Chapter 1

1

" H ow you doing, honey?"

Iris Tatum usually loved living in a small town. But today she'd been in town for all of an hour and she'd heard a variation of the same question at least ten times. You doing okay ? How are you holding up ? Do you need anything ?

Right now it was coming from Trixie, the fifty-something woman who ran the local diner. Iris had known Trixie her whole life.

And Trixie didn't deserve to have her head bitten off because Iris was having a bad day.

"I'm fine." She forced a smile. "Is my order ready?"

The lunch rush must not have begun yet, because the diner was almost empty. Thank goodness for small favors.

Trixie didn't call her out on the little white lie. "Got the fries coming out right about... now." A timer from the kitchen went off with a series of loud beeps. Trixie disappeared through the swinging door to the kitchen.

Iris knew the older woman meant well, but having to answer the question was like picking off a scab.

The truth was, she didn't know how she felt. Her emotions were a jumbled mess. Relief that they had found a buyer so quickly melded with shame and disappointment that she and Jilly had been forced to sell part of their family legacy. Gratitude that Jilly was responding well to her treatments mixed with worry that it wouldn't be enough. Worry that she would lose her sister, just like they'd lost mama.

Trixie brought out a white paper bag packed full of delicious hamburgers and fries. She handed over a Styrofoam cup with a wink.

"On the house. Figure you need it."

On of Trixie's to-die-for milkshakes? Yum.

"Thanks."

As Iris left the diner, she sent up a silent prayer that her sister would keep the food down. Jilly had requested the meal, which was rare in itself. The chemo had eradicated her appetite.

Bells jangled as Iris pushed through the diner door and onto Main Street. It wasn't quite raining, but she had to squint against the fine mist spitting out of the Texas sky.

Her brain whirled back to the sale.

She and Jilly didn't even know who the buyer was. They'd signed the papers three days ago, and, in every place where the buyer was listed on the paperwork, the papers head read L.B. LLC.

Who was L.B. LLC?

The buyer hadn't arrived at the title company before Iris had needed to leave to drag Jilly to her doctor's appointment.

Sutter's Hollow was a small town that prided itself on gossip, but no one seemed to know who had bought Uncle Joe's ranch.

This morning, a single-wide trailer had been delivered. The noise of the big tractor trailer had interrupted her breakfast with Jilly, and they'd watched from the kitchen window as several men had worked to unload the trailer onto a series of cement blocks.

The spot the new owner had chosen for the trailer was about a quarter-mile away but perfectly visible from the east side of the house. Iris'd already been grieving the loss of half of Uncle Joe's ranch, but somehow the arrival of the trailer made it very real. She and Jilly were apparently going to have a close neighbor. Every day would be a reminder of what they'd given up.

It would be worth it. It had to be. Without insurance, the hospital bills for Jilly's breast cancer treatments were astronomical. By selling off half of the land and all of the cattle, they'd been able to pay off the mortgage on the remaining land and the farmhouse and make a small dent in the medical bills.

Iris focused on sipping some of the delectable milkshake. She usually loved talking to folks in town, but today, knowing everybody was feeling sorry for her, she felt like she was covered in poison ivy. All of the sympathetic glances made her itchy.

She should head home. Since she'd been ten, she'd always found solace on the ranch. But with the neighbor soon to arrive... that made her itchy, too.

At least she and Jilly had a couple more days. There was no water for the new neighbor. A well would have to be dug and electricity run from the main line at the county road.

Two or three more days of peace was all she could expect.

Maybe she was being silly.

A new neighbor wasn't the end of the world. L.B., whoever they were, couldn't be that bad.

She was about to cross the street to her pickup when a black truck with shiny chrome wheels turned the corner onto Main Street. She paused at the curb to let it roll by. Main Street was a classic small town speed trap—the speed limit was only fifteen miles per hour. Which meant she got a decent glance at the man driving the black pickup.

Small town manners dictated that she raise her hand to wave. The driver lifted two fingers from the wheel in salute.

Her face flushed with instant, volcanic heat. That looked like?—

No. It couldn't be.

She had maybe a two-second glimpse of the man's jaw and cheek beneath a beat-up white Resistol.

But her heart had leapt as if she'd really seen her high school sweetheart. Callum Stewart.

Her gaze trailed the truck as it continued down the street.

She forgot for a moment that she was supposed to be crossing the street. Breath caught painfully in her chest.

It couldn't be Callum.

He'd left town ten years ago and never returned. Never even called.

She tried to shake off the shock. It hadn't been Callum. It was only a man in a truck she didn't recognize who happened to look like her old boyfriend.

It had to be her stunned surprise that made the next few moments seem to happen in slow motion.

Sutter's Hollow was a one-stoplight town, and the black truck had a green light. A few moments, and Callum Stewart's doppelg?nger would be gone.

A prickling awareness on the back of her neck was her only warning as a tricked out Chevy with too-big wheels sped through the stoplight and crashed into the black truck.

Brakes squealed. The front end of the black truck crumpled beneath the larger red one, and then it spun out. The momentum of the red truck pushed the black one over the curb and through the glass storefront of the historical building that housed the town hall and the police department.

There was a moment of stillness and the echo of tinkling glass. Iris drew a breath that sawed against the inside of her throat.

And then the red truck backed up with a screech of metal and drove off with another squeal of tires. She squinted, trying to see a tag, but only got a blur of white and the bright metallic bumper.

Her adrenaline spiked, sending her heart racing and her thoughts in a tailspin. It didn't matter who was in that truck. They needed help.

She dropped the white bag— forgive me, Jilly! —and bolted toward the wreckage. She dug through her purse until her nerveless fingers wrapped around her cell phone. She mashed 9-1-1 and connected as she ran across the four-way intersection. There wasn't another car in sight. The red truck was already gone.

People started emerging from the nearby businesses. Trixie. A young man from the hardware store. The truck blocked the exit for anyone trying to get out of the town hall building. Anyone coming to help would have to take the long way and exit out the back of the building.

Glass crunched under Iris's boots as she approached. The passenger-side tires rested on the sidewalk. The driver's door was crumpled inward, the handle mangled so badly she didn't even try to reach for it.

The window was broken. The man's hat was askew, covering his face, but she got a glimpse of blood tracking down his cheek.

The phone connected. "What's your emergency?"

"Andi? It's Iris." They'd known each other since elementary school. "There's been an accident at Main Street and Elm."

She forced her whirling thoughts to slow. She'd gone through a basic first aid course months ago, after Jilly had had a bad reaction to one of her medications.

ABC .

What did the letters stand for?

Airway .

Breathing .

C— something.

Should she touch him? His neck could be broken. He could be dead.

Andi's voice rang in her ear through the tinny cell connection. Was he conscious?

The man groaned.

She dared to reach inside the window—avoiding the jagged glass—and knock his hat off.

His eyes opened. They were glassy and unfocused as he squinted at her.

And whatever composure she'd been holding onto slammed loose as if she were the one who'd been hit by a car.

It was Callum in that truck.

Callum.

What was he doing here?

She was hit with a wave of grief, the pain both old and powerful.

And part of her wanted to run away. Like he had all those years ago.

"Iris. Is he conscious?"

Andi's strident voice in her ear shook her back into the present.

"Yes, he's conscious." She looked closer at his eyes. His pupils were different sizes. "But he may be concussed."

The volunteer fire department was five buildings down. A paramedic would be here any minute.

Callum's head rolled on the headrest, and he mumbled something incoherent.

"Stay still," she ordered.

Her words only seemed to make him more agitated. He tried to push himself forward in the seat and cried out.

What should she do? Wait for help?

He made a violent movement toward the door, like he was trying to crawl out.

But he couldn't on his own.

She scrabbled for a hold, some way to boost herself up on the side of his truck so she could hold him still, but there was no running board, and she was too petite to get a good look inside.

Iris ran around the back of the truck. Trixie was crossing the street toward the wreck.

The truck was wedged against the Town Hall building, bricks at the corner crumpled, red dust raining down. Glass crunched underfoot as Iris yanked the passenger door open. She had to suck in her stomach to fit between the door and frame.

Inside, the smell of gas was nearly overpowering, and her nose wrinkled in protest. There was glass everywhere inside the truck, and she was careful not to stick herself as she knelt on the seat.

Callum struggled with his seatbelt. She suppressed a gasp. From here, she could see that his left leg was caught in the twisted metal. Was it bleeding? She couldn't tell from here.

"Be still," she ordered. "Help is coming."

What should she do? One entry-level first aid class wasn't going to help here. She didn't have a first aid kit. And he was bigger than she was. She couldn't even get him to sit still.

"The boys," he mumbled.

"What?"

There was a whimper from the backseat, and she startled, twisting in the seat to find two matching pairs of Callum's brown eyes staring wide-eyed at her.

Twins. They looked so alike that they must be.

"Hello," she said dumbly. Callum had children? Her insides twisted like the metal of his truck, crumpling the foundations of her heart.

Escape .

Sirens blew, loud because they were close.

Callum struggled against the crumpled metal again. His face was white and blood-streaked. Was he hurting himself worse?

"I gotta get them out of here," Callum said.

He was trying to get to his sons.

She couldn't pry him out of the truck, but maybe she could help.

She leaned over the back seat and touched each boys' leg. They weren't screaming. Wouldn't they be crying if they were injured? They watched her in wide-eyed silence.

Their car seats were intact. There was no glass on their clothes. They didn't appear to have even been injured.

"They're all right," she said to Callum. "Their car seats kept them safe."

"Are you sure?" His voice was rough and desperate.

Hearing it, the past echoed through her like a distant gong. Emotion rose up, choking her. Emotion that she didn't need or want.

She did what she'd learned to do throughout Jilly's ordeal. She stuffed her feelings down deep and pretended they didn't exist.

It made her voice cold and distant. "The fire department is almost here."

As if her mention had made them materialize, the rig drew up right in the intersection, and the volunteer firefighter crew jumped off, dressed in full gear.

She should get out of the way and let them do their jobs.

But before she could back out of the truck, Callum grasped her wrist with a firm grip that surprised her.

"Will you take the boys out? They're gonna be scared."

She started to shake her head. She couldn't?—

Callum's grip on her wrist grew tight enough to bruise.

"Please." She was a little surprised he didn't choke on the word. He'd always hated it. "Those firefighters are gonna have to pry me outta here."

And who knew what they'd find when they peeled back the truck's crumpled metal to get Callum out? At the very least, he'd be lashed onto a stretcher and carted to the hospital fifteen miles away.

I can't .

But the words stuck behind her breastbone.

Please . She'd only heard him say it once before. He'd been begging for a kiss.

And she'd never been able to say no to him.

She didn't look at Callum as she leaned into the back seat.

"What are their names?"

She started unbuckling the closest boy, leaning halfway over the seatback so she could reach. He had his thumb stuck in his mouth, and she had to wrestle him to get his arms through the seatbelt loops.

"Brandt and Levi. They're three."

Both boys had been nearly silent until now, but, as she reached for the second one, who clutched a worn teddy bear, he started to cry. And of course his brother echoed him as she struggled with the buckle.

"Hey, hey," she said, in a soothing tone. She didn't know anything about children, but she had enough experience calming spooked horses. "My name is Miss Iris. I'm a friend of your daddy's."

The white lie burned her throat nearly as badly as the tears she was holding back—the product of her roiling emotions and seeing these little carbon copies of their father up close.

She would hold it all inside until she was alone. She could do this.

And the little boys needed whatever comfort they could get.

She handed the first twin out to a suited-up firefighter, and the boy kicked and squirmed, shrieking.

She wrestled the other boy out of his car seat, getting a small shoe to the jaw as he struggled against her. "It's all right, it's all right."

She clutched the little boy to her and began to back out of the car, only to find her elbow in Callum's grip.

"Stay with them. It's important. I need to know they're safe?—"

A burly firefighter wrenched open Callum's door with a crowbar, and Callum cried out. His grip on her elbow loosened, and she escaped the truck with a little boy clinging to her like a monkey.

She relinquished Callum's son to the firefighter who'd taken the first boy. He set both boys on an empty stretcher and began examining them for injuries.

Iris could back away. Leave the twins with the paramedic and go home.

She took one step backwards even as the little boy she'd been holding—Levi or Brandt?—reached out his arms toward her. Tears were running tracks down his cheeks, and his dark curls were so much like Callum's that it shredded her insides.

She had to get out of there.