Hiders Read online

  He’d said it wrong, the words as crooked as her house. Her eyes narrowed to slits. “You’ve already talked to them.”

  “Violet,” he wheezed, her glare squeezing his heart in the same fashion as the cholesterol in his arteries, “you don’t have another option, dear. I told them to come out and meet with you. See the place. One of the primary partners in the company is very interested. Name’s Francesca Morgan of Teller Morgan Group. A bit city-like and bossy, but she promised to do right by you and the place.”

  “Leave.”

  He sighed. The sound rattled out of his mouth. He was getting too old for this, for her. Everyone was moving past the Relends—past her since she was the last one left—and no longer needed them. “Please listen. You can’t—”

  “I told you to leave.”

  Her blunt, cold words wove through the space between them and snipped at their already fragile ties. He might have cared for her father, but her father was gone and nothing remained.

  “Violet . . .”

  She picked up her ax, and his instant retreat stunned her. He truly thought she was crazy enough to use it on him. She hadn’t been threatening him; she just needed to return to her work. She frowned, unsure how to take back the action or appear less threatening. How did people look at her and always see a monster with spooky eyes?

  She wished she could tell the people who stared at her with their mouths agape that she would be legally blind by the time she was forty. She had a degenerative eye disease that affected her eyesight and, because she was a rare case, the color of her eyes. She wasn’t a monster.

  Science, her father would have told her, made you unique and beautiful. Don’t listen to what they say.

  Darting glances at her over his shoulder, Gregory stumbled back to his car and wrenched the door open. A second later, the engine roared to life and the tires spun backward. He had the car turned around and lurching back down the drive before she could even think of calling out to him to reassure him.

  But that was the thing with her. She always missed those little social cues. And while her mother’s kooky nature had been endearing, and her father’s inventions and ramblings charming, her brand of crazy was threatening. Scary. Or maybe, in this day and age, people just didn’t appreciate different. Maybe so, but then again, it really just appeared as though they didn’t like her.

  Really, she should have been used to it by now, but upon seeing the back of Gregory Perkins’s Buick skidding down her drive, a deep ache filled her belly.

  She was alone. Again.

  2

  During the next couple of days, Violet settled into a rhythm of woomphing and thwacking.

  A solid crust of bloody pus coated her palms. She treated the wounds every night to keep away infection. By the third day of chopping wood, the pain became just a black haze behind her eyelids every time she blinked, and her rick of wood was starting to look acceptable. Estimating her rate of inefficient chopping, she might be done in three weeks. She nearly cried at the thought.

  That evening, around the time the pain in her hands flared red across her vision and her spine screamed with every movement, she heard another car coming up her drive. It was too far down the hill for her to see it clearly, but she could tell from the larger shape it wasn’t Gregory. The color suggested a darker vehicle than his Buick. Closing her eyes, she just listened.

  The car had a vicious growl. Diesel engine, then. Smelled of it too. She opened her eyes, and it was close enough for her to see that it was a black work truck with a dust-coated grill that had seen better days.

  She kept her ax in her hands, not because the blood had acted as a sort of glue binding her skin to the wooden handle, but because this might be the investor from the Teller Morgan Group Gregory had mentioned and Violet would need every tool at her disposal to run the woman off. Acting crazy and wielding a bloody ax should do the trick.

  Since Gregory’s visit, Violet had spent an inordinate amount of time imagining the investor she would be forced to face off against, but every single idea was dashed as Arie Mendoza climbed down from his truck.

  Uh-oh, Violet thought. This can’t be good. But even as her brain warned her, her body had an entirely different response as Arie picked his way across the front yard.

  She took in his canvas pants and heavy work boots, his tight thermal shirt and clean-cut black beard, his heavy brows darkening his eyes—the color of pure maple syrup—and the hitch in his stride that gave his mouth a grim, determined snarl. His caramel-brown face had drawn Violet’s attention when she first met him on the set of the reality show called Reno Reality, which had filmed in Savannah that summer. She’d been working as the caterer’s assistant, and Arie had always stopped by while she was preparing sandwiches for lunch.

  Back then, her first impression of him had been that he was in pain. The sight had been a familiar one. She’d often seen a similar guarded look in her father’s eyes, the one that said he was hiding how bad his body hurt, but the glaze in his eyes had always betrayed him. Arie had had the same look, his mouth doing the same half grimace, half frown as her father’s. Arie had been hurting, but it wasn’t until weeks later when she found out why.

  He was a combat wounded Marine. An IED had taken part of his leg below the knee during a deployment in Iraq. At the time she met him, he’d been wearing a poorly fitted prosthetic and the pain had shown in his bloodshot eyes and halting limp.

  Though he wasn’t from Canaan, she’d done all she could to help him and repay him for the kindness he’d shown her. He always had a smile ready for her, and he never stared or gawked at her weirdness. He watched her in a way that suggested he enjoyed looking at her. For the first time in a very long time, she’d wanted to do more than just mail an anonymous check, but she’d resisted because who was she to him? Just a peculiar girl who had probably read too much into his words and smiles.

  But here he was, walking toward her front door without seeing her standing off to the side of the house, next to the haphazard pile of wood. For a second, she thought about calling out, but she thought better of it right as his name was ready to roll off her tongue. She peeled her hand off the handle and sat the ax down with a wince. She stepped back, prepared to fade into the trees around her and hide.

  Her heel snapped a branch, the crack resounding through the air.

  Arie reacted instantly, and not in the way she’d expected. While most people would have flinched or ducked or spun around, Arie’s head snapped toward her, his body moving similar to a snake uncoiling from a cool, dark place. His eyes tracked the source of the sound—her—and the look on his face was quiet, unpolluted violence. He’d been trained to react that way: lethally.

  She kept backing up, her heart dashing against her ribs, but he’d already recognized her. He straightened, blinking away the scary look in his eyes. “Violet?”

  She stilled, but her voice was gone.

  “Hey,” he said calmly. “I was looking for you.”

  As he took in her silence, he cast his gaze around her chopping stump, the wood next to her, and the ax. “What are you doing?”

  He walked over, and each step he took echoed in Violet’s chest. She pressed her lips together.

  “Did you cut all of this?”

  Finally, she found the air to form a word. “Yes.”

  He searched her face for a moment before his attention landed on her hands and the blood seeping between her fingers. She’d hidden them too late. “Christ, your hands are butchered.”

  “Tell that,” she said, her mouth too dry to give her words enough volume, “to the wood.”

  Arie’s eyebrows lifted, suddenly clearing his face of shadows and revealing his almond-shaped eyes. The fine wrinkles next to his eyes crinkled, and the corner of his mouth pulled into a crooked grin. “Was that a joke?”

  “Maybe,” she said a little louder this time. “Was it funny?”

  He drew even closer to her, easing his way around the careless pieces of wood scattered a
bout. “I thought so. But why don’t you tell me why you’re out here cutting wood?”

  Why did everyone ask that? Did they think she was incapable? The smile tingling on her lips vanished. She wasn’t an invalid. Not yet, anyway. She could still see the wood to chop it. It wasn’t much but it was something to her.

  In a few years, she wouldn’t have the luxury.

  He registered her glare and held up his hands in surrender, but his lopsided grin cut farther into the corner of his mouth. “Hey, I get it. You’re a strong, independent woman and you’re cutting wood.”

  She bit her tongue to hold in her snicker and struggled to keep her glare in place. That was the thing about Arie—he made her laugh. And smile. And somehow, after working on Reno Reality for three weeks this summer, she was comfortable with him. She never felt comfortable around anyone except Maggie, who owned Maggie’s Sweets in town and offered Violet the occasional part-time job. But it didn’t mean she was okay with him being here, joking with her in her yard. No one came to her house, and she preferred it that way.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Arie’s smile slipped away at her flat tone. “Can I help you with that?”

  “I doubt you came out here to help me chop wood.”

  “Actually, I did. Sort of.” He crossed his arms, and she couldn’t help but admire the muscles pushing against his shirtsleeves. “You know what you did.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied.

  “Don’t give me that look.”

  “What look?”

  “That innocent, ‘I didn’t do anything’ look. Your looks won’t work on me.” He cocked his head to study her properly, his face wrinkling with serious consideration. “Shit, they’re actually kind of working. But no, I mean it. I’m mad at you.”

  She told herself not to say anything, but she failed. “You don’t look that mad.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  “That’s weird, because I know you paid for my new leg, and I’m not the type to accept charity.”

  She’d never told anyone she helped the people of Canaan who found themselves in need of a little extra. She had extra to give—or she’d thought she had before Gregory’s visit—and so she did. But if people found out about the giving, it would change things. Some people resented that kind of charity and would see her gifts as her looking down on them. It had happened with her parents. She didn’t want that for herself.

  Arie didn’t strike her as the type who’d resent what she’d done. Then again, she’d never had anyone show up on her doorstep either.

  She picked up her ax and turned to put a new piece of wood on the stand.

  “You’re not going to just ignore me, Violet.”

  Woomph.

  “You’re doing that wrong.”

  Thwack.

  She’d wedged her ax into the chopping block, missing the piece of wood completely.

  “You messed me up,” she said through her teeth, her cheeks burning. She jerked the ax loose and split open a few blisters in the act. That wouldn’t have happened—the pain flaring along her hand, making her grimace, and him seeing her mess up—if he hadn’t come here.

  “Let me show you.”

  “No.”

  Woomph. Thwack.

  “Mother of God, you’re going to kill yourself.”

  She looked up at him, eyes narrowed, ax in hand.

  “Or maybe just me,” he adjusted. “But seriously, you’re doing that wrong.”

  “I don’t particularly enjoy people telling me I’m doing something wrong.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he deadpanned. “Look, I know how expensive this leg is. I saw the damn bill when my insurance company wouldn’t pay it the first time. Let me chop the wood. It’ll go toward me paying you back.”

  He had her attention. “You’re wearing it now?” She examined his legs but noticed nothing different, as if she could beneath his heavy pants. Although, now that she thought about it, he wasn’t limping as much as he had been on set while filming with Stevie Reynolds and Cade Cooper, who were both Canaan locals and acquaintances of Violet’s. She couldn’t call them friends, exactly, but that wasn’t unusual. She couldn’t call anyone a friend.

  “That’s the problem. I can’t return it. When you paid for the leg in full, they made it to my measurements. I’m not quite sure how in the hell you managed to get them to accept a check from you, but it feels like some kind of invasion of my medical records.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “You’d be surprised how eager insurance companies are to get paid. Oftentimes, they don’t care who the check comes from as long as it comes.”

  “This is going all wrong.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You’re supposed to be listening to me.”

  “I hear just fine,” she snapped.

  “Then why are you still holding the ax?”

  “You don’t have to pay me back—”

  “Ha!” He pointed a finger at her, eyes shining with triumph. “You admit it then. You paid for it.”

  “—so just leave. I don’t want you here.”

  He dropped his arm. “Not until I pay you back. Well, I mean, yes, I’ll leave at some point because I don’t have the money to pay you back all at once, but I thought I could do some work for you around here . . .” He paused and scanned her house, his eyes taking in every broken and boarded window, the way the gutter hung around the edge of the roof similar to loose teeth, and the missing shingles way up high past the stone gargoyles among the eaves. He blinked. And kept taking in the decay. And taking it in. And taking it in. She could admit the house had seen better days, but he didn’t need to keep staring as though he’d never seen a bigger wreck in his life.

  There were pirate ships at the bottom of the sea in better shape than her house.

  “. . . in the evenings after work and on the weekends,” he finished lamely, his attention finally drawing back to her. He looked a little overwhelmed.

  “You don’t even live in Canaan.” She tried a new argument.

  He smirked, a bit devilishly in her opinion. She was reminded of one of her mother’s favorite sayings. Never find yourself stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea, little spider. Violet was stuck now with her back to the bluff, but the devil was too handsome for her to be that scared.

  “I do, actually,” Arie said. “Got an apartment in town. So I have all the time in the world to come over after work and pay you back.”

  “No.” She righted the piece of wood on the stand and tried again.

  Woomph. Thwack.

  She hit the piece of wood that time. Not that Arie appeared satisfied with her attempt. Actually, he stuck his hands on his hips and groaned.

  “Seriously. That’ll drive me crazy.”

  It wasn’t ladylike. It wasn’t sweet or pretty or demure the way a fine Southern lady should be, and her grandmother was probably rolling in her grave, but she said it anyway. Snapped it, actually, with a little growl to accompany the two words. “Bite me.”

  Arie’s mouth popped open with a little smack. “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.” She grabbed another piece of wood and did her best to ignore the way his initial shock was turning into something else, something darker, as if he wanted to take those two little words from her and taste them on his tongue. Something else, something darker answered in her belly—a long, low curl of flame.

  “If you prefer,” he said, voice low, matching her growl, “I can pay you back that way.”

  She nearly dropped the ax. This wasn’t going well. Not at all. “You should go.”

  “Is that why you’re blushing? Because you want me to go?”

  “I’m not blushing.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  He was making her angry and causing her to think only of how he could repay her that way if she’d let him. He appeared all too ready for her to just say the wor
d. She gripped the ax until the pain in her hands forced her to focus on why he had to leave. She lifted her chin, the spaces between her fingers wet with blood.

  “Leave. I won’t ask again.”

  The fire in his eyes disappeared, leaving them a flat, dark brown—so brown they almost looked black beneath the shadow of his brows. His face was square, the beard giving it a rugged appearance. “Uncouth” was the word her grandmother Beatrice would have used to describe Arie Mendoza.

  Violet told herself she didn’t relish the ring to it.

  But a bigger problem than her reaction to this man was that he wasn’t leaving. Actually, it appeared he’d dug in his heels a little harder, telling her he wasn’t moving anytime soon. “I will repay you, so unless you have any other ideas”—there was that flash of fire again—“then I guess I’ll give you a check for what I do have. It’s only a couple hundred, but I’ll be back with more every Friday after I’m paid.”

  He already had his wallet out, a folded-up check appearing from the worn leather creases. He’d come prepared with it already filled out. He shoved it toward her.

  She angled away from him. Dismissing a person normally worked to get them to stop talking to her. “I’m not taking your money.”

  “I swear to—”

  “Why can’t you just accept my help? Do you insist on repaying everyone who’s ever given you a Christmas present or a birthday present?”

  “Do you insist on always being such a stubborn ass?”

  “Oh!” She whirled on him. “I’m the ass? You’re trespassing and loitering on private property and harassing me. I’ll call my lawyer right now and—”

  “Loitering? I’ve been here for five minutes—”

  “Stop interrupting me! Do you realize—”

  “—and I’m not leaving, so you can add squatting to that list too—for your lawyer. While you have him on the phone, ask him if he can draw up a contract for us. Some agreement for me paying you back, because that shit’s happening.”

  Violet held up her ax. It had worked with Gregory, but Arie just cocked a brow at her that clearly said, Are you serious? You can’t even chop a piece of rotted wood in half. I’m not worried.