Chapter Fourteen

“Thanks,” Nick called out, tapping the side of the beat-up truck he’d hitched a ride in. The old man waved and pulled away from the curb, the one working taillight disappearing around the corner and fading into the dark of night.

He was here. No backing out now.

Crickets chirped. A few tree frogs croaked. The single streetlight on the corner flickered and hummed. The wind whipped through the pecan trees lining the fence of Pecan Valley Cemetery. Not that he was ready to acknowledge the fence—not yet. One thing at a time.

Sneaking out of Granddad and Mimi’s had been easy. Wait for the snoring. He knew which boards squeaked, which door stuck, and how long it would take him to walk back into town. He’d been prepared to walk all night if he had to. No one would mess with him. And, if they did, he had a sledgehammer and a serious case of repressed rage to help defend himself.

He got lucky with the ride.

Now he was here. Staring down at the duffel bag with his grandfather’s sledgehammer in it, a bottle of water, a flashlight, and a bottle of vodka. He wasn’t sure if the vodka was for before or after, but he was sure he was going to need it. Once he was face-to-face with Matthew Buchanan’s headstone, he’d know.

Screw it. He pulled the half-empty bottle from the bag and gulped, wincing and gagging until it was gone. “Fuck,” he spit out, throwing the bottle across the street to smash against the uneven asphalt.

He tucked the flashlight into his pocket and hefted the bag onto his back before walking the perimeter of the fence. When he found a tree sturdy enough to climb, he was up and over and in. He landed, the sledgehammer in the bag slamming into his back with enough force to knock him breathless and onto his knees.

Cut grass, dirt, and musty flowers.

A cemetery.

He pushed himself up, dizzy and unsteady, and turned on his flashlight. Maybe it was the vodka, maybe it was the dark, but it took him a hell of a lot longer to find his dad’s headstone than he’d anticipated. Long enough for him to feel buzzed.

Once he found it, he stood staring, gulping in air. His father wasn’t alone. Even in death, she was here. Right beside his dad.

Amber Strauss. Not Buchanan.

That was something, wasn’t it? He’d never married her.

Not that it made him feel better. Something about seeing Amber’s name on that stone only reminded him of everything she’d taken. His family. Happiness. His dad… It didn’t matter that she had no one else in the world. She didn’t deserve it, not after what she’d done.

He didn’t understand why.

“What did she have, Dad?” His voice was high and broken like a kid. A whiny, pathetic kid. He cleared his throat, refusing to look at her headstone—refusing to think about her. Not anymore. He balanced the flashlight there, the beam making the dirt black, like a hole. A massive, gaping, bottomless hole.

Nick stepped back, momentary panic setting in.

“Fuck you,” he ground out, stomping on the very solid dirt beneath his feet. He knelt, unzipping the duffel bag and pulling out the sledgehammer.

“You picked her.” His eyes burned. “You left us. You deserved to be unhappy.” He stood, wiping at the tears. “You deserved it.” He hefted the sledgehammer up and onto his shoulder, the tears making the words on the tombstone blur and dance. “You deserved this!” He screamed the words—and kept on screaming—as he swung the sledgehammer with all his weight. It landed hard, the impact radiating up his arms and into his chest, wrenching it free from his hands to fall on the ground.

The corner of the headstone was gone—no more than a chip—but a deep crack splintered down a good two inches into the marble.

And his heart twisted at the sight of it.

He wouldn’t cry. Not for his father. Never again. He wouldn’t remember the way his father laughed. Or how strong his hugs were. Or the scent of his cologne. Or how broad his shoulders had been, how many times he’d fallen asleep on one.

You can’t hurt me anymore. I won’t miss you.

He sniffed, a lump lodging in his throat.

“I hate you,” he ground out. “I hate what you did to us.” Because he couldn’t miss him—couldn’t love him. He wouldn’t.

When he’d fallen on his knees, Nick didn’t know. The dewy, freshly turned earth soaked through his jeans. Dirt from his father’s grave. He pushed away, crawling back to wipe it away, only vaguely aware that the ground beneath him was brighter now—the face of the broken headstone illuminated by something behind him.

I’m glad you’re dead. But he couldn’t get the words out, no matter how badly he wanted to mean them.

The tears dripping off his cheeks only pissed him off more. But he couldn’t stop them.

All he could do was cry. And cry.

“Nick?” The word was soft. Low. Calm. “Nick Buchanan?”

The vodka put everything in slow motion. Spinning around. Jumping up. Running. None of that was going to happen. Instead he looked over his shoulder, holding up a hand to stop the blinding spotlight.

“It’s Sheriff Martinez,” the voice said, still calm. “You okay?”

He nodded.

The light cut off. A car door slammed. Followed by the jingle of keys.

He was going to be arrested now. For drinking and breaking in and vandalizing his father’s headstone… Because, like Diana, I’m a fuckup. “Fucking great,” he bit out as he fell, face-first, into the dirt and passed out.

…

Charity finished her box of Junior Mints and eyed the bucket of popcorn. If she was smart, she’d stop while she was ahead. Her night promised heartburn as it was; no point adding to it. Especially since the first movie was still wrapping up. But it was the movie’s fault she was eating her feelings. Nothing like sitting through a happily-ever-after chick flick to remind her of her situation—pregnant by a married man, living at home, keeping secrets from, well, everyone, and going to the drive-in movie theater with two teenage girls for entertainment. Who even knew drive-in movie theaters still existed? Whatever.

Bottom line? Her life was way more disaster flick than rom-com.

Bitter much, Charity? She took a bite of a red licorice twist and a handful of popcorn.

Her phone vibrated, and since it had to be Felicity or her folks, she answered it without bothering to check. “Hello?”

“Charity?” The deep rumble on the other end of the line had her sitting up in her seat.

She knew that voice. Braden Martinez, their brooding, hot sheriff. If she wasn’t pregnant and eating her body weight in junk food, she would happily show the man how fun being bad could be. She sighed.

“Shhh,” Diana hushed her from the back seat of the SUV.

“It’s Sheriff Martinez.” He paused, then added, “Braden Martinez.”

Like she didn’t know who Sheriff Martinez was. “Hi.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I have your nephew with me.”

Nick. Considering he was supposed to be spending the night with her parents, this couldn’t be good. She slipped from her car, ignoring Honor’s and Diana’s hushing, and slammed the door behind her. “What’s happened?”

He sighed. “He’s drunk.”

“Shit,” she bit out. Not that getting drunk was the worst thing a teenager could do. “Where?”

He cleared his throat. “He was at the cemetery.”

She ran a hand over her face. “Is he okay?” Really? She knew the answer to that question. If he were okay, he wouldn’t be drunk at the cemetery. Unless that was something kids did for fun these days.

“Passed out.” There was a hint of amusement. “Some vandalism, though. He took a sledgehammer to his father’s headstone.”

“Oh God,” she moaned, her chest tightening.

“I thought, if you could come get him, maybe…” He broke off. “I’d be willing to let him off with a warning this time. Considering.”

She blinked. Was he serious? “But… Will you get in trouble?” she whispered.

“Only if you tell on me.” No denying the amusement this time.

“Thank you. Seriously, Braden… I mean, Sheriff Martinez. I’ll be there as quick as I can.” She hung up without waiting for a response. A glance at the massive screen told her they had a good fifteen minutes left in the movie. She yanked the car door open. “We’re leaving,” she said, returning the tinny speakers to the stands outside the windows and starting the car.

“What’s wrong?” Honor asked.

Diana leaned forward between the seat, listening.

“Nick,” Charity said, refusing to say more.

She tried not to speed—too much—as they headed to the other side of town, taking the farm-to-market road that circled it. The drive was mostly silent except for Honor asking if he was okay and Diana asking where they were going. Once they knew that, it was pretty easy to figure out the gist of it.

Still, pulling into the cemetery to find Braden Martinez leaning against the trunk of his black-and-white police car was unnerving.

“Stay put,” she said, climbing out of the car before either girl could argue.

Braden wasn’t smiling. This Braden Martinez was nothing like the easy-going, quick-to-smile guy she’d had a major crush on in high school. This guy was… different. He had that blank expression down to an art. She wasn’t a fan. As a woman who prided herself on reading people, the poker-face thing was beyond irritating. So was the way he watched her. What was he thinking? Was he judging her? Her family? Her nephew? There was no way he could understand what Nick had been through—what they’d all been through. By the time she was standing toe to toe with the six-four sheriff, she was irritated and extra emotional.

“Sheriff Martinez,” she snapped—for no reason. Pregnancy sucked.

His brows rose. “Evening.”

Chill. He had called her to come get Nick. And he was offering to let him off with a warning, which was huge. Be nice. She sighed. “Sorry. Where is he?”

“In the car. Out cold.” He jerked his head to the car he was still leaning against. “Honor with you?”

“And Diana Murphy.”

His brow furrowed, everything about him stiffening. “Oh.” His gaze swept hers quickly, then away.

That look. “Graham is, hopefully, with my sister.” Why was she explaining why Diana was with her?

Because she didn’t want him to think she was involved with Graham. She couldn’t have been more surprised by that revelation.

His brows rose. His posture eased. “Oh.”

Was that almost a smile? Almost? Did she care? She’d figure that out—later.

“Guess I should get him home?”

He nodded, pushing off the car to tower over her. “I’ll get him.”

Her hand shot out, resting on his forearm. “Why are you doing this, Braden?”

He stared at her hand, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “He’s a kid.” His gaze swiveled to her. “He’s been through enough. We all do stupid things when we’re hurting. He’s hurting.” Braden had been a lot like Nick at this age. Unlike Nick, Braden’s father hadn’t left. Unlike Nick, Braden had wished his father would leave. Mr. Martinez senior wasn’t a good man.

Of course he got it. He was hot and sweet and… Oh my God, pregnancy sucks. She nodded, squeezing his arm lightly. “Thank you.” Which wasn’t enough. But how could she repay his above-and-beyond awesomeness?

He opened his mouth, took a step toward her, then stopped. With a stiff nod, he headed to the car and opened the door.

“Nick?” he asked, calm and low—like this was a normal evening for him. She couldn’t help but wonder if it was. In Pecan Valley? Unlikely.

“Huh?” Nick groaned. “What?”

“You think you can walk?” he asked.

“Sure,” Nick answered, sitting up—and sliding over the other way.

With a sigh, Braden reached in and pulled out her way-drunk nephew. Without complaint or disapproval, he lifted Nick and carried him to her car.

“Hey, Sheriff Martinez,” Diana said, scooching across the back seat for Nick. “How’s it going? Just another night on the job, huh?”

“Diana.” He grunted, depositing Nick.

“I’ll buckle him in,” Diana offered, leaning across to pull the belt into place.

“You do that,” Braden said, closing the door and turning toward Charity. “You need help getting him home?” His gaze bounced from her to his squad car, then the moon overhead.

“I’m not sure I can carry him—”

“You can’t.” He frowned. “He can sleep it off in the car.”

“I was kidding,” she offered, oddly touched by his concern.

One brow rose, then settled—unreadable once more.

“Thanks again.” She knew how big a break he was giving Nick. She only hoped her nephew understood. When he sobered up, that was.

Until then, she had to figure out what to tell her sister. Because, even with her limited parenting instincts, Charity knew this wasn’t the sort of thing you hid. Crap.

He nodded. “You be safe getting home.” He didn’t look at her, just walked back to his car, got inside, and drove off.

…

“Oh God.” Honor waved her hand in front of her face. “Your breath.”

“Sorry.” Nick’s mumble was thick and slurred.

“Snap out of it—we’re home.” With a tug, she helped him from the car and waited while he steadied himself. Aunt Charity had yet to reveal what the hell had happened tonight, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know it was nothing good. Her brother was fall-down drunk. Again. At the cemetery by their dad’s grave.

What had he done?

How had he even gotten there? No way Granddad and Mimi had brought him. And the sheriff was there. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t arrested him or anything, but still…

It was like he’d mind-melded with Diana recently.

“You look like shit,” Diana offered, peering up at Nick with narrowed eyes. “You and drinking. Not a good combination.”

“Thanks,” he muttered, swaying back and forth.

“She’s right.” The edge to their aunt’s voice was surprising. Aunt Charity didn’t get mad. Ever. One look told Honor she was mad now. Big time. Good. Maybe he’d listen to Aunt Charity. Hopefully he would. What was wrong with him?

“Can you make it to your room without your mom figuring out what’s going on?” Aunt Charity asked. “Because, Nick, I’m not sure what to say to her yet. And honestly, I don’t know how much more your mom can deal with right now.”

His head hung—hopefully with regret but more likely from alcohol.

“Harsh,” Diana mumbled.

“Honest,” Honor shot back. Sometimes Diana just didn’t get it. Like now. They didn’t enjoy torturing their mom—they loved and respected her. Well, she did. With Nick’s latest stunts, she wasn’t sure she knew who her brother was anymore. And it hurt. Deeply.

They’d been a team forever. Now more than ever, she needed her brother. Not some irresponsible, self-absorbed child bent on making decisions that could only lead to bad things, but her brother—and her best friend.

As far as she was concerned, there had been enough bad to last them all for a long time. They were all due some good. Preferably a lot of good.

Like Owen. He’d been popping up in her thoughts often. Now, however, was not the time to get warm fuzzies over him.

At least Dr. Murphy’s car was still here. That was good news for her mom. Well, it was until they burst in on them with her drunk son. She sighed.

“What’s the story?” Diana asked. “We need to get our stories straight.”

“The truth.” Honor glanced at Nick, hoping he’d agree. Whatever had happened tonight, Sheriff Martinez knew. Considering the way Pecan Valley worked, word of Nick’s antics would probably be common knowledge by morning. If their mother found out about this through gossip… No, it wasn’t right.

“I’m thinking it can wait until morning.” Aunt Charity was worried.

Honor frowned. “Mom has always been honest with us. She might be disappointed, but she’d rather hear the truth than find out later we lied to her. And we will all be lying to her—by keeping this a secret.” She saw the guilt on her brother’s face and squeezed his hand again.

“Okay,” he whispered.

“Okay.” Aunt Charity didn’t sound remotely okay.

“Well, chances are it would come out anyway.” Diana pointed at her father’s car. “My dad will know. He’s got like this built-in radar for alcohol. Or pills. Or pot. Well, you get it. He’s going to know.”

“Why is he still here?” Nick snapped, his head popping up—before he groaned.

“Why shouldn’t he be here?” Diana snapped back. “Geez, chill out. They’re two consenting adults—”

“Would you knock it off already?” He pushed off the car, stalking up the path. “They’re friends. Period.”

“Sure, friends.” Diana snorted and ran past him to wait on the front stoop.

“Diana,” Aunt Charity called after them. “Nick. Let’s all try to keep a cool head. Okay? This is going to be hard enough.”

Honor followed them up the path, already bracing herself for whatever would happen. She’d done that a lot over the last month. Just when she thought there was nothing left that could knock her off her feet, she was flat on her back again. Not that she was the only one whose new normal meant a constant state of preparing for the worst. Her family was right there with her. But at times that made things worse. How could she turn to them knowing they were in the same position she was in? She couldn’t. Even if she really, really needed someone to talk to.

Diana didn’t bother knocking on the front door. “Everyone decent?” she called out, smiling sweetly at Nick. “We’re back.”

Honor shook her head and closed the door behind them. Like her mom and Dr. Murphy would be having sex. She paused. And if they were—well, what was wrong with that? At least someone was enjoying their evening.

Still, she couldn’t help but wince at the idea.

“Sit,” Charity said to Nick, pointing at one of the overstuffed leather recliners in the living room. “Honor, can you get him some water?” Her eyes narrowed. “And some pain reliever. And I am in serious need of some antacid.” Her aunt’s sad smile reflected the defeat churning in her own stomach.

“Sure thing,” she mumbled, taking another glance at Nick before pushing through the swinging wooden door into the kitchen. “Mom?”

Her mother looked up from the pecan pie she was cutting. She seemed…different. For one thing, she was humming. Her ponytail was off-center and loose. And she was smiling. A really big smile.

She was happy. Really happy. Because she hadn’t walked out of the kitchen and seen Nick.

“Having a nice evening?” Honor asked. She didn’t want to think about Diana’s suggestion, but the seed had been planted. Her mother rarely had a hair out of place. Or creases in her shirt. Or a look like this.

“Yes.” She smiled. “Graham and I have the nursery done, mostly.” She glanced down, her hands running over her shirt, then going up to tackle her messy ponytail. “What happened to the movies?”

“We cut it short,” Honor said, a lump taking up residence in her throat.

“What’s wrong?” Her mother waited. A deep line formed between her brows, and she gave up on trying to smooth her hair.

Honor sighed. “I need to get some antacid for Aunt Charity.” She pulled a glass from the cabinet. “And some pain reliever for Nick.”

“Nick? Is he sick? I would have gone to get him so you girls could enjoy your night. Granddad and Mimi didn’t call—”

She faced her mother, medicine in hand. “I don’t think they know he left, Mom.”

Her mother’s shoulders slumped, and her expression faltered. “Oh.” She took the pills and water from Honor. “I see.” Her smile was tight as she pushed through the kitchen door and left Honor alone.

The silence was broken by the ringing of the house phone. Probably Mimi—freaking out over Nick’s disappearance.

“Hello?” she answered.

“This is Robert Klein. I’m looking for Felicity Otto-Buchanan?”

Honor rested her forehead against the kitchen cabinet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Klein, she’s sort of tied up with something at the moment. Can I take a message for her? This is her daughter, Honor.”

“Honor?” He chuckled. “You’re the reason I’m calling. I’m your father’s lawyer—I’m sure your mother has mentioned me.” He paused. “Even though your mother has agreed to adopt Jack, we need to get your signature on two papers transferring your guardianship to her—since you’re eighteen and a legal adult. I should have caught that when she was here. It won’t take long at all…” He kept talking.

But she didn’t hear anything else he said.

Or understand a word he was saying.

“Transferring guardianship” seemed to repeat and grow. Over and over. Louder and louder. Transferring guardianship? She was transferring guardianship of Jack? To her mother?

“Excuse me, Mr. Klein, can I just clarify something?” she asked, surprised by the calm in her voice.

“Yes, of course.”

“What happens if I don’t sign them?” she asked softly, dreading the answer.

There was a long pause. “Well, your father and Amber designated you as Jack’s guardian—since you are his next of kin—in the event that your mother was unable or unwilling to adopt Jack. But, as you know, your parents agreed the night of the accident that she’d take Jack. In the hospital.” He cleared his throat. “She was quite adamant about it when we met to go over the details of the will.”

The night of the accident. The night of the accident? She remembered every single detail, from her father’s shattered face to the resignation in his eyes. She remembered his sweet words—and his request for a moment alone with their mother. In some delusional place in her mind, she’d thought he was apologizing to her for all the horrible things he’d done to them.

But he hadn’t.

No.

Instead he’d asked her mother to take Jack. He’d asked, knowing she’d never, ever say no. Honor slumped against the counter, torn between defeat and rage. “I see,” she murmured.

“Honor.” He cleared his throat again. “You were aware of this, right?” An awkward chuckle. “Otherwise, I’ll feel terrible—”

She interrupted. “Of course I was. We don’t keep secrets.”

“No. I didn’t think so.” Another awkward chuckle. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Honor wrote down the time and place and hung up. She didn’t know what to do. What to think. What to feel. But the shouting on the other side of the door made up her mind for her.

Her fingers were shaking as she texted, Can you meet me? and hit send.

Owen’s response was immediate. Where?

You tell me. Leaving now. She hit send, took the keys to Amber’s shiny convertible—parked and covered in the garage—and left.