LITMIR.BIZ

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open the back door of the SUV and pulled out two brown paper bags. A box of Froot Loops peeked out of the top of one. It was almost enough to distract Jazz from the rifle case lying across the backseat.

      Almost.

      She didn’t like firearms of any kind, and was pretty sure she didn’t like the idea of her new renter having one in the cabin. “Planning to do some hunting?”

      He followed the direction of her gaze, and flashed straight white teeth. “My dad is the hunter in the family. I’ve got camera equipment in there.”

      “Strange place to store camera equipment.”

      “You should see where I keep the rifle.”

      “Should I ask?”

      “Not unless you really want to know.” He threw another smile in her direction and started back up to the house, leaving Jazz to wonder if he was serious or kidding.

      That was the trouble with keeping people at a distance. You stopped picking up subtle clues about their thoughts and feelings, about their truthfulness or lack thereof. That wasn’t a problem when you chose to hide away from life. It became one when you stepped back out into the world.

      Or when you were yanked kicking and screaming back into it. Which was pretty much how Jazz’s reemergence had happened.

      She shook her head, trudging back toward the rancher. Sarah would be waiting for breakfast, probably sitting in the kitchen, her too-thin fingers wrapped around a book, her soft-eyed gaze eating up the fairy-tale story written on its pages. No doubt she’d glance up when Jazz walked in, smile that easy smile of hers that was so much like John’s, ask what Jazz thought of their new renter.

      Act as if no more than time had passed between Jazz and herself even though they both knew that the truth was much darker and uglier than that. Three years since Jazz had last set foot on Lakeview Retreat land. She’d grieved during that time. Alone. Concerned only for herself. While Sarah had struggled on her own.

      Guilt had a taste. It was bitter and hot. Jazz swallowed it down as she stepped into Sarah’s house.

      TWO

      Like everything in Jazz’s life, the rancher seemed to have faded since she’d lost her husband and daughters. She couldn’t decide if her pain-shadowed perception was to blame or if the once-cheerful living room really had grown dim and dreary. Bright blues and crisp whites seemed muted and dingy, the once-pristine area now cluttered with magazines and books.

      Jazz picked up a few as she stepped through the room, sliding them back into place on the bookshelves that lined one wall, barely glancing at titles or photographs. She knew what they were. Celebrity rags, romance novels, nothing academic. None of the autobiographies or biographies Sarah had once loved reading. Jazz couldn’t blame her mother-in-law for burying herself in romanticized tales. If she could have, she would have done the same. But for Jazz there was no comfort in fantasy and fairy tale, only the grim reality of life lived without those she loved.

      “Is that you, Jasmine?” Sarah called out, a hint of anxiety coloring her words. Jazz wanted to ignore it, but ignoring the paranoia that her mother-in-law seemed to suffer from was nearly impossible. Over the past three days, Jazz had waged constant battle against Sarah’s fears.

      “Who else would it be?” She hurried into the kitchen, a smile firmly in place.

      “You never know, dear. You just never know.” Sarah’s answering smile was exactly as Jazz had known it would be—John, Maddie, Megan, all rolled into one, squeezing Jazz’s lungs and stealing her breath.

      “Well, this time, you do. It’s me. Back to make you breakfast.”

      “Coffee will be fine.”

      “You need more than that, Sarah. How about some eggs? Bacon? Pan-fried potatoes?”

      “Coffee.” Sarah’s tone brooked no argument, her fingers tapping against the paperback book that sat in front of her on the table, her shoulders hunched and bowed. Too thin, too frail.

      This time it was Jazz’s heart that clenched. “You have to eat, Sarah.”

      “Do I?” Sarah smiled again, but the look in her eyes was flat and dead, as if modern medicine had trapped a soul that should have already departed.

      Jazz reached for her hand, squeezing. “You can’t heal if you don’t eat. How about just a piece of toast?”

      It looked as if Sarah would refuse, the tilt to her chin, the tightness of her pale lips reminding Jazz of other times—John and Sarah equally matched in stubborn determination and standing on opposite sides of an issue, staring each other down, neither willing to concede. In the end they’d always come together again, laughing about their stubbornness, teasing each other in the timeless mother-son dance of affection.

      Without John as a foil, it seemed Sarah’s stubbornness had faded. She shrugged. “Toast then.”

      “And a banana?”

      “Don’t push your luck, dear.” The response was more Sarah-like than any other in the few days Jazz had been there. She hoped it was a good sign.

      “Toast. Coffee. And later I’m going out for a dozen of Doris’s éclairs.”

      “In this weather? Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

      “I’m used to this kind of weather. Besides, I’ve been craving éclairs since I got here.”

      “You’re hoping to tempt more calories into me, is more likely the case.”

      “That’s true, too.”

      “Then feel free to bring a dozen éclairs home. I may just have it in me to eat one. While you’re at it, maybe you could stop by Kitty’s Little Book Shoppe. I’m almost out of reading material.”

      “I can definitely do that. Or we can go together tomorrow.” Jazz set coffee and toast on the table in front of her mother-in-law, then took the chair across from her. “After the doctor’s appointment you’ve got in the morning.”

      “Don’t remind me about the appointment. More poking and prodding. It would have been better if the person trying to murder me had been successful. No doubt, he’s enjoying my slow torture.”

      “Don’t talk like that, Sarah. Of course it wouldn’t have been better if you’d died.” Jazz shifted in her seat, wishing she could turn the conversation to a safer subject. Sarah claimed she’d been shoved down a flight of stairs during the grand opening of a Civil War museum housed in a restored mansion. The local sheriff disagreed. He had witnesses who had seen Sarah’s fall. Jasmine was inclined to believe his version, the fact that she doubted her mother-in-law’s account proving just how much their relationship had changed.

      She covered Sarah’s hand with her own, trying to convey a calm she didn’t feel. “You seem down, Sarah. Maybe I should call the doctor. Have him come over and make sure you’re okay.”

      “Down as in loony and paranoid, right?” Sarah scowled, her eyes flashing, slashes of pink coloring her pale cheeks.

      “No. Down as in depressed. The doctor said trauma can cause that sometimes.”

      “Well, not in me. I’m about as far from depressed as a person can get. What I am is angry. Angry that the sheriff doesn’t believe I’m in danger and angry that you don’t. Angry that everyone would rather believe I’m paranoid than believe the truth.”

      “Sarah—”

      “Don’t, Jasmine. I know what the doctors have told you. They think I’m losing it. They’ll be proven wrong eventually. Of course, by that time it might be too late.” Sarah lifted her book, pretending to turn her attention back to the story, but Jasmine could tell from her frown that the conversation wasn’t over.

      “I know you’re frustrated, but a half a dozen people saw you fall down those

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