Chapter 1

[Mavis]

“What the hell are you doing?”

The gruffness in his tone was the last thing I expected, although I’m familiar enough with his voice which currently sounds like he smoked a pack of cigarettes when I know he doesn’t smoke.

“I—” I blink, stunned as the heavy downpour hammers at my skin.

For late September, the weather has been unpredictable, and this sudden deluge came out of nowhere. I hadn’t been to Sterling Falls since summer a year ago—nearly thirteen months—but I needed to be here. While I no longer had a home, I wanted to be somewhere more welcoming than where I’d been.

This was no pleasant greeting, however.

I’d debated even stopping. The mountain was dark, the hour late, and the trees around us drenched in rain which created an ominous atmosphere. Witnessing a pickup truck pulled off to the side of the road should have meant nothing to me. Stopping on the dark highway would be dangerous and foolish as I was a single mother with my six-year-old child in the backseat of my car. But I recognized the logo branded on the side of the truck, and noticed the hood propped up and a man bowed underneath it. I pulled over because it wasn’t just any man beneath that hood. He was someone I knew, sort of.

With my hazard lights on and a quick check of Dutton sleeping in the backseat of the VW Jetta, I set the parking brake and exited my warm, safe, dry vehicle to see if the man needed assistance.

Now, piercing blue eyes narrow at me. Eyes like ice when they’d been nothing but kind over the last five years. His silver hair is plastered to his face, charcoal-colored from the wetness of the rain. His leather jacket reflects how soaked the material is, suggesting he’d been out in the storm for a while. Standing here only seconds, the rain has seeped through my own layers of a heavy sweater and long-sleeved tee, plus my jeans. My entire body shivers from the unrelenting rain, making my sodden, cold clothes cling to me, chilling me to the bone. If Clay has been out here longer than I’ve stood here, he must be miserable.

“I thought you might need help,” I call out over the thundering downpour, my voice sheepish as I stand a few feet away from him. I hate this about myself. Hate how I cower. How anxious he makes me.

I wasn’t afraid of him. No, Clayton Sylver—Clay—would never harm me physically.

What frightened me was how attracted I’d been to him from the moment I first met him. A kind smile once upon a time. A friendly greeting whenever I entered his local business. The teasing banter he shared with his employees, reminding me his jovial behavior was nothing special toward me. His behavior was simply who he is—a good man.

So, his narrow-eyed glare and sharp words throw me off like the onset of this September storm.

Clay glances over my shoulder, the light from my hazards blinking red behind me. “You’re getting drenched. You shouldn’t be out here.”

Does he mean in the rain? Or simply out in the openness of the late-night road? Or maybe he even means I shouldn’t be returning to Sterling Falls after all that happened. However, that might be my own fear talking. Fear that as much as I loved this town, I might not be welcomed back here.

And I’m doubtful I’ve ever made an impression on Clay Sylver. I’ve simply been a customer over the years. A woman who thought she was decorating a house to make it a home. A woman designing a backyard for a child to play. A woman duped by the wrong man when the right one didn’t know I existed.

I’ve been crushing on Clay Sylver for a while now.

“I thought you might need help,” I repeat, a little stronger, forcing myself to hold my head a little higher as I take one giant step closer to him. My cold fingers are clasped together, tightening until they feel like they might crack. The rain is painful, like a harsh baptism, pelting my face and continuing to make me blink. My own hair is plastered to my cheeks like Medusa’s snakes, but I don’t reach for the strands. Instead, I remain stone still staring back at Clay.

I only want to help.

Holding my breath, I wait for him to tell me he doesn’t need me. Whatever caused his vehicle to be pulled to the side of the road, hood up, isn’t my concern. Considering a flashlight is propped up near the engine, though, the situation doesn’t look good for him.

Clay slowly turns his head, glancing back at his truck. Swiping a hand over his hair, which does nothing to remove the water in the continued downpour, his shoulders fall, and he gazes back at me.

“I guess I could use a ride to town.”

I nod once. “Need help with anything in your—”

A sudden hand, held upright, palm outward cuts me off. “Just get back in your car. I’ll be right there.” Frustration fills his voice. Maybe even defeat. He sharply turns back for his truck, and I watch as his broad back hunches. He hitches up the collar of his leather jacket as if that could prevent any further rain from hitting his body.

I spin away from him as well and briskly walk back to the Jetta. Once inside, I shudder and glance in the rearview mirror to check on Dutton again. Still peacefully asleep when he typically hates storms. Lucky little kid.

Reaching for the thermostat, I crank the heat and gaze into the side mirror to check on Clay’s progress. The hood of his truck is closed. The brightness of my hazards flash in measured time, flicking across the slick, dark road, and colliding with the front of his vehicle.

While looking to my left, the passenger door to my right opens, and I let out a squeak, shifting in the driver’s seat. Clay’s eyes crash with mine. Bent forward, he has a hand on the top of the passenger door. His other arm rests on the roof of my car.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, eyeing me, noting my surprise. As if I hadn’t asked him if he needed the ride.

“Get in,” I state quietly, quickly darting a glance to Dutton once again.

Clay tilts his head, door still open, rain hitting his back, and catches sight of Dutton in the backseat. My son’s head is tipped to the side, leaning awkwardly on a bed pillow pressed against the window. His mouth hangs open, and he’s gently snoring.

Clay’s eyes drift back to mine. He pauses another second as if contemplating something but when a clap of thunder rustles through the trees and a sudden bolt of lightning cracks upward from the street before us, Clay settles into my car. He slams the door then shifts once more to check on Dutton.

“Sorry about that,” he mutters, side-eyeing me. He shudders once while facing forward then sets his fist to his mouth and coughs. A sharp, barking kind of cough that wracks his entire body. He bends forward as if curling into himself as the hacking continues harsh and deep. Once the spell passes, he sits upright, swipes at his mouth, and tips his head back. He closes his eyes.

“Are you sick?” I question. A fever would be difficult to detect without taking the liberty to touch his forehead. Something tells me Clay would not appreciate my hand on his face.

“Just a cough,” he mumbles, his voice still ragged and rough. He swallows hard, and I watch his Adam’s apple roll along his throat.

There is nothing just about his cough. He could have bronchitis or pneumonia or the flu.

“I work at the Sylver Seed & Soil,” he states, like I didn’t know, muttering the address just outside of Sterling Falls. “You can drop me there.”

I silently nod, turning off the hazards, and releasing the parking brake. Giving another quick glance at Clay, his tense body remains rigid in the passenger seat.

“I’m making a mess of your car.” His voice scratches but his eyes remain closed. He smooths his large hands down his thighs, covered in soaked denim. His body shudders once more.

“No worries,” I whisper, not half as concerned for my front seat as I am for the man sitting beside me. In the darkness around us, the glow of dashboard lights offers the only illumination, making it difficult to determine if Clay is sicker than a simple cold. The roughness of the barking cough suggests he is.

I glance over my shoulder once more to check on Dutton. He’d recently gotten over the flu, and I don’t want him to be ill again.

“I can call one of my brothers.” Clay’s voice has me turning my head, meeting those icy blue eyes once more. His pinched expression suggests he’d rather not call one of them, though.

I don’t know a lot about Clay, but I know his older brother Stone is the local sheriff. One of his younger brothers, Knox, is a firefighter. Unfortunately for me, I’ve been acquainted with each of them through their professions, not as a neighborly citizen of Sterling Falls. Clay also has a brother who owns the local bakery, and a sister named Vale.

“No. I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.” Placing the car in Drive, I cautiously roll onto the mountain highway, curious what Clay was doing out here near midnight. Glancing through the windshield at the slick pavement, I wonder if I should be worried about black ice as the temperature outside has dropped considerably. Or maybe concerned another strike of lightning will burst before us.

“I’m Mavis, by the way.” I clear my throat, noting it isn’t half as strong as the woman making a rash decision to pull over to the side of the road and help a stranded male driver. “Mavis Grant.”

The use of my maiden name with him feels foreign on my tongue when it shouldn’t. I hadn’t been married. Not like everyone thought.

“I know who you are.” His voice is quiet but no less rugged. The tone implies more than recognition of a repeat customer to Sylver Seed & Soil. He knows about my past, or at least the local lore of thirteen months ago.

With Clay’s head tipped back while he spoke and his eyes closed, I want to shut my own as if they can hide me. As if it will make the past disappear and protect me from the blaze of history I’m rushing toward.

I shouldn’t be returning to Sterling Falls, but this was my home despite all that happened. Deep down, I once believed I belonged here. Not on the run. Not hiding. Dutton and I have been hidden for long enough.

My parents encouraged me to move on. Start somewhere new, somewhere fresh. That newness meant remaining in Florida with them. But amid the told-you-so speeches, and the pitying looks, I couldn’t continue living there any longer. We’d overstayed our welcome. It was time to return to the only other place I’d known.

I can only hope Sterling Falls is forgiving and forgetful, unlike the man seated beside me.

+ + +

I don’t take Clay to the Seed & Soil. With him practically passed out in my front seat, mumbling on occasion, and coughing sporadically in a way that wracked his entire body, I drove him to his house. I shouldn’t know where he lives. It made me appear like a stalker that I did, but in a small town, it isn’t unlikely to know where people reside in and around the town limits. Clay owns a rather modern-looking, sprawling ranch-style house. Taking the winding gravel drive, now pocked with puddles, my Jetta jostles cautiously toward the single-story home.

Stopping at the end of the drive, marked by a line of railroad ties, I turn my head to notice a singular light illuminating the front door and a wall of windows facing us. Somewhere within the house another light glows and a thought hits me.

Does Clay have someone in his life?

He didn’t have a wife or steady girlfriend as far as I knew, but a lot can change in a year. I’m hopeful many things are different about me. Still, the soft light offering a welcoming beam from behind the windows has me second guessing my decision to bring Clay here.

Glancing at his slumped body, head resting against the cool glass in a similar fashion to Dutton in the backseat, I argue that I’ve made the right choice.

Clay Sylver is sick.

Unbuckling my seatbelt, I hesitantly reach for Clay, gently placing a hand on his shoulder and jiggling him.

“Clay.” My voice is too quiet, not loud enough to rouse a sleeping man. “Clay, hon—” I quickly cut myself off from continuing the gentle endearment, as if we are more familiar with one another.

Giving Dutton another glance in the backseat, I shake Clay more firmly and strengthen my tone. “Clay.”

A smug smile quirks one corner of his mouth higher than the other. A damn dimple pops out, nearly blinding me. “In a minute, baby.” His muttering suggests he’s dreaming of someone. Someone clearly not me.

The sobering thought has me pushing harder at his shoulder. “Clay,” I snap sharply, sparing Dutton another glance, torn between waking my son and needing to wake the sick man happily fantasizing beside me.

Clay’s eyes ping open, staring straight ahead a second. His gaze appears unfocused. Those icy blue eyes are distant. Then his forehead furrows, deep creases forming as recognition slowly dawns. His rugged voice harshly whispers, “I’m home.”

“No place like it,” I softly tease.

His head shoots toward me, those piercing eyes locking on me. His expression suggests he isn’t certain who I am despite claiming he knew me earlier, or how he got here. In my Jetta. At his house.

His hand slides to the door handle, and he pops open the passenger door, awkwardly tumbling out of it before catching himself with one foot. Twisting his body without a second glance at me, he slips from my car and blindly presses on the door to close it behind him.

The way Clay sways as he moves forward, staggering side-to-side before reaching his front door, I’d think he was drunk if I didn’t know better. He still doesn’t look back and I watch with bated breath as he types in a code on a keypad to open his front door. As the door swings open, I tell myself I’m only waiting for him to enter the house. Making certain he is safely inside. Then I’m leaving his apparently ungrateful ass behind.

Through the floor to ceiling glass panels, I watch the outline of Clay moving inside the immediate entryway and further into what I assume is a living space.

Then I watch him stumble, pitch forward, and land face down on the floor.