Chapter One – 20-20
Chapter One
Andie
Performed by Ella Langley
NINE YEARS LATER
Even after owning it for eight months, I still couldn’t quite believe that the little blue-and-white Craftsman at the edge of the cul-de-sac was mine.
Mine…
Which was more than likely the reason everything was threatening to go wrong, just like every other time I’d reached for more.
I pushed that depressing thought aside as I turned into the driveway on Meadow Lane. My shoulders were tight, not only from leaving a pile of unfinished work at the resort but from the dread of hearing what the plumber would have to say about the repairs.
When the pipe in the kitchen had burst this weekend with the force of the waterfall at the Harrington Ranch, I’d had to scramble to figure out how to turn the water off.
And if I ever wanted to use my sink again, I had no choice but to agree to whatever price the plumber would charge to fix it.
I just had to hope the home warranty, or my meager bank account, could cover it.
As I got out of my ten-year-old SUV, my phone chimed, and I scanned my smartwatch to read the incoming message.
Emergency call. Can’t make it today. Will reschedule.
I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly as frustration bloomed. Wasn’t the broken pipe an emergency too?
And if the plumber was going to cancel, why couldn’t he have done it before I’d left work?
I had dozens of applications for the event coordinator position to sift through if we hoped to have someone hired by next week.
Plus, I had three bids to review for the marquee Fallon needed assembled before the winter charity event we’d just agreed to host for the Golden Hero Foundation.
With this added, unplanned event, I had more to do than I had hours in a day.
As I stood, debating whether to return to the ranch or not, the vibrant pastel-colored freesias in the copper pots flanking the forest-green door waved in the breeze in a gentle greeting.
The flowers represented gratitude and friendship, both things I’d found here in Swift Rivers.
Just as I’d found peace and respite from my demons.
This sweet, little cottage belonged completely and wholly to me.
I’d finally taken a chance and tried to plant myself permanently in one place, and yet I was hardly ever here to enjoy it.
A sudden ache in my heart had me yearning for the home I’d tried to build.
So instead of heading back to my car, I walked up the path to the porch.
I’d take a few hours today to revel in home ownership and decide on the next DIY project to tackle.
I mounted the steps I’d sanded and painted myself and ran a hand over the hummingbirds and dragonflies etched in the door’s stained-glass cutouts.
The beautiful art had spoken to me the first time I’d walked up to the house, reminding me that joy could be found in change, in resilience and adaptability, especially when it wasn’t forced upon you.
When I opened the door, the perfection of the refurbished porch didn’t follow me inside.
Instead, chipped, dark paint and worn floors greeted me.
After spending all my spare time and money on the exterior this summer, I’d never gotten around to working on the interior.
The only splurge I’d allowed myself was in redoing my bedroom and buying the cozy, navy-blue couch sitting forlornly in a nearly empty living room.
I stepped out of my heels, dropped them in a waiting basket by the door, and headed straight for the kitchen.
The mess from the burst pipe, the bucket and rags strewn across the cracked linoleum floor, made my chest tighten all over again.
The overwhelming urge to clean it right away had nearly kept me up all night, even knowing the plumber would just make a mess again.
That ability to make everything neat and tidy these days was a reminder that I’d made it beyond my past. Reminded me I had no one punishing me for…
Stop.
Nothing good would come from going down that rabbit hole and reliving those memories.
My watch buzzed again, and I was surprised to see I’d missed a call. I dropped my bag on the counter and dug out my phone. Maybe it was the plumber saying he could come after all.
I hit play on the voicemail and reached for a Mountain Dew in the refrigerator. The can nearly slipped from my fingers at the voice I both loved and dreaded hearing.
“Hey, little sis. We haven’t talked in a while, and I wanted to check in.”
Unfortunately, my half brother’s gruff, deep voice, full of gentle caring, only allowed those dark memories I’d just pushed away to resurface. It wasn’t just the horror I’d needed Dawson to save me from that swelled. It was the fear I might need him to do it all over again someday.
This peaceful life I’d carved out was built on the painful knowledge I’d never see or hug Dawson, his lovely wife, or my nieces and nephew ever again.
Simply talking to him could put us both at risk.
He always called from a disposable phone he kept just for me and switched up often, but if anyone were to connect us, the life he had built could be threatened too.
After all, he’d obstructed justice, hidden someone wanted for questioning… wanted for crimes they’d committed.
And while I truly treasured the rare times I heard from him, every time I did, I wondered if he was going to break horrible news to me. I wondered if I’d have to leave the friends I’d found. The house I’d bought. The life I’d shaped into one I could be proud of.
A loud, ominous crack shot through the house, and I shrieked, whipping around to find glass shattering onto the welcome mat.
I froze, my heart slamming against my rib cage as I stared at the jagged hole in the fragile, purple hummingbird windowpane.
Light beat through the break. Bright and sunny and yet unable to hide the violence that had splintered the beautiful window.
My breath turned choppy, and a knock evoked another squeal of fear.
It took me far too long to realize it had been a timid little sound.
Nothing fierce or commanding. Nothing insisting I respond.
I swallowed hard and forced my feet to move back into the living room. With sweaty palms, I shifted one of the wooden shutters next to the door ever so slightly and peeked outside. Surprise stumbled in over the fear when I saw a teenager standing on the porch.
His thin shoulders were slumped, his face turned down, and his dark, dirty-blond hair shimmered with a multitude of highlights as sunrays hit it.
It was the same color as his father’s. The two of them had moved into Maisey’s old childhood home next door a month ago, but instead of welcoming my new neighbors to the street, I’d avoided them at all costs.
Partially because the teen’s incredibly handsome father evoked a whole host of unwanted reactions in me, and partially because of the badge the man wore on his chest.
As the boy rubbed a hand over his face and then backed away, I studied him. It wasn’t just the teenager’s hair that matched his father’s. He was a little mini-me of acting-sheriff Cooper Wylee. He had the same strong jawline, thick hair, and mesmerizing bright-blue eyes.
The teenager hesitated before moving toward the steps.
Careful to avoid the glass, I unlocked the door and pulled it open.
When he turned back toward me, panic shifted over a face sporting a black eye that was turning green.
Before I could say anything, he started spewing words in rapid succession.
“I’m sorry. Shit. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to.
I was trying to hit the branch to get my hacky sack out, and it ricocheted off the tree trunk and straight into your window.
I’ve never seen anything like it. I swear I wasn’t aiming at your house. ”
He waved a homemade slingshot at me and pointed to the large tree branch bursting with fall colors hanging near my porch.
The boy’s gaze fell to the broken glass, and I winced. The stained glass was antique. Irreplaceable. What would it cost to fix it? All the tension of my day landed right back on my shoulders.
“Look. I can work it off. Yardwork. Taking your garbage cans to the curb on trash day. Whatever you need. Please. Please just don’t tell my dad. He’ll freak. He’ll be pissed as hell. I’m not even supposed to be home…”
His voice trailed off, eyes wide and alarmed as he massaged his bruised cheek.
The motion spiked an unexpected fury. Not at this traumatized kid sporting a black eye, but at the man he called Dad.
The man everyone in town had trusted to take over as sheriff, not only because of the legendary status he’d earned last year by stopping a killer at the ranch but because of his spotless career with the LAPD.
I knew exactly what it was like to be this kid, didn’t I? To have a father who everyone saw as the golden boy. The town savior. But who really left his only daughter to be brutally assaulted—and then blamed the attack on her and her poor choices.
“Why don’t you come inside?” I offered, continuing the gentle tone I’d seen Fallon and Kurt use with the rescued horses at the ranch. “We can figure out what to do together.”
The kid’s jaw worked overtime, battling the tears I saw brewing.
He glanced up and down the street. All three of the plots of land on this end of Meadow Lane were shaped like mine, with narrow frontages that widened in the rear to stretch toward the valley as well as one of the three rivers that ran through Swift Rivers.
It meant my house was nearly opposite Beckett and Maisey’s across the street, while our lots bracketed Cooper’s. We were all cozy little neighbors.
But neighbors or not, sheriff or not, I wouldn’t tolerate a man abusing his kid. I didn’t care who the hell he was.