Chapter 1

Lincoln

I had gotten it all wrong.

I slam on my brakes so hard that mud flares up and bathes the side of my best friend’s bright purple muscle car. Throwing the truck into park, I lean back in my seat, still fuming. Pain radiates through my hand and up my forearm on the fifth or sixth time I smack my palm against the steering wheel.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Sucking in air through my nose, I fill my chest, holding it for a three-count. Adrenaline courses through my veins with the need to get as far away as I can. I zone out, staring at the flat landscape and the paddocks peppered with horses running around in the last of the day’s light. Fleetwood Mac keeps echoing the same words over and over about listening to the wind and not loving someone now. The fucking irony. As I squeeze my fist, the sting of my busted, bloody knuckles makes me wince. My elbow aches, probably bruised from the repeated strikes.

She tipped her chin up, and with watery eyes, delivered the final blow. “This is broken. We’re broken, Lincoln,” she gritted out.

Before she could say another word, I stormed out the side door. All I could think was, now I was exactly that. Broken. I’d never felt more damaged and fucking broken. My fist hit the side of my truck with a heavy groan. On the second punch, I left a dent. On the third, my knuckles burned, and then I followed it up with an elbow like it was a heavy bag and not metal. The girls were already asleep inside and upstairs, thank god.

I didn’t have a game plan. I wasn’t prepared for this . “Fuck!”

I shut off the truck and slam the door behind me, ignoring the dent along the side panel. I’m not doing well with emotions right now. I can’t go back.

The pungent smell of horse stalls being raked permeates the air. Mixed with the thickness of today’s humidity, it overpowers the usual sweetness of a Fiasco summer. This late in the evening, the only folks still at the racetrack and in the stables are trainers and owners. I look around for the dark curls piled high and, sure enough, I see my best friend’s hands moving enthusiastically as she’s telling a story at the far end of the stables. “Hads,” I call out.

She whips around and greets me with her typical welcoming smile. “Linc, what are you doing here?”

But her smile quickly fades as I get closer. She can read me better than most people. Even better than Olivia sometimes. Her eyes cut to my fists balled up at my sides. I clear my throat. “I need a minute.”

She doesn’t ask anything in follow-up. She simply watches me as I say it, turning over internal questions and trying to figure out what’s wrong. “I need a minute” acts as a code. A few simple words that tells the other something is off, and we need a place to sort it out. Friendship for us meant making the other laugh when nothing was funny, celebrating the small moments, and knowing when the other required space more than words of wisdom.

Hadley may have started as Olivia’s friend but, for some reason, she and I ended up closer. She’d hung around our home since she was in middle school, like the long-lost sister nobody wanted. So that’s what she was now–my best friend who felt more like a sister.

“Lady Brittany Christina Pink is still saddled. You can take her.” She nods behind me at the stall with one of her newest horses.

Its lighter brown mane and tail make her a helluva good-looking animal. “I’m not calling a horse that,” I tell her as I admire the dark horse for a moment. She’ll ride fast, which is perfect. I need something that isn’t bourbon or fighting.

Hadley flips me off. “She’s the ultimate trifecta. That’ll make her a Triple Crown winner. I can feel it.” She digs her pointer finger into my chest with a poke. “You will call her by her goddess-given name.”

I crack a smile. “You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?”

“And yet, here you are, calling me your bestie and asking for my help.”

I pull at the horse’s saddle. “I don’t call you that.”

Rolling her eyes, she waves me off. “Doesn’t make it any less true.” She checks the billet straps and runs her hands along the side of the horse’s neck. “She’s fast.” She squeezes my forearm. “Ride smart. Let me get you a bag.”

“Thank you,” I say as I run my hands through my hair. I look back toward the few guys she had been talking with. “Hads, you okay here with these guys?”

Head tilted, she tosses a glance over her shoulder. “Oh please, they’re more scared of me than my father. So, yeah, I’m good.” She gives me a reassuring smile. “Take this.” She tosses me her bright yellow backpack. “You need a cover story? Or have I not seen you?”

I hoist the bag onto my shoulder and step toward Lady. “Never saw me.”

She grabs my forearm again only this time she pulls me into a hug. After giving me a good squeeze, she lets go, and her eyes meet mine. “Do I want to know?”

I give her a quick shake of my head, then get settled on the horse without another word. She doesn’t want to know this. The truth is, I don’t want to know it either. It’s a secret. Another one. And at the end of the day, it feels like my fault.

As the warm wind whips across my face, I take notice of the sun dropping lower, finally meeting the horizon line on what’s been a fuck of a day. I ride without stopping. The last of daylight reaches across the flat landscape of Kentucky’s bluegrass. Not much of it is usually in this part of the state, but for the next two miles, it’s tall and thick as it brushes against my boots propped in the stirrups. The humidity has lifted just enough as I ride, turning what was a sticky afternoon into the kind of evening where I can finally breathe.

I could have easily gone to my brother’s place and taken one of the horses from the stables, since my family owns and boards plenty. But then I would need to explain what I was doing there. Grant would have asked if I was okay, even if he’s barely surviving himself. My baby brother is a shell of who he used to be. Ace would have told me about something that needed to be handled. He plays the oldest brother role so well that he forgets sometimes how to be a friend. And Griz would have seen through the mask I would need to wear. My grandfather figures everything out as if he has the ability to tell the future. I don’t want to deal with any of it. Not until I sort this out for myself.

There are plenty of hiking and horse trails that lead to the caves and hot springs in Fiasco, and at sunset, there will be plenty of people enjoying them, so I keep riding. I’ve been in enough fights in my life to know that a swift punch or kick to the stomach doesn’t hurt the most, but it takes the most air from your lungs and leaves you remembering never to be in that position again. How did I end up in this position at all? With a tight chest, I grip the reins tighter and dig my heels in to move faster.

The air up here near the fall’s caverns has a different smell. While Fiasco carries the scent of a never-ending bakery, up here, it’s more like salt and moss. Something earthier that made things seem raw and untouched.

Bringing the horse to a stop, I jump down and tie her to the old oak tree that looks like it’s seen better days. With craggy bark manipulated and twisted in a way that doesn’t seem natural, it looks charred, as if it had been struck by lightning and then was never the same. It’s how I feel— I’ll never be the same . The only thing I have control over is what I do next. Tilting my head back, I suck in a breath, my butt hitting the tall grass along the bank on an exhale. I cough out whatever is left and drape my arms over my bent knees.

People always say that marriage takes work—that it’s just as hard to stay as it is to leave. And I’ve never been a quitter.

I feel sick. My hands are clammy as I rub my chest with a closed fist and hit it once, twice, and a third time before my eyes well up with tears. I haven’t been a good husband. I know I’m a good dad, a great one some days. But a husband...I close my eyes tight. Dragging my hands through my hair, I keep my fingers braced along my neck. I suck in another deep breath, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. “FUUUCK YOUUUU!” I yell into the night air, as loud and long as my breath allows.

Fuck it. I let my tears fall. Staring out at the clusters of lights that make up my small town below, I work to steady my breathing. It’s the only place I’ve ever known as home. Where I grew up and where my daughters are growing too. As I gaze over the flat land, from the lavender fields to my family’s distillery, I wait. I wait until my body relaxes from my anger, my tears dry on their own, and my mind becomes clearer. Clear enough to make a plan for what comes next—the conversations that’ll have to happen, the small hearts I’ll have to break. It feels like minutes, but the full moon hung low and bathed the sky in a pink hue. It’s the only indication that I’ve been here for hours. In the grand scheme, it’s not long at all to decide that the life you had was going to be different tomorrow.

Before I get back on the horse, I send out a text.

LINCOLN

I’ll bring Lady to the stables in the morning.

HADLEY

Lady Brittany Christina Pink is a thoroughbred. If anything happens to her, I will kick you in the dick.

Sighing, I run my hands along Lady’s coarse mane. “How did I get here, girl?” The sniff she lets out is probably her way of saying, Fuck if I know . The static sounds from the falls in the distance, along with the deep bellowing of bullfrogs and the intermittent chirp of crickets, is my soundtrack. It’s the part of Fiasco that calms me more than any family night or hours in a chemistry lab ever has. It’s the one thing people never assume about me. I love it here. I have no desire to be anywhere else.

The only time you’ll find Fiasco bustling at this hour is if there’s a festival or party that promises bourbon and fireworks. But tonight, it’s quiet, as it often is. I likely wouldn’t run into anyone on the main road to my house, but I decide to skip downtown, cutting through the woods on horseback and through the cornfields that hug the length of my property. In the distance, I can see the outside light illuminating my back porch. And as I ride closer, I already know it’ll stop feeling like home as soon as I cross the threshold.

The clattering of metal has me whipping my head to the left. There’s no reason for anyone to be out here. The old barn straddling my property line and our neighbor’s is on its last leg. One more tornado or hurricane and it’ll come down easily. Hell, it might not even take that much. Along the far side of the dilapidated structure is the small brook where Lark likes to search for tadpoles. It’s as secluded as it can get.

Squinting into the dark, I pull on Lady’s reins to slow her down, spotting movements by the small stream of water.

“You literal motherfucker,” being shouted breaks the quiet. A woman who sounds more than frustrated and a lot pissed off. The follow-up of a “fuck you” in a lower tone is laced with venom and has me biting back my smile.

I swing my leg over the saddle, and my boots hit the soggy ground with a squelch. Swear words and splashes of water being thrown up her arms make it so she doesn’t hear me approach.

The movement stops when I clear my throat. “Everything okay over there?” I call out from less than twenty feet away.

She’s frozen in place with her back to me, for what must be at least ten seconds of silence.

“You’re trespassing on private property,” I say as I move closer, trying to make sense of why someone would be out here at this time of night. My eyes have more than adjusted to the lack of light, especially with the size of tonight’s moon. But it’s when she stands and turns that I realize she’s not trespassing at all.

Faye Calloway. The oldest daughter. Her family owns everything from the edge of the cornfield to the other side of their farmhouse. I’m the one trespassing.

“I’m pretty sure you’re the one who doesn’t belong here,” she says, with enough of a bite that there’s no trace of neighborly camaraderie.

Pieces of her blonde hair wildly escape the messy knot on top of her head, her face streaked with something dark. Make-up from crying? Or mud? As my gaze travels lower, I take in her soaked arms and tank top, dripping with water that tracks down her legs. She doesn’t look like the buttoned-up police academy graduate that I saw on the local news just last week. There’s no trace of that person before me. This version rubs her hands down the front of her shorts, pushes her chest out and tilts her chin up. She’s trying to hide the fact that I caught her off guard, and whatever she’s doing, it doesn’t include an audience.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I wait for her to say something.

But she stays quiet and watches as I move closer.

“What are you doing out here this late?” We may technically be neighbors, but I’ve only ever seen Faye randomly around town near holidays, or either coming or leaving town during summers and school breaks. We moved in next door shortly after she left for school. I didn’t know her. But that doesn’t matter. I know people. And something looks off. When she doesn’t respond, I ask, “Are you hurt?”

Putting her hands on her hips, she tips her head back and looks at the sky as she laughs to herself. “Why? Are you in the habit of wandering around at night looking for women to rescue?”

Her mocking tone has me holding back a smile. “It wasn’t on my to-do list tonight, so no.” I blow out a breath as I swipe at my phone and flip on the flashlight, pointing it at her. I’m a bit surprised at what I see all over her, but it doesn’t shake me like it would most people. “There’s blood and mud all along your legs,” I say matter-of-factly as I tip the light higher.

Her mouth purses as she tries to sort out how to explain exactly what’s going on.

I move the light up and down pointedly. “You missed some blood along your neck.” I tap my face to show her where. “And your cheek.”

She raises her hand to block the light from her eyes. Crouching back down along the small stream, she wets her hands, rubbing away the red streaks.

My brother Grant was a cop not too long ago. He respects the rules and the people who make them, but I like to bend them when needed. Sometimes that makes things dirty, and other times, bloody. I don’t care to judge anyone who might do the same, but this isn’t someone I’d expect to find out in the dark, up to something clearly sketchy.

I lower the light, but I keep my focus on her. “I’m assuming this isn’t part of your interview process for joining the Fiasco PD?”

She shifts with a wince. Her chin dips down, like the observation physically hurts to hear. The question is, is she in trouble? Or is she the source of it—covered in blood and mud along the edge of a cornfield?

“You going to ask how it got there? Or are you just planning on staring at me?” she asks as she shifts her weight and reaches for the hem of her shirt, smirking. I raise an eyebrow in challenge. She’s going to try for a distraction, but I’m not interested in playing into whatever she’s up to.

I sniff out a small laugh before I stupidly step closer. With just a few feet between us, my eyes wander down her legs toward her muddy pink Converse sneakers and up again. It’s hard picturing her as a cop right now. “Nah. Don’t really care,” I say nonchalantly. I look down her body and then meet her glare. “And believe me, I’m not looking.”

She shifts closer, her proximity raising goosebumps along my forearms. Despite the way she’s trying really fucking hard to harden herself with her shoulders back, standing tall, and an air of false bravado, she worries her lip.

I blink away all the small things I’m noticing about a woman I barely know. I don’t look at women—I’m not the kind of man to break a promise. But what if that promise was already broken? Stepping back, I hold up my left hand as I say, “Married.”

“You sure about that?” she bites back.

A simple jab like that is enough to make me react. No, I’m not sure about that. I take only a few more steps before I’m in her space, crowding her.

A clipped yelp leaves her throat, not expecting me to move so quickly. But she doesn’t pull back. In fact, she leans forward slightly, as if to welcome my anger. She’s shorter than me, but she isn’t dainty or fragile. She’d pack a punch if she knew how to throw one correctly.

But as I look down, I realize my mistake immediately. Almost toe to toe, her arm brushes mine as she clears her throat. I shouldn’t have gotten this close to her. There’s enough light for me to focus on the small beauty mark that sits on the apple of her cheek. And to notice the way her eyes bounce between mine and then drop down to my mouth. Fucking hell. Anger and chaotic emotions have me looking at someone I’d never planned on seeing.

“Did I hit a nerve with that one?”she taunts in a quiet voice.

Too close.

“Don’t,” I warn. Tonight’s not the night to push me. “Go home.”

Whatever she’s gotten herself into, I don’t need it anywhere near me. I need to get out of here. Away from her and this fucking shitshow of a situation.

I turn my back to her, moving toward the horse.

“Your back pocket,” she calls out. I stop in my tracks, turning just as she whips off her muddy tank top, leaving her in a sheer bra that, even in a dark field, leaves nothing to my imagination. I’m caught off guard and, like a fucking pervert, it feels impossible not to scan the curve of her body and the swell of her tits. I feel into the back pocket of my jeans and pull out the heavy metal piece, the size of my palm, rubbing my thumb along the grooves of it. I know it’s a folded switchblade, but I ask anyway, “What’s this?” Because it sure as fuck isn’t mine.

What she does next happens too fast for me to prevent it. She drapes her tank in her hand like a glove and snatches back the knife. “If anyone comes asking, you never saw me.” She raises her eyebrow, expecting me to agree.

I’m not in the mood for this shit. It’s almost comical how quickly this night keeps getting worse. But I’m not laughing.

“Or what?” I clap back, very aware that I just put my fingerprints all over what I can only gather is a weapon that fucked someone up tonight. The question is, how much? Threat? Assault? Murder?

The knife was heavy when I held it. I should have felt her slip it into my pocket. I played right into her hand and just became her perfect alibi.

She takes a step back and away from me, but it’s not far or fast enough.

Too bad for her, I’ve had too many years of wrestling with my brothers. That and relieving stress via sparring partners has honed my reflexes. It only takes a step and a half to reach her again and seconds to wrap my arms around her middle and yank her against my body. A gasp escapes her mouth as her chest collides with mine. A move I should have thought through first because, in a blink, I forget what I’m doing. The reason I’m out this late and why I’m pissed off at the way my life looks like something I no longer recognize. I stare down at this practical stranger pressed against me and an exhale rushes out. Her chest heaves, moving as rapidly as mine.

“I don’t do well with people threatening me,” I say, voice low as I speak inches away from her face.

She leans in closer, staring at my mouth in a way that makes me hold my breath. In an instant, her lips are pressed to mine. I don’t expect it. But I don’t pull away, I part them for her. Her tongue brushes mine teasingly and she sways into me. For a fraction of a minute, I forget everything else as I kiss her back. All of it. Lost in the unpredictability, I allow everything that’s wrong about this to roll closer and settle around us like fog.

The loud snap of thunder echoes in the distance, and like a starting bell, she pushes away and stumbles back, like she wasn’t the one who made the move in the first place. Her fingers move to her lips, as if she’ll find the marks that mine left.

Faye looks down at her right hand, still draped with her tank and clenched around the switchblade I stupidly held. “You never saw me.” Lightning illuminates the horizon in brief flashes. A warning. The storm isn’t coming, it’s here. Looming over us.

“You never saw me,” she repeats. “And as long as that’s your story, then this will never need to be found.” She holds up the knife.

I shove down any attraction that may have crested. The anger that had been coursing through me surfaces as I step forward, reaching her quickly as I cuff my hand around her neck nice and tight. If she wants to play, then we’re going to play. But now, it’s by my rules.

She struggles to keep her confidence intact. I don’t want to know the details of what she did before I showed up. I have no interest in guessing what she might have gone through to be in this position or if she’s just some deranged level of sociopath. I care about one thing: my family. What’s left of it, at least.

As she tries to move my fingers away from her neck, I squeeze tighter. Raindrops begin to fall as if to punctuate the moment.

“I don’t want any of what you’re involved in near my family.” So I make a demand: “Leave town. And don’t come back.”

Her widening eyes search mine as she struggles to get her words out. “I can’t just leav?—”

Thunder rumbles above.

I grit my teeth and squeeze my fingers again, relishing the feel of her racing pulse. The proof that she’s scared enough now to take me seriously.

“You can and you will. Or I will get every fucking cop I know in this town asking questions. My brother may have left Fiasco PD, but he was a K9 unit. He and his dog still know how to find things, especially if they know where to look. Do you want them to start looking?”

A tear streaks down her cheek and gets lost in the rain that saturates us in the next moment. The severity of my threat plays out in her mind as I watch her eyebrows pinch.

“Let go, Foxx,” she says with her jaw clenched, fingers pulling at mine to release her.

I glare down at her. “People assume I’m the nice one. The family man. But I’m very good at letting people believe what I want them to.” I lean in and whisper, just loud enough to drown out the wind whipping through the rows of corn, bending the structure that barely stands behind us. “So believe me when I say this...I don’t like to be fucked with. I don’t want you or whatever you just did coming back around. So you will leave. And I will keep your secret. I never saw you. I don’t know you nor do I ever want to. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal,” she growls back as she yanks out of my grip.

Watching her walk away, I drag my hands through my hair. I swallow down the lump rising in my throat as my mind snaps back to why I’d run away earlier. Sleep won’t come easily, I already know that as the weight of reality settles on my shoulders. Rain pelts my face on the ride to my house. The overhang along the back of the house will keep the horse dry for now. As I tie her up, remove her saddle, and fill up the garden basin with fresh water, my mind keeps replaying everything that just happened. This day needs to end, and tomorrow I’ll be thinking more clearly. I stare at the back door. Olivia and I can talk about what comes next in the morning. Shuffling up the stairs, I take a steadying breath.

My stomach twists when I notice the kitchen lights are still on. Shit. I don’t want to see my wife.

But as I step over the threshold, it’s the tangy and sour smell of Liv’s wine and then a crunch under my boot from a shattered glass that have me pausing. Those are the last two things my mind registers before I see her legs splayed out on the wooden floor.

“Liv? Liv!” I shout as I race over to her slumped body, heart in my throat. With her wine spilled around her, I slip on it, and my knees hit the hardwood. She’s not moving. I look around, as if something will tell me what the fuck is going on.

There’s no blood. No sign of a weapon. No pills or bottles. Something made her fall.

I lift her shoulders up and pull her body into mine. “Livvy, c’mon.” Her long limbs are limp and her head lulls to the right. Pushing wine-soaked strands of her hair away from her face, I speak shakily. “Livvy. C’mon, talk to me.”

My face is wet, nose stuffed, so I can only breathe through my mouth as I call an ambulance. Tears blur my vision as I focus on her. Her eyes are open. They stare blankly, void of any recognition or movement. She’s not blinking. She’s not looking at me or hearing anything I’m saying to her. She’s so heavy right now.

I suck in a breath, trying to fill my lungs with air so I can keep telling her to wake up. “Talk to me, Liv. Don’t do this.” Hands trembling, I look for a pulse. Dizzy with panic, I feel around her neck, but there’s nothing. Not one beat to count. This isn’t happening.

“Liv, c’mon. You can’t leave them. We’ll figure this out. You can’t leave them...”