Gena Showalter - Can't Let Go

Next she visited the grocery to buy cat food and kitty litter. From there, she went to the bookstore to pick up a detailed traveler’s guide to Rome.

Every time she climbed behind the wheel of her SUV, she experienced a twinge of disconcertment. Something was different.

Her windshield was clean, not a single speck of dirt or a dead insect in sight, but there was a small crack in the right-hand corner, one she hadn’t noticed before. And she had brand-new windshield wipers. Also, her tires were immaculate, cleaner than the windshield, and taller than usual.

When Jude first returned to the bar last night, his posture had been rigid as steel. “We’re going to clean the alley walls,” he’d said, “but I need to buy a few supplies. I’m going to borrow your car, all right?”

Now she wondered if yesterday’s vandalism “in the alley” had involved her car as well, and he’d fixed it for her?

Yeah. That. Most definitely. How like the man.

Could he be any sexier?

No, no, he couldn’t. Dang him, he always looked like sex and smelled incredible, like dark, aged rum—which was ironic, considering he’d never even sipped her alcohol. As grumpy as he was, he cared about people, helping ensure the intoxicated never got behind the wheel of a car.

Every hour she spent with him, she wanted him more, wanted to know him better. Why had his military buds nicknamed him Priest? When he’d served, he’d been married with children.

More than anything, she wanted to make him smile. The desire had become an addiction, an obsession. His innate sadness hurt her heart.

Over the past week, she’d learned he never rested and rarely ate, relying on protein shakes for energy. The only time he lost his temper? When an intoxicated person resisted aid and said something akin to “I’m okay to drive.”

He would shout about the dangers and end every speech with the same world-rocking question. Do you want to murder an innocent family?

Ryanne had begun to suspect a drunk driver killed his wife and daughters, and a little online research had confirmed it. The college boy who’d crashed into Constance Laurent’s car, killing everyone inside, had gotten a ten-year split sentence. Five years in prison, five years on probation.

At last she understood Jude’s disdain for the Scratching Post. It was a miracle he worked so hard to save the place, and a true testament to his loyal heart.

Loyal...but also broken.

Two nights ago, he’d left his cell phone at the bar. She’d followed him home, intending to tease him, maybe flirt a little before returning his property. Instead, she’d sat in her vehicle, watching as he’d sat in his, banging his fists into the steering wheel, his tears glinting in the moonlight.

He missed his family. Of course he did.

She could empathize—after all, she missed Earl. He’d been more of a father and mother to her than her bio parents ever had.

Sometimes she still expected to see Earl behind the bar, mixing drinks, or hear his booming laughter when she “got her Spanish on” with a customer.

Loved ones left marks on your soul, and when they died, those marks became scars.

As Ryanne’s SUV eased along Strawberry Valley’s town square, she forced Jude the praised one and his loss out of her mind, and focused on the majestic scenery, a true gift from God. Antique lampposts lined the sidewalks, the perfect complement to both the historic and modern buildings. The Strawberry Inn—Dorothea’s home and business—was a sprawling antebellum estate with an array of massive white columns. The local grocery store, Strawberries and More, was housed in a metal warehouse with a tin roof.

On the next street, box-shaped homes had been turned into a café, a hardware shop and a dry cleaner. A whitewashed bungalow contained the Rhinestone Cowgirl, the only place to buy handmade jewelry. The theater was Ryanne’s favorite building, with a copper awning and multiple gargoyles perched along a balcony. Actually, the theater tied with Strawberry Community Church, a white stone chapel with spectacular stained-glass windows. Reminded her of pictures she’d seen in a book about Holland.

Wild strawberry patches grew along the sidewalks and between the shops. During the summer, she could pluck the sweet fruit straight from the plant for a quick snack, any time, any place.

How she loved the charm and enchantment of the town. One of the many reasons she opted to move in with Earl rather than go to Colorado with her mom and brand-new stepdad. Or stepdouche.

When she turned the next corner, she caught sight of a petite blonde walking beside a hulking, tattooed giant Ryanne recognized. Cigarette! The blonde...could she be the prostitute from the van?

Ryanne pulled over a little too sharply and parked at the sidewalk. Both Cigarette and Blondie glanced in her direction. His eyes narrowed, while the woman’s widened. He grabbed her by the arm and picked up the pace, soon disappearing around a corner.

Trembling, Ryanne palmed her phone and fired off a text to Jude. Guess who I just found? Our friends from the parking lot. I’m going to follow them.

She added a thumbs-up emoji and pressed Send.

His reply came only a few seconds later. Do not pursue. I repeat, just in case I wasn’t clear. Do not. NOT. If you do, there will be consequences.

Well, well. Commando was back in action, and more delicious than a bag of Chips Ahoy! I could eat him up. Still, encouraging his power play would only end badly for her and their upcoming sexlationship—because yes, they would have one.

She jabbed her fingers into the keyboard, typing, Aren’t you precioso. Consequences, cowboy? Try. Please.

Then she added a gif of two people jumping up and down, laughing and clapping.

No way Ryanne would do what the big, strong man had told her. How many times had her mother obeyed every whim, command or request of a husband, boyfriend, lover or even potential lover, losing her own identity? Lyndie, too, had lost her identity in her father and husband. Though Dorothea loved Daniel, she had given up a promising career as a storm chaser in order to be with him.

I’ll give up nothing.

Would Ryanne be in danger? No!

Okay, maybe. But probably not. This was a public place. Even if Cigarette decided he didn’t care about their audience, he couldn’t come within ten feet of Ryanne without getting shot. Having gotten her conceal and carry license at Earl’s insistence, she never left home without protection. What truly motivated her to get out of her car, however, was the thought that Blondie might be a sex slave in need of rescue. The way Cigarette had grabbed her...

Determined to ferret out the truth, Ryanne marched down the sidewalk. Cool air stroked her bare arms, causing goose bumps to sprout. In September, or any month, really, Oklahoma weather could change from one hour to another, from sizzling hot to ice cold. Picking up the pace, she snaked around the corner, tense and ready...

Dang it! No sign of Cigarette or Blondie. She checked between the buildings and inside a few of the shops. Still nothing.

With a sigh of frustration, she pivoted—

And smacked into a brick wall. Or at least what felt like a brick wall.

Big hands settled on her hips, pinning her in place. Her mind reacted before her eyes had time to assess the situation. Cigarette? On instinct, she drew back her fist and punched. Pain exploded in her knuckles, but she swallowed a yelp, determined to maintain a strong persona.

Nope, not Cigarette. Jude Laurent rubbed his jaw. “You hit like a girl,” he grated.

Deep breath in, out. Meanwhile, her heart continued to race. “If you put a little more strength behind your blows, you could hit like a girl, too,” she retorted.

The corners of his lips twitched. Rays of sunlight spilled over him, framing him in gold, and oh, wow, he looked good. Like a fallen angel. His hair appeared lighter today, and his tan darker. A storm brewed in his navy blue eyes.