Page 72 of The Boy from Half Moon

ALEC: I wouldn’t do that, Tate, and remember, there’s always Luke.

I jumped out of my car and ran to the back of the furniture store, where I found no one. The parking lots were empty as far as I could see, and yet it appeared Alec knew where I was.

ME: Where the fuck are you, pussy?

ALEC: I’m everywhere. Did you enjoy the deli sandwich earlier?

“Jesus fuck!” I cried, slapping my thigh. Alec knew I’d stopped at Subway two hours ago? What else did he know? Where else was he tracking me?

ALEC: Someone shouldn’t have dropped Moonie boy off at his fucking front gate.

ME: Fuck you!

ALEC: Now you’re talking my language, baby.

Jumping back into my car, I threw my phone on the floorboard of the passenger side and tore out of the empty parking lot, fish-tailing and spraying gravel everywhere. My temples throbbed as my foot stomped on the gas pedal. 40mph. 50mph. 60mph. 70mph. 80mph. I was in a 35mph zone and couldn’t give a single fuck. Alec was going to pay when I found him.

Blue lights appeared out of nowhere; a police car gaining ground on me. Stopping on the side of the road, I reached for the glove box for my insurance and registration.

“Fucking perfect!” I growled, watching as the officer came to the driver’s side door, motioning for me to roll the window down.

“In a hurry, sir?” he asked, holding his hand out for the papers I had ready. “Ninety in a thirty-five?”

“Ninety? You sure?” I asked.

“I suppose I could walk back and read the radar again, but truthfully, Mr. Finnigan, I don’t think I’m gonna do that.”

“How do you know my name?” I demanded. “You haven’t looked at any of that,” I added, gesturing toward my identification.

“So I haven’t,” he stated. “Lucky guess?”

Lucky guess my ass. If the man outside my window hadn’t been a cop, I might have pushed more, demanded answers, and threatened him with something. What that something was, was the real problem. This officer knew my name, and I’d been in Bend less than three months.

“Just write your ticket so I can be on my way.”

“There won’t be a ticket tonight, Tate,” he responded, using my first name this time. “Lucky for you, the fine has already been taken care of.”

“How’s that even possible?” I asked.

He handed my items back and grinned. “Just remember, Mr. Finnigan. Having friends with connections is a good thing.” He tipped his imaginary hat at me. “Have a nice evening, Tate.”

Alec Browning had connections. Important connections.

Hint taken.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: Luke

The rest of the crew went to the dorms to shower before supper. I remained in the loft of the barn, but not the loft I wished I was in. We’d just taken in the third harvest of hay and stacked another hundred-and-twenty bales there. I was exhausted, but in no hurry to join the family in the main hall for a meal.

Two weeks had gone by since I last saw Tate. Thinking that time would heal my heart, and I could move on eventually, was wrong. My heart—and just about every other part of me—missed him desperately. There wasn’t a second of my day that Tate wasn’t right there, occupying my every thought, and slowly killing me with a hurt I’d never experienced.

I’d often wondered whether I’d know when or if I was in love, had love, or felt love. This desperate feeling must be love. The concept of loving someone other than family had escaped me for nineteen years. Quite honestly, I couldn’t imagine that love, a feeling that evokes images of happiness and bliss, could hurt so badly. My heart felt like it could stop beating. Sometimes, I wished it would.

I reached into my jeans pocket and retrieved the card Tate had sent to the ranch with Josiah. The business card was worn out from the constant pulling out and stuffing back into my pockets for the past ten days.

“Please call me,” I whispered, rereading the three words for the hundredth time.

God! What must Tate be thinking? A sob escaped my throat, and I bent over at the waist when the ache hit again.

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