Chapter 1
I understood the way grief ravages the body. Not as someone who has loved and lost, but as someone who has planned, plotted, and carried on from death with a roll of the dice. My eyes narrowed on the back of the stranger's head. My grip tightened, and the pen in my hand shook a breath above the page. It had been two years. I was safe. My own breath caught in my throat. This stranger at the counter couldn't be Sam. The reality was far more grim. I clung to the truth as I watched that mess of dark hair at the counter: Samuel Xao had to die.
The baker's voice behind the counter rose above the chatter, "Cassidy."
There was something breathtaking about the quiet presence of the man before me. With a perfect British accent, he ordered a tea and a croissant. My brow furrowed as his gloved left hand flexed at his side. He wore a pair of black riding gloves with the leather thin above the knuckles. My attention drifted to my sketch of the stranger and the baker at the counter. I'd have to add in the gloves.
"Cas?"
My eyes snapped from the page, and my attention shifted.
"Welcome back." The baker wore a warm smile that didn't match her tone. A set of sleek black acrylics clicked along the granite countertop.
A chime above the door rang through the cafe.
I turned to watch where the figure had gone, as if I could track him beyond the fingerprint-stained door. The knot in my chest loosened with a long, slow breath.
"So tell me…" Madeline's lips ticked into a smirk. She leaned across the counter, almost matching the curve of the glass case with her spine. "Have you met Oliver's assistant trainer yet? He's a masterclass. I swear, anything he touches turns into a winner."
No one always wins. My eyebrows rose and then fell into a furrow. "No." The word snapped behind my teeth as I reached for my mug. The cinnamon and cream of the chai latte would cool the fire turning beneath my skin.
Madeline tapped a pointed nail across her cheek — wrong answer. The corners of her eyes crinkled into a mischievous glimmer. "I heard he's single."
My mug landed on the table with a clink. "You hear a lot of things."
"It's part of the reason I work here."
I reached for my hair with a shaking hand. "Don't make me regret moving here. I just signed for the farm." My lips curled into a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"You've gotten boring, Cas."
My chest rose and fell against the weight of the implication. My smile dropped into a thin line. I worked hard to stay boring. Boring people could hide wonderful secrets. The last thing I needed was another dark-haired, starry-eyed cowboy to try and save the day.
The chime above the door cut through the cafe's sweet cinnamon air.
I flinched.
"Ah, Madeline!" a gravelly voice called from the front door.
Madeline's face beamed with recognition as the other man limped to the counter.
She didn't miss a beat as she reached for a fresh mug. "The regular?"
My sharp green eyes tracked the older gentleman. I curled my fingers around the worn leather sketchbook. Hank Sanderson was the man I just bought the farm from. This was the same man who left the appointment in a rush regarding an emergency. He could barely bring himself to look me in the eyes. Two lines appeared between my brows. My stomach turned. What kind of emergency happens in a cafe?
Hank’s eyes didn’t waver from a lean man three tables over. I should have noticed his dark eyes sooner. They were watching, no, hunting. His crisp black slacks threatened to crinkle at the top of his loafers. In his offhand, the stranger clutched a pristine manila folder.
I couldn't look away from the red ink poking out of the mess of papers.
The men tucked into a table three over from me.
My ears burned as I listened across the expanse of the three empty tables. I tilted my head, and my pen met the sketchbook. A clean line outlined the start of the stranger's glove. I drew in mindless lines with a quiet breath. No one ever questioned the artist with their nose in a sketchbook.
Hank's gruff voice rose above the chatter. If he was hiding, he was doing a poor job of it. "I wanted to help him." He hesitated, and I could barely make out the opening of the folder in my peripheral. "I didn't think I'd find this."
The tidy stranger responded with a sneer. "None of us are as holy as you, Hank." There was something in his tone that made my blood run cold. "Men have died for less. Help him…like you said you would."
Then came a rustle of papers.
I couldn't stop myself as I glanced up towards the men, only to find Madeline approaching the table under the guise of fresh coffee and a muffin. The regular. I let my eyes return to the sketchbook, and my pen resumed the mindless process of hatching the shadows beneath the stranger's curls.
Hank's voice fell by the time Madeline retreated. "If it weren't for Oliver, I would have outed you to the officials too. I thought we stopped doing this after…" His hesitation should have been a warning. "This whole business is sketchy. What happened to honest horse people?"
There was a smug satisfaction to the manila folder man's tone. "Still jealous Emily chose me?"
Hank's silence was deafening.
The lean man continued, as if emboldened by this contextual victory. "You've gone soft, Sanderson."
"She doesn't know how deep this goes, does she?"
"No." The pompous confidence of the stranger crumpled. "I don't have the strength to tell her. Not after all this time."
A wooden chair scraped across the hardwoods and Hank rose to his feet. "Your mistakes cost a life two years ago. I won't be taking the fall if we mess up again."
"You owe me, Sanderson."
The pen skittered across the page. A mistake two years ago. My posture stiffened. The fingers of my left hand buried deeper into my emerald sweater. I ran my tongue over my teeth. The sketch was ruined. But more importantly, so was my newfound peace.
I couldn't bring myself to return to Foxwood after Sam had disappeared. Sam told me that an owner messed up, and the officials were onto him. That the owner reported it was obvious Sam was fixing the results within a reasonable margin of error. But I always knew. I watched the calves he picked, the long warm-ups, and even the venues he chose to run at. They were all part of a cruel equation. An equation that led to money in Sam's pocket. It was money I knew better than to question, and Sam knew better than to tell.
A throat cleared.
My eyes ripped from the page, and I slammed the sketchbook shut.
Hank Sanderson hesitated as he stood before me.
My chest twisted. Had I been caught?
Two lines appeared between his brows. “You're still moving in today, right?”
“I am.”
Hank’s grey eyes shifted to the closed sketchbook. His kind expression juxtaposed his desperate grip on the file. “Good. I've moved everything I wanted to keep.”
“Thank you. I can’t wait to see the house in person.”
“That’s quite the gamble you took, Ms. Noble.” His tone should have been a warning.
My pulse quickened, and I shot a glance at the baker as she tended to the large mixer. I was not the gambler. “It was a calculated risk.”
Hank’s kind smile didn’t meet his eyes. “I think you’ll fit in with Tranquil Hills just fine, Ms. Noble.”
Hank was a horrible judge of character.
My attention snagged on his limp as he left. I spent most of my formative years working with professional riders. Given the unsteady nature of his gait, it had to be his hip. My lips parted to form the question, but the chime above the door said otherwise.
The baker’s voice rose above the chatter. “Welcome in.”
Like clockwork, Madeline turned from her large stand mixer and addressed the two men at the counter. The baker’s dark brown eyes glanced from the duo to me. Starting my life over after two years of living in a horse trailer meant that I’d had to meet more than just my clients and the cashier at the grocery store. Madeline was right. It was show-time.
Begrudgingly, I made my way to the counter.
“You must be Cassidy.” The older man’s tone was cheery, almost jovial, as I strode up to the counter. “Your friend Madeline has been telling us about you all week.”
“Oh, has she?” I couldn’t hide the curl in my lips.
A blush rose to the woman’s round cheeks. “We are all excited to have you here.” She slid two cups of coffee and an apple roll across the counter. “You’re my best friend, Cas. What did you expect?”
While I was her best friend, she was my only friend. I dismissed the concerning thought and turned my attention to the strangers: new home, new peace, new start, same fake smile.
The older man ignored the beverages as Madeline slid them across the counter. “I’m sure you are, Madeline, but where are my manners?” He held out his hand. “Captain Belstrade.”
I moved my mug into my offhand and took up his grip. The older man was in a plain suit except for the badge on his hip. Of course, they were cops.
For a grip as firm as his, the grey-haired man’s eyes were remarkably soft.
My teeth clenched behind my smile. “Cassidy Noble.”
His younger counterpart’s brow furrowed. He balanced the drinks in the crook of his left arm and took the cue from his superior. “Detective Hawthorne.” Recognition flashed across his chiseled features and retreated behind his short beard. His hands were too calloused for a white-collar professional.
It was clear from the way those dusty blue eyes glanced towards the door that Detective Hawthorne was as thrilled to be here as I was. My curiosity would have to wait.
I propped my right elbow on the counter and rested my chin in my hand at the sound of the chime above the door. What did the detective know? My lips pulled into a fine line. “So what else did you tell the entire town about me?”
Madeline retreated to the mixing bowl. She reached for a handful of chocolate chips without a sideways glance. “Oh, you know… that you’re an accomplished artist, that you’re stubborn as hell, and that you’re single.”
“Mads!” My hand fell from my chin and slapped against the counter.
Her braids flipped over her shoulder as she whipped around. “What?!” Her right foot tapped once every second. “Lord knows you need some fun in your life.”
My eyes traveled down to my mug. I forced another smile through the familiar pang of guilt. “I’m excited to be here, too.” Grief rounded my shoulders. “But I feel like half the town knows who I am, and I have no idea—”
Madeline held up a finger to shush my rambling. The whirring mixer consumed her attention. “Oh, they know who you are.” She confirmed and set the bowl down behind the counter. Her attention turned to a long sheet of parchment paper. “But no one stays a stranger in Tranquil Hills for long.”
The voice of an older woman cut through her chatter. "Madeline, you'd better be working on those cookies if you're going to gossip." She warned.
Madeline jumped. The parchment paper in her hands crumpled along the edges. “Yes, Mrs. Abernathy.” She called back before turning her attention to me. Her dark eyes sparkled with delight. “But let me tell you about Oliver's new rider. He's an absolute dreamboat.”
My brows furrowed. The wooden stool creaked as I tucked in for the village gossip. “I thought you didn’t find men attractive.”
Madeline’s jaw dropped. Her tone dripped with feigned sarcasm. “I can still appreciate a good-looking man. I just don’t want to fuck him.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “And who says I do?!” I hooked the heel of my boot onto the top rung of the stool.
A gentleman in the corner cleared his throat before he dove back into his novel.
Madeline's Cheshire grin held more secrets than I cared to know, but the chime above the door captured her attention once more.
My eyes drifted to the clock on the wall. “I have to run,” I muttered and slid my mug across the counter. Gossip would have to wait.
Madeline’s smile dropped when she reappeared from the register. “Leaving already?”
I called over my shoulder as I pushed my arm through my coat. Today was not the day to stay and chat. “I need to make sure the barn is ready for the shipper, and I still have to meet a client for a commission this afternoon at Green Briar.” The wool outer layer snagged on my bracelet.
“Fine, but I’m calling you later! Don’t you ever rest?” Madeline called out after me.
“I’ll rest when I’m dead.” My to-do list was a self-inflicted sword of Damocles: check the barn, meet the client, paint the horse, move in, and keep running. Everything had to happen on October 23rd, and tomorrow would be the same.
The chime rang out as I pushed through the door, and I welcomed the fall chill on my skin.
Starting my life over in Tranquil Hills was a gamble. That was always more of Sam’s thing. I preferred to be a distraction. I was to be the quiet artist that no one suspected was a threat—his little bird. Sam was the man with everything to lose who always found a way to win. I, however, was a walking liability.
It would get easier. My chest tightened with the lie. It would be easier if I knew what Hank was hiding and what the detective saw. Men have died for less. The scent of coffee threatened to deter my thoughts. Now wasn’t the time for snooping. I should ignore the secrets. Secrets got Sam killed.
My fingers flipped through the sketchbook to the tattered image of the rider. The dark streak cut through the perfect idea. With one swift pull, the paper ripped free. The sketch crumpled into a misshapen ball in my fist. Without another thought, I shoved the sketch into my coat pocket. A distraction was the last thing I needed.
