No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

My mother doesn’t sound convinced when she says, “You know...I could always come help to take the pressure off, even if it’s just doing a little office work.”

“Absolutely not!” It takes everything in me not to sound panicked, but I can’t have her here, not even to keep an eye on her.

Not that she’s much safer there, but Heart’s Edge draws some serious insanity like a magnet. Just because we’ve had a lucky run lately doesn’t mean we’re free from more misadventures.

“I’m fine, Mom. I promise. Enjoy your retirement—and your war with Cora.”

She snorts with good-natured amusement.

I fully expect her to go off on another tirade about the flower wars, but instead she hesitates before saying, “Really, Felicity. You sound like you have something on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?”

No.

Yes.

I don’t know.

I still can’t tell her the truth.

After a moment, I ask slowly, “Well, I’ve been thinking...do you remember anything about Dad’s old plane?”

“I remember he spent far too much money repairing that old thing, insisting it would pay out in the end. After the Galentron cargo job fell through and he had to make do with his little private flights...” She clucks her tongue with a touch of frustration—but underneath there’s a whisper of something like remembered love, and I don’t know what to do with that. “But that Cessna’s long gone, sweetheart. He probably sold it for parts when he...ah...when he needed the extra money, especially considering he’d had his flight license suspended.”

“What about the rumors, though? That it crashed in Glass Lake?”

“Bah, rumors. If that’s true?” Mom sighs. “We’ll never see it again for a hundred years. Do you remember when we’d take you camping up there?”

I do.

Glass Lake is north of Heart’s Edge, a freshwater pool poured into the deepest mountains and conservation forest. The snowcaps barely melt in mid-summer and the streams are so cold they border on glacial runoff. Even in July, you could practically get hypothermia after taking a dip.

I still have happy memories there.

Summer vacations.

Dad before his face turned sunken and hollow.

Fishing.

Scary stories over roaring fires.

Toasting my childhood weight in marshmallows.

Falling out of trees and into his smiling arms.

Back when we still knew how to laugh together, how to not worry constantly about money, before the infinite Montana night reached down to steal him away.

I hate the unexpected roughness in my throat. Rubbing at my eyes, I make myself smile even though she can’t see it.

I want her to hear warmth in my voice, not impending tears.

“You’re right,” I say. “It’s probably not Dad’s plane. I’ve heard it’s just some old crop duster, really. No one actually said it was his.”

I just filled in that blank for myself.

Mainly because I remember one thing—the sunken plane rumors didn’t start until after Dad died.

“Well, regardless of whose plane it is...as cold as that lake is, it would take professionals to raise anything down there. So I doubt we’ll ever know.” She sounds puzzled. “Why did you ask, dear?”

“Oh—nothing, I just heard some people talking in the shop today.” Is it possible to shrug with your voice? I’m trying. “It just made me remember old times. But, hey, you’re sure you’re okay, Mom?”

“Oh, I’m fine, sweetheart. Enjoying my retirement, like you said, and taking delight in thwarting dearest Cora.”

“She’s no match for you.” I laugh despite the heaviness filling me, flicking my fingers over Shrub’s fur.

“Damned right she isn’t.” My mother’s voice booms with fierce laughter before it softens. “Are you getting enough rest, Felicity?”

“I’m trying. But I should probably turn in earlier.”

“You should already be in bed,” she says sternly.

Shrub gives a little yip of agreement. Traitor.

“See? The powder puff agrees with me.”

“Okay, okay. I’m going.” I chuckle. “’Night, Mom. I love you.”

“There’s nothing in this world I love more than my daughter, dearest heart. Good night.”

The tenderness in her voice nearly undoes me.

Time to hang up before I burst out sobbing all over her.

But that warmth, that love, hardens inside me—like a pressure-made diamond into something determined.

Screw bedtime, I need to face up to whatever’s in that flight log. Follow the tracks wherever they lead and figure out what my father was up to before he died. The answers may be exactly what I need to stave off Paisley for good.

And they may be exactly what I need to save Mom, too.

I’m out the door in an instant, leaving Shrub with his paws propped up on the front window, looking out at me through the glass and barking while I rummage through my station wagon.

I feel too exposed outside, like Paisley and her goons could be anywhere waiting to pounce. I’m quick to dig through the junk in my glove compartment until I unearth that little leatherbound book and scurry back inside.

Over a cup of warm cocoa—I have to take a break from coffee sometimes—I settle at my desk with Shrub happily curled up in my lap, one hand buried in his ruff and the other busy tapping in numbers from the log into search.