“What do you want us to do?” Brock asked.
“For now, we clean up the mess. Later we’ll give Ryanne the bare minimum of facts.” The less she knew, the better. He would do the worrying for her.
A woman like her should only ever smile.
MONDAYS WERE USUALLY Ryanne’s favorite day of the week. She got to sleep in, drink wine, play video games and relax in a bubble bath. Today, however, she hadn’t slept in. Belle had done her cat thing, somehow climbing on the desk, despite the size of her belly, knocking over a coffee mug, pens, a book and even a laptop. During the loud bang that had followed every downed item, Ryanne had lain in bed thinking about the smile Jude had given Lyndie. A kind smile. Humorless, yes, but kind nonetheless. A smile he’d never given Ryanne.
For a moment, she’d been eaten up with jealousy, and she’d hated herself for it. Lyndie deserved all the kindness in the world.
After giving herself a kick in the pants, Ryanne had gotten up, showered while standing for once and dressed in a hurry. The Scratching Post would be hosting the Strawberry Bookcakes today, and she would be serving tea, finger sandwiches and cookies. Despite the twenty-dollar cover charge, a whole gaggle of retired matrons had signed up.
Guaranteed the sweet old biddies would start off discussing their book club selection—a scandalous paranormal romance titled The Darkest Night; it was chosen because Lincoln West, a beloved resident of the town, had designed a video game based on its mythology. Once the discussion ended, everyone would start gossiping about nonfictional people.
Ryanne had a few hours to run a million errands. Still, she texted Jude an invitation to join her.
Want to be my sidekick today? (I know what you’re thinking—your job comes with perks, like spending time with your favorite person. Hint: me!) Pick you up in twenty?
At some point, he had to say yes and their fun times could finally begin.
This wasn’t that point.
His no had come in so fast her head had spun.
Dang it, why? Last night a guy had flirted with her while she’d mixed drinks behind the bar, and Jude had come over like a heat-seeking missile.
“Leave,” he’d snapped at the guy. “Leave while you can still walk. In thirty seconds, you’ll only be able to crawl.”
Ryanne had watched, flabbergasted. “Uh, he did nothing wrong.”
“I didn’t trust him. He could have been one of Dushku’s men.”
Or maybe Jude didn’t want other guys hitting on her?
She ignored a little thrill and checked her extra stash of moonshine in the basement. Time to place a new order. She shot off a quick email to her contact at the brewery and drove into town to check her account at Strawberry Savings and Loans. Every night at closing, she took all the cash from the register, minus the next day’s float, which she left in a safe, and put the money in a special deposit bag with the bar’s account info. Then she deposited it through an after-hours slot at the bank. Last night Jude had insisted on doing the chore for her, not wanting her to drive around with that much cash. She’d finally relented and let him do it. While she trusted Jude—for the most part—money could do strange things to people, turning the honest into thieves. With Jude, she should have known better. Every cent was accounted for.
Next she visited the grocery to buy cat food and kitty litter. From there, she went to the bookstore to pick up a detailed traveler’s guide to Rome.
Every time she climbed behind the wheel of her SUV, she experienced a twinge of disconcertment. Something was different.
Her windshield was clean, not a single speck of dirt or a dead insect in sight, but there was a small crack in the right-hand corner, one she hadn’t noticed before. And she had brand-new windshield wipers. Also, her tires were immaculate, cleaner than the windshield, and taller than usual.
When Jude first returned to the bar last night, his posture had been rigid as steel. “We’re going to clean the alley walls,” he’d said, “but I need to buy a few supplies. I’m going to borrow your car, all right?”
Now she wondered if yesterday’s vandalism “in the alley” had involved her car as well, and he’d fixed it for her?
Yeah. That. Most definitely. How like the man.
Could he be any sexier?
No, no, he couldn’t. Dang him, he always looked like sex and smelled incredible, like dark, aged rum—which was ironic, considering he’d never even sipped her alcohol. As grumpy as he was, he cared about people, helping ensure the intoxicated never got behind the wheel of a car.
Every hour she spent with him, she wanted him more, wanted to know him better. Why had his military buds nicknamed him Priest? When he’d served, he’d been married with children.
More than anything, she wanted to make him smile. The desire had become an addiction, an obsession. His innate sadness hurt her heart.
Over the past week, she’d learned he never rested and rarely ate, relying on protein shakes for energy. The only time he lost his temper? When an intoxicated person resisted aid and said something akin to “I’m okay to drive.”
He would shout about the dangers and end every speech with the same world-rocking question. Do you want to murder an innocent family?
Ryanne had begun to suspect a drunk driver killed his wife and daughters, and a little online research had confirmed it. The college boy who’d crashed into Constance Laurent’s car, killing everyone inside, had gotten a ten-year split sentence. Five years in prison, five years on probation.
At last she understood Jude’s disdain for the Scratching Post. It was a miracle he worked so hard to save the place, and a true testament to his loyal heart.
Loyal...but also broken.
Two nights ago, he’d left his cell phone at the bar. She’d followed him home, intending to tease him, maybe flirt a little before returning his property. Instead, she’d sat in her vehicle, watching as he’d sat in his, banging his fists into the steering wheel, his tears glinting in the moonlight.
He missed his family. Of course he did.
She could empathize—after all, she missed Earl. He’d been more of a father and mother to her than her bio parents ever had.
Sometimes she still expected to see Earl behind the bar, mixing drinks, or hear his booming laughter when she “got her Spanish on” with a customer.
Loved ones left marks on your soul, and when they died, those marks became scars.
As Ryanne’s SUV eased along Strawberry Valley’s town square, she forced Jude the praised one and his loss out of her mind, and focused on the majestic scenery, a true gift from God. Antique lampposts lined the sidewalks, the perfect complement to both the historic and modern buildings. The Strawberry Inn—Dorothea’s home and business—was a sprawling antebellum estate with an array of massive white columns. The local grocery store, Strawberries and More, was housed in a metal warehouse with a tin roof.
On the next street, box-shaped homes had been turned into a café, a hardware shop and a dry cleaner. A whitewashed bungalow contained the Rhinestone Cowgirl, the only place to buy handmade jewelry. The theater was Ryanne’s favorite building, with a copper awning and multiple gargoyles perched along a balcony. Actually, the theater tied with Strawberry Community Church, a white stone chapel with spectacular stained-glass windows. Reminded her of pictures she’d seen in a book about Holland.
Wild strawberry patches grew along the sidewalks and between the shops. During the summer, she could pluck the sweet fruit straight from the plant for a quick snack, any time, any place.
How