favorite—mini cheeseburgers—then baked him a three-tiered chocolate cake.

  Experiencing that moment through Instagram pictures had been depressing.

  Maybe we should have partied early for his birthday during their visit in June, but applauding five when you were stuck at four seemed borderline cruel.

  This vacation was my chance to make up for my absence. I was as excited to get to Arizona as August was for me to arrive.

  Two weeks with my sister and her son. Two weeks in sweatpants and going barefoot. Two weeks of takeout, games and fun.

  “Can you take the phone to your mom?” I asked August.

  “Okay. Mom!” he shouted.

  I pulled the phone away from my ear and laughed. His feet pounding through their house echoed in the background. After some rustling and mutters, my sister took the phone.

  “Hey,” she said, her voice muffled and thick.

  “Gus said you were sick.”

  “Ugh.” She coughed and sniffled. “I woke up this morning and felt like crap.”

  “Sorry. I’ll be there soon to entertain August so you can get some rest.”

  “Where are you?”

  “About an hour away.” I’d worked a half day yesterday to beat the weekend traffic flocking to the coast. I’d pushed hard, spending my Thursday night on the road until I’d finally found a place to stop and a motel room for the night. Then I’d woken up this morning to finish the rest of the twelve-hundred-mile journey, wanting to get to Clara’s before dinner.

  “Drive safe,” she said. “See you when you get here.”

  “Bye.” I ended the call and tossed my phone into my purse in the passenger seat.

  Then I gripped the Cadillac’s white wheel and relaxed as I floated down the highway.

  I loved this car. It was going to break my heart to leave it with Clara in two weeks. But the restored 1964 Cadillac DeVille convertible was not mine to keep. She had been entrusted to me for a short time and soon, she’d continue on her journey to her rightful owner.

  But for today, for this trip, she was mine.

  The afternoon sun roasted the asphalt. Heat waves rolled across the road, leaving blurry ripples in the air. There were no clouds in the blue sky, nothing to offer relief from the sun’s punishing rays. Yesterday I’d spent most of the day with the top down, enjoying the wind in my hair and sunshine on my face. Today I’d keep the top up and the AC cranked.

  This heat was the reason I avoided the desert in the summer. By October, it should have cooled, but this year was unseasonably hot.

  No wonder everything died here.

  Why Clara loved the desert I had no clue. I’d stick with my home on the coast, where the breeze was cool, crisp and freshly salted. Plants and flowers flourished in the ocean air and under the frequent rains.

  Life seemed harder here. Nature was unrelenting and only the strong survived. The plateaus in the distance had been eroded into towers and flat-topped spires on the horizon. They’d endured centuries of abuse from wind and water, leaving behind their own unique beauty.

 
The bushes, cacti and wildflowers that managed to thrive were tough as hell. I’d give them credit for their tenacity.

  Maybe that was why Arizona appealed to Clara. She was tough as hell too.

  The road stretched long and wide ahead. White marking the edges. Yellow the center.

  Route 66.

  The iconic highway had been mostly empty today, and the stretch ahead was mine and mine alone. I sank deeper into the buttery leather seat and leaned an elbow on the door.

  This trip to Arizona wasn’t just a trip to visit my twin sister. This trip had a purpose. I was the next driver in a cross-country journey that had started in Boston and would end in California.

  This spring, I’d had a surprise visit from an old friend. Katherine Gates had been a welcome sight when I’d spotted her in the lobby of The Gallaway. My childhood friend had traveled from Montana to Oregon. With her and this Cadillac had come memories of the past. Memories I’d locked away for, well . . . too long.

  Once upon a time, Katherine and I had lived together. Our home had been a junkyard. Our family had been a rabble of six runaway teens. We’d been friends. Companions. Protectors.

  Katherine.

  Londyn.

  Gemma.

  Karson.

  Clara.

  Me.

  As kids, they’d been the most important people in my life. Then we’d all gone our separate ways, built separate lives, and though I doubted any of us would ever forget the junkyard, time and distance had made it easier to ignore.

  When Katherine had surprised me in Oregon, the past had come rushing back. As did my love for my old friends. We were a unit again, the women at least. None of us had been in contact with Karson, not since the junkyard.

  But for us girls, we’d rekindled our friendships. Our family.

  We had a group text string that more often than not included pictures of wherever we were at the moment. We had video chats to talk about books, though we had yet to talk about books. We had emails and phone calls.

  So why, when I had so much love and friendship in my life, was I so lonely?

  I clutched the wheel tighter, wishing the hole in my heart away.

  The loneliness was probably because I’d been working so much. And because I’d gone so long without my sister. It would all be better once I got to Arizona, right? Maybe this heavy heart was because I hated goodbyes and soon I’d say farewell to the Cadillac.

  God, I was going to miss this car. I would miss all it represented.

  The Cadillac hadn’t always been a gleaming red classic. Once, it had been Londyn’s home, more rust than metal and home to a few mice. Her bedroom had been the backseat. The trunk had served as a closet and pantry. The passenger seat had been the guest room slash living room slash dining room.

  What a wonder it was now.

  Londyn had started the Cadillac’s journey on the East Coast. A flat tire had landed her in West Virginia and in the arms of a handsome mechanic. When Gemma had gone in search of her own fresh start, Londyn had insisted she take the car.

  That had been the first handoff.

  Gemma had gone to find Katherine at a guest ranch in Montana. Two friends reunited. And two flames. After Gemma had found love, she’d encouraged Katherine to take a trip of her own. Kat had come to find me, and when she’d headed home with her new husband, Cash, it had been my turn with the Cadillac.

  Londyn wanted this car to go to Karson, who lived in California, but since I had no desire to return to the Golden State, I was giving the Cadillac’s keys to my sister.

  One more handoff.

  One more trip.

  Londyn. Gemma. Katherine. They’d each had their road trip. Mine wasn’t as eventful, but it was mine. They’d all found something seated behind the Cadillac’s steering wheel. I had no hopes that a car would lead me to the love of my life, but I did hope to find the piece of myself I’d been missing lately.

  I’d spent months driving this gorgeous vehicle around Heron Beach. The two-day trip to Arizona was my last hurrah and I was savoring this last hour behind the wheel. Once I arrived at Clara’s, there’d be no more driving. I’d fly home in two weeks and get back to work.

  Work. I glanced at my phone and debated calling to check in. I dismissed that idea immediately. Before I’d left, Mark, the owner of The Gallaway, had told me to enjoy my well-earned time away. He’d finally brought on a general manager so I could relinquish my temporary command.

  Some women, like Gemma and Katherine, wanted to be the boss. They thrived on it. They excelled at it. Not me. All I’d ever wanted was to tend to my plants, watch them grow, and if there was a chance to make a living doing just that, then I was happy.

  Especially for The Gallaway. The hotel was a dream.

  Before Oregon, Clara and I had lived in Nevada. We’d left the junkyard for the glitz and sparkle of Las Vegas. As two eighteen-year-old girls with nothing to lose, a gamble on Sin City had seemed like a good idea.

  I’d lasted a month.

  The hotel where I’d worked had been teeming with fake people, both on staff and as guests. So I’d decided Vegas was not my final destination and got busy job hunting. The Oregon coast, where the world was lush and clean, had instantly appealed.

  I’d started as a housekeeper at The Gallaway and worked for about a year cleaning rooms. About six months into my employment, I noticed the flowerpots were in need of some pruning. So I came to work early and tackled the blooms, shaping and cultivating them.

  One day, the head groundskeeper found me weeding in my maid uniform. He took me under his wing, requesting a transfer from housekeeping to his staff. When he retired, his job became mine.

  I worked so The Gallaway overflowed with pink and white flowers in the spring. Peach and purple flourished in the summer. And when the fall came, sprays of yellow and orange and red were everywhere to be seen.

  That was the job I wanted. Not management.

  But Mark had been good to me, and after the former GM had retired months ago, finding a replacement had been more difficult than expected. Mark had burned through two candidates, one of whom had clearly lied on his résumé and another who’d been a great fit, but her fiancé had proposed one month into her employment and she’d quit to move to Utah.

  I crossed my fingers and sent up a silent prayer that this latest hire would stick. Months of doing two jobs had run me dry.

  A couple weeks with Clara and August were sure to fill the well.

  This drive had filled it some too.

  When Clara and Gus had come to Oregon in June, she’d offered to drive the Cadillac home, but I’d insisted on taking it to Arizona myself.

  Life had been too stressful. Too frantic. Too busy. This had been my chance to reset and think. I’d never wanted to be the woman who worked endless hours, the woman whose success was defined by the zeros on her paycheck and the title on her business card.

  Money was not the end goal of my life.

  I focused on the road, my energy spiking with every mile. Today was not the day to kick my own ass for working too hard this summer. Today was for fun and freedom and family.

  It took me less than the hour I’d promised August to reach Welcome, Arizona. Rolling down the highway, I took only a brief glimpse at the small town Clara loved. Then I left it in my rearview as I sped toward her home.

  A metal security gate greeted me at the driveway entrance. I punched in the code on the keypad and eased down the single lane.

  The landscaper had gone for a natural look on the grounds. Mostly rocks and some native shrubs, but there were a few desert willows and velvet mesquite trees to mask the monstrosity at the end of the drive.

  Two stories of gleaming glass as sterile and lifeless as the cement walls. Other than a small scrap of green no one could consider a proper front yard, the house was devoid of life, much like the barren and dry landscape that made up the estate.

  The modern mansion was only five years old. It had been built around the time August had been bo
rn, yet it looked new. It was too clean. Too lonely. It wasn’t a home, lived in and loved. It was a showcase. A display of wealth and arrogance.

  The house fit its owner.

  Broderick Carmichael was all about flash and flaunting his money.

  “At least he’s not here,” I muttered.

  It was easy for me to hate the man. Brody had been rude and pompous during our every encounter. How could Clara stand his presence? I’d been asking her that for years without an answer.

  When we’d moved to Las Vegas after the junkyard, I’d gone into hospitality while Clara had scoured the classifieds for an office job after getting her GED. She’d started as a receptionist for Brody’s company, Carmichael Communications, and had quickly climbed the ranks. When Brody’s personal assistant had quit—probably because his boss was spoiled and needy—Clara had been offered the position.

  They’d worked together for years. Besides me, Brody was her best friend. Another thing I couldn’t make sense of. She was everything he wasn’t. Kind. Loving. Compassionate. Clara swore he was all those things, but I wasn’t buying it.

  When Brody had decided to relocate from the city to this nowhere, tiny town in Arizona—something about a satellite office—he’d offered to bring Clara along. And when he’d built the museum that was his house, he’d also built a small home for Clara and August too. Thank God her house didn’t look like its parent.

  I turned off the main driveway and parked in front of Clara’s garage.

  Her home had a modern vibe, like Brody’s, but on a subdued scale that rendered the look fresh and simple. The slanted roof allowed for a long bank of windows that overlooked the property. The white siding was clean and bright. The stone accents, along with the plethora of potted succulents and ornamental cacti—my doing—gave it character and color.