8. Zee
Lion - Saint Mesa
When Larry drives off, it gives me just enough time to shove the glove compartment shut.
A gust of wind blows into the cab as he opens the door, but it doesn’t blow the memory of those words away.
Your day of reckoning is coming.
What in the actual hell?
When he studies me, brow arched, I ask, “Why are we stopping here?”
“I’m going to supply my future bride with butter tarts.”
I put him off with: “Don’t you remember I’m a type 1 diabetic.”
“Yes, but I also knowyou can eat Harry’s pastries so long as you watch your carbs and blood sugar level.”
“How do you know that?”
“Attended a class years ago,” he says as he leans over to unfasten my seatbelt for me.
The chivalrous gesture takes me aback, but it shouldn’t—I’m in Pigeon Creek and have rewound my life to the 1950s.
He barely touched me, yet wherever there was a point of contact, I can feel a tingle.
A tingle.
Though that tingle might just be the fact he took a class for diabetes management…
He had to have done that for me.
My jaw works but I mutter, “Fine.”
“Though Old Harry does have a sugar-free range if you want to try some of those products instead. He went and got type 2 diabetes. He has a gluten-free range too. That might have started with Callan’s diagnosis,” he says dryly. “Callan probably props up the bakery more than anyone in Pigeon Creek.”
Man, I forgot that’s how it works here.
Everyone knows everyone’s business.
Secrets are currency and information is king.
And if you can provide a service to the Korhonens, you do because they’ll reward you.
As there’s no reason for me not to, I jump onto the asphalt too, suddenly aware of the height difference between us.
He’s over six feet five and I’m not exactly short at five-ten, but I feel like it while I’m in his shadow.
He smells better this close.
Not that I should notice.
Yet I’m reminded of what it’s like to stand next to him. To feel his heat. It pipes off him as if he’s his own geyser.
When I was younger, I’d hug him for warmth and he’d think nothing of hugging me in return.
All these years later, I know he treated me like a sibling whereas I looked at him with hero worship. Adoration. I’d loved him with all the fervor my teenage heart was capable of.
I never realized how he let me in until he locked me out in the cold.
That hurt.
It was, in fact, the worst part of my exile. If he’d believed in me, I’d have endured the town’s hatred.
But he didn’t.
He blamed me.
So he broke my heart.
Clearing my throat when he settles his hand at the small of my back—a respectable level, not too high or too low—those damn tingles kick in again. Never mind that the ache of his abandonment is clogging my throat.
I let him guide me to the bakery as if I need the assistance, which is further proof my sanity has taken a vacation.
Then, it all goes down the crapper when we cross the sidewalk, and a woman darts past us, almost barreling into me before righting her path at the last minute. Colt pauses, watching her go. His gaze drifts behind us, eyes narrowing.
Uncertain what the problem is, I ask, “Is something wrong?”
I recognized her from school—Bea Hollier.
I never liked her.
She used to pick on Tee something fierce until I got in her face. The town’s hatred gave me a backbone ironically enough. No way in hell was I letting anyone talk smack about the one person who kept me going.
He shoots me a smile. “No, nothing’s wrong.”
His mask wins a solid score of eight out of ten.
It doesn’t make it easier to relax around him though.
What was it about Bea that had him pausing in his tracks?
The last thing I heard about her was that she married that douche canoe—Marvin Grantley. To my mind, they’d always suited one another. Both of them had a far too high opinion of themselves.
“Do you have something going on with her?” I demand because I can’t imagine what else has him so concerned.
It doesn’t fit, though. He wasn’t checking her out. I’ve seen enough guys on the prowl and his expression wasn’t interested—it was worried.
“No.” He settles a measured look upon me. “While I’m with you, I won’t be with anyone else.”
I guess that’s reassuring.
“I wasn’t?—”
“Yeah, you were. You’re thinking I’m like my dog of a father. I can tell you now, Zee, I’ve never cheated on any of my partners.”
More reassurance.
But it’s not in the vein I was hoping for.
I’m still confused and annoyed, though he appeased a potential future issue that would have us being at the epicenter of a gossip-fueled whirlwind.
“If you’re going to check someone out when you’re with me, then you’d better be more discreet.”
“I wasn’t checking her out. Didn’t you see the bruise on her face?” His tone is calm though I’ve definitely pissed him off.
He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. Just urges me onward.
I notice more than he’d like because I see him flick a glance at the street as he closes the door behind us.
Was Bea bruised?
I genuinely don’t remember. She was walking too damn fast for it to register.
“—you hear? The bank’s foreclosing on Lydia Armstrong’s house. So sad,” Hilary Browne comments, sounding anything but sad. “Why, I went to visit her yesterday and she was in the middle of packing!”
“Where’s she moving—” Harry, the owner of the bakery, breaks off when he sees us. “Colton! You finally decided to come and sample my new recipe?”
I almost jump at Harry’s easy tone. I’d expected him to be flustered. Much as he’d have been if Clyde had walked in.
While I side-eye Colt, he grins. Not at me. But Harry. “It isn’t as simple as I’d like to come to town, Harry.” To Hilary, he tips his head. “Pleasure to see you, Mrs. Browne.”
She preens. “And you, Colton. My daughter was telling me about the new office expansion at HQ and how you promoted her.” The older woman cuts a look at Harry, making certain he heard about said office expansion as well as the promotion.
That assertion was better than putting it on pigeoncreekherald.com. It’ll certainly be passed around the town sooner than its editor can update the website.
“She’s one of the best at her job,” is Colt’s bland reply. To Harry, he asks, “How’s the foot?”
Sensing the dismissal, Hilary packs her items into a tote.
My mind’s still stuck on her first piece of gossip though: Lydia Armstrong’s having to move?
Her daughter, Marcy, used to be close to Tee and me in school. But when we were sixteen, and not long after the fire, she ran away.
To this day, no one has ever heard from her.
A few tried to pin the arson on her. Using her absence as ‘proof’ of guilt. But it hadn’t stuck.
How could it?
She didn’t set fire to the stables.
Only I and the perpetrator know who did.
Hilary makes to leave but as she passes me, she hisses, “You’re not welcome here, arsonist.”
It’s not the first time someone’s told me that. Hell, it’s part of the reason I can count on one hand how often I’ve visited Pigeon Creek in the past ten years. But my teeth still grind together at the insult.
I let it go though. What choice do I have?
“Hilary,” Colt barks, making both of us jump.
Like a little girl with her hand caught in the cookie jar, Hilary freezes on the doorstep. One foot outside, the other in.
Her head slowly turns to face us, sporting a placid if confused smile. “Yes, Colton?”
“I don’t appreciate you hurling crude statements like that around. What happened is in the past. Not only was Susanne a child, but she didn’t do it. I myself spoke on her behalf.” His eyes narrow on the older woman. “I like it even less when people toss insults at my close friends or imply that I’m a liar.”
Hilary’s eyes bug, but that’s nothing to mine. Or Harry’s.
The baker looks as if all his gossip-boy dreams have come to life on the same day.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean!”
“I heard what you said.” Colton’s timbre shoots straight through me.
His defense is appreciated, but God if it isn’t ten years too late.
“I didn’t say a word!”
“I don’t like liars. ‘You’re not welcome here, arsonist.’ That was what you said. Do you still deny it?”
Hilary’s throat bobs, but I can tell from the pinch of her lips she’s going to stick to her lie. “I said nothing of the kind. You must be mistaken.”
I release a sigh loaded with exhaustion that’s a decade old. “You don’t have to do this, Colton.”
His nostrils flare as he pins me with a glance. “Yes. I do.” To Hilary, he warns, “Poisonous words affect the speaker as much as they do the recipient.
“You’d be wise to hold your tongue. Ms. McAllister might not be able to afford a lawyer, but I can. Dealing with a lawsuit for slander can be a costly exercise.”
This time, her mouth wobbles at the threat. Because that’s exactly what it is—a promise, too.
She knows it and is quick to rasp, “I-I’m sorry, Ms. McAllister.”
I dip my chin. That’s all I’m capable of.
She stays there, hovering, her gaze darting to Colt, but he looks at me as if I’m in control of this matter.
Right.
With a huff, I mutter, “Give my best to Mr. Browne, ma’am.”
She takes that as the offer of escape it is. Hilary darts away like a frightened rabbit, though not once did Colt raise his voice.
He ignores how I scowl at him and instead prods Harry with a repeated: “How’s the foot?”
Harry goes with the flow like the pro he is. “They’re talking about amputating it! Goddamn diabetes. Had fewer carbs than one of those keto people for the past two years and it’s still winning the battle.
“Anyway, less of that doom and gloom. How do you feel about sampling some not-so-sugary sugar cookies?”
My brows lift in intrigue.
Tee was right—I am a masochist. The cookies I bake always use sugar because sugar alternatives, while affordable, aren’t as cheap. And though I can eat them with careful carb management, Tee’s the one who wolfs them down the most so why would I make her suffer their laxative effects?
Colt smiles at me. It’s more genuine this time. “You ready to sample some?”
“Sounds good to me,” I tell him, discreetly checking my CGM and blood sugar level on my phone.
Once I see they’re normal, I input the carbs I guesstimate are in butter tarts and sugar cookies.
Honestly, I’m the world’s best guesser.
Living by the dots is a never-ending balancing act.
There were times after the fire, I used to ignore the alerts. Only Tee checking on the app and not letting me get away with murder kept me in line.
She’s the reason I’m alive today.
When the closed loop between my CGM and the pump is triggered, it gives me a reading on how much insulin I need so I hit okay.
Harry peers at me over his glasses. “Forgot you were a diabetic, Suzy McAllister.”
“Wish I could,” I say lightly.
“Long time since you’ve been in town.” His words are polite—but after that display, he’d have to be insane to talk down to me.
Like he usually does.
“Didn’t think you’d recognize me, Mr. Lippard,” I mock, though I keep my expression blank.
“I never forget a face. Still, it’s probably for the best you’ve come to visit. Your grandmother’s not been doing so well and those brothers of yours are out of control.
“Why, Calder’s started tagging. Colt knows?—”
My brain screeches to a halt. All thoughts of the strange interlude out on the street, the stranger one in here, and Lydia Armstrong’s fate fade at this news.
Disapprovingly, Colt frowns at him. “It’s all handled, Harry.”
“What is?” I urge. “What did Calder tag?”
“We dealt with it in-house,” Colt reassures me.
I’m learning that his reassurances leave me wanting.
“Dealt with what?!”
“Calder tagged our barn,” he says simply then, in my ear, whispers, “Much as I like Harry, he’s the biggest gossip in town. Let’s not give him fodder for the masses, hmm?”
It’s too late though—Harry has some gossip.
When I look at him, I can see him calculating precisely how close the pair of us are standing. How Colt has his hand pressed against my back still. The intimacy of that gesture where his lips brushed my ear as he imparted his message. Never mind the fact Colt threatened Hilary Browne with a lawsuit and called me a close friend.
Because he’s a top-tier gossipmonger, Harry smiles (innocently, HA!) when he notices me give him the side-eye.
He snags a cane and hobbles off his chair before crossing the shop with a deft spryness as he beckons us closer, singing, “Come with me!”
“If we owe you anything for the damage,” I tell Colt as Harry disappears behind a beaded curtain, “then please, let me know.”
Colt rolls his eyes. “As if I’m going to charge my future wife on account of my future brother-in-law acting up.
“It’s fine. We painted over it and he cleaned out our barns for a month solid for free.”
Though I frown, I let him guide me away from the counter with that damn hand of his at the small of my back.
When he bows his head, I study him, not wanting to think about the flecks of gray in his eyes or how his aftershave scents the air around me.
“How long’s it been since you last saw your brothers?”
“A while,” I confess. “We talk often though. Couple times a week. They never mentioned anything about tagging.”
“Why would they? Juliette already reamed Calder a new one. Might not be a bad thing that you’re coming home. Harry’s right—they’ve been acting up.”
“They’re as frightened of Grand-mère as I am,” I dismiss, though I admit I’m worried.
Tagging the Korhonen barn might not be a serious offense, but if Clyde were in charge, he’d have had the RCMP throw the book at Calder.
“Juliette’s not the powerhouse she used to be.”
The words hurt. A lot. I noticed that for myself though so I can’t deny I know what he’s talking about.
“They never listen to me, so I don’t know what miracles I’m supposed to reap. Case in point our contract. They didn’t warn me ahead of time.” Jerks.
“Firstly, Juliette probably threatened them with pain of death if they warned you. Secondly, you don’t need them to listen to you. They’re the same age as Callan. I can handle them if you’ll let me.”
My brow furrows as I brake to a halt. “Why would you do that?”
“Because they need to do something and letting them stew is doing nothing for no one.” He heaves a sigh at my confusion. “I was eighteen once. And I’ve steered my brothers through that age without any of them ending up in a jail cell either. Plus, there’s always plenty of work to be done on ranches the size of ours.”
“Then why hasn’t Grand-mère gotten them so busy they’re too exhausted to cause mischief?”
He hitches a shoulder. “They sneak off.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I made it my business to know. Now, come on before Harry gets more food for the gossip mill.”
Still, before he can step away, I grab his arm. “You can’t humiliate everyone who calls me names. The town’ll be empty?—”
“They say it loud enough for me to hear, I’ll do something about it. I never realized—” He shakes his head. “Naive of me to think you wouldn’t bear the brunt of it in town. I’m sorry.”
The simple apology—his second in twenty minutes—has me reeling.
“I know words don’t help, not when it’s words that are the problem.” He reaches for the hand still clinging onto his forearm. “I can’t fix our past, but I can make things better.”
“This is insane.” I jerk free of his hold. “You believed them this morning!”
“That was before I thought you were going to kill yourself in the lake,” he says simply, freezing me in place.
“I’m not suicidal.”
“You were depressed when you were younger. It’s half the reason I always made sure I was in the stables on Tuesdays and Fridays,” he murmurs, voice low enough that Harry couldn’t overhear our conversation with an ear horn.
I grow tense at the reminder. “That was then.”
“That was the last time I saw you. How was I to know? The contract might have tipped you over the edge.”
“I’m a lot stronger than you think.”
“Oh, Zee, I know that.” His gaze is soft as it settles on me. “Doesn’t mean that I can’t support you. Isn’t that what partners are supposed to do?”
“We’re not partners.”
His mouth twitches into a smile. “Will be soon.”
“This is too little, too late, dammit.”
“Never too late. Unless you’re getting soil tossed on your casket. We gotta start somewhere.”
He doesn’t let me reply. Just steers me deeper into the bakery, his hand settling on the small of my back again.
It’s a possessive hold.
Impossible to deny that this time.
Though I don’t understand his game, I don’t shrug away. If I do, Harry’s inquisitive eyes will track the movement.
Instead, I sample the only sugar-free sugar cookie I’ve ever eaten that doesn’t make me dry heave. The sugar-free butter tart isn’t for me though. I take half a bite then enjoy a regular one which is so damn good it’s worth dealing with the aftermath.
It’s then, while Harry explains sugar alcohols to a seemingly fascinated Colton, that it begins to register there’s something more going on here. Something that the interlude with Hilary Browne disrupted.
When we’re done with Harry’s, he guides me to The Coffee Shop before stopping in first at the local drugstore. I stick around because, frankly, I’m curious.
First Harry, then Jocelyn who’s been running The Coffee Shop for over three decades—neither of them is hesitant in his presence.
They’re polite and cheerful. Kind and chatty.
It’s been a long while since I’ve seen the town respond to Clyde’s presence, but I remember it’s as if a plague had drifted into Pigeon Creek.
Every store owner sees me with him. His hand on my back or shoulder. His body turned toward me.
Harry and Jocelyn are the worst gossips in town.
He’s doing this for a reason, and I’m not that much of a fool that I don’t figure out his game by the time we’re ordering a coffee and he heads to the bathroom, for the first time leaving me alone.
That’s when the shit hits the fan.
Lydia Armstrong drops off our order, snarling the standard greeting, “You’re not welcome here, arsonist.”
After the day I’ve had, she’s so far down on my list of problems that I laugh in her face. Unfortunately for me, she takes it as a provocation and she spits, literally spits,in my coffee. Automatically, I snag the glass of water she brought me and toss it over her head.
Two can play that game.
I shove the mug at her, uncaring that coffee sloshes over the rim, leaving more of a mess for her to clean. “Get me another coffee.”
“No.”
“I’m sure Jocelyn would love to hear how you’re a public health hazard.”
“Who is?”
Lydia tenses at Colt’s interruption, but I continue staring at her. “Get me another coffee, Lydia.”
Overhearing that conversation in Harry’s lets me know she can’t afford to lose this job, but Lydia’s obviously been swallowing crazy pills if she thinks she can spit in someone’s coffee and get away with it.
Her mouth tightens. “I don’t think I will.”
When I jerk to my feet, my gaze cuts to Jocelyn who’s making pastry like always. Our presence has garnered her attention as well as the rest of the patrons’.
“While I don’t expect you to fire Lydia, Jocelyn, you should know that she thinks it’s okay to spit in people’s coffees.”
“She did what?” Colt’s hand settles on my shoulder. Not holding me in place or restricting my movement, but, together, we present a united front.
“She spat in my coffee.”
He tugs on my elbow. “Let’s get out of here.” As we step past a frozen Lydia, he growls, “Jocelyn, the next time I’m in here, I don’t want to see Lydia serving food or drink to the public.”
I can’t feel bad for the woman.
Maybe I should turn the other cheek, but nobody has ever turned their cheek for me inside these town limits.
A touch dumbly, Jocelyn nods.
Colt guides me out of the coffee shop. “You tell me if anything like that happens again.”
It’s an order.
And it’s one I don’t mind agreeing to.
There have to be some perks to becoming Mrs. Colton Korhonen. Still, I want to hear the words straight from his mouth:
“What purpose did dragging me down Main Street serve aside from letting you witness my humiliation?”