6
Best friends
Lawson’s Landing, mid-September
Rafferty loosened the twine that held the fragrant roses together.
It fluttered to the rocks edging the tributary, one end lapping the water.
Water soaked the hemp, dragging it into the fast-flowing stream.
He watched until the tie disappeared farther along before casting his eyes to the cloudless sky.
The pale blue reminded him of Charlie’s eyes.
“Guess you’re not happy with me right now. ”
He gave a bittersweet laugh, his vision blurring.
“I am not happy with you, Rafferty Lawson,” she’d say in her prim accent when he had done something to disappoint her.
“My beautiful English rose,” he whispered.
She’d personified grace and beauty.
He’d done nothing to deserve her love.
She should’ve gotten rid of his sorry, ungrateful ass the first time he abused her trust.
But she had stuck by him. Time and again.
First as a friend, then lover. And wife for a few days.
He’d known keeping her in his life was wrong, yet he’d never been able to sever that tie.
Charlotte Carlson had been a light in his dark world.
A reminder that the work he did in the corrupt underbelly of society made a difference.
Drugs taken off the streets; illegal weapons smuggling routes shut down; countless humans saved from trafficking. Criminals brought to justice.
She had been proud of him. Proud .
Damn him to hell.
In the end, he’d killed her.
Literally. Giving the medical staff permission to switch off the machines that breathed life into her had been the hardest decision of his life.
He’d been a person of interest right from the moment he reported her missing to the Klamath ranger’s office. And when she had been found two days later, unconscious, viciously beaten, the police had arrested him.
Diabetic wife left for dead in a remote national forest mere days after a hasty Vegas wedding …
Sole beneficiary of a substantial life policy …
Criminal record …
The police questioned him for two days before releasing him. He’d rushed to her bedside, hoping for a miracle. Instead, he’d signed the consent forms to pull the plug on her life, snuffing out the sunshine of his world.
He’d stood at the back of the chapel during her memorial service, vowing to hunt and destroy the persons responsible for her death. It had taken him a year to finally pinpoint the culprit, and then another to hunt and end the man.
And here he was, three years after her death, finally home.
Finally able to pay tribute to the woman who had stood by him despite his many shortcomings.
“I am so fucking sorry,” he said, stepping into the stream, his voice thick with emotion.
Cool water gushed by his calves, and he lifted the flowers to his face, breathing in the heady scent.
The highly fragrant red, old English rose variety had been Charlie’s favorite bloom.
They’d been hard to source but thank goodness the florist in town had come through for him.
With reverence, he leaned down, laid the flowers on the surface, and released his grip.
The rough current separated the crimson blooms, spreading the love they represented across the surface as they flowed away.
He lifted his hand to his mouth and blew a kiss, blinking rapidly.
Blowing kisses had been her thing.
He’d never see her do it again.
Straightening, he thought back to the first time they had met …
He was too slow and too far to prevent it from happening. Rafferty cringed as the sound of crunching metal reached his ears, already on his feet racing toward the diner door.
“Are you blind?” he yelled, bursting out onto the sidewalk, stalking toward his crumpled Road King as the driver of the yellow Volkswagen campervan rushed around to view the damage she caused.
“Oh, my gosh. I am so, so sorry,” the wrecker of his prized possession gushed, her out-of-place English accent halting the angry retort on his lips.
She was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.
Tall and willowy with shiny blonde hair scraped back off her face. Delicate pink tipped fingers pressed against her mouth as she stared at his downed Harley half under the back of the van.
She turned her stricken stare on him, mesmerizing him with her wide pretty eyes, the palest of pale blue.
She placed a hand on his arm. Soft and delicate, he thought, moving his gaze from her horrified expression to the slender fingers resting on his forearm, and back up again.
“I am so sorry,” she repeated, her eyes blinking rapidly.
And shit, the tears brimmed over, running down her peaches and cream cheeks. He wanted to be angry at her, but women, especially crying ones, were his kryptonite. “Now, now, darlin’,” he soothed, closing his own hand over hers. “Don’t you cry. I won’t have it.”
But a sob escaped, and before Rafferty could think, he drew her into his arms and soothed his hands over her back. If anything, she only sobbed harder. Aware of the gathering crowd, he simply scooped her up and strode back into the diner.
Aunt Marlene rushed over as he scooted into the booth he’d just vacated. “I’ll fetch some water,” she said, clearing his plate from the table. She pushed the napkin holder closer.
“Tea, Aunt Marlene. I reckon a nice pot of hot tea to go with her pretty English accent is what this young lady requires.”
The tea had calmed her down, and after Peter King arrived to lift the Volkswagen off his bike and haul the damaged Harley into the auto shop (her vehicle only had a scratch on the rear bumper), they’d sat in the diner and talked until late afternoon.
He had discovered her name. “It’s Charlotte,” she had said. “But it’s such a stuffy name.” She had wrinkled her nose and aimed a playful grin at him. “I prefer Charlie.”
He’d also learned that Charlie was taking a gap year touring the USA in her iconic camper van after completing her schooling in England, unsure what to do with her life.
She had ended up studying physical therapy at the University of Delaware, and over the following years, they corresponded via email and texts. They had become best friends, confiding their greatest desires and worst fears.
He’d found out the truth of her identity during that time.
Charlie (formerly named Rose Brown) had been born in Bulwark, but her mother had fled with her two young daughters when her husband turned his abuse on the girls.
In a different life, he and Charlie would’ve been childhood friends.
Would they have ended up as a couple? He’d like to think so.
Their relationship had only become physical when he started a short undercover stint in Baltimore with the Irish mob and she had been interning at a medical facility in Annapolis.
The biggest mistake of his life —dragging Charlie into that pit of hell with him.
With a muffled curse, he stepped from the water and strode to his bike. Not the Harley Charlie had damaged (that he’d sold years ago), but the old Yamaha dirt bike he’d ridden as a teenager.
Bare footed and helmetless, he jumped on and roared away, not caring if he crashed and killed himself.
*
Rafferty entered the kitchen forty minutes later, showered and dressed for a day of hard labor on the ranch.
Aidan sure picked the most grueling of tasks for him.
Setting aside the pang of disappointment regarding his brother’s continuous disdain, he sniffed appreciatively.
Ma was loading dough into bread pans, and from the smell permeating the air, it was the second batch of the day.
He scanned the room, finding the cooling loaves near the open window.
“Your bread was one of the things I missed the most.”
She looked up, studying him closely.
Would she ever look at me without suspicion and sadness in her eyes?
He held her stare, answering her unspoken question. “I was at Rock Lake.”
“Rock Lake?”
More wariness.
“Charlie.”
“Char—” Her gaze flew to the calendar above the chalkboard. There was a large C in today’s block. “Oh, Raffie. I forgot.” She wiped her hands on the dishcloth and hurried to his side. “I am so sorry, son,” she murmured, wrapping him in a hug.
He placed his arms around her. “It’s okay.”
But they both knew it wasn’t okay.
There was nothing okay about his mother never having met his wife.
There was nothing okay about him being alive and Charlie not.
And now was not the time to be a fucking crybaby.
He’d made his choices, and he’d have to live with the consequences.
Rafferty took a shuddering breath, sniffed away the burn in his nose, and pulled back. “Is there coffee?” The words came out hoarse and garbled, and he cleared his throat.
“No. Let me—”
He stopped her moving to the counter. “I’ll start on a fresh pot. You get those loaves in the oven,” he said, busying himself changing out the filter and scooping in fresh grounds.
Movement beyond the window caught his attention. What the …?
He leaned over the counter to gain a wider view. It was a horse. And— “Fuck,” he muttered, spun around, and rushed to the door.
“Rafferty! Where are—?”
The screen door slammed behind him. He winced at the sharp sound, leaping down the shallow steps of the back veranda, barely restraining himself from hurtling around the corner.
Storming at an already distressed horse was a very bad idea.
Raking in a few calming breaths, Rafferty rounded the corner of the house, his gaze fixed on the upset palomino, trapped in the corner of the backyard where the pole fence joined the greenhouse, pawing at the ground. A mare, judging from her size.
Blowing hard, head up, ears flicking, tail tucked.
Beyond upset , he thought.
She was downright frightened.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he crooned, advancing slowly.
Her nostrils flared, and she snorted.
He chuckled. “You are gorgeous. But I reckon you don’t like being trapped. I know the feeling. It sucks.”
She reared up, giving a short, high-pitched neigh. Her hoofs slammed back down, and she stumbled sideways, knocking against the poles.
“Ah, darlin’. Look what you’ve gone and done. Your rein’s hooked on the pole.”
The horse jerked again, but the leather strap held firm.
Rafferty was close enough to see the jagged scar on her flank. He stopped, sharpening his stare, more scars became apparent.
Aw, hell. She’d been abused.
There was a special place in hell for animal abusers.
Right beside the fiery dungeon reserved for murderers, huh?
Shaking the thought away, he stepped forward, needing to concentrate on the horse. “Let me help you. Free you, darlin’. I promise not to hurt you.”
The horse veered away, snorting.
“I know, I know,” he soothed. “You don’t trust humans. How can you? They hurt you. But, gorgeous, if you give me the opportunity, I can show you that I’m not that person.”
His peripheral vision caught the approach of another person.
A shift of his eyes identified Brandy-Lyn.
Rafferty extended his arm backward, motioning her back with his hand.
“What’s her name, Red?” he asked, raising his voice enough for her to hear.
She muttered something under her breath before replying, “Elsa.”
“Elsa,” he repeated. Close enough to the mare, he caught the sudden widening of her eyes. “Hmm. You like your beautiful name, darlin’.”
The horse stepped back; the rein pulled tight. Elsa’s neck muscles bunched. He was within touching distance, but he dared not reach out. Not yet. He sidled closer to her withers, coming alongside. “Will you let me help you, darlin’?” he crooned.
The mare shifted, loosening the tautness of the leather lead. And her neck twisted toward him. She whinnied and dropped her head.
Giving permission.
His throat tightened. Fuck, I’m a proper crybaby today. “Thank you, Elsa. I’m gonna touch you now. That okay with you, gorgeous girl?”
The horse blinked. Fucking blinked .
He placed his palm on her shoulder. “Hi, Elsa,” he whispered, moving his hand in firm but gentle strokes over her neck, shoulder, and withers. “My name is Rafferty, and I reckon we’re gonna be best friends.”