by Zoe Dawson
Leaving Yesterday is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept ebook Original
Copyright © 2016 by Karen Alarie
Excerpt from Maybe Tomorrow by Zoe Dawson copyright © 2016 by Karen Alarie
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Maybe Tomorrow by Zoe Dawson. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.
eBook ISBN 9781101965542
Cover design: Georgia Morrissey
Cover photograph: © Peopleimages/Getty Images
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Zoe Dawson
About the Author
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Maybe Tomorrow
Chapter 1
“Trace!”
His sister Cadence’s voice carried all the way out to the garage bay where Trace Black was currently installing a new muffler. He rolled himself out from under the car and rose, grabbing a clean rag and wiping his hands. He headed to the ranch house that was to the back and side of Black’s Garage, their family business. Situated on a tree-lined street with other houses, some looking a bit worse for wear and some empty and foreclosed, the worn-clapboard green house with the covered front porch was in pretty good shape. Trace and Reese handled most of the upkeep, the original wood floors and woodwork intact and refinished. The garage in the back filled with car parts and a couple of vintage cars lying unfinished since their father’s death.
Black’s Garage was now really his business, although he supported his sister with the income. Trace liked working with his hands. When he hadn’t been killing insurgents in the desert, he had been fixing the engines of the Humvees his unit traveled in. His skills had kept his platoon mobile, and when they were mobile, they were just a tiny bit safer.
He looked at his watch and was surprised to find how early it still was. He was usually up at six in the morning—old marine habits were hard to break. The military taught him that sleep was optional. But Harley, his younger brother, was restless ever since he got home from the VA hospital, so he’d been up and down throughout the night, giving up on sleep at about four that morning. Trace entered through the back door, where his brother Reese was in the kitchen making his breakfast. He shot his older brother a withering look. “Can’t you—”
Reese held up his hands with a knife slathered in peanut butter in one and a slice of toast in the other. “This involves teenage angst and girly things.”
“Aw, kee-rist, and you’re leaving it to me?”
“Trace!”
“I’m in the kitchen.” He managed not to bellow, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can you keep your voice down?” he said when she came into the kitchen still in her PJs. “Harley is probably still sleeping.”
“He’s probably not now,” Reese said, arching a brow at his brother. He was fully shaved and dressed in a blue polo shirt and a pair of jeans, brown-tooled Western boots on his feet. Reese did like his boots fancy. His tall, muscled brother was a veteran firefighter in Kalispell, about thirty minutes away from Laurel Falls, but was currently off shift.
“You, big brother, are being such a big help.” Actually, Reese was a big help. Ever since their flaky mom had left—twice—Trace and Reese had taken responsibility for household chores and their younger brother and sister. That responsibility increased even more once their dad hit the bottle after the loss of his wife. Trace had been ten when his mother left the first time and his dad went after her. She came back, seemed to settle down, got pregnant with Cadie, and then disappeared when Cadie was only two. This time for good. He had no idea where she was.
Reese shrugged.
“What is it, Cadie?” Trace cocked his hip at his sister’s my-teenaged-problem-is-now-your-problem look.
“Have you seen my mango bra and panty set?”
He cut a look to Reese, but he quickly looked down and finished slathering his toast with peanut butter.
Trace rubbed at his tired eyes and ran both hands through his hair. “Why would I know where that is?”
“You did the wash. It was in the last load.” She shot at him like an accusation. Like a mango bra and panty set could be stolen and sold on the black unmentionables market.
He tried to remember the wash and the clothes that were part of the loads he’d done, but it all blurred together. “Does it have black lace on it?”
“No,” she said with a long-suffering teenaged sigh. “That is my orange set.”
“Wait. What is the difference between mango and orange?” he said, winning him another contemptuous look.
“Well, for one thing they’re different fruits,” Reese piped up.
Trace gave his brother his best sergeant-I’m-going-to-kick-your-ass glare, but Reese just smirked.
“Trace, really. Mango is much lighter than orange,” Cadie said as if he were the village idiot.
“Yeah, Trace, any moron would know that.” Reese nudged him as he walked past toward the counter and settled on one of the stools.
“Shut up,” Trace said, giving his brother a nudge back, then turning his attention back to Cadie. “Can’t you wear some other…ah…set?”
Her chin lifted and her eyes squinted. “No. I can’t,” she said, placing her hands on the counter. “I have cheerleader practice and I can’t wear a different set.”
Somehow that was supposed to make sense to him.
“Cadie.” He stepped to the island, his lips pinching together. He set his hands down on the counter, too, his fingers tapping. Speaking through his clenched teeth, he said, “You are going to be late for school.” He gestured with his thumb. “Now, get your butt in your room and get dressed.”
Cadie’s face set into a determined mask. She marched up to Trace and thrust out her chin. “It’s the only bra I have that holds—”
“For the love of God, do not finish that sentence. My ears will bleed.” He walked away, his shoulders hunched, cringing.
The phone rang and he picked it up, punching the number for the garage. “Howdy, Black’s.”
“Hello, I need a tow.”
The sound of her voice sent a sensual punch right to his gut.
He reached for the pad and said, “Where are you?”
“On the highway.”
“Ah, ma’am, could you narrow it down for me?”
“I’m just past the sign for the exit to your town. Does that help?”
“Yes, ma’am, much better. What’s th
e problem?”
“My car died. I wish I could give you more than that.” She made this adorable, thick grinding sound. “It did that, then the engine wasn’t doing that piston-spinning thing, and the wheels, surprisingly, stopped going ’round and ’round. You see, usually, I start it and the engine goes, then it travels as far as I want it to, then I turn it off. That’s the extent of both my knowledge and my relationship with my car.”
Trace huffed a laugh. “Got it, ma’am. You heard a noise, and your wheels aren’t going ’round and ’round anymore.”
Her laugh was so cute. “That was a very good summation. How long before you can get here?”
He looked at his sister and she set her hands on her hips. Oh, she wasn’t done. There would be no peace until the Great Mango Bra Caper was solved. “I reckon ten to fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. What kind of car?”
“I’ll be the only one broken down by the side of the road.” There was a light teasing to her tone.
“Fair enough.”
He hung up the phone. He looked at Reese and then his watch again. “Can you—”
A horrified look traveled across his face. “For the love of God, do not finish that sentence. My eyes will bleed.”
“Reese…”
“If someone needs to be rescued from a burning building, I’m first in line. Fire smire. If someone’s trapped, I am your man. I can use the Jaws of Life; if a fire threatens a city or residence or forest, putting it out is priority number one; if someone needs life-and-death medical treatment, I will try to channel God. But, man, on this, you are on your own.”
Trace laughed, but Cadie glared and tapped her foot. “You coward,” Trace said.
With a self-deprecating nod, Reese said, “Hey, you survived Afghanistan and Iraq. You’re better equipped for this.”
“Cover me. I’m going in,” Trace said, shoving his brother’s shoulder as he took a step toward the laundry room.
—
Rafferty Hamilton had been running as fast as she could, but now, figuratively and literally, she was going nowhere just as fast.
Spinning her wheels, even in beautiful Montana, was still spinning her wheels.
She was on the side of the road, still waiting for the tow truck after her new car stopped working and she’d been forced to coast to the shoulder, an acrid odor coming from the dashboard.
She’d been tooling along, thinking how she would be checking the divorced box from now on. No longer Mrs. Sean Duncan. For a year she’d gotten used to no more guaranteed dates at parties and shindigs, the opera, or the theater. No more museum jaunts or gallery openings. Now there was free time after work, meals eaten alone, and an empty side of the bed where she’d once snuggled up to her charming and popular husband.
Popular with the ladies.
The smack of betrayal—the wrenching pain that had dulled over the year adding punch, nonetheless—blindsided her, and tears welled.
The lying, cheating, shove-his-dick-into-any-woman-who-was-willing pig.
She sniffed. Okay, that made her feel so much better.
The beginning of the end had gone something like this.
“You cheated on me.”
“I need something more.”
She liked to think he whined like a petulant child. “Something more? What is missing, Sean?”
He’d stepped up to her then. “You. You’re missing. You don’t need me, Rafferty. That’s the bottom line. I might have an easy time with women, but I married you. You’re always so careful, holding back. Always doing some deal for your dad. You’re his closer, his hit woman. I’m not really sure where I fit into your life.”
“And that translates to infidelity instead of communication.”
He laughed harshly and looked away. “It translates into you not being present. We’re supposed to do this together, not live separate lives. I needed more. I went and found it.”
“Flinging your dick all over Manhattan is my fault. Typical.”
That confrontation conversation had happened almost a year ago. The papers were now signed. She was no longer connected to Sean.
Sean had accused her of being absent in both heart and home. She did travel a lot, and those trips had increased over the year since he’d moved out of their penthouse. She hadn’t kept the place after that.
She had gone over it in her head so many times since she’d separated from him, wondering how everything had gone wrong. How he could have so callously betrayed her.
She groaned over the soft notes of violins and French horns. Classical music played on her dashboard receiver in the sleek, new British sports car she’d bought on a whim when she’d left New York City five days ago on this impromptu, crazy road trip out west. No radio and the risk of a love song to remind her that she was no longer married.
Was there a reason she hadn’t opened up to him? A reason she traveled more?
These thoughts had consumed her as she’d whizzed down the highway. A small sign let her know she had been getting close to Laurel Falls. The name sounded pretty, probably one of those idyllic, little gems tucked away with its hominess and wholesomeness spilling over the edges of pretty tree-lined streets and apple-pie hospitality.
Before she’d left the roadside motel, she’d put the top down on the snazzy blue sports car, tying her long blond hair into a tight ponytail, leaving her long bangs to blow around her forehead. When there hadn’t been livestock trucks trundling along, the air had been brisk and smelled amazing.
In the wide-open spaces of Montana, the wind always seemed to be blowing—even sitting on the side of the road, her hair was never still. A clear backdrop of postcard-perfect mountains rising up around her, snow still on their towering peaks even in the middle of October when the temperature was a brisk forty-nine degrees. She couldn’t have seen those from the air.
Now, almost to her destination of Sanderson, Montana, she’d decided that she was out of breath from running.
Her phone had rung, and she’d glanced at the display and said, “Shit.” It had been her father’s girlfriend, Susan. That was, actually, not really true. Susan Chambers was more than just her father’s girlfriend. She’d been with him since Rafferty was little and was the strongest female influence in her life. Susan was so put together and tolerated her father’s hours because hers were just as bad, but they had clicked and still clicked. Her father hadn’t looked at another woman since he’d met Susan, and that made total sense. She was gorgeous, one of the premier lawyers in New York City, and made the best macaroni and cheese ever.
She’d ignored her calls all the way through Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana. Susan had left her a voicemail outside of Illinois to call her or else. Then, she stressed about it all the way through Wisconsin, Minnesota, and South Dakota.
It was true that she had opted to drive to California for business but take a side trip to scout out some land in Montana. Hamilton Hoteliers was always looking for strategic and scenic sites to place its resorts. Her father, Ross Hamilton, ran his empire with an iron hand. She worked closely with him and loved her job, but was tired of seeing the country from an airplane window. That was her cover story and she was sticking to it.
“Are you going to lecture me? I might disappear into the Rockies and never come out. Become a mountain woman and live off the land.”
“That’s going to be hell on your high heels and mocha latte addiction.”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
“Don’t you ignore my calls and texts again, sweetie, or I’ll ground you.”
That made her huff a laugh. “I ignored Daddy’s, too, if that helps.” Her stomach dropped and she blinked back tears as she looked to the open brown meadow dotted with thick copses of trees out her side window.
“Yes, since I live with the man, you have been a topic of conversation recently. I mean this in the best sense, honey. You can’t run from your emotions.”
The tears slipped down her cheeks, and she brushed them impatiently away, her throat ti
ght. “According to Sean, I don’t have any. I’m incapable of being emotionally intimate.” That had scared her the most. Was that true? The loss of her relationship sent doubts through her every day until she had to get away. This road trip was a perfect escape.
She had thought she loved Sean. “I’m afraid he was right.” She couldn’t keep the words from sounding nose-clogged from crying.
“That’s so not true. You are a wonderful, caring person.” There was just her sniffling, then Susan, her voice even more sympathetic, said, “Aw, honey. If you’re crying, you’re feeling. So he’s full of it.” Rafferty’s eyes welled up all over again. Susan’s words helped her feel a bit better.
“Sean really fooled us all. Sure, he looked good on paper, but you didn’t seem all that happy to me.”
Realizing that the tow guy was going to be here any minute, she wiped at her eyes, needing to get control over her emotions. “I guess I wasn’t, and I didn’t really realize it. I thought I was in the perfect marriage.”
“Sweetie, don’t beat yourself up too much. It takes two to tango, so this is not all on you. He cheated on you. There’s no reason for that in my book. Have the balls to step up and talk about it.”
“I guess that is true. He never said a word to me.”
There was a pregnant pause, and Susan said, “Sean was all about prestige and showing wealth. Flaunting it. He thought of you as just another possession that he could show the world he’d accumulated. You’re no one’s trophy wife.”
“Thank you for saying that. It means a lot to me. I guess I wasn’t prepared.”
“Who’s ever prepared for the end of their marriage?” Susan said softly.
She certainly hadn’t been, and she had spent many nights going over all of it in her head. She had failed—felt like a failure because she had really thought she was making it work.
Her tone turned serious. “Really, sweetheart. It’s his loss.”
Rafferty smiled at the emphatic way Susan said those words.
“How about we make a day of it when you get back? Shopping, spa day with a manicure and pedicure. I’ll treat for lunch wherever you want to go.”