Chapter Sixteen

Sinclair stared at the small pink plus sign for a full sixty seconds. Then she scrambled for the box sitting on the bathroom counter, accidentally knocking it into the sink in her haste to reach it. When finally got her hands on it, she didn’t need to bother digging for the instructional insert. The picture on the front of the packaging couldn’t be clearer, just in case anything had changed since the last time she’d taken one of these tests. Plus meant pregnant. She glanced back at the result window on the wand. Definitely plus. She shook it—why, she didn’t know—and looked again. Still plus.

Holy crap. Miracles did happen. The room spun a little as she got swept up onto a carousel of emotions. A dizzying and completely ludicrous whirl of joy took her first, followed immediately by panic. Would Shane think it was a miracle? Did his version of a second chance include a kid? Now?

Then all the questions careening around her head slammed up against a cold, hard wall of reality. Was this pregnancy even viable? Maybe a fragile little bundle of cells sat lodged in her tube, just like last time. The box and the wand clattered onto the counter as she covered her stomach with her shaking hands.

After a moment, she raised her gaze to come face-to-face with her reflection in the bathroom mirror and saw the vestiges of an overwhelmed sixteen-year-old in her eyes.

“Hey, kiddo. Everything okay?”

She turned to find her father hovering in the doorway and rushed to retrieve the pregnancy test and box from where they sat in plain view by the sink. “Oh my God, Dad.” Shoving the wand into the box, she faced him.

“Sorry.” The stiffness in his voice told her she hadn’t moved fast enough. “I stopped to drop off some mail that came to the house. I, uh, saw your car in the drive. I knocked, and I called out, but when you didn’t answer, I got worried, so I came in.” His gaze dropped to her hands and then bounced up to her face. “Anything you want to tell me?”

So much for hiding the evidence. Hey, Dad. I’m knocked up. Again. It had taken so long to restore their relationship last time. She didn’t think she could handle him putting that wall of anger and disappointment between them again. A salty burn stung her eyes at the thought, but she shrugged and tried for levity. “Um…no?”

One corner of his mouth lifted a notch. “Oh, come on, kiddo. Let’s both try to do better this time around. Start by confiding in me, all right?” He leaned against the doorframe, a Land’s End–­­­­catalogue shot of casual, no-pressure Dad in his untucked chambray shirt and khakis—but the little smile disappeared. “I know I let you down before, and I’m probably not the first person you’d choose to open up to now, but I’m here. And I love you.”

The burning eyes came back with a vengeance. “I love you, too, Daddy.” She put the test kit on the counter and walked over to hug her father. Her throat tightened when his arms enfolded her and pulled her close. With her face buried in his shirt, inhaling the reassuringly familiar scents of dryer sheets and Zest soap, she said, “You didn’t let me down. You’ve got it turned around, actually. I let you down.” A painfully hard sob accompanied the admission, followed by scorching tears.

He drew back and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “How about this? Let’s go downstairs, have some coffee—er, scratch that—some orange juice, and get things straight.”

She let him guide her downstairs while she swiped at her watering eyes and running nose. Stop crying, for Christ’s sake. No matter what nickname your dad calls you, you’re not a kid anymore. Dredge up some dignity. Sound advice, but her tear ducts disagreed.

Her dad deposited her in a kitchen chair. She used the sleeve of her oversize black sweater to wipe her face while he puttered around her kitchen—finding glasses, digging in the fridge, pouring OJ. He placed one in front of her and then sat down in the adjacent chair with his own glass.

She took an unsteady breath and then sobbed out, “I’m s-sorry.”

“That’s my line. You’ve never let me down, Sinclair. Never. And I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel like you did. Ten years ago, you needed support, and understanding, but I was so determined to do what I thought was my duty—and would assuage my anger at some unknown boy who I felt deserved to suffer some consequences—I put us at odds. I yelled at you, and threatened you, and instead of getting the information I demanded, all I managed to do was push you away when you needed me most. What I should have told you a while ago is, in retrospect, I admired your strength for not caving in and giving me the scapegoat I wanted. Then again, I’ve always been in awe of your strength.”

“Well, you know”—she sniffed loudly and hiccupped over another sob—“nothing shakes my steely resolve.”

Her father’s chuckle told him the incongruence of the moment wasn’t lost on him. “You can handle anything life throws your way. I know this, because I’ve seen you do it. You might think Savannah is more like your mother, but when it comes to steely resolve and utter fearlessness, trust me, Sinclair, you are your mother’s daughter. Take that as a compliment, because I mean it as one.” He drew in a deep breath before continuing. “You want me to call her? I won’t take offense if she’s the one you prefer to talk to about the rest of it.”

He wouldn’t take offense, but he would never be sure he’d said the right thing. And he had. She’d needed a reminder that she’d handled a lot worse, with a lot less life experience behind her. “No.” The pressure of fresh sobs building in her chest subsided. Her tears slowed. “No. Actually Dad, you’re exactly who I need.” She wiped her face and then looked him in the eye, so hopefully he’d know she meant that.

He put down his OJ and rested his forearms on his knees. “So…you’re pregnant?”

“Preliminary results say so.”

“I didn’t think that could happen, without, you know…some science and whatnot.”

“Me, neither.”

“Shane?”

She nodded, because she didn’t quite trust herself to speak.

“History repeating itself, huh?” he asked softly.

“Mom told you?”

“No. I figured it out on my own. The first time he came over to the house for dinner, the lightbulb went off.”

She rushed to explain. “He never knew…before. I don’t want you to judge him. I didn’t tell him until just recently.”

“I got that, too. Nobody’s that good an actor. He didn’t have a clue. Don’t worry, Sinclair. I’m not going to reach for my shotgun over something that happened a decade ago. Let’s focus on what’s happening now. When are you going to tell him the results are positive?”

She let her gaze drop to the table and traced the worn edge with her fingertip. “I don’t know. I thought I would confirm things with the doctor first. Even if I am pregnant, it might not be…um…sustainable.”

Her dad stilled her restless hand with his. “He doesn’t know?”

“Uh-uh.”

He nudged his chair back from the table and aimed a stern gaze at her. “He’s not an eighteen-year-old kid this time around, Sinclair. He doesn’t need protecting, and he deserves to know what’s happening. You both have a stake in this, no matter how it plays out.”

“You’re right.” She rubbed her chest, where an ache centered. “You’re right. I need to tell him.”

“You do.” Her father stood, and she followed suit. “After you talk, if you need me to get my shotgun…” He walked to the door.

“Dad,” she hugged him hard—extra hard, for courage—and then stepped away. “You don’t even own a shotgun.”

He opened the door and stepped out before turning to face her again. Sunlight danced in his eyes, and something else. “Beau didn’t know that. Shane doesn’t have to know, either.”

She smiled, despite everything, and hugged him again. “Give one of those to Mom.”

“Will do, kiddo.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. And then he was gone.

No sooner had she shut the door than her stomach suddenly clenched. OJ. Not good. She ran to the kitchen sink to rid her system of eight ounces of Florida’s finest, and then washed out her mouth with several handfuls of cold water. Afterward, she drenched a dishtowel, draped it across her forehead, and slumped in a chair at the kitchen table.

Oh, God. Her whole body begged to go back upstairs, crawl into bed, and pull the covers over her head. She really couldn’t do this. Not again.

Enough. A firm voice in her head spoke up. That weak-assed crap has to stop. You’re a grown woman. You are strong, and you don’t really have a choice. Maybe you didn’t see this detour coming, but you’re on it. Break the journey down into steps and take the fucking walk.

Step one. Breath.

She did. Slow and deep, until her pulse settled.

Step two. Call the gynecologist and make an appointment.

Right. She got up and tossed the towel into the sink. Her phone peeked out from the mouth of the purse she’d dumped on the kitchen counter on her way earlier. It felt like a lifetime ago. While she waited for the receptionist to pick up—and immediately ask her to hold—she kept her hands busy riffling through the two days’ worth of mail she’d left beside her purse. A FedEx letter caught her attention. She pulled it from the pile, frowning as she noted the return address. What in the world was her landlord sending?

The receptionist came on the line. She concentrated on scheduling an appointment, relieved the doctor could squeeze her in tomorrow morning for a blood test. After she hung up, she held her phone uncertainly. Should she call Shane? Maybe she’d catch him during a break from his meeting?

No. With all due respect to her father, she didn’t know anything yet—nothing to justify hijacking his world in the middle of a busy morning.

Welcome to step three. Wait.

Waiting sucked. She tossed her phone into the purse and turned her attention to the mail again—anything for a distraction—and picked up the FedEx envelope. A pull of the ripcord, a tip of her hand, and a fat envelope embossed with the Pinkerton Family Trust return address fell out.

A bad feeling squeezed her stomach, more nerves than nausea this time. She tore the envelope open and unfolded a typed letter backed by…a copy of her land lease, with a red flag stuck to one of the pages. Weird. Had they missed a signature two years ago when they’d completed the paperwork? She skimmed the cover letter.

For violation of paragraph 10(b) of the Lease, pursuant paragraph 21 thereof, Lessor hereby furnishes Lessee with thirty (30) days’ notice to vacate the Property.

What the fuck?

She read the letter from the beginning, taking in every word this time, and then riffled through the copy of the lease to read the flagged provision. Was this a joke? She flipped to the letter again and looked at the signature at the bottom of the notice—Richard M. Pinkerton.

The snake. She grabbed her purse and stormed out the door.

…

“Thanks for the update, Shane. I know I speak for the entire council when I say we appreciate the skill and resources you’ve brought to this project.” Mayor Campbell closed the folder in front of him and smiled across the round meeting table at the other members of the council. “I feel safer already.” Then his attention shifted to the wall clock. “Does anyone else have anything to add before we conclude?”

A collective sound of contentment hummed through the room, cut through by the voice he least wanted to hear. “Just one question for Shane.”

He turned to Ricky, who’d been fucking around on his phone the entire meeting. “Fire away.”

“Any word from the water guy? The one holding up the golf course permit?”

Had he not paid attention, or was he just being a douche? Shane took a deep breath before responding. “As I mentioned earlier, I expect it next week at the—”

“Yeah, yeah, next week. Maybe that’s the best timeline you can swing, but I did a little better.” With that, Ricky stood and started sliding documents across the table to each of the council members. “I contacted an expert, and they were able to give an opinion sooner rather than later.” He tossed a copy to Shane. “Feel free to read it at your leisure, but, in a nutshell, it says there’s no problem. You can review the summary paragraph at the end, if you want more detail. Given the expert opinion, I think we can all agree there’s no reason not to put the matter into the planning commission’s hands to make a decision on the permit.”

“Oh, hey. That’s great news,” one of the other members said and tucked the report into his attaché. A couple other council members murmured their agreement. A few of them rose from the table, clearly considering the matter settled and the meeting over.

Invisible boxes were being checked all around him.

Shane grabbed the report. “Hold on.” He scanned the page and started talking, before he lost them completely. “What expert, Pinkerton? I’ve never heard of this firm. Nobody on this letterhead appears credentialed as a certified water resources engineer.” He flipped the page and reviewed the summary. “All this says is, ‘based on the average rainfall over the last twenty years, the proposed bilateral bank build-ups should adequately protect the golf course from seasonal fluctuations in water levels with ‘no negative impact to the aesthetics or integrity of the course or surrounding land.’” He looked up and aimed the next question squarely at Ricky. “Where does it address downstream flood risk?”

Four other heads swiveled toward Ricky.

Pinkerton stood. His chin jutted as he pointed to the report. “It says very clearly, no negative impact to the surrounding land. Seems clear enough to me.”

“What’s the surrounding land? The resort? The parking area? Show me where they define that.” He tossed the report on the table like the piece of crap it was. “This doesn’t address the specific question of downstream impacts. I can’t even tell if they considered anything beyond the perimeter of the property.”

“Look, Maguire, you wanted a report from a civil engineer, I got one, and now you’re insisting it’s not good enough. You know what I think?”

“Gentlemen,” Mayor Campbell interjected, but Ricky didn’t pause.

“I think you wanted a report from your firm’s best buddies, so you could get the findings you were looking for, because you’ve got an old grudge against me. Or maybe because your girlfriend has a problem with people making legitimate use of their land? You should run along and talk to her, because turns out she’s the pot calling the kettle black on that score.”

Shane felt heat crawl up his neck, but he refused to take any bait Ricky dangled. He folded his arms to keep from clenching his fists. “This has nothing to do with what I want. The city needs a thorough report from a qualified expert.”

“Your expert,” Ricky shot back.

“Gentlemen,” Campbell said again, with more force this time. When he was certain he had everyone’s attention, he went on. “Ricky, submit your report to the planning commission, not the city council. The commissioners are perfectly capable of weighing the information and determining whether it answers the outstanding questions. Shane,” he continued and held up a hand for silence when Shane would have spoken, “if your firm’s expert has any additional data or opinions to provide, get that report in before their next meeting.”

“That’s the plan.”

Campbell inclined his head. “Good to know. Now,” he addressed the entire room, “if there’s nothing else, I’m going to wrap this meeting up. I’ve got another commitment.”

The other members of the council nodded their agreement. “Excellent,” Campbell said. “Y’all know how to reach me if something comes up.” With that, he headed to the door. Ricky shot a smirk Shane’s way and then hustled out as well, hot on the mayor’s heels.

Motherfucker. Shane took his time gathering his things, and letting his temper cool. None of this came as a shock. He’d known going in that Ricky looked a little too self-satisfied not to have some surprise attack arranged. He just hadn’t known what form the undercut would take. Now he knew—although the comment about Sinclair being the pot calling the kettle black didn’t make much sense, but he wrote it off as another cheap shot to suggest personal bias motivated his reaction to the so-called report. Bottom line? He needed to get their expert’s report submitted before the planning commission’s meeting next week, which was already the goal, so other than his blood pressure, essentially nothing had changed as a result of Ricky’s stunt.

He was no worse off than before the meeting. In fact, he was arguably better off, he decided as he strode out of the meeting room toward the exit, because Ricky had tipped his hand. The arrogant prick hadn’t been able to resist showboating at the meeting and shoving his report in Shane’s face, but Shane suspected he’d gotten in enough comments to effectively cast doubt on the reliability of the report. On top of that, he could review the copy Ricky had so graciously provided more closely now and submit his questions and concerns to the planning commission—like any good consultant in his position would do. And hey, if it also bought him more time to figure out a solution for Sinclair while the committee reviewed two reports, plus a set of comments, so be it.

Checkmate, Pinkerton. He pushed through the heavy wooden doors of city hall and reached for his phone to call Sinclair. Hopefully she was back from Atlanta. Maybe he could take her to lunch, and—

Commotion at the end of the walkway drew his eye a second after a very familiar, very furious voice reached his ears.

“You are a morally bankrupt bastard.”

Sinclair stood at the end of the walkway, practically vibrating with anger, pointing a finger at Ricky. People walking by slowed or stopped altogether to watch the fireworks. Ricky turned a guilty shade of red but strode right up to her until they stood toe-to-toe. “I’m within my rights, Sinclair. You’re the one who violated the terms of the lease—”

“This?” She held a flagged page up to his face. “‘Lessee agrees not to use the property for any purpose not authorized under local zoning laws?’ That’s nothing but a convenient legal loophole you’re exploiting. When the trust entered into the land lease, you knew I planned to live in the barn. You know I’ve been living there for two years. I’m a private citizen. You, Ricky Pinkerton, are a city councilmember as well as a stakeholder in the Pinkerton Family Trust. And between the two of us, which one was in a better position to know my portion of your land wasn’t expressly zoned for residential use?”

“What you didn’t know isn’t my problem. You’ve violated the lease. We’re terminating it. You’ve got thirty days to get off the property.”

Shane walked faster, not missing the way Ricky pushed out his chest and balled his fists. Sinclair read none of those signals, or if she did, her own temper superseded caution.

“I’m going to make it your problem, Ricky, because this looks like fraud to me. You entered into an agreement you knew was invalid thanks to the zoning laws—and happily took my money for two years—or you were too stupid to research the rights associated with your own land. Which is it?”

“You’ve always been a self-righteous bitch, haven’t you?” The question came accompanied by a two-handed shove to Sinclair’s shoulders. “Haven’t you,” he repeated and shoved her again, this time hard enough to knock her back a couple steps.

That’s where things got blurry for Shane.

A long-buried, liberating current of electricity shot through him, energizing his body and unstrapping it from the constraint of his conscience. He remembered dropping his computer bag. He remembered closing in on them. He even remembered Sinclair turning to him, seemingly in slow motion, all wide-eyed and suddenly pale. The next thing he knew, his right hand throbbed with an undeniably satisfying ache, Ricky lay in a fetal position on the ground, and he was standing over him, saying, “I thought I made this crystal clear ten years ago, you worthless piece of shit. You don’t touch her. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

“You broke my nose!”

Probably true, given the amount of blood flowing through the fingers Ricky clamped to his face, but at the moment, it was hard to muster up any regret. “Damn right I did. You touch her again, I’ll break it again.”

“You’re washed up, Maguire.” Ricky struggled to his feet and took the handkerchief offered by the middle-aged man standing next to him, who Shane recognized as one of the local attorneys. “Ten years, and you’re still nothing but an out-of-control, redneck thug. I’ll—”

“You pushed the lady first,” a gray-haired bystander chimed in. “If I was twenty years younger, I’d ’a slugged you myself.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the small crowd around them.

“Come on, Richard.” The attorney took Ricky’s arm. “You have nothing more to say.”

An older woman stepped up and wagged her finger at Ricky. “Ricky Pinkerton, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’m telling your grandma about this. You can bet your spoiled butt she’ll have something to say.”

Ricky brushed the attorney away and pointed at Shane. “I’ll see that the city cancels your contract.” With that threat hanging in the air, he took a step away. Then another. Apparently, distance made him bold, because he added, “You’re out of here. You got that?”

Shane stood his ground while the lawyer led Ricky away, but with adrenaline subsiding, all the realities set in. He’d fucked up. Lost his shit. Done exactly what Haggerty had told him not to do. Worse, the potential solution he’d come up with for Sinclair had just slipped away like sand through his fist. Mitigating the flood risk by elevating the barn did her no good if she couldn’t live there. That hadn’t even been part of the equation. He’d told her to trust him, promised he’d figure something out, and he hadn’t. He pinched the bridge of his nose, where a headache hammered.

A hand landed on his arm. “Shane?”

Sinclair. He looked up. Looked at her. “Are you all right?”

Her blue eyes lit with fire. “I’m fine. I’m also perfectly capable of handling Ricky myself. You shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t.” He stepped away, because suddenly the air itself felt too close. Technically she might be right, but she was also fundamentally, bone-deep wrong. “Don’t even think about telling me I should stand by and let some bully push you around. I’ve never been that guy, and you know it. If that’s what you expect, baby girl, you’ve got the wrong man.”

Jesus, now he sounded like an asshole. The red flags unfurling across Sinclair’s cheeks told him she agreed. He was blowing this on all fronts. Nothing good would come of continuing the conversation at this point. He wasn’t going to apologize for what he’d done, nor was he in the mood to get punched by the woman he loved right there on the sidewalk where he’d just flattened Ricky, so he turned and headed across the street to the alley where he’d parked his car.

“Shane!” she called after him. He kept walking. If he wanted to be told he’d fucked up, there were other people he could hear it from who had more immediate standing to say as much. Haggerty, for one. He had to call the man, explain the clusterfuck he’d just caused, and probably accept an immediate and permanent reassignment to another project—if he was lucky.

Though it was only sixty degrees outside, the inside of the Rover felt like a sweatbox. He started the engine and lowered the windows a couple inches before activating Bluetooth and calling his boss. Barb, Haggerty’s assistant, picked up on the first ring, and her voice flowed over the speakers. She asked him to hold for a moment. No problem. He had all the time in the world. He dragged off his suit jacket and tie while he waited.

“Solve a mystery for me,” Haggerty said by way of a greeting. “Why is Barb waving a note in my face telling me Mayor Campbell is on the other line?”

He winced and summarized everything as briefly as possible.

“That explains it,” Haggerty said when Shane finished.

“Sorry,” Shane managed.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m sorry if this costs the firm the contract,” he clarified.

“I’m going to get on the other line and make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I can talk to Campbell. This is my mess. Let me clean it up.”

“Cleaning up messes like this is why my name is on your paycheck. It’s my primary skillset. Your primary skillset is making sure clients are adequately prepared for every plausible threat. We’re going to play to our primary skillsets.”

Somehow, he got the words, “All right,” out through clenched teeth. He’d explain things to Sinclair.

“The good news for you, Maguire, is you’re wheels up, just how you like it. Barb’s booking you on the red-eye to Kauai as we speak. After that, go straight on to Seattle, as we originally planned for you to do when you finished things in Magnolia Grove.”

His plan? What a joke. He felt like a rudderless boat being swept away by rogue currents. Those currents were pulling him off the course he wanted to take, and there was very little he could do about it if he wanted to stay afloat. The situation couldn’t get any more fucked up. “Fine.”

“Look, shit happens, Maguire. I know you were conflicted about this job from the start. You didn’t have much interest in going back home, and maybe you were right. It’s not the place for you. Look on the bright side. Magnolia Grove is officially in your rearview mirror. You never have to set foot in that town again.”

Shane caught movement in the corner of his eye a second before an icy voice said, “Son of a bitch…”

He turned in time to see Sinclair whirl away from the passenger side window. Wrong again, Maguire. The situation just got more fucked up.