Page 29 of Beat of Love
Rafferty briefly touched her arm. “No use arguing with him.”
She swung to look at him. “But he—”
“It’s okay, Red,” he whispered. “Drop it.”
He shifted and got right up into Aidan’s space. “I don’t need any special treatment from you, brother. And certainly not today,” he spat. “Where’s the fence? I’ll get to it.”
“Check your cellphone,” Aidan snarled. “Sent you a text and coordinates hours ago.”
Rafferty patted his pockets, swearing under his breath. “Forgot it at home.” He aimed a quick look at Brandy. “Let me know if you need help with Elsa again.” With a scowl at Aidan, he marched off.
She hadn’t missed the despair on Rafferty’s features at Aidan’s harsh words. “What’s crawled up your ass?”
“Keep your distance from Rafferty. He’s nothin’ but trouble.”
Shegot right into his space. “He’s troubled, yes. But he’s nottrouble. Not the way you are insinuating,” she added.
But in a way, Aidan was right.
Raffertywastrouble. Huge, honking, Texas-sized trouble. To her heart.
“Don’t fool yourself, Brandy-Lyn.”
And with that parting shot, Aidan stomped away.
“What’s significant about today?” she called after him.
He twisted back. “His wife died three years ago.”
Dismay flooded her, and she watched Aidan round the corner of the building. Not sure how long she just stood there staring into space, it was a loud neigh that broke her trance.
She turned around. Elsa stood at the fence, watching her. Brandy moved closer and reached up to rub the mare’s forehead. “Recognized another hurting soul, huh, Elsa? Maybe the two of you can heal together.”
8
Small steps
Rafferty hunched over his coffee, elbows on the worn Formica table, head bowed like a man in prayer. Or defeat. He wasn’t sure which. The coffee was lukewarm, the aftertaste bitter, but he sipped it anyway, because it gave his hands something to do.
The meeting had been exactly what he’d expected.
And yet not.
Church basement. Check.
Creaking folding chairs in a circle. Check.
Air that smelled like burnt coffee. Check.
But the people?
Normal, everyday folk. A bank teller with a bum leg. A mom whose daughter had died. A suspended coach hoping to get his job back. An older man he was almost sure had been his grade-school teacher.
There were no ex-cons. No desperate junkies. No exposed arms riddled with needle marks. No former undercover DEA agents.
And there was nothing, nothing anonymous about the meeting.
Small towns didn’t have secrets. Not really.
