Page 1 of Taking Root

Chapter One

Danielle Reynolds had passed through so many towns that her footprints stopped leaving marks. Out of everywhere she’d traveled, though, she associated this place’s magnolia and salt-sweet breeze with home.

Danny wiped the sweat from her forehead, the blistering heat of the late afternoon sun beating down on her. She gripped her heavy-duty gardener’s gloves tight, covered in stains from the earth she’d been digging into the past couple of hours. Behind her, the polished ivory exterior of the Horntrees’ mansion preached effortless elegance to anyone passing. Columns out front and dozens of gleaming windows framed by charcoal shutters caught the eye, even if the overgrown Spanish moss lining the path needed some work. That’s why she’d been hired.

One interview before she’d moved to Charleston combined with some flawless credentials courtesy of the U.S. Marshals, and the Horntree family offered her the vacant gardener position.

They’d been all plastic smiles, keeping it light and polite when she’d met them today, but unlike the plants she grew, Danny wasn’t green. Natalie Horntree had been staring something fierce at her beat-up jeans and olive peasant top, both of which were covered in stains and rips. After the once-over came a murmur about making sure to use the servant’s entrance out back when arriving for her shifts.

Danny rolled her shoulders and strode across their trimmed front lawn, reveling in her private rebellion. She’d be the smudge of dirt on their pristine blouse any day. Her Subaru WRX, Bella, waited for her, the neon blue companion she’d owned for over a decade. As she’d lived in too many different towns across the East Coast since getting sent away in high school, this car was the one stable thing in her life, that and a growing collection of electronica CDs. A little un-tiss, un-tiss vibrating the speakers and sometimes she could pretend she didn’t live by her lonesome.

She slipped into the worn driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The hum of her car beneath her feet offered some comfort, her home on wheels. The Charleston area hadn’t been one for over a decade now.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she picked up at once. Danny never wondered who might be calling her.

“Hey, Evie. Day one of the new job is complete. Gardening for another family of rich assholes.” Danny cut to the chase. Not like her handler, Eve Jensen, she wasn’t one for casual chat.

“We last sighted your father in Chicago. The F.B.I. is following his trail,” Eve Jensen said in the prim, professional tone Danny had grown used to over the years. Even though Eve came across like a tightwad, she occasionally slipped and offered softness Danny appreciated all the more. “Stationing you close to your childhood home is a calculated risk, but you’ve been away long enough,” Eve continued. “Still, if you’re recognized, alert us at once. We’ll pull you out.”

“You sure know how to give a girl the warm fuzzies,” Danny responded. “Anyone ever tell you how chatty you are?”

Before she could continue, Eve cut her off. “I’ll update you as soon as we get his next location. Stay discreet.” The click of the phone hanging up echoed in Danny’s ear, and she heaved a sigh.

So, she was safe.

At least, that’s what the marshals promised her at every new location.

Danny stroked the pistol she kept strapped to her thigh. She’d believe them when her dad rotted behind bars.

She glanced to the rear-view mirror and batted at the rust-orange strands plastered across her forehead. Time to indulge in a well-earned drink.

She sped down the highway, Bella thrumming beneath her feet and the bass pumping as heavy trance beats pulsed through her speakers. Familiar green signs cropped up, exits she’d memorized on frequent city trips when she lived in the ’burbs of Charleston, those days in Hanahan. No way would she dare return to her matchbox-sized town, even if it lay a mere half hour away. Too risky when far too many people could identify her by birth name. She’d entertained a plethora of different aliases since those days, but Danielle Reynolds was one she’d grown the fondest of.

Even if the people in Hanahan remembered Samantha Peterson, she no longer looked like the lanky, awkward kid who’d tutored half the guys on the track team because she preferred books to people. The one thing that stuck from her early years was an abundance of freckles, but her dirty blonde hair had been sacrificed on the altar of box dye, Intense Copper to be precise. She ditched the glasses for contacts, took up kickboxing, and got a healthy, unrelenting dose of fear under her skin to morph her into the exact opposite of the girl who’d last existed here.

She hopped off the nearest exit, rolling the window down. The salt breeze filtered through her car even as it batted around the strands of her hair that slipped out of her ponytail. If she was going to while away the rest of her evening in a public sphere, only the bars of the French Quarter would do.

Once Bella rolled into the heart of Charleston, Danny’s pace slowed as she navigated the maze of congested streets and daily traffic that picked up around this time. In the distance, the stripe of cerulean glittered under the intense sun, beckoning her to dive in and swim away. God, she was tempted.

A mythical parking spot opened along the strip of bars and shops ahead, so Danny darted in for the kill. She snagged a fresh shirt from the backseat, a sleeveless lilac scoop neck to class up her act a bit. Danny tossed her sweat-soaked peasant top behind her, ignoring the stares from the passersby getting flashed by her scandalous black bra on their nice afternoon stroll. An older woman shielded her eyes in horror, and Danny flipped her the finger. Life had beaten any ounce of shame out of her.

After a few spritzes of lavender perfume, she snagged the canvas bag she dubbed a purse and slipped out of her car to join the rest of the pedestrians. The pastel buildings lining the streets painted the prettiest picture with glimpses of the antebellum South, and casual chatter floated in the breeze, a calm and fluid aspect of Charleston. She could swing into the pace of this relaxed city, unlike the tempest toss she’d experienced every time she entered Philly or Boston.

Danny tugged on the strap of her purse, slowing as she noticed a tacked-on sign made of driftwood in front of a building. The Gin Mill was painted on the sign, and a blackened glass door out front drew her curiosity.

The moment she entered, Danny blinked the spots out of her eyes. The switch from bright sunlight to this darkened atmosphere threw her off. Dim globe lamps lined the corners of the room, and fat, flickering candles at the center of tables combined with no overhead lights created a quiet ambiance. She made a beeline for the empty mahogany barstool in the middle of the row. It offered the best spot to chat with the bartenders and other patrons.

The hurricane lamps along the polished hardwood bar provided a cute touch, this place pure speakeasy. Jazz leaked out the speakers, the smooth, soothing sort that irritated her, but she’d already entered, so she missed her window for a fast retreat. The drink specials were written in chalk on a blackboard hung along the back wall, and Danny squinted to scan them over as she took a seat.

“Lost?” The bartender wandered over, a guy about mid-thirties with a hefty amount of scruff and more tattoos than she could ID peeking out from his black tee. He had the slim form of a runner and wasn’t the stuffy, old guy she’d predicted for a swanky joint swilling jazz.

Danny flashed him a smile. “That obvious I’m new in town?”

“The way you’re stumbling shy might’ve been a tip off.” The bartender rapped his knuckles on the countertop in front of him. “I’m Mitch. Come on over and take a seat.”

Danny hooked a thumb into her pocket as she wandered closer to the bar. “Don’t suppose in a place like this I can get an Aviation?”

His eyes crinkled with a warm smile that settled the nerves buzzing through her of new place, new place. She found herself taking a seat.

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