I flinched a little as he covered the brand on my palm. It didn’t hurt as much as it should have, considering I’d taken the wound earlier today. The area tingled as the medicine started working. It didn’t prevent scarring, but it would stop infection and promote faster healing.

When he was done, he put the top back on and sat looking straight ahead. I had the terrible, dizzying feeling I’d hurt him worse than I knew. His features seemed tight, as if he struggled to restrain a plethora of emotions.

“You should have told me,” he said without looking at me.

I went on the attack. “Where? In the car? Or before you kissed me senseless? I wanted to get cleaned up before I settled in for a long talk. I was filthy. If you’d been out there in those woods with me, you’d understand.”

“Is that what this is about?” He shifted on the sofa to look at me, haunted. “How I never seem to be around when you need me most?”

“This had nothing to do with you.” I really meant it. “Your luck doesn’t even work here, Chance. Sometimes bad things happen, and there’s nothing you can do about it. I mean, damn. You went to jail so I wouldn’t have to. I wasn’t going to leave you there—I just needed leverage. Men like Robinson don’t respect women, and I didn’t know enough about the law to fling it around like Jesse did. And as for why I didn’t tell you sooner”—I shrugged—“there’s just no good moment for something like that.”

“I guess not,” he muttered. To my surprise, he didn’t take the argument any further. Instead, he pulled me into his arms and buried his face in my hair. “If Saldana hadn’t been with you, if he hadn’t known CPR . . .” He trailed off, unable to articulate it.

Well, I wouldn’t have gone into those woods alone, not even for Butch. But I rather liked his desperation. His hands sifted through my hair, finding the sensitive spots at the base of my skull.

“I found my mother’s necklace out there.”

He paused in stroking my hair. “So someone took it from the wreckage.”

“Someone or something.”

“What do you mean?”

I told him the whole story then from start to finish.

His frown turned into a ferocious scowl. “I really, really don’t like this, Corine. That thing recognized you.”

“I know.” I shuddered, just thinking about it. “But it tried to convince me it knew my mother, and that it meant me no harm. But it was so . . .” I trailed off, unable to find the word I wanted. “Evil” seemed simultaneously too small as well as too melodramatic.

“You must’ve been terrified.”

I acknowledged that by turning my face into his chest. I didn’t know what to make of the new Chance; the old one would’ve never accepted my motivations so readily. It would have been turned into a wedge to drive distance between us, mitigated only by sex—and even then, not real intimacy—just the physical facsimile of it.

“Let’s let Butch out and then turn in,” I murmured. “We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

In answer, he dropped a kiss on my temple, warming me all the way down to my toes. “Out you go, dog. But no funny stuff—and don’t even think about running off to the woods again. We will not come find you this time.”

The Chihuahua gave an indignant little yap, as if to say, Hey, I’m not an idiot. He trotted out into the yard, took care of business, and came right back in. A light rain had finally started, pattering on the roof. Butch gave himself a little shake as I closed the door behind him. Then I turned the bolt.

“Tomorrow we go see Augustus England. Then I think we should have dinner with Miss Minnie. Maybe she won’t be so reluctant to talk.”

I nodded. “Agreed. I’ll call her in the morning to confirm. Let’s get some sleep. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

I gave a surprised little yelp when he swung me up in his arms. As he carried me, he spoke in a conversational tone. “If you think I’m letting you out of my sight, even to sleep, you’re crazy.”

“Chance—”

He ignored my halfhearted protest and took me to the guest room where he’d slept the night before. There was a mattress on the floor in here too, but no box springs. He’d found another torn sheet to cover it, and he’d used what looked like an old couch throw as his covers. Altogether, it seemed a remarkably cozy squatter’s nest.

His smile flashed bright in the contrasting darkness. “I know what you’re thinking. I really know how to wow a woman when I’m trying to win her back.”

I gave a soft, reluctant laugh. “Yeah. The five star accommodations will go to my head if you keep this up.”

He squeezed me in answer, and then he amazed me with an acrobatic move that ended with him on his back and me sprawled across his chest. I’d left my backpack in the room I gave to Shannon, so I had nothing to sleep in besides my blouse and jeans. Chance seemed to follow my thoughts.

“I’ll get you a T-shirt.”

I was tired, and I didn’t feel like arguing. When he found me an old shirt that didn’t look like anything Chance would ever wear, I took a closer look. I recognized it.

It had belonged to my mother; until earlier today, it was all I had left of her. They found it hanging on the clothes-line in the backyard after the fire, and someone gave it to me. I’d taken it with me through so many moves, I’d lost count—but it hadn’t come with me through the last one. I’d been in too much of a hurry to check my belongings that night.

“You kept it,” I breathed.

“I knew how much it meant to you.”

Without regard for modesty, I wiggled out of my clothes and into the worn cotton. It felt like coming home, a hug from my mother. Tears prickled at my eyes. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much I missed this silly old yellow shirt.

“Why didn’t you give it to me sooner?”

“I forgot,” he said honestly. “I stuffed it in my bag before I left Tampa to go looking for you. I meant to send it to you after I tracked you down. It was the one thing I felt sure you’d want out of everything you left behind. But then—”

“Min went missing, and you had other things on your mind,” I finished.

He’d arranged himself beneath the throw as I got myself situated. His arms came around me, snuggling me into his side with an alacrity that suggested he missed me more than he’d said. I decided I’d let him snuggle me a little before I kicked him out. It had been a long day for both of us.

To my surprise, he didn’t push the situation. “You must have been like Shannon once,” he said quietly. “I can see you in her. I imagine you were a lot like her when you ran away from Kilmer. Meeting her, talking to her, well . . . I think I understand you better now.”

I saw what he was getting at, but I couldn’t agree. “No matter what might be wrong with them, she has a family. She’s not like me.”

“Yes, she is. You’re both looking for where you belong.” That stymied me because it was so clearly true. And it was more perceptive than I’d come to expect from Chance. He didn’t used to deal well in emotional coin; he preferred to show his feelings through material things.

When we’d have a fight back in Tampa, he’d come home with roses, chocolate, and an expensive piece of jewelry. At first, I found that charming, but eventually, I started wanting him to apologize and tell me how he felt; why he did the things he did. And he didn’t want to tell me anything at all.

Now he seemed to be genuinely trying to open up. We’d stopped to pick up some more clothing for me on the way to Georgia, but it had been a convenience, not an attempt on his part to impress me with what he could offer financially. He’d finally figured out I wanted more from him than his magical way of turning a hundred bucks into a thousand.

“You can’t stay,” I said softly. “If you give me your bed, it’s the couch for you.”

He pushed off the mattress with a faint sigh. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“Good night, Chance.”

“Sweet dreams, love.”

I found myself thinking, Maybe people can change. Maybe—

Sleep snatched me before I could complete the thought.

“Old and achy,” she said with a little laugh. “How about you, dear?”

“Good. I was wondering if you still wanted us to come to supper.”

“I surely do. I’ll make a nice big pot of soup and some corn bread. You like peach pie, don’t you?”

“Cherry is my favorite,” I felt compelled to say.

“Cherry it is. It will be so good to catch up and get to know your young man. I don’t have guests as often as I’d like these days. Everyone’s just so busy. . . .” She rambled on, giving me some idea why people didn’t stop by more often, but I needed any information she might possess.

“I’ll have two more friends with me, if that’s all right?”

“Oh, more young people.” She sounded genuinely delighted. “Soup can always stretch, don’t you fret about that. I’ll see you tonight at six, then?”

“I’m looking forward to it.” And I was. Miss Minnie had been the second-best cook of all my foster mothers, surpassed only by Miz Ruth. And actually Miss Minnie’s pies were better. I might as well enjoy some aspects of being back in Georgia.

Though the food was delicious in Mexico, it was also different. You just couldn’t find decent biscuits and gravy there, or fried chicken, let alone picnic food like potato salad. And the pie was nothing like the same. If I wanted cherry pie, I had to go to the gourmet foods section at Palacio del Hierro—an upscale department store—and search the shelves for the filling. I’d never been able to find ready-made piecrust, either, which meant making it from scratch, and I wasn’t nearly skilled enough for that. Plus, my initial attempts at baking had failed due to the high altitude.

Just thinking of all the delicious Southern food made my stomach rumble, and I realized as I rang off that I hadn’t eaten breakfast. The others were waiting for me in the kitchen, drinking coffee someone had made with the old-fashioned pot. Jesse offered me a cup when I stumbled in, still braiding my hair.

“Wow,” Shannon said. “Your hair is really long. Pretty. Is it real?”

“Depends on what you mean by that. It’s real hair.”

“The color.” She rolled her eyes.

I grinned. “As much as yours is.”

That surprised a smile out of her. I guessed she wasn’t used to grown women who admitted to coloring their hair; I could hear her mother chiding that it wasn’t genteel to discuss such artifice. I ate an apple and drank a cup of sweet coffee, liberally mixed with powdered milk. It was better than you’d think. I followed that up with toast and jelly.

Shannon seemed more relaxed than I’d ever seen her. I could understand why. With men like Jesse and Chance telling you they wouldn’t let anything happen, it was easy to relax. I’d learned the hard way—sometimes there was nothing anybody could do.

“Are we ready?” I asked.

“Yeah, we already ate,” Saldana told me. “We should take my Forester. People already know the Mustang, if someone tried to run Corine over the other day.”

I scowled. I would love to have a talk with the guy who owned the Cutlass. In fact . . . we had a native here. Maybe she could tell us who drove it.

“Good point.” Chance seemed more cheerful this morning—less inclined to smash Jesse’s head in with a claw hammer.

“Shannon, do you know who drives a dark blue Olds Cutlass Supreme?” I asked. “It was an older car, but very well kept.”

As we left the kitchen, she thought about that, pale brow furrowed. “Yeah, actually. Sounds like Little Ed Willoughby. His mother owns the hardware store. She’s on the school board and the town council—a real meddler, if you ask me.”

When we came into the parlor, Butch raised his head from where he’d been napping on the love seat. He leaped up and trotted to the front door, but he wasn’t agitated. His calmness reassured me, though; the wards must be solid.

“You think you’re going with us?” I asked the dog.

He yapped once.

Despite her own gift, Shannon gazed at him wide-eyed. “Oh my God, that is the coolest thing ever. You have a talking dog!”

“Kind of,” I said.

“How? Is he magical?”

I considered as I swept him into my handbag. “I’m not sure. We didn’t train him to do it, that’s for sure. Maybe one day we’ll figure out what makes him tick.”

“He’s so cute,” she said, going for the sweet spot behind his ears, and Butch wore an expression I liked to call “blissful dog.”

As I headed down the front steps, the others followed.

Jesse couldn’t stop being a cop long enough for us to climb in the Forester. He prompted Shannon for more info as we opened the doors. “Willoughby’s dad is Big Ed?”

“His dad’s dead,” Shannon said flatly. “Or presumed so. He went missing about three months ago.”

“Let me guess,” Chance put in. “He went out to hunt and never came back.”

She looked puzzled. “I don’t know if I ever heard that, but it could be. Men around here do love their guns.”

“How many people have gone missing in the last year?” Jesse wanted to know.

“We should put Shannon’s bike inside,” I said.

“Already did.” She climbed in front with Jesse, still thinking about his question. “Hard to say, because I don’t always know when someone gets scared—or sick of this town and just takes off—and when they just don’t come back. But I’d say ten. At least ten.”

Ten was a high number in a town as small as Kilmer. Chance and I exchanged a grim look while climbing in back.

Saldana glanced at me over his shoulder. “We need to find Little Ed Willoughby and ask him why he tried to use his vehicle as a deadly weapon, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Chance muttered. “I’d like a word.”

The rest of the drive passed in silence. I wasn’t sure we should have brought her with us. It might dump more trouble on our heads to be seen with her, since we weren’t ready to leave town just yet. Then again, I didn’t know if it was a good idea to leave her alone in the house, even with good wards. On the balance, it was probably better to keep her close. I didn’t intend to let Kilmer claim another victim.

“Where to?” Saldana asked her.

“The newspaper office is downtown,” she answered, pointing. “I’m not sure if Mr. England will be in. If not, we can talk to the editor, Sam Proust.”

“Does the town have any reporters?” Back when I lived here, there had been one who wrote shiny human interest stories about how great Kilmer was.

“Two. Mr. Proust’s daughter, Karen, and that old nut job—”

“Dale Graham.” The name came to me before she said it.

Saldana parked the Forester, and Chance helped me out, then fed some coins into the meter. I glanced around at the quiet square, wondering if I imagined being the cynosure of malevolent eyes.

“He’s gotten weird in his old age,” she went on. But when I asked, she wouldn’t clarify. Shannon just shivered a little and pulled up the hood on her black sweatshirt. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Will you get in trouble if you’re seen with us?” I asked as we walked toward the newspaper office, a nondescript brownstone building a few blocks from the downtown square. The guys trailed us, talking in an undertone that made me nervous.

She shrugged. “Probably. But I’m not going back.”

I understood that well, maybe better than she knew. We came through the front door in a group, visibly alarming the thin, overworked-looking woman who greeted the general public. By her expression, people didn’t often turn up unannounced.

“We don’t give tours,” she said in a preemptive strike. “And the printing is done off-site.”

That probably deterred anyone else who stopped by, but we had other needs. “We’re here to see Mr. England.”

Her eyes widened. “Absolutely out of the question.”

“I figured it might be,” Jesse muttered.

“Maybe we could talk to Sam Proust,” Shannon suggested.

The receptionist became positively frosty. “Young lady, you cannot just waltz into a place of business like this.”

I didn’t know if she meant me or Shannon, but I answered. “Then how about Dale Graham? This is about a story,” I added.

We’d just keep name-dropping until we found someone we could see. She didn’t like it, but she got on the phone. A few minutes later, a man in late middle age came out in a pair of ragged jeans, a brightly patterned shirt, and a leather vest. He was actually wearing love beads and cowboy boots, an interesting look to be sure.

“I’m Dale,” he said. “Clarissa said you wanted to talk to me about a story idea?”

Obviously, we weren’t going to get to see the back of the newspaper office today. “Yes, sir. We’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” Chance said. “Interested?”