I’d checked the weather earlier in the day, so I knew it wouldn’t get cold enough to snow, but that didn’t stop the irritation I felt. The goat occasionally chewed through its rope and ended up on my porch. I usually took it back and tied it up without being noticed. Talking to Buck didn’t help. He didn’t care about the thing. He only kept it out of spite, knowing how desperately his ex-wife, Jolly, wanted it.
The yard was littered with car parts and trash piles that Buck burned on the weekends. There were aluminum beer cans and amber bottles scattered from the back steps to the sheds and outbuildings where he stored his crap—all sorts of things that the goat tried to eat because it didn’t know any better.
The fact that the animal didn’t have shelter or regular feed made me mad enough to insert myself and try talking some sense into the old man, but it didn’t do a damn bit of good. He’d threatened to call the sheriff if he found me on his property.
Buck was content to make everyone around him miserable—just ask the man’s ex-wife, who’d suffered through forty years of living with an abusive drunk.
Sighing in disgust, I shook my head and went inside.
It was quiet. I’d left a small lamp burning on the kitchen counter, and it welcomed me with a circle of warm light. I took off my boots and hung my jacket on the back of a barstool to dry.
My coffee maker was scheduled for 5:04 a.m. I added a new filter and fresh grounds, then placed my favorite mug on the counter for the morning.
I was a creature of habit. My daily routine often stayed the same, with a few exceptions. I had a book club meeting once per month, and bowling league every other Wednesday, with the occasional trivia night thrown in. There were Sunday dinners with my parents and siblings over at the farmhouse, and various town activities and festivals to plan for. But for the most part, I lived the same life day in and day out—the life of a farmer. I went to bed early and ran in the mornings. I spent time with my family and let my life revolve around the orchard. I liked it that way.
So it was easy enough to pinpoint why I was feeling restless. Things were changing, and the film was a major distraction. There were new people in my life for the first time in quite a while. But that didn’t explain why I lay in bed that night, thinking about Dorian Masters and Ian Wells, one man but two very different people in my head.
I’d told my sister and my friends that he was just a man—a normal person like anyone else. But that wasn’t quite the truth. The fame, the celebrity status, and the larger-than-life persona weren’t what made me uneasy. It would have been better if that was all Ian was. Just a social media presence, a walking hashtag, the glossy cover of a magazine.
But he’d been different today. More than the charm and sass I’d come to expect. What was keeping me up was the look on his face that afternoon when he’d spotted George in the field with me. The relief, the distrust, the vulnerability that had made him more real than any side of him I’d seen before.
Annoyed with myself, I rolled over and closed my eyes, forcing away thoughts that didn’t fucking matter. Ian and George were strangers—temporary blips in my life. There was no mystery here or a place for me in whatever drama was unfolding. It was time for me to get back to my comfortable, small-town existence.
I was still in a shitty mood the following morning.
Before heading out for my run, I’d dropped off some carrots for the goat, who’d munched happily despite the cold.
Not that I’d expected him, but Ian hadn’t shown up at any point during my six-mile route. He was busy with work, which was fine. Nothing wrong with dedicating yourself to your job. I could understand that. I’d known since I was a teenager that I’d be the one taking over the fields once my parents retired from the orchard. It was what I wanted. Some people were just born with different expectations.
I understood better than most about having responsibilities and obligations.
Obligations.
The word triggered my memory of George calling himself an inconvenience. I wondered again who Gloria was and why she’d ever been allowed within ten feet of the boy.
Maybe that was part of my disappointment around not seeing Ian this morning. Maybe I was curious about George and his well-being, and Ian was the one person who could provide the answers to my questions. I wanted to know why George wasn’t in school and why he was allowed to wander around alone to fend for himself.
My gaze strayed briefly to theApple Ladybracelet on my wrist, barely visible beneath the sleeve of my shirt.
I was curious who the kid was to Ian and why their exchange had been so strange. I thought I’d been content to let all this go, but nearly twenty-four hours after they’d taken off in that side-by-side, here I was, chewing on the inside of my cheek and glaring at the tree I was pruning.
Mercer was working beside me, but he was giving me some space. Not that Mark Mercer was one for small talk—thank Christ—but I could tell he was being quiet for my benefit. Maybe my thoughts were so loud, he was hesitant to get involved.
We both heard the sound of a low engine and turned. It was the same blue recreational vehicle, but the driver was a man I’d never seen before.
He stopped on the muddy tractor path and unfolded his large form. The guy had to be six five and built like a defensive end. He wore a wool hat and a heavy winter coat, as if he wasn’t used to the weather in the mountains in mid-November. His skin was a warm dark brown, and he looked to be in his early thirties.
Unsmiling, he approached with a big manila envelope in his hands. “Joan Judd?”
I took off my work gloves and held out a hand. “That’s me.”
The man paused briefly as if surprised, but slid his large hand into mine and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m Darren. I work for Mr. Masters. This is for you.”
I could feel Mercer at my side, a question in his gaze, but he remained silent.
Frowning, I accepted the folder, sliding out a thin stack of papers. I shuffled through the pile, registering words likescopeandparties, andconfidential,terms,andexclusions.
“Why would this be for me?” I asked slowly.
