Hours later, long after she’d heard guests depart from the main lodge and disperse to their cabins, Shelby ventured out to her front porch, where the double-sized Adirondack chair with its deep cushions begged for someone to sit down. As she did, she felt a chill creep up her spine, but this time it was because she was cold, not because the icy fingers of anxiety were taking hold. She wrapped the quilted throw from the couch more tightly around her shoulders as she let her eyes adjust to the inky darkness beyond her steps.
She could hear tree frogs off to her left, and the muted sounds of horses settling down for the night came from the two stables just down the hill from the main lodge. Someone had country music on in the other honeymoon cabin, and she could hear the muffled sounds of conversation and laughter through the open windows of the lodge.
She took a deep breath of the mountain air, and could almost taste the firs in the gentle breeze. She’d left a light on in her cottage, but the porch itself was dark. The combination of warm quilt and oversized chair made for a cozy cocoon in the darkness, and she was grateful for the way her cabin overlooked the ranch, with nothing behind it.
She’d spent so many years watching her back that she’d taken a deep breath earlier this evening when she’d looked out the rear windows of the cottage to see only grass, flowers, and trees. If she followed Nicola’s orders and kept to herself, there wasn’t any reason anyone here would even see her, as far as she could tell.
A few seconds later, a movement on the porch of the other honeymoon cabin caught her eye, and although she didn’t want to be nosy, she couldn’t help but look. And then swallow.
Hard.
The man who’d just emerged was in shadows, lit only by the glow coming from within his cabin, but even in the dark, it was impossible to miss the confident posture, the sculpted body under his T-shirt, the watchful stance he took as he scanned slowly from right to left.
Shelby pulled the quilt closer, hoping he wouldn’t see her out here. But as she watched, he stepped casually down the three stairs of his porch, then walked down the pathway toward hers.
Automatically, she looked over her left shoulder, where usually, a security guy stood just far enough away to be unobtrusive. But not here. Not now.
She was alone. Really, really alone.
She swallowed, looking quickly around her, but the porch was dismally short on self-defense objects.
“Hey.” The guy stopped ten feet away, his voice soft and friendly.
Like Ted Bundy.
“Hi,” she replied, trying to pretend she wasn’t having a mini–heart attack over a perfectly innocent—probably—stranger talking to her. Funny how fame and fear-of-other-humans went hand in hand after losing all semblance of privacy for most of her life.
Or not funny at all.
He pointed to his chest. “I’m Cooper. You settling in okay?”
“Yes.” She nodded slowly. “Thanks.”
“Okay.” He paused like he’d intended to say more, but then thought better of it. Instead, he jerked a thumb toward his cabin. “I’m right next door if you need anything.”
She wondered at his use of the singular I, since he must have a wife stowed in that honeymoon cabin, but she didn’t see any movement in the windows as she glanced behind him. Also, what was he doing out here at eleven o’clock at night talking to her if he had a brand-new bride waiting for him inside?
“Thank you,” she finally said, but figured her suspicious nod was probably a dead giveaway that she’d come asking a newlywed stranger for help just about as soon as she’d go out rattlesnake-catching.
With a casual wave, he turned and walked away. She watched him go, scanning him from head to toe, despite trying not to. He had the body of a TV cop—strong shoulders under his T-shirt, biceps straining the fabric, even in the dark. His waist was trim, and his jeans hid what she was pretty sure was a tight, perfect ass.
Damn.
She’d spent the last decade surrounded by other headliners, tour dancers, and the entourages that surrounded everyone in the business, and she swore she’d lost sight of what a real, honest-to-goodness man looked like. She was so used to the costumes and the makeup and the glitter and glitz that she’d forgotten just what a good pair of Wranglers could do for a guy.
She shook her head. What was she even thinking? He’d spoken all of maybe fourteen words to her, and she knew absolutely nothing about him. But…the timbre of his voice had hit her somewhere way down low, and the way he’d kept his distance—as if he’d sensed she needed him to—made her feel…safe.
Which was weird. It was all…weird.
Music filtered through his windows again, and her eyes widened as she recognized the song that was playing. Tears pricked behind her eyelids as she listened to the opening notes and pictured her daddy singing them on a stage in Nashville.
It was one of his early ones—written back in the days when they’d ride his big bus for hours, tour stop to tour stop, with nothing but grass and interstate outside the windows. Daddy’d get out his guitar and pat the padded bench seat next to him. “C’mere, Pipsqueak. Help me write a song.”
And they would. He’d stick a pencil behind his ear and he’d start strumming chords, and Shelby would close her eyes, looking for the melody. First she’d hum, and then the words would come, floating through the air, waiting to be caught. Like dandelion fuzz, she’d explain to him. Like God was gifting her the words…and smiling when she put them into a song.
He’d play, she’d sing, he’d harmonize, and for hours, they’d ride that bus, making the miles disappear as they created magic. And at the next stop, he’d play his sets, and close to the end of the concert, he’d always pull her onstage, call her his little nightingale, and they’d sing their latest invention together.
She’d loved the country circuit, loved the other artists who traveled with her father, loved the crews who set up and took down equipment and staging until the early-morning hours. But when an agent had spotted her, signed her, and set her up on her own tour the moment she’d turned sixteen, she’d kissed it all goodbye.
She just hadn’t known that was what she’d been doing.
Neither had Daddy.
A sudden scent hit her nose, and she inhaled deeply. The honeymooners were apparently eating late tonight, and it smelled like dinner was juicy hamburgers, fresh from a grill she couldn’t see. Her stomach growled, as if it, too, had caught the scent and realized it had been hours—or maybe days—since she’d had a decent meal.
She stood up and headed back into her cottage. The refrigerator and cupboards were both full; surely she could find something to make herself, even though her food prep skills were absolutely nil.
She’d been on the road for twelve years, with craft services or room service at her beck and call. She could have had anything her heart desired, but she’d always just chosen from what was already prepared or on the short menu.
Daddy’d always told her not to make trouble for anybody—“Nobody in the business likes a diva, Pip”—so although she might have given her left pinky finger for a grilled hamburger over the years, it had never been on the list of acceptable foods Nicola held her to. And no matter how you spiced it, tofu never tasted like cow.
She peered at the refrigerator shelves, lifting up celery, carrots, broccoli, and something with an odd shape she didn’t recognize. There was soy milk, almond milk, and some sort of designer milk Nicola had apparently put on a list. Orange juice and cranberry juice. Apples and oranges and grapes. And in the drawers, she found chicken, some other sort of meat she’d never seen, and of course, tofu.
She shut the doors. It was perfectly good food, but she didn’t want any of it. She craved pizza, chips, or maybe—gasp—a beer. She wanted nachos, or a hot dog, maybe even one with sauerkraut and mustard dribbling out its edges.
She wanted one of those damn burgers taunting her from next door.
With a sigh, she opened the cupboard and found a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. Thank God. Something she could make.
But when she opened the jar and peeled off the seal inside, she held her stomach as the smell of fresh peanuts assaulted her. Daddy’d probably made her eight thousand peanut butter sandwiches on that tour bus over the years. And as she stared at the bread and the knife, she could see his hands deftly spreading and slicing while he whistled.
Then they’d sit at the window-seat table and watch the land go by while they ate, guessing at the lives of the people along the way. Daddy’d always let her pick a house as they went by, and he’d weave a tale of the families who’d maybe passed through it—or who’d lived there for generations—and she’d lean on his chest and listen while the vibrations from his voice lulled her to sleep.
With a catchy little breath, she wrapped up the bread and screwed the cap back on the peanut butter, no longer hungry…no longer sure she could get food past the lump in her throat.
Daddy had been more than just a singer. He’d been a storyteller.
But now his story was over, and he’d left her alone to figure out hers.
Cooper flipped his burger, reveling in the sizzle as his stomach growled. With VIP Shelby now on-site, they’d had a scramble of an afternoon getting the schedule rejiggered and her cabin ready, and he hadn’t had time to stop for dinner. He’d gone over a few minutes ago with the intention of introducing himself, but when he’d seen her practically curl up inside herself while her eyes looked for weapons, he’d decided instead to play it cool and casual.
Miss Shelby-whoever-she-was definitely didn’t want company. And he couldn’t shake a strong feeling he had that she feared it.
His phone rang, and he smiled as he hit the screen and put it to his ear. “Hey, Wonder Woman.”
“Hi, Cooper. Whatcha doing?”
“Waiting for my favorite sister to call. What else would I be doing?”
“Ha.” Phoebe snorted. “I’m your only sister.”
“Still my favorite, though. What’s going on back in the big city of Boston tonight?” He pulled the phone away to check the time. “And what in the world are you still doing up so late?”
“Ugh. Nothing. Everyone except me is at Sarah’s party. And I’m fourteen, Coop. I don’t have a bedtime anymore.”
Cooper pictured her, curled up in her second-floor bedroom, at least one cat purring at her feet. Fourteen-going-on-thirty—that was Phoebe. And while the rest of the family had shut him out, she’d refused to stop talking to him. Granted, she never did it when Dad was awake to overhear her, but still, she was making the effort, and he loved her for it.
“Who’s Sarah?”
“Popular beeyotch. She’s dating Bryan, remember? And he broke up with Felicity two weeks ago, but they’d been going out for three months and he did it right before the dance, which is so mean, right?” She stopped and took a frustrated breath. “I already told you all of this. Do you not even listen to the travails of my ninth-grade self?”
He laughed. “Travails?”
“Had to throw in a word that made me sound a little less like a freshman hormone.”
“Gotcha. Well done. Speaking of your superior intelligence, did you hear about the math thing yet?”
She paused. “Oh, y’know. These things take forever to find out.”
Cooper felt his eyebrows furrow. Something in her tone was too casual. “You found out, didn’t you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Cooper. Not like I can go, even if I made it.”
Phoebe had applied four months ago to some special advanced-math program that would supposedly give her a straight shot at an MIT scholarship, but she’d done it against Dad’s wishes. And honestly, Cooper could see where his father was coming from, just a little bit. Why get her hopes up, if there was no way the family could afford the program, anyway?
But now she’d made it. He knew it.
“What’d you score on the test?”
“I’m not telling you. It’s embarrassing.”
“Embarrassing because you bombed it? Or embarrassing because you’re officially the nerdiest chick at St. Mary’s now?”
She giggled. “The second one.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He could hear the pride in that one word. “I kind of aced it.”
“No shit.”
“Yes shit.”
“No swearing.” He laughed.
“You did it first!”
“So what’s the plan?”
“I don’t know.” Her voice sobered. “It’s really expensive. I applied for a scholarship, but I don’t know if it’ll come through.”
“Well, if you need a reference, I know a good cop who could give you one.”
The words were out of his mouth before he had time to process them and realize that nobody in her right mind would put his name anywhere near a reference box.
Not anymore.
“Thanks, Cooper. I know you would.”
“I’ll help you pay, Phoebe.”
“Right.” She snorted. “You don’t have a pot to piss in.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Forget I said that.”
He started pacing the small patio area behind his cabin. “Did Dad say that?”
Asshole.
“It wasn’t one of his finer moments, if that helps.” He could feel her cringing on the other end of the phone, wishing she hadn’t said it in the first place. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Cooper. He was just mad.”
“Well, there’s something new and different.”
“I know.” She sighed. “But he does love you, you know.”
Cooper closed his eyes tightly, picturing his father on the last day he’d spoken to him…seeing the fierce set of his jaw, the flush of color in his face, the disbelief and anger in his eyes.
“He does, Cooper. This whole thing—it just brought back all of the other stuff, from when Uncle Rick died.”
“I know, hon. I know.” He lied smoothly, because who was he to contradict his little sister? She believed it to be true because she wanted it to be true, and he wasn’t going to pop that balloon.
Let Dad do it.
“So when are you coming home?” Her familiar question…the familiar slice of pain that went with it.
Home wasn’t home. Not anymore.
“Well, actually, I’ve got a new assignment out here.”
“What is it?”
Cooper flipped his hamburger off the grill, then headed inside, where he could be sure Shelby couldn’t inadvertently overhear him.
“It’s super-secret stuff. If I told you, I’d have to muzzle you.”
“Cooper, that didn’t even work when I was five.”
He practically heard her eyes rolling, and it made him smile. “Fine. I’m keeping an eye on a VIP who’s staying here.”
“Omigod, is she a movie star? Or a spy or something? Are you working for the FBI now? Why didn’t you tell me?” Phoebe fired the questions fast and furiously, and he could picture her sitting straight up on her bed, thrilled that her brother was actually making something of himself, instead of causing the entire family more shame and embarrassment.
“She’s not a spy, and no undercover FBI shtick. Sorry.”
“Huh.” She sighed, then brightened. “But you wouldn’t be able to tell me anyway, right? So maybe you really are!”
“I’m not, Phoebs. Promise. Just keeping an eye on somebody who wants to be invisible for a little while, apparently.”
“If she’s trying to be invisible, why are you watching her?”
“That is a very good question, young lady.” Cooper glanced out the window that faced Shelby’s cabin, but he couldn’t see anything through her curtains. “I’m not even sure I know.”
“Is she the president of a small island nation?”
He laughed. “Can’t tell. Sorry.”
Phoebe sighed again. “My life might be a lot easier if you didn’t have ethics, you know.”
The silence that followed her words was long and deadly, as they both felt an invisible cloak of doom fall over the conversation.
Yeah, he had ethics, all right.
Too bad those ethics had cost him everything he’d worked for, everything he’d ever wanted.
Too bad those ethics had also cost him his family.
“Hey…” Cooper coughed lightly. “I’ve gotta eat my burger before it gets cold, but I’m putting an envelope in the mail tomorrow for you. Make sure you get to it before Dad does, okay?”
He hated himself for trying to break the call off, but dammit, some nights it was just too hard to sit out here in Big Sky country and imagine them all back in Boston, a Red Sox game on the television, the smell of popcorn and Mom’s homemade marinara permeating the entire house.
“Cooper, don’t send me any money.”
“I’m actually sending you a giant rattlesnake tail I found this morning out on the cliffs.” Cooper squirted ketchup on his burger, wishing like hell he was doing it in his old apartment, with Phoebe hanging over the counter watching, waiting to throw her arms around his waist, just because.
His throat felt tight as he took a deep breath. “Okay, kid. I gotta get going.”
“I miss you.”
“Miss you too, hon.” He cleared his throat. “Watch for the mail, okay?”
After he hung up, he stood at the counter for a long moment, sadness and anger mixing into a muddy boil inside him. Yeah, he liked his life at Whisper Creek just fine.
But it was going to take a long damn time before he forgave the dirty cops who’d stolen his real life out from under him.