Identity: Carver Ranch, #2

By Heather Justesen and Heather Tullis

Bo Carver returns home from serving in the army in Iraq with an annoying medical condition, nightmares, and major grief over the loss of his father. Being back on the farm he loves, and taking over with the stock is almost as soothing to his battered soul as meeting the pretty nurse at the doctor’s clinic. He just has to convince her to give him a chance. 

Meanwhile, his twin, Hank, struggles to ignore his attraction to the new head of EMS—the woman who bought his dream home out from under him. Secrets abound as they all struggle to find love and themselves.

This book was previously released under the name Heather Justesen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jelly Bean Press
• Release date: Jun 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781630340384

Book preview

Will you miss me? Margot Eggen leaned in for one more kiss goodbye from her boyfriend Charles. They stood just inside the door of his Atlanta mansion.

Every minute. I’ll come back sooner if I can, but it’s only a week, sweetheart. He slid his strong hands up her arms and pressed his lips to hers. I’d rather focus on you, but sometimes business has to come first. A noise echoed from the other entrance to his home and he smiled wryly. Speaking of.

With a sigh, Margot shifted back and picked up her purse, which had fallen sideways beside the little table next to his door. Her keys had fallen out and were half-hidden by the elegant cloth on the table. She scooped them up. Call me.

Every day—probably more than once a day. We’ll have a terrific Christmas together when I get back. He held the door for her, then followed her out to her car, pressing one last kiss on her before helping her into the beat up Toyota she’d bought when she turned sixteen.

Margot started the car, blew him a kiss, and wondered how she had gotten so lucky. She had only known Charles for a month but things between them had been going so well. Better than she ever expected. The man was perfect: tall, dark, and handsome to the nth degree, and he didn’t mind that she didn’t have an impressive pedigree or a fancy education. Not that she’d told him everything about her past, but she was starting to think he wouldn’t walk away from her when she came clean.

Sure, she liked that he had money, but that wasn’t nearly as important as the way he made her feel, the sweet way he always saw to her comfort.

Wanting to plug her phone into the stereo, she reached into her bag, but didn’t find the cell. She stopped at the end of the driveway to check in her purse. It wasn’t there. This is the last thing I need today, she muttered.

She couldn’t go anywhere without her phone. She was on call at the twenty-four-hour clinic where she worked.

Thinking it would give her an excuse to steal another kiss from Charles, Margot backed up the drive and hopped out when she pulled beside the door. She expected to have to knock at the door to have him unlock it, but when she nudged the handle, the door swung open. It hadn’t been shut tight.

Margot lifted the tablecloth and found her cell phone sitting under it. She scooped it up and heard voices coming from down the hall. She moved further into the house and heard Charles..

You think you can just walk away, Carter? You think I’d let you do that?

Margot stopped before entering the room, peeking her head around the doorway. There was a plant on a buffet against the wall between her and the two men, but she could see through the fronds.

Charles stood facing a shorter man with thinning dark hair. Light glinted off of the black metal barrel of a gun as Charles waved it toward the man. A silencer was attached to the weapon.

But, Charlie, you don’t understand, Carter said.

I think I do. Come on, let’s take a walk.

Margot backed toward the outside door, suddenly worried. Charles had never done or said anything that made her nervous before. He’d always been a perfect gentleman. She nearly tripped over the table by the exit and caught a pen before it rolled off the top and fell onto the hard tiles. She rushed to her car, wanting to get away. How could she have been dating someone who threatened another person with a gun?

She slid into her car as she saw Charles push the other man out through the sliding glass doors that led to the garage. Carter turned, though whether to fight or to speak, it wasn’t clear.

Charles didn’t give him a chance to say a word, however. The gun went off and, despite the silencer, the noise was loud in the dark quiet.

Carter slumped to the ground and Charles snorted in disgust. He muttered something Margot couldn’t hear and turned away, pulling out his cell phone and heading toward his house again.

Shaking, Margot set her car in neutral so it would coast down the driveway. The movement of her car, or maybe the sound of tires on pavement must have alerted him to her presence, however, because he looked up, surprise on his face. Margot cranked her key in the ignition and pushed on the gas, even as she heard him calling out her name.

Her back window shattered, and she ducked as the glass sprayed her from behind. A hole appeared in the front windshield under the left side of her rearview mirror. Margot’s heart hammered, and she thought she might hyperventilate. She turned onto the street, taking the corner much faster than normal. Trees and bushes obscured her from view and she headed for the main road, trying to figure out where to go. He knew where she lived, so her apartment wouldn't be safe.

As she pulled out of the neighborhood, she saw Charles’ red Lamborghini leaving his driveway and speeding in her direction.

She drove for several miles, aimlessly dodging down random streets, grateful when she lost Charles after several turns. Her cell phone rang repeatedly. All Charles. Suddenly she remembered something she’d heard about cell phones being traceable by GPS. It made her feel paranoid and stupid, but she gave into the fear and turned the phone off.

Her whole body shook, and she wept as she remembered the cold, merciless expression on Charles’ face when he’d shot Carter. How had she thought she was falling in love with him? Why did she always pick guys who shouldn’t be trusted? Was Carter dead? She didn’t know, but she couldn’t take any chances.

When she’d been driving over half an hour and could finally think beyond her own immediate safety, she realized she should have called the police, had someone check to see if the little man was still alive. By now, though, Charles would surely have had someone take care of him—one way or the other.

She pulled into a truck stop and got a cup of coffee at around two a.m. Hunched over in a booth listening to a bunch of truckers complain about the cost of fuel and engine repairs, she finally felt her brain click back into place.

She had to call the cops. She had to report what she’d seen.

Her hands still shook when she reached into her bag to pull out her cell phone. She turned it on, then dialled 911.

Ten weeks later

Margot had no idea what the powers that be thought they were doing sending her to the Rocky Mountains. Granted, Atlanta wasn’t exactly the tropics, but the little resort town the US Marshal drove her into was several feet deep in snow—and so small! The closest hospital was down the mountain twenty miles, and the clinic where she would be working only had two doctors.

Imagining the snow bunnies with elevation sickness didn’t help her feel better about abandoning the inner-city clinic filled with people who didn’t have anywhere else to turn for care. But staying alive was kind of high on her priority list, so Atlanta hadn’t been an option.

US Marshal John Sandoval had filled her in on the town’s attractions: a ski resort, mountain biking and golfing in the summer, plenty of hiking, and a five-star resort hotel with spa were high on the list. He’d been a little spare on the fact that there wasn’t even a Walmart within thirty minutes, or that there was only one regular grocery store and an organic food market open five days a week.

Lovely.

The four-plex they pulled up in front of was brown brick, old, but seemed decently maintained. It was hard to tell through the piles of snow in the yard.

In the weeks since she first called the police, who turned the case over to the FBI, she had been stuck in a safe house in South Carolina. It had taken them longer than she expected to create her new identity. Then they butchered her hair into one of those short, devil-may-care styles and lightened it from dark brown to strawberry blonde. With the use of daily toner and more makeup than she’d ever owned before, she hardly recognized herself anymore. Margot—whose name was now Tosca Michaels—was starting over as a whole new person. Too bad she wasn’t ready to leave her old self behind.

She got out of her new-to-her car and followed John to the front door. He pulled out a key and showed her into the apartment.

It was empty.

She had always lived in furnished apartments and had expected this to be the same. Where’s the furniture? The question was more than a little horrified. All she had was a couple suitcases of clothes. How did they expect her to fill the place with no money? And they were how many miles from real shopping, never mind a furniture store.

You’ve been given a furniture stipend. It’s generous for an apartment this size, John told her. He handed over an envelope and she rifled through it, noticing a large assortment of hundreds, fifties, and twenties.

The basement apartment was tiny: one bedroom, itty-bitty bath, living room, and combined kitchen/dining room. Of course, she didn't need much since she didn't get to bring any of her belongings—what was left after Charles’ goons had trashed her place was now in storage. And she’d never lived anywhere someone would refer to as lavish.

The apartment may have been small, but once inside, she could tell the place was well maintained. She smelled paint and a hint of pine cleaner. The counter-tops were a little worn, but they were scrubbed clean and the stove and refrigerator looked fairly new and sparkled inside.

Tosca looked out the window at the sound of a truck engine pulling up out front. A dark-haired man buried in a brown coat got out of a large, white truck. She hadn't met the man who was supposed to keep an eye on her, now that she was in the middle of nowhere, but she wondered if that was him. John was posing as her brother, helping her move her things in, and would only stay until that evening before he left to catch his flight back to Georgia. A member of the sheriff’s department lived next door to protect her for the foreseeable future. She wasn't sure if that made her feel safer or not.

Please tell me he’s the one, she said to John as the tall, good-looking man approached the stairs. He practically oozed strength and self-confidence.

John looked out the window and shrugged. That’s not our guy. Must be a neighbor.

If all her neighbors looked like that, Tosca thought things might be looking up. Then she shook her head. Trusting a man was what had gotten her in this position to begin with. And her previous boyfriends hadn’t been much better. Maybe she ought to take a sabbatical from dating for a few months—at least until she figured out who she was supposed to be and got comfortable enough with her fabricated background that she wouldn’t slip up.

They brought in the last of her bags, and as Tosca dumped her things in the echoing bedroom, she wondered why they hadn’t brought any furniture with them. Where am I supposed to find a bed and table? You can’t tell me this po-dunk town has a Bassett Furniture.

You couldn’t afford Bassett; not on what you make, John said. Don’t worry, Trent promised there was a place in town where you can get some nice stuff, used but in good condition. Trent was the ex-FBI agent turned sheriff’s deputy who would be keeping an eye on her. He said he’d meet us at six. You want to grab some lunch and take a look around town?

She glanced at her watch. It was only one o’clock. Might as well; I’m starving. Do they have a pizza place?

They climbed into the car and he directed her a couple of blocks down Main Street. The pizza restaurant was nearly empty—a depressing fact even if it was the middle of the week. If this was her future, she wasn't sure she wanted it.

The shopping trip went better than Tosca had expected. John first took her to a large store called Errol’s Used Treasures and Hunting Supplies. The big store windows showcased large stuffed animals, a grizzly bear, a moose head, and a full-sized buck with a huge rack. A smaller sign in the window announced that Errol was also a taxidermist. The little hope Tosca had held that the town had any kind of promise fled as she looked at the grizzly standing on its hind legs, claws extended menacingly.

You’ve got to be kidding me. This is where you want to buy my furniture?

John looked blank, and she wondered if he was trying to hide his own doubts. Trent said they have good stuff.

What do men know? she mumbled as they got out of the car and headed for the front door. The selection of guns and ammunition, hunting apparel, and other gear she didn’t even recognize, sat in the front of the shop. The guns and ammunition were back in a three-sided area which could be locked off with a metal grate that fell from the ceiling.

A round man with a red face and thinning hair greeted them with a grin. Welcome to Errol’s. I’m Mike. You new in town or just passing through?

New in town, Tosca said. The partial glimpse of a dining set a few rows back gave her a glimmer of hope. It was cherry-colored and streamlined. I couldn’t haul anything with me on the plane, so I have to pick up some new things. I heard you have some nice stuff.

His grin broadened impossibly wider and Mike led them through the store, past a display of books, clothing, and tools, to the large pieces of furniture. Tosca’s opinion of Trent’s taste improved immediately. Some of the items were old and beaten, but there were plenty of nice pieces, definitely nicer than the furniture in her last apartment.

There’s that smile. I knew it had to be hiding somewhere.

Surprised at John’s comment, she turned to him.

He gave her a knowing look. Even in the wilds of the Rocky Mountains they know something about furniture, eh?

What are you looking for? Mike asked as he stopped in front of a gently worn, white leather sofa and love seat set.

Everything. I brought only my clothes and a few mementos. I always lived in furnished apartments until now. She ran a hand over the soft leather and checked the surface for rips and stains. The color was a little worn on the bottom cushions, but otherwise, it looked great. Do you deliver?

Where do you live? The man stuck his hands in his pocket and looked at John.

My sister just moved in by the high school, John said. "The four-plex across from the football field.

That’s no problem then. If you spend over five hundred dollars, delivery is free.

Tosca looked up and saw a lovely old fashioned roll-front cabinet, and ran a hand over the smooth contours and fine details. The sign said it was only sixty dollars. I think you’ll be very happy with this sale, she said. This piece for sure. She moved around the room, checking out the rest of the furniture before deciding on the cherry-colored dinette set, the leather sofa set, a few lamps, a bookcase, mattresses—new, not used—and Hollywood bedframes, a night stand, coffee table and end tables, some basic dishes, and a couple of decorations for the walls.

She picked out some bathroom towels that could have passed for new, a cute soap dish, and a matching toothbrush holder with a duck pattern on them. Mike spent the whole time telling John about the good qualities of the furniture she looked at, as if her brother had to be convinced about the value of the merchandise she was buying. Thrilled by her finds, Tosca decided to ignore the chauvinistic attitude.

By the time she decided she was done in the store, the owner was in a very good mood and promised delivery that evening. Tosca was pleased as well—she still had nearly half the furniture stipend John had given her. There was more shopping to do, but she should have plenty to buy what she needed.

This is a great store you’ve got here, Mike. Make sure you tell Errol how much I like it. I’ll be back.

I’m glad you like it, little lady. But Errol hasn’t owned the place in five years. He retired to Alaska to fish. It’s mine now. Mike didn’t seem to think that there was anything strange about having the store named after someone who wasn’t around anymore. Considering how much she had just saved, Tosca decided to find it charming.

Mike continued, We’ll load all this up in my big trailer and bring it over in a couple hours, John. Around five.

Thanks. John helped Tosca load the bags of sheets, towels, and dishes into the back of her car. I think you’ve just made that man’s day.

If I hear one more ‘little lady’ today, I’ll deck someone. But otherwise it was a good shop. After running the bags and boxes home, they made a trip to the grocery store, where they loaded up her kitchen cupboards and refrigerator. They stopped at the electronics store and hooked her up with a cell phone, stereo, and signed up for Internet.

Tosca wondered if she would be able to be anonymous here for long—overhearing a conversation between two women and a clerk in the grocery store had told her that everyone seemed to know everyone else’s business—but once she got used to the bitter cold and not having a Chinese restaurant around the corner, she would probably adjust.

When they pulled up in front of her apartment a few minutes after five, a truck and trailer were parked out front, and Mike and three other men stood around talking on the sidewalk. Among them was the tall, dark-haired neighbor Tosca had seen earlier that day. To his right stood a lanky redhead in sheriff’s office brown. Tosca figured that must be Trent. The fourth guy was a wiry teen.

Trent turned and looked at Tosca as she walked over. His smile was one of appreciation. Real, or part of the act, she wondered.

You must be the new neighbor. I’m Trent Oliver. If you need any protectin’, ma’am, give me a call. He had a southern drawl—Missouri?—and an easy manner. Knowing he had been with the FBI, Tosca wondered if all that ease was a cover, John had indicated that the man had been a very good agent. And he was young—not a day past thirty-five at the oldest. So what was he doing here?

Hi, I’m Tosca Michaels. I’ll be taking your pulse at the doctor’s office. She shook his hand and approved of the leashed power she felt in his hard palm. His eyes glanced lazily over the area, but she had a feeling that he was catching every movement around them, every detail. John did the same, but his manner wasn’t as well camouflaged.

This here’s Hank Carver, Trent introduced, and Hank shook her hand. He lives above you. You’ll probably see the Baileys in and out. They’re a young couple with a baby, and live in the fourth apartment. Stephanie’s real nice.

It’s nice to meet you, Tosca. Is your name Italian? Hank asked.

Yes, it means ‘from Tuscany’. My mom always wanted to go there. The lie slipped easily off her tongue after practicing with John a hundred times or more. She doubted her mom had ever wanted to go further than to see her dealer on the corner.

John nudged her with his elbow; his hands were full of groceries. You want to get the door?

Sorry. Tosca hurried up the stairs and let him in, then returned to the car to pick up a load of her own. The men all pitched in and helped unload the furniture, and Tosca had to repeat her story about why she didn’t own anything when she moved there. Finally, Mike and his helper left and Hank went to his apartment to get ready for a date, leaving Trent with John and Tosca to discuss her situation.

Once the door shut the three of them in, Trent shifted from friendly neighbor to serious lawman in the blink of an eye. He took the seat John had indicated and Tosca sat across from him.

They discussed strategy, new developments, and various plans. Tosca sat by while the two men more or less ignored her. After ten minutes, she stood and turned toward the kitchen. She had things to do before she could go to bed.

Where are you going? Trent asked.

It doesn’t look like you need me for this conversation. You may be discussing my life, but you don’t seem to care if I participate. She allowed the edge in her voice, not caring about pleasantries right now.

He grinned and patted the seat beside him on the sofa. Sorry, I tend to get wrapped up. Do you have any questions?

Tosca considered him for a moment, then took the spot. Is there anything I should know about the area?

Snow fell as Joquell maneuvered her car through the mountain town to the sheriff’s station. It had been over a decade since she’d been in Juniper Ridge last, but she remembered it being warm and welcoming, even when it was bitingly cold.

She’d been trying to get a job in the Colorado Rockies for nearly a year now and had been thrilled when she’d made it through the telephone interview and been asked to come for a job interview. The full-time position as ambulance director didn’t pay a lot—especially as the rest of the department was volunteer—but money wasn’t really a problem; she just wanted out from under her parents’ thumbs. And if she could do it in this gorgeous small town, so much the better.

The roads were slick from the falling snow, but Joquell handled them better than she’d expected and soon she strode into the office building, putting on her most confident air.

She stopped at the front desk. Hello, my name is Joquell Westbury and I have an appointment with Capt. Wilson?

Yes, of course, Ms. Westbury, I’ll let him know you’re here. Just a moment. The woman picked up her phone and dialed.

Joquell studied the tiny office space, wondering if her office would be here or in the ambulance shed. The walls were a soft green—warm and inviting considering it was a law-enforcement office.

A door to the hall opened and a tall man in his mid-fifties entered. Ms. Westbury, I’m so glad to finally meet you. Come on back to my office.

The interview went well and Joquell was pleased when they took a walk around the building. He took her to the ambulance shed to meet the current director and see the facilities. Capt. Wilson disappeared to make a phone call for a few minutes while Joquell spoke with Darla, the current ambulance director, about scheduling and procedures.

Later, as Capt. Wilson walked Joquell back to her car, she was sure she wanted the job. It was everything she’d been hoping for—or at least as close to everything as a job could reasonably be expected to provide.

He turned to her and smiled. I’ve already interviewed the other prospect we brought in a few days ago. While you spoke with Darla, I called the sheriff and talked to him about you. We’d like to offer you the position if you want it.

Shock flashed through Joquell, but she couldn’t help but smile. I do. There’s nothing I’d like better than to move here and work with your department.

They shook on it and discussed when she could start.

Later that afternoon, Joquell decided to go for a drive to reacquaint herself with the area. Armed with a map, her GPS, and a tall cup of hot chocolate, she headed into town. The snow had stopped sometime in the past hour, and she loved the way the snow frosted all of the signs and fence posts.

Her flight didn’t leave until the next afternoon, so Joquell got a list of apartments for rent from a real estate company and went hunting. There weren’t very many options, and most were pre-furnished and insanely expensive—even by San Francisco rates. Not that cost was a major hurdle, but it seemed stupid to pay such inflated rent for the long haul.

While following her GPS to the last address on her list, she nearly collided with a parked SUV when her eyes caught sight of a For Sale sign in front of an old Victorian two-story home that was tucked behind a white picket fence. She pulled over and looked up at the balconies, the large trees, and the little white gazebo in the corner of the yard. It could use a coat of paint, and she had the sneaking suspicion that some of the trees needed trimming, but something about the house caught her imagination and wouldn’t let go. It wasn’t a realtor’s sign, but one the homeowner had put out, and she wondered how long it had been posted.

Giving in to temptation, Joquell parked in front of a nearby residence and trudged across the icy road to the white home. A bright spring wreath hung on the door, defying the early May snowstorm, and a figure passed in front of a window.

The gate squeaked as she pushed through it, sticking a little, though she didn’t know if that was because it needed grease or because it was half-frozen with ice and snow. She picked through the mess of fresh snow and walked up the creaky front steps.

On the porch, she could see that the place had not been maintained well over the past few years—or the past decade. She wondered who lived here and why they had let it go.

It only took a couple of seconds after she knocked before footsteps echoed back to her, and soon a short woman in her seventies opened the door, poking her white head out to look at her visitor.

Hello, my name is Joquell Westbury and I noticed your sign out front. I wondered if I could arrange a time to walk through and look at your home. I’ll be in town until lunchtime tomorrow.

The woman’s brow furrowed. I just put the sign out this morning. I didn’t expect such a quick response. She looked Joquell up and down as if trying to decide if she was worthy of buying the ramshackle dwelling. I’m Nora Ledbetter. You can come through now. My Gerald is sleeping but we won’t disturb him. He’s mostly deaf now. She gestured Joquell inside.

The entryway was well cared for, the walls filled with hand-made craft projects and it hosted a wooden bench with a soft throw on one corner right beside a set of hooks for winter coats. The woman took Joquell’s coat and hung it beside the others.

Joquell toed off her boots, not wanting to leave wet puddles through the house.

The carpeting needed to be replaced, some of the rooms needed repainting, and a couple of the windows were cracked, then sealed off with plastic to keep out the cold. Upstairs one actually had cardboard in it. It was scrupulously clean, but definitely needed a facelift.

She should have felt overwhelmed by all of the work that needed to be done, but Joquell couldn’t help but be excited about the possibilities. The house had so many fun details seldom found in new construction—carved decorations at the corners of the door and window sills, wood paneling on the bottom wall in the dining area, tall ceilings fit for a small chandelier, and gingerbread at the corners of the