Married With Lies

Prologue

PROLOGUE

SADIE

L ike everyone else, I lie to myself now and then.

Most of these lies are small and harmless, like repeating, “I am NOT afraid of horses,” over and over via a comforting inner monologue.

After all, horses are wonderful, majestic creatures. They weigh around a thousand pounds. Their heads can be as large as truck tires. They could theoretically stomp my skull into a bloody pulp before my stumpy legs even have time to flinch.

Not that I’ve ever given a horse any reason to stomp on my head. Murderous horses aren’t a thing, not even in fiction. This would have come up somewhere in the thousands of books I’ve read if it were truly something to stress about.

If I’d been born a country girl there’s no doubt I’d feel a lot more comfortable around horses but I have to work at this life. Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing it right.

Anyone who meets me now might laugh to hear that I was raised in a posh Long Island mansion where I never even did my own laundry.

There were no horses or animals of any kind on my father’s estate. He would even force the gardener to set traps for the wild grey squirrels because they ate the tulip bulbs. Many of my childhood hours were spent finding the squirrel traps and disabling them.

But today is far too lovely to waste it by brooding over my father and other unpleasant things. It’s nearly spring.

The ground is still bare and at this hour of the morning my breath puffs out in white clouds.

Yet a hint of something indefinable sits in the air. A honeyed promise of the coming season that I can taste on the walk from the house to the barn.

At the sound of my heavy footsteps, the horses stir in their stalls. All the animals at the sanctuary are rescues, all with their own stories. Many of them are sad stories.

“Good morning everyone,” I say as if I’ve just walked into an office full of cranky coworkers. “How are we today?”

An angry snort to my right demands attention. The chestnut head of an ornery stallion hangs out of the nearest stall, one black eye regarding me with open suspicion.

“Hello to you too, Wylie.” Slowly and against my better judgment, I extend a hand. I sure hope I don’t lose a finger. I’d hate to see my most irrational terror confirmed.

Wylie lets me keep my fingers. He turns his face to the side and kicks the stall door. I can’t blame him for being unfriendly. He’s had a tough life. He might think that I don’t know what I’m doing. He’d be right. The horses are a new addition to the ranch.

The sound of rhythmic crunching echoes from multiple directions. Clearly, someone has already been here and filled the oat pails.

I’m not surprised.

Sometimes the volunteers arrive before sunrise. They are welcome at the ranch any time of the day or night. Without the help of the volunteers, we wouldn’t be able to accomplish half as much.

With the horses fed and the stalls clean and Wylie eyeballing me with caution, there’s not much I can do right now in the barn. Meanwhile, next door there’s an outbreak of joyous barking. The dogs are awake.

I’ve named the stout building The Doghouse because there is no limit to my cleverness. My heart bleeds for all creatures, especially the neglected and unwanted ones. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have favorites. My favorites are dogs.

As I walk in, they are squirming and ecstatic, each one eager for a greeting, a scratch behind the ears and a treat from the deep pocket of my thick cardigan.

All the ranch buildings, including The Doghouse, have received significant facelifts in recent months. The temperature in here is warm, nearly toasty, thanks to additional insulation and an expensive new heating system. Instead of rustic caged pens, our newly remodeled dog runs could compete with any pricy pet resort.

Even as I scan the upgrades with deep satisfaction I’m confronted with an uneasy fact. There’s a financial source for all these improvements.

Right now I’d rather not dwell on that source.

“Morning, Miz Wingate,” chirps a voice from the far side of the room.

At the end of a long row of dog runs, Jasper Reyes holds a gigantic push broom and wears a sheepish grin.

Good kid. Exceedingly polite. Insists on calling me Miz Wingate, even though the title makes me feel like I ought to be reminding a classroom full of kids to do their algebra homework.

“You’re here early,” I say while scratching the ears of a sweet one-eyed German Shepherd named Betsy.

“Yeah.” Jasper sets the broom against the wall and stuffs his hands in his pockets. His clothes are the same ones he wore yesterday. A junior in high school, he’s been volunteering here since I opened Bright Hearts Ranch over two years ago. “Things weren’t too cool at home last night.”

Betsy whines when I stop scratching her ears. I hand over another biscuit as consolation. “What happened?”

“Mom’s got a new boyfriend. We don’t really get along so I decided not to stick around. She doesn’t care. It’s okay. I stretched out in the utility room and took a nap.”

“How long have you been here?”

Another shrug and an evasive frown. “Awhile.”

“Jasper, you should have knocked on the door. I meant it when I said you are welcome to stay with us anytime you need to. You know Peggy doesn’t mind.”

The eighty-year-old woman who showed up one day to volunteer and never left occupies the guest suite attached to the main house. Peggy isn’t fond of many humans but she has a soft spot for Jasper. Without Peggy, I’d spend many hours curled into the fetal position and sobbing my overwhelmed heart out. She’s indispensable.

He chews on his lip and shifts his weight. “It was only a few hours. I was fine.”

I’m bothered by the idea of the kid walking all the way out here in the middle of the night. The small town of Sleepy Rock is only a ten minute journey in my rumbling pickup truck. However, for a teenager on foot in the dark and the cold it’s another matter.

He pushes his unruly mop of hair from his eyes and heads off any other questions I might ask with one of his own. “Is the Doc gonna be here today?”

The ‘Doc’ is Dr. Augusta Edelstein. To the folks of Sleepy Rock, Colorado, she’s the third generation town veterinarian. To me, she’s just Gus. My closest friend. We share a love of animals and regency romance and jelly donuts.

“She’ll be stopping by this afternoon to give the puppies a round of distemper vaccinations.”

“Cool. You think she’d mind if I asked some more questions about veterinary school?”

I give him a grin. “I know she wouldn’t mind at all.”

The dogs are still squirming and pleading for attention when there’s a sudden outbreak of sharp barking. Peppered in there are also a few low growls.

“Who’s that?” Jasper gestures.

The figure of a lone man stands just inside the closed metal gate at the end of the long ribbon of driveway. Even from here it’s clear he’s a tall man. Formidable. He wears a dark suit and sways on his feet.

I can feel my mouth fall open. Of all the things I expected to see when I woke up this morning, the man at the gate wouldn’t have been anywhere on my list.

Not because I’ve forgotten about him. He’s not a man you could possibly forget about.

But seeing him here is like watching a cat stand on two legs and recite the alphabet. It’s just not something that should happen.

Jasper sees my reaction. “What’s wrong?”

My vocal cords have frozen. All I can manage is a wordless rasp.

Jasper’s head whips back just in time to see the man in the suit crumple to the ground. “Oh shit,” he says.

The sight of the man lying in the dirt is enough to shake me from my trance. I take off at a full sprint, dog treats spilling from my pockets like oversized breadcrumbs.

Jasper moves much faster and streaks past me. He reaches the unconscious man first and skids to a stop. “He’s alive. You know him or something?”

I fall to my knees and press two fingers just beneath a rough, stubbled jaw. Somehow I’m never prepared to confront just how handsome he is. His skin is clammy but the pulse is strong. “Yes, I know him.”

At the sound of my voice his brow furrows. He opens his eyes, always startling in their green ferocity.

“Scraps,” he croaks. “There you are.” His mouth pulls into a grimace and his body stiffens with obvious pain.

Something is very wrong.

Obviously.

The strongest, most fearsome man I’ve ever met is flat on his back in my driveway.

“Call 911,” I say to Jasper.

Then I yelp when my wrist is grabbed.

“Don’t. Do. THAT.”

Even when borderline unconscious he manages to sound like a general on the battlefield. There’s never any room for arguments when it comes to Cale Connelly. He expects his word will be final. I’m sure it usually is.

“Cale.” I twist free of his grip and place my palm on his forehead. “You need help.”

Those intense eyes don’t shift from my face. “No hospital. No cops.”

With a jerk of his hand, he flings open the jacket of his expensive suit. A button gets ripped off and lands four feet away but there are much bigger things to worry about.

The lower right side of Cale’s shirt is soaked with blood. I hear Jasper’s sharp intake of breath. My hand flies to my mouth. When I spot the small hole in his shirt I understand the reason for the blood.

Now I know why he won’t go to the hospital. A gunshot wound would mean questions. There are likely a thousand reasons why Cale Connelly steers clear of law enforcement and none of them are good.

While I’m processing this, Cale grimaces and he manages to rise to a sitting position. Then he tips over again, nearly face planting into the driveway.

Jasper is staring at me with wide eyes. “Who the hell is this dude?”

Cale hears the question and even though he’s dizzy and bleeding and clinging to the real world, the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement. “Tell him, Scraps. Tell him who I am.”

Got to give him credit. He sure picked a great time to get under my skin.

I narrow my eyes at him before answering Jasper’s question through gritted teeth. “He’s my husband.”

Jasper blinks. “Your what ?”

In spite of being frighteningly close to death’s door, Cale belts out a loud laugh. A laugh . Lucky for him I’ve committed to a personal crusade of self-improvement. One of my goals is to remain calm in the face of adversity.

This qualifies as adversity.

I glare at him to get the message across that nothing about this is funny.

Anyway, who does he think he is?

We had a deal. Yet he’s here, full of blood and bullet holes and ready to ransack my life.

Cale tries to stand and his face goes pale. A spike of terror pierces my senses. I don’t know anything about gunshot wounds but I’m sure there’s never an upside to having a hole in your body. It’s almost impossible to think of Cale as vulnerable but he’s lost a lot of blood, he’s obviously in pain and I can’t let him die out here by the gate.

Or anywhere else.

No, Cale Connelly isn’t allowed to die at all.

The sharp fear turns to something else. Something more complicated that I don’t have time to sort out right now.

There’s a decision to be made and without thinking twice I’ve made it.

“Come on.” I slide my arm around Cale’s waist but have no luck trying to lift him. “Jasper, help me get him up and into the house.”

Jasper says nothing as he moves to Cale’s other side. Together, we help Cale to his feet and then the three of us stagger toward the house. This is no easy task, lugging a six-foot-two, bleeding, muscled mafia hitman.

However, if I said that I didn’t know how on earth I got to be in this position then I’d be lying.

I know exactly how I got here.

Not too long ago, Carmine Connelly made me an offer.

And, as the saying goes, it was an offer I couldn’t refuse.