In Strange Woods

By Claire Cray

Gothic gay romance in the stormy coastal woods of the Pacific Northwest.

On a downward spiral after a horrifying loss, wealthy New York photographer James Worthington Crane flees to the rural Oregon Coast in search of a puzzling inheritance. But when he pulls into the decaying seaside town of Brooks, everyone seems to mistake him for a bad boy named Beau. Now James must push through his grief to unravel a tangled web of family secrets...with help from a soft-spoken local contractor by the name of Hunter.

 

Hunter Quaid's been on his own since the age of fifteen. It's taken years of hard work and healing to build the simple life he has now, fixing up seaside houses while living alone by the river. Then James blows in like a winter storm, disturbing the peace and stirring up dreams Hunter thought he'd given up. As their lives and histories intertwine in unexpected ways, they find out what it means to know where you belong.

From the author of Merrick and Hidden Talents comes a steamy, tender romance inspired by the rugged beauty and offbeat history of Pacific Northwest timber country. In Strange Woods moves through ancient old-growth forests, abandoned logging roads, ramshackle seaside towns, decaying homesteads, coastal highways, and the stories hidden in the trees.

This book containes references to grief, mental illness, alcohol abuse, suicidal ideation, suicide and murder. A detailed list of content warnings can be found on the author's website.

 

Reviews for In Strange Woods

"I was dragged into the forest and lost among the trees until the very last word ... a mystery and a thriller and a romance all woven together in a stunningly well written story." -Wine Drunk Reviews

"Enthusiastically recommended." -Boy Meets Boy Reviews

"A really well-written hurt/comfort mystery story that provides a well-deserved happy ending." -Love Bytes

"Refreshingly different, with characters who are real, but at the same time straight from our fantasies. Most of all for me, it is fantastic how it utterly transforms soul-sucking devastation to a new beginning, full of love, promise and joy." -Kimmers Erotic Book Banter

"The book feels both special and unusual and the characters are real and raw and flawed--and wonderfully relatable. The writing borrows from the Gothic tradition; the descriptions of coastal Oregon are dark and eerie and there is a fabulous sense of claustrophobia despite the immense open spaces." -Wicked Reads

"In Strange Woods has exactly what I love in a book -- a bit of everything. Offering suspense, surprising reveals, a quiet romance with undeniable chemistry, great characters, poignant moments, and some heartbreak, this story completely ensnared me." -Bayou Book Junkie

"Both James and Hunter's characters were so easy to become attached to with every page read ... and don't even get me started on their incredible chemistry physically. It will have you rooting for them to stay together permanently just like I was." -Making it Happen

"This intriguing adult gothic gay story has interesting twists that keep one turning the pages, and beautiful imagery that immerses one in the unique area of the Northwest ... an eerie and entertaining read." -The Reading Addict

• Language: English
• Publisher: Claire Cray
• Release date: Aug 28, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393994176

Claire Cray

Born in the rural Pacific Northwest, Claire Cray was raised on rain, trees and spooky stories. After a decade wandering big cities around the world, she now lives and writes in dreamy Portland, Oregon.

Book preview

1

Heartbreak Hotel

It was the first of November and trees were supposed to be bare, but apparently that meant nothing to the towering evergreens that ruled the Pacific Northwest. From the moment James landed in Portland, their presence was constant. Tall, dark firs covered the hills around the airport and loomed over the highway to the coast. For nearly three hours he drove through what felt like one never-ending forest.

It was just after five p.m. when he reached the busted little seaside town of Brooks, Oregon, population 1,472. It was dramatically situated on a steep, rocky hillside at the ocean’s edge, with a low stone sea wall spanning the length of the town. James pulled his rental car into a row of slanted parking spaces set along the wall, then got out and stretched his shoulders, examining his new surroundings with a tired grimace.

The sun had just set, blue light settling into the green and gray landscape. Waves exploded steadily against the black basalt cliffs below the sea wall, spraying white foam high above street level. Across the road, facing the sea, was a quaint strip of touristy shops and eateries that had seen better days. Behind them the town climbed up the rugged hillside, houses stacked in rows like a tee-tottering church choir.

James needed a room and a bottle of liquor. He locked the car and waited for a log truck to thunder past before he crossed the road and stepped into Brooks.

Only one of the shops was still open, with signs in the windows advertising postcards, ice cream, and whale watching tours. A bell above the door jingled as he stepped in, and a gray-haired woman reading a paperback behind the counter looked up in surprise.

Hi, James said, ignoring the bewildered way she was blinking at him. Could you tell me where the nearest hotel is, and where I could buy some liquor?

Huh? Now the woman looked doubly confused. Uh, Mini Mart? Sea Witch?

Sorry? Which what?

The Sea Witch Inn? The woman spoke very slowly as she peered at him sidelong, like he was testing her. One block back, on State Street?

Thanks. James turned and opened the door to leave.

I heard they’re lookin’ for you.

He glanced back. Sorry?

The cops.

His fingers tightened on the edge of the door.

Goddammit.

Nearly three months after the story broke, he was still getting recognized in public—but he had hoped it wouldn’t follow him all the way here. If only the press would let it go. If only people weren’t so hungry for salacious mysteries. If only this year’s hottest true crime event didn’t feature his family.

MASSACRE ON THE UPPER EAST SIDE: WEALTHY FAMILY ‘SLAUGHTERED’ IN TOWNHOUSE

Police seek suspects after brutal home invasion leaves Bryce, Grace and Robin Worthington Crane dead

Thanks for the help, James said evenly, and stalked back out into the cold salt air with his hands jammed deep in the pockets of his brother Robin’s brown leather jacket. Gulls were crying, and a fog was rolling in. Another wave boomed behind him as he made his way uphill from the seafront in search of the hotel.

The cops knew where to find him. Ironically, they were the only ones leaving him alone. They still had no suspects, no new leads. Nothing but a disturbing suspicion that the crime had been personal. The sheer brutality of the killings, no sign of struggle, no forced entry…we just can’t see this being a random act.

Like James needed any more of a reason to recoil from the maelstrom of attention that had descended upon him. On top of the tabloids and true crime forums, it seemed like everyone who’d ever met him suddenly wanted to be part of his grief. Whether they were really concerned or just wanted to ingratiate themselves with the sole surviving heir of the Worthington Crane fortune, it didn’t make one bit of a fucking difference to him. There were only three people in the world whose shoulders he’d ever been willing to cry on, and now they were all dead.

James was not doing well. In fact, he was doing extremely badly, and it was only getting worse. In fact, over the past few weeks, he had begun to recognize that this could actually kill him.

But while thus far he hadn’t even attempted to fight his downward spiral, that didn’t mean he was ready to just lie down and die yet. At the very least, he needed to think about it first. And he couldn’t think in New York. So here he was in this ramshackle little corner of the Pacific Northwest, as far as he could get from everything he’d lost.

Well, sort of. Brooks wasn’t exactly a random destination. Somewhere upriver from here, deep in the foothills of the Oregon Coast Range, was a piece of property in his name. He’d inherited more real estate than he could keep track of, but this was the only one that stuck out like a sore thumb. It had been placed in a separate trust by his mother, Grace, labeled as the Woodstock Trust. Woodstock had been his and Grace’s surname before she married Bryce Worthington Crane, who then legally adopted him when he was just four years old.

If James were in his right mind, he’d be very confused by this. Because Grace—he’d always called his parents by their first names—had never said a word about Oregon. Grace Woodstock had been born in rural upstate New York before running away to the city with only a few hundred dollars to her name, later to become Grace Worthington Crane, New Yorker of all New Yorkers. There was no conceivable reason why she’d have a random patch of timberland on the Oregon Coast under her maiden name, or why she’d leave it to James alone.

But James wasn’t in his right mind, and damned if he could guess what it was about. Damned if he even cared. All that mattered to him was that no one would find him here.

The Sea Witch Inn was an old three-story wooden boarding house topped by a large neon sign that sizzled to life just as he approached, spelling the name out in looping turquoise letters over a buxom mermaid whose tail flipped up and down.

James heaved the old wooden door open and stepped into the lobby. The place was a mix of nautical elegance and Art Deco kitsch, like it belonged to some stately captain’s wife who’d let loose in her old age. The teenage desk clerk was dressed in black, his lip and eyebrow dimpled in multiple places where he must have removed piercings for work. He regarded James with mild interest, but no hint of recognition. Checking in?

Yeah. Can I get something for like, a week? While the goth worked, James stared dully at the mermaid painting behind the desk and began to wonder what the fuck he was doing here. It had made more sense when he was drunk in his Lower East Side apartment, when the only other idea he could come up with was a dive into the East River.

The Manhattan Bridge was clearly visible from the window by his bed, bluish lights shining like a welcome sign…

Here’s your key, the goth mumbled, pushing it across the counter. You’re in Room Seven on the second floor.

The room was modest but appealing, with two windows looking out at the sea. The oak floors gleamed with old life, and the green and blue quilt on the queen-sized bed looked plush and homey. No TV. Good. James dropped his backpack and duffel near the desk by the window and looked out over the line of rooftops outside. The sky was an eerie blue over the ocean, slowly getting darker as the last of twilight slipped below the horizon.

In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water and took a minute to stare at himself in the mirror. You literally never look like shit, an old hookup had once said enviously. Even when you look like shit. Well, if his friends could see him now. His so-called bedroom eyes looked sunken and dead, his full lips pale and downturned, and his sharp cheekbones just emphasized how gaunt he was getting. It was like he’d aged ten years in the past three months.

Raking both hands through his hair with a weary sigh, he went back to the bed and sat down heavily on the edge. He was tired. He’d taken some Xanax before the flight and still hadn’t slept; had four shots of espresso when he landed and still hadn’t woken up. These days, real rest seemed like a distant dream.

But once in a while, fatigue caught up. When he fell back on the mattress and closed his eyes, he passed out almost immediately.

Shouts outside. James sat bolt upright in confusion before he realized where he was.

Oregon. Right. With a muted groan he slumped and rubbed his face into his hands. What time was it? What day was it? He picked his phone up off the bed and stared blearily at the screen, ignoring the piled-up notifications. Had he really only slept for three hours?

The shouts outside weren’t hostile, just rowdy. Grown men. Probably drunk. There was music coming faintly from the street below, tinny through the windowpane, indecipherable.

So there was a bar nearby. Good.

Outside, the air was so fresh it was almost astringent. A breeze had picked up, and thin points of fog were seeping over State Street from the seafront. James zipped up his jacket and put his hands in his pockets against the early November chill.

Four doors down, past a laundromat, an antique store and a marine supply shop, he found himself at Brooks Tavern. Through the two large windows he could see billiards, tables, and a couple dozen people, all dimly lit. He tugged his black stocking cap down and went inside.

Jimi Hendrix was howling ‘Voodoo Child’ from the speakers in the corners as he headed for the bar. Almost everyone was dressed in faded cotton sweatshirts, jeans or work pants, and boots. Blue collar types who worked on and around the water. The dark walls were cluttered with coastal ephemera—nautical maps, a giant mounted crab skeleton, photos of local boats and fisherman—and the whole place smelled like beer and the sea. James liked it immediately.

Well, well, a woman’s voice purred from behind the bar. Look who’s here.

James turned to look at the bartender, a darkly sexy rock ‘n’ roll type who was maybe a couple of years older than him. Her striking green eyes were expertly lined in black, and her sly, feisty expression implied that they were already on intimate terms. Pretty powerful way to flirt, he thought, though he wasn’t into women. Hi. Jim Beam, please, neat. A double.

The bartender reared back slightly, blinking her smoky eyes before her gaze narrowed. That’s it, huh?

James raised his eyebrows. Yes?

Oh, I’ll get right on that, she muttered as she turned away. My fucking pleasure.

James watched her go, confused by her reaction. He’d been polite, hadn’t he? He drummed his fingers once on the bar top and turned slightly to examine the crowd. This time, he caught several people staring at him. Did they recognize him from the news? Or did they just like to gawk at outsiders? Who could say?

You look different, the bartender said curtly when she slid the drink in front of him.

So she did recognize him. Awesome. Great. Wearily rubbing his eyes, he declined to respond. No shit, he looked different. The media loved to use old magazine shots from the handful of times he’d modeled back when he was, like, nineteen. Now he was almost twenty-seven and haggard with grief.

So? That’s it?

James met her eyes again, perplexed. Excuse me?

"Excuse you?"

I don’t know what you mean. Now he was irritated, but he bit his tongue, not wanting to get on the wrong side of what looked like the only bar in town. I’m just here for the drink.

Oh. A dark cloud rolled over her expression. "Then excuse me for bothering you."

Jesus, what was her problem? James downed his whiskey in one huge, scorching gulp and slid a twenty across the bar. Anyway, thanks.

She snatched it up and didn’t offer change. "Yeah, bye."

James stood up and stalked out of the bar, ignoring several stares.

Down at the other end of State Street was the Mini Mart, an old gas station and convenience store with a liquor shop attached. James strode past shelves of fishing tackle and junk food toward the scruffy skater guy at the register, who looked like he’d been happily stoned for several years.

Hi, James said. Can I get a fifth of Jim Beam?

Well, hey, man! The clerk beamed, his sleepy eyes crinkling into slits. "What is up?"

Not much, James managed to grate out. As a documentary photographer with a penchant for rural places, he was far more patient with small talk than the average New Yorker. But not right now. Just buying some whiskey.

Comin’ right up. The clerk merrily leaned toward him and held out a hand, lowering his voice to an exaggerated baritone. ID, please?

James readily offered his New York driver’s license, then frowned as the clerk burst out laughing.

"Just jokin’, dude! I know who you—wait, what? The clerk abruptly stopped laughing and plucked the ID out of James’s hand, squinting at it. James Worthington Crane? Man, this is one snazzy fake, but what’s it for?"

It’s not fake, James said irritably. That’s my ID.

Man, I’m so confused right now… The clerk leaned forward, peering closely at him, and then his eyes widened. "Holy shit, dude!"

James recoiled, bewildered.

You’re not Beau, the clerk exclaimed, looking back and forth between the license and James’s face. What are you, his cousin or somethin’?

"I’m sorry, whose cousin?"

"Beau, dude! The clerk sputtered out a disbelieving laugh. You don’t know Beau? You look exactly like him."

Oh. Great. A local doppelgänger. James swallowed a sigh, reaching out to take his license back. No, sorry.

That’s crazy, man! I thought I was gettin’ punked! Brendan shook his head with an incredulous laugh and finally started ringing up the whiskey. New York City, huh? What brings you to town?

Just passing through.

Dude, you should stick around until Beau comes back. He’s kinda… The clerk held a hand up to shield his mouth from imaginary eavesdroppers. "Layin’ low right now, if you know what I mean."

Not really, James said, realizing that the first woman on the seafront must have thought he was Beau, too, when she made that remark about the cops. A fugitive doppelgänger, then. Perfect. Is he on the run?

Nah, never mind. Brendan slid the bottle of whiskey into a brown paper bag and plunked it down on the counter. I’m Brendan, by the way. How long you in town for?

I don’t know yet.

Well, hey, man, if you need anything, you know where to find me. Man, I can’t get over it. You guys could be twins!

Okay. James picked up the brown bag and turned away. Thanks.

Take it easy, James! Brendan called after him.

James paused outside the Mini Mart with his brown bag in hand, frowning vaguely up at the dark sky and then looking up the street toward the Sea Witch. Not ready to go back indoors, he returned to the seafront and strolled across the highway to stand by the wall overlooking the ocean.

The water was black all the way to the horizon, except right here at the shore, where the waves churned and whipped themselves into a restless froth. The sea was higher than it had been earlier, pounding the rocks so violently that the sidewalk was spattered with seafoam.

James leaned against the barricade, looking down at the rugged black outcropping below. It was a treacherous little landscape, the waves teeming and raging through human-sized crevices, tunnels and holes. He wondered how often people jumped the wall and climbed down for a closer look. It wouldn’t be difficult at all. Nor was it difficult to imagine stepping into one of those openings in the rocks, getting sucked down and battered to death by the tempest.

A wave slammed against the seawall directly below him, making him jump back just in time to avoid getting sprayed. He turned and walked over to his car to take shelter and have a drink.

The doors locked with a clunk and he slouched down in the driver’s seat, unscrewing the bottle of Jim Beam to take a long swig.

Shit. What was he doing here? Even if he managed to get away from the press and the investigation and the busybodies, there was no escaping the actual problem. No erasing the fact that someone had crept into his family’s home, beaten Robin to death with a fireplace poker, butchered Bryce with a hatchet while he slept in bed, and slit Grace’s throat in the bath. No unseeing the crime scene photos cruelly sent to him by internet trolls. No amount of ocean air could blow all that away.

But whiskey could drown it out for a while. One hot swallow after another, he focused on the heat and sting of the liquor coursing into his body, coaxing his buzz toward a full-on stupor.

Two hours later he was still slouched behind the wheel, his brain spinning sluggishly in his skull. Holding the nearly empty bottle up in front of his face, he blinked hard as it whirled in overlapping fragments, like it was at the other end of a kaleidoscope.

Aw, fuck. Drank too much. Way too much.

A wave splattered the windshield, and he took one more swig before tossing the bottle aside. Finding it increasingly difficult to think in words or phrases, he latched onto the explosive sounds of the surf. It seemed to be calling him. Maybe a cold splash of water would do him good.

Yeah. Cold water. He groped for the door handle.

Cold, salty water. That would do the trick.

2

Dumb

Hunter pulled his truck into one of the slanted parking spaces along the Brooks sea wall and turned off the ignition, cutting off Bobbie Gentry in the middle of ‘Ode to Billie Joe’ to let the roar of the waves take over. It was windy out, and he took a second to rake his dark-blond hair into a stubby ponytail at the nape of his neck before getting out of the truck.

His work boots hit the asphalt with a heavy thud, and he strolled over to the rustic stone barricade to look out at the dark ocean. A wave immediately exploded up in front of him, white foam fanning out and dissolving like a burst of fireworks, and he filled his lungs with the sharp, salty air. It never got old, no matter how many times he came here. None of it did, though. Not the trees, the rivers, the sunsets, the storms. This rugged little chunk of the coast had been his most consistent, and sometimes his only, source of joy since the first summer his parents dropped him off at his grandma’s place upriver, where he now lived alone.

Today had been long as hell, but satisfying. He was in the middle of renovating a beautiful midcentury house on Cedar Crest, a wooded cliffside high up on the north edge of town. It was the biggest project he’d ever landed since striking out on his own as a contractor, and it was turning out to be a dream come true. The owner was some Portland banker who didn’t give a shit what he did as long as he stayed within budget, and Hunter relished the freedom to make actual design choices.

Matter of fact, life was pretty good these days, wasn’t it? Business was good, anyway, and that was a lot. Yeah. Steady work with nobody telling him what to do, a place to sleep by the river, all the ocean air he wanted every day…what more could he ask for? There was a time when he wouldn’t have dared to dream so—

A car alarm went off suddenly, jarring him from his thoughts, and he turned his head. Several seagulls were scattering noisily from the sea wall near a black hatchback several spaces away, its horn blasting and lights flashing. He couldn’t see what had set it off. A nosy gull, maybe, or the splash of a wave. At any rate, that wrapped up his relaxing after-work sit by the ocean.

But just as he was about to turn back to his truck, the driver’s side door of the hatchback clunked open and slowly creaked ajar.

Hunter watched, intrigued, as a hand slipped out through the crack, followed by an arm, and then a mop of wavy dark hair. Then, to his amazement, an entire tall, slim man slid out onto the pavement, pooling there in a tangle of long limbs and dark clothing.

The alarm was still making a ruckus. The man groaned low and rolled to his side, wrestling with himself for a moment before yanking a