His Saint (Forever Wilde 5)

Chapter 1

Augie

There was someone in the house, and this time I didn’t even kid myself about it being my great-aunt Melody’s ghost. This was completely different from the usual creaks and groans of the ancient rambling farmhouse, and I felt in my gut it was an intruder.

I rolled out of bed as quietly as I could before squat-walking to the master closet.

Please don’t let the hinges screech.

After opening it as slowly as I dared, I made my way in and closed the door behind me before pushing through my hanging suits and button-downs to find the built-in ladder on the back wall of the tiny space.

I remembered a visit to Melody’s old house the summer after I finished first grade. She’d shown me the secret passage to the tiny attic space as if it was my very own Harry Potter understairs hideaway. I’d fallen so in love with the nook, I’d secreted blankets, pillows, and picture books there as often as I could. And each summer after that, when my parents sent me “to the country for some fresh air,” I’d spend hours curled up in my own private hideaway, not even caring that them sending me there was an excuse to have my beloved sister to themselves for a little while without her awkward brother trailing behind.

Only this time instead of being relaxed and happy, I was shaking with fear and terrified. Was this what it was like living all by oneself in the middle of the Texas countryside? Had my great-aunt ever had to fend off intruders? Was I going to have to actually consider purchasing a firearm to defend myself?

I shuddered at the thought. Due to a debilitating fear of firearms, I was the kind of person who’d more likely become a statistic of having one’s own weapon turned against him.

Bang.

The sharp crack of the front door slamming back against the living room walls was recognizable only because I’d accidentally done the same thing the day I’d moved in three weeks before. The movers were busy carrying my giant writing slope display case, and I was so nervous about damage to the ancient beauty that I accidentally threw the door open to make sure they had plenty of room.

Oh, why hadn’t I thought to grab my cell phone before coming up here?

The hatch to my hiding place was closed, and I sat as heavily on top of it as I could just in case someone was savvy enough to find it. As if my pint-sized frame would really keep an intruder from popping open the old wooden door and tossing me to the side.

I brought my knees up to my chest and hugged them, burying my face in my arms and trying not to hyperventilate. More thuds and crashes sounded from far below me on the main level of the house. What could they possibly want? Surely rural Texan burglars had no idea the worth of my antiques collection. Maybe they hoped to find the three sets of vintage sterling I owned? If so, they’d be disappointed to learn the sets were stored in a giant floor safe in the barn.

Melody hadn’t trusted banks. She’d kept half her fortune under the damned horse shit. While I was usually grateful there wasn’t horse shit in the barn any longer, I thought for a brief moment the old gal had been smart. Maybe I needed to get some horses after all, if only to add another layer of protection over my most valuable antiques in the vault.

There were plenty of other fence-able valuables in the house. My writing slope collection, for one. If those assholes took my favorite sixteenth-century Elizabethan slope from the center slot of the display case, I’d lose it. I could only thank my past self for having the foresight to keep my most treasured one with me instead of in the case.

I felt my jaw begin to wobble remembering my time curled up reading the ancient love letters with Melody.

Crying is for babies and women, August.

My mother’s words were as clear in my head today as they’d been in my ears when I was twelve and had lost my father in a sudden, unexpected way while on vacation in Manhattan. He, my little sister Rory, and I had been walking back to our hotel after seeing a show on Broadway when we’d ducked into a convenience store to grab some drinks. It had all happened so fast. One minute Dad was humming one of the songs from the show while deciding what color sports drink to pick out of the cooler, and the next minute two armed men were waving guns around and screaming for everyone to get down.

My dad shoved Rory and me to the ground and huddled on top of us, moving the three of us into a far corner of the store and as far away from the violence as possible. It wasn’t until all the noise was over and the cops came in that I realized Dad wasn’t moving anymore.