Harlequin Heartwarming April 2018 Box Set

by Amy Vastine

  Was she making that connection to her own dark past, too?

  “Once I started attending Al-Anon meetings, I learned to face my anger head-on…to accept it,” Cole said. “It was a relief to walk into a room and have people nod their head—yes, I’ve been like that, or yes, I’ve experienced that, because I didn’t realize how dysfunctional it was until I saw how it could be. Coming to Al-Anon was finding some sort of common ground, a feeling of acceptance and learning that addiction is a disease we play no part in causing. We can’t cure it, and we can’t control it. Your health and happiness are up to you. Control what you can, accept what you can’t and attend these meetings. You’re not alone in your pain.”

  He peered at the group, his sober blue eyes revealing his sincerity and humility, a combination as effective as his powerful story. “Thank you for having me.”

  Applause rang out as Cole strode to the back row, pitched Justin’s hat and jacket to another chair then sat on Justin’s other side.

  “How’d I do?” Cole murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

  “It didn’t totally suck,” Justin grumbled, then tempered the comment with a grin.

  “Cade,” Cole muttered beneath his breath, quiet enough for only Justin and Brielle to hear.

  “Loveland,” Justin growled, low.

  Sheesh.

  Brielle hurried to the front of the room. “Thank you, Cole. We appreciate your courage and your honesty tonight.”

  Her own story banged on the closed door she’d shut it behind, demanding release.

  “Who’d like to share their experiences with addiction and anger?”

  Maya raised her hand and stood. Shaking her bangs from her eyes, she turned in a circle until she faced Cole and Justin. “My mother’s an alcoholic. Mostly she drinks vodka, so no one can smell it, but I can. I always know. One time she came into my room, slurring her words, reeking of alcohol and knelt by my bed. She said the doctor told her she had cancer, and she wasn’t going to make it. Then she took off her necklace and said, ‘I’ve decided I’m going to die tonight, and I want you to have this cross.’ I was six years old, lying in my bed, thinking about my mom dying, how she wasn’t going to be there in a few hours…it was freaking traumatizing. Now I just hate her.”

  Maya dropped back in her seat, and Brielle made a mental note to check Maya’s family history, dismayed. She hadn’t recalled a mention of alcoholism, yet a closely guarded family secret would explain a lot about Maya’s struggles.

  “I’ll go next,” said a middle-aged woman with pushed-out front teeth and sunken cheeks. “I’m Sally, and the alcoholic in my family is my brother. The role that I took on as a child was to make everybody happy. To be the best kid that there was. I was an overachiever and I just wanted people to like me. So I bought people things. I never had an opinion. I went along with crowds, no matter where they were going, whether I agreed with them or not. And I also got in dysfunctional relationships—whether it was with men or friends, or on jobs, I was attracted to toxic situations.”

  Lots of heads nodded.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose and spoke through her fingers. “I’d find myself getting angry or screaming or ranting about the smallest thing. I’m even scared, in the privacy of my own thoughts. I’m scared by how much I overreact sometimes.”

  Sally sat down to a chorus of “Thank you for sharing.”

  “You can learn ways to move beyond the harm you experienced as a child, Sally,” Brielle reassured her. “You were powerless over your brother’s behavior, but what you can do is change the way you feel about yourself. You can move on and make healthy changes and good decisions for your own life.”

  Sally nodded at Brielle, smiling despite the tears streaming down both cheeks. “Thank you.”

  Those two simple words detonated in Brielle’s heart, blowing it wide-open. She was helping others again, making a difference in their lives, a blood-stirring sensation.

  An older man with narrow, rounded shoulders and bowed legs stood in the front row. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to face the group. “Name’s Tom, and my wife’s an alcoholic. We’ll be married thirty-two years tomorrow.”

  “Happy anniversary,” someone said, eliciting a faint smile from Tom.

  “It hasn’t always been happy. Mostly it’s been misery. And work. Why stick with it, I bet some of you are asking.”

  Several shook their heads, showing their support and understanding about loving an alcoholic, staying with them, regardless of the pain.

  “I love my wife, and I resent her, too.” Tom stared out at the writhing black night beyond the window. “Being with her is like swallowing poison every day, but I’ll never walk away, no matter how much it kills me. So I take that anger out elsewhere. I had jobs where I would work there for three months, six months, a year, then I would lose my temper and lose my job. It’s a struggle to make ends meet. I know something’s got to change, and I know it’s got to be me. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Thank you,” Brielle called over the group’s roar of a welcome, then closed her mouth when another person got to their feet, then another and another. Before she knew it, the hour-long session was over, sixty minutes full of tears, laughter and commiseration, a potent mix of support and understanding that settled deep into the marrow of her bones, strengthening them. Strengthening her.

  She led the group in a short prayer at the conclusion then lifted her head. “Remember, you are not responsible for the world. Let go and take time to restore yourself to sanity, even if it’s just for a minute. I hope to see you all here next week.”

  Justin and Cole exchanged quick, firm nods. Would Justin speak about his experiences next time? Would she?

  “Remember that we need people to move through life with, people to do life with,” she said, her eyes now locked with Justin’s, the words rolling off her tongue—no, shoving themselves off her tongue, inspiration rushing through her at long last. She wanted to reach Justin, to reach all of them.

  “We need people to tell us we’re not seeing this as it really is. We need people to say that we’re being too hard on ourselves, or too easy. We need people to say when we’re procrastinating. We need people to challenge us and comfort us. To be our life preservers,” she said, thinking of these past couple weeks with Justin and how the prickly man had pushed her out of the closed-off world she’d retreated to after her breakdown.

  “We need people to do life with,” she repeated, her voice rising at Justin’s speculative stare. “Often, I think modern culture is very anonymous. You can move through life quite alone, even when surrounded by people. But you need to know and be known. At Al-Anon, we’re each other’s lifelines, an ear to listen, an arm to hold us up, a shoulder to lean on, to cry on. We’re always here,” she concluded, fingering the cross pin at her lapel.

  If Fresh Start remained open…

  Please, please, she pleaded silently, flinging out another request, wondering if this time she’d finally get an answer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  JUSTIN THWACKED A saddle blanket with a broom, battering it until his muscles ached. Physical pain was better than dealing with the emotions unleashed during tonight’s meeting.

  His nose twitched at the stable’s dust-filled air, and his eyes stung. Beneath his leather jacket, his body steamed despite the autumn chill. He yanked it off, tossed another blanket on the line and walloped it hard. White puffs rose from the woven material. He grunted with every whack, releasing his frustration, confusion and grief.

  He should’ve trusted his gut and avoided group meetings. Tonight’s stories didn’t apply to him. He was not angry at Jesse. He smacked the blanket. Jesse had let him down, sure. Justin swung the broom again. But drugs were to blame. The blanket billowed from another blow. The dealers. They ruined Jesse’s life…both their lives.

  Justin stopped and leaned against t
he broom handle, breathing hard, listening to the rain hammer the stable roof, wishing like hell he had a beer—the first time in years he’d gone almost a day without thinking of drinking, he realized with a start. Horses nickered at a distant roll of thunder. They stomped on freshly spread hay, as unsettled as he was.

  Why was Cole’s story needling him? Raising disloyal thoughts? He and Jesse were blood brothers, womb mates, two hearts that once beat together. He was not mad at Jesse.

  He swung the broom and whaled on the blanket again. And again. And again.

  “What’d that blanket ever do to you?” a soft voice asked behind him.

  He whirled and saw Brielle standing in the soft pool of light cast by the stable’s overhead dome. His heart lurched as his eyes drank her in with a greedy gulp. There was a simple beauty about her, a down-to-earth appeal that didn’t require any decoration. Rain had flattened her loose golden hair, and droplets clung to her lashes. Unlike him, there wasn’t a hint of restless energy surrounding her. A quiet sense of purpose emanated from her intelligent green eyes, a force of personality that even her long floral dress and knit shawl didn’t soften.

  Clearly, she was a woman on a mission. What did she want with him, alone, so late at night?

  His body tightened at the remembered feel of her mouth against his and her passionate response to their brief kiss. He turned away. “What are you doing here?” His voice emerged rougher than he’d intended.

  “Looking for you.”

  “Why?” He grabbed the edge of the workbench to stop from reaching for her. She’d called herself a life preserver at Al-Anon…and he was drowning…

  “Group meetings can churn up a lot of emotions, especially your first time.” When her fingers smoothed over his back, he swallowed back a groan. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  “I’m fine. And busy.”

  “Can I help?”

  “No.”

  “But, I—”

  “Go away,” he barked, his self-control breaking. Brielle was the last person he wanted around when he felt raw and exposed. She saw through him, even when he had his guard up.

  “No.” She ducked under his arm and wedged herself between his body and the workbench.

  Their noses brushed. “What do you want?”

  “To make sure you’re okay.”

  “Aren’t you off the clock now?”

  Her eyes flashed, and her generous lower lip jutted, ensnaring his attention. “You think I’m here because of my job? You’re not my patient.”

  “And I’m not your charity case.”

  Brielle took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and looked him straight in the eyes. “I don’t feel sorry for you. I’m frustrated with you.”

  “Huh?” He backed up a step.

  “You act like this big—” she shoved his chest “—tough guy—” another shove “—but you always run away. You retreat.”

  “You just hit me,” he exclaimed.

  “You needed it.”

  He shook his head, impressed as always by her brash fearlessness, then jerked his chin at the dangling blankets. “I’m working.”

  “Not on yourself,” she insisted, her warm, cinnamon breath whispering over his mouth as she closed the small distance between them again. “You said it earlier. The real work is on the inside, where you feel it more than you see it. You haven’t addressed the real source of your anger.”

  He closed his eyes and wished for cover. Brielle was a sniper. She always hit her mark.

  “I’m not angry at my brother.” He sounded surly. It was the best he could do.

  “Who then?”

  “I’m mad at heroin. At dealers. Life for taking Jesse.”

  She angled her face and a strand of her honey-gold hair whispered across her cheek. “So that’s why you’re challenging it? Daring it to take you, too?”

  His heart beat furiously at her dead-on accuracy. “So far it hasn’t.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Brielle’s mouth turned down at the corners, her sorrowful expression burrowing under his skin, making him want to jump out of it.

  “It’ll get me sooner or later.” His emphatic statement jolted Starburst. She bobbed her gray head above her stall door and whinnied.

  “Why’s that?”

  Anger and frustration swamped him. “It got Jesse.”

  “Everything that happened to your brother has to happen to you?” Brielle’s voice rose, challenging. A couple more horses poked their heads out, noses flaring as they blew, investigating the ruckus.

  “We’re twins. We did everything together until the drugs.”

  “Until he abandoned you,” Brielle asserted, throwing her arms wide. Her shawl slid to the floor.

  “No. I abandoned him.” His nails dug into his palms. “I walked away when he refused to get help.”

  “You set boundaries.”

  “I shut him out when he needed help.”

  “He chose to be on his own. He didn’t want your help.”

  Justin could swear his heart stopped beating for a minute. His fingers felt like they were freezing. Then his breath returned to him in a painful heave. “Don’t insult my brother.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I was the strong one.” The muscles in his arms flexed. “I should have protected him better, helped him get sober.”

  “So he gets none of the blame and you take all of it?” Her eyes were so intensely green they were almost black.

  “Jesse was a good guy.” A sense of urgency grew in him.

  “You can be angry with good people,” countered Brielle. “It doesn’t cancel out the love. And you can’t forgive him until you acknowledge your anger, until you admit Jesse’s guilt.”

  “He doesn’t need forgiveness. I do.”

  “If Jesse were here, what would he say to you?”

  They looked at each other without saying anything. He wondered what she saw as she watched him standing beneath the light, exposed, his heart beating outside his skeleton, it seemed. “Jesse forgave everybody.”

  “What would he say to you?” she repeated, standing her ground.

  Air rushed from his lungs, deflating him. “He’d tell me I had nothing to be sorry about.”

  Brielle reached up, tentatively, and stroked his face, her gentle touch unraveling the knot that had held him together these past three and a half years.

  “But me getting angry at him is what killed him.” Acid churned in Justin’s stomach.

  Brielle’s eyes widened. “How?”

  “Because we fought,” he blurted, every bit of his guilt, his shame, his regret infusing his darkest confession. “He came around one night, strung out, looking for money. I caught him going through Ma’s things, and I threw him out of the house.”

  “He’s lucky you didn’t call the cops.”

  “We settle scores between ourselves around here.”

  “You mentioned that. What happened?”

  “He tried to go back inside, and I wouldn’t let him. He shoved me, I shoved back. When he raised his fist, I walloped him. Next thing you know, we were tussling on the ground, going hit for hit until I busted his nose. I wanted to knock some sense into him, but I drove him off instead. It was the last time I ever saw him. Alive,” he amended.

  “Oh, Justin, I’m sorry.”

  He released a ragged breath and pressed her silken palm against his cheek. “Don’t be. Like I said. It’s my fault.”

  “But it’s not,” she insisted. “We can’t control other people’s actions, and you shouldn’t hold on to painful memories.”

  Good advice…something she didn’t follow herself, he mused, thinking of the dog tags by her spider plant. “Who’s William Pelton?”

  Her skin blanched, and she ducked her head. Her hair swirled aroun
d her like flowing honey. The strands shimmered and swayed in the meager light as she moved, robbing her of her usual reserved look. “I didn’t come here to talk about me.” Her toe caught the edge of a feed bag, and he used both hands to steady her…or to feel her?

  But his hands fit right into the notch of her waist as if they were meant to be there. The smooth silk of her skirt seemed to beg for his touch, but he contented himself with gently smoothing the fabric over her hips.

  Then he pressed a finger beneath her chin, tipping it up until their gazes tangled. “Stop hiding from me,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with the strain of keeping himself in check.

  “I’m right here,” she whispered.

  The enticing scent of raspberries emanated from her, and he nearly groaned with the torment. He traced the outline of her lips with one finger.

  She started to pull away, but he halted her by sliding his fingertips over the smooth flesh of her upper arms. Her answering shiver was both rousing and scary. It amazed him that he kept her captive with no more than his touch.

  His fingers brushed through her hair, to her heated skin underneath. He curved his palm around the back of her neck, ignoring the niggling voice that reminded him he had no business touching her, an innocent compared to him. He was the kind of bad boy mothers warned good girls like Brielle away from. Who would caution her now?

  He told himself he wasn’t going to kiss her.

  But as he leaned in close, nearing the heady heaven of her soft lips, he knew himself to be a liar. He was going to kiss her because he wanted to, and it’d been a long time since he’d wanted anything…especially this badly.

  Her eyes drifted closed, and she slid slender arms around his neck. Her lips tilted toward him.

  “Justin.” She breathed his name a second before his mouth met hers.

  She tasted sweeter than tea on a hot, humid night, and she fired his senses twice as fast. Two weeks’ worth of suppressed desire ignited in one brush of her lips. He felt like an engine that had been idling for too long, suddenly revving faster—more erratically—than it should, eager to flex its muscle and test its own power.