Dirty Little Secrets

By Ruby Kennard

If it's true we're all flawed creatures living in an angry world, Jenna Kincaid has unwillingly cornered the market on both. Having survived the accident that had taken her young brother's life, speculation and innuendo set the stage for a small Texas town's gossip mongers to feast upon. At sixteen, she's still the talk of the town, no matter that she's an honor student, has few friends, and not allowed a social life, she's Riverdale's favorite subject of interest. When a rare opportunity to attend Ben O'Bryan's newly inherited ranch for a housewarming party in the next county presents itself, she's able to sneak away for the one night that is destined to make or break her. Ultimately, it does both. Now, it's five years later. Jenna has earned her MBA and is working as a high-ranking Geologist for a major Exploration Company. When she's called back to the office on a Saturday evening for a client appointment. Ben is the last man she expects to see, standing, waiting for their business meeting to commence. No way was she doing this!..It was a bogus gig, anyway, since she knew even if there was an ocean of prime crude beneath Ben's homestead pasture, he'd never allow drilling, there. So what does he really want? Instantaneously, the same question echoes in her mind. Five years ago, Ben had asked her the same question, after finding her beaten and broken, carelessly tossed to the street in Riverdale. '..To learn how to take care of myself and my baby without any interference from anyone.. That's what I want', she'd hiccuped through her tears. And he'd done that. He'd supplied her every need, removed each obstacle, and given her safe passage to fulfill her dreams without looking back. Beneath Ben O'Bryan's protective custody, no one dared hurt her, again. A real Texas gentleman, Ben reached for his Stetson with one hand while politely offering his other for her handshake. When their hands touched, their eyes met and held while a simultaneous spark of familiar heat flared between them. “Jenny,” he said quietly, I've kept my promise. Jake's my son, too. It's time he knew that.” Jenna nearly melted from suppressed anger. What she wanted to do more than anything this very moment was haul off and kick him.. hard! Just so, he'd get whatever other ideas he might have out of his hot-blooded mind. He'd find out soon enough that she wasn't a vulnerable, teenage girl, anymore. She could handle him, now. Faintly she could hear a train whistle blow in her mind...She was Amtrak, Ben was Southern Pacific-zooming ahead at rocketing speed.. and Jake was the little calf caught on the tracks between them!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ruby Kennard
• Release date: May 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310414312

Ruby Kennard

Many of my stories revolve around the familiar environment I experienced growing up in my native Texas surroundings. However, I have visited much of America and expand my locations on impulse, depending on the individual story plots. Since I once lived that particular lifestyle, my knowledge of ranching, the oil-field industry, and South Texas culture enables me to incorporate my views into the stories I write. As a wildlife enthusiast, my critters usually have a Cameo appearance in my stories, as well.Through experience, I've learned we're all flawed creatures, living in an angry world. Therefore, I dig deeply into my characters, find those flaws, add real life issues and watch my hero and heroine resolve them. I've found that even in the most profoundly dramatic scenes, laughter is still good medicine. I write simply because I must. When a story unfolds in my mind, I get no rest until I bring it to completion. My greatest joy is in knowing that none of us are alone. We're each vulnerable to the same circumstances- fly high, to our mountain tops, or grovel in the valleys below. But it's the laughter and love we share, together that determines our endurance and survival. Trust me!.. It's true- What don't kill you, makes you stronger!DIRTY LITTLE SECRETS is my 'come-back' book. After dropping out of the industry for years, I was compelled to write, again. Although I never intended to publish, I did. Ben and Jenna O'Bryan's story was so much fun to write and carried such an important lesson in life that I gave them a legacy in the Bluebonnet, Texas Series. There are presently six individual romance adventures in the series and I'm working on my third mega-romance. I hate Windows 8 and have an ongoing love/hate relationship with Grammarly!

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Hovering over the concrete landing pad, Grant didn’t question the area’s landing lights. Solar powered, they just functioned automatically, even when no one was scheduled for landing.

After killing the engine on his new black chopper, he relaxed, resting his head against the cushioned headrest. Home. He was finally home. If you could call it that.

It had been twenty-eight months since leaving the last time. Shutting his eyes tightly, he allowed his memories of that final bittersweet chapter in his life to foreshadow the black curtain of his mind. He was entitled.

But it’d been too long. He’d closed the door so tightly, not even a sliver of light could escape into his mind’s view. Once, his very life had depended on slamming that door and keeping it dark and mute.

Now, he needed those last moments as much as he hungered for them. It was as if every nerve and muscle in his body had been waiting for his soul to open up and allow penetration. His memories. They were all he had.

Blindly, his left hand slid to the chopper’s door and released the lock, simultaneously, the metal door swung free of the cockpit and he lifted his head, taking a deep, cleansing breath of the fresh, outside air.

A few deep breaths later, his nostrils flared with recognition. Gardenias, with their heady perfume, flooded his senses, and then more subtly, violets, over a layered trail of roses, farther, across the yard. It was as if he’d never intentionally compelled them forward. With a will of their own, a slideshow of sweet images and familiar voices exploded in his mind’s eye.

Again, he visualized his tall, manly dad, reaching down, trailing his long fingers across his mom’s pretty face before she could slap his hand away.

Don’t, Jared! You’re smearing my makeup! Though she was smiling through her tears, he and his dad both knew she was dead serious and about to get cocky if he didn‘t cease his intentions, even if they were well meant. His mom rarely wore makeup so when she did, it took time and expertise to layer it all on, so it looked as if it wasn’t there. No way was she going to let anyone mess up what had taken most of an hour to apply artfully.

You don’t get all gussied up for me. With a grin, he winked at Grant, Why should I let you do it for some other man?

While he watched in amusement, his dad threw a long arm around his mom’s slight shoulders and drew her to his lengthy frame.

Instantly, she spurted with righteous indignation, You?.. McCrea, you wouldn’t know the difference. That’s why!

Wrong, babe. I know there’s nothing but pure honey underneath all that goop. Everything else is just over-kill.

Tiptoeing, she pulled his head down to her level. Jared McCrea, can you behave…long enough for us to see our boy off?!

Unwrapping his long arms from her small frame, he laughed outright. Dunno, but.. I’ll try, just this once.

Grant knew his parents too well. They’d both been playing damned good theater. For his benefit. All morning, he’d waltzed around their emotions. And his own. It was like that every time he came home on furlough and left, again.

Something way down deep inside him began to unwrap, and it hurt. Unconsciously, both his hands lifted to his face but there were no tears to wipe away. His heart was as dead as they were. Until now, he hadn’t been able to show grief, and now, he couldn’t. They wouldn’t want that, and he knew instinctively- if he dropped his emotional guard, even slightly, he'd crash and burn. It was an apt but grim metaphor.

Almost two years ago, he’d left for the last nine-month hitch, had done most of his time, was already on the base commander’s discharge list, within weeks of his release. Just days before his last sortie, his parents twin engine Cessna had crashed over the Yucatan, near their favorite fishing resort. He hadn’t even had time to question the details. His company chaplain had delivered the news from the state department while he was in, gearing up for combat. He’d been given the choice, due to his circumstances, to go or stay, but they’d been his men too long to trust anyone else to get ‘em in and out, safely.

Just minutes into the red zone, the Apache chopper he’d flown his men over the craggy mountain villages of Afghanistan took on heavy small fire damage, disabling the fuel line and taking their chopper into instant free-fall.

He’d managed a rough set-down but within minutes, the area was hit hard as the entire mountain appeared to be crawling with Taliban insurgents. The last thing he remembered was opening fire with his weapon before everything went pitch black. And stayed that way. All there’d been was pain, but he’d managed to bury most of those memories, too. Except in sleep, where they mingled with his other realities and emerged in vivid, disjointed images.

In time, he’d sort it all out and deal with it. It’d been a long walk through hell just to survive, to fulfill the promise he’d made to his parents. He’d achieved that, at least. He had come home.

Even if the solar yard lamp hadn’t been glowing dimly, he wouldn’t have had any trouble walking around flower beds and yard ornaments to get to the back patio doors. Dropping his duffle bag to the concrete deck, he reached up to the blooming petunia pot, hanging just off the front porch, felt to the right until his fingers contacted the metal key.

If he hadn’t been so tired, it would’ve dawned on him sooner. Turning half around, his eyes surveyed the expansive backyard, landscaped and alive, not overgrown or dead from neglect. Glancing up at the hanging petunias, he could almost believe nothing had changed. Everything was still alive and thriving. But he knew different. What he loved most were gone from him, forever.

It never entered his mind to wonder who’s labor had kept the grounds so perfectly groomed and healthy for the past twenty-eight months. He didn’t care. Giving his final briefing in DC had been a real bitch. But the worse was his confinement at Walter Reed until they’d finally released him after weeks of follow-up physical re-hab and mental evals. It was over now. And the rest of the world could go to hell.

About to reach for the nearest lamp, he changed his mind. He didn’t want to see.. anything. All he wanted to feel right now was his bed beneath his tired ass.

After peeling off his combat boots and fatigues, he pulled the softly padded coverlet and top sheet to the foot of his bed and eased himself onto his bed’s familiar softness. Moments later, he succumbed to a deep, dreamless sleep only to be awakened by the old heirloom Grandfather clock in the living room when it chimed on the hour and each half hour. It was a familiar intrusion but one he welcomed. The old clock was like a steady, predictable pulse beat, giving the empty house life. Life. He’d get used to, again, one day at a time.

At eleven o’clock, he counted each chime until sudden awareness kicked in. It was a twenty-day clock and it sure as hell wasn’t winding itself. Since his aunt and uncle lived a half-mile down the road, it made a kind of twisted sense that they’d send their gardener down to keep the grounds neat. Efficiency and tidiness was the staunch code they applied to every function of their organized lives. They called it class- his dad called it bullshit.

But, no way would they enter the house. Not on a regular basis, anyhow. And they sure as hell wouldn’t wind the antique clock. Frank and Martha Phearson hated anything old or outdated, ..except money, and the older it was, the more of it they coveted, namely- the McCrea properties and fortune. All of which had been handed down from father to son and now wholly belonged to him.. And subsequently to his heirs,.. if he ever had any.

If not, according to the terms of the original will, if the McCrea name died out, the land would default back to the state and become subject to the rules of the old Spanish land grant, which would become obsolete through fulfillment after five generations of McCrea ownership. He was the fourth. It would be his heir that completed the land transfer and owned the McCrea Ranch outright, with no strings attached. If not for the two new graves on the hillside, he’d declare the default, himself, and walk away.

Not for the first time, he was forced to acknowledge the entirety of the burden he carried. From nearly the beginning, he’d been cheated, and the curse kept repeating until now, it had taken them, all. All, but him. How the hell he’d been shot up so damned bad, yet survived against all odds was nothing but a cruel twist of fickle fate.

If his brother, Grady, had lived, everything would’ve been a helluva lot easier. They would’ve shared everything, including their lives. Most of all, he wouldn’t be so utterly alone, now. Rolling onto his stomach, he began shutting his mind down. He didn’t want to think, anymore. It only deepened the stark emptiness he felt creeping back into awareness. Pulling his pillow over his head, he waited for the half hour chime so he could catch another half hour of unconscious nothingness.

In that dusky space just between slumber and awareness, the muted roar of a familiar engine shook Grant awake. Throwing the pillow across the room, he rolled on his back and tuned into the barely audible sound. When the vehicle came closer, turning down his blacktop road, he sat up in bed.

Having had every notable shrink at Walter Reed poking into his psyche for weeks, he was reasonably sure if PTSD syndrome had been hiding anyplace in his brain, they would’ve found it. So,.. what was this, then?.. A new version of the Twilight Zone? VW Beetle engines had their unique firing order and the Volkswagen heading down the blacktop road to his house at almost exactly midnight was his mom’s little yellow bug! He‘d heard it too often not to recognize it instantly. The question was.. who the hell was driving it?..And why?

Stepping silently into the den, he flattened himself against the wall and watched through the glass patio doors while a dark, fully robed figure raced through the back yard and around the corner of the house but was back, again, a few moments later. He waited until the willowy, faceless figure skipped up the sidewalk and hopped onto the patio porch, nudged the patio doors and walked right in.

'Dude, you just freaked out the wrong sonovabitch!’

In her mind, the only possible deduction Juliet could make was that a solid wall had just fallen on her, knocking her violently flat on her back in the middle of the McCrea’s den floor. Gasping to somehow replace the oxygen that had instantaneously left her lungs, she shoved and kicked, fighting for all she was worth to free herself from the mysterious assault.

With the sudden ’swosh’ from her lungs, Grant’s reasoning clicked in. Whatever lay beneath his 6’2, 180-pound frame was warm blooded, too soft and slightly curved to be male. Sliding his body downwards, keeping her pinned down but not free to pummel him with whatever had been in her hand, he bent over her, both her slender wrists held in one big hand while he reached over to the nearest lamp, flooding the room with light.

Staring down at his intruder, he still couldn’t see much of what he’d caught. At his impact, the silver-gray hood had fallen away, leaving long, black hair around her, above her, and concealing her face entirely. Somewhere- a memory came alive but he fought it back down.

Who are you.. and what are you doing in my house?

Juliet heard the underlying threat in his dark tone but was encouraged rather than intimidated by it. Grant?

Drawing in an impatient breath, he loosened her hands and separated the curtain of her hair so he could see who it was that knew his name and dared to invade his home. Just then, the clock began to chime its twelve tones. There was only one person this was likely to be. Aww, shit!!

It’s Juliet, she replied low but could see that he didn’t recognize her by name or appearance. Juliette Yamazahcek,.. Your aunt and uncle adopted my sister, Caterina. Remember? Now, she saw in the relaxing of his tightened jaw muscles, he was at least willing to listen a few more seconds before bagging her up and tossing her in the middle of his backyard.

After silent moments ticked by, she began to squirm beneath his steady scrutiny. I can recall a skinny kid with knobby knees and kinky black hair. You ’borrowed’ one of my geldings and nearly got yourself killed.

Nodding, she wisely remained silent until promptly, he stood, yanking her hand as he did so, bringing her upright in front of him.

Your English is better but your attitude and perception of entitlement hasn’t changed a whit. Matter of fact, her usage of American English was a hundred percent improved, and her accent was sexy as hell, which disturbed him, somewhat.

Well, you picked a helluva night to upgrade from horse thieving to burglary. Again, you nearly got yourself killed.

Intently, she stared up, holding his hard stare with her own. Would you have really hurt me?

She wasn’t just using idle conversation. She waited for his answer as if it mattered. Might’ve scared you to death.

No. I wasn’t afraid, at least not after I caught my breath."

Yeah, right. So, why were kicking and punching, if you weren’t the least bit afraid?

Suffocation is not a calming sensation, she answered quietly while scanning his bare chest.

Following the direction of her dark green eyes, he asked low, Looking for anything in particular?

Yes, she answered promptly, raising her fingers to run across the twin bullet scars just inches above his heart, these. I sneaked a look at your medical report from your uncle’s desk.

Relaxing, in fact, too calm now, his eyes darkened as one big hand lifted, reaching toward her bosom. So, now that you’ve sought and found my sensitive spots, can I search for yours?.. I know you’ve got at least two..

Taking a step backward, she chuckled low, Your mama warned me about you. She said you were a wicked tease.

A tease, huh?.. that would imply I’m not serious. You wanna explore my other injuries? With one thumb inside the waistband of his army issue skivvies, his gaze never wavered from hers.

Again, she backed up another foot, putting him out of arm’s length. I’ll take your word for the shrapnel damage on your left thigh. Sounded bloody, I could throw up.

Folding both arms across his broad chest, his dark eyebrows raised. Let me get this straight. When you were only a skinny kid, you had the guts to steal my rankest stud and damn near ride it into the ground. Now, you’re a skinny adult with the balls to sneak over here in the middle of the night,… traipse all over my property, doing God only knows what, and that was before you gained illegal entry into my house… but now, you don’t have the stomach to glance at a lil’ old ten-inch scar? Trust me, sugar,.. that’s called regression.

I’m not skinny, I’m not that sweet, and, believe it or not, I have a legitimate motive in being here. When he didn’t ask, she answered, anyway. I’ve been taking care of your mother’s house plants, flowers and.. and everything else she loved.

Watching her eyes fill with tears made him uncomfortable, so he changed into attack mode, again. What about me?.. She loved me, too. So, are you gonna take care of me?

Oh, you’re easy, she stated explicitly, sidestepping him into the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator, took out a can of his favorite beer, pulled the tab and marched back, handing it over to him. Sorry, I can’t feed you. I’ve stocked the pantry but since no one knew when you were coming back, most everything’s either frozen or canned.

Taking another absent swig of the icy brew, he savored the taste. Like everything else, he’d forgotten how good an ice-cold Bavarian beer tasted. Leaning against the kitchen’s breakfast bar, he watched her march into the den, retrieve the plastic water bottle where he’d sailed it across the room. With determination, she didn’t stop until she’d shared its contents with three potted plants. Setting the container aside, she walked quietly back into the kitchen and stopped in front of him.

Whatever it was she wanted to say, he waited so she could spew it out and get out, leave him alone. He needed his privacy now, more than ever. Especially for this particular invasion of his privacy.

Grant, I don’t remember ever having parents, so I can’t imagine how deeply you feel their loss. but I did get to spend a lot of time with them during breaks. They had each other.. and they had you. They just didn’t need anyone, else.

Yeah, he finally responded, they were lifetime honeymooners. Surprises me they let you in their tight little twosome.

I was just a stand-in for you while you were away. Pausing beside him, she lifted her face, staring directly into his eyes. Be careful, Grant. You left the back door unlocked. Don’t do it, again.

Now, what was this all about? Spending most of her youth in a dirty state orphanage in Moldova couldn’t have given her much reason to trust anyone. Issues. Everybody had ‘em. He was already carrying enough baggage and alone, he could carry it.

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a great big boy. I can take care of myself, but thanks for the boost. I’ll lock up tight from now on.

Watching her bend forward, waving her long black curls, he frowned. With both hands, she lifted the dark, silky mass and tucked it inside her hood before starting for the door.

Thanks for keeping the beer cold for me. Appreciate it, but I can take it from here.

Just at the patio door, she half turned. The clock schedule is marked on the kitchen calendar. It’ll need winding before Saturday.

Lifting his beer can, he toasted affirmatively, Gotcha.

Downing the last swig, he smashed the aluminum can flat and tossed it in the empty trash bin, flipped off the kitchen light and then the lamp before heading back to his dark bed, grumbling low, Takin’ care of me’s easy, huh.. Well, honey, that’s why you’re out of here- asap, Finito, forever and ever amen!

Grabbing the pillow’s mate, he stuffed it beneath his head and yawned. Moldova. Was that still a Russian state or not?.. Not. Didn’t matter, Miss bossy-almost Russian Juliette Whatever could keep her almost skinny little ass on the Phearson side of his property and leave him the hell alone… He was entitled to his privacy. He’d earned it. And if he wanted to throw himself a pity party. He’d damned well do it.

At the crack of dawn, he opened his eyes, flopped onto his stomach and squeezed his eyes shut, again. But it didn’t happen. He was still on combat time. Up before daylight and out before dawn, except this last night’s late arrival had kept him up too late and he’d slept in, this morning.

After a brisk shower and close shave, he towel-wrapped his slender hips and stepped into his walk-in closet. Twenty minutes later, he made a bee-line for his parents’ room. He hadn’t bought new clothes since college, and those didn’t fit right, anymore. Due to his present width of muscle mass in both, his upper torso and limbs, even if the preppy items had fit, he wouldn’t have worn them. While home on furloughs, he’d shared his dad’s Levis and tailored, western shirts. Even his sleeveless ribbed, ’wife-beater’ undershirts were more comfortable than his regular tees.

After the initial shock of walking into his folks’ bedroom, he knew he should’ve come in here, first, especially after opening the closet doors. He could smell them. Lifting his mom’s robe, he held it to his face and inhaled the scent of flowers mixed with sunshine. His dad’s shirts smelled of cleanness and fabric softener, except for his jackets, especially the leather ones. Those were all. Jared McCrea; from the faint musky work sweat in his denim jackets to a hint of wild-wood and smoke on the others. His dad had been a man’s man, and the aura of his masculinity was a lingering reminder of who he, himself was to now, become. The McCrea as his ranch hands called him, owner and boss of everything that lived on his hundred and twenty thousand acres of prime Central Texas ranch land. Of the dozen or so families that lived in and around the lands, he didn’t know who was still on the roster and who had left. Paddy, his dad’s foreman, would know. He made a mental note to give him a call. Soon.

Throwing a slab of frozen bacon in the microwave to thaw, he opened a box of instant pancake mix, added canned milk and beat the batter smooth. A half hour and he was sitting down to a tall stack of pancakes, half pound of crisp bacon, pint of unfrozen OJ and finally, a soup-bowl sized mug of hot, black coffee. Later, he’d also need to run into the grocery store. In what?.. Small town folks might frown on his setting his chopper down in their handicapped parking space. He’d check the garage, check what was left after the nosy little KGB spook had taken her pick.

First on his mind was his mom’s flower beds. He wasn’t about to allow Miss Juliette What’s her name to find a single reason to bitch over his inability to continue her volunteer task. Turning on the sprinkler system, he set it for fifteen minutes. Any longer wouldn’t give the plants time to soak and dry before the sun came up and beat down on their tender leaves. Next, he unrolled the garden hose and dragged it to the far side of the yard, dropping the open nozzle to the ground base soil. These damned things were older than he was, had survived three generations of McCreas, and they’d damned well be here when he was gone. Mean, prickly bushes that they were, their antique status hadn’t lessened their thick, sweet, perfume. Or the deep red petals of their saucer sized rose blooms.

After ever growing plant had been given a proper watering, he put away the hoses and walked slowly toward the gated fences that divided the homestead estate from ranch land. This section had been cross-sectioned in two hundred acre parcels, four of them. The first, right behind the house was mostly used for machine and feed storage as each building showed evidence. Using his dad’s key chain, he found the correct key on the fourth try. Opening the door to the first, he ran a slow, searching gaze from the back of the long, double wide barn, to the front, counting and assessing before he slowly paced to the far side of the tractor barn. As far as he could tell, the equipment was all accounted for and appeared serviceable. The inventory included: two John Deere tractors,- one, an antique collectible that had belonged to ranch for generations, three Farmalls, and four new Kubutos, the last of which, each had cab coverage, air-conditioning and AM-FM radio. Along with the heavy equipment, he noted the hay balers, and bush hogs were clean and unrusted. And then, he checked the ranch trucks and trailers, all just as they should be when not in use.

Bending down, he searched for dry-rot crack damage on hoses and engine parts before assessing the tires on all the equipment and vehicles. Everything looked right. He’d pulled a few blades of dried wild oats from the underside of the brush hog attachment and again on the balers. Someone had cut and harvested feed, so, apparently, the beef were faring well. Right now, the grass was in green sprout, which meant free grazing was enough. He needed to check both hay barns, throw out the old to make place for the new, come harvest time. Next week, he’d make sure the back pastures had been planted for this year's winter and drought months. A successful rancher knew the profit was in keeping healthy, nutritional grass. His dad sowed wild oats, Bermuda, and alfalfa.

Scanning the homestead outbuildings, he completely bypassed the Cessna’s hangar and it’s paved runway just behind the back sliding doors.

Later today, he’d check the water wells, and spring creeks but for now, he had a higher priority.

Walking past the stables, he noted all twenty stalls were empty, which didn’t surprise him. This time of the year, early spring, the horses would be running loose in one of the piped fenced back pastures. All but Gabe and K-bar. Those were his personal riding stock and would’ve been in the front pasture or stabled up… if there’d been anyone around to attend to them.

He’d been deployed just under eighteen months before being reclassified MIA for eight months, and then spent another month at a base hospital in Germany before the Army flew him back for a month at Walter Reed for evaluation and rehab. His parents had been gone over two years now. Still, that didn’t explain his missing horses.

His dad knew he didn’t like them running free with the others. It was too damned tedious to re-break ‘em every time he came home. This was the homestead pasture, commonly called the corral by the ranch hands since it was too large for a holding pen and too small for more than a couple horses to graze adequately.

But right now, he was walking towards a small cove of oak trees just to his left, near the end of the pasture line. Trying to concentrate on putting one booted foot in front of the other, one at a time, he was surprised his long stride hadn’t taken more time to get to this place. Even as a boy, he’d hated it here. Only now, it was like he was in a fast car with no brakes, racing thru Dallas during five o’clock traffic. Nothing on earth could stop him from his destination. But it was going to hurt like hell when he got there.

Long ago, the small fenced off area was chosen purposely- just out of the trees root line but near enough to catch both, the sunlight and shade, periodically throughout the day. And, inside the small fence, there was a concrete bench where one could catch both, sunrise, and sunset.

Just inside the wrought gate, he stood gazing down at the first tombstone, Grady’s. Stepping slowly beside it, he knelt down and choked out, Hey, buddy. I know it’s been a long time. Sorry about that. Reaching into a small round sandstone vase, he carefully pulled up one tiny, growing bluebell in full bloom. Looks like somebody’s been visiting you, though.. And I can just bet I know who. Placing the single, fragile blossom on his twin’s small grave, he stood and glanced toward the two new graves beside his brother. Immediately, his hat was in his hand, and he began to shake. Backing into the hard bench behind him, he dropped down and sat, gazing at the one engraved headstone that bore both his parents identities beneath the centered words, ’Love Lasts Forever’. Slowly, his gaze scanned the double headstone and dropped to the bottom of the tombstone where his eyes focused on a small engraved cherub holding a scroll in one chubby little hand. In elegant, fancy script the message read, ’Gone Fishing Be Home Soon.’

It began in his toes and swiftly flooded upward until the sensation of warmth and peace swept through the chill in his heart. Without warning his lips twitched and what had begun as a little chuckle escalated into a full belly roar. Tears overflowed and streamed down his dark cheeks and still, he laughed. Taking out his bandanna, he wiped his face while a grin tugged at his dark cheeks. Pulling his mink brown Stetson over his dark hair, he stood, See Mom,..Dad. I’m home, just like I said I’d be. And you‘ve gone fishing-be home soon.

When movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention, he turned just in time to avoid stepping out in front of both his horses, in a dead run to get to him. Gabe, his five year old gelding went for his hat, slinging it to the grass beside his left boot, while K-bar, his mare, and Gabe’s mother, nibbled on his shirt pocket, searching for treats.

For the first time in over two years, he had a sense of comfort. He hadn’t lost his family. He knew exactly where they were. And his friends,.. they hadn’t abandoned him. Here they were, walking right beside him, nickering like crazy, happy as hell to see him. Finally, he was home.. and everything was gonna be all right.

CHAPTER TWO

Muttering beneath her breath, Juliet did a last turn on the final metal nut, tightening the pickup’s water pump firmly in place. Next, she snatched the new rubber water hose and began attaching it from the radiator to the engine. With her head and most of her body beneath the truck’s open hood, she wasn’t aware she had an audience until two big handfuls of rough fingers slid beneath her baggy jean legs and tightened onto her ankles, dragging her none too gently from atop the engine, onto the ground before him. And from the dark, menacing look on Grant’s face, he was considering doing bodily harm.

What the hell are you doing?.. Sabotaging what you didn’t want?

With her forefinger, she rubbed her nose before sneezing loudly. Oh God, you haven’t been playing in the barn, have you? I’m sooo allergic to hay. So saying, she violently sneezed, again.

Reaching into her back pocket, she pulled out a worn, red rag, proceeded to wipe her cheeks with it before blowing her nose into it.

You haven’t answered me and make it quick. My patience is too thin to stand here and play word games when I’d just as soon shove you back beneath the hood and slam it shut.

Good morning to you, too, she said low, a slow grin spreading across her full lips. somebody woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

You wanna try it over?.. We can go back inside, climb in and wrestle around in bed until we can figure out the right side to crawl out?

Pretending to think it over, her grin widened, Naa, I think any side would’ve resulted in the same nasty mood. You‘re just plain bad natured. And your manners could use a real hard polish. Trust me, I know. I spent two long years boarded out in Miss Anna Leigh‘s genteel Southern lady‘s school of fine etiquette and proper protocol.

What a monumental waste of your time.. and my money.

Yours. The Phearsons paid the imprisonment fees. I know because they remind me every time I stump a toe.

Yeah, well, it was still my money picking up the tab.

Well then, you’re a generous, yet frivolous man, McCrea, since none of it took.

What happened?.. Were you sneaking in and out all hours of the night, stealing their fine china and all the silver?

Nope. With a tinkling laugh, she responded with amused candor.

Took me two years to learn how to keep my head bowed respectfully, wiggle my eyelashes just so., all the while, she acted out her statement of fact, "cross my legs at the ankles, and always.. And I do mean always begin my conversations with ’dear me’ and end every question with ‘so sorry dawlin, I’m sure it’s my fault, entirely."

His dark eyes widened, "I paid for all that?"

"Naa,.. Learning proper English was the expensive and time-consuming lessons on their curriculum. Which was downright amazing