by Arden Blair
The Imposter Suite
Pup’s Creek
Arden Blair
Bay View Publishing
Contents
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
Epilogue
1
“Uncle Roscoe, be reasonable.”
Toby Martin tried to remember how many times he’d said that exact phrase in the last thirty minutes. Too many times to count. And every time he’d wasted his breath. He should have known better. His uncle Roscoe—his great-uncle, actually—was many things, but reasonable was not one of them.
Still, Toby felt it was his responsibility to at least try to talk some sense into the man.
“You can’t go home,” Toby tried. “Not in your condition.”
His old, grumpy uncle glared up at him. No one had mastered the judgmental stare quite like Uncle Roscoe. “What are you talking about? I don’t have a condition.”
“You’re in a wheelchair, Uncle, and you’re not getting out of it for at least the next eight weeks.”
Roscoe pressed his lips together hard. The annoyed expression caused a dozen new lines to dig into his already-wrinkled brow. “That’s not a condition. It’s just a pain in the ass.”
“Call it whatever you want, uncle. It still means that you can’t go home,” Toby said.
“I don’t see why not.”
Toby raised his hands and rubbed at his temples. Funny, he’d never been prone to headaches before. Not until two days ago, when he’d received a call from his parents telling him that his great-uncle had faked a heart attack in a town hall meeting to get out of an embarrassing situation.
That wasn’t the worst part.
Apparently, Roscoe’s collapse to the ground had been a little too real. He’d hit the concrete floor hard and fractured his hip bone. Now he was in a wheelchair for two months or more, and Toby was the only one who could take care of him.
Now, Toby knew that wasn’t true. There were plenty of other relatives who could look after Roscoe, but Toby was the only unmated omega, and in his super-traditional family, that meant that all unpleasant domestic jobs fell to him.
Toby lowered his hands. His headache hadn’t gone anywhere, and it wasn’t showing any signs of letting up. Chances were it wouldn’t until the little town of Pup’s Creek was in his rearview mirror.
“There are a dozen stairs between your driveway and your front door,” Toby explained as clearly as he could.
Roscoe just stared up at him with unblinking eyes. “So?”
“So, you can’t get up and down them. Once you were in your house you’d be trapped inside. You’d be a prisoner.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Roscoe said. His tone was exasperated, as though he were talking to a disruptive toddler and not a full-grown omega who had travelled hundreds of miles to help him out of a bad situation. “I’ll have one of the alphas down at the hardware store build a temporary ramp.”
“And then what?” Toby asked. “How are you planning on driving to the office or the grocery store?”
“Bailey can drive.”
Toby raised a brow. Bailey Hicks was Uncle Roscoe’s longtime business partner…maybe more. No one in the family knew for sure, and no one was asking. As two old betas, it seemed that no one cared much about their personal lives.
Lucky bastards.
Toby could only dream of that level of freedom.
But there were still major issues with Roscoe’s plan. Bailey Hicks was even older than he was and one stumble away from a broken hip himself.
“I’m not sure that Bailey is any shape to play nursemaid for the next eight weeks, Uncle,” he said.
“Of course he isn’t,” Roscoe said, rolling his eyes. “That’s why you’re here.”
Oh God. Toby prayed for strength, but apparently no one nobody was listening.
“Uncle Roscoe, I can’t stay for two whole months. I have a life I need to get back to.”
“Bah,” Roscoe scoffed. “What life? You’re unmated. You don’t have an alpha or pups to get back to. Your parents must agree, or they wouldn’t have sent you.”
Roscoe was right. That was exactly how his parents thought. Hell, it was the mindset of his whole damn family. That’s why they’d sent him off with his bags packed and ready for an extended stay.
Of course, it didn’t mean that Toby agreed. But in his twenty-one years, Toby couldn’t remember anyone ever asking him what he wanted.
“But don’t you think that you’d be more comfortable in a place where the staff is properly trained to take care of all your needs?” Toby tried.
Roscoe’s gaze narrowed. “Viper, you’ve come to put me in an old folks’ home, haven’t you?”
“It’s not a home,” Toby rushed to say.
“I knew it!” Roscoe yelped. Before Toby could say another word, the old beta grabbed onto his wheels and furiously started to push. The chair sped out of the hospital room, clipping the doorframe as it went.
Toby raced after his uncle, but it was no use. The man might have a fractured hip, but he certainly wasn’t having any trouble getting around.
“It’s not a home,” Toby shouted after him. “It’s a rehabilitation hospital.”
Heads swiveled as they rushed past the nurses’ station, but no one came out to help Toby wrangle the old man. Only two days in the hospital, and the staff was already happy to pass Roscoe off as someone else’s problem.
“Same thing,” Roscoe screamed, and started pushing the damn thing faster. He flew down the hallway and farther away from Toby’s grasp.
“Uncle Roscoe, stop!” Toby’s voice shot up. His uncle was barreling toward the end of the hall, going far too fast to make the turn down the next corridor.
Like always, Roscoe didn’t listen. Toby cringed at the sight of the chair skidding across the slick tile floor. One wheel lifted off the ground, and the whole thing tilted. Toby knew he wasn’t going to make it in time. He could only watch in horror as gravity took over, and the wheelchair tipped onto its side.
“Are you okay?” Toby asked when he finally made it to his uncle’s side.
“God dammit,” Roscoe sputtered. A string of curses followed.
Well, at least his lungs were fine. Toby didn’t see any blood, and, since Roscoe was able to flop around on the ground like a landed fish, he figured that he was just fine.
“Why didn’t you stop when I told you to?” Toby asked.
Roscoe swatted at Toby’s hand as he tried to lift him off the floor and back into his chair. “I’m not a child.”
“Then stop acting like one,” he snapped. He’d barely been in Pup’s Creek for half an hour and he was already losing his temper. There was no way he was going to last eight whole weeks.
Fortunately, the nurses were on their way. They might have been fed up with his great-uncle’s shenanigans, but they couldn’t just ignore an old beta sprawled on the hospital floor. It took only them a few seconds to lift Roscoe back into his seat, hardly enough time for Toby’s frustration to cool.
Roscoe shot Toby a dirty look as a nurse started wheeling him back to his room, as if somehow all of this were his fault. “I meant what I said. I won�
��t let you put me in some damned home. I’ll kick, and scream, and try to escape every damned day. I’ll make life such a living hell for those old fogies that the staff will call you ten times a day, begging you to come and get me.”
Toby rubbed his eyes, but he couldn’t massage away the throbbing headache that was growing there. He knew his great-uncle well. Too well. He didn’t make empty threats. There was no way he was bluffing.
“Fine,” Toby said with a sigh. “You don’t have to go to the rehabilitation hospital.”
“Damn straight, I don’t.”
“But that doesn’t mean that you can just jump back into your normal life, Uncle,” Toby said.
“Why the hell not?”
“Because you have a broken hip,” Toby explained again. He knew his uncle’s mind wasn’t going. He was just too stubborn and crotchety to accept the truth. “I’ll stay and help you, but you’re going to have to stay at home and take some time off.”
A mischievous twinkle lit up Roscoe’s eyes.
Oh, no. Toby knew that look well. He wasn’t sure how yet, but he knew for certain he’d fallen into one of his uncle’s traps.
“That’s fine,” Roscoe said, suddenly calmer. “I don’t mind staying at home, if…”
“If what, Uncle Roscoe?”
“If you help out at the paper.”
Toby’s headache throbbed even harder. The Pup’s Creek Times was Roscoe’s baby. It wasn’t a great newspaper, of course, more like a glorified gossip column. But if there was one job Toby was less qualified for than geriatric nurse, it was journalist.
“Uncle Roscoe, I can’t—”
“Of course you can,” Roscoe cut him off. “It’s not like you’d be managing editor, for God’s sake. We already have someone for that.”
Toby’s lips flattened. “Who?”
“Justin Hicks.”
Toby rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Seriously, how had he not seen this coming? His family had practically arranged a marriage between him and the alpha son of Uncle Roscoe’s partner the day they’d been born.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with Justin. Toby liked him. He was a nice guy. Interesting. Personable. Funny, even. An all-around good alpha.
The trouble was there was zero spark between them. Nothing even vaguely romantic.
“Justin is a great journalist, Uncle Roscoe.” And he was. He’d studied journalism, worked at real papers, even won some awards. “I’d only be in his way.”
“Nonsense,” Roscoe waved his hand as the nurse rolled him back into the room. “You two make a great pair.”
“No, we really don’t, Uncle.”
Roscoe narrowed his gaze, doubling down. “Well, you will.”
Toby was spared from further argument when the nurse who had been wheeling his great-uncle cleared his throat. “The doctor will be in shortly to have you sign Mr. Martin’s release papers.”
“It’s about time,” Roscoe grumbled from his chair.
The sharp look the omega nurse shot his uncle made it clear that it couldn’t happen soon enough for him, either.
“Thank you,” Toby said, giving the nurse an apologetic smile. He understood only too well what a pain his great-uncle could be.
And now that pain was going to be Toby’s sole responsibility for the next two months…at least.
Heaven help him.
2
Toby never thought he’d be so happy to see door of The Pup’s Creek Times in his life. Of course, that was before he’d spent three full days waiting on his great-uncle hand and foot.
Seventy-two hours was all it took for him to start clawing at the door, desperate to get out and do anything other than take care of Roscoe. He’d practically wept when Bailey had come over to take the old coot out.
Toby had seized the opportunity to get out and walk in the sunshine, but thirty minutes later he was bored. He needed to do something. Anything. But the only thing he knew in town was the paper.
The old brass bell above the office door chimed as Toby pushed it open. Of course, calling the place an office might have been overselling it. The headquarters of The Pup’s Creek Times was housed in a simple store front tucked in among the quaint shops that lined Main Street. Inside were two massive wood desks, half a dozen file cabinets, and the world’s oldest printing press tucked against the back wall.
Currently, there was a staff of one, and he lifted his blond head as the bell rang out.
“Toby,” the alpha acknowledged him, before immediately turning his attention back to his work.
“Hi, Justin,” he said, walking over to his great-uncle’s desk. “I figured I should come in and see how you were doing?”
“Just fine,” Justin said. Even better, he sounded like he meant it. “I got to tell you, after nearly a decade at the Chicago Herald, running this tiny paper on my own feels like a vacation.”
“Only you would look at it that way.”
Justin shrugged. “What can I say? I like to work.”
That was an understatement. As far as Toby could tell, work was what Justin lived for. He was a nice alpha, but Toby didn’t think he’d ever get mated. He was already married to his job.
“Hopefully, you don’t have it all taken care of,” Toby said, sitting down in his great-uncle’s giant leather chair. “Tell me you’ve saved me at least a little work to do.”
Justin glanced up from his computer screen. “Things that bad at Roscoe’s?”
“You have no idea,” Toby said, though he knew it wasn’t true. Justin Hicks was the only other person in the world who understood the hell of being stuck in a house with Roscoe for days on end. Roscoe and Bailey were always working together or visiting each other, and Justin and Toby had gotten dragged along since they were pups.
“I thought it might be,” Justin said, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back in his chair. “That’s why I’m staying at a hotel.”
“Yeah, well, no one is expecting you to nurse an old man back to health.”
“Don’t think that means I’ve had it easy,” Justin said. “Last night, Dad tried to talk me into asking you out again.”
Toby let out a deep sigh. “I’ve gotten the same talk for breakfast, lunch, dinner for the last three days.”
Justin let out a long laugh. “No wonder you’re desperate for something to keep you out of the house. I’m sure I can dig up something for you to do.” He rummaged around on the stacks of papers on his desk for a moment, before snatching one up. “Here’s an interview you can take care of for me.”
Toby’s shoulders tensed. “Are you sure you want me to do it? I’ve never interviewed anyone before.”
Justin waved off his concern. “It’s not hard. All you have to do is have a conversation with the guy.”
That didn’t make Toby feel better at all. Maybe that was easy for Justin. His whole day was spent talking to strangers, but Toby rarely had the chance.
“Besides,” Justin said. “It’s not for a real story. It’s about the Phantom Pooper.”
Oh, God. Toby rolled his eyes. “Please don’t tell me your dad and Roscoe are still going on about that.”
“Are you kidding me?” Justin said, walking over to Toby’s desk. “You’d think the thing was Bigfoot the way my dad won’t shut up about it. That dog’s been on the front page of the paper for the last three months.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was.” Justin put a note down in front of Toby.
He looked down at the name and address scribbled in blue ink. “Who is Ryan Homewood?”
“A local tracker,” Justin said. “He lives in the woods right outside of town and makes his living guiding hunters and hikers.”
“And you want to interview him about the Phantom Pooper?” Toby asked with raised brows.
“No,” Justin said. “I want to write a series of articles about corruption in the county transportation committee. But since you’re bored and my dad is adamant that we run a piece a day on
that freaking dog, I figure this solves both our problems.”
Toby let out a groan. “But a tracker? Seriously? What can he tell us about a dog with digestive tract problems?”
“Same as the rest of the experts, I imagine.” Justin shrugged.
“You mean he’s not the first expert who’s been interviewed about this?”
“Not even close,” Justin said. “They’ve interviewed a veterinarian, a nutritionist, a gastroenterologist, a cryptozoologist—”
“That last one’s not a real thing,” Toby said, shaking his head.
“Well, Dad and Roscoe seem to think it is, so…”
Toby let out a long sigh. “So, I guess I’m off to talk to a stranger about dog shit.”
“I guess you are,” Justin said, barely contained laughter filling his voice.
Toby hardly touched his car’s accelerator as he drove up the dirt road. At least, his GPS said it was road. He wasn’t so certain. As far as he could tell, it was just a couple of deep winding ruts in between walls of towering pine trees.
No matter what you called it, the path was so bumpy that he didn’t let the needle of the speedometer go past five miles an hour. He didn’t dare go any faster. His little car was built for highways and city streets, not oversized mountain trails.
Toby let out a sigh of relief a couple minutes later when he rounded the final bend and turned on to a wide circular drive. He parked next to a rough wood fence and said a little prayer that his suspension would hold out long enough to get back to town. He opened the door and looked up at the house.
It wasn’t at all what he expected. After driving down Deliverance Lane he’d figured that he’d find an old tin shack at the end, but the place in front of him was nice. Grand, even.
Two stories tall, and lined with a raised porch that looked to wrap all the way around, it was a log cabin worthy of the cover of Country Home magazine. Toby glanced at the small garden as he went up the steps. Well, that would teach him to make assumptions. He snuck a peek through the large open window by the front door and spied a stylish modern interior.