Free 0373447477 (R) by Shirlee McCoy Page B

warmth of his breath fanning her cheek. For a moment, she was back in time, sitting in Cory’s car during their first date, that little tickle of excitement in her belly because they were together. Only this guy wasn’t Cory, and the excitement had no business being there.
    Not now. Not ever, because she didn’t want to go through heartache again. Not the kind she’d had while Cory was suffering. Not the kind that came after.
    A guy like Malone might make her forget that, and then where would she be?
    “I was kidding,” he said quietly, his fingers gliding across her knuckles, that little shimmy of excitement filling her stomach again.
    “I know,” she responded, her throat tight with the memories of everything she’d lost, of all the things she missed.
    “Then, maybe you also need to know that everything really is going to be okay.” He repeated what he’d said before, what she’d said to Jubilee.
    Maybe it was. Hopefully it was.
    But, right then, it really didn’t feel like it.
    * * *
    Quinn fell asleep just as the sun crested the trees. No more tension in her shoulders. No more taut, tight muscles in her thigh. One minute, she was ramrod straight. The next, she was slumped over, her head resting against Malone’s shoulder.
    “She’s out,” Chance commented idly as he scanned a text message. “And Stella is sixteen miles ahead of us. Clear roads. No traffic, and no sign that she’s being followed.”
    “Too bad,” August muttered. “If she had a tail, we could drop Quinn off and go have a little talk with whoever it is.”
    “I was thinking the same,” Malone admitted. “Right now, we’ve got nothing to go on but speculation.”
    “We’ve got a dead gunman.” August rolled his shoulders, grimacing as he moved. “And, I’ve got a six-inch gouge in my shoulder.”
    “You need medical attention?”
    “No.”
    “Says the man who is still bleeding.” Chance typed something into his phone. “Stella is looking for a place to pull over. Since she’s a nurse, she can take care of the shoulder and I’ll take care of the Jeep.”
    Malone wasn’t surprised by the suggestion.
    Chance and Stella might be at odds, but HEART was a family, the thread that connected the members unbreakable.
    “I’m not bleeding.” August touched his bloodstained sleeve. “Much.”
    Chance ignored the comment, his attention focused on his phone. “She said she’s pulling off. Look for a boarded up farmhouse. North side of the road. Collapsing barn. It’s the only building for a few dozen miles.”
    It didn’t take long to cover the distance. Early Sunday morning, and the road was empty, the sun splashing against the blacktop and trees. Already, the leaves were beginning to turn, dull yellow and brick red interspersed with muted green. Thick trees gave way to farmland—acres of yellowing cornstalks stretching as far as the eye could see. It reminded Malone of home. Or of what home had once been. The farm his grandfather had worked, that his father and uncle had taken over. Now his brothers and cousins ran it, plowing and planting and harvesting the way the family had done for generations.
    Granddad would be proud.
    Malone was, too. His siblings had turned out well. His cousins were doing great. Malone would like to think that he’d had something to do with it. When he returned to the farm, he always felt as if he was going home, and being with his family always reminded him that the things that mattered most were often the things that were easiest to neglect.
    He touched his scar, the corded flesh a harsh reminder of just how quickly things could change and just how quickly they could be lost. He was supposed to be sitting in his kayak, contemplating that and making decisions about just where he planned to go with his life.
    Quinn shifted, her hair brushing his neck, the locks silky and soft. A widow at a very young age. She hadn’t said how her husband died, and he hadn’t asked. The question seemed too