Chapter 1
Chapter One
Willa, Age 18
7 Years Earlier
The second my boots hit the scorchingpavement, dread presses down on my lungs until it's difficult to breathe.
I hate it here.
With a sigh, I lean around the tail end of the SUV, scalding my hand on the metal bumper when I check to see if my path across the parking lot is clear. It’s not, so I hang back a second, frowning at my brother’s back as he marches away in the opposite direction.
Maybe dividing and conquering our errands wasn’t such a good idea after all…
No matter where I go in this damn town, I’m always met with hushed whispers, pitying glances, or offers of assistance—like I have a terminal disease or I’m too fragile to function on my own. At eighteen years old, fourteen of those spent living with these mangled scars on my back, shoulders, and neck, I should be used to their reactions, but it grates on my nerves every time.
There’s a part of me holding on to the hope that one day I’ll walk into a room and no one will notice. That one day, the only thing people will see when they look at me is Willa Dunn, not what happened all those years ago. Judging by the old man using his cane to make the sign of the cross on his chest by the cart corral, today is clearly not that day.
Taking a deep breath, I blow the hair out of my eyes and head across the black-tar parking lot toward the grocery store, bracing myself for what awaits me inside.
The second the automatic doors creak open, the sickly sweet scent of overripe fruit assaults my senses, along with a dozen other smells: rotting fish from the seafood department, dust from the health food aisle, whatever chemical astringent they used to clean the yellowing laminate floors.
My stomach roils as the odors permeate my lungs and swell inside my throat, but my cupboards are empty, so with one final reminder to breathe through my mouth, I step into the store and grab a basket.
Avoiding eye contact with my unwanted spectators, I scurry up and down the aisles, quickly collecting what I need for dinner tonight and the eclipse party tomorrow, as well as a few other staples we’ve been out of for a week.
“ Merciful Lord , was that Willa Dunn?” a woman whispers from an aisle over. “Maybe I should offer to help the poor dear with her shopping?”
“You’ll do no such thing,” a second woman hisses, this voice twangy, high-pitched, and much older. “That girl’s been milkin’ her past for far too long.”
The second woman, who I now recognize as Dorothy Blackthorne, clicks her tongue and continues, “I can’t believe her father doesn’t force her to hide those hideous white streaks in her hair. And did you see what she’s wearin’? Dark colors from head to toe—like she wants to invite the Devil into her life.”
I glance down at my outfit—a high-neck black mini dress, my favorite green suede jacket with fringe on the sleeves and back, and my signature red bandana tied around my neck. I’d finished off my look with silver-accented black leather boots and some winged eyeliner that took me twenty minutes to perfect.
There’s not much I can do about the white streaks in my otherwise nutty-brown hair, and the dress might be a little short for what’s generally deemed appropriate in small-town East Texas, but after trying to blend into the background for so long, it feels good to finally find my style. I like the way I dress, and as far as I’m concerned, anyone who doesn’t can shove right off. It’s not like I care what people in Deadwood think anyway. Especially not the town busybody, Dorothy Blackthorne.
Ignoring them, I readjust the basket on my forearm before rising onto my tiptoes to grab three jars of Nutella off the top shelf.
Last year, when the Deadwood rumor mill discovered that a local girl had been drugged and sexually assaulted at a party a few towns over, the first twangy question out of Dorothy’s mouth was “what was the girl wearin’ when it happened?” She’d promptly followed up that banger with “was she leadin’ him on?”
The only thing Dorothy hadn’t asked for was proof, and that’s probably because she knew there was a mountain of it, including a drug tox screen from the hospital and videos taken by the friends of the asshole who drugged the girl.
My boots click on the linoleum as I stomp down the aisle to grab a box of rice pilaf.
The audacity of that woman is unreal . To make matters worse, the judge assigned to the case ended up being Dorothy’s brother. Not only did Abbott Blackthorne throw out the whole lawsuit without letting it go to trial, but a few months later, we found out the accused was also a distant Blackthorne cousin.
Go figure.
Unfortunately, it’s not just Dorothy and her corrupt brother I find disgusting, it’s the entire Blackthorne bloodline. There’s just something off about them. I highly suspect inbreeding, although I’d never say it aloud. But seriously, if this was Salem in the 1600s, the Blackthornes would be the family leading the witch hunts and Dorothy would be manning the gallows.
“Maybe her mother was right and there really is something wrong with that girl,” Dorothy scoffs, apparently keeping up with me on the opposite side of the aisle. “ Maybe Annalee was trying to do us all a favor by getting rid of that abomination.”
I flinch at the mention of my mother’s name and blink away the unwelcome image of flames dancing in my memory.
“Oh, hush now,” the first voice whispers, followed by what sounds like a fleshy smack of an arm. “Give the poor thing a break. With what she’s been through, Lord knows she could use a little grace and understanding.”
I roll my eyes. The only thing I need a break from is this damn town.
Deciding my cabinet restock can wait until the grocery store is a little less crowded, I grab a few more essential items, opt for the self-checkout line, and head to the parking lot where I unload my haul into the trunk of my brother’s rusted-out 1985 Chevy Blazer. Noah isn’t exactly known for taking good care of his belongings, but much to my surprise, he’s kept this scrap of metal running since he bought her in high school.
I always look forward to the two weeks a month when Noah’s home from the oil rig. Not only does he let me borrow the Chevy when he’s sleeping off a hangover, but sometimes, like today, he’ll occasionally tag along when I have errands to run. Having a body double for boring activities keeps me motivated, and having my brother with me usually serves as a deterrent for anyone giving me a hard time or, God forbid , trying to help.
When he rolled out of bed this morning still reeking of alcohol, I was sure he’d decline to join me. But he’d almost seemed eager when I’d mentioned my plans to grab groceries and a few tomato trellises for my vegetable garden from the hardware store—going so far as to offer to pick them up for me while I grocery shopped.
My brow creases when I spot the trellises in the trunk and realize there’s one less than I asked for. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I peer around the parking lot for any sign of my absent-minded brother, but he’s nowhere in sight. Deciding he must’ve gone back inside for the one he forgot, I lean against the shaded side of the bumper and wait.
Fanning out my dark-green jacket to alleviate some of the sweltering heat, I tilt my chin skyward, soaking up the late-afternoon sun and the overly warm breeze cascading across my sweat-dampened cheeks.
The air is heavy with exhaust fumes from passing cars and laced with an odd mixture of sugar from Benny’s Ice Cream Parlor across the street and smoked meat from the barbecue joint a few blocks over. There’s another scent riding the wind, too.
Wet earth and something staticky and sharp.
I close my eyes and breathe deeper, catching that odd plant smell you only get right before it rains. A storm must be rolling in, not that you’d know it from the bright-blue sky overhead.
A sharp peal of laughter draws my attention to a group of girls huddled together in front of Benny’s, the sight of their smooth skin on proud display in tank tops and cropped tees suddenly making my light jacket feel stifling.
This close to the Texas-Louisiana border, stepping outside between the months of April and October often feels like wading through a swamp. Unlike other parts of Texas, we get some semblance of seasons here, but three out of four of them are still oppressively hot. Which means most days I cover up my scars with long sleeves and jackets knowing I’ll be absolutely miserable.
I take a deep breath, choking on the fumes of a passing diesel engine before shaking my head. All I need to do is get through the summer, then I can leave Deadwood behind for good.
Pulling three sheets of folded-up paper from my jacket pocket, I quickly look left and right, making sure I’m alone before unfolding them.
The first one is an admissions letter from the University of Texas at Tyler, my dad’s Alma Mater and the only school he approved of me going to because I could commute from home.
With a sigh, I shuffle that one to the back, my heart rate picking up as I stare at the letter I received this morning—the one with the beautiful burnt-orange University of Texas at Austin emblem at the top.
After months stuck on the waitlist, I’d almost given up hope. But with this acceptance letter, I’m finally so close to leaving Deadwood I can taste the freedom. Problem is, now I have to grow a pair and tell my dad I want to move to Austin and never set foot in this god-awful town again.
Which brings me to the third sheet of paper?—
I laugh when I place it on top of the others and spot the new underlined additions.
I left Isabel alone for five seconds last night… When did she even have time to do this?
With an eye roll, I scan the list to see if she changed anything else.
“ Yeah right ,” I mumble, scoffing at Isabel’s last addition.
Every item on this list is about setting me up for success. I don’t need to get laid. I do, however, need a car. And I definitely need to find a way to tell Dad about Austin without breaking his heart. There’s also no way I can leave town without punching Cooper Blackthorne in the face at least once.
Cooper was my first kiss. And the reason my dad yanked me out of public school.
I close my eyes, remembering the overpowering scent of Axe body spray and popcorn as Cooper pulled me under the bleachers and pressed his chapped lips against mine. The kiss was clumsy and awkward, but it was perfect. Even though he tasted like a disgusting mix of stale beer and Twizzlers, it was the first time I’d ever felt normal, like I might actually belong in this town.
A week later, he asked me out on a date and that illusion was stripped away. We were supposed to go to a drive-in movie. Instead, he took me to the abandoned mortuary on the west end of town, called me an abomination, and locked me in the incinerator room where I found a canister of gasoline, a matchbook, and a note on the loading ramp that read: Do us all a favor and finish the job.
Now that I think about it, I should have put punching that idiot as number one on my list.
A small smile curves the corner of my lips, but it’s quickly wiped away when I spot my brother thundering across the parking lot with his phone plastered to his ear.
His blond mustache bristles, the muscles in his biceps contracting as he nods along to whatever’s being said to him. Then he picks up his pace, pale panic slowly replaces the ruby color of his normally smiling cheeks while his eyes grow dark and worried.
Alarm bells blare inside my skull.
“What happened?” I call out when he’s close enough to hear me. “Is it Dad? Is he okay?” There’s a mile-long list of questions swirling around inside my mind, but as the child of a police officer, those first three are the most pressing .
My brother doesn’t so much as blink in my direction, causing a ball of ice to drop into the pit of my stomach.
“Noah,” I screech. “Is Dad okay?”
Without breaking his stride, he pins the phone between his ear and shoulder before dragging me over to the passenger door. Unable to break away, I stare up at him, taking in the rapid movement of his eyes while he processes whatever the muffled voice on the other end of the line is saying.
“Yeah, Willa’s with me.” His blue-gray eyes flash to mine. “She’s not going to like that.”
“I’m not going to like what ?” I whisper-hiss, but his focus is once again on the conversation.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ. You’re kidding me… Shit . Okay, I’m on my way.” He covers the phone. “Willa, you need to stay here. I’ll be back for you later.”
Without thinking, I snatch the keys hanging out of his back pocket, throw myself inside the SUV, and lock the door. Noah bangs his fist against the glass, his ridiculous mustache twitching angrily before his fist freezes midair, pausing to listen to whoever’s on the phone.
My brother is freaking crazy if he thinks he’s leaving me behind. Whatever happened, I refuse to let him deal with this on his own.
After placing the keys in the ignition and reaching over to unlock the driver side door, I fold my arms across my chest and wait for him to come to his senses.
He tries my door one last time, flips me off and then jogs around the hood. By the time he rips open the door, my hands are pink from how hard I’ve been wringing them. I’ve also come to terms with the fact that something must’ve happened to Dad and come up with a semidecent list of what I’ll need to do to get our affairs in order now that we’re orphans.
I’ll have to forgo college and get another job to keep up with the mortgage on the house, but Dad’s life insurance will cover the first few months and the funeral. Noah will need therapy—which will be expensive, but maybe his health insurance will cover that? Either way, I have to be strong and keep it together. He’s so much more sensitive than he lets on?—
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Noah grumbles, slamming the door as he flops into the seat. The engine sputters to life a millisecond later, and then we’re careening onto Main Street in a cloud of tire smoke. “Before you spiral out of control, Dad’s fine.”
“Thank God,” I breathe out, using the center console and the dashboard to keep from being tossed around.
Noah casts a tentative glance toward me. “Aw shit, you already spiraled, didn’t you?”
“It’s not your fault.” I try to force a smile, but with my body stuck in fight-or-flight mode, I’m having trouble relaxing all my muscles.
Imagining the worst-case scenario and coming up with a plan is basically standard operating procedure for how I deal with unexpected news. I have what my dad likes to call “a chronic case of overthinking” and what the psychiatrist I saw last spring called “ADHD with a healthy dose of hypervigilance likely related to CPTSD”— whatever that means .
Noah does a double take. “If you’re already overthinking, I might as well tell you I’m meeting up with Dad and he specifically told me not to bring you.”
“What? Why not?” I wrinkle my forehead. Dad’s still in the middle of his shift, what could he possibly need my brother for?
“It doesn’t matter.” He shakes his head, refusing to meet my eye. “Just don’t put up a fuss when I drop you off at home.”
“Noah,” I say firmly. “What’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?”
My brother grimaces, sneaking a barely perceptible glance in my direction. “Ryker’s back in town. If I don’t get there soon, Dad said he’ll have no choice but to arrest him.”
I blink, trying to make sense of what I just heard and failing miserably.
“Ryker Bennett?” I clarify, disbelief clinging to my tone as my brother nods. “Your best friend and the bane of my existence… The same guy who swore he’d never set foot in Deadwood again… That Ryker Bennett?”
Noah scoffs. “Who else?”
I slump into my seat, groaning as my peaceful summer plans slip through my fingers.
If he really is back, then Deadwood better buckle up because Ryker Bennett is trouble—always has been, always will be. Nothing will ever change my mind.