Chapter 1
Chapter One
Walker
Fifteen years later. . .
I zip up my coveralls and tug on a beanie. With a click of my tongue and a flick of my chin, Sprocket jumps to his feet from where he’d been napping.
“You’re spoiled, you know that?” I scratch under his chin. “There are lots of dogs out there who don’t get beds in front of the warm stove.”
His tongue lolls out to the side as his head tips, listening for a word that means something to him. Unfortunately, there are only about a dozen or so of those, meaning he’s mostly just a big dumb animal. He’s a good companion though, and when there are times you don’t see another human for weeks, you need a companion to keep you sane.
“Come on, you big dope,” I say. “We need groceries.”
I pull on my gloves as I step outside, assessing the situation. Looks like only a foot or so of snow fell overnight, so I shouldn’t have a problem plowing. My bitches cluck as I near them, no doubt wanting some snacks, but first, I key in the code for the small utility shed and grab the snow broom. Their trilling continues as I dust off the solar panel on top of the coop.
“You bitches are lucky too.” After returning the broom to the shed, I make quick work of filling the automatic waterer before stepping inside to make sure everyone’s okay. “Some coops don’t have heat, and those chickens have to keep themselves warm.”
Even though it’s a cold day and there’s a dusting of snow over their run, I open the door so they have the choice of going out. They look at me like I’m crazy and turn their backs. My goats make themselves known then by bleating at me, so I finish up in the coop and head over to their enclosure. There’s a layer of ice on their outside water bucket, so I grab a shovel and break that up before refilling the hay feeder.
Sprocket would usually take this time to fuck with the chickens and goats like the shit stirrer he is, but he’s worried I’ll leave him behind when I head down the hill, so instead, he follows me closely.
“I take it you wanna go with me to the store?” I ask him, and the idiot barks as he spins in circles, stopping to jump on me as we walk to the carport with my truck that’s fit with a plow. I open the door to the cab, but he just keeps spinning like the weirdo he is. “All right. Guess I’ll see you down there.”
I give the truck a minute to warm up before lowering the blade and taking off down the hill. Sprocket chases after me with what looks like a huge-ass grin on his face, which makes me smile in return. The only road to my property is part private drive, part public, but since I’m the only one who drives it and there’s a single city employee to plow all of Culver Springs, it’s only fair I plow the whole of it.
When I reach the end of the drive, I lift the blade and open the door to the cab. Sprocket jumps right in and lies down, tired from his miles-long sprint. Being a herding breed, he rarely tires, and when he does, it only takes about a half-hour nap to recharge. I wish I had half his energy.
It’s a fifteen-minute drive down Culver Springs Road before I come to a fork. If I turn left onto Main Street, it’ll lead me out of Culver Springs. Turning right takes me downtown, which is where I need to go. I hate this time of year, when the roads are ugly and the sky is always dreary. In December, we get sun breaks, and the snow is white, fluffy, and magical, but now that we’re into January, it’s dark all the time, and the snow is just dirty piles of ugliness that line the roads.
“If you promise not to jump on any of the Geezers, I won’t make you wait here,” I say to Sprocket as I pull into the grocery store parking lot. He doesn’t answer me, but I pretend the absent look in his eyes is agreement and let him jump out of the truck. “Stay with me.”
Sprocket remains at my side until we reach the grocery store doors. I point for him to sit next to the newspaper stand painted blue with white lettering that says, “Take a paper, leave a dollar.” The population of Culver Springs is seven hundred and fifty-eight, and it shows. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to small-town living.
The newest paper is over a week old, and the stand is still nearly full. Maybe Micah finally shut it down. The thirty-something hipster who wears round, gold-framed glasses and is never seen without one of those newsboy hats bought the paper a couple years ago, despite the fact that the internet exists. He considers the printed news a dying art form he’s single-handedly keeping alive. He even manually prints the paper on an old-school press. Considering the geriatric age of most of the Culver Springs’ residents, he was probably profiting at first, but then one of the Geezers discovered Facebook. He started a community group to share news and taught the others how to use it. Because of that, newspaper sales plummeted.
Micah should’ve accepted defeat, but instead, he adapted by printing misleading and radical headlines that get people to buy one just to see how far-fetched the man has gone. Today, the top headline is Killing Spree Leads to Three Deaths . A quick scan of the first few lines has me shaking my head; the “three deaths” are Mrs. Brown’s tomato plants that caught some fungal disease and had to be dug up. This is followed by a few paragraphs about the dangers of Fungal Wilt Disease.
The rest of the paper is no doubt just as ridiculous, so I don’t waste the dollar. Plus, I’m a member of the Facebook group, where the real town news is exchanged.
“Mornin’, Walker,” Presley, who owns the store, calls out.
I give her a wave and shake a cart free from the return. Capitalism has no place for a town our size, so Presley only stocks one brand of each product. And by that, I mean whoever nags her the most about what brand they want is the one who decides what gets delivered.
I’ve lived here for fifteen years, and in that time, I haven’t left the area, but I still remember what grocery stores look like in big cities. Thinking about it now, having an entire aisle dedicated to cereal seems ridiculous. I stop in front of the three choices Presley stocks, all of which probably taste like cardboard. Last year, there were three heart episodes amongst the Geezers, so it was decided that only heart-healthy options would make it to the shelves.
Instead of cereal, I add a bag of oatmeal to my cart. At least I can doctor that up to taste decent.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you. How you been?” Presley asks as she wheels a cart full of boxes to restock.
“Good. Cold. Lookin’ forward to spring.”
She flashes me a beaming smile that does absolutely nothing for me. The number of single folks under the age of sixty here is extremely limited, so I should be flattered by Presley’s attention and maybe even pursue her. Any hot-blooded, straight man would jump at the chance to do just that. Unfortunately, the baggage I carry requires its own zip code, so I don’t return her flirting.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monk. But should I need the attention of a female, I travel to a neighboring town where we both know the score: one night of multiple orgasms, no information exchanged and no repeats. Presley is not that type of girl. She’s the kind who wants monogamy with the hope of a future.
My mouth goes dry, and suddenly, this innocent conversation is making me want to sprint out the door. Relationships aren’t for me. I like having my own space, and unlike most people, I enjoy my own company and never feel the need to change that. I have a few friends I hang out with now and then, and I have Sprocket. They’re all I need.
Speaking of my friends, the bell on the door rings, and seconds later, Ridge appears. We’ve been mistaken for brothers enough times for me to know we look a lot alike, but that could just be because our abundance of brown facial hair hides most of our faces. That, and we’re both about two months overdue for a haircut.
The similarity ends with our appearance, though. I grew up poor, raised by a single mom who worked two jobs and was hardly ever around, which means I’m rough around the edges and have street smarts engrained in my DNA. Ridge, however, grew up rich as fuck. He attended the best schools, lived in real-life mansions, and has a trust fund so big, it’ll make your head spin. Or I guess he had a trust fund. He walked away from that life years ago, cut off everyone and everything in it.
Now, he’s what most call a tortured artist. He spends his days locked up in his house of windows and paints. Despite his best efforts to become a nameless hobbit, his paintings have received a lot of attention over the last few years, and now his art is in high demand. He only sells one when he needs the cash, though, which only drives up the price.
“You must have the same idea as me,” I say, stacking some canned beans in my cart.
“The system moving in looks nasty.” He reaches out to shake my hand.
“How you been?”
“Still alive. You?”
“I’m good; enjoying the last few weeks of winter because once the snow clears, things’ll get busy.”
“We should probably plan an SAR meeting soon. I don’t know about you but I have a couple certifications to renew as well.”
“The whole town is grateful for you four,” Preston says from my other side.
As if just noticing the woman restocking shelves next to me, Ridge gives Presley a chin lift. Like me, he has no desire to pursue the beautiful store owner. Hell, he doesn’t even come to the bar with me and our other friends on the rare occasion we go trolling. For all I know, the man is a monk.
“Gotta do something to keep ourselves entertained,” I say, the bell on the door momentarily stealing my attention.
“Even so, Wilder was already spread thin without having to trek through the forest every damn day to find some amateur hiker.” She leans over, resting her elbows on a box.
“What about me?” Wilder appears from around the corner, wearing his dumb-ass tan sheriff’s uniform, complete with a gold star that isn’t even real gold. It’s basically a toy.
“Presley was just telling us how indebted you are to me for starting the Search and Rescue team.” I flash a cocky grin.
“Whatever. I was fine without you.” He turns his attention to Ridge, shaking his hand. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Too bad we couldn’t keep that streak going,” Ridge says in a joking tone.
“What the fuck ever. You love it when I’m around.”
“Are you stocking up before the storm too?” I ask.
“Nah, I’m all set. Just saw your trucks in the parking lot and thought I’d see what was what.”
The bell on the door dings again, and Presley chimes in. “Anyone want to bet that’s Rowan?”
“Seems we all have the same idea.” Rowan looks between us, tucking his hands in his pockets.
“Not me. I don’t wait until the last minute,” Wilder says, all smug-like.
“Yeah, yeah. We get it. You’re so much better at adulting than us.” I roll my eyes.
“What do you want? A cookie?” Ridge pulls a pack of cookies off the shelf and tosses them to Wilder. “Here’s thirty of them.”
“I would never eat these. Do you know how many preservatives are in there?” He puts them back on the shelf, generating a chorus of laughter.
“Isn’t it exhausting being so good all the time, Sheriff?” Presley struts down the aisle. As she passes Wilder, she pats his chest, lowering her voice into something seductive. “Sometimes, it’s fun to be bad.”
“Oh, shit,” I call out, and Rowan hoots.
Surprising us all, Wilder smirks. “I can be bad when I want. You just name the time and place, Pres.”
“Promises, promises.” She disappears behind a display.
“One day, she’s gonna take you up on all your flirting,” I say.
“Nah. She’s like my sister.”
“If that’s true, then you just hit on your sister.” Rowan’s face pinches up in disgust.
“That’s sick, man,” I say.
Wilder’s brows lift nearly to his hairline. “I said she was ‘like’ my sister, not my real sister.”
“Sister fucker.” Ridge points to Wilder in one of the rare moments he joins in on the teasing.
Wilder opens his mouth to argue but is cut off by the bell on the door. Again . “Now who’s here?”
“Walker! You have a visitor,” Presley calls out.
“A visitor?” I mutter. “That’s weird.”
I make my way up to the front of the store, my three friends following close behind. Nosey fuckers.
Presley is facing me as she engages in conversation with a customer. I can’t tell who it is, since they have their back to me, but it’s obviously a woman. I don’t recognize her as a local. Her long, curly blonde hair hangs free, and she’s about Presley’s height, so I’d say five-five or so. She’s wearing a flannel shirt and a black vest that ends right above where her hip-hugging jeans begin. The way the denim forms to her shapely ass has my cock taking notice. Sometimes I break my rule to not fuck where I live for a tourist, and if this woman is single, I might have to make a move.
Then I hear her raspy voice, and I falter, memories hitting me all at once. I know that voice, but it can’t be here right now. No one knows where I am, not even my own mother. I moved here on a whim fifteen years ago and haven’t reached out to anyone from my old life. She laughs at something Presley says, and my heart attempts to pound right out of my chest while all the air leaves my lungs.
“There he is.” Presley gestures in my direction and says to me, “She says she’s an old friend.”
Almost in slow motion, the woman in question turns to face me. I go back and forth between wanting it to be her and praying it’s not until the decision is made for me, and I see her face, confirming her identity. Her hooded eyes narrow, hiding the depth of those green eyes I’d know anywhere, and her full lips make a straight line, hiding the two little dimples that appear when she smiles.
“Skylar?” I breathe out, noticing the slight changes age has given her as recognition crosses her features.
“Walker.” She covers her mouth with a hand as her eyes gloss over.
Fuck, she’s just as beautiful now as she was back then, back when she broke my heart. Even more so, if that’s possible. My attraction to this woman is more than physical. There’s something deep down in my soul that has been drawn to her since the first time I saw her. It’s that part of me that has my feet moving, inching closer. She does the same until we’re just feet away from each other.
My mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. She’s hoping this will be a happy reunion—it’s written all over her face as her brows lift and her lips curve into a small smile.
Say something, asshole. She’s taking point from you.
So I do, saying the first thing that comes to mind. “The fuck are you doing here?”