Half the Summer’s Night (Hunter’s Heart #4)

Prologue

ROWAN

TEN YEARS EARLIER

The funeral is packed, like everyone in Rosado showed up to mourn Bobby Spencer’s death, plus people from the surrounding counties, too. I don’t really know why. He was an asshole in life, just like all of my uncle’s various business associates.

I don’t like being around so many people.

They crowd into Hatch Street Funeral Parlor, the only funeral home in town, speaking in soft, hushed tones.

The only reason I haven’t tried to sneak out the side door is because Uncle Nash won’t let me out of his sight.

I guess it’s kind of dangerous for me to be here, since I’m the one who killed Mr. Spencer three days ago.

“Such a tragedy, isn’t it?” An older woman dabs mascara away from her eyes, leaving black marks on her handkerchief. “I suppose it’s a reminder to all of us how dangerous that equipment can be.”

“I know,” Uncle Nash says consolingly, like he wasn’t the one to send me to Mr. Spencer’s ranch outside of town.

He, of course, had been at a reception put on by the Rosado Chamber of Commerce, drinking champagne and getting his picture taken.

Probably this lady had been there, too. She has the look of someone with money.

“But ranching’s dangerous work. Bobby knew that. ”

I press into the wall, wishing I could just get smaller and smaller until I disappeared entirely.

Which is a stupid thing for a guy like me to think, given that I tower over most of the people here.

I hate how big I am. I feel like it makes me stand out when all I want is to blend in, to go unnoticed.

The woman sniffles, although it sounds fake, and asks Uncle Nash something about how reservations are going at the Palm Breeze Hotel, which is one of the many businesses, illegal and not, that Uncle Nash operates across south Texas.

People mill around us, ebbing and flowing like the sea.

A group of them drifts away, revealing the open casket at the front of the room.

Uncle Nash always insists that I leave my targets recognizable.

More strategic that way, he says. Don’t want to drag out any investigations unnecessarily.

It was tough with Mr. Spencer, though. I’d never driven a tractor before.

And then I see her. Abilene Snow.

She’s standing beside the big spray of flowers displayed behind the casket, wearing a simple black dress, her dark hair swept up into a bun.

She has her glasses on today, huge oversized cat-eye frames that make her eyes seem even bigger and bluer than they do normally.

She blinks out at the crowd, and I jerk my gaze away before she sees me staring.

Uncle Nash clears his throat. The rich lady is gone.

“You need to pay your respects,” he says softly.

I stiffen. I understand why he’s doing this.

It’s all a cover because Mr. Spencer is more respectable than the men I usually kill for Uncle Nash, most of whom are drug dealers and organized criminals who double-cross him.

Well, Mr. Spencer double-crossed him, too, I guess.

Bought some property that Uncle Nash wanted.

“Go on,” he says, a warning note in his voice.

I don’t think any of the people here would recognize it, though.

To them, Uncle Nash is Nash Deegan, the richest man in Rosado.

He owns half the properties on the beachfront.

Mr. Spencer was trying to own the other half, which I guess is why he had to go.

I peel myself away from the wall and weave through the crowd, keeping my gaze fixed on the casket. I can feel Abilene Snow’s presence, sweet and intoxicating. This is the closest I’ve been to her since she moved to town, trailing rumors of death.

I stop next to the casket. There’s a sharp, clinical scent on the air, although Mr. Snow, the funeral director, tried to mask it with the flowers.

Or maybe that’s just Abilene’s scent. She always smells sweet.

I watch her sometimes, when she’s tending to the graveyard or going for walks along the beach.

Trying to work up the nerve to talk to her.

Mr. Spencer is dead. He looks better than he did when I left him, though, like a wax figure instead of a corpse. Only the top half of the casket is open, which makes sense because I completely mangled him from the waist down with one of his tractors.

The memory makes me feel hot and distracted. I enjoyed it, the way I always enjoy killing for Uncle Nash. There’s something wrong with me, something so deep-rooted and choking that sometimes I feel like it might strangle me whole.

“How did you know the deceased?”

The voice is soft and musical, like church bells, but it floods me with panic because it belongs to Abilene. I jerk my head up and find her looking at me, which freezes me in place. I don’t think she’s ever looked at me before. When I watch her around town, I make sure she can’t see me.

Well, she’s seeing me now.

“I, um. Uh.” I’ve forgotten how to talk. Abilene watches me, waiting. I have to say something. “My, um, my uncle—”

“Don’t bother her, Rowan.” Uncle Nash’s voice is pleasant enough, but I hear the sharpness underneath it. “Ms. Snow is busy with the other guests.”

“Oh, he’s not being a bother.” Abilene smiles up at Uncle Nash, although it’s the forced smile that people use when they’re at work.

She flicks her eyes over to me, and my whole body shudders under her gaze.

I’m not used to it, having her eyes on me.

“I just want to make sure everyone’s comfortable. ”

“We’re fine. Aren’t we, Rowan?” Uncle Nash puts his hand on my shoulder and squeezes.

“Yes,” I say quickly, my heart thundering. She’s so beautiful up close, and I want to keep staring at her, memorizing every soft line of her face and sweeping curve of her body so I can think about them later.

“Of course, sir.” Abilene smiles at Uncle Nash again, thin and flimsy.

Then she smiles at me, and it’s brighter. Genuine. I smell something like the wild, lemony scent of the lantana that grows around Uncle Nash’s big, sprawling mansion in the center of town, and Abilene’s eyes sparkle a little as she looks up at me.

Then someone calls out Abilene’s name. Mr. Snow, the mortician. Abilene’s uncle, who’s been taking care of her ever since she moved to Rosado last year. That’s one of the things we have in common, that we’re both being raised by our uncles.

The other thing is that we’ve both killed someone.

Abilene’s smile turns apologetic, and she gives us—me?—a shy little wave before ducking over to her own uncle, who’s almost as tall as I am but much more gangly. He also seems kind. Kinder than Uncle Nash, anyway.

“Don’t bother people,” Uncle Nash says harshly, his hand still squeezing my shoulder as he pulls me away from the casket. He’s angry. I can feel his anger radiating off him like heat, and I know I fucked up.

Because he didn’t know I knew about Abilene Snow, the girl who killed a football player in Magnolia, two towns over. The one girl in this world who might not think I’m a monster. Now he does.

And he’s not going to let me near her ever again.

When we get back home after the funeral, Uncle Nash throws his arm over my shoulder, stopping me from going upstairs to my bedroom.

I’m still thinking about Abilene Snow, like I’ve been doing for the last hour, sneaking tiny little glances at her during the burial service.

She hung back during most of it, waiting beneath a sprawling pecan tree beside her uncle, watching everything with a clear, pleasant expression.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Uncle Nash says cheerfully, although he presses hard on the side of my neck, reminding me who’s really in charge.

“Upstairs,” I mutter.

“Nah.” He pulls me sideways, out of the foyer and into the living room. I stumble along with him, not fighting back. Fighting back gets me punished. “Nah, you’re going to have a celebratory drink with me.”

He pushes me down on the sofa and ambles over to the wet bar set into the wall, glass clinking as he takes down a decanter of whiskey.

“That motherfucker’s finally dead,” he says as he pours the drinks.

I watch him and don’t say anything. I know from experience that when he gets like this, it’s better to just go along with him.

Take the drink. Smile at his stupid jokes.

He’ll get bored of me eventually, and I can go hide away in my bedroom until he needs me again.

Uncle Nash turns around, holding a glass of whiskey in each hand. I hate whiskey. Hate alcohol in general, really. “Can you mix it with a Coke?” I ask.

“Can you mix it with a Coke?” Uncle Nash repeats in a nasally, mocking voice. “What are you, a girl? No, you’ll drink it straight.”

He shoves the glass at me, and I stare down at it as he settles into his big leather armchair and kicks out the footrest. He swirls the whiskey around, gazing happily over at the never-used fireplace. “You did good with that one,” he says. “Didn’t hear a single whisper of foul play at the funeral.”

I tilt the glass up so the whiskey presses to my lips, but I don’t take a drink. Uncle Nash knocks his back, of course, smacking his lips afterward. Something about the sound makes my skin crawl with a hot, prickling anger.

That’s been happening more and more lately with Uncle Nash.

“So why’d you want to go upstairs?” He looks over at me and grins. “Instead of celebrate a job well done?”

“I already celebrated that,” I mutter, which is true.

Whenever I kill someone particularly important for Uncle Nash, he’ll arrange for a woman to spend the night with me afterward.

The one he got as a thank you for Mr. Spencer had obviously been someone expensive.

She was as beautiful as a movie star and smiled at me like she meant it.

But I still thought about Abilene Snow as I thrust inside her, the way I always do.