Free Fire and Flame by Anya Breton

as if she weren’t surprised to hear the news.
    “And he willed two thirds of his assets to me,” Sara continued. “The other third goes to Brent.” Sara inhaled a slow, furious breath that lifted her temperature. “But neither of us gets any of it unless I do my duty…with Brent.”
    The older woman’s finely shaped eyebrows lifted slightly. She set her iced tea aside with a thoughtful motion. After a moment of silence, she asked, “That was a stipulation written into the will?”
    Sara gave a slow nod.
    Jess’s gaze scanned over Sara’s face. Her lips parted but she didn’t speak.
    “Brent made him do it,” Sara declared when her friend remained silent.
    The woman’s head cocked to the left. “He admitted this?”
    “Of course not. He’s not stupid.”
    Jess spoke at a cautious speed. “Fintan wasn’t easily influenced.”
    “Fintan didn’t call everyone the ‘son of his soul’,” Sara replied sourly.
    “He called Brent that?”
    “Yes. In the will. The son of his soul. His most trusted confidant.”
    Sara didn’t realize how tightly she’d clenched her arms until Jess’s gaze dropped to where they dug into Sara’s chest. It was difficult to ease her pose while she was still furious.
    “If Fintan’s will called Brenton these things, then there are only two possible explanations,” Jess said in her calm way. “Either the will wasn’t written by Fintan. Or Fintan truly respected and cared for Brenton.” After a thoughtful pause, Jess continued, “We all saw Curt open the will. It was locked away. And that was Fintan’s signature. I’ve seen it many times.”
    Sara had as well. And it had looked like her father’s handwriting. As had the scrawl on the interior of the document. Fintan hadn’t simply dictated the will. He’d personally hand-written it in ink on fine parchment.
    She had to admit her daddy had respected and cared for Brent.
    Sara slammed her back against the metal bistro seat. “But by respecting and caring for Brent did he have to disrespect me?”
    Jess’s lips softened into a small smile. “I am sure Fintan did what he thought was best for all. He always did.”
    Yes. He always had.
    But not this time.
    ****
    Seven o’clock was too early to go home but Sara had run out of things to do without buying twice as many shoes as she already had. Though she had savings, it wouldn’t keep her long if she didn’t get any more money from her father’s estate and she was also forced to delay her career. Especially not if she continued buying designer shoes. Limited Sunday hours certainly helped with the money issue.
    And so at a few minutes past seven, her cab pulled up to the driveway of the two-story ice gray house with maroon shutters that had featured daily in her childhood. An unfamiliar hybrid was parked behind Sara’s Lexus. Perhaps one of her father’s acquaintances had stopped by to extend their condolences. Could she get away with only speaking to them for a few moments?
    Usually shopping was the cure for whatever ailed her. But after hitting the fashion mall as well as two others, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach had only increased. It was time to go inside and face whatever Brent had to say to her.
    She handed the fare plus a tip over to the waiting cab driver and then gathered her bags. Lethargically she made her way up to the side door that would enter the kitchen. The scent of food—beef to be specific—tickled her nose as she neared the wooden deck steps.
    Brent was visible through the side door’s glass window, resting lazily on his forearms at the kitchen island. The new priest’s attention was fixed on the female sautéing food in a pan on the stove. The female turned, revealing that none other than brunette hoyden Vanessa Aine was messing up her sauté pan. Sara drew in a long, angry breath through her nose.
    A smug smile spread across Vanessa’s mouth when she caught sight of Sara outside. She leaned forward in a move that displayed far