Soft Target

by Mia Kay

  Shaking the memory free, she stood in the stable doorway. The pasture was cloaked in fog, and dew silvered the grasses not already trampled. It was like looking through a soft-focus lens. In this moment, right before sunrise, the world was fuzzy, tinted green, blue and gray. The birds chirped quiet, sleepy greetings. Hemingway froze when she picked up the rope.

  “I won’t hurt you.” Abby took one step, keeping the lead slack, and waited. When the animal moved forward, she took another step. They inched through the paddock and the gate, to the edge of the field.

  “Good boy,” she murmured as she offered him a carrot and stroked his graceful neck. “See? No pain.”

  Leaving him there, she went back into the stable and opened the kennels. Dot, Pablo and Edgar streaked free, none of them waiting for treats. Their barking grew to yipping and snapping as they rolled into a ball. An equine scream that ended canine yelps and snarls had Abby sprinting into the paddock in time to see the gate careening in Hemingway’s wake. All that remained of the horse were his thundering hooves and the waving grass.

  Slumping her shoulders, Abby scowled at the pile of dogs at her feet. They wavered between shame and fear, but the longer she stood in silence the happier they got. Toby came to her side and sat with a tired sigh.

  “Well, let’s go get him,” Abby muttered to her dog before glaring at the other three. “Stay. You’ve done enough.”

  Hem’s trail was marked in the dew, and easy to follow. The tall grass swallowed Toby in a gulp, and Abby followed through the swaying fescue to the river, her bag of carrots and apples bouncing against her hip. Stepping carefully on the slick rocks, she hopped to the Simons’ pasture and continued up the hill.

  Off to her left, a covey of quail clattered clumsily into the sky, scaring her as much as she’d startled them. Now away from his pack, and no longer determined to be a good example, Toby shot off to her left intent on catching the slowest prey. Abby trudged on alone.

  The giant gelding was stopped at the fence, munching on Deb Simon’s newly budded shrubs. He watched her approach with one wild, dark eye.

  “Shh.” She touched his neck and pursued him when he flinched away. When he quieted, she rubbed his sweaty coat and stared down at the ragged hydrangea. “I hope you haven’t killed that plant. I’ll never find a replacement.” At least the Simons were gone for the summer. It would be enough time to determine the damage and do some shopping, if necessary.

  Comforting pats grew to long strokes as Abby ran her hands over the horse’s shoulder and then down his back. When she reached his ribs he stepped away and jerked his head. She kept a steady grip on the lead rope. “Shh. I need to see if you’ve reinjured yourself. It won’t hurt. I promise.” She hoped she was right.

  She got farther the second time. “Good boy, Hem.” He moved away again, and she started over.

  It took four tries before she could run a light hand over his bones and feel the spots that were once jagged pieces. The horse shook beneath her, but he stayed still. “Good boy. I know it’s scary to trust someone, but you’re a brave man.” She pulled an apple from her bag. “You’re going to be good as new.”

  The horse ignored the treat and stared over her shoulder, his nostrils flaring at a new scent. They weren’t alone.

  Abby’s instincts flared to life. If she faced the intruder, she risked chasing Hem again. She tensed and moved her weight to the balls of her feet and whistled for backup. Toby came at a run. The dog was too well trained to bark, but his eyes stayed glued on their observer. Abby kept her focus on her dog.

  He didn’t growl, and his tail twitched. He’d seen whoever it was before. Convinced it was safe, Abby turned to face their audience.

  “Hi, Abby.”

  Jeff Crandall stood on the Simons’ porch, barefooted, in a wrinkled T-shirt and faded jeans. Lounging against a newel post, he was sipping a cup of steaming coffee, holding it with one hand while the other was shoved into the front pocket of his jeans.

  Abby swept her gaze from him to the yard. She’d been so intent on the horse, she’d missed the car parked in front of the barn Hank used as a garage. The little silver roadster with Illinois plates was the sort of car she only saw in magazines, and it would have easily fit in her horse trailer.

  Maggie Harper’s reminder now echoed through Abby’s scrambled brain. Jeff was renting the house for the summer, something about a project related to his job with the FBI.

  He descended into the yard and started toward them with an easy gait, frowning slightly like he always did when she caught his eye. She’d seen that look for so many years, from so many people—teachers, doctors, ministers...stepfathers.

  Abby slipped her hand under Hem’s mane and stole his warmth while she stared back. Disheveled in the early morning sun, Jeff looked less like an FBI agent than ever. His salt-and-pepper hair hung to his shoulders, but it stayed swept back out of his face. That was good—otherwise it would’ve been caught in his well-trimmed mustache and beard like Velcro.

  For years, Abby had kept herself safe by reading facial cues, and the beard hid Jeff’s expressions, which was another cause for worry. Then he’d get close enough she could see the mischievous twinkle in his green eyes, and she’d leave abject fright behind for a frisson of nerves. Like now.

  “Hi. Jeff.” She stroked Hemingway’s proud neck, letting his presence soothe her while she crafted one syllable at a time.

  “How have you been?” His smile was now so big his coffee cup couldn’t hide it, and her nervousness faded to curiosity. What could be so funny this early in the morning?

  Hemingway nudged her hand for the apple he’d ignored earlier, pushing at her baggy shirt. When she shifted, wet denim slapped her calves. Her. She was the early morning comic relief.

  “Fine. Thanks. You?” She’d spent her adult life practicing pleasantries, learning both how to make polite conversation and when to stop. Everyone in town had become accustomed to her limits.

  Jeff wasn’t from here, though. He took the deep breath that always signaled a long conversation, and she panicked. Not now. It’s always more difficult in the morning, like my tongue forgets it shouldn’t move. And with the headline—

  Hemingway snorted and tossed his head, slinging the lead until it snapped against the brim of her cap.

  “I got in late last night,” Jeff said as he caught the rope.

  “Don’t jerk it,” she snapped.

  “I know better,” he said before he shifted his attention to the horse. “Quiet, boy,” he murmured, his words complementing his firm grip on the rope and his careful removal of the halter. “No one’s going to hurt you. What’s his name?” Jeff asked, not moving with the tack dangling from his fingers.

  Hemingway, because he was so beat up he reminded me of a war horse. You should have seen him. His coat was dull and brittle, and his ribs were broken. He screamed every time I touched him. It took him weeks to look at me. “Hem.”

  “Him?”

  The horse had abandoned the shrubbery for fescue, munching on the correct side of the fence, and Toby had bounded off in search of feathered quarry. It left her with nothing warm, and her voice faltered in the cool air. “H-Hem-ingway.”

  Jeff’s bright, teasing smile softened to one she’d never seen before. “Nice name. It fits him.”

  “I thought so.” Abby stared after the animals who were now making their way home. “I should—”

  “Coffee?” Jeff asked, lifting his cup.

  The smell on the breeze made her mouth water, and her fingers twitched in vain for something warm to hold. She hadn’t had time for a cup this morning, but she shouldn’t stay. “We should—”

  “It’s the least you can do since he woke me.”

  Embarrassment heated her skin. Not a great start to neighborly relationships. “He did? I’m sorry.”

  “I
made too much anyway,” Jeff said. “It takes a while to get accustomed to making it for one person again.”

  Abby reached for Hemingway’s harness, hesitating as her shoulder froze. Gritting her teeth, she forced her arm up. But Jeff had already slid the leather straps over the horse’s ears and let the bridle fall into his hands. She swore she heard the horse sigh in relief.

  Slinging the tack over his shoulder, Jeff stepped on the lower course of barbed wire and lifted the upper one, making a hole for her to crouch through. “Stay for a minute. Let him calm down.”

  It would’ve been rude to leave him standing there holding the fence, and to refuse an offer...and to waste coffee. Abby bent double, slipped through the fence and straightened in time to see Jeff’s smile fade.

  They walked in silence to the back door, which he held open. He had a habit of doing that, whenever he visited and wherever they were, and it always made her feel both dainty and terrified. She stared and the pristine kitchen floor and then pointedly at her muck-and grass-covered boots.

  “I’ll bring it out,” he offered. Tilting his head, he stared down at her, frowning again. “Cream and sugar, right? I think I saw powdered creamer in the pantry. Will that work?”

  She nodded, and sat in the nearest chair while he went inside. When she saw her shadow stretch across the porch, she snapped straight and whipped the cap from her head. Then she ripped the rubber band from her ponytail, hissing as strands tore free. Blinking the tears from her eyes, she raked her hands through her hair—only to realize they were filthy. Scurrying to Deb’s garden sink, Abby scrubbed her nails and then squinted into the window to check her reflection. Jeff poked his head in the window, ruining her view. She jerked away, and his snicker drifted through the thin pane separating them.

  He backed out onto the porch, a coffee cup in both hands, and let the door swing closed behind him. “What was that about?”

  I hate things popping out at me. Abby wrapped her fingers around the hot cup he gave her. “Cleaning. Up.”

  “You look fine. Relax.” Stretching his legs in front of him, he sipped his coffee. “What have I missed?”

  They found my stepdad’s remains in a Virginia well. “Not. Much.” Despite the breeze chilling her skin and the forbidden words building in her throat, she needed to talk to him. He’d remembered how she took her coffee, for pity’s sake. “What have. You been. Doing?”

  She sounded like a moron. Or like one of those people in the hallway at the nursing home who talked as much as their oxygen supply would allow.

  “I’ve spent the last few weeks in Tennessee with my family, but they kept me from writing and now I’m behind. Gray offered me this place as a retreat.”

  Abby knew the questions she should ask. What’s your family like? What are you writing? How was your trip? Those questions had been surrendered when she’d allowed Toby his freedom. “You. Drove?”

  He nodded. “It gave me a chance to see places I normally fly over. I made a few notes about spots to visit later.”

  “Where?” she asked.

  “There’s this great little lake in northern Arkansas for fishing, and the prettiest resort overlooks it. The Colorado foothills would be a great place to hike in the summer, and I’d love to spend more time in Utah.” He’d been talking to the horizon, but now he swiveled to face her with those sparkling eyes. “I never thought parks without grass and trees could be appealing. Have you been there?”

  I’ve always wanted to photograph there and watch the angle of the sun change the colors. I have three books on the Arches National Park at home. She shook her head. “What are you wr-writing?”

  His smile made her glad she’d put her effort into the question. “I’m rewriting a training manual for the basic profiling class I taught last summer,” he explained, “and creating a new class on indicative behaviors and past trauma. And I’m looking at the material we use for teaching evidence techniques.” He toyed with the handle of his mug. “It’s what I do in Chicago. I lead a group of evidence techs, and I train agents on evidence discovery and recovery.”

  Evidence. Questions she shouldn’t ask clamored in her brain. Fingerprints, DNA, luminol, excavation, tool marks...

  Abby stood. “Have to go. Thanks for. Coffee.”

  He set his empty cup next to her half-full one. “Do you need help?”

  Yes, please. Can I tell you a story? The words bubbled on her tongue, and Abby swallowed them back as she shook her head and backed toward the steps, grabbing the halter from the porch railing.

  He caught up with her and held the gate. “I’ll walk with you. I’m still stiff from the drive yesterday.”

  She walked in front of him and onto the well-worn path in the grass, forcing herself to walk rather than flee.

  “The trail’s easy to follow. You visit with the Simons a lot?”

  “No.” She lied. Hank and Deb had taught her almost everything about running a farm, and she’d repaid them with as much kindness as she could risk, but Jeff didn’t need to get used to seeing her all the time. “I don’t. Visit.”

  The sun and breeze had evaporated the dew, and now the long stalks tickled her fingers. They caught up with Toby and Hemingway at the river. Now calm, Hem submitted to the harness and trailed behind Jeff across the river and up the bank to her paddock.

  “Why don’t I help with your chores?”

  Abby arched an eyebrow. Didn’t he have work to do?

  “Don’t look at me like that. I used to help on my grandparents’ farm all the time.” He stood still, waiting.

  He shouldn’t be here. She slid her hand under Hemingway’s mane. “You have work. Of your own.”

  “I’ll catch up later. I need the exercise, Abby.”

  She looked down his lean, fit frame. He didn’t need the exercise.

  “Fine,” he sighed. “I like to procrastinate.”

  Send him away.

  He grinned. “And maybe I’ll fall flat on my ass and you’ll get a laugh. Either way, one of us will have a great Saturday morning.”

  “Feed or milk?” she asked.

  “Feed.” He winked. “I hate cows.”

  Don’t miss

  HARD SILENCE by Mia Kay

  Available April 2016 wherever

  Carina Press ebooks are sold.

  www.CarinaPress.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Mia Kay

  Acknowledgments

  As a new author, my acknowledgements could be almost as long as the book, but I’ll do my best to keep it short.

  I have a group of friends who have listened to me talk endlessly about fictional characters as though they were real people, read drafts and bought me cheese dip to help me through writer’s block. Thank you to Patti, Cheryl, Sherry, Deb, Melinda and Melissa.

  Thank you to my fabulous critique partner, Carrie Nichols, and the other ladies in the Fabulous Five—Brynn, Kari and M.A. Also, to the members of the FFWG and the DSRA who cheered me on and held my hand. I don’t know what I would have done without you.

  My editor, Kerri Buckley, is amazing. Every author hopes for an editor who gets their manuscript and is committed to making it the best story possible. Working with Kerri has made me a better storyteller and a better writer. I am incredibly lucky to have her in my corner.

  Thanks to the team at Carina Press who have worked so hard on every aspect of this manuscript. I gave them a Word document and they gave me back a book. My book. Those two words still give me goose bumps.

  Thank you to Lori Wilde, who cared enough to tell me the truth and show me what I needed to learn.

  I have a family you wouldn’t believe. Parents who never told me I couldn’t do something, brothers who might think I’m weird but never say it out loud, and a slew of aunts, uncles and cousins. They might blush that I wrote that, but they’ll hug me ju
st as hard when I see them next. I love you.

  And to Greg, who showed me that happily-ever-after really does exist and who has been willing to spend months staring at my ear while I stared at my laptop. I couldn’t have done this without you. I love you more every day.

  Also available from Mia Kay

  and Carina Press

  Hard Silence, coming April 2016

  About the Author

  My name is Mia, and I’m a writer. I still grin when I say that. Soft Target is my debut novel. I still grin when I say that, too.

  I’m the imaginative kid who insisted my stuffed animals were thirsty before bed, and who was lucky enough to have a mother who gave them water.

  I’m the girl who made up stories while she did chores and promised herself when she was older she’d own all the books she wanted. I loved spending Sunday afternoons with my grandmother and her stacks of Harlequin romances.

  I’m the teenager who gave up on writing fiction because a favorite teacher told me I wasn’t creative. Some days I still believe her. Most days, I know she was completely wrong.

  I’m the woman who had my heart broken and my hopes dashed so many times that I gave up on happily-ever-after and let a job filled with too many obligations overwhelm my love of a good story. Both issues have been thoroughly corrected.

  I have an addiction to movies, an affinity for tall men and a predilection for sarcasm. And, like most writers, I have a to-be-read pile that is almost as tall as I am.

  I live in the Southern United States, where I’m surrounded by people who love and encourage me and where snow rarely lasts for more than a day.

  Oh, and I’m the woman who just spent a good hour trying to find the title of the first romance novel I remember reading. It was about a blind musician and the woman he left behind. Her name was Carissa. If you know it, please drop me an email.