A love stronger than fear...

Former army sniper Douglas “Bear” Steele wants only to be left alone to live a quiet, peaceful existence in the small town of Widow’s Grove. So his attraction to Hope Sanderson is unexpected and inconvenient. Having recently survived a violent bank robbery, Hope has vowed to seize each day and leave behind her safe, ordered life. As Hope and Bear help each other heal, their desire turns to love. But with their lives moving in opposite directions, can they find a balance to let go of the past and embrace the future...together?

The flush Hope felt had nothing to do with the sun.

The engine growl changed pitch as the bike slowed. Bear put his feet down and stopped. Her foot was off the peg and reaching for the ground before she realized what she was doing. It was instinct—to help balance and connect with the sweet, sustaining earth.

“Feet up.” His deep voice rolled like thunder through his back and kept going, reverberating through hers.

“Right. Sorry,” she squeaked. They were at the stop sign corner of King’s Highway and Foxen Canyon Road.

“You’re not smiling.”

Her lips were pulled back from her teeth, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “I’ll try.”

“Look at it this way. You wanted to push the envelope, right?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to fall off it.”

“I won’t let you fall, Hope.” He took a hand from the grip and patted the arm that was locked around his waist. “Nothing bad will happen to you when you’re with me. I’ll see to it.”

Dear Reader,

I never dreamed when I wrote my first book that I’d ever see it in print—much less that it would become a four-book series!

Widow’s Grove has become so real to me (and, I hope, to you) that I feel like I could walk downtown to Hollister Drugs and order one of those great shakes that Sin makes. Or run out to The Tippling Widow Winery. And while I’m out there, I could visit Sam in that beautiful Victorian on the hill…

But this story belongs to Bear. I gave him his very own Angel, as you’ll see when you turn the page.

Now that the last book has been written, I can tell you that you can visit Widow’s Grove! Well, not exactly, but pretty close. I based Widow’s Grove on the central California town of Los Olivos. Sadly, you won’t find the Bar None or The Farmhouse Café, but you will see the Victorians lining the road into town and the flagpole that graces the intersection at the center.

And somewhere, out in those rolling golden hills, is the run-down graying Victorian that began all this so many years ago. I saw it from the back of my husband’s motorcycle in the ’90s. I wouldn’t even know how to find it now, but maybe someday I’ll go back, on my own motorcycle, and cruise the back roads until I do.

I’d like that very much.

Laura Drake

PS: I enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact me and sign up for my newsletter through my website, www.lauradrakebooks.com.

Against the Odds

Laura Drake

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LAURA DRAKE is a RITA® Award–winning author of romance and women’s fiction. She’s put a hundred thousand miles on her motorcycles, riding the back roads, getting to know the small Western towns that are her books’ settings. She gave up the corporate CFO gig to retire in Texas and is currently working on her accent. In the remaining waking hours, she’s a wife, grandmother and motorcycle chick.

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

Dear Reader

TITLE PAGE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

EPILOGUE

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

CHAPTER ONE

HOPE SANDERSON WOKE to her worst nightmare.

The hand clamped over her mouth smelled of garlic and sweat. She gagged, struggling to get away. A cold circle at her temple made no sense until fetid breath washed over her. “Stop. I have a gun.”

She froze, trying to see through the dark, her heart throwing panicky rabbit beats. Her breath, whistling through her nose, was the only sound in the room. If her body hadn’t screamed for oxygen, she’d have held it, to hear better. A lone intruder? That rustling in the corner, was that another?

What do they want?

Her muscles were strung so tight she thrummed with their vibration. Clamped knees wouldn’t stop them for long, if they intended rape. Her stomach roiled. She locked her jaws tight and swallowed. What would he do if she threw up on him? “Please, no.” It came out muffled by his sausage fingers.

“You promise not to scream, I’ll let go.” A deep scratchy whisper abraded her face.

Her head jerked up and down in a spasm that once started, wouldn’t stop.

The offensive hand withdrew, but the cold circle pressed harder. How did it stay cold, held against a head superheated with speeding thoughts?

Menace emanated from corners unlit by the weak moonlight spilling over the sill. A scuff of carpet in one corner, a wheezing breath from the foot of her bed.

Three of them?

Rape wouldn’t be the worst they could do. Her throat worked, trying to swallow the drought in her mouth.

“Get up.”

When the gunman pushed a finger into the soft underside of her breast, Hope fought the tangle of covers and leaped out of bed. She pulled at her nightgown, trying to cover everything at once, thanking God she wore a floor-length gown. Wishing it covered more.

“Get dressed.”

“Wh-what do you want?”

“You’re taking us to the bank to make a withdrawal. A very large withdrawal.”

A bronchial chuckle from the shadow at the foot of the bed.

They only want money. Of all the scenarios pinging against her skull, that hadn’t been one of them.

Her brain shifted from personal torture to bank manager mode. Procedures outlined what to do in the case of a bank robbery, but were woefully silent on home invasion and kidnapping.

“I can’t get in.” She jumped when the cold circle touched her breast.

“Do you think I’m stupid? You’re the manager. You telling me you don’t have keys?”

“I mean the vault. It’s on time-release. No one can open it until seven.” She snuck a look at the red digital display clock. One ten.

He turned to the shadows. “Fuck. You idiot! How could you not have known that?”

“The guy I talked to didn’t—”

“Shut up, you fool. Jesus, if there was a brain between the two of you...”

The room fell silent enough to hear the spring wind outside the window, whipping the trees to a frenzy. It was nothing compared to the wind that whipped around the corners of her mind. She lived so carefully, tiptoeing around her own life...to have it end like this? “I—I’m sorry.”

“Then we wait. Sit.”

The menace in the corner spoke. “I can think of a way to entertain ourselves for a few hours.”

Hope’s heart convulsed, then throttled up, just short of fibrillation.

The gunman growled, “That is not happening. Now shut the hell up.”

“C-can I put on my clothes?”

“Do it here.”

She pushed down a whimper that scrabbled at her throat, knowing that if it escaped, it wouldn’t be the last, or the loudest. And that would get her killed.

For the first time grateful for the shadows, she fumbled, hands shaking, doing the junior high school gym class quick-change, putting on clothes under her gown, praying all the while that the man with the cold circle could keep his dogs under control. The power that cold circle could have over my life. Or death.

When she was dressed, he led the way to her neat living room. He demanded darkness, docility and dead silence. Silence that made her thoughts scratch and skitter like manic rats in an unsolvable maze.

As it turned out, it was possible to be pee-her-pants terrified for five straight hours.

At six thirty, he stood, and with a gun prod, informed her she was driving them to the bank. She led the way to the carport, and her Camry. Black velvet overhead, but a strip of deep charcoal at the eastern edge of the sky was proof this night wouldn’t be interminable after all.

Hands in a death grip on the wheel, she drove to Santa Maria precisely, conscious that rather than a rescue, a traffic cop’s stop would mean death. His, hers, someone’s.

In the shifting spotlights of the streetlamps, she saw her captors for the first time. The gunman beside her was swarthy with a three-day beard, broad nose, narrow eyes topped by a watch cap. In the rearview mirror the bronchial one was extremely thin, his hollow cheeks gray with straggly stubble. The one who’d wanted to be entertained in the bedroom was large, bald and mean-looking—a mug shot poster child.

They’re not worried about you identifying them. Hysteria ricocheted through her, looking for a way out.

“Park around back. We’ll go in there.” He held the gun in his lap, the deadly cold circle at the end pointed at her.

Hands clenched white on the wheel, Hope pulled into the rear parking lot of her Community Bank building sitting cockeyed on the corner, a strip mall at its back.

“Unlock the door and shut off the alarm. I’ll be right behind you. With the gun.”

The air in the car was laced with nervous tension and the smell of fear. Most of it hers.

“Do not turn on any lights, and don’t even think about pushing a silent alarm.” The gun barrel prodded her side. “The first cop that shows, you’re dead. Got it?” The cold glint in his dirty-green eyes would have evaporated doubt, if she’d had any.

“Got it.” Her screechy voice echoed in the confined space. She clamped her throat shut to keep further sounds from escaping. They only frightened her more.

Once inside, she keyed in the code for the alarm, her fingers moving by rote—a routine task on a very nonroutine day. Her normally familiar workplace environs loomed spooky and strange in the dim security lights.

What is my plan? She could care less about the money. They were insured. But her first employee would be here in an hour. And her captors hadn’t worn masks, so handing over the money and hoping for the best wasn’t an option. She did have one advantage. She knew this place, knew it for six years running. They didn’t. She had to do something. But what? She’d colored between the lines as a child, and lived by the rules ever since. It wasn’t fair that she’d wind up here, where there were no rules. No lines.

“Give me the car keys.” The leader stepped in and waved the gun at her.

She dropped them in his hand.

“Now, the safe.”

Guts jumping, she walked through the hall of glass-walled offices to the bull pen of teller windows. She angled to the huge metal door on the left wall, weighing actions and possible results. None of them ended well. She worked the combination, and with a loud snick, the lock disengaged.

She grasped the handle and swung the ten-inch-thick door.

The mug shot dude muscled her aside, and they all rushed into the money-lined room. “Woo-fucking-hoo.” The skinny one wheezed.

Hope stood in the breech of the door, one hand on the jamb. She’d lock them in, if the vault hadn’t been equipped with safety releases inside.

“Use those canvas bags. Hurry.” The leader stood tall, his gun trained on her, but his gaze held captive by all that cash.

She inched her fingers along the metal doorjamb, hoping in all the shuffling, he couldn’t hear her heart, pounding out an SOS.

The minions worked fast but loud, laughing and chattering like agitated squirrels.

When the pads of her fingers found the alarm button, they hovered, and she wondered if she had the guts to push it...wondered if she did, if those guts would end up splattered red ribbons on the marble floor.

Straining her brain for hours in search of a solution hadn’t helped. She could either die a good little girl or die trying. There was no way out.

She pressed the button.

* * *

“YOU’VE KNOWN THIS was a condition of your parole since the day you were released, Doug.”

That his parole officer would be the first since his mother to use his given name was an insult. The injury was this ridiculous “trauma group” the state dictated he attend. “Look. I paid my debt. I don’t need a stupid—”

“Let’s see here.” The officer flipped open a cardboard file folder with Douglas Steele on the tab. “An army scout sniper for four years, your last mission in Iraq.” He pushed the heavy glasses up his paper-pusher nose. “When you got back in the States...well, you know. You were there.” He looked over his glasses. “I’d say you have an anger issue or two. Wouldn’t you?”

“How can you say that, with all the money California dumped into criminal rehabilitation?” He raised his hands. “I’m cured.”

The officer shook his head. “You can argue all day, Doug. I’m just the messenger. I have no authority to change this, and you know it.” He dropped the folder full of societal sins on the desk. “Look, this is the last hoop you have to jump through and the state will be out of your face. Why not just get it over with?”

Because it’s a flaming hoop, asshole. Bear had always been a private person. The thought of talking to a bunch of whiny losers about his “issues”? It went against his upbringing. It went against his nature. It went against his guts like a punch from a heavyweight. All he’d wanted since he got stateside was to be left alone. There were lonely people everywhere. Why wouldn’t they just let him be one of them? “Give me the damn address.”

“I mean it, Doug.” He scribbled on a sticky pad. “Don’t blow this off. You’re never getting off parole if you don’t. I have a huge caseload, and I don’t have time for this.”

“You’re breaking my heart here, dude, really.” Bear took the fluorescent bit of paper, stood, snatched his leather jacket from the back of the chair and headed out. Ignoring the startled look of the guy approaching the door when Bear barreled through, he held his breath until he hit the parking lot.

The sun reflected off the chrome of his badass Harley-Davidson in a blinding laser that made him squint. And smile.

He pulled his skullcap helmet from the leather side bag and slapped it on. He’d sit through their wimpy-ass class, then he’d be free. Forever.

* * *

TWO HOURS POST button-push, Hope stood with the gun to her head, the leader’s arm squeezing her neck, facing down the local SWAT team on the other side of the glass doors.

“Do you want her dead?” the robber yelled.

She’d stopped wincing at the screaming beside her ear ten minutes ago. When her knees threatened to buckle, she sent the last of her energy to stiffen them. “I have to go to the bathroom.” She’d made up her mind. Time to finish what she’d started. The gunman’s face appeared in her peripheral vision. “Do you think I give a flying spider’s asshole what you need?” His breath hadn’t improved overnight. His arm cinched even tighter around her throat. “You may not have noticed, but we have a situation here. Hold it.”

“If you let the hostage go, we’ll talk,” the bullhorn-distorted voice said.

She had serious doubts about the negotiating skills of the small-town cop. Surely this can’t go on much longer. Maybe the FBI will show up with a negotiator that isn’t a relative of Barney Fife.

“We’re gonna die,” the skinny one wheezed from behind the desk.

“I’d rather die than go back to jail,” the bald one replied from behind another.

“Shutthefuckup. We’ve got us a hostage. They’re not gonna—”

Ssssst...whap!

It sounded like a missile hitting a watermelon. Hope whipped her head around in time to see the bald guy, sans forehead, drop behind the desk. Brain and blood sheeted the wall.

She heaved a breath to scream.

Ssssst...splat!

The hollow-cheeked one clutched his throat as if to stem the blood. It didn’t work. He fell, facedown on the desk.

Two neat holes marred the bank’s floor-to-ceiling window.

That’s going to be expensive to replace. Her brain worked in slow looping sweeps. The ringing in her ears surged, then retreated.

“She’s gonna die! You’re killing her!”

The gun barrel ground into her collarbone, loosing the screams that had built in her since she’d been awakened—it seemed a hundred years ago. “Eiiiieeeee!”

When her captor jerked in surprise, she unlocked her knees and dropped.

He’d held her in a tight grip, but it was with only one hand. She hung choking, his arm around her neck as time distorted, stretching and compressing.

Sssssst...

Squid’s ink bloomed at the edge of her vision and spread, filling the world with black.

CHAPTER TWO

HOPE SANDERSON WOKE to her second worst nightmare.

A gray-haired woman in a scrub cap so pink it hurt, leaned over her, calling her name.

“Hope, how are you feeling? It’s good to have you back. You’ve been shot. You’ve just come out of surgery.”

Dopey and disoriented, Hope battled the cotton in her head. “Wah?”

“You’re going to be fine.” Her eyes crinkled in a mask-covered smile. “Sleep now.”

When the cotton expanded, Hope sunk into its soft embrace.

Until, sometime later, a piercing siren stabbed her brain.

She’s crashing! Bring the cart!

There was nothing for her to do, so Hope floated away again.

The cotton released her to the sound of squeaky shoes on waxed floors. She didn’t know how much time had passed, but the window in the corner was a blacked-out rectangle. Monitors hovered over the bed, their snaking wires and tubes disappearing into several of her body parts. She shifted her arms, legs. All there, thank God. When she lifted her head, her guts bellowed, Stop—stop—stop!

With the pain came the memories, rushing at her: her finger on the alarm button, the evil black eye at the end of the gun barrel, blood and brains trickling down a cream-colored wall. Who shot me? The cops or the robber? She moaned. Did it matter?

The squeaking shoes got closer, and a nurse’s face appeared over her. “Try not to move. You had a bullet nick your stomach and take out your spleen. You gave us a scare, but you’re going to be okay.” She turned over Hope’s palm and put something in it. “The doctors repaired the damage, but it’s going to hurt like a mama bear for a while. Just push the button on the end of that, and it’ll dispense pain medication.”

Right now Hope didn’t feel strong enough to stand up to the pain—in her body or her mind. She pushed the button and the cotton came rushing to envelop her again.

When she woke, it was daylight. There were fewer machines, fewer tubes than before. She found if she didn’t move, her stomach only felt as though a smoking coal was burning its way through her gut. Her throat felt as if she’d inhaled desiccant.

“Well, look who’s awake.”

She carefully turned her head. Her boss, Andrew Horner, rose from the guest chair and stepped to her bedside. And here she lay in a too short, too skimpy hospital gown. Imagining what her mother would have said, she pulled the covers over her in spite of the knife in her guts. Nothing she could do about her bare face, or lack of suitable underwear.

His tie fell across her when he leaned in. “How do you feel?” His bushy eyebrows drew together, at odds with his thin, receding hairline. “We’ve been so worried.”

“W-water,” she croaked.

He lifted a cup from the tray hovering over her legs. “They say you can only have ice chips.” He fumbled with the spoon, managed to snag a few chips and dropped them in her mouth.

“Hmm.” The cold seeped into her parched tissues and down her raw throat. She wanted more, but asking her boss for personal maintenance was embarrassing—for her, and judging by the red spreading up from his collar, him, too. “The robbers—”

“Are dead. You’re safe.”

“What day is it?”

“Friday. You’ve been out for forty-eight hours.” He laid a damp hand over hers.

Hard to believe that only a few days ago, her boss had been transparently working up the nerve to ask her out. It now seemed harder to believe she’d considered accepting. Andrew (never Andy) was an efficient district manager, a good boss and a nice man. Middle-aged, middle management, middle—everything. They fit together like chalk dust and dust bunnies. Easily overlooked. Ordinary. Pedestrian.

She flexed her elbow, pulling her hand from under his. “Is the bank open for business?”

“Yes, of course. They haven’t yet replaced the front window, but the cleaning crew was able to clean the—oh. Sorry.”

She forced her face muscles to relax. “I appreciate your visiting, Andrew, but I’m really tired, and...”

“Of course.” Worried eyes scanned her face. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

“Could you bring my laptop from the office? I have the monthly reports almost done.”

“I submitted the reports yesterday. You’re not to even think about anything work related until you get home.” He patted her hand. “You’re a hero you know. It’s all over the news.”

Some hero.

When he’d gone, she listened to the hospital whispers, trying to get her head straight. Things felt different; as though the bullet that ripped through her guts had kept going, tearing a hole through her entire life.

She lay, testing the edges of the hole. How big was it?

Everything felt foreign. Off-kilter. While she’d slept, Andrew had changed from a possible beau to a well-dressed Rodney Dangerfield, but without the sense of humor. The bank manager role she’d been so proud of had morphed to a well-titled paper-pusher. Her apartment...

The shudder ripped down her spine so hard it woke the banked fire in her gut.

I can’t go back to that apartment.

Everything was gone. All the satisfaction, peace and sedate joy she felt about her life just three days ago were gone. With a flip, it had become someone else’s life. A boring person’s life. This was too big to contemplate right now. There were no edges to the black hole. Pressing the morphine button, she tumbled in.

* * *

BEAR MERGED CERULEAN blue with a touch of mixing white until he had just the right shade, then, with one long brushstroke, created a shadow on the robe to give it movement. Three more swipes and he stepped back, set down the brush and put his fists to the small of his back. The uncovered bulbs of several desk lamps threw light against the bright white wall and the start of his mural.

It had come to him in a dream, so stark and clear that it haunted him for weeks, until he began sketching the scene. He did it more to get it out of his head than anything; after all, no one would ever see it. A warped floorboard creaked when he backed up to double-check the perspective.

His angel floated above the harsh desert landscape on his dining room wall, cool, detached, serene. He still saw her when he closed his eyes. The face he’d painted fast and easily from his vivid dream-memory. White-blond hair you only see on small children, wide-spaced winter-blue eyes that spread a balm of peace over the burns on his soul.

He’d left his parent’s religion behind with his childhood toys. But you didn’t need to be a shrink to see where the dream came from. He grabbed a turpentine-soaked rag from the pocket of his jeans and wiped his hands. This mural was penance. Exhausted, he shook his aching head. A ten-hour workday, then three hours spent repairing the house and a few more stolen ones, here.

He walked through the doorless kitchen to check the time. Cabinets squatted at the base of every free inch of wall space, and plywood sheets that impersonated a counter surrounded the chipped and stained porcelain sink.

Two in the morning. And another full day tomorrow. He walked to the sanded door stretched across two sawhorses that served as his dining table. He should eat something.

Screw it. He needed sleep more. Not that his nightmares would grant him much of that, but he had to try. But as he walked the hall to his cot, he felt better. Lighter. Maybe, given enough pigment, even mortal sins could be painted over.

* * *

HOPE OPENED HER eyes to yet another nightmare. Her older cousin, Jesse Jurgen, stood alongside the hospital bed, hand on hip, from the look, royally pissed from her towering blond hair to the shell pink toenails Hope knew were peeking out from strappy sandals.

“So I tell Carl, ‘It must be a coincidence. There’s no way that woman in the paper is my cousin, because she’d have called me, right off.’”

You didn’t face a force of nature lying down. Hope wriggled as upright as she could get. Only a small whimper got past her clenched teeth.

“Oh, don’t you try to make me all sorry for you, missy. You should have called.” Jesse’s words were tough, but she eased pillows behind her cousin, then straightened the sheets, threw away used tissues, and dropped her nosegay of daisies and delphiniums in the water pitcher on the lap tray.

“Jess, they only took out the morphine drip this morning. I couldn’t remember my own name before that, much less your number.”

“I’m on speed dial, and you know it.” She humphed, but the corners of her lips relaxed a bit. “Thank God our mothers have passed on, because they’d be having fits to see you now.”

Hope winced, imagining those doll-like twin dynamos descending on her. “Thanks for reminding me that things could be worse.”

Hope had always wondered if her father died young to escape his wife’s small, but mighty grip on his life. Hope had wanted to escape, too, after she’d completed commuter college in her Portland suburb. She’d never have made it, if not for Jesse’s help. Hope had loved her mother, but she was...exacting. Anything within Vivian Sanderson’s sphere had to be rearranged to her satisfaction. Lives included.

But growing up with rigorous direction wasn’t the hardest part. Her mother didn’t let go until you not only did things her way, but felt less intelligent if you didn’t believe it was for the best. Her mother whispered in her mind. How can you face company without lipstick on, at least?

For the first time in a long time, Hope ignored her.

Jesse pulled up a plastic guest chair, sat, crossed her legs and leaned in. “Enough small talk. Tell me.”

Hope had been lying listening to hospital sounds for hours, thinking. But she could make no more sense of things now, than she had on morphine. It was as if, in surgery, they’d taken her old life along with her spleen. The more minutes ticked by, the more anxious she’d become. Her life may not have been titillating, but it was hers. She felt torn from her sheltered harbor, adrift in a huge, heaving sea of choices.

And Hope Sanderson wasn’t used to choices.

She reached for the water glass, and knocked it over.

Jesse mopped it up, her eyes reflecting Hope’s own worry. “You’re upset. Talk to me.”

She not only owed Jesse, she trusted her. But how could Hope explain something she couldn’t wrap her own head around? “I think I’m possessed.”

Jesse patted her hand. “No, we exorcised your mother when you moved here, remember?”

Hope snorted a laugh, then grabbed her stomach when it felt as if her guts were going to fall out. “Thanks, I needed that, Jess.”

Jesse took her hand. “Just talk. Don’t worry how it comes out.”

Hope scoured her mind, searching for words to explain her feelings. “It’s like my life has become a dress in the back of my closet from high school. It’s not only out of fashion, I’ve outgrown it. It’s too tight, and too short and—” she shrugged “—not me anymore.”

“How so?”

“Andrew, you know, my boss—”

“The one who clearly has a crush on you?”

“Yes. In the couple of days I was out of it, he changed from a hot dish to a cold fish.”

“Hon, don’t know how to break it to you, but he was always a cold fish.” Jess gave her a canny smile. “You could do so much better than sushi. It sounds to me like you woke up in more ways than one.”

“But I didn’t ask to!” It came out louder and way more desperate than she’d meant. “It’s more than Andrew. I can’t go back to the bank. I can’t go back to my apartment. When I think about it, I break into a cold sweat.”

“Sweetie, you’ve been through a horrible experience. The memories of that night are going to take time to get over.”

“The memories may fade, sure, but when I picture myself going back to life as usual, I get depressed, then panicky.” She squeezed her cousin’s hand. “Am I going crazy?”

“Oh, hon, you know what I think?” Jesse’s eyes went soft. “I think the Hope your mother created died in that shoot-out.” She reached up and petted her cousin’s hair. “You get to decide who this new person is. How many people get that chance?”

CHAPTER THREE

BEAR TOOK THE sweepers into Santa Maria slow. His classic Harley-Davidson Fat Boy rode great on the straights, but the raked front end got squirrely through the turns, especially at high speeds. The sun’s heat tattooed his arms, but the salt breeze off the ocean buffeted his beard. The road whispered a siren’s song of freedom. There was a great cliff-hanging burger shack outside Big Sur. Maybe...he shoved the daydream aside.

You have to go through this to be free.

His leather gloves tightened over his knuckles. He forced the bike to lean in the turn to the crowded parking lot of Marian Regional Medical. No motorcycle parking here. He finally found an open space, pulled in, shut down the engine and lowered the side stand. He threw his leg over and studied the white Spanish-style facade as he unbuckled his skullcap helmet. He’d rather be rolling asphalt in a Vegas summer than walk into that group. But since that wasn’t an option the parole board would accept, he dropped his helmet into the leather side bag and headed for the door.

The old man at the information desk directed him down a series of rat-maze hallways that echoed his boot-falls. Outside the door, he took a deep breath and forced himself to turn the knob.

The room was small and windowless. The yellow paint was probably chosen to be cheery, but in the fluorescent lights, looked nauseous. Five of the six plastic chairs pulled into a cozy circle were occupied. Four of the attendees looked up at him with various shades of alarm.

He forced his face muscles to relax. He didn’t mean to scare people, but between his size, the ponytail, wild beard and heavy brows hooding his eyes, his natural look came off as crazed. And that was okay; it kept people out of his face. And his life.

Only one didn’t flinch. A small soft coffee-skinned woman with long black hair checked her watch. “You are late.” She had a light, floating, East Indian accent.

“Yeah.” He wasn’t saying he was sorry, when he wasn’t. It wasn’t as if he had to get a passing grade for this thing. He just had to attend. He slouched to the only open chair beside her, slid it a foot back from the circle and sat.

“Well.” She uncrossed her legs. “We were getting started. My name is Bina Rani, and I’m a family psychologist with the hospital. This is a new group, and an unconventional one at that, so let me detail how all this works, so you’re not apprehensive.”

He let the blah-blah flow around him as he checked out his classmates. He glanced to his left. At least he wouldn’t be the only guy in the group... The twentysomething kid was lean to the point of stringy. Legs crossed like a girl, he twirled a lock of limp strawberry blond hair on one finger. When he saw Bear watching, he dropped him a wink.

Lovely.

Bear didn’t have anything against being gay. Live and let live. But he didn’t like having it shoved in his face either.

He moved on to a large mousy woman, squirming in her chair as if trying to make herself smaller. Lifeless hair and baggy clothes, she had the flat, not-too-bright stare of a soap opera addict.

Directly across the circle sat a guy with his nose smashed flat, and a worm of red scar tissue bordering a trench-like depression running from his forehead, across his pancake nose, through his upper lip. The scar distorted one eyelid, making him look constantly surprised. Noticing Bear’s stare, the guy looked away.

Bear looked to the last chair beside the Rani woman. His breath reversed, sucking in so fast he choked. He coughed into his fist, but couldn’t look away. Shoulder length white-blond hair framed ice-blue eyes. His angel’s eyes. He felt his blood throbbing at his throat. He heard it in his ears. The resemblance sucker punched him, then rolled him along in a shock wave.

Watching him, her eyebrows disappeared into her bangs.

No, not your angel.

His artist’s eye compared the differences: her jaw was broader, her face not as heart-shaped. Though small, she was built more sturdy than willowy, and there was no balm of peace in this woman’s eyes. Quite the opposite.

“Douglas... Hello, Douglas.”

Bina Rani’s stare didn’t penetrate his agitation any more than her calling his name.

What does it mean, meeting a woman who resembles— “What?”

“Would you like to begin?”

“Begin what?”

She huffed a breath, not quite a sigh. “Introduce yourself, and tell us what brings you to trauma group.”

Even before his prison stint, the thought of “sharing” made him want to puke. He swallowed acid at the back of his throat and shifted in his chair. Shit. He had to say something. “I’m Bear.” He put his elbows on his knees, laced his fingers and looked to the dude to his left to pass the introduction baton.

Bina jumped in. “So it’s Bear, not Douglas. Bear Steele.”

The boy beside him laughed, but when Bear glared, he stopped, midtitter.

“I think it fits you.” Bina gave the kid a stern look. “Now, Bear, what brings you here?”

“The state correctional system,” he growled.

With a look of horror, the kid scootched his chair away.

Bina did sigh this time. “I mean, what trauma brought you to us?”

He sat back and raised his face to the ceiling, hoping for a way out. “Well, prison is pretty traumatic. But you probably mean my Afghanistan tours.”

“Yes, that’s what I was referring to. You were a soldier. What did you do over there?”

He challenged her with his glare. “Not going there, Oprah.” They could force his attendance, but no one could make him talk.

She sat relaxed, unintimidated by his death ray. That was odd. “I understand. Hopefully once we all get to know each other, you’ll feel more comfortable opening up. Next?”

The kid beside Bear perked right up. “I’m Bryan. I’m gay,” he chirped in a crisply enunciated voice.

Now there’s a news flash.

“I was the victim of a hate crime. My boyfriend and I went to dinner. A gang of mouth-breathers jumped us in the restroom.” His voice got wobblier as he went. “Curtis tried to fight them off, but...” He sniffed. “It was horrible. I just don’t understand how people can...” He put his fingers to his mouth and shook his head, eyes liquid.

Great. A drama queen.

“Bryan, thank you. Hopefully this group will help you come to terms with your experience.” Bina looked to the soap opera woman. “Next?”

The woman stared at the carpet, her oily hair curtaining her face. She mumbled something unintelligible.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“I’m Brenda. I don’t need to be here.”

“And what brought you to us?”

“The court made me come, too.” She slanted a skittish glance in Bear’s direction, then focused again at the floor. “They gave me a choice—this or a battered women’s program. But that’s not me, so I came here.”

Bina allowed the silence to spin out until Brenda looked up. “Thank you, Brenda. I look forward to hearing more about that.” She looked to the scarred dude. “Next?”

“I’m Mark. And no, I’m not wearing a mask.” He looked around, his weak chuckle dangling in the air.

No one laughed.

“I was in a car wreck. Went through the windshield.” He raised his hands. “There goes the shaving cream commercial.”

Silence.

His shoulders slumped. “I can’t sleep. Going out in public is excruciating.” He tucked his hands in his armpits and shrugged. “I’m to have a series of surgeries, but in the meantime, I have to...deal.”

“Good, Mark. Congratulations on getting here today. That in itself is a big step.”

When Bina looked to his angel, Bear leaned in.

“I’m Hope. I’m a...was a bank manager.” She sat straight, hands working in her lap. “I was kidnapped and—”

“I heard about that!” Bryan chirped. “Oh, honey, what you went through!”

Bina’s eyebrow lifted. “Let’s let her tell it, shall we?”

“Sorry.”

“Go ahead, Hope.”

“Three men broke into my apartment and after a long, awful wait until morning, they made me drive to the bank and open the safe. There was a standoff with the police and I was shot. I was released from the hospital ten days ago.” She spoke as if discussing the weather.

Bina said, “That’s a very traumatic thing to go through. Hopefully we can help you put it behind you.”

“I don’t want to put it behind me. That’s not why I’m here.”

Bina lowered the pen she’d been taking notes with. “So why are you here?”

“Because I think I’m going crazy.”

Bear knew a bit about PTSD. He studied the woman for signs. Her hands shook a bit, but he didn’t note a startle reflex or jerky movements. But then, he’d known this woman all of ten minutes, all of them silent.

“What makes you think that?” Bina’s soft voice was calming, but it wasn’t working on this girl.

She threw up her hands. “I can’t go back to my apartment. I can’t go back to my job. I can’t go back to my life. Not after everything that’s happened.” She rolled her lips in and down, thinking a moment. “I feel like I’ve got amnesia. Except I remember everything.” She glanced around the circle. “My old life isn’t mine anymore. The future is a blank wall.”

Bina picked up her pen. “Since the past can’t be changed, all anyone can do is move forward. We’ll try to help you explore what you want your new life to be, Hope.” She clipped the pen to the small notebook and uncrossed her legs. “This group brings together people that normally wouldn’t be in the same group. As I said before, this is an experiment. I believe however, your diverse experiences can lend you all insight to help each other, as you seek solutions yourselves.”

Bina gave them her bio, and how she came to the idea of the group. More blah-blah, as far as Bear was concerned. Finally, she smiled at each of them. “I hope you prove me right. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

All but the therapist stood and headed for the door. Bear waited until he could bring up the rear. They shot glances and smiles at each other as they walked down the hall in that awkward, what’s-appropriate-in-this-situation, getting-to-know-you, dance.

He watched his angel—Hope—walk away. She dressed a step above the rest—neat and tidy in slacks, a blouse and loafers. Clearly a “good girl.” What did it mean, meeting someone who so closely resembled a symbol that sustained him? He didn’t believe in fate any more than he believed in the saints, sacraments or shrines of his Catholic upbringing.

But he hadn’t believed in prophetic dreams before, either.

As if feeling his regard, she shot a nervous glance over her shoulder. He fell back a step or two, for once sorry for his size and appearance which kept people at bay. If he followed and tried to talk to her, at best, she’d think him a stalker.

Better he just watch and wait. It wasn’t as if she’d know the answer to any of his questions anyway.

* * *

TWO MINUTES AFTER Hope stepped into the sunny summer day, Jesse’s pretty black truck pulled up at the curb. Hope opened the door, tripped and stumbled into the blinding-bright poodle skirt–pink seat covers. “I appreciate this Jess, but I could have driven myself.”

Jesse, eyes hidden behind movie star shades, waved her red manicure. “Are you kidding? I have the afternoon off. Who better to spend it with? Besides, we’re on a mission.”

Hope buckled her seat belt, then stroked the pink fuzzy dice that hung from the mirror. “I’ve searched through the paper, Jess. The only places for rent are the same generic apartments I was in before.” Shivering, she aimed the A/C duct at the ceiling, though she wasn’t cold. “I can’t move into one of those.”

Jesse checked her mirror, then pulled away from the curb and headed for the exit. “Well, then it’s a good thing your cousin owns The Farmhouse Café, Widow’s Grove equivalent of the office watercooler.” She pulled onto King’s Highway and headed out of Santa Maria.

“You know of someplace else that’s for rent?” Hope squinted through the glare at the green hills she’d loved since the first time she’d seen them, six years ago.

“Not just someplace.” Jesse winked. “I know the place.”

“But how could you, when I don’t even know what I’m looking for?” All Hope knew was that everything she’d seen so far reminded her way too much of her old place.

“Trust me, sweetie. I know this place. It’s perfect. You’ll see.”

“I hope so. I feel bad, putting you and Carl out, taking up your guest room.”

Eyes on the road, Jesse felt for Hope’s hand. Finding it, she squeezed. “You’re my cousin, and I love you. Frankly, I wish you’d stay with us permanently.”

“Oh, heck, no. I overstayed my welcome last time.” When Jesse and Hope had ganged up on Hope’s mother, she’d finally agreed to Hope’s move to Widow’s Grove, providing Jesse keep an eye on her younger cousin. Apparently Jesse thought the vow extended posthumously, since Vivian Sanderson had given up her iron-fist grip on life two years ago.

“Shut up, we love having you. Besides, you dust.”

“Hello.” Hope rolled her eyes. “You met my mother, right?”

“Yes, hon, and you met mine. Did any of that domestic goddess crap rub off on me?”

“You have a point.” Jess may be a whiz mathematician who gave up Massachusetts Institute of Technology for her childhood sweetheart and his family’s business, but she wasn’t a housekeeper.

Hope looked past the beach houses to the light fracturing off the ocean’s chop. In the ten days since she’d been released from the hospital she’d slowly put her cousin’s house in order, down to organizing Jesse’s two walk-in closets and alphabetizing Carl’s considerable CD collection. Organizing her surroundings usually helped organize her thoughts. But not this time.

So far she’d resigned from her job, said goodbye to her baffled boss and looked for somewhere to live. Jesse had retrieved her clothes and personal items, since Hope still couldn’t face her apartment. She had no idea what career she wanted, moving forward. Like her apartment, going to work for another bank was out. Her palms sweated just thinking about it. What was she going to do for a living for the rest of her life?

The edge of town was easy to discern. It was where the line of Victorian houses began, standing like colorful titled ladies in a receiving line. Jesse pulled over, consulting a scrap of paper before peering out the window.

“Oh, Jess, this can’t be right. You know I can’t afford to rent a house.” Hope traced a scrolled fretwork with her finger on the window. “But what a dream. Look at the paint on that one. Who would have thought to use light gray, French blue and rose together?”

Jesse turned off the engine, snatched her purse from the floor and cracked her door. “Honey, if the local jungle drums are in tune, your dream is about to come true.”

They stepped into the hammered Central California sunshine. Jesse waited until Hope came around the car, then grabbed her hand, checked both ways, and crossed the street, low-heeled sandals clacking.

“I think I’m capable of walking across—oh.” Hope breathed.

The home they approached was in the ornately spindled Eastlake-style Victorian in lavender and white. The frothy gingerbread on the porch also adorned the tiny balcony on one second-story corner.

Jesse adjusted her huge sunglasses. “A little foo-foo for me, but whatever makes your hips wiggle.”

“This from the woman with Pepto-Bismol–inspired seat covers.”

Jesse just tsked and led the way up the steps to the covered porch. When she pressed the doorbell “God Save the Queen” chimed through the interior.

“That is too adorable for words,” Hope whispered.

The door opened. A tiny old lady in a flowered dress and orthopedic shoes stood on the other side of the screen, a messy bun of white hair on top of her head. “Yes?”

“I’m Jesse Jurgen. I called about your guest cottage?”

Guest cottage. Hope even loved the sound of the words.

“Oh, yes. Please, come in.” She unlatched the screen door and ushered them in. “I’m Opaline Settle.” She led them into a formal sitting room scented with old furniture–mustiness and old lady dusting powder. “Would you like some tea?”

“I’m fine, thank you.” Hope settled on the ornate but faded wingback sofa and looked around. “What a delightful home you have.” Threadbare antique rugs covered wooden floors. Dusty floor-to-ceiling damask drapes were drawn back.

Opaline perched on the edge of a wingback chair. “Why thank you. Mr. Settle bought it for me as a wedding gift over sixty years ago. He’s gone, but the old lady abides,” she said in a soft, wobbly soprano. “Both of us.”

“I’m Hope Sanderson. Jesse’s cousin. I’m the one looking for a place to rent.” She shot an optimistic smile across the ornate wooden tea table. “You have marvelous antiques, as well. I have a few Tiffany pieces myself.” She nodded at the stained glass lamp on the gateleg table in front of the window.

Opaline’s faded blue eyes sparked. “You have antiques?”

“Yes, quite a few that I inherited from my mother. She—eeep!” Hope jumped up when something bounced out from behind the sofa.

The old lady tittered. “Oh, that’s just Euphengenia. She’s named after Mrs. Doubtfire.” She bent and lifted a large buff-colored rabbit into her lap.

A flop-eared black-and-white rabbit hopped in from the hall, followed by a black one. Soon there were ten.

“They’re curious. We don’t get company often. I won’t bore you with introductions.”

Hope scooted back into the couch, wishing she could lift her feet onto the cushion. She wasn’t afraid of animals, exactly. She’d just never been around them much. Her mother wouldn’t even allow Hope a goldfish, declaring that animals in the house were filthy, disgusting and unmannered.

“They’re just bunnies, for cripes sakes. Deal,” Jesse whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Is the cottage still for rent?”

Don’t they carry fleas? Hope watched the rabbits to be sure none ventured close. The plague?

“Oh, yes.” She watched Hope like a bird eyes a scarecrow. “I have to be careful to choose the correct tenant. I don’t want any wildness back there. You know—” she lowered her voice to a wavery whisper “—that sex, drugs, and rock and roll stuff.”

Jesse coughed into her hand to cover a laugh.

Hope smiled. “I don’t do any of those things, I assure you, Mrs. Settle. I live a very quiet life.” But the words pinched, coming out. That was her old life. Her new one would be different. Different how, she didn’t know, but different.

Opaline looked her over from her headband to her hands, clasped in her lap. “You appear to be a well-brought-up young lady.” She gathered the rabbit, bent and returned it to the floor, then stood. “Would you like to see the cottage?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Hope and Jesse stood.

They followed the little woman through the front hall, to the kitchen, then through the door that led to the back porch. Hope counted eight more rabbits on the way; she’d had to hug the wall to avoid two that chased each other toward her in the hall.

I’ve heard of crazy cat ladies before, but never a crazy bunny lady.

But when they stepped through the back door, all her concerns blew away. In the corner of the huge yard sat a cottage—a perfect, tiny gingerbread Victorian cottage. It looked like one of the painted ladies, only one-fifth the size, dressed in the same lavender and white trim as the main house.

“Ohhhh...” Something in Hope’s chest moved. It was her heart, cracking open. “Oh, my gosh, it’s precious!”

The tiny covered porch wrapped around a bay window, with room only for two painted white rocking chairs. Fretwork graced the roof’s peak, and window boxes spilled bright pansies and geraniums.

As they walked the flagstone path to the cottage. Jesse asked, “How many square feet is it?”

“Five hundred and fifty, I believe.” Opaline took the one step, crossed the porch, and unlocked the door. “It’s small, but I think you’ll find it has everything you need.”

Hope followed her inside. Light from the bay windows shone on the polished wood floor of what she’d call a “sitting area,” since it was too small to be a living room. To the right, a diminutive fireplace with a stone hearth sat, wood laid, awaiting only a match. She walked toward the kitchen at the back of the room.

My little dining table would be cute as a divider between the two areas.

Behind a door on her left, a cubby guest bath had a round window which saved the tiny space from feeling like a closet.

She stepped to the kitchen area. Matching yellow tieback café curtains hung in the windows over the kitchen sink in the corner, and over the Dutch door that led to the backyard.

Sighing, she took in the ambience. Snug and sweet. It was a happy place; she felt it in the empty spaces within her.

Opaline pointed to a tight spiral wrought-iron staircase that disappeared into the ceiling. “You’ll need to climb up to see the loft. The stairs are beyond me, I’m afraid.”

Hope led the way, Jesse on her heels. The stairs rang with their steps. At the top, Hope looked around. “Oh, wow.”

Jesse’s fingernail poked her butt. “If you’d move, I could see, too.”

Hope took the last stair and moved aside. This floor had the same footprint as the house below, so it was a large room, with small windows at either end. But it was the skylights on either side of the sloping ceiling straddling the painted brick chimney that caught her eye. “Jess, if I put the head of my bed against the chimney, I could see the stars through those skylights at night!”

“It’s like a little Hobbit house!” Jesse walked to the door at the far end of the room. “Come see this.”

Hope walked over and stuck her head into an old-fashioned bath, complete with a deep claw-foot tub and faux Tiffany lights over the washbasin sink.

She and Jesse looked at each other and squealed. Hope grabbed her cousin’s arms and waltzed her carefully across the bathroom floor, singing, “I feel lucky. I feel lucky. I feel—”

“It’s perfect, sweetie. But if you keep caterwauling, Mrs. Settle is going to think you’re into that rock and roll stuff.”

Hope giggled for the first time in... I’ve never giggled. “Jess, that song is country, not rock and roll.”

Jess grinned. “Let’s hope Opaline knows the difference. Now, get down there and offer a deposit before she rents this baby out from under you!”

This place would be way more than an out-of-work bank manager could afford, if not for her mother’s estate. Hope hadn’t touched the money, but not needing it was only part of the reason. Every time she’d thought about spending it, her mother’s voice haunted from the grave: you’re spending my hard-earned money on that? Surely I didn’t scrimp and do without so you could squander...

This time, Hope wasn’t listening. The money would give her time to get her feet back under her, and find a new career. A new life.

Thank you, Mother.

She took one last look at her new bedroom before she walked down the spiral stairs. Her old life may be gone, but her new life yawned like a black hole, but she now knew where it would take place.

In a world where nothing was familiar, inexplicably, this cottage somehow fit.

“Home,” she whispered to the room. The word felt right on her lips.

CHAPTER FOUR

BEAR UNLOCKED THE padlock on his rickety barn, still chewing his energy bar breakfast. He’d rather have had eggs, but money came from work, not from cooking. He left the door open to get a cross breeze, flipped on the big overhead lights and walked the narrow corridor formed by crates and various flotsam he’d moved aside to create a work area in the center. He bent over and gave in to an explosive sneeze.

Maybe someday there’d be time to clean the place, too. But he wasn’t being paid to do that, either, so it was going to have to wait.

Bear had saved his soldier pay, invested it and let it to grow while he was in prison. He liked the golden rolling hills he’d seen from behind the razor wire–crowned fence at the California Men’s Colony in San Luis Obispo. So when he got out, he scouted around until he’d found this place; a remote tumbledown cabin and barn, outside Widow’s Grove. It didn’t look like anything. Hell, it wasn’t anything. Yet.

He flipped on his pole lights, strode into the open area in the center of the spotless concrete floor and sank to his knees beside his latest job, a 1989 Harley-Davidson Electra Glide Classic. On the tank, orange-tipped gold flames rose through the black paint—some of the best ghost flames he’d ever done. He’d laid the last clear coat two days ago, and returned the tank to the bike last night. Two coats of wax this morning, and it’d be ready for pickup this afternoon, right on schedule.

This was what brought in money. He’d opened The Gaudy Widow Custom Paint Shop six months ago. Turned out, Widow’s Grove sat in the heart of some of California’s best motorcycle roads, as well as being a stop on the custom car circuit. He had all the business he could handle.

He smoothed a finger over the edge of the tank. “Pretty damned sweet, if I do say so myself.” Pushing himself to his feet, he walked to the back of the barn to open the big door there, then put on a pot of coffee.

A half hour later, he was in the loft, trying to locate a custom-welded metal easel to hold his next job, when he heard a scuffle and a kid’s awestruck voice.

“Oh, wow.”

He strode to the ladder, and had to grab it to steady himself. A brown-skinned kid was on his knees in front of the Harley. He didn’t look much like the kid from Bear’s waking nightmare, but that didn’t stop his mind from running through the stop-action film anyway: a boy around the same age, in a traditional long shirt and long linen pants, a round kapol on his black hair. But it was the eyes, huge and black with panic that chased Bear through his dreams.

Bear used to like kids. Before.

The one downstairs reached his fingers to the tank.

“Don’t you touch that!” Bear’s voice was too loud and splintered with pain.

The kid jerked his hand back as if the ghost flames had burned him.

A young woman with black spiky hair stepped from the box corridor and looked up at Bear, mouth open.

He glared down at them. “Do. Not. Move.”

The warning wasn’t needed. The two stood, shocked to stillness.

He turned and started down the ladder, anger building with every step. Last week some kids had broken in and stolen a case of spray paint. Where were these kids coming from? Why couldn’t they just leave him be?

At the bottom of the ladder, he turned, and hands fisted, stalked to them. “Goddamn kids. You come to rip me off, too?”

Eyes huge, the kid just stared.

“Hey!” The woman, too young to be the kid’s mother, stepped between them. “Back off, dude. He’s not hurting anything.”

He had to give it to her, she had balls. She turned her back and took the kid’s hands. He shook her off, raised his chin and hung his thumbs in the belt loops of his baggy jeans, a kid’s version of chilly.

“I had a break-in last week. I thought—”

She spun. “Bet you get a lot of repeat customers by scaring the crap out of people.”

Damn lights make it cook in here. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his purple bandanna, folded it lengthwise and tied it around his forehead. “What do you want?”

The woman stepped from between him and the kid, but not far. “My brother needs to talk to you.”

* * *

A NANOSECOND OF pure terror crossed the kid’s face. “Um. I didn’t steal your paint.” His eyes darted. Probably scouting the nearest escape route. “But I used it.” The rest of his breath huffed out. “For tagging.”

Bear frowned down at the kid, knowing it made him look even scarier. “Where?”

“The Bekins warehouse.” His voice shook, but he stood his ground.

He’d seen that. On the long wall of the building that faced the road, black letters, leaning back, as if they were zipping by. Yellow and orange flames trailing every letter. He bit back a smile. Kid was young, but had a set on him.

The spiky-haired spitfire watched close, ready to step between them again.

“Oh, yeah, I saw that.” He squinted down at the kid. “What’s your name?”

“N-Nacho.”

“Well, N-Nacho, not bad work. For a beginner.”

The kid looked like a prisoner whose firing squad had just taken a smoke break.

“But.” He pointed, and put every bit of badass into his voice. “Defacing private property is a crime, and accepting stolen property can land you in jail.” He leaned into the kid’s personal space. “Did you learn anything?” He raised an eyebrow. He was having a tough time holding his face hard. He hadn’t had this much fun in a long time.

“Y-yessir.”

“What?”

“Crime costs more than it’s worth.”

He couldn’t help it. His lips quirked, but they probably wouldn’t see it through the beard. “Good answer.”

The woman let out a breath and put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Okay, we can go now.”

The boy shrugged from under her hand. “Um, sir?”

“Name’s Bear.”

“Mister Bear—could you tell me how you did this?” He pointed to the flames on the bike’s gas tank. “They’re epic.”

Bear chuckled. The kid was cute. For a delinquent. “It takes years of practice kid, and the right tools.”

Nacho looked up at Bear, hero worship plain on his face. “Would you show me?”

The woman put her hand on the back of the kid’s neck. “Getting late. We gotta go. Sorry to bother you.” Steering him ahead of her, they motored for the exit, then disappeared among the boxes.

The prison priest had told him he could atone, by helping children. That was bullshit.

Most likely bullshit.

But there was something about this one. The odd combination of innocence and hardcase made Bear wonder what the kid’s story was.

None of your business.

Another, not so different pair of eyes shivered through his mind.

He raised his voice, and it boomed through the barn. “If you come back sometime, we’ll talk.”

He could always tell the kid to get lost if he got irritating. Besides, from that woman’s body language, that was probably the last Bear would see of...what’d he say his name was? Nacho?

* * *

“THANK YOU BOTH. I don’t know how this would have happened without you.” Hope stood in her new doorway, rubbing moving day bruises, trying to choke out a goodbye to her work crew. They’d refused to leave until every picture was hung, every drawer was full.

“Our pleasure, sweetie.”

Maybe, but her cousin looked very un-Jesse-like. In faded shorts, a stained T-shirt and holey Keds, she was downright disheveled.

Hope reached out to tuck a hank of Jesse’s blond hair behind her ear. “I feel bad, making you two do all the work.” She’d had every intention of packing up the apartment herself, earlier in the week. But she’d only gotten the door open—her feet refused to cross the threshold. Even after fifteen minutes of trying.

Today, with Jesse and Carl there, she’d managed to step inside. She’d even managed to pack the kitchen, probably because the men hadn’t gone in that room that awful night. But she still hadn’t been able to force herself down the hall to her bedroom. Even picturing Carl packing her underwear drawer couldn’t get her to budge.

She was bone tired and emotionally spent, but if she felt past those, there was a tiny warm spot of pride. She hadn’t done it all, but by God, she’d done something.

“Are you sure you’re okay here alone?” Carl studied her from under creased Nordic brows.

She considered her injuries—emotional, as well as physical. “You know, I think I am.”

“This place is the start of your new life.” Jesse reached up and cupped Hope’s face in her hands. “Go find out what it holds for you.”

“I will, Jess.” Hope closed the door of her cottage, then waved to Jesse and Carl through the bay window as they walked the flagstone path to the driveway. She sank onto her mother’s antique settee and hugged herself, only partially to quiet the bullet track burning in her gut.

The antiques fit the cottage’s Victorian style so perfectly, she felt she’d fallen through time. In the quiet, a delicate peace came and settled like a cat in her lap.

Mine.

It was as if, with the closing of the door, the cottage wrapped itself around her, new, yet familiar. Comforting. It already felt more like home than anywhere she’d ever lived, including the house she’d grown up in. Maybe this was an omen. A bridge, between her past to the life she felt coming, emerging from the darkness, touching the edges of her present.

She’d always been good at waiting. She’d waited to grow up. She’d waited for the chance to live her own life. But looking back, she could see that when the cage door had opened, she’d just built another.

Maybe because a cage was all she knew.

She’d moved to Widow’s Grove and still, she waited. Waited in her adequate career, her adequate life, for something to happen. Something wonderful, that would transport her from a little church mouse to...she didn’t even know what.

It had taken her almost dying to realize that with all the waiting, she hadn’t yet lived.

Well, that ended today. Jesse was right. No more waiting. If she wanted a different life, it was up to her to find it.

Now she just had to decide what that was. She stood and walked to the kitchen, pulled a steno pad and pen from the drawer, then sat at the tiny round table she used as a dining table. At the top of a blank page, she wrote “New Life” in tidy cursive. Then she sat, staring at the wall for five minutes.

How can you not know?

Well, maybe a place to start would be to consider what she admired in other people. Who would she be if she didn’t have to consider anyone, or anything else?

“Who would you be, if you weren’t afraid?”

Something about the question broke the logjam in her head and she wrote fast, trying to catch the thoughts before they floated downstream.

Adventurous Independent

Pioneering Brave

A fizz of thrill, like bubbles of champagne, coursed into her blood. Oh, yes, she’d admire someone like that. She wanted to be someone like that. But how?

What would a person like that do in their leisure time? She jotted:

Surf Skydive

Outdoorsman Jog, ride a bike, sports

Who knew you could plot out your life? So, what career would a person like that have? She wrote what came to her, without filters.

StewardessWilderness guide

Park rangerPilot

ParamedicBusiness owner

Tennis proTruck driver

HitchhikerMountaineer

Okay, so the last two weren’t careers, and some may not be practical, but dang it, the cage door had been blown off its hinges, and she was going to open herself to all possibilities.

So there, Mom.

Smiling, she added to her list.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY, Hope walked into the empty basement classroom of the hospital, nervous, but determined. So far, her new life was just pages of lists. Today it would exist, because she’d say it out loud. Once it was out, and people heard it, she couldn’t back out. After that, she’d get started living it. She tugged to straighten the collar of her best business blouse, walked to the circle of orange plastic chairs and sat in the same one as last time.

Then she got up, and sat in one across the circle. She was going to have to watch herself. Habits, held long enough, became cages. And she was done with those. She unbuttoned her blazer and retrieved the newsprint from the pocket:

WANTED: Full-time Retail Specialist. Room for advancement. Apply to:

The Adventure Outfitter in Widow’s Grove—Your gateway to adventure!

* * *

“WELL, GOOD MORNING, early bird.”

Bina sat across the circle. Hope hadn’t even heard her come in, but there she sat, two chairs to Hope’s left. “Hello, Ms. Rani.”

“Please, I’m Bina.”

“Okay. Bina.” Hope smiled.

The rest of the group must have shared an elevator, because they all filed into the room and sat. Hope tried to recall their names. A minute later, Bear walked in and took the last open chair, beside her.

She had no problem remembering his name, because it fit him so well. He was well over six feet tall, and built like a bear—thick, and muscular, with hair the red-brown color of a grizzly, pulled back into a ponytail, a bushy beard. His plain white T-shirt pulled tight across his upper arms and chest, displaying the fact that though he may be big, he was lean.

It wasn’t just his body that took up room, either. She could feel attitude rolling off him. With a furtive twitch of her hips, she scooted her chair an inch farther away.

The chair tips made a loud screech across the tile.

His big head swiveled her way. Under heavy brows, his eyes were a dusky shade of chocolate brown. And not angry at all. In fact, she saw more curiosity than animosity. And pain. Those eyes had seen more than they wanted to. She didn’t know how she knew, but she knew it sure as her mother’s rules of deportment.

She continued her study. His big forearms rested on his thighs. On the back of one was a tattoo. She recognized the eagle and anchor, but in the center, where the globe should be, were the crosshairs of a rifle scope. A shiver shimmered through her.

“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” Bina’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Realizing she was staring, Hope looked away fast, her face hot enough to be glowing. She scrubbed her palms over her dress slacks, crossed her feet and tucked them under her chair.

“The last time we talked a bit about why each of you is here,” Bina began. “Today, I’d like some of you to share your stories in more detail. I know it will be hard, speaking about such emotional events with strangers, but this is a safe place, and talking about it will help your mind process the traumas you’ve suffered. It will help ease the horror and begin the healing.” She glanced around the circle of faces. “Who would like to start?”

The left side of Hope’s face tingled as Bear’s regard slid across her skin.

The redheaded boy raised his hand. “How do you heal from something that could happen again at any time?”

Bina nodded. “Traumatic incidents tend to make us aware of how dangerous the world is, and how fragile we are, Bryan. Will you tell us what happened that night?”

He looked down at his hands, twisting together in his lap. “Curtis is an IT guy. He works crazy-long hours. Weekends, too. So we don’t get to go out much.” His face relaxed into a small, intimate smile as he stared, unfocused at the empty center of the circle. “That night we went to Aurelio’s, our favorite trattoria. I chose it the first time we went out, because it was like Curtis—Aurelio means golden in Italian, you know.”

Beside her, Bear made a strangled sound.

Bryan’s face flushed blotchy pink, the way only a redhead’s can. “Are you some kind of homophobe?” He put a fist on his hip. “Because I really don’t need that kind of judgment right now.”

Bear held up a hand. “Peace out, dude. I just swallowed wrong.”

“Go ahead, Bryan,” Bina urged.

“We sat in our usual secluded corner. The candlelight loves Curtis. His eyes, that blond scruff...” Bryan sighed. “He looks like a god.” His body seemed to shrink into itself. “Curtis paid, and we were leaving. It was late, and the room was almost empty. We stopped at the bathroom on the way out. It’s down a brick corridor, next to the back door.” He dropped his head, and watched his hands gripping each other, knuckles white. “Three men came in and blocked the way out. Thugs. Said they watched us through dinner, and since Curtis was obviously infatuated with me, they wanted to know the reason.” His breath came faster. “Ugly, filthy men. They leered at me. Curtis put me behind him and told them to go away. That we didn’t want any trouble.” His mouth twisted. “They laughed. One grabbed Curtis. I started forward, but he put a knife to Curtis’s throat.” His shoulders rose to earlobe level. “I had no choice. They were going to hurt Curtis if I didn’t!”

“Take a breath, Bryan.” Bina’s calm voice was in stark contrast to the tension-filled air. “It’s in the past. You’re safe now.”

His shoulders lowered maybe a quarter of an inch.

“If you didn’t what, Bryan?”

“The last guy, the leader, he made me...you know. Go down on him.” He threw his head back and said to the ceiling, “I had to! He said he’d kill Curtis!”

Lowering his head, he pulled a halting breath through his nose. “They made Curtis watch, the whole time.” He put a hand across his mouth. “I can’t tell you—” He choked a sob.

Someone hissed in a breath. Beside her, Bear whispered, “Jesus.”

Hope sat stunned, suddenly and thoroughly grateful to have only taken a bullet.

“Afterward, they beat us. We tried to fight, but there were three of them.” He looked up, his horrified eyes liquid. “Do you know what steel-toed boots sound like, hitting bone?” He shuddered and tried to gather himself. “I was in the hospital for a week. Curtis...” He pulled in another shuddering breath and his shoulders collapsed. His elbows hit his knees. He buried his face in his hands. “Curtis is upstairs, still in a coma.”

The room’s air felt heavy, saturated with shock, shame and silence.

Bina’s soft voice cut through it. “I’m so sorry, Bryan.”

“That’s horrible. Did they catch those bastards?” Anger tinged Mark’s face red, leaving his horrific scar a bloodless white.

“Not yet.” Bryan sniffed. “It’s been a nightmare. I think I see them everywhere. At the hospital, at work, in the grocery store.”

“Do you think they’re still following you?” Hope asked.

“I think I’m just paranoid. From worry and not sleeping.” He looked at Bina. “But they’re still out there, so...how do you ever get over something like this?”

“You know this isn’t in any way your fault, don’t you, Bryan?”

He nodded.

“Good.” Bina’s shoulder-length helmet of black glossy hair swung when she tipped her head to the side. “How do you feel now, after having talked about it?”

He thought a moment.

Hope knew from experience that he was feeling around the edges of the hole in himself.

“A little calmer, I think.”

Bina’s smile was soft as suede. “Then I think you may have the beginning of your answer.”

She stood. “Why don’t we stand and shake off the tension? This work can be intense, and it helps to loosen our muscles.” She demonstrated, shaking out her hands and rolling her shoulders.

Hope stood and took a deep breath and did neck extensions to break the grip of muscle tension.

Popping came from her left, where Bear cracked his knuckles, then, with a hand under his chin, twisted his neck until several vertebrae popped. She winced.

Bina lowered herself into her chair. “We have more time. Does anyone else have anything they’d like to share?”

The rest of the group settled.

Hope threw back her shoulders, excitement and worry sparring in her stomach. Write it, talk about it, do it. She took a breath and pushed the words out. “I have some good news to report.”

“I think we all could use some of that,” Bina said. “Will you begin by telling us about your trauma?”

Hope walked them through the events of that day, feeling an odd detachment, as if she stood outside herself and watched. She couldn’t help the comparison to Bryan’s story. Not the story itself, but the emotion. She felt his experience in her gut—as if it had happened to her. Her own story felt as though it had happened to someone else.

She trailed off at the end, leaving the last words dangling in the air.

Bina’s brows pulled together. “You sound very detached from the trauma, Hope.”

Feeling the regard of the others, especially the solid presence on her left, she shifted in her seat. “I am. That’s because it happened to the old me.”

“The old you?”

“I can’t go back to that life. I have no interest in it any longer. So I’m starting a new one. I’ve rented a wonderful little Victorian cottage. I moved in just yesterday.” She tightened her muscles, her resolve and her courage. Once said out loud, this would be real. “And, after this meeting, I’m hoping to begin my new career.”

“Congratulations,” Mark said.

Hope didn’t know Bina well, but her face seemed to be held carefully neutral. “What is your new career?”

“I’m applying for a job as an adventure specialist.” She loved the way it rolled off her tongue, the words round and fat with promise.

“Oh, that sounds fascinating. What exactly does that entail?”

“I’m not really sure.” She smiled, projecting a confidence that would be real soon. Hopefully. “But I’m excited to find out.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“YOUR PRIOR EMPLOYMENT is a bit...light in adventure. Retail experience is completely missing.” The man across the counter looked up from her application, one brow raised. Travis Kurt, the manager of The Adventure Outfitter certainly looked the part. He had brush-cut brown hair and bronzed skin with starburst laugh lines at the corners, and he had the long muscles of a gymnast. His big hands resting on the glass looked capable and trustworthy. Hope could easily picture him putting up a tent with one hand, while squeezing the life out of a venomous snake with the other.

She checked to be sure her shoulders were directly over her hips, then tilted her chin up, just a fraction. “I learn fast. You won’t find a more committed and dedicated employee.” She brought his attention to her résumé with a tapping fingernail. “My references will tell you—”

“That you were a good bank manager, I’m sure.” He nodded. “But the skills required of an adventure specialist are very different.”

“I’m sure they are. That’s why I’m applying for a retail position.” She clasped her hands in front of her, in an attempt to hide their fine tremor. Widow’s Grove was a small town. Santa Maria, its closest neighbor, wasn’t a big city, either. The employment pool was kiddie-sized. Which probably wasn’t a bad thing, since she wasn’t a strong swimmer. Okay, dog-paddler. “I plan to begin as a clerk, then work my way up.”

She hadn’t known laugh lines could look skeptical.

“Ookay.” He breathed the word out like a sigh, and pushed the papers aside with the edge of his hand. “Can you tell me what the tools in this display are used for?”

She glanced into the lighted case. The top shelf held compasses of many types, the bottom held clear plastic arm boards with Velcro straps. In the middle, plastic maps and small white marker boards. Thank God she’d reconnoitered yesterday, and done her research. “Orienteering. It’s a family of sports that require good navigational skills to go from point to point in a diverse and unfamiliar terrain, at speed. Participants are given a topographical map, and—”

“You know the definition. But have you ever done it?”

“Well, no. But—”

“How about skiing?” He pointed to ski tips, just visible over the tent display to his right.

She knew about skiing. “Alpine, cross-country or snowboarding?”

One side of his mouth lifted a fraction. “Any of them.”

“Actually done them? No. But—”

He pointed to the long delicate rods on a rack to his left. “How about fishing?”

Her brain skipped pages. “Spin cast, fly rod, Spey rod or—”

“Let’s say any of the above.” His eyes reminded her of the close-up photo of a hawk she’d happened upon while researching camping. Watchful. And a bit predatory.

“No, not actually, but—”

“Miss—” he glanced down at her résumé. “Sanderson. You’ve done your homework. That much is apparent. But our clientele actually participate in these sports. Our retail specialists require more than a Wikipedia education.” He looked her over, from her dress flats to her carefully arranged hair. “And be honest, given your background and education, why you would you want this job?”

Her courage melted like candle wax under his hot focus. When her sweaty hands threatened to slip apart, she laced her fingers and hung on. Her career ambitions were shrinking like the rear end of a galloping horse, leaving her in the dust.

Her mother’s rosary bead litany started up. You give up a perfectly respectable career, what do you expect? I scrimped and did without to see that you had an education, and you throw it away for what? To become a store clerk? You don’t have the sense God gave a paving stone. I am a total failure as a mother if this is what—

Hope cut off the tape, midscreech. She’d lived with it while her mother was alive, plus two years. She had no intention of living with it any longer. Or the life her mother had so carefully steered her to. She forced her hands to relax, letting blood return to her fingertips.

Come on, Hope. How do you expect to live a life of adventure, if you give up this easily?

She lengthened her spine and opened her mouth to say something. Something brilliant, to convince this man that she was the one for this job.

Nothing came out.

Her only fallback strategy was to pour out her sob story and hope for the best.

But she couldn’t.

Hope snapped her mouth closed so fast, her teeth clicked. She’d be darned—no, she’d be damned (take that, Mom)—if she’d gain passage to her new life through pity for her past one. Courageous people didn’t behave that way.

She took a breath, a step forward and a chance. “Have you ever in your life wanted a do-over?”

He tipped his head to the side, which she took as encouragement.

She forced her shoulders square. “You know, you go day to day through your life, not really thinking. But one day, something happens to make you stop and realize the path you’re on isn’t leading where you want to go. So you look back, and see all the steps you took to get you to where you stand now...see all the missteps that took you off the path to where you want to be.” She released her hands, spreading them in a shrug. “This job is my step back onto that path.” She glanced around the store, then back to the gatekeeper of her future. “Mr. Kurt, you may be able to find an applicant who has more experience. But I guarantee you won’t find one who learns faster, or will work harder than I will.” She curled her fingers into a fist and dropped it, soft but solid, on the glass case before her. “I have more at stake, and I refuse to lose.”

“I believe you.” The white lines at the corners of his eyes disappeared with his squint. “Okay, I’ll take a chance.”

Hope’s muscles relaxed just enough to get a full breath.

“But—”

Her muscles snapped back to attention.

He leaned on his hands, bringing his face closer. “Training is expensive, so you’d better be sure you want to do this. You’ll be required to take lessons from our experts in three sports that we sell equipment for. Your choice which.”

Not trusting her voice, she nodded.

“You won’t need to be an expert. You just need firsthand knowledge and familiarity with the equipment and how to use it.”

This man was taking a chance on her. What if she wasn’t up to the task? Was her mother right, keeping Hope sheltered all those years? Did she know something her daughter didn’t? A wisp of panic must have escaped on to her face, because he asked, “But if you’re not sure about this...”

Gravity weighed heavier than it had a moment ago, pulling the blood to her feet. She swallowed. Audibly. “Nope. I’m sure.”

He gathered the employment papers. “In the meantime, you can start as a cashier. I assume you won’t need much training there, given your background. When can you start?”

“Tomorrow.” The word, pushed from her diaphragm, came out too loud.

He smiled. “We’re closed on Sundays. Let’s make it the day after that.”

* * *

THE RUMBLE OF his truck’s glass pack mufflers vibrated through the seat, settling into Bear’s chest like a cat’s purr. A crazy extravagance, but the mufflers were a promise he’d made to the ’64 Chevy beater. He knew it looked like shit, with rust and primer spots, but he was saving the paint job for last. He wasn’t sure what he wanted yet, but it was going to be epic. He patted the plastic steering wheel. “Hang with me, honey. We’ll get you a makeover as soon as the bank balance comes up.”

Checking both ways at the stop sign, he turned onto Monterrey. The spring air blowing in the window cooled his sweaty face. Maybe a new A/C compressor before the paint job. A long low brick building on his left caught his attention. No, actually it was the sign out front—The Bar None. A neon Schlitz sign flickered in the small window, and the door stood open. He slowed, trying to peer through the typical bar murk to see if it was crowded.

Damn, I’d love a beer.

He could almost feel the vinyl bar seat under his ass.

But after his last visit to a bar, he had no interest in a repeat performance. Prison claustrophobia squeezed, making him feel trapped in his own clammy skin. He hit the accelerator.

I’ll get a six-pack at the store.

At the Piggly-Wiggly, he scanned the breakfast aisle, hunting for Pop Tarts. Spying them on the bottom shelf, he bent and took two boxes of strawberry. The Walmart in Santa Maria was cheaper, but the place was so crowded and noisy that he couldn’t relax there.

Not that he could here, either, today. He tossed the boxes in the little plastic basket he held in his other hand, and sidestepped a harried woman trying to lift a toddler headed for a full-on meltdown. He walked away, fast.

Turning into the bread aisle, an old lady in a print housedress stood on tippy-toe, trying to reach a loaf of organic whole grain. He reached and handed it to her.

“Oh, thank y—” Looking up to see him towering over her, a look flashed in her eyes. The look of a rabbit, in the shadow of a hawk.

“You’re welcome, ma’am.” Feeling the sting of being innocently intimidating, he turned away and pulled a loaf of the whitest, fluffiest, empty-calorie bread he could find. After the bland slop in prison, he now ate whatever he damned well pleased, and white bread reminded him of lunches when he was a kid.

At the checkout stand, he snagged a box of Cracker Jacks. Ducking the cashier’s stare, he paid cash and beat feet for the truck.

His jaw loosened when he turned off King’s Highway onto the road that wound through the hills that would lead him home. The hills were still green, but soon they’d shift to the brushed gold tint he loved so much. When he turned in at the ruts that constituted his driveway, grass shushed along the underside of the floorboards. Bordered by barbed-wire fences, the trail wound a quarter mile to the copse of trees that hid his cabin and barn from prying eyes. The privacy was one of the reasons he’d loved this place on first sight. He rolled into his tree-shadowed cave.

A dusty sedan stood in the packed dirt yard.

Warning sirens wailed in his head.

A skinny man in a white shirt stood on the porch, hand cupped, peering in the front window. Bear’s guard-dog temper woke, and snapping and growling, lunged to the end of its chain.

The mufflers burped as he hit the gas and roared into the dooryard. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he yelled out the passenger window, threw the truck in Park and shut down the engine. Then he was out the door and stalking for the cabin, fists clenched.

First its kids stealing paint, now it’s some nosy salesman asshole. Why the hell can’t people just leave me be?

The guy turned. His eyes got bigger the closer Bear got. “I was just checking to see if anyone was home. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Skipping the concrete block step, Bear launched himself onto the porch. “This is private property, and you’re trespassing.”

The guy backed up a step and put up his hands. “I—I’ve got a car. A ’72 Camaro. I heard you do custom paint.”

Oh, shit. His temper whimpered, and tail between its legs, slunk back from where it came, leaving Bear alone with his mess. “Oh. I do business out of the barn. I don’t like people in my personal stuff.” When he held out a hand to shake, the guy flinched back. “I’m Bear Steele. Tell me about your car.”

“Um. I just remembered. I’ve got an appointment in town.” The guy sidled to the broken slats of the railing at the edge of the porch and past Bear, without turning his back. “I’ll need to stop by...some other time.” He scurried down the cinderblock step.

“Wait.” Bear reached in his back pocket for his wallet.

The guy froze, his eyes huge.

What, does he think, I’m going to shoot him? Bear pulled out a business card and handed it down, not wanting to spook the guy by getting closer. “I’m sorry to scare you. Give me a call sometime. I’d love to see that Camaro.”

“Um. Yeah. Sure. Sometime.” He scuttled to the sedan, slammed the door, fired the engine and hit the gas.

Dirt sprayed from the tires, and Bear watched the car disappear in the trees. He hiked to the truck to retrieve his groceries, swearing the whole way.

When the hell was he going to learn to control his temper? Hadn’t it made him lose enough?

* * *

BEAR STOOD WAITING in the hall outside what he’d started thinking of as The Interrogation Room of the hospital. He’d gotten here first on purpose. He leaned, one motorcycle boot propped against the wall, hands in his front pockets. Waiting.

The dream came to him every night, and now his angel appeared twice a week in his waking time, too. He had to talk to her. Had to find out if this meant something, or if it was just one more of fate’s cruel jokes.

But he knew he intimidated her, and after what she’d been through, she was skittish to begin with. He practiced a smile and tried to relax. A bit rusty maybe, but he knew from practicing in the mirror this morning that it made him look less...brooding.

He heard the elevator door ding, followed by Bryan’s high-pitched voice. He and Mark, the scarred guy, came around the corner.

Mark kept walking, but Bryan stopped in front of Bear. “You know, I get hater vibes from you. Do you and I have issues?”

The elevator dinged again.

Crap. That’s all he needed—to be in a touchy-feely discussion when Hope showed up. “Hard to believe, dude, but you star in your own life. Not mine.” Bear glanced from Bryan’s pursed lips, then back down the hall. “I told you. I’ve got nothing against gay. You don’t believe me? Not my problem.”

Bryan let out an exasperated sigh and rushed into the room.

Her white-blond hair caught his eye first. Even when he was ready, her face still held him for the space of several heartbeats. She was beautiful. And not because of his dream, either. Her ice-blue eyes held secrets that her open face belied. She was all business, even in khakis and a denim short-sleeved shirt. But her lips...her lips were pure sex. They made him want to bow his head and worship them.

Noticing him notice, she looked down and kept walking.

Before she could brush by him, he reached out, and touched her arm. She shied back, the lines of her body full of alarm.

“Wait. Please. I just wanted to talk to you for a second. I’m Bear—”

“I know your name.”

“I just wanted to tell you...you don’t have to be afraid. I can’t help how I look, but that’s not who I am.”

She looked up at him, head cocked. But her eyes softened. “Okay.”

How do people do this chitchat thing? He put his foot back on the floor, and his hands back in his pockets. “Um. How’s that adventure thing working out for you?”

A tiny self-satisfied smile softened her mouth. “Nailed the interview. I start today.”

“Nice. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” She took a step toward the door.

“Wait.” He took a hand from his pocket, reached out, but didn’t touch her. “Were you serious about wanting to be more adventurous?”

She looked at him as if he was a vacuum cleaner salesman on her front porch. “S-sure.”

“Then how’d you like to go for a motorcycle ride?” He pulled his mouth up into what he hoped was a benign smile. “I’ve ridden a hundred thousand miles without an accident. I promise I’m safe.”

“I don’t even know you.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, as if shocked at her own abruptness.

“I get that, but—”

“I mean, you don’t ever talk, in group.” Those ice-blue eyes probed his face, looking for a crack to get into. “How can you expect people to feel comfortable around you, if you just sit and glare at us?”

He could give a crap if anyone was comfortable around him. Except her. “Oh.”

“Excuse me.” She brushed by him.

The Rani woman came around the corner, talking to the big woman in the shapeless dress, who walked head down, hair hiding her face.

He ducked into the room. What now, Slick?

It was pretty clear that he wouldn’t get closer to Hope without giving something up. But talking about himself in a group like this? He’d feel as though he was on a Dr. Phil show. No way. Not happening. He grabbed an empty chair and scooted it back from the circle.

Then slid it back in.

He sat, crickets playing “Dueling Banjos” in his stomach as the last two settled into the remaining chairs.

“Happy Monday, everyone,” Bina said. “Who would like to share first this morning?” She patted the soap opera lady’s hand. “Brenda? How about you?”

She just shook her head.

“Brenda, this is a safe space. Feel free to keep it to whatever you’re comfortable sharing.”

The woman pulled at her dress, trying to make it even looser. “I’m not from around here. My husband, Phil, got transferred to Vandenberg six months ago.”

“He’s in the air force?” Mark asked.

“No, he’s a civilian inventory management specialist.”

“Do you like it here, so far?” Bryan asked.

Hands in her lap, she picked at a cuticle. “It’s okay.”

“Why did the court mandate that you be here, Brenda?” Bina leaned forward, trying to get the woman to look at her. It didn’t work.

“I don’t know.”

Bear heard it only because she sat beside him.

“You’ll have to speak up, dear,” Bryan said.

“We’ve got bossy, nosy neighbors.” Her voice hovered, just above a whisper. “Phil, he gets mad sometimes.” She tucked a hank of hair behind her ear, eyes still on her lap. “For good reason. I... I’m kind of a mess.”

The group waited. Bear swore he could hear dust falling.

“What makes you say that, Brenda?” Bina asked.

She heaved a sigh, and rolled her eyes until they landed on Bina. “Oh, please. Just look at me. I’m fat, I’m ugly. I’m pretty useless.”

Bina frowned. “I don’t think that’s true. Tell me one good thing about yourself. Something you’re proud of.”

Brenda sat like a female Buddha, contemplating the meaning of the universe. Finally, she said, “I married well.”

“Really?” Mark said. “Pardon me for saying so, but your husband sounds like a major jerk.”

“You don’t even know him.” She glared across the circle. “See? This is what I knew would happen.”

“Why don’t you tell us about you, instead?” Bina jotted a note on the small notebook in her lap.

“Like what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Why don’t you tell us your happiest memory?”

When Brenda’s head lifted, the crease between her brows was gone, and she looked different.

He realized that it was her eyes. Well, not her eyes exactly, but it was as if she was looking out them instead of looking inward, for the first time since he’d seen her.

“I had a puppy once. He was sweet, and all mine.”

“What kind of dog was it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just a mutt, mostly. I found him in a parking lot of a grocery store, digging in the trash for something to eat.”

“What did you name him?” Hope asked.

“Bucky.”

When Brenda smiled, Bear could see the woman behind all that fat and sadness. She was pretty.

“Bucky and me, we went everywhere together. He loved me.”

“Where is he now?”

The pretty woman dissolved into the washed-out housewife. “Oh, he died. It was a long time ago.”

Hope asked, “Why don’t you get another puppy?”

“Phil doesn’t like animals.” Brenda’s head dropped, and she started worrying her cuticle again. “Besides, he’s allergic.”

She should develop an allergy to Phil. Not that it’s any of my business.

“Thanks for sharing that, Brenda. It’s nice getting to know you a bit better.” Bina crossed her legs. “Who else would like to share?”

Bear almost squirmed in his chair, but caught himself in time. Say something. But what? Hope made it clear he was going to have to give to get. But what would constitute sharing, without revealing anything? Any thread he picked at could unravel his carefully woven blanket of solitude. And he couldn’t allow that to happen. He chewed his lip. What then?

“You are now looking at a retail adventure specialist,” Hope said.

“Hey, congrats,” Mark said.

“That’s the job you wanted, right?” Bina watched Hope from under one raised eyebrow.

“Yes. I start later today. I’m manning the register to start, but I’m going to take lessons in three adventure sports, to better be able to sell the equipment.”

“You’re not going to skydive, are you?” Bryan’s long-fingered hand splayed on his chest. “I’m terrified of heights.”

The kid looked so aghast, Bear couldn’t help it—he chuckled.

Bryan shot him a glare.

“No way. I’m looking for adventure, not terror.” Her fond smile, aimed Bryan’s way, pinched Bear. “No, I think I’m going to start with surfing. It looks so... I don’t know, freeing. You’re riding a force of nature, harnessing the power for your own happiness. You’ve got to feel free then, wouldn’t you think?”

The longing made her face glow. It pulled words out of him. “That’s what it feels like, when I’m on my bike.”

Bina jumped in, fast. “How so?”

“Well, you’re not harnessing nature, but you’re out in it—almost a part of it. You smell what’s in the wind, feel the flow of the land underneath you. The changes in temperature, the weather. It affects you in ways there aren’t words for. You can only feel it.”

“It sounds amazing.” When Hope turned that fond smile on him, it warmed him. Or maybe it was embarrassment. Or both. He ducked his head. “It is.”

“Tell us something else about you, Bear.” Bina’s voice was soft, but it poked him.

“I have a business, doing custom paint jobs, out of my barn.”

“Cool,” Mark said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“My dad had a repair shop when I was growing up. He hated painting. Turned out, I liked it. So I took over that part.” He checked the clock on the wall over the door. Five more minutes. Surely he could keep this up that long. Surely Hope would consider this “sharing.”

“Why did you join the army, Bear?” Bina only sounded innocent.

He shrugged. “Those people brought their shit to my country. Thought I’d give a little of it back.”

“Wooah,” Mark said.

“Amen, brother.”

Bryan rolled his eyes.

“I understand you were a ranger.” Bina consulted her little notebook. “A sniper, is that right?”

He ground his teeth. She couldn’t lead him anywhere he didn’t want to go. He glanced at Hope. She nodded, encouraging him. How had he walked into this ambush?

Bryan’s strident voice broke the silence. “What I’d like to know is why he was in prison.”

CHAPTER SIX

THE LIGHT LEFT Hope’s face. Along with most of the color. “Prison?”

Brenda, the soap opera queen flinched.

Mark leaned back in his chair. “Dude.”

So much for not sharing. Outed by a gay guy—the ultimate irony. Son of a bitch. Noticing his clenched fists, Bear forced his hands to relax. His temper would do more than cost him a customer, here.

“You don’t have to talk about that if you don’t want to, Bear,” Bina said.

“Oh, yeah. It’s kinda the pit bull in the room now. Thanks a lot, asshole.”

The little pissant sat arms crossed, as if owed an explanation.

Bear chewed his lip, trying to figure how to make a steaming turd smell like room freshener. He glanced again at the clock. In four minutes. It was impossible. He almost heard his chances ticking away. “A guy gave me crap about being a soldier. I punched him. He hit his head on the way down. It was an accident, okay? A freaking, stupid, accident.”

“What were you charged with? How much time did you do?” Mark asked.

He looked to Bina, but she just nodded encouragement.

Fuck. This is never going to end. He’d have blown them off, if not for the fact that Hope was hanging on every word, looking as though she wanted to believe the best. “Involuntary manslaughter. Ten months.” He ground the words between his jaws and spit them out.

“The guy died?” Bryan’s mouth was an O of horror.

Let that be a lesson unto you, asshole. He forced his fists to relax. Again. “Hence the prison term.” If sarcasm could slice, this guy would look like a teen in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

Bina must have sensed his potential for eruption. “I think we’ll leave it there for today.” She stood. “Good session. I’ll see you all back here on Wednesday.”

Bear would have caught Bryan outside for a meeting of minds, but it turned out weasels could move—he scuttled away, fast. That was probably for the best. The kid was just a distraction anyway. What Bear really wanted was to talk to his angel. He waited outside the classroom, while Hope lingered inside, talking to Bina.

They walked out together. Two pairs of eyebrows went up when they saw him.

“Hope, can I talk to you for a second?” He waited, dangling at the end of his last chance.

She shot a look at Bina, then back at him.

He held out his hands, palms up, trying to look unimposing. “I just have a question to ask. I promise I won’t keep you long.”

Hope glanced around. The classroom was in the basement of the hospital. The halls were deserted.

Bina locked the door. “The cafeteria is on the ground floor to the right of the elevators, if you two would like to get a cup of coffee.”

Bina’s comment seemed to shatter Hope’s indecision. She checked her phone for the time. “I have a half hour before I need to get to work.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “That’s great.”

As Bina brushed by him, he could swear she winked, but since he only saw her profile, it was impossible to tell for sure.

The cafeteria was prelunch busy. He bought them coffee, and they sat at a small round table near floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on a sloping landscaped courtyard. Hope stirred her coffee, waiting for him to say whatever he had to say.

If only he knew what that was. He wasn’t even sure why he needed to talk to her so desperately. Maybe in talking, he’d hear the answer. He took a sip of coffee he didn’t want, then set the cup down. “This is going to sound crazy, and given what you just learned about me. See, the thing is...” He focused on her eyes. They reminded him of the lapping waters of the Caribbean: soothing, yet incessantly restless at the same time. And like those waters, they calmed him. “Have you ever felt that a stranger held the answers to all of your questions?”

Her head tilt held curiosity and concern at the same time.

“I know that sounds bizarre. I swear to you, I’m not a stalker. I don’t want anything from you. I just had the oddest feeling when I met you.” The past hour’s tightrope walk had worn on his nerves. Now, when he needed words more than ever, he was spewing nonsense. He looked down at his coffee cup. He lifted and set it down in precise one-quarter turns. “Oh, never mind. I’m sorry to have—”

“I believe you.”

He looked up at her soft words.

“I don’t really understand what you’re trying to say, but I can tell you’re sincere.”

He blew out a breath. “Well, that’s something anyway.”

Her laugh tinkled over him. “You should see your face. You look like you just got a stay of execution.”

He kind of had.

She checked her phone. “I’d like to know more about this. But right now, I’ve really got to go.”

“Then we’re going to have to do this again. Maybe by then, I’ll be able to explain better.” He wanted to ask her out. But the straight line of her back and the tight line of her lips told him if he pushed right now, she’d be in the wind. So instead, he stood and held her chair as she gathered her things and rose. “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

They chatted all the way to the parking lot, where he’d scored a slot in the first row.

“Is that your bike?”

“Yep.”

“Wow. Did you do the paint job?” Her hand hovered, a hairbreadth above the tank, tracing the ghost flames.

He shivered as if she’d almost touched his skin. “Yeah. You like it?”

“It’s beautiful. So real you expect to feel the heat.”

He sure felt it.

He took his helmet from the fringed leather side bag. “Maybe you’ll take me up on that ride sometime. When you know me better.”

Her mouth said “Maybe.” Her eyes said No friggin’ way.

“Hey, you wanted adventure, right?” He smiled and threw his leg over.

“Yes, but one adventure at a time. Right now, I’ve got a first day at my new job adventure to live through.” Her smile was a parting gift. “I’ll see you Wednesday. Thanks for the coffee.”

“Thanks for listening to my incoherent babble.” He strapped on his helmet, watching her walk away.

At least she hadn’t run screaming, or called the cops. He was going to call that a success.

He turned the key and cranked the throttle. The bike fired up with a roar. Wednesday suddenly seemed a long time away.

* * *

“OKAY EVERYONE, QUIET DOWN. The store opens in a few minutes, and we have things to discuss.”

Travis Kurt leaned against the counter in the break room of The Adventure Outfitter, addressing his Monday opening crew.

Hope scanned the athletic bodies draped over chairs and perched on counters, feeling like a measly mortal in the Hall of the Mountain Kings. They wore the company uniform of ivory button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled, khaki cargo shorts and lightweight hiking boots as if they’d been born in them. Healthy, tanned and self-assured—any one of them could have starred in a granola commercial. She crossed her legs in a futile attempt to hide their ghostly pallor.

Of course you feel ridiculous. You don’t belong here. You were a gently raised young woman, not a person who does their business in the woods. A cashier. I suffered, to send you to college, and you end up a—

She squelched her mother’s voice, midscreech.

“First, I want to introduce our newest team member, Hope Sanderson.” He held out a hand, palm up, in her direction.

She just offered a timid wave to the curious look-overs.

“She’s new to adventure sports, so she’ll be a champion of the checkout line while she’s in training. Have you decided which three departments you want to specialize in, Hope?”

No need to worry about her pallid skin, because she was now pink all over. “I’m not sure about the other two, but I’d like to try surfing, first.”

“Ah, good choice. Hope, meet Arthur Bogart Chase, our surfing expert.” He pointed to a young man leaning on the wall beside the minifridge, built taller and bigger than she’d imagined any surfer would be.

But what did she know?

He nodded at her. “Let’s talk later, and we’ll coordinate your first lesson.”

Coordination. Another skill that she didn’t possess. Yet.

Travis handed out a list of outdoor events within a two-hundred-mile radius of the store, so they could keep their customers informed. He highlighted storewide markdowns and upcoming sales, then had each department head explain one of their lesser known items and its selling points.

Hope took notes.

He released them with a booming “Let’s go get people fired up about the outdoors!”

He paired Hope with another cashier, Grace, and in no time, Hope was ringing up sales. Maybe it wasn’t the most mentally stimulating job she’d ever held, but she enjoyed chatting with customers and trying to guess what some of their purchases were used for.

A few hours later, she checked out the last person in her line and then a leggy blonde employee stepped up to her counter.

“I’m Lori Olsen. Goddess of all that is camping. Can you do lunch?”

Hope glanced around. “Um. I’m not sure. Can I?”

Grace made shooing motions. “You go ahead. I’ll hold the fort and go when you get back.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in...” She reached under the counter and retrieved her purse. “How long do we have for lunch?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Grace and Lori said together.

“Okay. Lead on, Goddess.”

“No need for formalities. You can call me Lori.” She flipped a lock of waist-long golden hair over her shoulder and took long strides to the door.

Hurrying to follow, Hope couldn’t help but notice her lunchmate’s muscular thighs and heart-shaped butt.

Common. Her mother chimed into Hope’s thought. A lady never wears clothing that tight. Or revealing.

Maybe my butt will look that good in the uniform, after I try all these sports. That shocked her mother to silence.

Lori held the door. “You okay with eating at the drugstore? There’s a great café there.”

If Hope ate lunch out, it was always at The Farmhouse Café, with Jesse. But Hollister Drugs was just down the street. “I’ve never eaten there. Sounds good.”

“Oh, you’ve got to order a milk shake. Sin makes the best in town.”

Hope checked out Lori’s fat-free frame. “Where do you put them? If I drank a milk shake, it’d be on my hips in thirty seconds.”

“I’m a runner. Three miles every morning means I earn a treat for lunch.”

“Run? Morning? I’d rather just have a salad for lunch, thanks.”

They strolled down Hollister, Hope walking on the outside, ducking from under the canvas awnings of the stores they passed. The sun felt good, warming her naked thighs. She’d never owned a pair of shorts higher than the top of her knee before. They made her feel daring and exposed, all at the same time.

Kind of like my new life. Her mouth spread in what had to be a goofy grin. “Thanks for being the welcome wagon for a newbie.”

Lori walked to the glass doors of Hollister Drugs, and pulled one open. “I have an ulterior motive.”

“Now I’m worried.” Hope stepped in, but caught her toe on the doorsill, and stumbled into Lori. “Sorry.”

Lori caught Hope’s arm to steady her. “Hope was a much better name for you than Grace.”

“Very funny.” Heavenly scents distracted her. French fries, bacon and...was that hot fudge?

Beyond the cashiers, the aisles of products led through the store to the pharmacy against the back wall. But Hope’s nose directed her left, where an old-fashioned soda fountain perched in a sea of black-and-white checkerboard tile. The huge mirror behind it reflected the stacks of sundae boats and parfait glasses. All of the white wrought-iron tables were occupied.

Lori led the way through the babble of the lunch crowd to the bar where they snagged the last two seats. “Hey, Sin.”

The young woman behind the bar didn’t even look up. She dispensed a soda from the old-fashioned draft handle and flipped a burger on the grill at the same time. She wore a pink throwback A-line dress with a white frilly apron and pink pillbox cap perched on her turquoise shoulder-length hair. The rims of both ears were encrusted with studs and her lipstick and nail polish were lime green. “Do I look like I got time to chat?” She snapped gum like machine-gun fire. “The McDonald’s is closed for redecorating, and everybody got ravenous at the same time. Holy shit.” She planted a hand on her bony hip and pointed a spatula at Hope. Snap snap. “What’s her problem?”

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