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She didn’t need a man. She was having an adventure. Just think of everything she was getting to do—teach in a historic one room schoolhouse, work in stunning Paradise Valley, live in a sleepy little former mining town. How cool was that?
Shivering, she did another circle beneath the spray. She was lucky to be here, lucky to have a sister that loved her. There was no reason to let one date with some guy—even if he was a seriously smart, sexy, fascinating guy—turn her world inside out.
Teeth chattering, she turned off the shower, grabbed a towel and dried off.
Leaving the bathroom, she grabbed her coffee and phone. She glanced down at the phone as she hustled back to her bedroom and spotted a message from Shane.
“Which Sheenan called you this morning? I got Cormac.”
Jet read the message a second time as she yanked faded jeans on over underwear that stuck to her still damp skin. She hooked her bra and then pulled on a gray T-shirt and a thick wine-colored sweater over that.
She dragged her hair into a ponytail, high on the back of her head, before answering Shane. “Harley called me,” She typed, before hitting send.
“That’s good. I can’t imagine her promising to beat the living daylight out of you,” came the reply.
Jet stilled. Her hand shook ever so slightly as she typed. “Cormac said that?”
“I’m not worried. As long as you’re okay, that’s my main concern.”
She was worried. She typed quickly. “I can’t believe he’d threaten you!”
“I’m not scared of Cormac, or any of them. I just don’t want you getting dragged into the middle of this. It’s not your fight. So I agree Sunday is a bad idea. Just know if you ever need anything, I’m here.”
He was letting her go, saying goodbye.
Jet pressed a fist to her mouth and held her breath, telling herself she should be relieved that he was closing the door and pushing her away, but she didn’t feel relieved. She felt wildly conflicted.
Still holding her breath she typed one last message. “Harley said you were using me to get close to the Sheenans. Was that true?”
She waited for him to answer, wondering if he would. A few moments later the little dots appeared, indicating he was typing a response.
“Yes”, he said.
He sent a follow up text almost immediately. “I’d hoped you could introduce me to Brock. I thought maybe he’d be willing to meet with me if you put in a good word for me.”
Jet exhaled slowly, disappointed, and hurt. So he did want something from her. Harley had been right. “You should have told me.”
“I was going to talk to you tomorrow at brunch.”
Jet stared at the last message for a long minute before writing. “And the kiss?”
“That was because you’re beautiful.”
Jet spent the day at the schoolhouse, taking down old bulletin boards and putting up new ones that reflected February education themes—President’s Day, Black History Month, Inventors & Inventions, the ocean, and then, just because it was pretty and fun, Valentine’s Day hearts here and there.
As she stapled and pinned, she tried not to think about Shane but it was virtually impossible. Decorating bulletin boards might keep her hands busy but it left her thoughts free. And so she thought about Shane, and the Sheenans, and how awful the conflict was between them. There was no reason for it to get to this point. No reason for Cormac to threaten Shane in any way. That had to be the most childish thing she’d ever heard.
She also hated how the Sheenans were ganging up on Shane. He was one person and they were a big and formidable group. She understood why the Sheenans weren’t happy about the book, but Shane didn’t owe them anything. He could write about whatever he wanted.
Jet climbed up her stepladder to tack a huge paper cutout of George Washington’s head on one end of the bulletin board, running above the old, black chalkboard, and then carried the ladder and pins to the other end where she added Abraham Lincoln’s head.
It was a shame, she thought, that none of the Sheenans had tried to get to know Shane. Maybe if they’d been willing to talk to him about the book, and share their knowledge and memories, they’d get a better sense of the scope of the book as well as Shane’s intentions.
Climbing back down from the ladder, she stepped back to view her work. The two big paper heads against rose red paper looked like something that might have been in the classroom when she was a girl. Was that good or bad? Well, it was a change from January’s blue and white color scheme at any rate. It’d have to do.
She folded the ladder up, and leaned it against the door to the back room which was a combination storage and teacher break room. Not that she went in there when the kids were present, but it had a small sink and a mini refrigerator and she’d added a microwave so she could heat up soup for her lunch.
She microwaved a bowl of tomato soup now and stared out the small window at the playground with the old set of swings. Behind the playground was a field, now covered in snow.
This was such a small school, in such a small town, and yet suddenly she felt overwhelmed by problems that weren’t her own.
Shane was supposed to be writing. He was behind on the book. More behind than he’d ever been. If he didn’t make significant progress quickly, there would be no way to get the book in on time.
And he kind of didn’t care.
No, not true. He cared about being late, his reputation mattered, but he hated this book. He didn’t like anything about it, and he’d only tackled the subject because it had been an excuse to come to Marietta and live amongst the Sheenans and pretend he was working on something when, all along, all he wanted was to know who these people were. And why they didn’t want him.
Hell and damnation.
Shane threw his pen across the room and it hit one of the bulletin boards before falling to the floor.
Of course the book would be easier to write if he had a definitive idea about who committed the crime—and he was getting there, little by little—but time was running short and he needed to focus and he couldn’t seem to make himself focus because he just didn’t care.
Not because the murders didn’t deserve to be solved, but because every aspect of the story was vile and heartbreaking. There was nothing good about the story. There was no lesson to be learned.
Shane left his chair and paced the dining room before stalking to the bulletin boards with the shocking headlines.
His gaze swept the headlines and then dropped to the story with the black and white photos of those who’d been slain. Todd. Grace. Gordon. Ty. Baby Grace.
Dad, Mom, a nine-year-old, a five-year-old, and a two-year-old.
They deserved better, and this book would certainly not help or heal, in any way. Life was unjust. Life was brutal. He wanted to punch something, hit something, break something—
Shane returned to his chair, his hand clenched into a fist. He squeezed until his hand ached and then he opened his laptop and sent his agent a brief email. Mark, I want to buy the book back. I’m happy to write something else, something on Montana history, but I’ll need more time. It’s impossible to write something new for an April 30th deadline.
Shane hit send and closed his laptop. Leaning back in his chair he looked at the bulletin boards with the newspaper headlines and articles. They disgusted him. The senseless violence. The heartbreaking waste of life. He knew the police reports. He’d read the reports from the coroner’s office and knew how each of them had died. He’d discovered that Mrs. Douglas had been sexually assaulted at some point during the attack. He’d read that Mr. Douglas was probably still alive at that point.
There were nights Shane couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t get the horror out of his head. He could imagine the children’s tears and terror. He could almost feel Mr. Douglas’ helplessness and hopelessness as his family was tortured in front of him.
Shane’s phone rang. He grimaced, recognizing his agent’s cell. “Mark,” he said, answering.
“Got your email.”
“Hate to bother you on a weekend.”
“Glad you emailed. What’s going on?”
“You saw my email. I’m not going to finish this one, it’s not right, it’s not what anyone needs.”
“Everyone needs this one. Everyone loves this one. You’ve got a film deal and foreign sales out the kazoo. A massive print run. Publicity like you wouldn’t believe—”
“It’s wrong. It’s making me sick.”
“Maybe you’re too close. Maybe you need a break. Get in your car and drive. Clear your head, get some perspective.”
“It won’t help. I’m not going to write it—”
“Shane, hey bud, relax, it’s all okay, it’s going to be okay. I can buy you more time. That’s not a problem. I’ll tell them you just need some extra time.”
“It’s the subject, not the issue of time.”
“Deadlines can be stressful.”
“You’re not listening, Mark—”
