6
I ’m a liar.
I’m not anemic, but I panicked, and it was the first thought that came to my mind. The only way to explain that little orange bottle spinning across the tile.
A great way to kick off this relationship, even if it only consists of glares and grunts so far.
But what was I supposed to tell Charlie? The truth? That my heart is planning to give out somewhere down the line? That I’m running away because I’ve never lived my life?
The truth is since the day I was born, I’ve been told I was most likely destined to follow in the genetically macabre footsteps of my mother and my aunt, who both passed away at age twenty-eight.
My aunt had a massive heart attack. My mother died in her sleep.
The doctors said her heart just gave out.
I refuse to understand that. How do you stop something beautiful from beating? How does the very organ which gives you life decide your time is up?
I have a heart condition called supraventricular tachycardia.
SVT for short. While a normal person’s heart rate is 60 to 100 beats per minute, mine varies between 150 to 220 beats a minute.
My erratic heartbeat wreaks havoc on my heart’s upper chambers, but I control it the best I can.
A daily medication is all I need to slow it down.
But if I’m really unlucky, stress makes it worse, as does excitement or overworking or being overtired.
My cardiologist warned me not to drink alcohol, caffeine, or do high adrenaline sports because what-if . ..
It’s the what-ifs that have ruled my life.
But not here. Not in Resurrection.
I could tell Charlie the truth, but I don’t owe him that explanation.
We’re strangers. He’s not planning to worry about me.
Doesn’t even want to know me. So, I’d like to exist in this town without a past. Just be a person without all the doom and gloom attached.
It feels nice to escape that part of my life, if only for a few months.
Even if my old life still has skin in the game.
I went to the clinic this morning to transfer my information, get three months of medication refills and discuss my condition with a doctor. Now I’m beyond starving and excited to see Resurrection in the morning’s bright sunshine.
I need a big breakfast and a map.
But I have a surly cowboy stomping after me. I can practically feel the street shake under his boots.
“Where are you going?” Charlie’s deep voice rumbles behind me, sending a vibration through my core.
“I’m on a hunt.”
When there’s a grunt, I lift my gaze to see Charlie keeping pace beside me. Even in profile, he’s handsome. Bearded jaw so sharp it could cut glass. Eyes so blue they look like gemstones. “You could ask for what instead of grunt.”
After a beat, there’s a gruff, “For what?”
I smile. “I’m going to find the best cinnamon roll in the world and eat it.” I stop in front of The Bean Goes On, a coffee shop. “And then I’m going to explore town.”
Charlie props a massive hand on the doorframe, barring my entrance. “You won’t find your cinnamon roll in there. Their coffee tastes like gasoline.”
My eyes dart toward the door, hoping the front counter worker hasn’t heard. Even if it is bad, they don’t need the reminder. I prop my hands on my hips. “Where then?”
He looks resigned, but jerks his bearded chin. I follow his gaze three blocks down. On a wedge-shaped corner is a brick building with a bright green awning that reads The Corner Store.
Inhaling a breath, I walk toward the building. Hard bootsteps pound behind me.
“I thought you were leaving,” Charlie mutters.
“You thought wrong.” I rove my eyes around Main Street, smothering a smile.
Patina-colored plaques identify the historic landmarks like an Opera House and a city hall.
I’m surrounded by antique stores, ritzy boutiques, and souvenir shops.
They have a salon called the House of Hair. I count five saloons and a steakhouse.
It’s just a town, but Resurrection with its American frontier vibes and alpine scent, has breathed life back into my soul.
I look up at Charlie, who glowers above me. “No flower shop?”
“What?” He frowns at the question before dragging a hand down his beard. “No.”
“Oh.” I flash him a smile and shake off my disappointment. “Well, since you’re here, you can give me the tour.”
“You don’t give up, do you?” he asks gruffly.
“Not really, no.”
“Fine,” he says with an irate acquiescence. He nods across the street at a building with a spiral staircase that rises to a balcony. “That’s the brothel.”
I sneak a curious look at Charlie. “Really?”
“Used to be, at least. Operated until the 1970s, if you can believe that. Now it’s a museum.”
My jaw falls open. I can almost see Resurrection’s fevered history. Bootleggers wreaking havoc on livers and wallets. Painted ladies waving men up from the balcony.
We continue our trek to The Corner Store, walking in sync.
Every so often our arms brush, his muscles flexing, and warmth curls in my stomach.
Charlie grudgingly points out various bits of history along the way.
The alley where Billy Bones was shot down in 1886 after stealing a chicken.
The four bear skulls guarding the town square, the place of thirteen recorded executions in Resurrection.
We’re nearly at our destination when a fawn-colored pit bull trudges out of the alleyway and blocks our path. Slobber drips from its lips, and I edge close to Charlie and grip his bicep. He stiffens.
“Charlie. Does that pit bull have a Newport in its mouth?” I ask. Then I do a double take. “Oh my god, he does.”
The edges of Charlie’s lips curl in the faintest smile. “That’s Hungry Hank. He lives on the streets.” An affectionate chuckle rumbles out of him. “He’s a bastard, aren’t you, boy?”
Worry churns in my stomach. “Hungry?” Stepping away from Charlie, I reach into the purse slung around my shoulder, searching for a granola bar in the jumbled mess of pill bottles and paperwork. “Poor thing.”
Once I find the snack, I tear off a corner, and hold it out. “Here you go, pup.”
The dog lunges.
Charlie lunges too. “Jesus, Ruby, don’t.” Worry laces his dark eyes as he snatches my hand, turning it over in his big palm like he’s looking for blood. All he gets is dog slobber. His gaze meets mine. “Did you just ...feed him?”
I smile brightly, watching as Hungry Hank devours the granola bar, wrapper and all. “He was hungry.”
My heart skips several beats as Charlie wipes my hand high and hard on his T-shirt, giving me a sneak peek of hard, chiseled stomach and ridged abs. “He’s a monster.”
“That’s what you think,” I tell him as Hungry Hank waddles away.
I break away from Charlie and we finish walking the short distance to The Corner Store.
Inside, it’s the most whimsical sight I’ve ever seen. The Corner Store is like some cowboy bodega with bright orange walls and aging newspaper clippings from the 1980s.
Rolling papers at the cash register. A bait and tackle counter in the back. Ammo on a bookshelf. Well-stocked shelves with dry goods and coolers with an array of beverages.
“The basement doubles as a moonshine still,” Charlie says. “But you didn’t hear that from me. C’mon.”
I smile and follow him back to a small dining area set in front of a deli counter. The scent of fresh bread and slow-cooked pastrami has my stomach grumbling.
“Wyatt isn’t here,” Charlie shouts when there’s a clattering from the kitchen. “Just me, Fallon.”
A girl with long thick hair the color of caramel storms out of the back room.
She looks familiar but I can’t place her.
She wears a tattered apron and a frown to rival Charlie’s.
In her right hand, she holds a butcher knife that she promptly sets aside.
She tosses me and Charlie a curious look but says nothing.
“Biggest cinnamon roll you got,” Charlie says as we claim a table in the center of the room.
Fallon disappears.
I fold my hands together and lean in. “Thanks for the tour, Charlie Montgomery. You almost sound like a local.”
He cuts me a quick glance. “What makes you think I’m not?”
“You have an accent.” It’s faint, but I locked on his voice as soon as I heard it. A slow southern drawl as sticky as molasses.
“I’m from Georgia,” he offers. “Little town called Wildheart.”
“I’m from Indiana. Big-little town called Carmel. Thanks for the recommendation on the hotel, by the way. It was lovely, but I can’t stay there for more than one night. Especially if I’m staying in town. It’s too expensive.”
He sighs, and I wonder if broody is his normal expression. “You shouldn’t stay at the Yodeler.”
“Well, I am. I’m going to eat my cinnamon roll, and then I’m going to go back to Nowhere and get a job.”
“That’s your plan?”
“It’s the best I have,” I say, going for honesty.
After last night, Nowhere seems like a place I want to both conquer and avoid.
My phone buzzes in my purse. Damn Max. He’s been on my case to come home ever since I told him I landed in a new town.
Nope. Not happening.
Charlie’s brows rise. “You gonna get that?”
In answer, I silence my phone and eye the glowering man in front of me. “So, Cowboy,” I say smiling big. “What do you do?”
He shifts like he’s uncomfortable. “Own a ranch out of town,” he says. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “A ranch that’s hanging on by its last goddamn string. You?”
“Social media manager in a past life,” I say brightly.
“Great, you’re one of them,” he mutters, rubbing his brow with two big fingers.
“One of them? Like an alien or cyborg?” I tilt my head. “Charlie, are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
His face darkens, a snarl of warning on the tip of his lips. “Ruby ...”
“It’s just ...you have this vein right here ...” My fingers dance up to my temple.
With a hitch of breath, his jaw tics, and annoyance clouds his expression.