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Once a Family
There’s truth—and then there’s love
Sedona Campbell is an attorney who works with The Lemonade Stand, a unique women’s shelter in California. She’s called in to advise fifteen-year-old Tatum Malone, who claims she’s been abused—by her brother, not her boyfriend. It’s Sedona’s job to sort out truth from lie. She soon discovers that’s not an easy task, especially once she meets Tanner Malone. Because despite herself, she’s attracted to him.
Tanner has always protected his younger sister—but she’s lying about him. And he’s falling for Sedona. Between them, maybe they can figure out why Tatum’s doing this. Maybe then he and Sedona will be free to love each other….
A war was raging inside Tanner
A war between guardian and man. His entire adult life had belonged to the guardian. Tonight, the man was fighting for life. He wanted these few minutes with Sedona. Wanted to relax and enjoy the peace she seemed to bring into every room she entered. Into every space she occupied—even outdoors.
He matched his pace to her more sedate one, listening to the waves. “So why are you telling me this?” he asked. She’d said she liked him.
“Honestly?” She kicked at the sand, sending it shooting in front of them. “I’m not sure.”
“Guess.”
“I like you.” She repeated what she’d said earlier, but with a deeper note in her voice.
“And that’s a problem?”
“It is if it gets in the way of my professional judgment.”
“So don’t let it.”
“I’m trying not to. But…”
Another surge of emotion hit him at that but and he waited for it to dissipate before saying, “What are you afraid of?”
She shrugged again. Her shoulders, accentuated by the thin cotton straps of her dress, seemed so feminine to him. So…in need of protection. “I guess I’m afraid you’ll like me, too.”
He bent his head. The move wasn’t premeditated. He touched his lips to Sedona’s and just…felt.
Dear Reader,
Life, in all its messiness, is a miracle. We have to be willing to stay on the ride, sometimes just holding on, when the road gets bumpy, in order to avail ourselves of the perfect moments.
And sometimes we need a safe place in which to take a time out.
The Lemonade Stand, Where Secrets Are Safe, is one of those places. The Stand is going to be around for a long time. You’ll have many opportunities to stay here with me. And to experience some perfect moments while you do—you know the kind, where you escape into a story, experience a whole other world, maybe find some meaningful tidbits that somehow apply to your life, all without leaving your chair.
I hope you’ll also see the perfection in the messiness. The value in the struggle. Families are tough. Maybe more than anyone else, we trust our family members to have our backs. To love us no matter what. And with that trust comes the capacity for great pain—if our trust is broken. If family members aren’t who we think they are. We can misunderstand each other. And we understand, too. We know that family is heart. And heart is the one thing we can’t ever completely walk away from.
So we run to a place like the Lemonade Stand, Where Secrets Are Safe and pain can be healed. Come on in. Get comfortable. And be prepared to find family and love!
I’m a spokesperson for the National Domestic Violence Hotline (www.thehotline.org. 1-800-799-7233), and I also work with an organization called Chrysalis (www.noabuse.org). Chrysalis has several shelters and they offer certified counseling for victims and for abusers, as well as legal aid and financial aid for those starting over.
I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at www.TaraTaylorQuinn.com.
Tara Taylor Quinn
P.S. Watch for my new women’s fiction title, The Friendship Pact, coming from MIRA as an ebook this month.
Once a Family
Tara Taylor Quinn
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
With sixty-six original novels, published in more than twenty languages, Tara Taylor Quinn is also a USA TODAY bestselling author. She is a winner of the 2008 National Reader’s Choice Award, four-time finalist for the RWA RITA® Award, a finalist for the Reviewer’s Choice Award, the Bookseller’s Best Award, the Holt Medallion and appears regularly on Amazon bestsellers lists. Tara Taylor Quinn is a past president of the Romance Writers of America and served for eight years on its Board of Directors. She is in demand as a public speaker and has appeared on television and radio shows across the country, including CBS Sunday Morning. Tara is a spokesperson for the National Domestic Violence Hotline, and she and her husband, Tim, sponsor an annual inline skating race in Phoenix to benefit the fight against domestic violence. When she’s not at home in Arizona with Tim and their canine owners, Jerry Lee and Taylor Marie, or fulfilling speaking engagements, Tara spends her time traveling and inline skating.
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For Rachel Marie Stoddard.
Let your spirit soar, sweetie.
Always listen to your heart. Be happy.
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
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Extract
CHAPTER ONE
“HOW OLD ARE YOU, Talia?”
The tanned teenager, straight from the mold of California-model gorgeousness, looked Sedona Campbell in the eye. “Fifteen.”
Sedona believed her. “You told Lila McDaniels that you’re nineteen.”
The five-foot-five-inch blonde, with a perfect figure, perfect makeup and skin, wearing all black, looked about twenty-five.
And, at fifteen, on a Tuesday in the second week of April, she should have been in school.
“I didn’t want her to call the police. I’m not pressing charges.”
“You’re a juvenile. You claim you’ve been hit. The staff here have to notify the police. It’s the law.”
“Not if they think I’m nineteen and I say I don’t want the cops called. I checked. They don’t have to call for adults who don’t want the police notified, especially if they’re not getting medical attention.”
The law didn’t read quite like that. But the girl wasn’t wrong, either.
“They’d have to prove they had no way of knowing that you’re underage.”
The girl said nothing.
“They know you lied about your identity.”
Talia Malone, aka the juvenile sitting in front of her, slid down into the plastic chair on one side of the table in the small but private card room Sedona used as a makeshift office during her volunteer hours at The Lemonade Stand. Her gaze darted from the floor toward the edge of the table, and back again.
Sedona was not a psychiatrist, but as an attorney specializing in family law, specifically in representing women going through divorce or in need of protection orders, she was well versed in reading people.
“I’m here to help, Talia. You can trust me.” And here in the middle of a workday because Lila McDaniels, managing director of The Lemonade Stand—a one-of-a-kind, privately funded women’s shelter on the California coast—had phoned asking that she drop everything to tend to this situation.
Talia curled a strand of hair around her little finger. With a covert glance, she met Sedona’s gaze, but only for a second.
Sitting next to the troubled girl at the table, Sedona touched her hand. “I believe you were hurt,” she said, her tone compassionate, but professional, too. By the time she got to the victims, they needed help, not drama. “But I can’t do anything for you, no one here can, if you aren’t honest with us.”
Talia’s eyes were blue. Intensely gray-blue. They were trained on Sedona now.
And that emotional crack that opened sometimes, the one she’d never quite managed to close within her professional armor—an armor that hid a natural instinct to nurture—made itself felt.
“Why wouldn’t you agree to see the nurse?” Sedona tried another way in.
Talia shrugged.
“Do you have any injuries that need to be tended to?” Lila had already told her that Talia had refused to be examined by Lynn Duncan, the on-site nurse practitioner, saying she didn’t have anything wrong with her.
If Talia saw the health professional, and Lynn determined that there were injuries due to domestic abuse, California law would require them to report to the police or risk a fine at the very least. Lynn could risk her license.
And still, only about ten percent of California’s health professionals actually reported. For various reasons. Talia’s lower lip pouted. “There’s nothing right now.”
“Have you had injuries in the recent past?”
She nodded but didn’t elaborate.
And Sedona’s mind riffled through possibilities like cards on the old Rolodex her father used to keep on his desk when she was a kid.
Was this young woman on the run?
From one or both of her parents?
Another family member?
Or a nonrelative? A teacher at school?
Was the abuse sexual in nature?
Hiding information was classic behavior for someone being abused. With her near-perfect features, Talia didn’t look as if she’d taken any blows to the face. But that was more typical than not, too. A lot of abusers kept their blows to parts of the body that could be covered. Hidden.
“Has anyone touched you...sexually?” An officer would ask more bluntly. And with Talia’s age, if they didn’t find her family, the police were going to be called in. That was a given.
“No.” Talia met her gaze fully on that one.
Satisfied that the teenager was telling the truth, Sedona asked, “How long ago was the abuse?”
Another shrug was her only response.
“A week? Two weeks? A year?”
“A month. Maybe. And then last week.”
Okay. So... “What brought you here today?”
According to Lila, Talia had called from a public phone that morning and been picked up by a staff member not far from a nearby bus stop. “I was talking to...someone...who told me about this place and this morning I had a chance to get on a bus without anyone knowing.”
“On a bus from where?”
“Where I live.”
“Where do you live?”
The girl frowned. “I thought this was a safe place. Where people who had to hide wouldn’t be found.”
“It is,” Sedona assured her. “But the people here have to know who you are, they have to know the particulars of your situation, or they can’t help you. This isn’t a runaway haven, Talia. It’s a shelter for victims of domestic violence.”
The girl’s chin was nearly on her chest, but she looked up at Sedona. “I know.” The words were soft. And not the least belligerent or defensive.
And nothing like the tone one might expect from someone as fashionably perfect and seemingly confident as Talia’s appearance implied.
“Are you a victim of domestic violence?” If not, Sedona would still see to it that the girl got help. Just not at The Lemonade Stand.
“Yes.”
The answer was unequivocal. Which satisfied Sedona’s first concern. Between her, Lila and Sara Havens, one of the shelter’s full-time counselors, chances were they’d get the rest of the information they needed to be able to help their mystery child.
To be most effective, to represent the girl’s best interests and to see that all of her rights were properly respected, Sedona needed answers before the police were called.
“Then we’ll help you, but we have to know who hurt you, Talia. We have to know where you live and what you’re running from. We have to know your real name.”
“I don’t want you to tell the police.”
“Why not?”
Talia looked at the floor again, where her sandaled feet sported perfectly manicured toes. “Because.”
“That’s not good enough. Are you afraid that if we go to the police whoever’s abusing you is going to know where you are? Because you don’t have to worry about that. I promise you. The police are our friends here. They will protect your location as vigorously as we do.”
“What happens to me if I don’t answer your questions? What if I don’t tell you who I am?”
“We still call the police. You’re a juvenile on the run. We can’t let you just leave here on your own.”
“Maybe I lied about my age.”
“Did you?”
Talia gave her a hard look. A determined one. And then her entire demeanor changed. Her chin dropped and she shook her head. “But I need a little time to think,” she said. “If you call the police they’ll take me away, won’t they?”
“It depends,” she said. “Child protective services could be called. Someone would be assigned to you. Once everyone figures out what’s going on and what’s in your best interest, decisions will be made.”
“And what about you? Do you have anything to do with this?”
Sedona was careful about the cases she took. Because, based on her clients’ emotional states, she had to be able and willing to stay with them for the long haul. Her assistance was needed when a woman’s deepest trust had been abused. In a big way. Her clients were victims. Injured. Vulnerable. She had to be able to go the distance....
“I’m willing to represent you, free of charge,” she said, already aware that Talia, while well dressed and expensively groomed, had less than a hundred dollars on her person. “Whatever happens, I’ll be by your side, making certain that, legally, you will get the best care.”
“What are my chances of getting to stay here?”
“It’s a possibility, depending on the facts.” She wasn’t telling what those were. Or giving any hint. The troubled teen was in survival mode and clearly not above lying to save herself if she knew the right things to say. Lila had asked Talia if she had a cell phone. The question was common practice at The Lemonade Stand after one resident’s abuser found her through a downloadable tracking app he’d placed on her phone.
In response to her question, Talia had produced an old flip phone that was out of battery charge and couldn’t be turned on. The phone was so old Lila didn’t even have a charger that would fit.
“They said you’re a lawyer.” Talia’s gaze was solemn—and searching.
“That’s right.”
“And you deal with this kind of thing all the time.”
“I do.”
“Will the people here get in trouble if they let me stay just one night? Until I figure out what to do?”
There were rules. And there were circumstances.
“I might be able to get you one night. But only because it’s late in the day and we know that the chances of getting you to social services are slim. We could determine that it’s better for you to stay here than to spend the night in jail, which is where, as a runaway, you could end up.”
Because Talia didn’t display any overt signs of abuse. No broken bones. No bruises or scars—at least of a physical nature.
“But you won’t be free to leave,” she added.
“I don’t want to leave.” Talia sat up. “I just want to make certain that my... That no one can make me leave here.”
The girl’s desperation to stay at the shelter—clearly not a cool hangout for kids her age—helped convince Sedona to fight for her.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “But only with your understanding that if by tomorrow morning you haven’t told me who you are and what this is about, I will have you turned over to the police.”
Talia didn’t flinch. “I understand.”
And for now, that was that.
CHAPTER TWO
WHOEVER SAID WINE grape growing was easy had obviously never cane-pruned twenty acres of pinot vines. The pruning had to be done in its own time, not by a calendar man had planned, during the dormant season, when the dead leaves had fallen and just as buds were beginning to grow. In the winter. Or early spring. Depending on the vines. Sometimes it had to happen in April, too.
And it had to be done by hand. With clippers. One vine at a time.
For some vintners this meant having someone on staff, maybe a farm or winery manager, who would keep close watch and disperse employees out to the arduous but artful task, as needed.
For Tanner Malone, it meant that even though his little sister had a day off school on Tuesday for teacher in-service meetings, he had to be out in the groves all day—leaving her to get into whatever trouble she could manage with too much time on her hands and the house all to herself.
He hired a couple of seasonal helpers during harvest, but the rest of the work he did himself to save money for Tatum’s college expenses.
Letting himself in the back door of their sizable but very old farmhouse, as the early April sun was setting, Tanner prepared himself for make-up, tight jeans and blonde hair styled to perfection. There’d be attitude for sure.
But maybe there’d be some dinner on the table. Even boxed macaroni and cheese would be welcome to his empty stomach.
“Tatum?” he called as, walking through the spotless untouched kitchen, he headed into the equally undisturbed living room.
His sister was good about picking up after herself, but the couch pillows were just as he’d tossed them that morning on his way out the door. He knew because one had fallen sideways and it still lay there, cock-eyed.
With a hand on the banister leading upstairs, he leaned over to see the landing at the top and called, “Sis?”
Could it be that she was in her room studying? Getting ready for the intensive college entrance exams she had coming up the following fall? Tanner and Tatum’s brother, Thomas, had spent a good six months in preparation for his SATs, resulting in a full scholarship to an Ivy League school back east.
And he hadn’t come back to California since he left. That was ten years ago. Tatum had been five. Talia sixteen. And Tanner? The big brother who’d managed somehow to keep his family together after their mother, Tammy, had finally done them a favor and skipped out on them, had been a mere twenty-three.
Was he only thirty-three now? He’d felt forty ten years ago.
But then he’d been the unofficial guardian and sole supporter of his younger siblings for a couple of years by then.
Thankfully there’d been enough money left from his father’s life insurance policy to buy this farm with an ancient house that still needed a lot of work, but enough land to grow grapes that partially supplied a couple of California’s premier wineries.
He was a moderate vintner himself now, too. Which was another reason why getting the pruning done was so important. He had a shipment of recoopered oak barrels arriving in a couple of days and had to prepare the framework upon which they were going to sit.
Tatum wasn’t answering his calls.
Which wasn’t all that unusual these days.
But she wasn’t on her phone, either. He hadn’t heard that sweet laugh of hers. Or the irritated tone she took on when someone said or did something that she deemed stupid.
Del Harcourt...
If the asshole was here...
Taking the steps two at a time, Tanner was upstairs, bursting through his sister’s bedroom door before he’d finished the thought.
He stopped short. Tatum’s bed was made. Her desk neat. The books he’d brought her, study guides for the big test, lay neatly stacked in front of her computer screen.
The room had one purple wall while the others were painted off white, just as his sister had wanted. The quilted bedspread covering her queen-size bed was bedecked with butterflies. The furniture was old, but she’d had her pick of anything she wanted in the barn filled with who knew how many decades of discarded antiques they’d inherited when he bought the place.
One of the jobs on Tatum’s list for the summer, other than preparing for her October test, was to look up the pieces in the barn on the internet, catalog what they had and see if they could make some money on them. Which meant he’d have to get an entire barn’s worth of furniture unstacked so she could begin going through it....
“Tatum?” He couldn’t hold the panic at bay any longer. Tatum’s bedroom, like the rest of the house, was empty.
In one stride he was at her closet, hand on the antique glass doorknob, pulling with such force the knob came off in his hand. It had been loose for a while.
Another jerk on the door, with his fingers through the hole left by the fallen knob, and the small, wood-floored space where Tatum’s relatively meager but expensive wardrobe hung came into view.
He’d been fearing emptiness. Empty hangers at least. Instead, his sister’s clothes hung in order, just as they’d been the last time he’d seen them. Shirts with shirts. Pants with pants. And dresses on the far right.
What happened to the days when she was a little sprite too busy exploring anything she could get into to pick her clothes up off the floor? Too busy even to put them in the laundry hamper he’d placed right in the middle of her floor to make it easy for her?
Spinning, he took in the rest of the room. Opened some drawers to satisfy him that they weren’t empty, and then moved on to the bathroom he shared with her.
The drawers, split three to one in her favor, were neatly filled, and the bathroom with its pedestal sink and claw-footed iron tub looked just as it had that morning. Tatum’s wire rack hanging from the shower head was still filled with her salon-purchased shampoo, conditioners and lotion-dispensing razor.
Back downstairs, he checked every room. The little library, the formal dining room he used as an office, the mudroom that doubled as a laundry room. The huge kitchen. The only thing missing, other than his recalcitrant fifteen-year-old sister, seemed to be the tie-dyed hippie bag she called a purse.
Tatum wasn’t old enough to drive. For the past three months, he’d been keeping all vehicle keys on his person, in any case.
But she had friends with mothers who drove—who’d been known to help him out when he couldn’t be two places at once.
Grabbing his cell phone off the holster on his belt, Tanner dialed his sister’s cell number. Not surprisingly, it went straight to voice mail. And then he dialed first one and then another of the girls Tatum hung out with.
Only to find that she hadn’t been hanging out with them.
Not since Harcourt. The girls didn’t sound any happier about the asshole’s advent into his sister’s life than he was.
