Harbored

By Linda Palmer

Karlie Nilsen, owner of Kaffebar coffee shop in Blue Harbor, South Carolina, isn't who everyone thinks she is. Almost three years ago, she did "the right thing," which resulted in her having to change her name, her location, and her profession to hide from some bad men seeking revenge. Understandably, she hasn't told a soul in town her story. She'd be in danger if she did, and, worse, so would her elderly dad, who has Alzheimers and now resides in a nursing home miles away.

Safely harbored, Karlie keeps her secrets until a sweet Muslim friend is accosted by a racist redneck outside her shop. Oblivious to consequences, Karlie rushes outside to stand up to him and winds up punching the guy. She helps her friend back inside the shop, unaware that most of the witnesses who watched but didn't help videoed the whole incident on their cellphones. Karlie is quite surprised to find the altercation on Facebook that night—the old David and Goliath scenario, only David is a single barista who can't afford to have her face plastered all over the net. Unfortunately, that's exactly what happens. The video goes viral, popping up on other social media outlets until it finally hits a cable TV good news network.

There's no hiding anymore, so it's no real shock when an agent shows up to talk about her safety options now that her cover has been blown. What's shocking is that he isn't the agent she's always worked with. On top of that, the Department of Justice has apparently turned over its ensconced witnesses to a private company, Singular Safety Solutions. Aaron checks out okay, but the DOJ never contacting her about these changes is highly suspicious. Karlie can't help but wonder if he's for real.

To make matters even more confusing, Ty Delaney, the high school crush who broke Karlie's heart years ago, also shows up in Blue Harbor unexpectedly. He looks as good as he did way back when, and her heart certainly wants to believe his claims that he has changed. Ty says he has been looking for her for years and is there because he saw her on TV and wants to apologize for the way he treated her. His timing stinks, and neither man likes the other. Does she dare risk trusting either of them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Linda Palmer
• Release date: Mar 17, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224271108

Linda Palmer

Linda Palmer admits it all started when she fell in love with Roy Rogers in the fifties. The family TV was boxy; the picture was black and white. That didn't matter. Roy's cowboy courage won the day and inspired her to  create elaborate scenarios when playing with her sisters and friends outside. Indoors, she read romances in every genre from Sci Fi to Gothic. Linda began writing for pleasure in the third grade, mostly poetry, and has letters from her grade school teachers predicting she'd be an author. Her poems eventually became short stories; her short stories became books. And even though a writing career was never actually a dream, it was something she pursued with intent after winning some writing contests and joining local and national writers' groups. Silhouette Books published Linda's first romance novel in l989 and the next twenty over a ten-year period (writing as Linda Varner, her maiden name). In 1999 she took a ten-year break to take care of her family, but learned that she couldn't not write. She began again in  2009, changing her genre to young adult/new adult paranormal romance. She has now written over a hundred novels and novellas ranging from traditional romance to erotica. Linda was a Romance Writers of America Rita finalist twice and won the 2011 and 2012 EPIC eBook awards in the Young Adult category. She was also a finalist in that category in 2013 and in 2014. Linda has been married to her junior high school sweetheart over fifty years and lives in Arkansas, USA with her family. Ever a hopeless romantic, she still falls for unattainable Hollywood heroes that inspire her to write romances about alpha males and the women who stand up to them. Linda hints that her current crush's name starts with Tom and ends with Hardy. Her website is www.lindavpalmer.com. You can also find her on Facebook: Linda Varner Palmer.

Book preview

Chapter One

S ee you Monday, Karlie ?

You bet. I waved without actually looking up, but knew Shira Rasul understood. Kaffebar, my coffee shop, was crazy packed for a Friday evening, and with noisy men, too. Generally my male customers began their workdays with me and ended them at the Harborside Brewery down the street. But the bar’s roof had sprung a leak during a rainstorm last week causing a shutdown for repairs. Reopening was scheduled for five o’clock today, at which time the noisy guys bullshitting each other at Kaffebar would surely abandon us for the beer.

I was counting the seconds.

The sudden scrapes of chair legs on the tile floor made me glance at the clock. It was only four-forty-five. I realized something outside had caught the attention of my customers. The windows on both sides of the glass front door enabled a perfect view of the street outside, so of course I craned my neck, too. I saw Shira being accosted by some guy right in front of my shop. I heard him yelling; I saw him push her so hard she stumbled backwards. His follow-up shove took her to the sidewalk.

With a gasp of outrage, I shot around the corner of the counter and blew through the cluster of men who’d left their tables to check out the action. I burst outside, ran right to the brute in question, and pushed him back a step. What is wrong with you?

Bitch is a murderer! Burly and loud, he brushed me aside like a flake of dandruff and began to yell at her again, his pointed finger inches from her face. Go home, you foreign piece of shit!

I tried to squeeze between the two of them to force him back. Didn’t work.

You, too, you— His finger had poked me with every word, but then he froze, his narrowed gaze noting my white-blonde hair and glacier blue eyes. What the hell are you? An albino?

I ignored that stupidity. Leave. Her. Alone.

He snorted derisively; his hard kick, possibly meant for Shira, caught me in the ankle. I staggered, recovered, and punched his nose with everything I had.

Goddammit! Dude covered his face with his hands, but not before drops of blood splattered on the sidewalk.

Jeering hoots and hollers erupted. A startled glance behind me revealed some male cowards—er, customers—had miraculously found the courage to follow me outside.

Ha, ha. She got you good, Chaney! one of them drawled.

In visible disbelief, Chaney checked out his wet fingers and blood-speckled shirt. He stepped toward me, eyes blazing. I braced to defend myself. Not for nothing had I taken all those jiu-jitsu lessons. But he just elbowed roughly past me without another word.

The guys laughed uproariously. I spun to face them.

Really? My scorn sobered the lot, but not enough for anyone to help me scrape Shira off the sidewalk. Oh my God. Are you okay?

I-I think so. Her dark eyes brimmed as she adjusted her blue hijab. I quickly helped tuck in a stray lock of black hair that had escaped it.

Come back inside for a minute. Our audience, a couple of whom actually looked sheepish by then, silently parted as I led her back into the shop and settled her on one of four vinyl stools at the counter. A couple of minutes later, I handed over her favorite latte—cinnamon swirl, heavy foam. Did you know that guy?

Never saw him before. Tears rolled down her cheeks. I’m not a foreigner. I was born in Maine.

And albinos don’t have suntans and blue eyes. He doesn’t care. He’s ignorant and a bully. I looked up in hopes someone would chime in, but our audience had headed down the street. Only an older man and three women, afternoon regulars at Kaffebar, were still around, sitting at a table they’d never left and looking sympathetic. Did anyone call 9-1-1?

Happened too fast, hon.

That was true enough. I turned back to Shira. Do you want me to report this?

Don’t need the hassle. I’m really all right. She sipped her steaming drink. Thanks for helping me. I have to go now and pick up Tachi. She glanced at her watch, as did I. The face of it was cracked. She sighed. I’m running behind, and her autumn dance recital is tonight.

I could let them know you’re on your way. I pressed a lid firmly on her to-go cup and handed it over.

Don’t bother. I’ll be there in five minutes.

Impulsively, I took her hand in mine. Listen. Don’t let that racist idiot ruin your evening, okay? Forget about him and enjoy the recital. I know Tachi will steal the show in that sparkly Toucan costume you made for her.

Smiling through tears, Shira began digging into her purse.

I stopped her. Latte’s on the house, girl, with my sincere apology.

"Why? You didn’t do it." Blowing a kiss, she slid off the stool and left.

I watched her all the way to her car, parallel parked a few doors down. Though it was only five, the sky looked dark enough for eight and the wind whipped the colorful awnings of businesses down the street. I remembered that Hurricane Monica was out there somewhere. Luckily, no direct hit had been predicted, which meant it would be safe to sit on my back porch once I got home. I loved watching storms roll in, a perk of living on the coast.

Blue Harbor, South Carolina, population five thousand give or take, was forty minutes south of Myrtle Beach, which drew tons of tourists every year. Luckily, few of them knew our gem of a hometown lay minutes away, tucked into a serene port.

We looked picturesque, almost quaint, to outsiders who discovered us, and with good reason. Wealthy retirees made up the largest sect of the population. So we had yachts as big as my house anchored in the harbor next to battered fishing rigs belonging to lifelong locals. Aside from the secluded seaport, we had a bank, a doctor’s office, various small businesses, and even a K-12 school.

I’d opened my coffee shop on Main Street over two years ago when I’d first arrived. Since there hadn’t been another one downtown, Kaffebar with its offbeat Norse décor had been a hit from the start. My recently adding pastries a transplanted Swedish baker—best stroke of luck ever!—provided every day had only helped.

By six o’clock closing time, the TV was off, and the shop was empty. Having already prepped for Monday—Kaffebar was closed on weekends—I actually left on time. I was currently a one-woman show, well, besides the baker whose delicacies filled my display case. I’d decided that if the town or my business grew, I’d consider hiring help and opening for a while on Saturdays. But I had no drive-through window. Did coffee lovers really want to come downtown, parallel park, and walk inside if they had a Starbucks and a shopping mall just thirty minutes away?

HOME FOR ME WAS A SMALL house on a quiet street named Coral Lane. It had two bedrooms, two baths, a kitchen-living room, and a laundry niche. Nothing special, but it was mine and exactly what I’d have chosen if I’d picked it out myself, which I had not.

After a dinner of a PBJ sandwich and Cheetos, I took my glass of milk out the back door and settled on my porch in a lawn chair. Subtle seasonal scents tickled my nose—roses and spider lilies. Added to the fragrance of pine and cedar, they made the yard smell earthy and welcoming. I loved flowers, the reason I’d almost become a florist instead of a barista when I’d chosen my new career trajectory.

I opened my laptop, which was more mobile than my TV and therefore my favorite way to stay connected. Sitting outside by myself might’ve seemed lonely to anyone else, but I loved it. Nothing beat the three S’s, all hard won and now cherished by me: solitude, serenity, and safety.

I began surfing the net. First stop: the online newspaper of Ferguson, Illinois. I went straight to the obituaries, ignoring the familiar knot in my stomach that would only go away once I’d checked the names.

My second stop was local and world news. As I scanned the same old headlines, my mind wandered. The assault on Shira had shocked me.