Darby

By Jan Scarbrough

Thirty years ago, torn by shock and guilt over the death of her mother, Darby York fled the dude ranch where she’d grown up in Montana. In her new life in the bluegrass of Kentucky, she’d become a horse groom, an artist, married a wealthy Thoroughbred owner, raised twins, and been widowed. But now, with word her father is growing feeble, Darby has to finally face the truth: no matter how far you run, the past has a way of catching up. Her father hadn’t been the only man Darby had left behind. Would the boyfriend she’d abandoned still be there?

Hank Slade, wrangler at Ghost Mountain Ranch, has never stopped carrying the torch for Darby. Her vibrant red hair may be tinged with gray now, but the natural, unsophisticated look about her remains—a look that speaks of home and comfort to Hank. But is he willing to risk his heart with Darby again?

What is the truth behind the death of Darby’s mother? When the past once again intrudes on the present, will Darby do what she’s always done—what her mother did—and run away? Grief and secrets had torn Darby and Hank apart once. Given a second chance at love, will the revelation of more shocking secrets from the past destroy their hopes for the future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jan Scarbrough
• Release date: Jun 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9780999247457

Jan Scarbrough

Whether it is the Bluegrass of Kentucky, the mountains of Montana, or Medieval England, Jan Scarbrough brings you home with romances from the heart. Jan Scarbrough is the author of two popular Bluegrass series, writing heartwarming contemporary romances about home and family, single moms and children. Living in the horse country of Kentucky makes it easy for Jan to add small town, Southern charm to her books and the excitement of a Bluegrass horse race or a competitive horse show. Leaving her contemporary voice behind, Jan has written paranormal gothic romances: Tangled Memories, a Romance Writers of America (RWA) Golden Heart finalist, and Timeless. Her medieval romance, My Lord Raven is a story of honor and betrayal. A member of Novelist, Inc., Jan self-publishes her books with the help of her husband. She has published 26 romances. Jan lives in Louisville, Kentucky, with one rescued dog, one rescued cat, and a husband she rescued 23 years ago. When she isn't writing, she loves to ride American Saddlebred horses, drive grandchildren to activities, and volunteer with Alley Cat Advocates. There is nothing she enjoys more than curling up with a good book. Subscribe to Jan’s monthly newsletter and receive a free eBook.https://janscarbrough.com/contact/

Book preview

Introduction

Thirty years ago, torn by shock and guilt over the death of her mother, Darby York fled the dude ranch where she’d grown up in Montana. In her new life in the bluegrass of Kentucky, she’d become a horse groom, an artist, married a wealthy Thoroughbred owner, raised twins, and been widowed. But now, with word her father is growing feeble, Darby has to finally face the truth: no matter how far you run, the past has a way of catching up. Her father hadn’t been the only man Darby had left behind. Would the boyfriend she’d abandoned still be there?

Hank Slade, wrangler at Ghost Mountain Ranch, has never stopped carrying the torch for Darby. Her vibrant red hair may be tinged with gray now, but the natural, unsophisticated look about her remains—a look that speaks of home and comfort to Hank. But is he willing to risk his heart with Darby again?

What is the truth behind the death of Darby’s mother? When the past once again intrudes on the present, will Darby do what she’s always done—what her mother did—and run away? Grief and secrets had torn Darby and Hank apart once. Given a second chance at love, will the revelation of more shocking secrets from the past destroy their hopes for the future?

Chapter One

February 1971

He was dead.

She ran her index-finger over the black ink newsprint, reading slowly. The police officer had been on duty near the window. When the bomb blew, inch-long, industrial fence staples shattered the window and pierced the man’s neck. He was dead by the time the ambulance arrived.

It had been raining that night. Steady and cold. She’d huddled in the driver’s seat parked down the street. Placing one hand on her pregnant belly and the other clutching the pendant around her neck, she had told herself she was still good for something—smart enough and courageous enough to drive the getaway car.

Let’s go, honey, he’d said when he jumped in the passenger side.

She’d driven away slowly so not to draw attention.

Over the past month, she’d made Molotov cocktails for them. She’d filled glass bottles with gasoline, inserted a cloth into each mouth to be lit by a firecracker. The members who were not hampered by the extra weight of pregnancy had tossed the fire bombs setting an army recruitment office on fire and torching a tree in the police chief’s front lawn. They’d called it a success, but last night, they’d upped the game.

And now a man was dead.

But they had wanted to kill more of them. The bomb detonated fifteen minutes early. If not, it would have exploded during shift change. More would have died. As it was, they’d made an important statement. They were revolutionaries.

Last night’s action had showed the others, the intellectual snobs who had purged them from the original group. They weren’t good enough for the main faction—too undependable, not brave enough, too weak. But they had showed them. They would read about their success in the newspaper and hear about it on the radio. Those snobs would know they hadn’t been the ones to strike first for the Movement. They had. The People, the outcasts, the ones who didn’t count. Power to the People!

They called themselves The People because they were a family—men and women—held together by love and sex, a commitment not only to the revolution, but to themselves. Some of them already had children. Just like she would have soon, a new life to grow up in a new country. They had gone underground, living under assumed identities. Who would question a man walking down the street with his pregnant wife? Who would think a family with children was out to change the world?

That’s what set them apart from the others—being a family. Loving each other. They were loyal to themselves first and then to the cause. They’d all been screwed by society. When they succeeded, things would change. The streets would run with blood like it had in Cuba. No longer would America be a place for the rich. The little man would have his say and his woman would be right by his side.

If it took the death of a policeman, so be it.

Chapter Two

February 2019

The Heston Breeding Farm

Near Lexington, Kentucky

The female reporter was too near, peering over Darby’s left shoulder, judging each brush stroke. You’re quite good.

Darby York angled her body, subconsciously to shield her work from prying eyes. An oil painting of a mare and foal took shape on the canvas in front of her. She clutched a collection of long brushes in her left hand, each tipped with its separate color combination, and with her right hand, she stroked the canvas with a dab of burnt sienna.

What is your name again? Darby had age on this young woman. She wasn’t going to let herself be intimidated.

Laurel Chastain. Most people call me Laurie.

Well, Laurie, oddly enough, I’ve had quite a bit of success here in Kentucky and among a certain horsey-set nationwide.

You must so love what you do, Laurie said, especially in this beautiful place.

It’s my passion. A solitary passion between her and the subject on canvas—an oil painting of a Thoroughbred or an American Saddlebred horse that comprised most of her commissions. In fact, the whole creative process was relaxing, meditative. Yet, it was more than a passion. It was Darby’s life. I always sketched. My husband encouraged me to do more. Col sent me to art classes. He supported me. In fact, he built this studio for me almost twenty years ago when my small children got on my nerves so badly, I couldn’t concentrate in the house. Now I regret separating myself from the children, but at the time I needed the quiet, the space.

In fact, Colton Heston always had more faith in Darby’s ability than she did. You’ve got a gift, darling, he’d say. You should be proud of it. Exhibit your work.

But Darby had always demurred. She didn’t quite believe in her talent. Even now. Even after agreeing to this interview with a magazine reporter.

Laurie turned away from the easel and canvas to survey the framed oils and watercolors hanging on the walls of the one-room studio. And I understand your husband was twenty years your senior.

Although winter sunshine streamed through the studio window, throwing points of light across the hardwood floor, and a cheery fire blazed in the stone fireplace, Darby felt cold. Her sanctuary had been violated. Her life. She swallowed hard and studied the reporter.

Twenty-four years my senior to be exact, Darby said using a sarcastic inflection. Col had understood her. Her husband had loved her more deeply than she’d deserved. For that Darby was thankful—for that and so much more.

Laurie glanced over her shoulder with a smile. That’s right.

Why did Darby feel the woman had done her research a little too well? Maybe some sixth sense told her. Or maybe she was too sensitive about criticism as her daughter Kelsey often pointed out.

Why horses? The questions continued. Aside from the fact your husband has owned winning race horses and you live on a horse farm in Kentucky.

I grew up with horses, back in Montana. Darby removed her glasses from the bridge of her nose and twisted to get a better view of the reporter. I never get tired of painting them. There’s something about the touch, the smell, the feel of a horse that tells me I belong with them. Almost like my lifeline. I was so lucky to marry a man who had the same horse enthusiasm.

A man who made it possible for you to follow your dream. Laurie’s words seemed an indictment more than a statement.

Well, yes. That was a funny way of putting things. Strange funny. Darby had never thought of her life in that way. It didn’t seem to her as if her dreams had come true. Far from it, she felt she had only coped in the best way she could.

So, do you paint from photos all the time? You have perfect subjects outside your back door.

Darby’s tension eased a bit. Maybe Laurie really was interested in her art, not her life. Sketching live subjects and then balancing the sketches with a photograph or two seems to work well for me. I draw with pencil, then do preliminary paintings in watercolor to get to know my subject before I even put oil paint on canvas.

Laurie nodded and wandered to the back of the studio. Ten paintings of various sizes stood propped on easels. These were the painting for Darby’s upcoming show called Women with Horses.

The reporter studied the oils for a moment, then asked the obvious, Why women and horses?

Why not? The answer was flippant, but the subject seemed a no-brainer to Darby. For centuries, women have loved horses. It seems a natural combination for a woman painter to explore.

Laurie examined each one. Some of these must have been commissioned.

Darby put down her brushes and joined the reporter. Yes, the two with women on American Saddlebred horses were commissioned. The riders live here in Kentucky and take part in local shows. They’ve loaned their paintings to me for a few months.

Laurie had stopped in front of two separate paintings of women garbed in nineteenth century dress. Each woman stood at the head of a horse. The paintings were subdued, blurred, and dreamy with muted tones of grays and blacks. I like these. Where did you get your idea for these?

My imagination.

They’re beautiful.

Thank you.

You really need to be proud your talent. You’re better than you believe, she said.

Unable to meet the reporter’s eyes, Darby felt her face and neck grow hot. She moved on to the next set of canvases. They were different from the previous ones—rugged, painted in browns and yellows, with western horses ridden by cowgirls holding lariats in their hands.

Where did these come from?

I grew up on a dude ranch. These are paintings from my memory.

A memory filled with regret. Darby turned from the collection. It had taken her twenty years before she could paint cowgirls and quarter horses. She had hoped exploring the western subjects would diminish those mostly bitter recollections. The dreams. It hadn’t. The demons she’d dwelt with for so many years still gnawed at her gut, affecting her days and nights as they had since she’d left home thirty years ago.

In fact, Darby York Heston had run for far too long. She’d hidden away as Col’s wife and mother of his children. But she was tired of running. Not that change was a snap-the-finger kind of thing. She couldn’t transform herself overnight. Change happened in baby steps.

The ringtone for Darby’s cell phone sounded. She pulled it from her pocket and read the screen. This is my daughter. I need to take it.

Go ahead.

Crossing over to the fireplace for privacy, Darby answered the call.