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The dinner bell rang from the house. Brock straightened. “One last thing,” he added. “You’re part of this family, Sheenan. You have always been part of this family and I’m not going to tell you what to do with the book you’re writing, because that’s your job. That’s what you do. But I will ask that you show McKenna the book before it’s published. Show her brothers, Rory and Quinn, too. That way they’re prepared. Understand?”
Surprised, Shane hesitated and then nodded. “More than fair.”
And then Brock surprised him again, by giving him a swift, hard hug. “Welcome home, Shane. I’ve missed you.”
Chapter Thirteen
After dinner, Shane went to the ranch where all of his things were packed in boxes and suitcases and sitting on the front porch. The Sheenans had said he could stay after all, but Shane had spent enough time on the ranch. He was ready to move on and after loading the back of his Range Rover with his things, he drove into Marietta and checked into the Graff.
He slept deeply that night, grateful for the quiet, and relieved to be free of the ghosts.
In the morning he called Mark, his agent. “I’m going to be disappointing you,” Shane said bluntly. “This isn’t going to go the way you want, but this isn’t the story I can tell. I’m sorry.”
Mark was silent so long Shane thought he’d maybe hung up. “This isn’t you. What’s happened?”
“The story is changing.”
“What is the story?”
“A riches to rags love story.”
“You don’t write love stories.”
“Maybe I should. She was young and beautiful, highly educated, and she thought she could have it all, and so she reached for the stars and in reaching, lost it all.”
“Why would anyone want to read that story?”
“She was once one of America’s sweethearts.”
“When?”
“1887.”
“You’ve lost your mind. I’m sending help. Stay put—”
“McKenna Frasier was the heiress to one of the vast Copper Kings’ fortunes and she ended up penniless, forced to take a teaching job in a one room schoolhouse in Paradise Valley.”
“What’s your point?”
“There are stories everywhere. I can write another story. It might take a year, might take two, but I’m a writer and I have a lot to say, but I’ve nothing to say about what happened on the Douglas ranch that August in 1996.”
“Dammit, Shane.”
“I was wrong to think I could write that one.”
“You’re killing me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.” And Mark hung up swiftly.
Shane followed the phone call with an email to Mark and Saul, his editor, letting them know in writing there would be no book on the Douglas massacre.
I have theories about who might have done it but no definitive proof, and because there is nothing definitive, the suspects are many and the motivations unclear. This is not the book my readers want, nor is this the book you want. It would disappoint and destroy whatever integrity we possess as author and publisher. I will be returning the advance and plan on covering whatever publicity and marketing expenses have been incurred.
Yours,
Sean/Shane S. Finley
After hitting send, Shane left his room and took the elevator to the lobby. Leaving the hotel, he stepped out into the cold winter air. Gray clouds were collecting over the mountains. Snow had been predicted for tomorrow.
He drew a deep breath, and then another, trying to decide if he felt regret or relief. Maybe it was a combination of the two.
Had he failed, or had he quit? And did it matter?
What mattered was that he’d decided the book couldn’t be written, and it was the right decision, even if there was backlash. He was prepared for backlash. It was inevitable. He was ambitious. He’d spent the past year working hard. Trying to be more. Trying to be someone significant.
But as he faced the Gallatin Mountains with impressive Copper Mountain in the foreground, it struck him that no matter what he achieved in the scope of history, he was just a blip…he had to have perspective. A year from now he’d have an entirely different set of problems. A year from now there’d be a new story. Stories were everywhere. Life was nothing but a story. There would always be more. More mysteries, more curiosities, more tragedies, more hope, more love, more pain.
Which was good to remember when one was walking away from a huge deal.
If he lost this publisher, he’d find another.
If this career ended, he’d rebound somehow.
He wasn’t afraid. He welcomed challenge. He’d known real hardship. This was not hardship.
This was just change.
And if there was one thing Shane Sean Swan Finley understood was that life was full of change. He couldn’t fight it or hide from it. He had to give himself over to it and embrace it and let it take him on to the next adventure.
Like Jet.
She was his center and his future, and life with her would be a great adventure.
It was time she knew it.
That evening Shane took Jet to a romantic dinner at the Graff. They dined by candlelight and they agreed at the beginning of dinner to not talk about the Sheenans or his book but it was impossible to avoid the topics, especially when they were still in the middle of coming to terms with everything.
So he told her how he was pulling the book, and would be returning the advance, and paying for any money the publisher had spent on publicity. He was also going to have to cover costs related to his agent, but he didn’t mind, he assured her. It was better to lose money than lose self-respect.
“Will you e
ver write the book?” she asked quietly, her blue gaze troubled.
“I doubt it. It’s not my story to tell.”
“Because you didn’t solve it?”
“I actually think I know who might have done it. There were some other assaults in communities that hosted the New Awakening Revival.”
“You think the pastor…?”
He shook his head. “He had a follower named Jeffrey Abbot-Simms. Abbot-Simms was something of a fanatic. The church, and Sawyer Newsome, was his family. He was quite protective of both, and seemed to have taken it upon himself to protect the reputation of them, even if it meant getting his hands dirty.” Shane hesitated. “The pastor had a fondness for pretty women. He had a relationship with a number of them. From what I’ve learned, Abbot-Simms did not approve of these relationships. He did what he could to…eliminate them.”
“You think Mrs. Douglas had an affair with the pastor?”
“I think the pastor wanted an affair with Mrs. Douglas. And I think Mrs. Douglas possibly felt threatened and Abbot-Simms…” He shrugged. “It’s a theory.”
“You don’t have theories without some evidence.”
“There were other assaults in other communities. Women being raped. One woman was left for dead. She survived and was able to identify her assailant as Abbot-Simms. But before he could be arrested, he was in a car accident and died.” Shane looked at Jet. “I’m putting all this together, and I’m going to type it up and hand over my conclusions to McKenna and her brothers. I hope it might give them some closure.”
“Wow.”
“I have no hard evidence. It could be pure speculation and wrong.”
“Could be, but it’s something, and I think they’d appreciate that.”
“Maybe.”
She smiled at him. “You, Shane Sean Swan Finley, are extraordinary.”
He reached across and took her hands and lifted them to his mouth, kissing the back of one hand and then the other. His head dipped and he covered her hands with his. “You’re extraordinary. You’re changing me…changing my story.”
