When the Smoke Clears (Secrets of Wildhaven #1)

Chapter 1

LUKE

The soft static coming from my dash gives way to a tiny click just seconds after I settle into the worn leather seat of my cruiser.

Seriously? Can’t a guy finish a cup of coffee before saving his town?

The dispatcher’s voice, coming clipped and urgent through my police radio, suggests I can’t. “All units respond. Medical emergency. Seven-two-eight Shasta Lane. EMS en route.”

So much for watching a winter sunrise over the snowcapped mountains...

Wait.

728 Shasta Lane.

My pulse kicks hard, a cold rush sweeping through me.

A memory hits fast and sharp: me and Isla in the kitchen, flour everywhere, stealing awkward teenage kisses between batches of cookies. Her mom, Gretchen, had been there for once, stringing up Christmas lights and singing off-key to the radio. For a moment, everything was perfect.

Until it wasn’t.

I fumble to set aside the disposable cup of steaming coffee I’d just picked up, and it splatters across my lap, hot liquid seeping through the fabric of my khaki pants and scalding my thighs.

Shit! Scurrying backward in the seat, I try to escape the burning sensation climbing close to parts of my body I’d prefer to keep intact.

As I pat at the spreading dark stain with the flimsy napkin my sister Eden handed me when I stopped by her little bakery, the fragile paper betrays its purpose, leaving the unmistakable impression that I’ve pissed my pants.

Well, that’s fucking fantastic.

The voice on the radio persists. “Medical emergency. Seven-two-eight Shasta Lane. Repeat, seven-two-eight Shasta Lane. EMS is on the way. All units respond.”

Damn it, I heard you the first time.

I snatch up the receiver and respond with matched urgency. “Copy. 728 Shasta Lane.”

My voice wobbles as I finish repeating the address, and I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. I tighten my grip on the mic to force out my last few words. “ETA seven minutes.”

As much as I don’t want to be reminded of Isla, I don’t want an emergency call to her old house even more. She doesn’t live there anymore, I scold myself. Forget about her the same way she forgot about you.

I speed toward the neighborhood I know too well, my small hometown blurring outside the windows of my cruiser on either side, careful not to lose control on the patches of black ice commandeering the shadowy edges of the road that the sunlight seldom reaches through the trees.

The closer I get to the pale yellow house that stands on the corner of Shasta Lane and Birch Street, the more I need to force myself to keep going. Thankfully, I resist the urge to press the brakes until after I pull into the familiar driveway.

But I still have to go in. And while any traces of the fire that once ravaged the back bedroom have long since vanished, the same can’t be said for my own scars that came from this place.

I park the cruiser and leap out, approaching the front door where a familiar EMT waits with weary eyes and a heavy brow. “Hey, Luke.”

I remove my sunglasses, squinting in the bright sunlight. “What’s going on?”

His gaze drops to my coffee-splattered pants before meeting my eyes again. His mouth twitches with a half-smile, like he’s about to make some crack about me pissing myself—that gallows humor first responders cling to when they’ve seen too much—but something in my face stops him.

Ryan, like everyone else in town, is well aware of my complicated history with this old house. He exhales a long breath.

“Gretchen Tanner is dead.”

The ground shifts beneath me, and I blink twice, three times, as his words hang in the air between us. “What happened?”

“Can’t say for sure. A neighbor called it in.

She hadn’t seen Gretchen over the weekend, and when she didn’t answer the door, the neighbor let herself in and stumbled upon…

” His words shatter mid-sentence as the lines on his face carve deeper creases.

“It might have happened sometime last night or early this morning.”

Ryan steps aside as I enter the small house and my heart clenches when I spot her sprawled on the dingy biscuit-colored living room carpet. The house is eerily quiet, leaving only the thunderous roar of my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

I kneel beside her and gaze over her ashen body. Gretchen’s face is serene, like she’s asleep. It’s impossible to make out any cuts or bruises through her sweater and jeans, so I’ll have to wait for Doc Stevenson, our medical examiner, to declare the cause of death.

From here, it looks like a quiet, peaceful passing. But I treat every death the same, with no assumptions and no shortcuts.

I rise and trudge through the house, traversing each room, as my eyes scan for anything out of the ordinary.

Books are stacked on shelves, chairs are tucked under tables, and dusty curtains hang undisturbed.

Gretchen was never the best housekeeper, but the place looks better than I would have imagined.

My feet halt in the doorway to the back bedroom. Strained muscles hold me in place as the memory of my last visit here plays in my mind. On that day, this room was a fiery inferno, obliterating any traces of the teenager who lived here.

After a cursory peek inside from the hallway, I retreat to the living room to continue my thorough examination of the area around Gretchen’s body.

My deputy, Tim, arrives, along with one crime scene technician, and we work the room in steady, practiced motions, cataloging, photographing, and bagging. Keeping my hands and mind busy is the only way I know to keep my mind locked down.

When everything on the checklist is complete, I send Tim to interview the neighbor who found her.

Then I turn to Ryan—a single nod. My throat is tight when I give it, but it’s enough. They can take her now.

The ambulance carries Gretchen Tanner’s body away, and I’m left alone in the creaky house. A chill zigzags down my spine, and I give my shoulders a quick shake to dispel it.

With my pants almost dry, I focus on my next move. The thought of having to talk to anyone causes a heavy knot to settle in my gut, so when I reach the station, I keep my head down and power walk to my office.

It works. Still, life doesn’t slow down for my mood. The station’s steady clamor seeps through the thin walls, making concentration impossible.

I spend hours fixated on the computer screen as the cursor blinks rhythmically, taunting my inability to form coherent thoughts.

In a futile attempt to dodge the mountain of paperwork spilling from my inbox, I pace the small space too many times to count.

Finally, I give up and book it out the back door.

I’m just pulling into my driveway when my phone jingles—a new message lights up the group chat from my sister, Savannah.

SAV: Dinner is at 7:30. Don’t forget what you were assigned to bring. I’m talking to you, LUKE AND CHASE!

My fingers twitch to respond to her holier-than-thou shouty caps, but my brother beats me to it.

CHASE: Now that’s just offensive. I’d never forget a family dinner, or the fact that I’m “Bread Guy.”

I chuckle at my brother’s mock indignation. Chase has the easiest job: bringing some kind of bread product to family dinners. Savannah assigns him this, knowing that if he messes it up, as he often does, we can survive without it.

Meanwhile, I’m the designated “Salad Guy,” which doesn’t exactly scream confidence in my abilities to provide sustenance either.

SAV: Whatever, Chase. It’s 50/50 you show up to dinners.

LUKE: He’ll be there. How else would he suck up to Dad?

CHASE: We can’t all be disappointments to the old man, Lucas.

LUKE: Call me Lucas again and see what happens.

CHASE: So sensitive, big brother.

Yep, he’s getting punched in the face tonight.

EDEN: I’m bringing cinnamon and sugar beignets from the bakery for dessert!

SAV: Gold star for you, Sunshine!

EDEN:

LUKE: You’re such an overachiever.

CHASE: Total kiss-ass.

LUKE: And you need to buy better napkins for the bakery.

EDEN: Haters gonna hate.

Sav renamed the chat to “Testosterone Trashfire.”

DALTON: I didn’t even say anything…

I toss my phone on the couch with a soft chuckle.

The news about Gretchen Tanner has probably spread through the grapevine by now.

The last thing I want to deal with tonight is our unique family dynamics.

Yet, the thought of seeing my mom tugs at me, and as the oldest sibling, it’s up to me to keep an eye on everyone.

With a resigned sigh, I quickly shower and change before grabbing two bags of pre-made salad and heading out to Wildhaven Ranch.

My brother, Dalton, bought the ranch from our father a few years back. Every time I drive the dusty road toward its weathered gates, the weight on my shoulders eases a little.

It was the first thing my great-grandfather built when he came to this town. It was his pride and joy until the day he died.

My grandfather expanded it, my father turned it into an empire, buying up half the county along the way. He moved us into a mountain estate with marbled floors and manicured gardens when I was a sophomore. I hated it then. I still do.

This ranch will always be home.

I pause as I step onto the porch and approach the heavy, ornately carved oak door.

The sound of animated conversation and bursts of laughter drifts out, overwhelming after the day I’ve had.

I hesitate, my feet itching to retreat down the path I had just traveled. Then, suddenly, the door swings open.

My mom stands just inside the doorway, her eyes widening as she presses a hand to her chest and laughs softly. “Luke, you scared me.”

“Hi, Mom.” I step forward, wrapping my arms around her.

“I was just about to come outside and check if you were pulling up.”

I hold up the plastic salad bags. “I’m here, and I brought the salad.”

Savannah breezes past us and snatches the bags from my grip. She raises an eyebrow. “You bought bags of romaine lettuce, Luke. That’s hardly what I’d call a salad.”

“Next time, I’ll just forage it from my organic garden, Sav. You can always make someone else ‘Salad Guy,’ you know?”