The Lost Sheenan's Bride (Taming of the Sheenans Book 6) (10 page)

Jet stilled. Her hand shook ever so slightly as she typed.
“Cormac said that?”

“I’m not worried. As long as you’re okay, that’s my main concern.”

She was worried. She typed quickly.
“I can’t believe he’d threaten you!”

“I’m not scared of Cormac, or any of them. I just don’t want you getting dragged into the middle of this. It’s not your fight. So I agree Sunday is a bad idea. Just know if you ever need anything, I’m here.”

He was letting her go, saying goodbye.

Jet pressed a fist to her mouth and held her breath, telling herself she should be relieved that he was closing the door and pushing her away, but she didn’t feel relieved. She felt wildly conflicted.

Still holding her breath she typed one last message.
“Harley said you were using me to get close to the Sheenans. Was that true?”

She waited for him to answer, wondering if he would. A few moments later the little dots appeared, indicating he was typing a response.

“Yes”
, he said.

He sent a follow up text almost immediately.
“I’d hoped you could introduce me to Brock. I thought maybe he’d be willing to meet with me if you put in a good word for me.”

Jet exhaled slowly, disappointed, and hurt. So he did want something from her. Harley had been right.
“You should have told me.”

“I was going to talk to you tomorrow at brunch.”

Jet stared at the last message for a long minute before writing.
“And the kiss?”

“That was because you’re beautiful.”

Jet spent the
day at the schoolhouse, taking down old bulletin boards and putting up new ones that reflected February education themes—President’s Day, Black History Month, Inventors & Inventions, the ocean, and then, just because it was pretty and fun, Valentine’s Day hearts here and there.

As she stapled and pinned, she tried not to think about Shane but it was virtually impossible. Decorating bulletin boards might keep her hands busy but it left her thoughts free. And so she thought about Shane, and the Sheenans, and how awful the conflict was between them. There was no reason for it to get to this point. No reason for Cormac to threaten Shane in any way. That had to be the most childish thing she’d ever heard.

She also hated how the Sheenans were ganging up on Shane. He was one person and they were a big and formidable group. She understood why the Sheenans weren’t happy about the book, but Shane didn’t owe them anything. He could write about whatever he wanted.

Jet climbed up her stepladder to tack a huge paper cutout of George Washington’s head on one end of the bulletin board, running above the old, black chalkboard, and then carried the ladder and pins to the other end where she added Abraham Lincoln’s head.

It was a shame, she thought, that none of the Sheenans had tried to get to know Shane. Maybe if they’d been willing to talk to him about the book, and share their knowledge and memories, they’d get a better sense of the scope of the book as well as Shane’s intentions.

Climbing back down from the ladder, she stepped back to view her work. The two big paper heads against rose red paper looked like something that might have been in the classroom when she was a girl. Was that good or bad? Well, it was a change from January’s blue and white color scheme at any rate. It’d have to do.

She folded the ladder up, and leaned it against the door to the back room which was a combination storage and teacher break room. Not that she went in there when the kids were present, but it had a small sink and a mini refrigerator and she’d added a microwave so she could heat up soup for her lunch.

She microwaved a bowl of tomato soup now and stared out the small window at the playground with the old set of swings. Behind the playground was a field, now covered in snow.

This was such a small school, in such a small town, and yet suddenly she felt overwhelmed by problems that weren’t her own.

Shane was supposed
to be writing. He was behind on the book. More behind than he’d ever been. If he didn’t make significant progress quickly, there would be no way to get the book in on time.

And he kind of didn’t care.

No, not true. He cared about being late, his reputation mattered, but he hated this book. He didn’t like anything about it, and he’d only tackled the subject because it had been an excuse to come to Marietta and live amongst the Sheenans and pretend he was working on something when, all along, all he wanted was to know who these people were. And why they didn’t want him.

Hell and damnation.

Shane threw his pen across the room and it hit one of the bulletin boards before falling to the floor.

Of course the book would be easier to write if he had a definitive idea about who committed the crime—and he was getting there, little by little—but time was running short and he needed to focus and he couldn’t seem to make himself focus because he just didn’t care.

Not because the murders didn’t deserve to be solved, but because every aspect of the story was vile and heartbreaking. There was nothing good about the story. There was no lesson to be learned.

Shane left his chair and paced the dining room before stalking to the bulletin boards with the shocking headlines.

His gaze swept the headlines and then dropped to the story with the black and white photos of those who’d been slain. Todd. Grace. Gordon. Ty. Baby Grace.

Dad, Mom, a nine-year-old, a five-year-old, and a two-year-old.

They deserved better, and this book would certainly not help or heal, in any way. Life was unjust. Life was brutal. He wanted to punch something, hit something, break something—

Shane returned to his chair, his hand clenched into a fist. He squeezed until his hand ached and then he opened his laptop and sent his agent a brief email.
Mark, I want to buy the book back. I’m happy to write something else, something on Montana history, but I’ll need more time. It’s impossible to write something new for an April 30
^th
deadline.

Shane hit send and closed his laptop. Leaning back in his chair he looked at the bulletin boards with the newspaper headlines and articles. They disgusted him. The senseless violence. The heartbreaking waste of life. He knew the police reports. He’d read the reports from the coroner’s office and knew how each of them had died. He’d discovered that Mrs. Douglas had been sexually assaulted at some point during the attack. He’d read that Mr. Douglas was probably still alive at that point.

There were nights Shane couldn’t sleep because he couldn’t get the horror out of his head. He could imagine the children’s tears and terror. He could almost feel Mr. Douglas’ helplessness and hopelessness as his family was tortured in front of him.

Shane’s phone rang. He grimaced, recognizing his agent’s cell. “Mark,” he said, answering.

“Got your email.”

“Hate to bother you on a weekend.”

“Glad you emailed. What’s going on?”

“You saw my email. I’m not going to finish this one, it’s not right, it’s not what anyone needs.”

“Everyone needs this one. Everyone loves this one. You’ve got a film deal and foreign sales out the kazoo. A massive print run. Publicity like you wouldn’t believe—”

“It’s wrong. It’s making me sick.”

“Maybe you’re too close. Maybe you need a break. Get in your car and drive. Clear your head, get some perspective.”

“It won’t help. I’m not going to write it—”

“Shane, hey bud, relax, it’s all okay, it’s going to be okay. I can buy you more time. That’s not a problem. I’ll tell them you just need some extra time.”

“It’s the subject, not the issue of time.”

“Deadlines can be stressful.”

“You’re not listening, Mark—”

“I’m listening,” his agent interrupted quietly, “but Shane, you have to finish this. You were paid a huge advance for this, half of it has already been deposited into your account.”

“I’ll return it.”

“And what about my percentage? I’ve spent my piece. And the piece coming. I have kids in college. You’re putting my daughter through Princeton and my son through Columbia. Their tuition is funded by you. And my little girl, the one in junior high? The dancer? Her dance team travels and competes because you write these books that allow me to underwrite her team. You pay our bills.”

“You’d handled six other books—”

“And I’ve spent that money, too.”

“What about your other authors?”

“Shane, no one is as big as you. You’re my star. You’re my business.”

Shane closed his eyes and held his breath, trying to see a way through. There had to be some kind of option here.

“Drive to White Fish,” Mark said with forced cheer. “Ski. Get fresh air. You’ll feel better. You’ve got cabin fever, and it’s natural. You’re at that point of the book. It happens with every book.”

Shane didn’t speak.

“Shane, buddy, listen to me. You’ve never not met a deadline. Never. Ever. In ten years you’ve never once been late on anything. You’ll come through. You’ll be fine.”

“It’s different this time.”

Mark was silent a moment. “How different?”

“Career changing different.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t ever say that again. You’re brilliant. Your books are works of art—”

“I don’t need the bullshit.”

“It’s not. You’re huge. And not just for me, but for the publisher. You make them a lot of money.”

“I don’t mind when it’s the right story. This is the wrong one.”

Silence stretched across the line. Finally, Mark said, “How much time do you need to make it work?”

Shane didn’t answer.

Mark sighed deeply. “I’ll let Saul know. We’ll get you an extension. It’s not a big deal. Don’t put more pressure on yourself. It’s not going to help. The book will be done when it’s done, and that’s fine.”

Mark hung up.

Shane sat back in his chair and looked at the newspaper headlines and thought about how it must have been for Rory returning from dropping his sister off at a play date to find his family slain.

It must have been hell.

It must have been because it was hell trying to recreate it.

It was late
afternoon when Jet finally finished in the schoolhouse and the sky was darkening as she made her way to her car. But, reaching her vehicle, she discovered that one of the doors was slightly ajar and she prayed the open door hadn’t drained her battery. It’d happened once already. It seemed she had a bad habit of doing too many things at one time, resulting in interior car lights being left on, or the hatchback door slightly open.

Climbing behind the wheel she tried to start the car, but it made a feeble dying sound before going silent.

She grimaced. So not good. There was no way she wanted to call Harley and Brock now.

She pumped the gas and tried the engine again.

Nothing.

Jet sat for a moment in the dark. The moon shone overhead. Thank goodness it wasn’t snowing, but it was cold, and there wasn’t a lot of traffic on this side road on a Saturday.

Why didn’t she go home a couple hours ago and finish grading there? Why had she insisted on staying until every grade had been recorded?

So frustrating.

She’d have to call Harley. Good Lord, she dreaded that call.

Reaching for her phone she tapped messages, scrolling through her recent message to Harley’s text from early this morning. She passed Shane’s name and paused.

He was out here, up one of these roads. He couldn’t be that far, either. Five or ten minutes at the most.

If he was home.

If he was willing to help her.

He’d be willing to help her.

Jet called him. He answered promptly. “Shane, here.”

“Hey, it’s Jet. Are you home right now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have jumper cables? I’m at school and my car battery is dead.”

“Where exactly are you?”

“Take the exit on Highway 89 just before Emigrant Gulch, turn left, follow Yellowstone River up a quarter of a mile and you’ll see the little schoolhouse.”

“I’m leaving now, but keep your phone handy in case I need more directions.”

Jet hung up, clapped her hands together, and then tucked them into her coat pockets. Harley wouldn’t be happy that Shane was coming to help her, but Jet was glad. He was close. He’d be quick. And best of all, he wouldn’t give her a hard time.

J
et’s directions were
pretty good. In the deepening twilight, Shane spotted the faded red cupola, where a bell must have once hung, topped with a flagpole, minus a flag first, and only spotted Jet standing by her car as he rounded the bend in the road, the road built to accommodate the powerful Yellowstone River, his headlights illuminating her where she stood in front of the school next to her car.

She waved at him as he turned into the small gravel parking lot, and just seeing her, and that quick smile and happy wave gave him a little pang. The good kind and some of the tension he’d been feeling all day eased.

She looked cold but cute in her coat and cap and mittens. It was good to see her. She was little, but fierce, and as he slowed and pulled in front of her car, parking hood to hood to better jump her battery, he flashed back to last night, seeing Jet at the dinner table after his run-in with Cormac. She’d stared him down with her fierce teacher glare, so very, very disapproving, and he found himself smiling ruefully. He liked that she’d go toe to toe with him, holding her own, asking him questions, expecting a straight answer.

He turned off the engine, but left his headlights on as he climbed out. “Hello, trouble maker.”

She laughed and walked towards him, closing the distance. “Calamity Jane. I know. That’s why I couldn’t call Harley.”

Shane wrapped an arm around her, giving her a quick hug. “You’re freezing,” he said.

“Not too bad. But I am glad to see you.”

“Why didn’t you wait in the school?”

“I was worried you wouldn’t find me. It’s hard in the dark.”

“I’d find you anywhere. Don’t ever worry about that.” His gaze met hers and held. “Now pop your hood, let’s get you up and running.”