Chapter 1

1

MANHATTAN—OCTOBER

R eagan Bradley closed her eyes, breathing deeply in and out.

She was bored. Tired. And unhappy. The trifecta. But mostly unhappy.

At thirty, she was a success on paper. Finance degree from Harvard Business School. Master’s degree from Wharton. She’d worked as a Wall Street trader now for almost seven years, known for her ability to spot trends and take calculated risks that paid off. She put in eighty-hour weeks and had zero personal life.

Once, she had been in love. Was set to marry. But Archibald Coleridge the Fourth had died in a mugging a week before their wedding. Gone was his wallet. His Philippe Patek watch. And his life. Knowing Arch, he had argued with his assailant, especially over the watch. It had belonged to his grandfather and was his most prized possession. The police had found the pawnshop where the watch landed and soon after, the man who had stolen it. Stolen a watch—and a life.

Actually, two lives. She counted hers just as gone as Arch’s was.

Reagan hadn’t taken off any time from work, despite her sympathetic boss begging her to do so. She knew if she had time alone, she might go crazy. So, work had become a balm. A place to lose herself. Then an addiction, as powerful as any drug. Now, it was an anathema. She hated what she did for a living. The frenetic pace. The drive for more and more money. The superficiality of it all.

It hit her that she finally wanted to go home. To Texas. A place she’d run from so many years ago.

She had grown up in Dickinson, a small town southeast of Houston and northwest of Galveston, which was on the Gulf of Mexico. Her father had been an attorney and mayor of the town. Her mother dabbled in charity work and drank. They were snobs, holding themselves above the average Texan. Reagan had been a daddy’s girl— even after his death. He’d wanted her to go into law or finance, and so she’d majored in finance more to please him than herself. Her parents had been killed in a small plane crash while on their way to New Orleans, brought down in a heavy rainstorm. Reagan had just graduated from high school the week before their deaths. Her father’s law partner had helped her sue the aircraft maker, settling for a high six-figure number which had paid for her two college degrees, with a little change to spare.

Having spent the last twelve years in the Northeast, she was tired of the long winters and strangers who avoided eye contact on the streets. Suddenly, she yearned for the friendly faces and warmer climate of Texas.

Glancing around, she saw two dozen other fellow employees at work, staring at their computer screens. Searching for the next trend. Ready to make the next sale. Reel in the next commission.

Reagan was tired of her world revolving around money every waking moment. Especially today. The second anniversary of when she’d gotten the call that changed her life.

She stood. Pierce Bradshaw glanced up at her, bringing his chopsticks to his mouth and taking a bite of moo goo gai pan.

Frowning, he asked, “Are you going somewhere?”

“Home.”

He laughed. “Home? What’s that? Oh, yeah. It’s the miniscule apartment I pay an arm and leg for and never see. I stumble in. Go to bed. The only time I’m awake is for a quick shower and shave before heading out the door again.”

“Don’t you get tired of not having a life?” she asked.

Pierce shrugged. “This is what we signed up for. I plan to retire by the time I’m fifty. Sooner, if my old man kicks the bucket and I inherit.”

Frustrated, Reagan said, “But don’t you want more?”

He looked at her sympathetically. “Damn,” he said softly. “I’d forgotten. Today’s the day Arch died. I’m sorry, Reagan. Go home. Have a drink. Have a few of them,” he advised.

She didn’t want a drink. She didn’t want this life anymore. Reagan might not know exactly what she wanted.

But it wasn’t this.

Impulsively, she sat again, typing at her computer for a minute. Then she printed out the page and scrawled her signature on it.

Pierce viewed her with curiosity. “What’s that?”

“My resignation letter.”

Marching to their boss’ office, Reagan opened the door and placed the letter on top of the desk. It would be the first thing her boss would see the next morning.

She returned to her desk, opening drawers, rummaging around, and couldn’t find a single thing she wanted to keep.

Standing, she slipped into her trench coat and slung her purse over her shoulder. “Bye, Pierce.”

“You can’t leave,” he said, a little too loudly, causing others to glance in her direction.

“Watch me.”

Reagan headed toward the door, knowing she was committing professional suicide.

And didn’t care.

Punching the elevator button, she waited. Pierce appeared, looking panicked.

“Come on, Reagan. You’re just depressed about Arch. Ask for a few days off. Go see a therapist. Get some meds. For depression. Or anti-anxiety. You don’t want to do this.”

She studied him a long moment. “Actually, I have wanted to for a long time, Pierce. I just didn’t know I wanted to.”

“No one will hire you if you walk out like this,” he warned. “No notice. You’re throwing years of work down the drain. You won’t get any kind of severance package. Certainly, none of the higher ups will ever write you a recommendation. In fact, they’ll run your name through the mud. Please, Reagan. Stop and think.”

The elevator chimed, and she entered it. Turning to face him, she said, “You’ve been a good friend to me, Pierce. You were a good friend to Arch, too.”

Pierce had introduced her to her fiancé. He had been almost as torn up as she had after Arch’s death since he and Arch had known each other for so long, even rooming together at Yale.

Reagan pushed the button. As the doors began to close, she whispered, “Goodbye.”

Then Pierce was gone.

For the last time, she rode sixty-eight floors down, saying goodnight to the guy at the security desk. She walked two blocks to the subway station and moved swiftly down the stairs, passing through the turnstile. Her train came two minutes later, and she boarded it, finding a seat.

Deliberately, she kept her mind a blank. She couldn’t afford to think now on what she had done. Instead, she observed her fellow passengers. A teenager moving his head to the beat of the music he listened to. A mom with a baby stroller. A man in a suit, scrolling through his cell phone. An elderly gentleman with a rolling cart, a loaf of bread sticking out of a sack.

When her stop came, she got up, noticing her legs were a little shaky. She left the station and walked a block to her favorite pizza place, asking for two slices of pepperoni to go. Once in her apartment, she turned on the lights. Poured herself a glass of wine. Sat on the couch. Ate her pizza.

And cried.

Reagan couldn’t have identified what she was crying for because it was for so many things. Losing Arch and the life they had planned together. Her parents being gone. Her twenties, too. She felt she had nothing to show for her life. She was too busy to have friends or hobbies. Had no time for volunteer work. Couldn’t think of the last time she’d sat down to read a book or watch something on TV. She hadn’t gone to a movie in over a year. Life had been wake up, work, come home, go to bed. Rinse and repeat.

That was done. She was ready to flip everything on its head.

She finished one piece of pizza and wrapped the other in foil, placing it in the empty fridge. The pizza would most likely be breakfast tomorrow morning. Draining the wine, she went to her bedroom, stripping off her clothes and for once, leaving everything on the floor. Once she had on pajamas, she returned to the couch and picked up her cell phone.

It was time to call Aunt Jean.

Jean Bradley was what Reagan’s mother called a spinster. Reagan preferred to think of her aunt as simply being too independent to be tied permanently to any man. Aunt Jean had been fifteen when her mother died giving birth to Reagan’s father after numerous miscarriages, and Jean had raised her brother. She’d worked all kinds of odd jobs once their father passed in order to support them. Managing a bowling alley. Working at a florist shop. Acting as an elementary school secretary. When her little brother graduated from law school, Jean was almost forty and said she longed for a quiet life.

That had led her to Lost Creek, Texas, where she bought a large, rambling house and turned it into a bed and breakfast. The Hill Country was a popular destination for weekend getaways, and Jean Bradley was consistently booked up. She had even added two separate bungalows near the main house and did quite well. Her aunt was Reagan’s only living relative, and they had remained close over the years. Her family had visited Lost Creek every summer when school was out, until Aunt Jean and Reagan’s mom had some falling out which neither of them elaborated on. The breach had ended summer visits, but Aunt Jean had encouraged Reagan to text her frequently.

She had been too busy to get to Texas while in college and grad school because she went year-round, graduating early from both programs. Her investment firm strongly discouraged taking more than a day or two in a row for vacation, and so Reagan had remained in New York. Aunt Jean had flown up several times to play tourist, with Reagan taking off two days each time, and Jean had also come for Arch’s funeral. If there were anyone she wanted to talk to more about what she had just done, it was Jean Bradley.

Touching her aunt’s name on her cell, she listened to the phone ringing.

“Hello, Reagan. How are you? I know today is a hard day for you.”

Leave it to Aunt Jean to remember Arch died today.

“It’s hard,” she admitted, tears suddenly streaming down her cheeks. “I loved Arch. I thought we would have a lifetime together.”

“On days like today, I understand it’s like ripping a bandage off a wound which hasn’t fully healed. The anniversary of Arch’s death will always hurt, honey. And I know it doesn’t feel like it right now because you’re in a world of pain, but time will heal you. You won’t be as you were before. You’ll always bear a scar. But one day it won’t hurt as much. You’ll remember more of the good than the bad. I believe you’ll even find someone else to love, Reagan.”

She brushed away the tears. “I don’t know if I can open my heart again,” she admitted. “I never loved a man before Arch. It seems impossible I could love anyone but him.”

“Part of that is because you’ve buried yourself in your work,” Aunt Jean said. “I didn’t chastise you for that. I knew you needed a refuge. Work has kept you busy. Filled your time. But it can’t completely fill the hole in your heart. You need to get back out there. I’m not saying start dating. Just see friends. Meet someone for coffee and go walk in that beautiful Central Park. Take in a play. Meet a friend for lunch or go to a museum. You need to start doing things away from work, Reagan.”

She laughed, trying to keep the hysteria from her voice. “Well, I don’t have to worry about work as of today. I quit.”

Aunt Jean was silent. Then she spoke. “I know you didn’t do this lightly. I understand how much your career has meant to you.”

“I walked away on the spur of the moment,” she revealed. “Typed out a resignation letter an hour ago and set it on my boss’ desk. He’ll see it first thing tomorrow—and will be shocked.”

“Why did you do it?” her aunt pressed gently.

“Because I’m so tired,” she acknowledged. “You’re right. I don’t do anything but work. After Arch’s death, work sheltered me from all the ugliness. It kept me sane. Then somehow, it took over. I’d always put in a lot of hours, but I found I was devoting every waking minute to it. Suddenly, it no longer brought me comfort. It had absorbed me. Engulfed me until nothing of me was left.”

Reagan began crying, and her aunt murmured comforting words.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” she apologized. “I’m just so unhappy.” She hesitated. “And I miss Texas.”

“Saints be praised!” Aunt Jean declared. “I never thought my sweet girl would admit that. Why don’t you come visit me, Reagan? You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish. We can talk over what you want to do in the future. Or we don’t have to talk about that at all. Just come to Lost Creek. Give yourself time to heal. Then you can decide what you want to do with your life.”

“Thank you,” she said fervently. “That’s exactly what I need. You. And Texas.”

“Let me know when you’re coming. I’ll have a room ready for you.”

“I will. It’ll be a couple of days. I have a few things I should do here.”

She didn’t say what, but Reagan planned to shutter her life in New York. When she left for Lost Creek, all loose ends in the city would be tied up.

Because she was never going to live and work in Manhattan again.

She would investigate Houston. Dallas. San Antonio. Those larger cities would provide more opportunities for her career. Then again, she might be done with finance. It might be time to step away and find something entirely new to do. Thanks to investing wisely, she had a decent-sized nest egg and wouldn’t need to work right away. She would have to time explore her options.

“I look forward to seeing you, Reagan,” Aunt Jean said. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” she replied. “Talk soon.”

Hanging up, Reagan made a list of what she would need to do in order to leave New York permanently.

And return to the nurturing arms of her aunt—and Lost Creek.