Seeking Shelter

A place to belong

For Amy Grey, home has always been Rattlesnake Bend, Arizona, population 423. It’s a safe place to raise her daughter, Katie. Then free spirit Jace Holmes rides his motorcycle down Main Street, rumbling through Amy’s carefully ordered life with news about the father she never knew and stirring up questions about her family’s past. The best thing for all would be if Jace kept on riding.

Too bad Katie immediately tags Jace as a potential daddy. Sure, there’s no denying the attraction between Amy and Jace, but her life is here and his, well, isn’t. Yet the longer Jace is in town, the more her visions of tomorrow match Katie’s. But can Amy open herself up again? Because opening herself to change is the one way to convince Jace to stay.

“I feel like I know you.”

Jace moved closer, carefully. He reached out and took a lock of Amy’s hair between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing gently before letting go so the strands could curl down her back.

“You’ve raised a beautiful little girl.” His gaze burned into hers and she couldn’t look away. “What do you do for yourself, Amy?”

Nothing, she wanted to say, but bit her tongue. He’d never believe her. No one was that altruistic, and certainly not her. So many people did so much for her.

How could she ever be selfish and think only of herself?

But looking at Jace right now, feeling the heat of his body reach out and engulf her, she knew she wanted this, wanted to touch him. For so long she’d kept herself shut away and distant. For once she needed to do something just because she wanted to.

Dear Reader,

Thank you for picking up Seeking Shelter. I hope you enjoy meeting Jace and Amy as much as I did.

Jace is the younger brother of Linc Holmes, the hero in my previous Harlequin Superromance, A Message for Julia. He was the only blood relative Linc had left to worry about, but Jace himself didn’t have much of a story. Then a short while after that book’s release, I saw a music video set in the southwest desert and I knew I was seeing and hearing Jace. He was no longer simply a younger brother. He was a man who needed a home. And a man whose story needed to be told.

But Jace wouldn’t fit in just any place. He needed someone as troubled as he was to understand and heal him. Amy Grey fits that bill, and needs her own safe place to land. What a time they’ve shown me as I discovered their story.

I love to hear from readers and fans; you can contact me via email at [e-mail] or postal mail at P.O. Box 63202, Colorado Springs, CO 80962. You can also find me on Twitter as Angelwrite and on Facebook as AngelSmitsAuthor.

Happy reading,

Angel Smits

Seeking Shelter

Angel Smits

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Angel Smits lives in Colorado with her husband and a constantly changing mixture of family and pets. She thought winning the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award was the highlight of her writing career, but seeing her first Harlequin book on the shelves topped that. Her background as a social worker helped fill her head with ideas that now inspire the characters in her books.

Books by Angel Smits

HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

1679—A MESSAGE FOR JULIA

Other titles by this author available in ebook format.

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This book is dedicated to all the amazing people who have helped me in so many ways. Pam, Karen, Donnell, Jodi, Sharon and Jude...my amazing critique group. And Judy and Bonnie, my improv partners. Thank you all for reading, listening and reading some more. You’re the best.

And as always...to Ron.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

AMY GREY SMACKED THE SIDE of the ancient adding machine. “Print, damn it.” The machine revolted and the decimal key stuck—again. If she wasn’t careful, she’d be paying a bill that equaled the national debt. Decimal points were important.

It was quite pathetic, really, that one of the things she hoped someone would get her for her birthday was a new calculator. She shoved away the image of the computer she’d seen at the Best Buy in Phoenix on her last trip. Nope. Not even a possibility.

She rubbed her eyes and knew she should go to bed. There wasn’t much more she could do tonight, and her six-year-old daughter, Katie, would be up early tomorrow.

A cool evening breeze wafted across the nape of Amy’s neck. It felt good to rub her stiff shoulders. She’d locked up the store hours ago, but left the back door open.

She could hear the sounds of the small town shutting down. Traffic was sparse. The old streetlight buzzed and there were a few hollers of excitement from playing kids. Soon, the desert animals would wake and begin their scurrying.

Peace. This was what she craved.

Another sound caught her attention and made her listen more carefully. Even footfalls on the sidewalk, accompanied by the soft snick of a cane tip, told her Hank Benton was headed this way. With a tired smile, she went to meet him at the door.

He emerged from the shadows and into the yard light. His heavy work boots clapped on the broken cement. Worn jeans and the leather vest he wore over his cotton shirt looked the same as they did every day.

She’d seen pictures of him and her mother when they’d been young. His brown hair had hung well down the back of that leather vest. Now, what was left of it was cropped close to his scalp and tended to show more silver than brown.

Once the foreman on the ranch where she’d grown up, Hank had always been a part of Amy’s life. She’d heard stories of his wild past, but he’d always been good to her.

“May I come in?” At her nod, Hank stepped through the old screen door and she returned to her miniscule office. He leaned on the door frame in a familiar pose. “Problems?” He was several feet away, but Amy felt as if he were standing right behind her chair. She needed a bigger office, too. Sending up a silent prayer to the office fairy, she started putting everything away.

“Nope.” She answered his spoken question instead of the real issue she saw lurking in his eyes. She cleared the machine’s readout. “Just this silly decimal key. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Hank was the closest thing Amy had to a father. He’d stepped in when her mom had grown too sick to take care of herself and a fifteen-year-old girl. Amy knew she’d never have made it through the past nine years without him. Hank was one of the few people she dared to trust.

“But thanks for asking.” She switched off the desk light and stood. “Want a cup?” Without waiting for his reply, she shut the office door and led the way through the closed store. The single lamp up front cast little light, but they knew the layout well enough to pass through without problems. Hank’s footsteps were slower than hers, and loud, thanks to his boots, on the old wood floor.

Walking down the main aisle of her small general store, Amy let her hands trail over the merchandise. She loved this ancient building. It had been built back in the 1890s during the copper boom that had created the town. And it hadn’t changed much in the past hundred years.

Since buying the business two years ago, Amy had made only a couple of changes, and as she reached the front of the store, she smiled with pride. Where the soda fountain had once stood, she’d installed a new coffee bar. In the front window, she’d placed four small bistro tables and chairs. The old marble-top counter held the espresso machine, the steamer and two glass cake stands filled with her special cookies.

She wasn’t a whiz in the kitchen the way her mother had been, but with all the new coffee-brewing equipment, she could make a danged good drink. She didn’t look at Hank as she pulled out ingredients.

“Just a normal cup, thanks. None of that fancy-shmancy stuff.” He settled into one of the empty chairs, then reached up and pulled the old-fashioned shade down. They were right on Main Street, after all, and the shade gave them a bit of privacy. Amy smiled, enjoying the homey comfort of the room and Hank’s company.

She tried to hide her smile as she brewed Hank’s single cup of the French roast he liked in her “fancy-shmancy” machine, then made herself a small decaf latte.

She’d just taken her first sip when she noticed the envelope sticking out of Hank’s shirt pocket. She frowned, knowing intuitively that he’d come here to talk about whatever was in that envelope.

Hank wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t looking at her. He was staring into the coffee he wasn’t drinking.

“Okay, what’s up?” She’d rather face it head-on, not keep waiting and worrying.

He looked at her then. Without saying anything, he reached for the envelope and pulled out the contents, flattening the papers on the tabletop. “This came today.”

The pages crinkled and she picked them up. Government papers. Taxes due. Not overdue, she noted. Just due. And due soon.

On the ranch.

She dropped the pages. They landed on the table and lay there, defenseless but accusing. “These come every year,” she said dismissively. “Do just like you always do and pay it from the estate. I’ll sign the check.” Why had he brought this to her?

“Yeah, this isn’t new. Only difference is, this year will be the last time we can pay it.”

“What?”

“Your mother’s estate doesn’t have much left. It will barely cover this. There’s nothing left for next year. Or for anything else, like a new coffee bar.” He paused, finally taking a sip of the cooling drink. “It’s time to consider selling, Amy.”

He was kidding, right? Sell the ranch? She couldn’t. Amy stared across the table at him. “No.”

“You can’t avoid talking about it this time. We could break up the pastures, the house, parcel it out. But you won’t get as much as if you sell it all together.”

She looked at the neat column of numbers, tracking down to the total. Her heart sank. She met Hank’s gaze and knew he could see her disappointment.

“That’s why I’m bringing it up now,” he continued. “At least if you sell, you’ll have something. If you don’t, and can’t pay the taxes next year, the government will take it. You’ll have nothing.”

“Mom wouldn’t want me to sell it.”

“And she’d like it if you lost it?”

“That’s not fair.” Why was he acting like this? Why hadn’t he said something before? Maybe he had. Maybe Amy hadn’t listened. She hadn’t been willing to talk about this. It wasn’t as if she was now, either, but she didn’t think she had much choice.

Hank looked about as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him. He rubbed the back of his neck as if that would push the troubles away. The lines on his face were even deeper than on the day of Mom’s funeral. Amy wanted to make him happy, wanted to do what she knew needed to be done. But she couldn’t.

“Madeline’s not here anymore,” he whispered. “And I’m too old to work a ranch. It’s just a waste, sitting vacant.”

“Doesn’t Martin still lease the south pastures?”

“Yeah, but it’s low-end, and only a small part of the property. It’s not enough. No one else is interested in a lease.”

Amy leaned back and met Hank’s determined stare.

“Look.” He rested his forearms on the table. “I know you’re busy with the store and raising Katie. You don’t need to worry about this. I’ll take care of all the arrangements to put it on the market. All you’ll have to do is approve the final deal and sign the papers.”

A little of her frustration dissipated. Hank was just trying to help. She looked up at him, loving him and knowing he cared about her and wanted what was best for her and Katie. But while she couldn’t live at the ranch, she didn’t like the idea of giving up her ancestral home, either.

Three generations of her family had owned the ranch, five if she counted herself and Katie. It was all she had left of them, even if she couldn’t go there.

Hank didn’t know what had happened, not all of it, anyway. She’d never told anyone. That pain remained locked inside her. It threatened from time to time to escape, like now, but she kept a tight rein on that part of her past.

Maybe Hank was right. Maybe it was time to let go and escape the reminders. If only it were that easy to erase the hurtful memories.

“At least think about it.” Hank stood and slowly backed away, taking his warmth and familiarity with him. “You’ve got time before we have to make this payment. But the market’s slow so the decision to sell can’t wait forever.” He turned and left, leaving the papers on the table. He stopped halfway to the back door. “You know where I’ll be.”

She heard the screen door open, and a moment later, the cool evening breeze slipped in and ruffled the pages, lifting the top one and tossing it at her feet.

She kicked at it, and it simply blanketed her shoe. She stomped her foot but it still clung. She heard the page rip and didn’t care. She really didn’t care.

She turned back around and stared after Hank. Her gaze wandered to the hallway to the left, the one that led down to the tiny apartment she and Katie shared.

Her throat ached. Katie. She wanted to go downstairs and snuggle up next to her daughter, hold her tight, silently promising that everything would be all right. But she’d be lying to her, just as she kept lying to herself.

She wasn’t any better at fixing things than her own mother had been.

* * *

THE MINUTE JACE HOLMES stepped through the glass doors of Bailey, Whitburg and Haase, he knew he was out of his element. He couldn’t sit in the fancy waiting room as the prim and proper receptionist spoke on the phone to announce his arrival. Instead, Jace paced to the glass doors and stared at the fish tank embedded in the wall.

Three golden fish moved back and forth between the pretend castle and trees, trapped behind a thick glass barrier. The cramped conditions made him think of his brother, Linc, who’d recently been trapped in a coal mine cave-in. Jace shuddered, wondering for the millionth time how Linc had survived. But he had, for which Jace was grateful.

Still, Jace shivered and moved to where he could get air and see the sky through the doors. A deep breath released some of the tension in his chest.

“Mr. Haase will see you now,” the young woman finally said, and led him to another glass door, this one nearly double Jace’s height. It barely made a noise as she pushed it open.

The silver-haired man behind the cherrywood desk didn’t cringe when Jace walked in, but Jace knew he wanted to. Jace was used to life on the streets. The man probably knew nothing of that world. His hands were too soft, his gut too thick and his suit too polished.

“Mr. Holmes. I’m Stephen Haase.” The attorney stood and extended a well-manicured hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“The letter you sent seemed pretty specific. You have some things Mac wanted me to have?” Jace dropped into the leather chair, its stiffness a sharp contrast to the worn leather of his jacket and pants.

“My client, Mackenzie Grey, had several requests, not all of which I approved of. But it was his desire that you receive this.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a fat envelope that he pushed across the desk.

Jace’s hand shook as he realized this was all he had left of Mac. He turned his mind to his friend, closing his eyes and picturing the old man’s face. Mac had been forty years older than Jace. Forty chronological years...and at least a hundred years wiser in experience. Living on the streets of L.A. had taken its toll.

Now Mac was gone. He wouldn’t have to deal with the cold. With the summer’s heat. With missing his family.

He didn’t have to deal with anything anymore.

Jace took several deep breaths to try to ease the ache. It did little good. He reached for the official-looking envelope. The stationery was that of the legal firm whose office he now sat in, but the handwriting was pure Mac. “What is it?” he asked.

“Please, open it. We can discuss any questions you may have after you’ve read the letter.”

Jace paused. The envelope was thick but pristine, probably from sitting in some file since Mac’s death almost two months ago—or longer.

Before he could give in to the fears that told him to get the hell out of here, he ripped open the seal.

A stack of crisp, new hundred-dollar bills was wrapped in a brown paper sleeve. A handwritten letter that looked like Mac’s familiar chicken scratch was neatly folded behind the money.

Jace stared at the cash. He could buy a lot of oblivion with that amount of dough. He pushed the traitorous thoughts away. Those days were gone. Long gone. He slowly unfolded the letter.

“Hey, boy,” the letter began, and Jace heard Mac’s laughter. Their age difference had always been Mac’s greatest entertainment. He knew Jace hated being called boy. Jace hadn’t been a boy for too many years to count.

“Bet you’re wondering where all this came from. Don’t worry, I didn’t rob a bank or anything. It’s mine. Free and clear. Living on the streets, I didn’t need it much. So I started saving. You know, I really thought I’d be able to find my ex-wife and little girl.

I know I drove you crazy with stories of them. I appreciate your listening. I owe you for that, boy. Owe you more than you’ll ever know.

Since I couldn’t find them, I want you to have everything. It’s yours. No strings attached. You’ve got dreams, Jace. Follow them. Be the man I’ve always seen inside you. Be what I couldn’t be.

You’re as much a son to me as that little girl was my daughter...if not more. I never let you know how much you meant to me when I was alive, so I’m saying it now.

Love, Mac”

Jace could only stare. At the money. At the letter. At what was left of the man who’d saved his life more than once.

The streets of L.A. had been a hell of a place for a sixteen-year-old. But long before Jace had come along, Mac had lived on those streets alone. They’d become a team, and in time found a small apartment to share.

Still a creature of the road, Mac had left their apartment dozens of times. He’d wanted to just “be out there” and he had been until he was so worn-out that the state came and put him in a nursing home.

Three squares a day and a bed every night weren’t for Mac.

Two months later, he was dead and gone.

“Was he nuts?” Jace finally asked.

For the first time, Stephen Haase cracked a smile. “No. Not completely. I knew Mac for many years. He was actually quite brilliant.”

“Yeah,” Jace said, not really agreeing or disagreeing. Years on the streets had given him an understanding of people. He could find and scavenge just about anything. It’s what kept him—and sometimes Mac—alive. He knew how his friend thought better than anyone, but even to him, this didn’t make sense. Why hadn’t Mac used this money for himself in the end? Why had they gone without so many times?

“And there’s this.”

Jace looked up, having nearly forgotten he was in the lawyer’s office. Haase held out another, smaller envelope. Frowning, Jace took it and opened it.

The contents fell into the palm of his hand. A key. Not just any key, but the one Mac had always worn around his neck. It felt cold in Jace’s trembling hand.

He knew Mac had always kept a safe deposit box. Though he’d gone to the bank with him a few times, Mac had never told him what was in it.

Jace abruptly shot to his feet. “Thanks for your time.” He shoved the envelope of money into his jacket pocket. He needed to think, and the walls were already closing in.

“Uh—you’re welcome.” Haase stood as well, a frown of confusion on his brow. “Do you know what that’s for?”

“Yeah. A safe deposit box.”

“Do you know where?”

Mac had trusted no one, and it meant the world to Jace that he had shared this with him. Mac must have had a reason for not telling the lawyer. Jace respected that, and simply nodded.

He headed for the door. “Damn it, Mac,” he whispered as he stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. “I don’t want this.”

* * *

TWO DAYS LATER Jace gave in and went to the bank. Armed with the legal papers Stephen Haase had given him, he accessed the box. He really didn’t want to see what was inside, but he’d come this far. With a deep breath, he shoved the key into the lock. No turning back now.

He was doing this for Mac, he reminded himself. For the man who’d been the closest thing he’d had to a family in years. Suddenly, he missed him desperately. The metal box wavered in his vision, and he blinked several times to clear his eyes.

“Whatever you hid here, buddy, it had better be worth it,” Jace whispered. Slowly, he lifted the lid.

He could only stare. The entire box was full of cash. Neatly bundled fifty- and hundred-dollar bills.

Jace cursed. He should just close the box and climb on his bike. Run, the way he always did.... No, he owed Mac.

What the hell had Mac been thinking? There had to be thousands of dollars in there. This was much more than what had been in the envelope the attorney had given him. This was more money than Jace had ever seen before—more money than he’d ever deserved, that’s for sure.

He remembered the nights he and Mac had sat talking, when it had grown cold and they’d huddled together in some doorway to keep warm. All those nights at the apartment, once Jace had convinced Mac that he was too old to sleep on the cement anymore, Mac had talked about his family.

A family he’d lost because he couldn’t keep his head out of the whiskey. Mac had cursed his own stupidity, while alternately berating the woman who’d taken their child and left him. Left him and never come back. Never hunted him up for child support. Never sent school pictures, though Jace had reminded him there hadn’t been anyplace to send them.

Jace slammed the lid down on the safe deposit box. He’d leave the money here until he figured out what the hell he was supposed to do with it. Mac might have given it to him, but Jace didn’t feel he had any right to it.

He returned the box to the teller and wound the key onto his ring, right next to his ignition key.

Just touching that key calmed him. That bike was his lifeline, his key to freedom. Literally.

Outside, the sun burned his eyes and he slipped on the heavy sunglasses he favored. It was like slipping on a mask, something he frequently did.

His bike, his baby, the Harley Fat Boy he’d spent months rebuilding, sat at the curb, calling him to find the freedom of the open road. There were still fifteen minutes left on the meter, but for the first time he didn’t care if he wasted them. Slowly, he climbed on and lifted the bike off the stand, but didn’t start it. He frowned. Something wasn’t clicking.

In the years he’d spent on the streets, he’d learned to trust his gut, to follow those instincts. Something felt very wrong with all this, and it wasn’t just the money.