Autumn Anthology

by Heather B. Moore

  “Omar!” someone shouted. Mia recognized the voice— their boss was here. She stared in disbelief as the trim man jogged toward them. “Looks like you missed my message.”

  Omar stiffened, his hold tightening around Mia. “I thought you’d bailed.”

  Levy rubbed his neck and grinned, his thin mustache turning up. “You thought wrong.” His eyes turned to Mia. “Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Wait,” Omar said, putting himself between Mia and Levy. “What are you doing here, and why did you change your mind?”

  Levy folded his arms. “Turns out the A’zam are not as obscure as we thought. They’ve called in a couple of bomb threats over the past two weeks, one as far away as Tel Aviv.” He spread his hands out. “Thought I’d kill two birds with one stone.”

  “Fabulous that you showed up just in time,” Omar said, the sarcasm oozing from his voice. “How’d you find us?”

  “Mia didn’t turn off her tracker like some employees did.” Levy stepped toward Mia and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him? You could have been killed.”

  Mia glanced from Levy to Omar. When Mia had tried to get Levy to look into her mother’s death more closely, it had been ignored. It took Omar to make him consider it seriously. She shrugged off Levy’s arm. “I’m fine. My mother was killed by these men. I wasn’t worried about myself.”

  “We’ll talk more about that,” Levy said. “But first let’s get you into a truck and checked out at the hospital.”

  “She doesn’t need a hospital,” Omar said.

  Levy shook his head and steered Mia around the tent toward one of the SUVs. He peppered her with questions, none that Mia wanted to answer yet, but she followed his lead and settled into the passenger seat of an SUV. Through the window, she watched Omar talk to a few people; it appeared he was chewing everyone out. She almost laughed at the sight.

  The shorter Arab was alive after all, and two men were carrying him to one of the trucks. The women and children all appeared to be safe, and they stood in a huddled group, crying and refusing to talk to any of the officials.

  Mia leaned her head against the cool glass, watching as Omar stalked to one of the trucks and climbed into the driver’s seat. Apparently he was driving himself out. A weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. Her mother was still gone, but the men behind her death would finally be brought to justice. Omar might do things a bit outside of the box, but he’d given her a priceless gift: closure.

  Before she could think about what she was doing, she popped open her door and hurried over to the truck Omar had climbed into. He’d started the engine and was pulling forward when he saw her. He braked, and she ran around the front and climbed in the passenger side.

  Slamming the door after her, she looked over at him. “Hi.”

  “Hi yourself.” He smiled and threw the gear into drive. The tires spun out on the sand then made purchase, and Omar gunned the engine, barreling into the dark night. About a hundred meters out, he started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Mia asked.

  He slowed the truck then stopped. Mia looked behind them; no one was following. When she turned to ask why he’d stopped, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  Electricity shot all the way to her toes. Omar’s mouth moved against hers, possessing her as he hadn’t before, and Mia let herself melt. She slid her hands around his neck, and her fingers tugged at his hair to get him closer. He didn’t seem to mind, and his kissing slowed, yet intensified at the same time. Mia realized that from the moment she first saw him, this man had intrigued her. She wanted to know everything about him— why he had no fear, and why he was drawn to her.

  His mouth moved to her jawline then to her neck, and warm shivers traveled throughout her body. “You still haven’t told me why you’re laughing,” she whispered.

  “Hmm,” he mumbled, his lips moving back to hers, taking his time kissing her.

  She didn’t mind; she could wait for his answer.

  When he pulled away, they were both breathless. Omar smiled and rested his forehead against hers. “I was imagining the look on Levy’s face when he saw you climb into my truck. It looks like I got the girl after all.

  More Omar Zagouri Thrillers:

  FINDING SHEBA, A NOVEL

  BENEATH, A DIGITAL SHORT STORY

  Heather B. Moore is the author of nine historical thrillers, written under the pen name H.B. Moore (so men will buy her books). She’s the two-time recipient of the Best in State Award for Literary Arts in Fiction and the two-time Whitney Award winner for Best Historical. Heather is also a coauthor of The Newport Ladies Book Club series and coauthor with Angela Eschler of the inspirational Christian book, Christ’s Gifts to Women. These coauthored works are written under her real name (so women will buy them). Other women’s novels include the historical suspense, Heart of the Ocean, A Timeless Romance Anthology series, and the Aliso Creek Novella series.

  Heather owns and manages the freelance editing company Precision Editing Group, just because she isn’t busy enough. Her editing website is www.PrecisionEditingGroup.com. Heather lives in the shadow of Mt. Timpanogos with her husband, four children, and one pretentious cat. In her spare time, Heather sleeps.

  Author website: www.hbmoore.com

  Blog: http://mywriterslair.blogspot.com

  Twitter:@HeatherBMoore

  Facebook: Fans of H.B. Moore or Heather Brown Moore

  Click on the covers to visit Heather’s Amazon page:

  by Sarah M. Eden

  Chapter One

  Sophia Davis lived in one half of a historic home in downtown Phoenix. The bungalow had been divided into two quaint apartments with two very distinct, well-labeled mailboxes. Yet, every day, she and the tenant in the other half of the house received a haphazard mixture of their own mail and each other’s. They met each evening at five-thirty on the wraparound porch to sort out the pile.

  Her neighbor, Ethan Williams, was well worth the hassle of a mixed-up mail delivery. Sophia was half tempted to ask the mail carrier to mix things up on purpose. Those few minutes of laughing and talking with her handsome and witty neighbor were the highlight of her day.

  She set her messenger bag on the hall table and glanced up at the clock. She’d managed the walk from her office building in record time. Mail sorting wasn’t for another ten minutes. Time enough to smooth out her hair and freshen her makeup. October had finally turned cooler, so she no longer arrived home drenched in sweat.

  Ten minutes proved just the right amount of time. By the time the clock read five thirty exactly, she looked less ragged and more refreshed. Maybe today would be the day Ethan finally noticed.

  She stepped out onto the porch. He was there already, sitting in one of the patio chairs. What was it about a man in scrubs that made her heart tie itself up in knots?

  “Hey, there.” He pulled himself up as she stepped outside.

  Sophia had moved into the house six months earlier. They had the mail sorting ritual down to a science now. They pulled the mail from their mailboxes and sat in chairs on either side of the small glass-top table.

  “I think it’s your day to take the junk mail,” Ethan said, holding up a stack of flyers and envelopes of coupons as if offering her a real treat.

  She shook her head, as she always did. “My recycle can says otherwise. It’s still full from yesterday when you pawned the ads off on me.”

  He dropped the stack on the table next to him, acting like it was a big burden. “I guess I’ll be the recycle guy today.”

  Sophia covertly watched Ethan over the tops of the envelopes she was supposed to be looking through. She’d always had a thing for guys with dark hair and the ability to hold up their end of a conversation. Ethan had both.

  He waved around a brochure. “A programmers’ conference in Denver. Sounds exciting.”

  She smiled as he handed it over. His eyes dropped right back to the mail.

  “How
were things at the hospital today?” Sophia asked, setting a letter addressed to him on his side of the table.

  “When people asked my mom how her day was, she always used to say, ‘No one died.’ I don’t think that’s the best answer for a post-op nurse, though.” He flashed a quick mischievous look.

  “I’ll start using that,” she said. “‘How was my day? No computers died.’ That sounds like a disclaimer at the end of a movie, doesn’t it?”

  He chuckled and slid a magazine toward her. “Exactly. ‘No computers were harmed in the making of this film.’”

  They laughed together a minute. She watched him, but his gaze didn’t linger. Why was it she never could catch his attention? The five minutes a day they spent switching letters and flyers and junk mail wasn’t doing the trick.

  “What’s this?” Ethan held up a yellowed envelope, turning it around a few times. “Do you know anyone named Eleanor?”

  Sophia shook her head. Ethan set the letter on the table right between them.

  “It has the house address,” he said. “But no Apartment A or B.”

  “For a former tenant?” Sophia suggested. She looked more closely. “Wait. Look at the postmark— 1953.” She couldn’t make out the entire date.

  She took the envelope and turned it around a few times. It looked old, the corners bent and worn. There appeared to have once been a return address written on the back flap, but it had long since been smudged beyond recognition. This mysterious Eleanor had once had a last name, though it had faded. The house number and street were still visible, along with the word Phoenix, but nothing else.

  “This was mailed sixty years ago.” Sophia set it back down. “And I don’t think it’s ever been opened.”

  Ethan looked at the envelope for a drawn-out moment before looking up at her. Those brown eyes melted her every time.

  “What should we do with it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t belong to either of us, but who knows where this Eleanor is now.” She leaned back in her chair, letting her eyes wander back to the letter. “After sixty years, she may not even be alive.”

  Ethan flipped the envelope over again then slouched in his chair. He fiddled with his hospital badge. Sophia tapped her foot, thinking.

  A look of determination crossed Ethan’s face. “I know this makes me sound like a sap, but if this letter managed to stay around for sixty years, we can’t just throw it away.”

  A sap? Not at all. She liked him even more knowing he had a sense of fairness and a touch of sentimentality.

  “So we should try to find Eleanor?” Sophia asked, casually throwing in the we to see if he’d object.

  “We absolutely should.”

  A bubble of excitement started in her stomach. “How do we do that? She probably hasn’t lived here in decades. We don’t even have a last name.” Between the two of them, they’d used the word we four times in four sentences.

  He shrugged. “It’ll take some time. Wouldn’t it be worth it to get this letter to Eleanor?”

  Time. Time with Ethan Williams. “Let’s do it.”

  He smiled, and Sophia swore she saw a sparkle of light shimmering off his pearly white teeth. The man was perfect and, at the moment, romantically oblivious to her. He was friendly, but not interested. Perhaps while they searched for the mysterious Eleanor, she’d find a way to get him to notice her as more than merely the neighbor he exchanged mail with.

  “When do you have an evening free for researching?” Ethan asked.

  For researching. That was a disappointing phrase to hear tacked on to the end of that particular sentence. Still, she’d take it. “Tomorrow?” she suggested.

  “Sounds good.” He grabbed his stack of mail and stood. “If you provide the computer expertise, I’ll provide dinner.”

  She tried to act casual. “Oh, do you cook?”

  He nodded. “I think you’ll be impressed.”

  “Tomorrow night then.” She stood as well, taking her mail and the sixty-year-old envelope. “It’s a— deal.” She barely stopped herself from saying “date.”

  Maybe, just maybe, while they searched for Eleanor, she’d figure a way to snap up Ethan’s attention as well.

  Chapter Two

  Ethan could cook a couple of dozen dishes that would impress even the pickiest foodie. He’d finally found a way to ask Sophia over for dinner without seeming like a creepy housemate stalker, and he had nothing remotely impressive to serve. It hadn’t even occurred to him that being on his second twelve-hour shift in two days, with a third looming on the horizon, would mean dinner would have to be something out of the freezer.

  He pulled the two-serving-sized lasagna from the oven. The pan was hot enough to nearly burn his hand through the hot pad. He dropped it on the stove top, shaking the heat off his fingers.

  “This is ridiculous.”

  He glanced at the clock. She’d be here in a few minutes. The table was set, and he’d cleaned up the place. Ethan slipped down the hall to take a quick look at himself in the bathroom mirror. He’d looked better. But three twelves took a toll on a person. He mussed his hair a little with his fingers. Better. At least he wasn’t in scrubs.

  The bell rang in the very next moment. Sophia.

  He looked his reflection dead in the eye. “Don’t blow this. It may be your only chance.”

  Ethan kept his posture casual. He was already afraid he reeked of desperation; there was no point looking pathetic as well.

  He pulled open the front door. There stood Sophia in a black skirt and blue top. She looked amazing in blue.

  “Hey.” That was lame. He jumped right to, “Come on in.”

  “Smells good.” Sophia smiled as she stepped inside. She had a great smile. A really great smile. “Lasagna?”

  He nodded, walking beside her on the way to the kitchen. “And steamed broccoli.” He hoped she liked broccoli.

  Ethan moved the lasagna from the stovetop to the table.

  “Is this the fancy meal you bragged you were going to cook?” Sophia asked, eying the pan.

  “I ran out of time,” he confessed. “I had a five-to-five shift today.”

  “I’m not complaining. Frozen Italian food happens to be one of my specialties as well. Though microwavable enchiladas is my signature dish.”

  He set the glass bowl of broccoli on the table. “I did steam these from fresh. That’s impressive, right?”

  “Sure.”

  Sophia Davis was in his house. At his table. Smiling at him. Don’t mess this up.

  “How was work?” he asked. “Did the computers behave themselves?”

  “They always do.” She dished herself some lasagna. “Computers only do what we tell them to.”

  He spooned broccoli on his plate. “And if my computer runs slow and freezes up all the time?”

  Sophia laughed a little. “You’re sending it mixed messages. Or you seriously need an upgrade.”

  He pointed at her with his empty fork. “Computers really hit their stride in the late 90s. Why would I replace a classic?”

  “Please tell me you don’t actually have a twenty-year-old computer.”

  He kept his expression naïve. “Why, would you recommend something newer?”

  “As a general rule, the age of your computer should be single digits.”

  Ethan shook his head, pretending to be frustrated. “If only I’d known this eleven years ago.”

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself.” Her serious expression was exaggerated to the point of being comical. “I am a professional, after all.”

  Ethan poured her a glass of water; he had nothing else to offer. He always made a desperate grocery run at the end of his three days.

  “How was your day?” Sophia asked.

  “Not too bad,” Ethan said. “One patient was finally discharged after a long, tough few days. It should have been a simple recovery.” He shrugged as he swallowed a bite of lasagna. “Sometimes you just don’t know.”

  Sophi
a nodded, not pressing for more information. He’d explained once, during one of their first mail exchanges, that HIPAA laws and privacy rules prevented him from saying much about his patients— nothing specific, and no names. She’d accepted that without question or complaint. He appreciated that. His last girlfriend— not that Sophia was his new girlfriend— had resented that, insisting he “didn’t want to talk to her” and heavily hinting he was hiding something.

  “A five-to-five shift?” Sophia asked. “That sounds brutal.”

  He nodded, swallowing another mouthful. “Three days on and three days off. The three on is killer.”

  “I’m surprised you had the energy to pull the lasagna out of the freezer.”

  Ethan shrugged. “I do what I can.”

  They laughed and talked through dinner without a single awkward pause. Sophia was easy to talk to. She didn’t ever seem bored by talk of his work. And he enjoyed hearing her talk about what she was working on— he didn’t understand all the technical aspects of it, but she got so excited explaining it all that he listened, mesmerized.

  When they were done, she helped clear dinner and rinse the dishes before he loaded them in the dishwasher. It sure beat doing it all on his own.

  “Where’s your ancient computer?” she asked when they’d finished. “We have a letter to research.”

  “Living room,” he said.

  “Does it even get on the internet?” she asked as they walked out of the kitchen. “That was pretty new stuff back in the nineties.”

  “No, it sends telegrams.”

  A minute later she was sitting on his couch, his laptop— the one he’d bought only a couple years earlier— on her lap. Ethan tried to act nonchalant as he pushed a dirty sock under the couch with his foot. He sat next to her, telling himself to not be a complete loser.

  “So how do we find out who was living here in 1953?” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Google open on the screen.