Free A Man She Couldn’t Forget by Kathryn Shay Page A

the cover of the foliage and the fog where she could hear them but they wouldn’t see her. One thing she was sure of: she had to avoid getting caught at all costs.
    “Where is she?” Jonathan’s voice was raised, angry.
    “I have no idea. I’m worried.” Brady’s tone mirrored his words.
    “I don’t believe you, Langston. You’re doing everything in your power to keep her from me.”
    “Ditto, Harris.”
    “I had her.” Jonathan was yelling now. “I don’t have to get her back.”
    “I know the reason she got in the accident. None of you can fool me any longer.”
    At Brady’s words, Clare felt compelled to sneak out from behind the bushes. She could see both men, dressed in cowboy clothes, facing down each other. When he tipped his head back, she saw Brady’s face was furious. A pink glow emanated from him.
    Jonathan was in an orange haze. “Like hell you do.”
    “I do.”
    Suddenly, a crowd of little girls came rushing toward them, all dressed in Girl Scout uniforms. One was Catherine. Then Lucinda and two others she recognized as Brady’s sisters.
    Brady smiled, motioned them to come closer.
    “They won’t help,” Jonathan said, nodding to the girls who stood behind Brady. “Nothing’s going to help you now, Langston.”
    Growing in size, bigger, broader, Brady slid his hand to the gun holstered against his thigh. The girls behind him were screaming, crying, telling him to stop, that Clare wasn’t worth it.
    Abruptly, the scene switched. Clare was somewhere else. In a room with no doors. It was pitch-black in here. She couldn’t see anyone, just hear them moving around. From her hiding place, she whispered, “I’m sorry. God, Jonathan, I’m so, so sorry.”
     
    B RADY WENT WHERE HE ALWAYS went when he was upset. He drove through the deserted city streets out to the Rockford suburb where he’d grown up, pulled his car into the driveway of the big house and stared at the exterior. Still the same slate-gray siding, sheltering three floors that had been home to two parents, five kids and an assortment of dogs, cats and rabbits over the years. Wishing his dad were still alive, he sighed heavily. Mel Langston had been an ideal father, not that Brady hadn’t butted heads with him. He was killed trying to save a kid from a burning building. Brady could still picture the firefighter funeral with all its gravity. He ached whenever he thought of it.
    Swearing at himself for adding more problems to his night by reminiscing about his dad, he got out of his truck, climbed the steps to the front porch and went inside. It was ten at night, but his mother would be up. She had a nurse’s penchant for late hours and early morns, as she still worked part-time at one of the local hospitals.
    What he didn’t expect was to find Samantha at the kitchen table with her. The two women looked alike with dark hair—his mother’s graying some—and blue eyes. Brady and his two brothers had the same coloring, but their facial features resembled his dad.
    “Hey,” he said, trying not to show his anger at Sam for what she’d done in the restaurant. As the oldest, he was always protecting his sisters, even from himself.
    Sam looked up. “I’m sorry.”
    He chuckled. “Well, that takes the wind out of my sails.”
    Crossing to the table where they sat drinking wine, he kissed Samantha’s head, then his mother’s. She clasped his hand and squeezed it briefly. “There’s my boy.”
    He grabbed a beer from the fridge and joined them. He took a swig—the cold liquid felt good on his parched throat—and watched them.
    Sammy finally said, “You can yell at me, Brady. I hate her, but I feel bad about upsetting her. I thought she was going to throw up all over Jonathan’s thousand-dollar suit.”
    “We’re not that lucky.”
    “Hush,” his mom said, but her eyes held mirth.
    Brady blew out a heavy breath. “Things are a mess.”
    “What else is new?” Sam asked. “Clare leaves disaster in her