It was a terrible night for a stakeout.
The moon was full, the stars bright, both of which made for poor cover for anyone trying to stay out of sight.
Silvery beams pushed down through the trees and illuminated the old truck and the smokestack that protruded from the rusted-out bed. Smoke whispered from the opening, fading into the sky like warm breath on a cold night.
Yep, it was a terrible night for a stakeout and prime time to get his ass blown to smithereens.
Hunter let the binoculars fall around his neck and shrank back behind the trees a good fifty yards away from ground zero. He couldn’t risk moving in closer, not with the game camera blinking on a nearby tree and the visibility of the full moon.
Seeing what was actually going on was going to be more difficult, so he was going to have to rely on his other senses.
Water trickled from a nearby stream, blending with the crickets that buzzed. His ears perked and he tuned his hearing, peeling away the various sounds until he heard the crackle of a fire. He couldn’t see anything with the old shell of the truck hiding what was underneath, but he knew there was a fire burning, feeding smoke through the pipe. They were brewing, which meant it wasn’t the Mayweather brothers because they were tucked away at home with a deep-dish pizza and a triple-threat brownie from the local Papa John’s. They’d been fired, all right.
Which meant someone had to have taken their place.
He eased slowly to the left, picking his way silently until he had a better vantage point.
He held up the binoculars, sweeping the area again until he finally noted the small round globe that perched on a tree branch nearby. It blended in for the most part, but Hunter had seen enough cameras to know one when he saw it. He studied the area, looking for more but there was just the one. It reflected a ray of moonlight that pushed down through the trees at just the right angle and stood out when it might have otherwise blended in.
Biding his time, he moved a safe distance around the perimeter, straining to hear voices or any indication that there were actual people nearby.
There had to be. The still was brewing so someone had to be tending it.
A faint thud, like metal hitting metal, pushed past the crickets and he stiffened. He watched as one of the old truck doors opened and a man emerged. He wore a baseball cap pulled low and a plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up above his elbows. He dumped a jug full of liquid onto the ground before disappearing back inside the cab of the truck. His head bobbed and disappeared and Hunter knew the truck was just a cover for the still set up below, probably in a cave dug into the earth, the truck parked on top like a forgotten relic from the past year’s flood.
No one would suspect what was going on underneath.
Hunter fell back, backtracking for the next one hundred yards until he knew he was a safe distance away, and then he waited for the next few hours until he heard voices and the distant grumble of a four-wheeler. The engine idled a few moments before fading slowly but surely until … nothing.
He moved cautiously then, easing his way until he reached his previous spot. A quick look-see through the binoculars and he noted that the smoke had disappeared. The dome still gleamed in the moonlight, but the game camera nearby had been opened up, the outer shell hanging open to reveal that the inside had been removed.
No doubt they were going to check the footage to make sure there’d been no Peeping Toms.
His attention shifted to the small lock that was still hooked in the opening. It hung open, waiting for the camera’s return. Another glance at the dome camera and he moved to the left, tracking back behind the field of vision so that he could come up on the game cam setup from behind.
He reached around the tree and touched the small padlock. A quick lift and he retrieved the piece of hardware. It was round with a digital display rather than the traditional key lock. Too expensive for the average hunter, which meant it might be a viable lead.
Sliding the metal into his pocket, he backtracked around the area, careful to stay away from the truck and the dome camera’s field of vision.
It took time, but soon he was in the clear. He made his way back through the trees for the next two miles, deep into the dense foliage that eventually led to the road and his SUV parked on the shoulder.
Climbing inside, he checked his cell phone, noted the text from Marge reminding him that he had a granola bar in the glove compartment and one from Bobby telling him that Kaitlyn was excited at the prospect of a date with him. All she needed was a day and time.
Tomorrow night.
That’s what Bobby suggested. He was planning a double date and Friday was steak night at the Beef-it-up Diner, a new steakhouse out on the interstate.
Yes.
That’s what he wanted to text back. His muscles were tight. His body tense. His gut inside out. And all because of a certain blonde and some really hot kisses.
That meant he needed to kiss someone else. To get Jenna Tucker out of his system and set his sights on someone else. On someone appropriate.
Not because he cared what anyone else thought of him.
This wasn’t about his reputation. It was about preserving his own sanity. About forgetting the past and staying focused on the future.
Jenna reminded him too much of the man he’d once been.
All the more reason to let Bobby fix him up with Kaitlyn.
He would, but not tomorrow night. Maybe next week. When things had died down and hopefully, he’d busted the moonshiners he was after.
The last thing he needed was a distraction.
He needed to head back to the station, flag the evidence, and see what he could find out about it.
He would.
But he had one stop to make first.
He’d meant to drop off the door the other night, but then he’d been sidetracked with another wild kiss. Tonight he was installing the door and then he was out of there.
No touching.
No kissing.
Nothing.
That’s what he told himself.
He just hoped like hell he managed to remember it when he found himself face to face with sexy Jenna Tucker.
My dearest P.J.,
I know writing these letters is futile. You’ll never receive them since I haven’t been able to talk Martha into sneaking them out to the post office. She’s too afraid of our folks and I can’t say that I blame her. Father has become unbearable, especially now that I’m starting to show. It’s only a matter of time before he refuses to look at me at all and I’m sent away to my aunt Luella’s in Chicago. She already has a room ready. I’m to stay with her until the baby comes and the church steps in. They are going to take the baby, or so my father says. But I will not let such a thing happen. This is my baby. All I have left of the man I love. I can’t lose this baby and its father. I won’t. I will find a way out. A way back. I will give this baby a mother and a father if it’s the last thing I do.
Still begging your forgiveness,
Clara Bell Sawyer
Jenna folded the letter and tried to ignore the strange hollowness in her stomach. The sadness. Poor Clara Bell.
Jenna couldn’t imagine being so young and isolated and at the mercy of so many people who thought they knew what was best. Sure, she was surrounded by an entire town that thought they knew what was best for everyone, but she hadn’t bent to their will.
Until now.
She stiffened against the thought, stuffed the letter on the bottom of the pile, and set the stack to the side. She spent the next hour working her way through the cupboards on the left side of the kitchen, boxing up plates and dishes and a stash of small appliances that she’d forgotten existed.
An ancient waffle maker her mother had used when she’d made Sunday breakfast. An old juicer that had belonged to her grandmother. Back during a time when James Harlin might have actually drank something healthy rather than pickling his liver with his homemade shine. An old hand-cranked mixer Callie had used to make lumpy mashed potatoes when she’d first started cooking for the family.
They’d been the most godawful things, but she and Brandy had eaten them anyway because they’d had nothing and no one else. James Harlin certainly hadn’t lifted a hand to cook for his orphaned granddaughters.
Her stomach grumbled as she closed the box and set it to the side. She pushed to her feet. Her hand went to the freezer, but she let it fall away. She needed something stronger than Callie’s sorbet.
She thought of the ice cream sandwiches stuffed at the back of the freezer. Cool and sweet and oh so satisfying.
But not satisfying enough.
Her gaze went to the cupcakes. She’d promised herself no more until tomorrow. At the rate she was going, she wouldn’t have to worry about Hunter wanting her. A daily dose of cupcakes and she’d be a good fifty pounds heavier in no time. Instant turn-off.
That’s what she told herself, but she couldn’t shake the gut feeling that it would take more than a few extra pounds to dissuade a man like Hunter. Not when he set his sights on something. On someone.
She grabbed the box and opened the lid.
One cupcake, she promised herself.
Just one.
A few moments later, Jenna sank down on the old porch swing. Wood groaned and chains creaked. A steady squeak scraped across her nerves as she pushed the old two-seater into motion.
Opening the cupcake box, she pulled out the decadent chocolate, peeled back the paper, and took a bite.
Chocolate exploded and a groan worked its way up her throat. Mmm …
The first bite was good, but she needed great. Amazing. Phenomenal. Satisfying.
Yep, she needed some satisfaction. Maybe then she could stop thinking about Hunter and how good he’d kissed and how she wanted to kiss him again. And again.
She took another bite. The chocolate stroked her taste buds and she groaned again. Okay, bite two was a little bit better. Her hopes high, she went for number three.
She was down to one last mouthful when she heard the deep familiar voice and her heart stalled.
“Sounds like somebody’s enjoying herself.”
Not nearly enough.
Not yet.
Her gaze snapped up and collided with a pair of twinkling blue eyes. Her stomach hollowed out and her mouth watered. A craving whispered through her, skimming her nerve endings and setting her entire body on fire. A feeling that had nothing to do with the cupcake and everything to do with the hot, sexy man who stood in front of her.