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       Chapter One

      Claire Conley stood on the overgrown lawn—the Alabama humidity wilting her hair, flies circling—as she confronted her legacy. The antebellum plantation house she’d inherited from her father looked nothing like the pictures the lawyer had sent her. Well, to be fair, there was a porch. And it did have huge columns. But that was where the similarity ended. What had looked like pristine white paint in the photo was gray and peeling. The yard was a tangle of weeds.

      Tears stung in her eyes. She’d sold everything she owned and driven fourteen hours on coffee and adrenaline, dreams buzzing in her head. For this?

      This worn-out, falling-down piece of...history?

      She tried to push the long, shaking sob back to where it came from and failed. She didn’t know what she’d been hoping. Her biological father had never given her a thing. This was just more of the same.

      She didn’t hear the truck coming up the drive until the door slammed behind her. She spun around.

      He looked hard. Hard muscles, hard expression, head shaved military style, a shadow of stubble along his jaw. A hint of a dimple creased his face, but she couldn’t see his eyes.

      Those were covered with silver aviator glasses.

      She was suddenly, painfully, aware of the fact that she’d chosen to stay on the road instead of stopping to eat in Somewhere, Georgia, and had the evidence of it smeared on her comfiest—threadbare—jeans.

      “I’m looking for Claire Conley.” He didn’t raise his voice, but still, it carried.

      She nodded, not sure she could speak around the lump in her throat. “That would be me.”

      “I’m Joe Sheehan.” The guy walked closer and dug into his jeans pocket, coming up with a key. “Your father’s attorney asked me to give this to you. He’s out of town for a few weeks.”

      She narrowed her eyes, big-city self-preservation kicking in. “You local law enforcement?”

      “I’m a cop, but not in Red Hill Springs. My mom owns the diner and the attorney asked me to meet you.”

      “You sure he didn’t skip town because he was afraid to face me?”

      “I’m sorry?” The hand holding the key dropped a bit and the look on his face changed from friendly to concerned. “Is everything okay?”

      She took a deep breath through her nose and let it out. The internet told her cleansing breaths were supposed to be calming. Not so much. “Yes, it’s fine. I’m fine. I was just expecting the house to be in a little better condition. I’m opening... I have plans for this place.”

      Joe looked skeptical. “Yeah? Bed-and-breakfast?”

      “Kind of. You know, my pastor back in North Carolina tells me brokenness is a good thing.” She stared at the house, her voice trailing off. If that was true, she was golden. She’d been wrecked when her fiancé ditched her, but thought she could get past it. Her mother’s death from cancer had gutted her. And when her job with the county ended, she figured God was trying to tell her something.

      Joe rubbed his shoulder. “I’m not sure about it being a good thing, but I think things that are broken can be fixed. At least I hope so.”

      Maybe he was right. Maybe this old place could be renovated. She didn’t know if there was enough glue in the world to hold her life together, but she was going to give it a try. Her hard-won optimism resurfaced, at least briefly.

      Claire mentally calculated what remained in her bank account, and...the moment of optimism was gone. “I don’t know if I can do this. I have six months of living expenses and what’s left of my mom’s life insurance to get this place running.”

      Joe stepped closer. “Maybe you should go inside?”

      She closed her eyes, realizing she’d been spilling her guts to a literal stranger. And why? Because she got the sense that he understood what rebuilding a home—a life—would cost her?

      “I’ve heard it was a real showplace at one time.” Joe climbed the steps to the porch.

      “That’s encouraging.” She followed him onto the wide porch and took a step forward. Her left foot went right through the wood plank.

      Joe’s arm streaked out to wrap around her waist, keeping her from falling through. He was warm and solid and, just for a second, she wanted to lean into that warmth. Instead, a laugh bubbled to the surface. And then the rest of it billowed out.

      He hauled her to her feet and she stared at her reflection in those silver sunglasses. Hair all wackadoo, no lipstick, a ketchup stain on her shirt. Another giggle rose to the surface and she shoved it back with a tiny little snort. “Sorry.”

      “No problem.” Joe slid the key in the lock. Despite the general disrepair, the key turned easily. He pushed the door open and stepped aside so she could go first.

      It was like stepping into another time. The front hall had high ceilings, to combat the summer heat, and though the wallpaper was peeling, she could see that it would’ve been beautiful in its day. French doors to her right opened into a huge room, СКАЧАТЬ