This was what family was like, extended or otherwise.

Becca smiled. This was what was permanently missing in her own life. Not that she’d ever belong with people like these in a living room like this. As a caregiver, she’d always be an outsider. She’d been fine with that for years. She planned to be fine with that forever.

“Becca’s done a wonderful job with the house,” Flynn was saying. “We bachelors aren’t very good at cooking or cleaning or stocking up on toilet paper.”

Hearing Flynn’s voice, Becca’s desire to belong increased. He was the carrot she happily plodded toward. But even if they explored their feelings for each other after her lawsuit was dismissed—crossing fingers, knock on wood-it may not amount to anything… .

Still, the more they laughed, the more Becca felt connected to Flynn, and the more she believed in a future together.

But would Flynn agree?

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Harmony Valley!

Things aren’t as harmonious here as they once were. Jobs have dried up and almost everyone under the age of sixty has moved away, leaving the population … well, gray-haired and peaceful.

Enter three young men-Flynn, Slade and Will-friends, newly minted millionaires and hometown success stories. Flynn Harris is balancing the trio’s new winery against the needs of his stroke-burdened grandfather while caring for his young nephew.

Now that Flynn’s wealthy, all kinds of people show up to try to take advantage of him and his family. Flynn is especially suspicious when Becca MacKenzie, caregiver in need of a job, conveniently shows up on his doorstep. Becca is smart, pretty and opinionated—and once his grandfather meets her, no one else will do.

If only Becca didn’t have a secret that could break Flynn’s trust. I hope you enjoy Flynn and Becca’s journey, as well as the other romances in The Harmony Valley series. I love to hear from readers. Check my website and sign up for email updates. Or you can chat with me on Facebook (MelindaCurtisAuthor), or on Twitter (MelCurtisAuthor), and hear about my latest giveaways.

Melinda Curtis

Summer Kisses

Melinda Curtis

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MELINDA CURTIS has lived in Georgia and Texas, but she’s a California girl at heart. Her earliest memories are of life on an isolated fifty-acre sheep ranch in rural Sonoma County. Picture rolling hills covered in brown grass, a eucalyptus forest, a long gravel driveway lined with plump sheep, and no sidewalks. It was a big deal to drive into town on a one-lane road in a ramshackle, bubble-fendered pickup for an ice cream.

Fast-forward to today. Melinda lives in California’s hot central valley with her husband—her basketball-playing college sweetheart. With three kids, the couple has done the soccer thing, the karate thing, the dance thing, the Little League thing and, of course, the basketball thing.

Melinda writes sweet to medium-heat contemporary romances as Melinda Curtis and red-hot reads as Mel Curtis.

MILLS & BOON

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With love to my family and close friends. It’s not unusual for my spin buddies, household members or siblings to see me enter a room with a glazed look in my eyes and a new question—”What if …?”

With thanks to A.J. Stewart, Cari Lynn Webb and Anna Adams. Hardworking Bees, indeed.

And for Carrie.

I think of you every time I find a dime.

Contents

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

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER ONE

BECCA MACKENZIE WAS sweet and loveable and trustworthy.

At least, that’s what people used to say.

But that was before. Before a Taliban bullet widowed her, before her smile felt scarred, before she got it into her head that everyone deserved the granting of their last wish.

Sure, go on, ignore trusts and wills and judgmental relatives. Never mind the necessity of paper trails to protect those left behind.

What had she been thinking?

Not about protecting herself. She’d been thinking, screw grief. She’d been thinking that if you loved someone and they loved you back, fulfilling that person’s last request was an honor.

Sweet and loveable and trustworthy.

That’s what Becca’s clients would say about her.

If they weren’t all dead.

Becca’s lips were so tightly sealed grief had no chance to escape.

Death was an appendage of being a certified nursing assistant who cared for the elderly. Easing their passing was a sacred trust, whether they died of natural causes, of cancer or kidney disease, of heart failure or just plain fatigue. Life was exhausting, too short for the ones she loved, and, well, exhausting for those left behind.

Exhausted, Becca sat in her temporary home in Harmony Valley, a don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it town in the northernmost corner of California’s Sonoma County. Her home was mobile. Twenty-one feet long, with rusted bumpers, and an orange burlap dinette that doubled as her bed. She’d been in town less than three days, and was parked at the house of a prospective employer, waiting for him to get home.

When Flynn Harris showed up with his grandfather, she’d stand up straight, look him in the eye and ask him for the job. She would not think about the near-zero balance in her checking account, the accusations a previous employer’s family made against her or the lawsuit she had almost no chance of winning without this job.

A cold, wet nose pressed against her side. Trust Abby to know when Becca needed reassurance. The black, tan and white Australian shepherd looked at her with dark, adoring eyes, as if to say everything was going to be as right as her nightly kibble. Becca stroked the small dog’s silky fur, but even Abby couldn’t chase away the tension knotting her stomach.

A classic black Cadillac the length of a small cruise liner turned into the lightly graveled driveway, moving slowly toward the army-green, ranch-style house where Becca was parked. The car stopped so that the passenger-side door was even with the front walk.

Becca hopped out of the motorhome and would have hurried to the passenger door, Abby trotting eagerly at her heels, if not for the penny she saw at her feet. Shoved between two small white rocks, the penny seemed bent and beaten. Becca shoved it into the pocket of her jeans and waved to the elderly passenger through the open Cadillac window.

Edwin Blonkowski’s pale face was dominated by a bulbous nose, his expression stuck in a stroke-induced half frown, framed by a stringy gray comb-over. The T-shirt at the folds of his neck was a dingy gray, the collar curled as if clinging to life. He was so clearly in need of TLC that Becca’s heart panged.

And panged again when she glanced at the driver, Edwin’s grandson, Flynn Harris. Locals said Edwin was on the road to recovery. Flynn’s eyes told a different story. They were the crisp blue of a morning sky, but sharp, so sharp. Sharpened by the fear of loss. Sharp enough to shred her hopes.

For a moment, Becca doubted the penny.

Flynn got out of the car and walked toward the trunk, adjusting his baseball cap over his shoulder length, reddish-brown hair. Faded blue jeans. A wrinkled white Comic Con T-shirt. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, same as Becca. His wasn’t the domineering muscularity of a military man. His was the tall, wiry frame of an athlete built for speed.

For the first time in years, Becca looked at a man and her body buzzed in appreciation.

A totally unexpected response. She was looking for a job, not a date. And there’d been that penny.

She opened Edwin’s door and assembled a smile as carefully as if it were an unfamiliar yoga pose. “I’m Becca MacKenzie, a certified nursing assistant. Agnes Villanova recommended I stop by and ask about the job.”

“Wasn’t expecting you.” Edwin’s words slurred as he shook her hand, his hospital identification bracelet too tight on his swollen wrist. “Told Flynn. I’m done with nurses.”

“You’re done with hospitals.” Flynn’s voice was deeper than she expected, rumbling along her nerves like drawn-out thunder after a lightning strike. “But we need a nurse at home. While you get better.”

Hope strengthened Becca’s smile. The sharpness in Flynn’s gaze may have been due to worry, not lost optimism.

“I’m not muddle-headed,” Edwin said. “Don’t need a jailer.”

Abby put her paws on the Cadillac’s bottom door frame, stretching to sniff the old man.

Edwin patted the dog, his fingers exhibiting the bluish tinge caused by very poor circulation. “Who’s this?”

“Abby.” Becca snapped her fingers and Abby trotted a few feet away. “Can I help you out of the car?”

“Please.” There was a determined twinkle in his eyes. “I can’t dance like I used to.”

“None of us can.” Becca steadied Edwin as he stood. She didn’t dare look Flynn’s way for fear he’d start a conversation with, “Thanks for coming by.” And end it with, “But we’ve already hired someone.”

“You did great,” she told Edwin, rubbing a sweaty palm on her jeans, feeling the penny in her pocket.

Abby barked her approval once, high and sharp, pacing behind Becca as if she and Edwin were two sheep in her care.

Flynn closed the trunk. A walker appeared to Becca’s left. “You’re not from the agency. Those candidates are coming by this afternoon.”

They hadn’t made a decision. Becca wanted to sag with relief.

“I’m an independent C.N.A. I have letters of reference. And a résumé.” Emotion tinged her voice, the way it did when she didn’t speak the entire truth. There were gaps in her résumé, names and dates missing. She cleared her throat and produced the envelope with her qualifications from her back pocket. “Agnes told me you’re looking for someone to help your grandfather regain his sea legs. And it just so happens I’m available.”

Edwin gave her a half grin, and a thumbs-up. “Until I’m okay, I’m sold.”

Becca grinned. Edwin was just what her lawyer suggested—a recovering client who’d give her a stellar character reference within the next few weeks. There would be no honoring a last request, no gift, no deathbed vigil. Edwin was recovering and after a few weeks, Becca would move on.

Flynn took the envelope reluctantly, as if it contained germs, and stuffed it into a plastic bag from the hospital. “Don’t set your parking brake just yet, Grandpa. We should review all the candidates before we make a decision.”

“Why?” Edwin asked.

“Because selecting a caregiver is almost as important as selecting a doctor.” The edge to Flynn’s voice was more pronounced. “You don’t just pick one up off the street. Or off your driveway.”

And then their gazes collided—hers and Flynn’s. It wasn’t a cursory glance like the one he’d given her from across the roof of the car. His scrutiny landed on her and delved deep in one surprisingly quick hit that left her breathless and panicky.

Because in his gaze she saw recognition.

Of her? Of her desperation? She didn’t know which.

Becca pulled herself together, trying to salvage the opportunity, along with her smile. “I have eight years experience, mostly in transitioning patients from rehab to home life.”

“Sounds super,” Edwin slurred, at the same time that Flynn said, “We have to choose carefully.”

Abby circled Flynn’s ankles, doing a bit of character judging with her nose. Flynn leaned over to scratch behind her ears. She licked his hand approvingly and then ran up the front steps, giving them a satisfied smile as she sat.

“Even the dog thinks we should hire Becca,” Edwin said.

At Flynn’s frown, words tumbled from Becca’s mouth. “I tailor my care to each client. I work toward my patient’s goals as well as their doctor’s orders. Abby’s a licensed therapy dog. She’s well behaved and loves everybody. I can work whatever hours you need if you’ll let me park on-site.” Becca pointed at her motorhome and rushed on. “I hear you’re building a winery in town. You’re probably incredibly busy and need someone right away...”

Flynn caught sight of the wedding band on her right hand and raised an eyebrow.

“My husband, Terry, was killed in Iraq three years ago.” Saying it no longer brought tears to her eyes, just the memory of a nameless marine with bad news and a stoic expression.

Someday she’d put the thin band of white gold and its small, princess-cut diamond away. She’d tried a few times, but could only move it as far as her right hand.

“Becca, I appreciate you coming by. But you know as well as I do...” Flynn seemed determined. “I have to interview other candidates.”

She knew, but she’d hoped—

“Nonsense.” Edwin frowned with both sides of his mouth now. “She’s a war widow. It’s my duty to help her.”

“Grandpa Ed, let me take care of this.” Flynn edged the walker closer to his grandfather, dismissing her.

Because she wasn’t sweet or loveable or trustworthy.

* * *

“I LIKE HER,” Grandpa Ed said once Flynn had him settled in his recliner in the living room. “Hire her.”

“Slow down.” Flynn opened the ancient gold brocade living-room curtains, letting in the afternoon sunlight. It did nothing to cheer him. Instead, it aggravated the sledgehammer-like pounding in his head. He’d seen something familiar in Becca’s expression. He just couldn’t put his finger on it, not while he was preoccupied with his grandfather.

“I like her,” his grandfather reiterated.

“It’s time for your pills and to check your blood sugar.” Flynn changed the subject, ignoring the light blinking on the answering machine. It was most likely the usual messages from Grandpa Ed’s friends in town—help with a leaky faucet or something heavy that needed lifting. He’d become a go-to resource for the locals.

Flynn rummaged through the bag of medicine and paraphernalia they’d brought home from the hospital, searching for his grandfather’s pill box and the flap that said Sunday lunch.

As he did all this, his mind flashed to the past, to a time without worry. To warm nights out on the back porch overlooking the Harmony River, while Grandpa Ed regaled him and his friends with stories of loyalty, honor and espionage.

How he longed for those days.

Flynn and his business partners had made millions in the dot-com world, but money couldn’t buy health or happiness. Not for an eighty-year-old man with advanced heart disease.

“Why not hire her?”

“Because.” Because people had tried taking advantage of Flynn’s wealth already. He’d had to change his cell phone number twice and Grandpa Ed’s home number. There’d been too many calls from out-of-the-woodwork entrepreneurs and college buddies wanting to manage, or rather, spend his money. Not to mention the temporary reconciliation with his mother. She disappeared after he’d written her a check. Only his ex-con father hadn’t shown up for a handout. “If it’ll make you happy, I’ll call Agnes later. She’s the one who recommended Becca.”

“And then we’ll hire her.” Grandpa Ed sounded as if it was a done deal.

But there was something about Becca MacKenzie that poked at Flynn’s subconscious. He could see how his grandfather might be charmed by her warm smile and heart-shaped face. He could see how a man could be distracted by her sleek curves and ribbons of long black hair. But he’d been caught by something in her walnut-brown gaze. Something he had yet to identify. Something that was simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar.

“Knock, knock.” Slade Jennings, Flynn’s friend and one of his business partners, opened the screen door. “There’s the big man.” Slade crossed the living room and shook Edwin’s hand, looking as if it was casual Friday in his black slacks, button-down shirt and yellow paisley tie. That was just the way the financial guru presented himself, even on weekends. “How’re you feeling?”

Grandpa Ed’s smile looked sad. “I’ve been better.”

Flynn handed his grandfather two pills and a bottle of water. “He’ll get better.” He had to.

Grandpa Ed had raised Flynn since he was eight. That was the year his father had gone to prison for armed robbery. The year his mother decided she’d needed a new start in life, one that didn’t include a son who looked exactly like his criminal father. The year Flynn learned that no matter what he did, his grandfather wouldn’t leave him on someone else’s doorstep.

If only Flynn had proven how much that meant to him before this, taken Grandpa Ed on the trip of his dreams to the cities and countries where the old man had made a name for himself in the intelligence community, instead of postponing the trip year after year while Flynn made his fortune.

“I picked up the bed.” Slade smoothed his tie. “Are you ready to move it?”

Grandpa Ed turned questioning eyes toward Flynn.

“I ordered a new bed for you.” One with rails and adjustable positions to keep the swelling in his extremities down.

Years of his grandfather’s military service appeared in the form of stiff shoulders and a commanding tone. “My bed is fine. Just because you’ve made a lot of money doesn’t mean you need to spend it on me.”

The pounding in Flynn’s head intensified. He exchanged a frustrated look with Slade. “I didn’t buy you a hospital bed as a homecoming present. It’s what the doctor ordered. If you don’t manage your edema, you’ll go into congestive heart failure.” And die.

Grandpa Ed’s weakened state from a fall a year ago plus the trifecta of diabetes, high blood pressure and high cholesterol had already tried to shut down his heart twice. The doctors didn’t think he’d survive any heart procedures or live to see Labor Day, less than two months away.

“Oh,” Grandpa Ed settled back down. “In that case, you can put the new bed next to mine. I don’t want my bed moved out.”

Impossible. “There’s no room in there for two beds.”

Grandpa Ed reached for the remote. “Slade, take it back.”

“And while you’re at it, Slade, take my grandfather and drop him off at the nearest hospital. He’s going to need it.” Flynn glared at his grandfather.

His grandfather glared back.

Flynn belatedly remembered stress could end things permanently for Grandpa Ed, as Slade backed slowly toward the door.

“Oh, all right.” Grandpa Ed shook the remote at Flynn. “But don’t you get rid of my bed. I’m going to need it when I get better.”

Slade walked down the hall. “That’s the spirit, Edwin.”

His grandfather had spirit all right and he showed it to them. He showed it when they brought in a new recliner, one that helped him stand and sit. Unnecessary, he maintained. He showed it as they rearranged the furniture so he could navigate the house in his walker. Not how his wife wanted it, he declared.

At one point, Flynn pulled Slade into the kitchen, needing to vent. “Months spent trying to convince Harmony Valley that change is good and I can’t even get my grandfather to accept little changes in his own house!” Ones that would help keep him healthy and safe and alive.

“He’s been in charge most of his life.” Slade peered through the kitchen archway at Edwin, who was snoring almost as loudly as the television news droned on. “This has to be hard.”

It felt harder on Flynn.

“It’s only short-term,” Slade reminded him. “A little change to his diet, a little physical therapy, and he’s back on his feet, right?”

Flynn couldn’t look Slade in the eye as he mumbled, “Right.” He’d made his grandfather a promise—no one else would know the end was near.

As the job candidates started showing up, his grandfather found something objectionable in each one.

“I want Becca,” he’d say as soon as one left.

And Flynn would always reply, “Keep an open mind. The agency stands behind their staff.” He had no idea who stood behind Becca, other than Agnes, who was on the town council.

“I should be allowed to choose,” Grandpa Ed wheezed after the last interview, clearly spent. “She’s not going to be wiping your bottom.”

“And on that note—” Slade gathered the paperwork they’d been reviewing “—I’m outta here.”

After Slade left, Flynn counted ten sledgehammer strikes in his head before speaking. “I’ll ask Becca to come by for an interview tomorrow, after the last interview we have from the agency.” But when Flynn dialed the number on her résumé, it rolled directly to voice mail—not surprising given Harmony Valley didn’t have cell service yet. Just as he was about to leave a message, the house phone rang.

The phone didn’t stop ringing until nine o’clock, as nearly every Harmony Valley resident, of which there weren’t many, wanted to talk to Grandpa Ed and welcome him back.

By then it was too late to call Agnes and ask her about Becca.

CHAPTER TWO

EARLY MONDAY MORNING, Becca stared through the window into what used to be the ice cream parlor on the northern corner of Harmony Valley’s town square. The metal dipping freezers stood empty and forsaken. Cobweb streamers dangled from the ceiling. Most other stores on Main Street were just as deserted and decaying inside.

She rested her head against the cool glass and rubbed her chest.

Abby stood on her hind legs to peer into the store. She dropped to all fours and looked at Becca expectantly, as if asking what they were still doing in Harmony Valley.

“I was hoping, girl.” Hoping that some of her childhood faith in the world and the world’s faith in her would be renewed. Hoping that Flynn’s grandfather would prevail and change Flynn’s mind about the job. That she’d receive a call from them last night or first thing this morning. That maybe this time things would work out.

One thing she definitely was not looking for was love. She’d given up on happily-ever-afters once she’d cast her husband’s ashes into the ocean. She was destined to be alone. But that didn’t mean she couldn’t fill her heart temporarily by caring for someone in need. She’d gotten good at smiling through the loneliness, at saying goodbye and letting go.

Since she’d parked in Agnes’s driveway again last night, she’d checked with Agnes as soon as she was sure she was up. No call came. No second chance presented itself. It was time to stop hoping. Time to figure out how to pick up the pieces of her life elsewhere.

At the south end of town a parade of trucks made the same turn onto a side street. Utility trucks, beat-up work trucks, construction workers with orange coolers strapped to their truck beds. They lined up as if they’d been at the same coffee shop and had left at the same time for the eight o’clock whistle.

Curiosity set Becca’s feet in motion.

The trucks parked up and down a long, freshly graveled drive leading to what looked like an abandoned farm. Men clustered about, finishing their coffee and adjusting tool belts. Their laughter lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of green growth.

Both sides of the driveway were bordered with palm trees some misguided soul had planted half a century earlier out of misplaced grandeur. Palm trees had no business in Sonoma County. As if to prove the point, hundreds of lush rows of grapevines flanked the palms, nearly crowding them out.

This must be where Flynn and his partners were building their winery.

The driveway branched at the end. To the right a white, two-story, craftsman-style home that had seen better days squatted. The porch sagged and windows were broken. To the left stood a large, red, prairie-style barn with winglike additions on either side, covered in a tin corrugated roof dappled with rust.

The instantly recognizable Cadillac was parked in front of the weary-looking house. Edwin sat in the passenger seat, head tilted back, snoring, an unopened bottle of water clutched in his puffy hand.

A rocket of exasperated anger launched from her toes to her fingertips, roaring through her ears.

Life was precious. Didn’t Flynn know that?

She spun around quickly, almost tripping over Abby.

Flynn and his red hair were easy to spot. He was talking to a group of men in front of the barn. He held his lean frame confidently in the crowd, unconcerned that his wrinkled gray T-shirt looked like it had sat in a dryer for days. His grandfather wasn’t the only one who needed looking after.

Flynn did a double-take when he saw her bearing down on him.

If she had any chance of landing the job, she had to be diplomatic and squelch the niggling man-to-woman awareness Flynn created.

Squelching awareness was easy. Unfortunately, diplomacy wasn’t in her arsenal this morning.

Becca planted herself so close to Flynn, he could have heard her whisper. Instead, she chose her outdoor voice. “This is how you plan to take care of your grandfather? By leaving him sitting in a car at a construction site?”

Sensing the turbulence above her, Abby lowered her head between her shoulders.

Scowling, Flynn drew her aside. “There’s a problem here I need to deal with.”

“We solved that. You should have left thirty minutes ago.” A tall man with crisp black hair and a crisper dress shirt and tie had followed them toward the barn. He extended his hand. “I’m Slade Jennings. One of Flynn’s business partners. And you are...”

“Becca MacKenzie,” Flynn said wearily.

Covering her surprise that Flynn had remembered her name, Becca shook Slade’s hand and added, “I’m not a stalker. I’m staying in town.” She blew out a breath, trying to release her anger. “I noticed Edwin’s edema yesterday. He needs his extremities frequently elevated above his heart to help control the swelling. This isn’t good for him.”

“You’re the one Edwin was asking about.” Slade smoothed his navy striped tie and smiled just as smoothly at her, creating not a niggle in her awareness meter. “Weren’t you going to call her to set up an interview, Flynn?”

“The day got away from me,” Flynn said, looking uncomfortably like it was true and happened often. “Are you free around two, Becca? I’ll be done by then.”

Becca shook her head. Flynn didn’t understand that old bodies weren’t as hardy as young ones. She could kiss this job goodbye. Her lawyer was going to be disappointed. But someone had to defend Edwin. “Give me your keys.”

“What?” Flynn’s eyebrows nearly touched the brim of his baseball cap.

Slade watched the two of them with unabashed interest and a hint of a grin.

Becca thrust her hand out. “I’ll take Edwin home. Give me the keys.”

“I’m not hiring you, Becca. I haven’t checked your references.”

“This isn’t about giving me a job. It’s about what’s best for your grandfather. I can’t let him sit out here without food or a decent bathroom. I won’t charge you a cent, I promise. Now, give me the keys.”

“Are you always this bossy?” Flynn dug into his jeans pocket for the keys and handed them to her. He was kind of cute when he capitulated, not that she was looking for that in a boss.

“I prefer the term take charge.” She accented the label with air quotes.

“Okay, but just...don’t get comfortable.”

“I know, I know. You have to interview everyone and check into my past.” Becca had no illusions about getting the job if Flynn did a deep background check. It was enough that she could help Edwin through the day.

She hurried toward the black Cadillac, Abby trotting at her side. When she opened the door, Abby hopped up to sit on the bench seat next to the old man, touching him with her nose.

Edwin startled, bumping into the other door. “Oh, it’s you.” He scanned the area, wariness framing his gaze.

“Yes. Who were you expecting?”

“I saw someone I hadn’t seen...” He blinked at her. “Where are we?”

“Flynn’s winery. I’m taking you home.”

“Oh. Flynn hired you.” In a blink, he tucked wariness away, patted Abby and injected cheer into his voice. “I knew that boy would come to his senses.”

She didn’t tell him that boy had no sense, at least not when it came to taking care of his grandfather. When it came to hiring a caregiver, he had entirely too much.

* * *

“YOU SHOULD HIRE HER.”

Flynn stared at Slade as if his friend had just suggested he wear high heels and a thong to the construction site. “Hello? She was waiting for us on our doorstep yesterday. I can think of a dozen slasher movies that started that way. How can I trust her with my grandfather?”

Slade cocked an eyebrow. “You just did.”

“I hate it when you’re right.” Flynn hated that Becca was right, too.

She’d moved with swift, purposeful strides over to the Caddy. All’s well, said the sway of her hips. Mission accomplished, said the swing of her long, black braid. All woman, said the curves covered in black and pink spandex.

The wind picked up, rustling the silver-green eucalyptus leaves on the sixty-foot tall trees separating the river from the vineyards.

A wiry construction worker with a gray goatee and ponytail glanced Flynn’s way, triggering the elusive feeling of familiarity.

Slade shifted, blocking Flynn’s view and disrupting the path to recognition. “Hire Becca. She clearly has Edwin’s best interest at heart. And if she moves here she brings skills to the town we don’t have now. We promised to increase the population and the tax base.”

The population in Harmony Valley was a whopping seventy-seven. All but two of those residents—their business partner, Will, and his fiancé, Emma—were over the age of sixty-five. The construction crews commuted from other, larger towns, the nearest being thirty to forty minutes away. Flynn and Slade were temporary residents, staying only long enough to fulfill their promise to the town council—to create at least one business to revitalize their hometown.

What fools they’d been to think it would be easy.

They’d experienced a series of false starts, but now, construction on the winery was finally moving forward. Also in the works was a communications tower to bring internet and cell phone service to the remote valley. Today was the first big day of work—demo of unusable parts of the barn, utility work needed to upgrade water, sewer and electricity.

Grandpa Ed waved as Becca drove the Caddy slowly around the drive.

Flynn returned the gesture halfheartedly. “I brought him here because I didn’t want to leave him alone.”

There had been indignation in Becca’s dark gaze today, with none of the subtle emotion he had yet to name layered in her eyes. Regardless, Becca was right. Flynn shouldn’t have dragged his grandfather out here, much less left him sitting. As if he needed more guilt.

Guilt greeted Flynn when he awoke every morning, sat on his chest all day and wove through his dreams at night. Guilt that he wasn’t doing enough, guilt that he wasn’t home enough, guilt that he’d put off doing things with his grandfather until it was too late. If he could just speed up construction on the winery, he’d take his grandfather on the trip of his life. The doctors said Edwin needed a few weeks to regain his balance and what little strength he had left before attempting anything so taxing.

After the Caddy disappeared, a faded green Buick appeared between the palms, carrying three occupants—all councilwomen. They might just as well have been doctors, coming to chart his progress and, if required, give him a dose of medicine.

He walked across the driveway to meet them, determined to avoid their daily meds.

When the car stopped, he leaned down next to the open passenger-side window. With a nod to each woman, “Agnes. Rose. Mildred.” Flynn reached for his easiest smile. “Ladies, we’re no longer open to visitors. This is a construction zone now.”

“We won’t be in the way parked here.” Agnes, a gray-haired pixie who also served as the aging group’s ringleader, turned off the ignition.

“We’re old.” From the passenger seat, Mildred squinted at him through lenses as thick as a hard drive. “We won’t get out. You can tell us what’s going on from here.”

“Actually, I came to see the workers with their shirts off,” Rose piped up from the backseat, her snowy ballerina bun windblown. “For efficiency’s sake, you can call them out while you give us a construction update and then we’ll be gone.”

“Rose,” Agnes scolded, her papery thin cheeks pinkening. “We are not here to ogle men.”

Flynn’s jaw ticked, tugging one end of his smile down. “Ladies, I have nothing new to report since yesterday. You’ll need to move along. We’re expecting delivery of a Dumpster.” And they were parked right in its path.

“Young man, our town has a lot riding on this venture.” Rose drew herself up regally, as if she’d already forgotten her shirtless desires. “As councilwomen, we need to be kept abreast of the activities here.”

“I assure you—” as he and his partners had been for months “—that we have kept you up-to-date. But not only is it not safe here, my contractor won’t allow nonessential personnel on-site.”

The three elderly ladies looked crestfallen.

Flynn bent, just a little. “You can park out on Jefferson Street.”

“I can’t see anything that far away,” Rose grumbled.

“We can go home and get our binoculars,” Agnes suggested.

“Brilliant.” Mildred patted his hand. “We’ll talk later.”

That’s what he was afraid of.

Agnes reached for the key in the ignition, but didn’t start the car. “Flynn, before we go, I’d like to put a vote of confidence forward about Becca MacKenzie. She’s a wonderful woman.”

“She knows all the songs from Guys and Dolls. And she can shake her bootie,” Rose, the Broadway musical enthusiast, added.

“Any girl who can drive stick shift is okay in my book.” Mildred patted his hand again. “You won’t make a mistake by hiring her.”

Flynn doubted that. Becca had her secrets and worse: he liked her looks, her smile, her chutzpah. “How long have you known her?”

Agnes’s smile stiffened. Rebooted. “I only met her Friday, but she stayed with me all weekend.”

Flynn mentally chastised himself. The town council loved Becca. And she’d only been in town a couple of days? “Ladies, can you say con artist?”

Their laughter prickled and annoyed and reassured. If they were laughing, chances were his grandfather was in good hands. Flynn had known these ladies most of his life. They were a handful, but they didn’t misplace their trust. There was just that one look of Becca’s to interpret before Flynn felt comfortable.

After they left, Slade walked over, chuckling. “Don’t tell me you thought they’d stop coming once construction started.”

“I had hoped,” Flynn said.

Dane Utley, the project’s general contractor, called them over to the blueprints he had spread out over the hood of his silver-gray truck. “I know we want to fast-track this project, but I’m warning you, old construction has a mind of its own.” Broad shouldered, big-boned, Dane looked like a professional linebacker, but talked with the polish betraying his Ivy League education. “I don’t know how that building has stayed up so long. The beams we examined this morning were either rotted away or split. We’ll shore up everything before we do anything else, starting with the low beams on the north wall.”

“We promised the Preservation Society this would be a restoration,” Flynn said. “If we can’t use the guts of the barn we may lose community support.” And time. Every day they saved meant he had a better chance of fulfilling his promise to Grandpa Ed to take him on that trip.

“She’s a beautiful piece of history and we’ll save what we can,” Dane reassured Flynn. “I stopped by the county office this morning and they were still missing a couple of key permits and agreements. We can demo today, but the lack of a public improvement agreement is going to stop us by next week.”

“Will’s working on it,” Slade said. “He’s in Santa Rosa this morning with our legal team.”

They needed to widen a portion of Main Street and do earthquake retrofits on the Harmony River bridge. Both projects impacted Mayor Larry Finkelstein’s property. His lawyers, their lawyers and Will were handling the negotiations. Flynn was managing the building contractors and the councilwomen’s daily updates. Slade dealt with finances. If they could obtain these last few permits, maybe things would finally run smoothly.

“We could use some good luck to get things back on track.” Flynn voiced the understatement of the year.

Slade nodded.

A white car pulled onto the gravel driveway.

“It’s one of the county building inspectors.” Dane leaned around Flynn and shouted, “County!”

Power tools ground to a halt as word of an inspection spread. Workmen drifted through the red barn doors. The crew turned to watch the inspector approach.

The ominous sound of timbers snapping had them all spinning back to the barn. The southern wing undulated, wheezing and groaning as if straining for breath. And then it broke away from the middle of the barn, lurching to the ground in a drunken stadium wave, kicking up rolling plumes of dust.

Flynn felt the force of the collapse from fifty feet away. It eddied about his ankles, tugged at his determination, laughed at timelines and plans and mocked promises made in good faith.

In the seconds after the barn’s partial collapse, no one moved. Even the building inspector had stopped his car at the fork in the driveway, a safe distance away.

“Everyone back!” Dane leaped forward, gesturing for his crew to retreat. “She’s not done.”

The barn shuddered up to its hay loft and tilted precariously toward the collapsed south wing.

Flynn and Slade ran with the rest of the crew to the inspector’s vehicle.

The wiry construction worker with the goatee and ponytail jumped into a dented white pickup parked in front of the barn. He sped past those running to safety.

“Head count. Now!” Dane focused on the man who’d saved his truck. “Idiot! Is a truck worth your life?”

“Can’t make a living without my tools.” Unfazed by the reprimand, the wiry, gray-haired idiot strode purposefully past Dane to the cluster of workers wearing similar mud-brown Utley Construction T-shirts.

Flynn couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d seen the man before.

“If you weren’t such a good worker, I’d wring your neck, then fire you,” Dane called after him, receiving a shrug in answer.

“I can’t see a thing. And I don’t hear anyone inside.” Slade squinted toward the still-dissipating dust clouds. “Do you?”

“No,” Flynn rasped, listening for any calls for help from the barn.

What if someone had been killed? What if their decision to salvage what they could from the barn instead of razing it meant someone wasn’t coming home tonight? A dust cloud enveloped him. He pulled his T-shirt over his mouth, hoping that would help him breathe easier.

The world hadn’t totally screwed him. The barn held. The sun continued to shine. Beyond that, Flynn was having a hard time finding a silver lining.

“Everyone’s accounted for,” Dane announced moments later.

“Thank God,” Flynn murmured into his shirt. As favors went, that was huge. Unfortunately, his timeline had undoubtedly ballooned.

The balding inspector faced Dane looking like Christmas had come early and Santa hadn’t fulfilled any of his requests. “What happened?”

“We were shoring up the beams on the north side,” Dane said. “It must have caused instability on the south.”

Slade tugged Flynn away from the others. “Let’s tear the barn down and rebuild. It’s safer and cheaper.”

“I know you’re worried about the budget, but this is a piece of Harmony Valley history. We promised to preserve it.”

“Some promises aren’t meant to be kept.” Slade gestured toward the barn. “If someone had been hurt or killed trying to preserve the barn, we’d be ruined.”

The inspector was shaking his head at Dane. “This got away from you. I’m shutting everything down on both structures until you can reassure me that any work—be it demolition or rework—is safe.”

“Which is when?” Flynn quit pretending he wasn’t listening.

“Until it’s safe,” the inspector repeated coldly.

Word quickly spread through the men that work was over for the day, sending them streaming like large ants toward the rows of parked trucks, until only a few of Dane’s crew remained.

“It’s going to be hell proving to County this is a safe construction site unless we take her completely down.” Dane turned to Flynn. “I suggest we demolish the whole thing, salvage what boards, posts and beams we can, and resell the rest. There’s a good market for old, weathered barn wood.”

The promise they’d made to the community warred with the pressing need to speed things up. “How long?”

Dane looked toward the trees lining the river. “We’ll lose three to five days from the collapse and a day or two in salvage. We’re out in the boonies. County inspectors can’t just stop by on their way to another job. We’re at the mercy of their schedule.”

Flynn hated when things were out of his control. A programmer by trade, he liked plugging in commands and seeing them work in predictable, stable order.

“I’d like to see the estimate for a complete demo before we decide how to proceed,” Slade said.

Flynn nodded in defeat. “And we’ll need to confer with Will.”

The construction worker who’d rescued his truck appeared at Dane’s shoulder. His gaze pierced Flynn’s, distracting him for a moment from the outline of familiar cheekbones and sharp chin Flynn suspected was hidden beneath the man’s gray goatee.

“Before you go, I’d like you to meet my job foreman, Joey Harris.” Dane’s voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

Flynn’s vision dropped from those unapologetic eyes to the hourglass prison tattoo on his forearm.

It couldn’t be...

He would never...

But it was. And he had.

Dane’s foreman was Flynn’s father.

CHAPTER THREE

ROSE AIMED HER antique ladies birding binoculars out the window at Agnes hurrying back to the car. “Where did you get that ring?”

Drat. Agnes was hoping that her two friends wouldn’t notice the ruby ring. And Rose hadn’t until she’d retrieved her binoculars, a pair Agnes assumed would only magnify the appearance of a bird if she was standing beneath the tree it was in. And only if it was a small tree.

Agnes slid behind the wheel of her beloved Buick, a pair of binoculars draped around her neck. “I got a call from Mayor Larry. Part of the Henderson barn just collapsed.”

From the backseat, Rose gasped.

“Was anyone hurt?” Mildred lowered her own binoculars.

“No.” Agnes started the car and headed toward Jefferson Street and the Harmony River bridge. The morning sun had yet to chase away the briskness in the air. It reached through the windows and chilled Agnes to the bone.

“Agnes, about the ring?” Rose was doggedly annoying sometimes.

“Which ring?” Agnes tried to play dumb.

“The red ring as big as a stapler on your finger,” Rose said sarcastically. “Do you think I’m as blind as Mildred?”

“I take offense to that,” Mildred half turned, her eyes barely visible behind her thick lenses.

Rose huffed. “As if you noticed Agnes was wearing a new ring.”

Harold’s ruby ring glinted on Agnes’s right hand. She’d returned the engagement ring to him decades ago on the Harmony River bridge. The same day the army informed her there’d been a mistake—her husband hadn’t died in the Battle of Inchon. He’d been captured, freed and was coming home, leaving Agnes to choose between her childhood sweetheart and the man who’d picked up the pieces of her heart when she thought her first love was dead. “I can’t believe we’re talking about a ring when there’s been an accident at the winery.”

“Thank heavens no one was hurt or killed.” Suitably distracted, for now, Rose clutched the back of Agnes’s seat as she took a corner faster than usual. “Do you think they’ll realize this is an omen and quit?” Rose wasn’t a proponent of change.

“More likely they’ll realize the barn is past saving.” Mildred raised her binoculars to her thick glasses, twisting the dials for a clearer view, which was nearly impossible given Mildred was legally blind. “Sometimes you need to cut your losses and move on. No regrets, right, ladies?”

Agnes pressed her lips closed and tried not to look at the ruby ring. She had regrets aplenty. If she’d chosen Harold that day instead of honoring her wedding vows, maybe her life would have been different. She was nearly eighty and she’d never gone skydiving or driven a race car, something both of her friends had done. Her days were spent cleaning and gardening, meeting up with Mildred and Rose to go to a museum or the botanical gardens. She’d been a boring, devoted housewife, and that was no doubt why her kids and grandchildren rarely came to visit.

The ruby winked at her, reminding Agnes of all that life had to offer. She could hear Harold’s baritone whispering in her ear: come away with me.

She’d been unable to run away. She’d needed to stand by the promises she’d made. She had more promises keeping her here today, as she tried to breathe some much-needed life into Harmony Valley before it became a ghost town.

“It’s a shame when old things give out.” Rose sniffed. “I just wish this winery business would go away.”

“Rose, please.” The winery was Agnes’s only means to attract some of her family back to Harmony Valley. She wanted the chance to mention to one of the men starting the winery that her granddaughter, Christine, was an award-winning winemaker. She wanted the chance to mention that her daughter, Joanna, loved dealing with the public and might enjoy working in the tasting room. But she didn’t want to appear as if she was asking for any favors.

She didn’t want to be one of those old women who schemed and manipulated.

But if it was all she had left...

* * *

EDWIN WAS QUIET on the ride home. Abby rested her head on his shoulder. He squinted frequently into the side-view mirror, as if checking to see if someone was following them.

“Here we are at your house, safe and sound.” Becca tried to sound reassuring. At her last job, Harold’s edema had caused bouts of disorientation, especially when the old man was tired. A little grounding and reassurance were called for. “Are you expecting someone? Perhaps the person you saw back at the winery?”

“No. I thought I saw... But it couldn’t be.”

“Well, we’re the only ones here now.”

Abby was their chaperone as they made their way into the house, waiting patiently as they paused on each porch step so Edwin could catch his breath.

“You don’t have to fuss over me. I was military intelligence.” Settling into his recliner, Edwin smiled with the half of his face unaffected by the stroke. “Although you couldn’t tell by looking at this old body, I directed campaigns and prevented wars.”

Becca could have guessed the old man’s profession by looking around the house. Edwin’s good deeds had been acknowledged and rewarded with framed ornate military accommodations and medals. He’d be remembered as an honorable war hero, while she...

Becca’s composure wavered like a flag in a hostile breeze. How would she be remembered? As a compassionate woman who helped the elderly she cared for? Or—as Virginia O’Dell’s family accused—a woman who took advantage?

She never should have given Agnes that ruby ring. But how could she refuse Harold’s dying request to prove he’d never stopped loving Agnes? Becca’s protests to him about amending his will went nowhere.

It was the look on Agnes’s face that made the risk worth it. The delight she’d tried to hide that a former lover had remembered her, tears she couldn’t conceal when emotions overwhelmed her—grief, joy, regret, happiness. She’d hugged Becca as if she’d delivered Harold himself into her arms.

Just for a moment, Becca felt she belonged somewhere again. She’d welcomed the invitation to spend the weekend, hanging out with Agnes and her energetic friends. Baking banana nut muffins and singing show tunes.

A cool breeze coming off the river fluttered through the screen. Becca draped a deep green afghan over Edwin, who was staring at Flynn’s graduation picture. His eyes were hooded, haunted. She rearranged the pillows beneath his feet and stepped back to survey her work, pausing to pat Abby’s head. “Who did you think you saw back there?”

“Someone from the past.” Edwin lisped slightly more than he had yesterday, a sign the morning’s events had taxed his strength.

Abby padded over to the door, circled a spot on the foyer’s black and white linoleum twice and lay down with a contented grunt.

Becca sat on the blue plaid couch. Dust puffed out of the cushions. She knew she shouldn’t pry, but something was bothering Edwin, and she hated when her clients weren’t mentally and physically at ease. “Was it someone from Flynn’s past? Or yours?”

Edwin’s gaze ricocheted to Becca’s. Difficult as it was in the chair, he thrust his chest forward, and his shoulders back. “I didn’t say.”

“Of course, you didn’t,” Becca soothed. “It’s none of my business.” But she wondered nonetheless as she stared at the divots in the orange carpet marking where the coffee table had recently been moved. “Have you had breakfast? Do you like scrambled eggs?”

Edwin sighed. “I can make my own breakfast.”

Not hardly, in his weakened state.

“It’s okay to ask for help or accept a little help while you’re on the mend.” Why was independence the hardest thing for seniors to give up? When Becca was eighty, she wouldn’t put up a fuss if someone wanted to cook for her.

“I’ve never asked for help and I’m not starting now.” Edwin glanced toward the remote resting on the end table nearest him, just out of reach. “Could you turn on the television?”

Becca laughed. Edwin quickly realized he’d asked for help and did, too.

As their laughter died away, Edwin stared at Flynn’s picture again. Worry etched a stockpile of wrinkles around his eyes. She’d seen that look before—in the eyes of her mother, her grandmother, and most recently, Harold Epstein.

“Sometimes...” Becca tried to stop herself. She didn’t need any more trouble. But stress hindered recovery, and knowing Edwin had been in military intelligence, he probably had plenty of secrets, perhaps ones he still kept from Flynn, perhaps ones he didn’t really want to take to his grave. She suspected he needed an outlet, a sympathetic ear, a keeper of secrets. Not her, of course. She’d made that mistake before and look where it’d gotten her. “Sometimes you might need help of a different kind. For example, you might want to get something off your chest or need help sorting through a box you stored in the attic.”

There was a wounded quality to Edwin’s gaze that indicated Becca’s words struck a target the old man may not have realized he’d been harboring.

“Mostly, you should ask for a hand when you’re unsteady. The rest of it—” the bucket list, the last wishes, the people he needed to make peace with. There was no hurry except to unburden himself. According to town gossip, he had years left in him “—just know that Flynn can help you if you talk to him.” That was good. She didn’t need to get involved.

Perhaps things would have turned out differently with Harold if he’d had a family member he was willing to confide in, instead of a daughter who considered him an inconvenience.

“Flynn’s too busy to talk now,” Edwin said gruffly. “We’re going on a trip in three months. I’ll talk to him then.”

That seemed a long wait for an old man.

“We used to sit out on the porch every night and talk, weather permitting.” Edwin shook a puffy finger at her. “Traditions are important in this family and in this town. I want traditions to live on. Like celebrating the successes of your neighbors every spring or walking the girl you’re courting home and kissing her good-night on the Harmony River bridge.”

“Did you follow that tradition?” she teased.

The old man had the sweetest blush. She was glad the world and Flynn weren’t losing him just yet. “A good man doesn’t kiss and tell. But I’ll tell you this—I would never replace a good-night kiss on a bridge with a good-night text message or whatever it is young people do nowadays.”

“I used to use Skype with my husband every morning when he was overseas.” Becca’s gaze caught on the picture over the fireplace of a young Edwin and his bride. Edwin wore his army uniform, his chest covered with medals, his stature approachably proud. His wife wore linen and lace, an unusual heart-shaped necklace and a smile Becca recognized—that of a joyous bride on her wedding day.

In his dress blues, Terry had looked just as proud the day they’d married, and Becca just as joyful. They’d taken pictures alone at the base chapel and then more pictures surrounded by Terry’s family and friends.

Edwin noticed her staring at the photo. “Irma died nineteen years ago this July. She was volunteering at the veterans’ hospital in Santa Rosa and had a brain aneurism. They told me she never suffered.”

Suddenly chilly, Becca zipped up her pink hoodie. She knew all too well how quickly love and family could be stolen away.

“Flynn arrived soon after Irma died. If it wasn’t for him, I might not have had the will to go on. I was almost grateful that my daughter, Maggie, thought I could give him a better life.”

Needing a distraction, Becca pointed to a picture of Flynn and a redhead. “Who’s that?”

“Flynn’s half sister, Kathy. They’re my daughter’s children. I took Kathy in a few years after Flynn. She and my great-grandson live in Santa Rose. That’s Truman on the mantle.”

Truman had the ginger coloring of his mother and uncle, but the reserved smile was unexpected for a little boy.

“Becca, you’re going to work for me and move to Harmony Valley permanently,” Edwin proclaimed. “Someday soon we’ll reopen the medical clinic here in town and you can work there. In the meantime, there’s plenty for you to do. All we have around here are old people.”

Becca would be happy with a few weeks of work and an impeccable employment reference.

The phone rang.

Edwin wrested a hand free of the afghan and answered. His face quickly drained of all color. “Thank, God. Keep me updated.” He hung up.

Couch springs creaked as she stood. “What’s wrong?”

“Part of the winery collapsed about half an hour ago.”

“Is...is...” Flynn all right? She couldn’t get the words out, not past the stab of pain in her chest.

She would have thought she’d be unfazed by death after everything she’d been through. But she wasn’t. It slipped in like a knife into a not-quite-healed scar somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.

“Everyone is fine, including Flynn.”

Neither one of them spoke for a good minute. Maybe two.

“You should stay,” he said gruffly, staring at the ceiling. “Harmony Valley has everything you’re looking for.”

“Except a job,” she deadpanned, rubbing her hands on her thighs. She still felt shaken.

“Nonsense. I’m hiring you. I can’t wait for Flynn and his background checks. He’ll be busier than ever now with the winery.”

That suited Becca just fine.

* * *

THE HARD MILES prison put on a man were inscribed on Joey Harris more indelibly than the numerous tattoos on his arms. It was apparent in the wrinkles in his sunken cheeks and the way his skin clung to him like a second-hand suit, worn and slightly saggy.

The man who fathered Flynn stood with his hand outstretched.

Flynn felt as if he was falling, jerked back, plunged into memories he’d buried deep enough he should never have been able to find them.

Father’s Day. Eighteen years ago. His dad, looking young, strong and healthy, playing catch with Flynn on the front lawn of their apartment complex. Tall, handsome, those bladed cheekbones he’d given Flynn framing his infectious smile.

Flynn’s dad wasn’t like other dads. Sure, he was gone sometimes. He’d missed Christmas two times in a row. Sure, he had a temper. Flynn had gotten good at hiding behind the couch during his blowups, where everything from hammers to beer bottles might go flying across the room.

But lately his dad had been home every night, lately nothing more than a baseball had flown out of his dad’s hand. He walked Flynn to school and picked him up afterward. His dad knew how to fix things. He was like a magician—starting cars and opening doors without keys. Flynn’s dad was turning out to be the best dad ever.

The sirens were just background noise. The rhythm of the ball snapping into their gloves countered the volume-increasing announcement that the police were in a hurry. There must have been a car accident somewhere. Or a fire. The closer the sirens came, the more distracted Flynn’s father became.

“Dad, come on.” Flynn struck his eight-year-old fist into new, empty leather. Over the past few days, it’d been like Christmas in June. A new bike, a new video game system, new shoes and clothes for Flynn and his sister.

Instead of throwing the ball, his father turned toward the intersection down the block, watching as three patrol cars cut the corner on the wide turn. “Go up to the apartment,” he commanded without turning around.

The first cold tingle of dread prickled in Flynn’s belly. “Dad?”

His father spun, his scowling features a deadly, chalky white. “Go! Now!”

The jagged edge to his voice. The threat of more than a baseball being thrown.

Flynn fled, fighting back tears.

He got as far as the second-story balcony before the black-and-whites squealed to a halt, spilling booted uniforms and guns onto the sidewalk, aiming at his dad as if he were a criminal.

They couldn’t kill him. He was the best dad in the world.

Flynn hadn’t realized he was screaming until his father turned around, his hands high in the air, saying the words Flynn had assumed would be the last he’d ever exchange with him, “Get your butt inside!”

“Do you two know each other?” Dane asked, frowning when Flynn didn’t reciprocate Joey’s handshake.

The sun warmed Flynn’s face, but his insides were making ice cubes. Now he could name the emotion he’d seen on Becca’s face when they first met and he hadn’t immediately hired her. It was the same look he’d seen years ago on Joey’s face. Captured. Cornered. Trapped.

The question was: Why?

Slade stepped between Flynn and Joey, saving the moment that Flynn had no intention of saving.

Awkward? Who cared? The man had left him—no calls, no letters, no postprison visits. He didn’t deserve the title Father.

Joey—Flynn refused to think of the man as his dad—did a civilized meet-and-greet with Slade, all the while keeping his gaze trained on Flynn.

Presumably, he was still looking at Flynn when Flynn walked away.

CHAPTER FOUR

HOURS LATER, WHEN a long walk along the banks of the Harmony River had drained the resentment over the appearance of Joey Harris out of his system, Flynn’s feet led him home.

He’d stayed away too long. Worry for his grandfather’s condition had resumed its piggy-back position on his shoulders. Until the cell phone tower was completed, no one could get in touch with him if there was an emergency.

He didn’t recognize the car parked in front of the house.

Becca’s dog barked once. Her small nose pressed against the screen.

Flynn removed his muddy work boots, listening with relief to the sound of his grandfather’s I’m-in-command voice. “I see you live in Santa Rosa. We’d want you here by seven every morning.”

It came back in a rush—another candidate for caregiver—shoving his shock and hurt over Joey aside. Grandpa Ed was scaring her off, leaving him no choice but to hire Becca. Despite the town council’s endorsement, he couldn’t hire Becca until he knew what she was running from. If she’d broken the law, there was no way he’d hire her.

Flynn threw open the screen door so hard it banged against the opposite wall.

Everyone in the house paused to stare at him, even the dog.

Becca’s hand was frozen midair, clutching a coffee mug she’d been about to put in the dishwasher. The skin around her eyes was tense.

Definitely cornered, ready to run.

Flynn looked away.

Grandpa Ed pinned him with a stern expression that demanded an apology.

After a moment, Flynn muttered one.

An older woman sat on the couch across from his grandfather. She was as tall as she was wide, dressed in dark blue scrubs decorated with the bodies of pro wrestlers. Her thinning, too-brown hair was helmet-short. And the frown she wore indicated the interview he’d forgotten about wasn’t going well and wouldn’t likely improve with his appearance.

His grandfather performed the introductions. “Miss Caldwell’s come a long, long way for this interview.”

“I’m sorry I’m late.” Flynn came forward to shake Miss Caldwell’s hand. “We had an emergency at the construction site.”

“So I heard.” Miss Caldwell stood, accepting his handshake with a firm one worthy of the professional wrestlers that dotted her attire. She remained standing, as if preparing to leave. “Is the position still open?”

“No,” Grandpa Ed said briskly. “I’ve got Becca.”

Flynn ignored him. “We haven’t made a decision. Becca is a temporary solution.”

Miss Caldwell didn’t believe Flynn, nor did she sit. She glanced toward the kitchen.

Flynn followed the direction of her gaze.

Becca wore the same black exercise leggings and pink hoodie that she’d had on that morning. Her long, black hair hung in a thick, smooth braid down her back. No scrubs. No disapproving frown, although he knew she had one. Becca looked like someone’s girlfriend, not a caregiver.

Flynn blinked and glanced back at Miss Caldwell, who looked as if she might want to plant at least one of her bright white sneakers on his backside.

“Well.” Miss Caldwell ping-ponged looks at each of them. “Mr. Blonkowski has my résumé. I’d better be going.”

Given the choice between arguing that Miss Caldwell should stay or having his caregiver—at least temporarily—be Becca, Flynn surprised himself. He thanked Miss Caldwell for coming, and escorted her as far as the front door.

Grandpa Ed turned on a rerun of Jeopardy! The well-known theme blared from the television.

Flynn swiped the remote from him and muted the show. “I thought we agreed to be nice.”

“Miss Caldwell wouldn’t have lasted a week driving an hour in good traffic, much less ninety minutes each way in bad traffic. Did you see her chin? It was soft. The first time I lost my temper she’d be out the door. I did her a favor.”

“She looked capable enough to me.” The term battle-ax came to mind.

“She’s very qualified.” Becca scrubbed the sink as if it deserved punishment. “I think she’d do an excellent job. She wouldn’t quit in a week.”

“She might last two,” Grandpa Ed allowed grumpily. He lowered his voice. “Any woman who’d praise the competition is worth hiring.”

Flynn took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair. It was long enough to pull into a short ponytail, longer than Joey’s had been the last time he’d seen him, but not as long as Joey’s had been today. “You drove Miss Caldwell away.”

His grandfather huffed. “I did not.”

“Yes, you did.” Becca wiped her hands on a dish towel, sniffed it, made a face and set it aside. “She was confused as to why I was here. We used to work at the same agency.”

“Used to?” Flynn asked.

“Yes.” She drew a deep breath.

Flynn had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever she said next.

Thank God.

“We don’t care about your previous employment.” Grandpa Ed gave Flynn the stink eye. His back was to Becca, so she couldn’t see him. “Do we, Flynn?”

“Yes, we do.”

“No, we don’t.”

Flynn’s fingers dug into the crown of his baseball cap.

“I’ll tell you anyway.” Becca raised her chin, as if bracing herself for a punch.

Flynn looked forward to whatever she was about to say. Her confession would most likely convince his grandfather they couldn’t hire her.

“Three years ago I moved to Santa Rosa. I worked for the agency that’s sending candidates out here. I was assigned to care for an elderly woman who rescued Australian shepherds.” Becca walked over and knelt beside Abby, stroking her dark fur. “When Lily passed away, her son wanted to take all the dogs to the kill-shelter. I protested and eventually found homes for them all, including Abby. But I got fired because caregivers aren’t supposed to get involved with their clients.”

The little dog stared at Flynn with dark, accusing eyes, as if to say: find fault with that.

Grandpa Ed scowled at Flynn. “You did the right thing, Becca. No one’s accusing you of anything.”

His grandfather couldn’t see Becca’s features flinch, as if the right hook she’d been waiting for had been struck. Flynn felt a corresponding jab to his gut.

She was guilty. Of what, he had no idea. But if she was the only acceptable option to Grandpa Ed, he was going to find out what she was hiding.

“We’ll be hiring you regardless,” Grandpa Ed said. “Won’t we, Flynn?”

Flynn didn’t answer. He looked at Becca. Deal breakers lined up in his head like dominos—theft, blackmail, murder, angry ex-husbands searching for her. “I need to talk to Becca outside. Alone.”

To her credit, Becca walked out, head high, as if she’d known all along the gallows awaited.

He led her toward the river, stopping to sit on a fallen log overlooking the steep bank that cut away to the slow-flowing water. She settled on the log a few feet away from him, brushing at the bark as if it was a crumb-littered bench seat at a restaurant.

“I’m sure you’ve realized my grandfather wants to hire you,” Flynn began. “But there’s something else you’re not telling me and I won’t hire you until I know what it is.”

* * *

THE TRUTH PRESSED at Becca’s throat.

She swallowed it back.

Took a breath.

Risked looking toward Flynn.

Beneath his black ball cap, his reddish-brown hair glinted in the afternoon sunlight, almost as blinding as the rippling river. His jaw was a hard line. She couldn’t look him in the eye.

The truth pressed on her once more.

Becca swallowed it again.

She and the truth had an odd track record. Like the time her father had walked out after learning Becca’s mother had stage-four cancer. Or the first time Terry had asked her to marry him. He’d walked out when she’d said she was scared and needed time to think.

Abby pranced across Becca’s toes and looked down the steep, crumbling bank toward the river, her nose quivering.

“You have two choices if you want the job.” Flynn’s voice was as unflappable as his jaw line. “You can tell me what you’re hiding or I can do a background check.”

Tell him the truth? Which version? No one ever really wanted to hear the unvarnished truth. They wanted a massaged answer tailored to their expectations. Telling Flynn about the lawsuit placed her odds of landing the job near zero. But it was a definite zero if she walked away without saying anything.

“I want this job.” She swallowed and rephrased. “I need this job.” To repair her reputation before it fell from somewhere near barely employable to no-way-in-Hades employable.

“I need someone I can trust taking care of my grandfather.”

Untrustworthy. Becca stiffened. She glanced over her shoulder at the driveway, even as Abby picked her way daintily to the shoreline.

“Agnes trusts you,” he said softly. “And I trust Agnes. But I need a reason to believe in you.”

His words drew her gaze back toward his. Gone were the hard lines, the guardedness, the at-a-distance cool. In their place was compassion. A white-flagged truce.

If there was a chance, she had to take it. She had to speak up, without varnish or angles. On a big gust of forced air, she told him the truth. “After leaving the agency I went to work for a wonderful woman who was estranged from her son. Gary had decided twenty-some years prior that his mother didn’t respect him enough, so he didn’t visit. He didn’t call. The most he could be troubled with was a generic card on holidays.” Virginia had been heartbroken every Christmas, every birthday. “I worked for Virginia for two years, and while I was with her, she learned that I had a tremendous amount of debt.”

At the mention of her money woes, Flynn’s expression seemed to close off.

It seemed pointless to say more, but Becca hadn’t told a soul other than her lawyer, and the story continued to bubble out. “My husband and I had bought a house in San Diego and when he died, I couldn’t make the payments. Terry had life insurance, but we’d only been married a few months when he died. He hadn’t changed his policy to include me.” She twisted her wedding ring. “The money went to his mom. The debts went to me. I sold his truck. I sold our furniture. I traded my car for the motorhome and let the house slide into foreclosure, but we still had credit card debt.” It was amazing how quickly the interest on a few purchases multiplied. “When Virginia’s kidneys started to fail, she insisted on paying off the last ten thousand dollars I owed. I knew it went against the caregiver code, but by then she was more like a grandmother than a client, so I accepted.”

“Ten thousand dollars.” Flynn’s voice was so flat. Him being a millionaire and all, ten thousand dollars was probably nothing.

To her, it’d been a fortune. “I’d been struggling for so long, I didn’t want to struggle anymore. I shouldn’t have taken that check.” Becca rubbed her palms up and down her thighs. “I didn’t ask for the money. I’ve never asked my clients for anything.”

“I bet Virginia’s son was livid.”

“There’s an understatement.” Becca wanted to laugh but couldn’t quite work up the energy. “Although he inherited close to half a million dollars, he’s trying to bring a lawsuit against me.”

“Trying?”

“There’s a pretrial hearing in a few weeks.” She rubbed her hands over her legs again. “I know accepting that money wasn’t one hundred percent right, but it wasn’t one hundred percent wrong, either.”

He studied her face, intent blue gaze checking for any clue that she was less than truthful. “The legal system moves slowly. What’ve you been doing since Virginia died?”

“I spent the past nine months working for a wonderful man who passed away from heart failure a few weeks ago.” She’d told Harold she couldn’t deliver the ring. He’d argued, in a twiglike voice staked with death-is-coming urgency, that his daughter would think he’d had an affair if he left the ring to Agnes in his will. It’d taken Becca a week after his death to work up the courage to contact Agnes. And a week more to show her face.

Regrets? She had too many.

“And you didn’t accept any money from him?”

“No.” Her voice was low and husky. Her liar’s voice. She prayed he wouldn’t notice. She hadn’t accepted money, after all. But if Harold’s daughter looked for the ring...

“Why live in a motorhome? You’re out of debt now, right? Why not rent an apartment?”

Why was it Flynn asked questions no one else did? Questions Becca didn’t want to answer. But the job was at stake and she’d already told him so much. “I helped my mother pass on. I helped my grandmother pass on. I’m on a first-name basis with grief, but that doesn’t mean that I can shoulder the cares of my client’s family. During their last few days, I’m already thinking about where I’ll go next. I know it’s a cowardly defense mechanism, but it works for me.”

It had been different when Terry was alive. The San Diego metropolitan area had all been new to her, making it easier to accept assignments in suburbs that had different characters and different landscapes.

When Flynn didn’t say anything, Becca pressed on. “I like people. Your grandfather may grow fond of me. I can tell him about my case, if you like, to make sure he’s still comfortable hiring me. But from what Agnes told me, you’ll only need someone for a few weeks.” When she was done, she might even accept another assignment in the small, quaint town.

Flynn blinked, confusion crowding his brows.

“I mean,” Becca clarified, because it looked like Flynn thought Agnes had predicted Edwin’s demise, “Agnes said you told her it would only be a few weeks before Edwin is up and moving around. Like his old self.”

“Yes,” he said vaguely, turning to stare at the river, as if trying to figure out how to gracefully get rid of her.

Her getting the job also seemed to have drifted down river. “I’m so glad your grandfather’s prognosis is good. I’d like to say goodbye to him before—”

Flynn’s glance cut to her.

“—I leave.” She stood and whistled for Abby, who was rooting around deep in the bushes lining the bank.

“Wait.” Flynn touched her hand, sending a current of heat up her arm. He pulled away abruptly and ran his fingers against his thumb, over and over, as if she’d shocked him and his fingers needed reassurance that nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

She’d shocked herself. The jolt of awareness proved that he was a man and she a woman. If there was an awareness switch, she’d like it turned off, please.

Abby ran up the bank, dancing at Becca’s feet.

“I know I’m going to regret this.” Flynn was still rubbing his fingers over his thumb, staring at them in wonder. “I won’t let you near my money or my grandfather’s checkbook. What assurance can you give me that you won’t take advantage of him? Or me?”

He was offering her the job in a roundabout way that wounded her pride.

Common sense dictated a grateful yet graceful acceptance. “Only my word. If you can’t accept that, I’m sure Gerry Caldwell is available.”

His brows lowered. “Grandpa Ed wants you. I know you need this job, probably for a character reference or something that’ll help you with your court case.”

“How did you—”

“I guessed. It’s what I’d do. Keep my nose clean. Working for a millionaire without any missteps can be a powerful statement.” His words were all business, even if his gaze pried and stroked where it didn’t belong.

Blackberry bushes lined the path they’d taken to the river. Bees buzzed behind her, the noise vibrating against the circular realization that there was no trust here. No trust. She wanted him to have faith in her.

What she didn’t want, what she couldn’t afford, was the attraction between them, stoked by his intent gaze, as if he, too, was trying to figure out: Why her?

“This is a bad idea.” She turned and started down the path back to the house.

Abby leaped ahead.

“Wait.” His longer legs stretched past her, until he blocked her way. “They released my grandfather from the hospital, but his health is a delicate balance. You seem to understand him. He’ll be upset if I hire someone like Gerry Caldwell.”

“Your grandfather will be fine. People overcome this kind of thing all the time.” She couldn’t not reassure him. Who wouldn’t be afraid of losing a loved one after two heart attacks and a stroke? She tried to go around him, but Flynn stepped in her way again.

“I know I can be blunt—”

She crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

Abby came to sit at her heels.

“But...” Flynn opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again. “You aren’t making this easy. Not by showing up unannounced, when the only people who show up at my doorstep or call anymore are trying to scam me. And not by telling me you took money from a client.”

“And?” She sensed there was more.

“And truthfully, I had something of a shock this morning. I saw the man who calls himself my father at the job site. He’s an ex-con and the reason I have zero tolerance for people who break the law.”

Becca’s arms loosened. “I think your grandfather saw him, too.”

“He told you?”

“No. Edwin said he saw someone he knew, but he looked like he’d seen a ghost. It upset him.” She stared into Flynn’s clear blue eyes and lost her train of thought.

“It upset me, too. He robbed a bank when I was eight. I haven’t seen him for close to twenty years. Not that it matters. He’s not getting any money from me, and I don’t care what he thinks of me.” He paused and shifted awkwardly, as if realizing his mouth had run past the normal filter applied by his brain.

Becca saw the little hurt boy behind his eyes, and a part of her she needed solid and strong softened. Her hand twitched with the urge to reach out and comfort him. A light touch to the arm, the shoulder, his cheek.

Not helpful. So not helpful. She shoved her hands into her hoodie pockets and started walking.

He matched her pace until they nearly bumped hips on the narrow trail, until she had to stop before they toppled on each other. This time, Abby waited ahead of them.

Becca drew a breath. “Really, I’m grateful—”

“I need help, Becca. You’ll make my grandfather happy.” The sincerity in his tone made her hope, that treacherous thing, whisper in Becca’s ear—about happy defense attorneys and dismissed court cases. Impossible. “Are you sure you can trust me in your home every day?”

Trust me with your grandfather? With your things? With you?

Becca’s gaze rested on the ground, where, presumably, she’d find her lost common sense. Instead, she saw a glint of copper, barely visible in the dirt beneath the toe of Flynn’s sneakers.

It couldn’t be a penny. It had to be a leaf or a rock or something.

She could feel Flynn’s gaze upon her, gauging her character. “Old Virginia didn’t write a will or anything?”

“I have no proof. Only my word.” She tried not to sound bitter, but she was afraid she failed. “It doesn’t seem like you have much faith in people.” And yet, there was the penny, clearly visible when Flynn shifted his feet, an indication that she should accept.

“Since I became wealthy, my faith in my fellow man has been put to the test.” Flynn tipped up the brim of his baseball cap. “However, I am good at offering second chances. Are you good at accepting them?”

Becca searched his face to see if this was some kind of cruel joke.

He wasn’t joking. His blue eyes reflected a combination of sorrow and regret. He wanted to believe the best in her. Wanted, but couldn’t quite. “For my grandfather, if not for me.”

Her determination to refuse him wavered. If she took this job, she’d see Flynn every day. A daily opportunity for attraction to bloom and cause complications. Complications to the lawsuit, to her equilibrium, to her heart.

None of that mattered as much as it should. Edwin needed good care and she could give it to him.

As if sensing her capitulation, Flynn named a generous hourly wage.

Part of her wanted to accept the indecent sum. The sensible part of her realized it would only make her look guilty in his eyes. And others.

She snuck a glance at the penny again, at President Lincoln’s wise stare.

It was official. She was nuts. “I’ll take half that an hour.” It was what the agency would have paid her.

Flynn started to protest, but she’d have none of it. “That’s my going rate. Take it or leave it. I won’t let you overpay me.”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “Everyone lets me overpay them.”

“Then you’re a gullible fool. I can work for you until my hearing. In exchange, I want a letter of reference from your grandfather.”

He cocked one burnished eyebrow. “Why not from me? I’ll be the one paying you.”

She shrugged, as if it didn’t matter, when in fact she’d sell her wounded soul for two good references. “Okay, I’ll take both.” The combination was a one-two punch that could knock the lawsuit against her off its foundation.

“Let’s shake on the deal.” Flynn’s smile didn’t penetrate her armor. She was ready for it this time.

Their hands met in midair.

Becca told herself she felt nothing.

She was a horrible liar.

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