Beat of My Heart: Whiskey Bend Series, #2

By Samantha Conley

Reagan Matthews is having a really crappy year.

She caught her husband cheating, now he's doing his best to sabotage her dreams, which includes the business she's built from the ground up.

Enter Carter Madsen, the man with a killer smile. As a bar owner and single dad, he has no time for a woman in his life. Especially a rich, snooty one.

But there's something about Reagan that gets under his skin.

Things are never as cut and dried as they seem, though. Someone doesn't want Reagan to get on with her life and is willing to do anything to accomplish their goal.

Will Reagan and Carter give in to the growing passion between them?

Or will their love turn to ash, burning down with Reagan's life?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha Conley
• Release date: Apr 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9781963866162

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Reagan

Kindergarten

I drag the brown crayon around the black line of the horse, carefully so I stay in the lines. Mother doesn’t like messy drawings. Maybe this one will be pretty enough for her to hang up in the house. The last one she crumpled up and threw away in the wastepaper basket. My legs swing beneath me and I sing the song that we learned earlier in class.

That’s very good, Reagan. Ms. Kelly smiles down at me and my heart shines with her praise. 

Will Mother think it’s good?

Your mom should be here any minute. Do you want to show her some other things you’ve done in class this week? The snick of the door alerts her to someone entering the room. Mrs. Throckmorton, thank you for coming. The sweet smile of my teacher as she places the crayon down on the table next to me relaxes me as my mother walks into the room.

I hope this is important. I am due at a luncheon in thirty minutes. She demurely sits behind the teacher’s desk and places her purse on top before pinning her eyes on Ms. Kelly.

I just wanted to discuss Reagan’s progress. I’m concerned with her interaction with the other students.

What exactly are your concerns? Mother’s eyebrow arches, making me want to giggle, but I zip my lips and look down at the horse I’m drawing.

Reagan is a very bright girl. I’ve never had a more respectful child in my classroom. The concern I have is she doesn’t interact with the other students unless she’s made to.

Good. I do not want her interacting with the riffraff students in this school. She’s from a well-bred family and these other children are beneath her. I would like for her to be attending Westbury Academy, but her father believes that attending public school, Mother’s face draws up like she smells something bad, will benefit her in the long run.

Mother, look. I drew you a picture. I hold the paper up in front of me, my cheeks hurting with my smile. She jerks the paper from my hand. Do you like it?

Her lip curls into a sneer before she glances down at my drawing. I’m late. If that’s all you needed? Before Ms. Kelly even opens her mouth to answer, she’s turned toward the door, heels clacking on the linoleum. As she reaches the open doorway, her hand crunches up my drawing and she drops it into the trash can, along with my heart.

I’m sorry, Reagan.

For what, Ms. Kelly? Her eyes glisten as she looks down at me, hand pressed to her chest. 

It was a beautiful picture.

Thank you, I say before heading back to my desk and pulling out a book. It’s ten minutes before the class returns from recess. 

Don’t you want to go outside with the other students?

No, I like the quiet. 

Senior Year of High School

Sit up straight, Reagan. Poor posture is a sign of poor breeding. My mother’s snide tone has me snapping my shoulders back in an instant, hands placed in my lap. 

Yes, Mother.

We are having guests tonight. I will expect you to be on your best behavior during dinner. I stifle the shudder of dread that threatens to course through me, knowing that there would be repercussions.

After dinner, you will go to your room for the rest of the night.

Could I possibly go over to Diane’s house? Diane is one of my so-called friends that my mother believes is socially acceptable. Barely. Her parents are wealthy landowners, but she stills refers to them as white trash rich. Before striking oil on one of their properties, they only owned a barely making ends meet cattle ranch.

Not tonight. I do not want to have to worry about what that hooligan will have you up to.

But it’s Saturday night.

Do not whine, young lady. You were out last night for that ridiculous football game. Tonight, you will stay home.

But, Mother. I can’t keep the whine out of my voice.

That is enough, Reagan Michelle. She stomps her foot before she catches herself. She smooths back her already immaculate hair before pinning me with her cold black eyes. I will not have you making a fool of the Throckmorton name while out carousing with the undesirables. It is bad enough that you wear that piece of polyester you call a skirt.

It’s part of my cheerleading uniform, Mother. It’s the same as all the other girls wear.

It is still indecent. How you ever convinced your father to allow you to try out for the hideous spectacle, I will never know.

Six years later

You are marrying Bradley Matthews in six months. You have an appointment with the seamstress tomorrow morning at nine. I’ve picked out your dress and those for your bridesmaids. I’ve contacted your cousins and they’ve agreed to be your bridesmaids, Mother states matter-of-factly while taking a sip of her white wine.

Pardon me? My ears must be stopped up. There is no way I heard her correctly.

Six months, Reagan.

Bradley and I have been dating for a month! I slam my fork on the table. I’m not ready to get married to him or anyone else.

Reagan Michelle, you will not speak to me that way. She dabs the corner of her mouth with the red cloth napkin. The two of you marrying will be a coup for your father’s business. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your father, now would you? Her eyes cut to him sitting at the head of the table, sipping scotch as he looks over a folder of papers in his hands. 

Father?

Hmm. He darts his eyes to me before resuming his reading.

This is what you want?

Of course, it is, Reagan, Mother interjects. It benefits us all. Right, Harold?

Yes, dear. It will be wonderful. Don’t worry about a thing, Pumpkin. Glancing at his watch, he sets down the papers. Excuse me, ladies. I need to make a phone call.

But, Dad…

Listen to your mother, Reagan. She has your best interests at heart. He drops a kiss on the top of my head as he walks by. My mother smirks before taking another sip of wine.

CHAPTER 1

REAGAN

September

Moonlight filters through the tall oak trees as I pull my Escalade into the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel before smoothing out on the strip of concrete where we park. My headlights tag Bradley’s black Mercedes S 560, looking out of place in the wooded area. Turning off the ignition, the lights dim, and I sit in the dark listening to the ticking of the engine. My stomach churns with the coming confrontation with my adultering husband. An image flashes in my brain of his hips pumping into the blonde as I stood there in horror and watched. 

My resolve strengthens. It’s time to end this. As soon as I open the door, the outside light clicks on. I jump as though something is out there, ready to snatch me up. My heels clack on the paved walkway to the house, my heart beats hard enough that it nearly drowns out the sounds of the insects that infect the woods. A mournful howl sounds in the distance. I know how you feel, buddy. I’ve long become accustomed to the sounds of the night.

Staring at the front door, my hand trembles as I reach for the handle. I stop and clench my fist. Get it together, Reagan Michelle! Before I can second-guess myself, I push the handle down allowing the door to creep open. The faint strains of jazz float through the slight opening. The heavy wooden door swings open on silent hinges and I brace for the fury of my husband, but he’s not waiting on me as I expected. Placing my purse on the antique table, I toe off my nude heels and shrug off my navy suit jacket. 

Padding silently through the house, I spy the back of my husband at the wet bar as he pours himself two fingers of Johnny Walker Blue.

It’s about time you dragged yourself home.

I was working. No way I’m letting him make me feel guilty for doing my job. Especially since he was one reason that it went from being a beautiful wedding to a thank God, I didn’t marry the cheating skank party. The cheating skank, the one my husband was having sex with.

You should have been home hours ago. It’s not as if the wedding took place. He turns and leans against the bar, taking a sip of the light brown liquid.

No, but they had a party instead. They might as well enjoy all the food and beverages that they bought.

You should have been home with your husband as a proper wife would be. Not that I expect you to do anything right, he sneers. 

Yes, I know, dear husband, you remind me of it daily.

I will not allow you to back talk me that way. He glares at me, his brown eyes bright with anger.

What are you going to do, Bradley? Tape my mouth shut? His eye twitches slightly at my taunt. 

I can find ways. His hand tightens on the glass until his knuckles whiten and I’m afraid the glass will shatter.

Listen, Bradley, I’m tired. Can we wait for the insults and recriminations until later?

What do we have to discuss?

That you’ve been sleeping with another woman? My gut tightens, and I force back the need to gag. He shrugs as if I brought up something insignificant.

Grow up, Reagan. Did you really expect me to be faithful in our marriage? he jeers.

Well, yes, I did. I have. His mocking laugh makes the nausea worse.

You really are stupid or sentimental, he scoffs. No one is faithful. I’ve had affairs the entire time we’ve been together.

What? Please let me have heard him wrong.

The entire time, Reagan. Some have been brief, one-night stands when I’ve gone out of town on business. Some have lasted a few months until I tire of hearing about how they want me to leave you. Stupid fools.

Did I ever really know you? My voice cracks on the whispered words.

Get over it, my dear.

Get over it? My eyes sweep over the man I’ve been married to for the last seven years. How could I have not seen this? No matter how many times he tells me I am, I am far from stupid. I worked hard to become someone other than just the wife of Bradley Matthews. My mother criticized me for going to college and getting my business degree stating that I just needed to make my future husband happy, but I wanted more. 

One of us needs to leave. The words echo up to the cathedral ceiling of the living room. Did I just say that? Holy crud!

The man standing in front of me is a stranger I devoted my life to. Tried to make a content life for the both of us while he worked in his father’s company. The perfect corporate wife. Along the way, I lost myself to his dream. Perfect hair, perfect figure, perfectly dressed. The fake smile plastered across my face. Conceal, don’t feel. Isn’t that how that line in the movie goes? Never let the world know that I’m miserable in my marriage. Dread coming home at the end of the day. To the showplace he created. No clutter, no pictures of family and friends. Just his expensive ass artwork adorning the walls. Cold and sterile, just like his damn heart.

I’m such a fool for never seeing what was right in front of my face.

Now, Reagan, you know that isn’t happening. His voice ripe with contempt, the sneer on his handsome face one I’ve become used to as he loosens his tie.

If you won’t, I will. My voice cracks. Not exactly a confidence booster. The smirk on his face tells me he caught it. He advances toward me, and I step back before steeling my spine. The air is stifling, each breath harder to draw into my lungs. Never mind, I’m going. I can’t stay in this house.

There is nothing wrong with this house. It’s you. You’re the problem. I’ve tried my damndest to mold you into the perfect wife, but I can’t fix your flaws. It’s an ongoing battle that I’m losing. Unless I took you to a plastic surgeon and then sent you to charm school, but I doubt you’d be willing to make that sacrifice for our marriage.

You’re right. I won’t. The days of me trying to please you are over.

Please me? He laughs, the sound grating on my nerves. Tell me you’re joking. You haven’t pleased me in years. You’re a frigid, petty bitch. That’s why I’ve been screwing Melanie and all the others. I had to get you drunk last time to get you into bed. 

The jab hurts as I recall the last time we had sex. My mother had called to berate me over the way I had worn my hair in a picture she saw on my Facebook page and one glass of wine became the entire bottle. I didn’t even remember us having sex, but the evidence was there the next morning in sore muscles and sticky thighs. I felt dirty and couldn’t shower away the feeling no matter how hard I scrubbed. Who in their right mind feels dirty after having sex with their husband?

 Probably the woman who realizes she’s married to a man that she doesn’t like, much less love, anymore. 

You know I’m glad this happened. Turning away from him, I walk toward our bedroom. I glance over my shoulder. Now when I’m leaving your controlling ass, no one will feel sorry for you.

No, darling, they’ll feel sorry for you. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. You’ll see and come crawling back.

The hell I will. I shut the door behind me and sag against it. My eyes sting with the burn of tears. No, now is not the time to fall apart. Straightening my shoulders, I walk across the room, the thickly padded carpet muffling my steps.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something red lying on the rumpled bedding. A thong and not one I own. Nausea swirls.

Melanie came by early and needed some consoling, he mocks from the doorway, the ice tinkling in his glass as he takes another drink.

"You’re a pig. You had to do that in our bed?"

Normally I use the guest room. He shrugs.

 Oh God, I have to get out of here.

 The closet doors slide open effortlessly. The colorful array of clothing mocks my somber mood as I pull them from the racks and toss them on the bed. The heavy, gray suitcase gives me trouble as I tug it from the top shelf before I lose my balance, sending it flying to the floor. His chuckle fuels my determination to get through this. I toss as much of my clothing and other essentials into the suitcase as I can. The sound of the zipper is loud in the room, as if it represents the finality of my situation. The wheels of the suitcase drag through the plush carpet. He straightens from his lean against the doorframe and swipes his arm out as if ushering me the way out. I stride through the living room, my head held high as I remind myself that I can do this. My feet protest as I slip my heels back on.

I reach for the knob, uncertainty making my stomach roll. Am I doing the right thing?

Think about what you are about to do, Reagan. What will your mother say? he tsks. Damn him. Mother’s face flashes through my mind with her ever permanent scowl in place as she lists my faults. 

This is my life, not hers. No longer will she dictate my happiness.

 The door swings open on silent hinges, the night air cool on my face.

If you walk out that door, Reagan, you will regret it for the rest of your life, he threatens.

The soft snick of the door closing is the loudest sound in the night.

CHAPTER 2

REAGAN

Good morning. How can I help you today? the bubbly blonde asks from behind the counter. I give her a tight smile to avoid the grimace I want to wear.

Yes, I need to make a withdrawal from my checking account and savings account please. I pass the withdrawal slips across the gray granite counter.

Of course. Do you have your ID with you? Opening my wallet, I pull out my driver’s license, adding it on top of the paper.  She clicks away on her keyboard, her brows drawing down as she looks over the screen. Ma’am, are you sure this is the right checking account number?

Yes, I’m sure. Why?

It has a zero balance.

Are you sure you entered the number correctly?

Yes, ma’am, I double-checked it. It looks like there was a transfer this morning for the balance of the account.

That son of a bitch, I mutter under my breath.

Ma’am?

What about the savings account? 

Agonizing moments later, my stomach is in my throat when she tells me it’s empty too.

Ma’am, are you okay? Has there been some mistake? Let me get the branch manager. She waves someone over, but I’m still trying to catch my breath. Or not puke on the pretty granite. I may lose both battles. A heavy hand lands on my shoulder, scaring the crap out of me.

Mrs. Matthews, please come with me? Mr. Newberry, the branch manager, asks gently. The pity in his brown gaze tells me I will not like what he has to say. The hushed whispers reach us as we walk across the building, my heels clacking loudly on the tile floor. Damn small towns. The wedding catastrophe was Saturday, and everyone knows by Monday morning. 

That’s right ladies, I caught my husband cheating on me with the town’s favorite sheriff’s deputy’s fiancée. Keep your snide comments to yourself.

Mr. Newberry shuts the door behind us after ushering me into his office. The soft carpet sinks under my heels and, for a second, I totter before righting myself by placing my hand on the back of the leather high-back chair. 

Please have a seat, Mrs. Matthews, he instructs as he rounds his mahogany desk. I understand there may be a mix-up?

I’m not exactly sure what’s going on, sir. I wanted to withdraw some money from my checking and savings account, but the young lady said that both had a zero balance.

Let me look. He pulls a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket before he types away on his keyboard. His gray brows spear down as he looks at his monitor.  His brown eyes turn in my direction. This is a joint account with your husband is that correct?

Yes, sir.

Then I’m afraid that we have made no mistake. All the funds in both accounts were transferred out on Sunday.

On a Sunday? How is that possible? The bank is closed! I shriek before I can catch myself. I’m sorry for my outburst, but how can that happen?

Your husband scheduled the transfer yesterday, but the funds didn’t transfer until the opening of business today.

He can do that? The words barely pass my lips as my heart catches.

Unfortunately, yes he can. He has the legal right since he is also on the account.

Is there anything I can do? That’s my money, too.

I’m sorry but no. Maybe if you speak with him? I shake my head