Whiskey River Runaway Read online

  Whiskey River Runaway

  A Whiskey River Romance

  Justine Davis

  Whiskey River Runaway

  Copyright © 2017 Justine Davis

  Smashwords Edition

  The Tule Publishing Group, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-947636-11-8

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  The Whiskey River Series

  The Brothers of Whiskey River Series

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The place was a wreck.

  There was no other way to describe it. This house on the outskirts of Whiskey River needed a lot of care. Truett Mahan was sorry to see it in such a state. There were a lot of memories here. Memories of good times and sad.

  And the way Jamie Templeton was going, it just might become a fan shrine one of these days, since he’d first discovered his calling here. He grinned at the thought, remembering not the rock star but the quiet, kind of dorky kid from high school.

  The kid whose world had shattered the same day his had.

  “I should have thought about it sooner,” True muttered, walking carefully given the rubble, a section of roof here, pieces of broken siding there as he headed for the back of the house. It wasn’t really Jamie’s fault. It wasn’t like the guy had much time these days to come back to Whiskey River and see how his aunt’s old place was doing. And after the way Millie Templeton had stepped up not just for Jamie but for him, and his sister as well, he should have stepped up himself.

  He rounded the back corner of the house, skirting a large pile of debris, and glanced at the big picture window that looked out toward the river. Or had; it was broken now, the late afternoon sun highlighting a spider web of cracks overtaking nearly the entire expanse of glass, and he guessed one more good storm would take it out altogether. He’d have to board it up; he’d thought he might find problems like this so he’d brought out a couple of full sheets of plywood in his truck. The place had been well built originally, but no building could withstand total neglect for long.

  Zee said old houses died of emptiness, a rather whimsical view for his practical little sister. Who had had a sizeable crush on Jamie, back when he’d just been that clever but withdrawn kid who spent most of his time up in a tree house with an old, battered guitar.

  That thought made him glance toward the big post oak about halfway between the house and the river. And he laughed; the tree house Jamie had built was in better shape than the house itself. Which shouldn’t surprise him, even as a kid the guy had been clever about how things went together. He—

  He stopped dead in the act of turning back to the house. He’d seen. . .something. He was sure of it. Movement. Just inside that picture window. Quick. Almost furtive. Had some animal gotten in there? It certainly seemed possible, given the state of things.

  He walked over to the back door, tried the knob. It, at least, was locked. He already knew the front door was as well. He might have to finish breaking this window to get in, which he could do since he had the materials to board it up.

  He kept going around the house, mind already on offloading a full sheet of plywood, getting his drill out of the toolbox and digging out some wood screws long enough to hold it. He’d have to—

  Again he stopped short. This time next to the only other exterior door on the house, the one that he knew led into the laundry room. The lower left corner of the glass pane had a fist-sized hole broken out. The corner that would give a person access to the door knob.

  And suddenly that furtive movement he’d seen took on an entirely different feeling.

  For an instant he thought of heading for his truck to grab his Winchester 94. Whiskey River was generally a quiet place when it came to serious crime, their very effective police department had a rep, but you never knew. Especially a trespasser with unknown motive. But the only living things he’d ever shot with the classic weapon he’d owned since childhood were rattlesnakes, and once a rabid skunk, and one of his life’s goals was to keep it that way. So instead he backtracked to that pile of debris he’d passed, dug out a board about the length of a baseball bat. He hefted it; it seemed sturdy enough, and had a couple of good sized, treacherous looking nails sticking out at one end.

  If I need more than this, then I’m in trouble anyway.

  He went back to the door with the broken window. Tried the knob. A bit to his surprise, it didn’t turn. Who would break into a place and then lock the door after them? Especially when it was obvious how they’d done it and anybody else could now do the same, thanks to the broken window?

  Which he did, reaching through carefully to avoid the sharp edges of the broken glass with his hand and trusting his jacket to protect his wrist and arm. The inside knob turned easily. But of course the damn door squealed from disuse as he tried to open it quietly. So much for stealth. He shoved it the rest of the way and stepped inside, looking in all directions as quickly as he could.

  Nothing. He scanned the floor. The layer of dust was fairly thick, although the tile floor beneath looked solid enough. And he could see it, thanks to the set of footprints that crossed it.

  Small footprints.

  A kid? Was the answer as simple as that, a kid exploring? For a moment he stood still, just listening for any sound of movement. Nothing. He looked at the size of that shoe print again. Lowered the board. Called out.

  “It’s okay, you can come out.”

  Still nothing.

  “I know the place looks abandoned, so if you just wanted to explore, that’s okay.”

  And again nothing.

  He supposed the smart thing to do would be to call for the folks with the badges. But he kept thinking about the s
ize of those feet and didn’t do it. The police had better things to do anyway.

  He followed the tracks into the hallway. Saw two sets of the same prints, one pointing toward the kitchen, one toward the den. The trail toward the kitchen seemed more traveled, as if whoever it was had been in there more. He knew the power to the house had been off while Jamie decided what he wanted to do, so it wasn’t like anyone could get much practical use out of the place. And he was fairly sure any pest-attracting food had long ago been removed. Zee would have seen to that, even if she had been angry at Jamie.

  “I just can’t believe he doesn’t care enough to come home to go through her things,” she had said. “She’s the one who so encouraged his music. I know he loved her.”

  True could empathize; it had been hell going through their parents’ things after they’d been killed in the same accident that had left Jamie an orphan, and as the oldest, the task had fallen to him. As had taking care of his little sister. It had been an. . .interesting transition.

  And good practice for your life later.

  He snapped himself out of the thought with a shake of his head. Fine time to lapse into old, painful memories, standing in an abandoned house that had been broken into with the perpetrator likely still inside. He hefted the board, considered a half-second longer, then headed for the kitchen.

  It appeared empty. The floor was less dusty here. Much less. In fact, it looked as if someone had made an effort to clean; the swirling marks looked like a dust mop. His brow furrowed. You didn’t do that, did you, unless you were here a while? Or planned to be?

  He turned to follow the other set of small tracks he’d seen, that led to the den on the other side of the house. Halfway there it struck him, what that room had that none of the others did.

  A fireplace.

  January in Texas would seem a paradise to many parts of the country, but it had been dropping into the mid-thirties at night lately, and he for one wouldn’t want to be living rough in it. It was still chilly even now, shortly after sunrise. Somebody looking for something to steal was one thing. Somebody seeking shelter from the winter cold, with nowhere else to go, was something else again.

  He nudged the door to the den open.

  It was empty. It was also, he realized after a moment, warmer. The closed off room was definitely warmer than the rest of the empty house. After a glance around he walked over to the fireplace that looked as if it had been built from rock out of the river that ran by in the distance. He touched the rounded stones. Not hot, but noticeably warm. He had no doubt now, but bent slightly to test the temperature of the interior of the fireplace. Above the layer of ash and charred fragments of wood he felt an even stronger heat, and guessed one good stir would turn up some live embers. Recent, then.

  The bare wood floor of the room was in the same state as the kitchen floor, looking as if it had been swirled over with a mop. And the space directly in front of the hearth was the cleanest of all. From someone sitting there? Perhaps sleeping there?

  He walked back to the kitchen, considering. Stood in the middle of that room, looking around. And after a moment he walked over to a door in the far corner, which at one time had had a hand-painted sign above it that said “Millie’s Pantry,” a holdover from when she had run a small shop in town. He hefted the nailed board in his hand, just in case. He pulled the door open.

  He’d found the trespasser.

  And the mop.

  And she hit him with it.

  Chapter Two

  She should have known.

  Hope Larson realized now that the moment she’d started to think she might be able to stay here a while should have been a clue that things were about to go sour on her. She should have expected she’d be found out, despite her care.

  What she hadn’t expected was Mister-Tall-Dark-and-Studly. And only belatedly did she realized the studly part could also apply to the board he was holding, with the wicked looking nails sticking out of one end. And once that realization hit, a stream of them hit. He must not have a gun. He hadn’t hit her with that board, even when she’d hit him with the only thing she had, that worn out mop. He’d only let out one, succinct “Damn” when she’d connected. He was quick for a big guy; no matter which way she dodged he was there. And he was big. Tall anyway. Lean. Young. Or was he? There was a touch of gray at his temples. But his face was young. Not his eyes, though.

  And if you’re through cataloging his assets, perhaps you might focus on getting away?

  That inner voice of hers was getting snarkier by the day. And rightfully so; she had made an utter mess of her life. Pretty sad to be well down the road to ruin at twenty-three. When most women her age were starting careers, excitedly going places and doing things, exploring the world in their new adulthood, or getting married and producing children to grow up and break their hearts, here she was. . .going places and doing things she never would have imagined. Not excitedly, but with full blown terror that somehow, somewhere she would make a mistake that would end up getting her killed. Or worse, boomerang on those she loved, those she had left behind because it was the only way to protect them.

  She hoped she hadn’t just made that mistake.

  She wanted to stay cowering in the corner of this tiny room, but she knew her only chance at escape was to somehow get past this guy. He was tall, if she went in low she might—

  “Don’t.”

  Her gaze snapped from his knees up to his face. Definitely young, she thought, never mind the bit of gray. And his voice was young. Strong.

  “Just relax.”

  She almost laughed at that. She hadn’t relaxed since the day she’d blown up her life by the simple act of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hopeless Larson, that was her. Back then, she never could have imagined how appropriate the moniker Kim had hung on her would become.

  Hopeless, maybe. But she wasn’t helpless. She’d been there once, too, and had sworn she would never, ever be in that position again. And if that meant she had to tackle this guy who had to be six-one at least, then so be it. She—

  “Don’t,” he said again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “That’s why the board with the killer spikes?”

  “They’re only ten penny nails.”

  “Looks like a buck’s worth to me.”

  “Better than my Winchester.”

  Damn. He did have a gun. But not on him? She scanned him up and down from where she crouched up against the shelves at her back. Noticed the long legs, the jeans, the dark knit shirt tucked in over a flat belly, stretching across a broad chest. He could have a weapon beneath that worn denim jacket, but then why would he have picked up that fanged board? Besides, wasn’t a Winchester a rifle? Like in a western movie?

  “Look, kid,” he said, “just take it easy.”

  Kid. Of course. She knew what she looked like, faded jeans with a hole in one knee, worn running shoes, and the ripped T-shirt with the logo of some club somewhere she’d never been or even heard of; she’d snagged the shirt out of a donation bin when no one was looking, along with the several sizes too big, stained but still warm jacket she was huddled in. Her makeup days were long behind her, and her hair was pulled in a long tail through the back of the Rangers cap on her head. She didn’t like wearing hats, but it helped the image and even this small bit of coverage helped keep her warm. All in all, she knew she looked about fifteen, if that.

  Which she had in the past used to her advantage, when she had to.

  Her thoughts were racing. He was a big, strong guy. Chances were he wouldn’t really use that thing on her if he thought she was just a kid.

  “Look,” she said, trying to sound young and scared. Not that it was an effort, it was how she felt. “I’ll leave. I didn’t hurt anything, really.”

  “I’m not sure the trespassing law requires that. Not to mention that broken window.”

  Her heart sank. A shiver went through her. If he called the cops. . .She tried to fight the chill that swept her. br />
  “This is your place, then?” she asked.

  “I’m responsible for it.”

  She couldn’t help glancing around at the accumulated dust and general air of neglect. “Nice job.” She winced inwardly. That smart mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble again.

  But studly’s mouth quirked as if he were suppressing a smile.

  “I’m responsible as of yesterday,” he amended.

  “Oh.”

  He had a great voice, she thought. Deep, like you’d expect for his size, but not booming, not intimidating. No, something else entirely, she wasn’t sure what, but it made her hyper-aware. Which made it hard to think. And she really needed to think.

  “So,” she said, “you weren’t responsible when I broke in. So it’s not your problem.”

  He drew back slightly. “You have an. . .interesting way of looking at things.”

  She sighed. “Yeah. It happens when. . .”

  “You’re cornered?” he suggested.

  Reasonably sure now he wasn’t going to just come after her with his spiky board, she sat in her corner, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. As if that could protect her somehow.

  “Just let me go. You’ll never see me again, I swear.”

  He didn’t speak, but she saw he’d shifted his gaze. Focused on her left wrist. The tattoo. She doubted he would recognize the tribal style marking. No one outside of one L.A. neighborhood likely would. There, it was a sign of belonging to the group. Here, over a thousand miles away, it meant nothing. Unless you had an aversion to women with tattoos.

  She couldn’t read his expression. It didn’t seem to change as he assessed her. And that’s what he was doing, she was sure. She could only imagine what he was thinking. She was tired, hungry, dirty and she knew she looked it.

  Even as she thought it his gaze narrowed. Sharpened.

  “You’re hurt.”

  She blinked. She’d been so focused on him she’d almost forgotten. But now that he’d said it, the ache slammed into her consciousness again. Instinctively she flexed her ankle, and couldn’t keep herself from wincing.