<![CDATA[Kasey Stockton - Blog]]>Sat, 04 May 2024 00:23:05 -0700Weebly<![CDATA[Journey to Bongary Spring - First Chapter sneak peek]]>Thu, 12 Aug 2021 15:41:53 GMThttp://kaseystockton.com/blog/journey-to-bongary-spring-first-chapter-sneak-peekChapter One

Castle Moraigh
Southwest Inverness-shire
Scotland, 1743

The haar rolled in from the loch, slipping up over the jagged, rocky bank and curling around Isobel McEwan’s bare feet. It was difficult to see through the dense fog that hovered over the still water, but that didn’t stop her from searching the horizon for any sign of movement in the distance. The threat of Clan Duncan loomed on the other side of the loch, and she had been taught from the day she’d first stepped foot on Alexander McEwan’s property that she must always remain vigilant. One brief moment of carelessness was all it would take to amplify the discontent lying dormant between the families.
The empty egg basket swung from Isobel’s fingers as she picked her way through the tall grass that skirted the majestic castle, grateful when she rounded the building and put the loch behind her. She wasn’t certain when the task had wholly fallen on her shoulders, but she didn’t mind rising with the sun. She’d offered to fetch eggs so often in her youth that no one questioned who left the filled basket on the counter for Mrs. Crabb any longer. Isobel only hoped they didn’t realize that it wasn’t just the chickens which drew Isobel outside in the wee hours of the morning.
Swallows chirped, breaking the silence from their nests high in the castle eaves overhead. Their calls volleyed, amplifying as more birds woke from the sunlight peeking over the edge of the distant hills. Castle Moraigh was snugly nestled in the valley, cushioned on one side by the rolling hills and made vulnerable on the other by the wide, open loch. It resembled the egg in the palm of her cupped hand, cocooned in the safety of her fingers. 
It was the work of a few minutes to reach into the packed hay and slip the remaining still-warm eggs from their nesting places, filling her basket for Mrs. Crabb. Isobel too often allowed her mind to wander, and if she wasn’t careful, she would miss the very thing she came out here for each morning: a brief sighting of the man in the stables. 
Only, this morning, he was nowhere to be seen. Isobel stepped back, craning her neck around the corner of the chicken coop for a sight of his familiar dark hair. Fog reached over the castle like long claws, drifting into the air and disappearing with help from the rising sun. Perhaps if she pretended to hunt for eggs a few minutes longer, the fog would be gone, and she could better see. 
“Watch for the—” a deep voice said, sounding out of nowhere like a stray kelpie and sending a wash of shivers over Isobel’s skin. “Manure,” the voice finished dryly as her foot landed squarely in a pile of the beastly stuff.
Isobel’s heart raced. Kieran Buchanan’s strong hands gripped her elbows, guiding her toward the grass just behind the chicken coop, her foot squelching with each step as warm manure squished between her toes. She avoided Kieran’s pitying look as she wiped her foot through the long grass.
His gaze fell to her bare feet. “Och, lass. I did try to warn ye.” 
Her cheeks warmed. “My mind was high above the clouds, I fear.” She looked to the ground, absently spinning her silver ring with her thumb. She’d been walking to fetch the eggs for years and had never before stepped in coo excrement. “This hasna happened before.”
Kieran towered above her. His dark eyebrows hitched up, and his mouth twitched beneath his shadowed jaw. Och, did he think she was trying to lay the blame at his feet? She hurried to reassure him. “No’ that I believe ye are at fault, of course. I ken better than that.”
“Rupert took the coos up Glen Ellen this morning, and they passed through here. Ye dinna need ta worry about a repeat tomorrow.” Kieran sent her a wink before he turned to go, their conversation at a close. He lifted a shovel from the side of the chicken coop and proceeded to remove the manure from the walking path, his broad shoulders working under the thick tartan plaid wrapped over his shoulder and secured with a pin.
The interaction had been brief, but it was enough for her. Isobel would take those precious few minutes and tuck them away in her heart. Any time with Kieran was time well spent, and it even made her muck-covered foot worth it. Grimacing, she hitched the basket up her forearm and lifted her hem, turning away before he could catch her staring.
“Ye’ll want ta wash that before it dries,” Kieran called over his shoulder. “’Tis much harder ta remove later.”
He sounded as though he knew this from experience.
He glanced down at her foot, and Isobel’s cheeks heated further. She brushed a loose lock of straw-colored hair out of her eyes. Perhaps not every minute of their conversation was time well spent, not when it secured her in Kieran’s mind as a young, foolish woman who couldn’t even watch where she’d been stepping. It mattered not how old she actually was, she would always lose her ability to speak when facing the most handsome man in all of Scotland.
She lifted her hand in recognition before scurrying back around the castle, hoping the haar would sweep up and envelop her in its mist. Though, getting lost in fog would hardly paint her in a better light. What Highland man desired a helpless lass? None she knew of.
The sun drifted higher on the horizon, burning away the final wisps of fog that still licked the ground and climbed the edges of Moraigh’s imposing, gray stone walls. A shadowed sentinel walked the upper perimeter of the castle, forever keeping watch. 
Eight years under the protection of her father’s cousin, and the castle still had yet to fill the missing pieces of Isobel’s heart—the places left hollow from the deaths of her parents and the destruction of her family home just a few miles from where she now lived. She was separated from her home by the impassable chunk of land sold to the Duncans a hundred years before, but it felt longer—the miles stretched in her soul to an impossible distance. It hardly mattered that she could travel the space easily in a day. Home would forever remain unreachable.
Isobel planted her basket on the ground and perched on a smooth rock at the edge of the loch. She dipped her foot into the icy water, gasping lightly at the cold, and wiped away the grime. She cringed at the state in which she’d squelched away from Kieran. Could she have possibly looked more inept to the man? 
Likely not. He would not have been so quick to dismiss her if he found her worthy of notice. No, she was far from winning his heart. 
The chirping above warred with the sounds of the waking world for precedence as Isobel moved toward the castle. Doors opened and closed, and the distant hum of people going about their morning rituals grew louder with each passing step. 
“Took ye long enough,” Mrs. Crabb said, taking the basket from Isobel the moment she stepped into the bustling kitchen. “Parritch on the stove. Best hurry. Ye’re needed upstairs.”
Isobel spooned a glob of thick porridge into her bowl and carried it to the bench set against the far wall. She ate breakfast while she watched Mrs. Crabb remove the eggs from her basket and fill it with oatcakes.
The consistent activity within and around the castle walls was comforting in its familiarity. People came and went from the kitchen as they moved about their morning chores, and Mrs. Crabb was at the center of it all. Isobel watched with interest as the woman set the basket at the edge of the counter and looked about the room—likely for a free pair of hands. 
“Jenny,” Mrs. Crabb called, lifting the basket and causing a young woman to halt in her steps. “I need these taken to the stables.”
Jenny rearranged the bundle of garments in her arms and reached for the basket. She was likely on her way to wash them and didn’t appear as though she could manage balancing another thing. 
Isobel stood. If she could take Kieran the mens’ breakfast, she would have the chance to replace the image of her dirty foot with something much better. “I can take it. Jenny’s hands look full.”
Mrs. Crabb’s wiry gray eyebrows knit together as she slid the basket handle over Jenny’s arm. “Ye’ve no time. Remember? Ye’re needed upstairs.”
“Marion willna be waking yet,” Isobel argued futilely. Jenny was already heading for the door. 
“It’s no’ Marion who wishes ta see ye.” Mrs. Crabb returned to the stove and spooned out porridge for a newly arrived group of small boys. She lifted her gaze, sending Isobel a meaningful look. “’Tis yer uncle.”
“My father’s cousin,” Isobel corrected quietly to herself. She’d been grateful when the chief of Clan McEwan had agreed to take her in and give her a roof and a place to sleep after the deaths of her parents, but that did not change their relationship—regardless of what people believed. It was easy to imagine she was Marion’s cousin with how close they were, but it wasn’t the truth. Isobel was kin, a daughter of the chief’s close cousin whom he’d greatly esteemed, but she was not greatly esteemed in her own right, and that was the reason for her uncertain standing in his house. 
Isobel was a woman sturdily between worlds—neither a descendant of the chief nor a servant. She drifted comfortably between the kitchens and the great hall, mingling with all but close to few.
She stared at the porridge in her bowl as it thickened into tacky oats and stood to dispose of it, her stomach hardening around the breakfast congealing within it. If McEwan wanted to see her, something must be wrong.
“When did he send for me?” she asked, cleaning her bowl. She replaced it on the shelf set against the far wall and wiped her hands down her skirt.
“While ye were out gathering eggs. Ye’d better hurry.”
Isobel slipped from the kitchen and hurried up the curved staircase, smoothing back loose strands of flaxen hair and tucking them into her simple coiffure. McEwan’s door was open, and Hugh stood just outside, forever in his place guarding the entrance to the chief’s rooms. He ushered her inside, and she swallowed. They’d been waiting for her.
Alexander McEwan dwarfed the large desk he sat behind, his stature of a height and breadth that would easily silence most men into submission. His steely blue gaze was every bit as intimidating, and it settled on Isobel now, watching her closely as she bent into a curtsy.
“Sit,” he commanded, his quiet voice belying the power it held.
Isobel obeyed, folding her hands in her lap and doing her best to appear confident, though she felt anything but. Marion might claim that her father had a soft, gentle side, but Isobel had yet to see it. He was no brute, but neither was he a man who exuded warmth. He caused her alarm, and she rather believed he intended for that to be the case.
McEwan looked her over, analyzing Isobel to the point of discomfort. She fought the urge to squirm under his gaze. The chief’s scrutiny was far more uncomfortable than the manure she’d stepped in that morning.
His calculating gaze never left her face. “Ye’re a bonny lass.”
She curbed her surprise. Kieran didn’t think so. 
Isobel swallowed, maintaining the silence she knew he expected from her.
“Ye’re ages with Marion, aye?” he asked.
“She is one year my junior. I’m four and twenty.”
McEwan nodded, rubbing a hand over his bearded jaw. His dark hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, his beard fading with each passing year. “Ye’ve heard of the feast to welcome the McEwans of Kilgannon?”
“Aye.”
McEwan rose, crossing to the window and clasping his hands behind his back. He gazed out over the shimmering loch. The fog was cleared now in the morning light, though the birds had only grown louder. “The laird of Dulnain died six months ago, and they’ve replaced him with Miles Duncan, brother-in-law to the chief of Clan Duncan.”
Isobel’s shoulders tightened. What use had she of this information? If he thought to remind her of the impossibility of passing through Duncan lands to return to the home of her childhood, she was well aware of it. Dulnain sat squarely on the other side of the loch, faintly visible from the highest reaches of the castle and very much the barrier between this home and the ancestral McEwan lands on the other side of it. To travel around Duncan lands to get there would take days.
“It has reached my attention that the new laird of Dulnain is in need of a wife.”
Isobel sat rigid in the uncomfortable wooden chair, the decorative ladder-back digging into her shoulder blades. She had a few ideas for where this conversation could be leading, and none of them were good.
McEwan turned his back on the window, crossing his arms over his broad chest and looking down at her. “Ye will marry him.”
Fighting the urge to flee, Isobel swallowed the bile rising in her throat. He wanted her to marry the man who’d taken residence at the house across the loch, who was a brother-in-law to the chief of the Duncans? “The new laird of Dulnain?” she clarified.
“Aye. He’ll be attending Kilgannon’s feast, and I expect ye to make yerself up to him. Convince the wretch that ye’re a sensible choice.”
Not only was he commanding her to marry the man, but it was also her task to see the match made? “It is my responsibility to attract his attention?”
McEwan’s dark eyebrows pulled together. “Och, nay. He’s agreed to it. But I dinna want ye to give him any reason to change his mind.”
“He’s a Duncan,” Isobel said. Memories assaulted her of acrid smoke filling her lungs, of the way her chest shook from coughing fits for days, and how she’d burned her clothes because they couldn’t shake the stench of fire and destruction that clung to them. She shoved those thoughts away just as she had many times before. “His people…what they did to my home…”
“D’ye think I’ve no’ labored long over this decision?” McEwan crossed slowly back to the desk, but he did not sit, instead towering over her. “It’s been eight long years since I lost yer father, and I remember every minute of them. We canna bring the Duncans to justice without a step forward, and with Angus dead, the new laird will be called to see reason. His willingness to attend the feast is proof enough of that.”
“But why must I wed the man? Can we not strive to find another solution to mending the discord between our people and theirs?”
McEwan slammed his hand on the desk. “Did I no’ take ye in, raise ye as one of my own?”
“Aye, ye did,” Isobel said softly. 
His eyes narrowed. “D’ye no’ think ye owe me yer fealty?”
She nodded, unable to say anything else. She had no love for the Duncans, but it was more than that. If she married the new laird of Dulnain, she was forever sacrificing her McEwan name for the name of those who burned her house to the ground, killing her parents in the process. She had forgiven them long ago, allowed the anger to leave her heart, but forgiveness hadn’t erased her memories. This was different than forgiveness. This was sacrificing her clan. Her parents’ clan. 
And she could never be with Kieran. 
“Ye’ve less than a fortnight to prepare,” McEwan said, skirting his desk and retaking his seat. It was a dismissal, but rising would be futile. Isobel needed to stop her head from spinning. 
“Is not a month more sufficient?” she asked. 
“The date for the feast is set.” McEwan glanced up, looking at her as though to ask why she remained within his sanctuary when he was finished with her. 
Standing, Isobel pressed her hand to her stomach to stop the rising bile and left the room. 
Hugh, McEwan’s ever-present sentinel, grabbed her arm and pulled her flush against his chest as she stepped from the chief’s chamber. Her heart racing, Isobel removed herself from his grasp and flattened against the wall while a stream of men passed carrying large trunks. When the group had cleared, she stepped back. 
Hugh dipped his head slightly. “Didna want ta see ye trampled.”
Isobel quirked her lips into a semblance of a smile, the barest wisp being all she could muster. “Thank ye.”
If only her chief felt the same.

Find it on Amazon here! 
]]><![CDATA[Sneak Peek at A Forgiving Heart]]>Thu, 28 May 2020 15:05:16 GMThttp://kaseystockton.com/blog/sneak-peek-at-a-forgiving-heartA Forgiving Heart, book two in the Seasons of Change multi-author series, is a story about forgiveness and the way choices can have a great impact on these characters' lives.
Keep reading for a sneak peek into the first few chapters of this book!

Chapter One
Kate

The sun shone on nine-year-old Kate’s pale skin and warmed her soul as thoroughly as it did her body. The empty basket swung from her fingertips as she strolled along the open country lane, relishing the solitary freedom and keeping an eye out for the split tree she had overheard Uncle’s servants talk about. 
She needed to hurry. If Uncle knew she was outside unaccompanied and not locked in that wretched schoolroom upstairs with nasty Mrs. Herman, he would take a switch to her backside in a heartbeat. She’d learned that the hard way when she first came to Split Tree Manor six weeks ago. 
Six weeks. Longer than a month since she’d felt the sun on her skin or breathed crisp, clean air outside. For a child so used to playing out of doors when the chores were finished, Uncle’s strict rules forbidding Kate to leave the house were nearly tortuous. And this momentary reprieve, her clean escape after Mrs. Herman fell asleep in the middle of the afternoon, was a balm. She drew in a deep breath. Whatever punishment awaited her return was worth this gulp of fresh air.
A stilted bird call sounded in the distance and wind rustled through the tall grass, but all thoughts of wildlife and scenery left Kate when the infamous split tree came into sight. There, off to the right of the lane was the glorious tree, with not one but two trunks shooting out of the base in a slight “v” formation. Kate gawked up at the biological marvel. She hadn’t seen anything quite so amazing in all of her nine years.
Removing the small, blank book from her apron pocket, Kate sketched a rough picture of the tree before including the rolling hills behind it and the country lane beside. She added in the plump blackberry bushes on the opposite side of the road before closing her book and tucking her lead pencil into her hair.
Scooping up the empty basket, Kate skipped over to the blackberry bushes and gathered as many berries as she could without staining her dress. She was faintly aware of the sun moving along the sky, but the berries were so ripe and juicy, more of them were making their way into her mouth than into the basket. Glancing over her shoulder, she drew in a quick breath, noticing how low the sun had fallen.
She needed to return to Split Tree Manor, and fast. Uncle never allowed her to leave the house, and if he noticed she was missing, she would certainly regret it.
Turning back for the lane, Kate heard the same bird call she’d heard before followed by a chorus of laughter. It sounded like boys, but could it be children? Perhaps there was another girl her own age who lived nearby.
Was there time to investigate? Her gaze dragged from the lane which led back to Split Tree Manor to the woods just beyond the hedge of blackberry bushes. The thick copse of trees beckoned her with their intrigue, dim and deep. 
Curiosity ever her downfall, Kate tucked the basket neatly under the bushes before tiptoeing into the dense forest. She could be quick about it. The bird call sounded again, followed by more laughter, and Kate took careful, soft steps toward the noises. 
The less muffled the sounds became, the quieter Kate made herself. Two boys appeared on the bank of a small creek, a few years her senior, at least. Crouching behind a green bush littered with small, purple berries, Kate peeked through the leaves to watch them. She swallowed hard at the sight of the boys, quite savage with their shirts stripped off and cases of arrows slung over their bare shoulders. They took turns shooting at a birch tree and missing by a large margin. 
Pulling back on his arrow, one of the boys tilted it higher, shooting it to the uppermost branches. Losing the arrow among the branches, he scowled, and Kate squinted to see better through the bush. 
A faint bird call floated through the air, followed by tiny baby bird chirps. Mocking calls made by one of the savage boys met her ears and she shivered. They docked more arrows and aimed them at the nest.
What animals!
Kate stood to intercede, indignation coursing through her, when something fell on the top of her head. She rubbed her skull, lifting the piece of tree bark that had fallen on her and tossing it aside. 
The larger of the two golden-haired savages was aiming his arrow once again. How could he purposefully hurt a nest of baby birds? She opened her mouth to call to him when she was pelted with multiple pieces of tree bark. 
That was no accident.
Kate looked up this time, sweeping her gaze over the tree. She saw nothing but a canopy of tree leaves and branches. Shaking her head to loosen any remaining bark, she took a step away from the bush and collapsed when something hard hit her square between the shoulders. Ouch. That was certainly too hard to be tree bark.
Sprawled on her hands and knees, she scrambled to her feet and cringed at the mud smeared across her pinafore. There would be no hiding this mess from Uncle. She searched the branches above her, shielding her eyes from more falling debris. They appeared empty. 
Another horrid attempt at a bird call pulled her attention toward the savage boys. She had to do something. 
A quiet whistle reached her, and she whipped her head up again. A small hand waved from within the branches nearly at the top of the tree. She couldn’t quite make out anything beyond the waving hand at first, but her eyes focused, and she narrowed her gaze on brown breeches and a shoeless foot dangling from a high branch. 
A boy hid, perched in the branches, his thin face angled toward her, eyes wide with fright. Was he afraid of the savages, or afraid for Kate? Regardless, the magnitude of his fear was warning enough for her, and she crouched down behind the bush once again, watching helplessly as the two older boys shot arrow after arrow at the poor defenseless bird and her chicks.
Time stretched slowly, dragging on before the boys ran out of arrows. Instead of gathering what they had shot, they discarded their weapons, pulled shirts over their heads and turned to walk away from the scene—and directly toward Kate. 
She looked up to the branches. The shoeless boy put a single finger up to his lips, and she nodded. It would be a mistake to call out, but she desperately wanted to ask why he was hiding. Would the boys hurt him if they found him? Would they hurt her?
Crouching lower into the bush, she squeezed her eyes shut as the sound of boots crunching twigs grew steadily louder in her ears. 
“Charles, take a look,” a voice said directly beside her.
Her shoulders jerked in surprise, startled to hear the refined accent of the upper class on so savage a boy. But a peek at the blond boys’ clothing revealed quality fabric and well cared for boots. Though, the credit for the shine to the boots likely went to their servants. 
Kate shuddered before peeking into the face of the one called Charles and immediately wished she hadn't. His expression was a display of mild curiosity, but within his eyes was a gleam which she recognized from Uncle. 
Hate.
“I see,” Charles said in an uncomfortably tranquil tone. “Looks like we’ve found a lost little girl in need of a helping hand. Shall we help her?”
“I’m not lost,” Kate said belligerently before snapping her mouth closed. If Uncle’s switch had taught her anything, it was that talking back only made things worse.
The savages looked at one another in silent conversation before narrowing in on her once again. 
Charles, obviously the leader, said, “You’re on our land. Do you know what the penalty is for trespassing, little girl?”
Kate tried not to cringe as Charles’s breath washed over her face. He had evidently eaten fish and had chosen to skip cleaning his teeth afterward. She edged back into the bush as far as she could but immediately saw the mistake of boxing herself in. Quick thinking had always been Kate’s saving attribute, and she glanced around to see what she had at her disposal. Her small fingers felt behind her until they closed around a shoe. 
It took all of her self-control not to glance up at the boy in the branches and his stockinged foot. This must be his shoe; it was too random, otherwise. She wanted to commend his quick thinking, for he must have tossed the shoe at Kate when the bark hadn’t done the trick. 
Taking a quick glance behind the boys, she routed her escape, and with an arm quick as lightning, she flung the shoe into Charles’s face and took off in the direction of the blackberry bushes.
Footsteps thundered behind her, and Kate hiked up her skirt to run faster, zigzagging a path through the woods. She glanced over her shoulder to gauge her attackers’ distance and before she knew it, her foot snagged on a root, the ground rushing up and colliding with the side of her head. 
Pushing up from the dirt forest floor, she groaned. Her ears rang, and the entire left side of her face throbbed where dirt and small rocks had scraped it raw. Something warm and wet dripped into her eye, but she wiped it with her sleeve and tried not to panic at the sight of blood. 
The pounding grew louder as she pushed herself into a seated position. 
“Grab her!” Charles yelled as his minion crashed toward her. The other boy came behind and grabbed both of her arms, yanking her to stand and pinning her hands behind her back. 
She winced when Charles stepped up to her, holding the shoe she’d thrown in his face. Looking Charles in the eye, she swallowed a smile. A faint blue bruise was already beginning between his nose and right eye, and Kate imagined it would only grow with time. 
“Where is he?” Charles asked through his teeth, his face distorted in anger.
Kate swallowed. She glanced at the empty forest on either side of Charles before trying to look over her shoulder at the boy who held her back. 
“Not my brother, you nitwit,” Charles said in exasperation. He held up the shoe and spoke again, enunciating each word laced with anger. “Where is he?”
Realization dawned. He was asking about the little boy hiding in the tree. Kate lifted her chin. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Charles’s minion tightened his hold on her arms, and she cried out. 
“Tell me where the little brat is!” Charles shouted. 
Kate dropped her head to protect herself in what little way she could. She wasn’t quick enough, for Charles pelted the shoe at her stomach and she let out a cry that reverberated among the trees.
Kate felt the slightest slack of the minion’s hold on her arms. “Charles, maybe we should—” His voice just behind her ear was softer than she’d expected. She wanted to turn around and look in his eyes, to see if they held the same hate as his brother’s.
“No,” Charles cut him off, his voice steel. “I will find him.”
Kate was terrified, but not for herself. She had lived through her share of bullying and was tough enough to get through this. She was worried for the boy. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him, but she’d seen that he was scrawny. A few good knocks from these larger boys and he’d be done in.
“You mean that little boy?” Kate said, breath heaving as she formulated a plan.
The minion stilled behind her, but she kept going. “The scrawny one, right?” Her gut roiled from bad-mouthing the boy, thus placing herself in league with the bullies. But this was the only way. “I saw him picking berries out by that weird tree. You know the one?”
“Yeah. Split Tree.” Charles nodded, too dumb to realize she was misleading him completely. 
“Right. The split tree.” 
“Well, go on,” Charles bellowed.
Kate tried to look over her shoulder again, but Charles’s brother wouldn’t slacken his hold on her arms. She swallowed and kept going, trying to sound as tough as the older girls she used to share a room with at the parish orphanage. “The little runt was eating the berries I picked so I pummeled him. I took his shoes for sport and threw one of them in the stream.”
A sick smile tilted Charles’s lips, and he locked eyes with his brother above her head. When he turned his attention back on Kate, she felt like she might vomit. “Where is he now?” Charles asked.
She tried to shrug. “I left him cryin’ by the berries last I know. Not too long ago, either.”
Charles flicked his head to indicate they should take off. 
Kate rolled her shoulders once she was released. She watched their burly forms head toward Split Tree and the blackberry bushes. The minion brother glanced over his shoulder and held her gaze. She was correct—he didn’t have the same evil in his blue-gray eyes. But regardless, she wouldn’t back down to a bully. She stood tall, watching him until he looked away.
A long sigh escaped her throat before a shudder joined it. She froze when Charles paused and turned back to her. 
“How do we know you aren’t lying?”
She pointed to the shoe lying on its side amidst the stones and twigs and lifted a tiny eyebrow. “How else would I have that?”
He seemed to accept this and jogged away, his brother falling in behind him. 
As soon as the savages were out of sight, Kate picked up the shoe and sprinted back to where she had last seen the boy up in the tree. She made it to the stream and searched the foliage. He was either very good at blending in, or he was gone.
“Thank you.”
Kate was startled by the voice behind her and spun around, ready to strike with the shoe once again. She let out a pent-up breath when she laid eyes on the sandy-haired boy before tossing his shoe to him.
“It was nothing,” she said with a shrug. 
His face was serious. “Not to me, it wasn’t.”
She smiled at him and tried to laugh, his somber tone leaving her uneasy. “They were just bullies.”
The boy looked past her to where the others had retreated and then focused on her face. “Come to the water and I’ll clean you up.”
“There is no need,” Kate said, shaking her head. “I’ve got to return before my uncle finds me missing or I’ll be back on chimney duty.” She shuddered. She needed to somehow burn her dress and create a new one, too. She didn’t have any more time to waste.
The boy nodded in understanding. “Bullies are everywhere, aren’t they?”
She didn’t know how to respond to this. It was true for her, but she somehow didn’t think the boy needed an answer. And she still had to find a way back to Split Tree Manor without going by the split tree or the blackberry bushes. She turned to leave, but the boy’s hand shot out and stopped her.
His gaze locked on her, rooting her to the spot. “Someday I will repay you for what you did for me.”
Kate scanned his face, trying to read through the intent and seriousness that belied his tender years. He had to be her age, at least, but he spoke so desperately.
She nodded slowly until he released her arm. Then she ran for the edge of the woods.

Chapter Two
Eleven years later
Kate

Leaning precariously over the edge of the ladder, Kate stretched her arm as far as it would go. The tips of her fingers brushed the rounded edge of a juicy plum that hung just out of reach. She had the ladder wedged securely against the trunk of the aged tree, but any more leaning could topple her in an instant. She pulled her arm back and shook it out as if that would add the needed length before trying for the fruit one last time. Her basket was full of enough juicy plums for Mrs. James to create at least four cakes for the school social, but that last plum would be a nice treat for Kate’s walk back.
She had a penchant for fruit of any variety. But this plum was so tantalizing—deep red with just the barest hint of violet. It was sure to be worth the effort.
She took a step up on the ladder and moved her foot to wedge it into the crook of a nearby branch. Reaching as far as her slender arms would go, she tapped the plum once and set it to swinging. Stretching just a little farther, her fingers found purchase on the fruit, and she plucked it from the branch. 
Slipping the plum into her apron pocket, Kate climbed down the ladder, jumping from the lowest rung with both feet onto the ground. It was a blessing the hedgerows separated the orchards from the main schoolyard, for if Mrs. Presley had seen Kate’s unladylike display, she would certainly be forced to sit through a lecture on the behavior befitting a head art teacher. Well, Kate was the only art teacher, but she accepted the title regardless. 
“Afternoon, Miss Kingston,” the groundskeeper called, lifting his cap. He rested against his shovel and mopped his brow with a handkerchief. 
“Good afternoon,” Kate said. She lifted her basket to show her bounty to the older man. “There is going to be plenty of plum cake for everyone at the school social. I hope to see you there.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” came the craggy reply.
Kate turned onto the lane that led to the school, biting into her juicy prize and wiping the drizzle from her chin with her wrist. She rounded the bend around the hedges and the school came into view—a two story gray brick building erected long ago as a manor house and repurposed as a school not thirty years prior. 
Nestled in the rolling countryside of Leicester, the county she had spent her entire life in, Lytle’s School for Girls was a wonderful place to work and a decent place to have spent her defining growing-up years. When Uncle had shipped her to this school, Kate hadn’t known she was never to return to his house, but it had turned out for the best. Regardless of Mrs. Presley’s stern rules and tightly run staff, there was kindness and joy to be found within the old, stone walls of the school. Kate had found her calling in teaching the finer points of drawing and watercolors to young minds and reveled in the ways her students blessed her soul every day. 
She took another bite from her plum and watched the activity as she neared the lawns in front of the school that were overrun with townsfolk setting up booths and preparing for their games. The social on the morrow was held annually by the school as a fundraising opportunity to assist those girls that could not afford full tuition, and it was a cause dear to Kate’s heart. One of Kate’s first and dearest friends from Lytle’s School for Girls had been one of the scholarship students. And though Emily was off using her hard-learned manners and propriety in London’s ballrooms, they had remained close friends.
The sticky syrup dripped down her fingers, and she tossed the plum pit into the slop bucket beside the back-kitchen door before doing her best to wipe her hand on her dirty apron.
“Now you set those plums down just on the table there and wash up,” Mrs. James said as she rolled out some kind of pastry dough on her worktable. Her youthful cheeks were rosy from exertion that caused her freckles to stand out all the more, and wisps of red hair escaped her cap to trail along her brow and neck. She wasn’t much older than Kate herself, but she sure could bake a grand pheasant pie. “Mrs. Presley was in here asking ‘bout you not ten minutes ago, so you best be getting yourself upstairs now.”
“Yes ma’am,” Kate said with a wink and a curtsy. She skirted the worktable as best she could but still felt the faint swat from the rolling pin on her behind.
Racing up the stairs to the staff bedrooms, she quickly removed her apron and hung it on a peg beside her door before pouring cold water into the basin on her washstand and cleaning her hands and face. Aside from one drip of plum juice on her collar, she was otherwise spotless, the apron having taken the brunt of the fruit-picking dirt, and she deemed herself acceptable to meet with Mrs. Presley before dinner.
On the landing outside of her room, Kate nearly ran into Lissie, the chambermaid for the teachers’ rooms, and quickly stepped back again.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Lissie bobbed a quick curtsy. “Mrs. Presley is waiting on you in her office. You’ve got a visitor.”
Kate had started toward the headmistress’s office but stopped short and spun back to the maid, her mouth going slack. “A visitor?”
“Yes’m. A handsome one too, if you don’t mind my saying,” Lissie added with a little grin. Kate absentmindedly shook her head and turned back toward the office, but her feet were fastened in place as though by paste. In her eight years at Lytle’s School for Girls, she had not once received a visitor. Not once. Even when Uncle had revoked his financial support upon her completion, he had delivered the news via note. The footman who had brought it from Split Tree Manor had not even felt the need to wait around until the note was in the proper hands.
“Right, then.” Kate took a deep breath and flurried down the stairs. 

***

The man standing in Mrs. Presley’s office with his hands clasped behind his back and his mustache carefully groomed was not what Kate would consider particularly handsome. He was not an ugly fellow by any means. His nose was straight and not overly large, and his wide eyes were a fair brown color. But his hair was too severe and his features too stiff. He seemed the preacher or lawyer type that didn’t smile often, and a face unused to smiling was not, in Kate’s opinion, a handsome one. With slight disappointment, she walked into the room after knocking lightly on the door.
“Miss Kingston, please come in.” Mrs. Presley gestured to the open seat across from her desk. Kate swept into the room and stood behind the chair with a healthy dose of uncertainty. With the stranger standing so tall beside her, she felt uneasy. Mrs. Presley soon took care of that situation as school headmistresses are easily capable of doing. “This is Mr. Montgomery, and he has come to see you on a matter of business.” Folding her hands together, she asked primly, “Shall I give you the room?” 
Kate gave her a beseeching glance. Was it childish to not want to meet with this man alone? For propriety’s sake alone, Mrs. Presley ought to stay.
“Or perhaps,” Mrs. Presley said as she walked around her desk and closed the door to her office slowly. “I shall remain.”
Kate’s shoulders relaxed. It was so like Mrs. Presley to be perceptive to the needs of others.
“The choice belongs to Miss Kingston, ma’am,” the stodgy Mr. Montgomery said, his voice as unremarkable as his face. He stepped to the chair beside Kate’s and waited for the ladies to take their seats before subtly flipping back the tails of his coat and perching on the edge of his chair. Kate stifled her mirth. He even acted without any embellishment. 
Mr. Montgomery turned to look her square in the face. “Miss Kingston, I have come to inform you that your uncle, Mr. Bartholomew Kingston, has died.”
Silence sat thick in the room as Kate absorbed the information, her surprise quickly deflating. She curled her hands around the arm rests on her straight, wooden chair and squeezed as hard as she could, willing herself to feel a measure of grief appropriate for such news. But nothing presented itself. After she felt like an acceptable amount of time had passed, she looked into Mr. Montgomery’s staid eyes and nodded. 
“Oh, right.” Mr. Montgomery seemed taken aback by her composure. Or was it simply her nod? He pulled out a folder of papers from a leather case and began sorting through them frantically as if he was not quite prepared for this part yet. She noticed a crisp white handkerchief float to the floor and cringed. The man had been prepared to offer it to her for her tears, most likely. Tears, for Uncle. Should she have cried? Perhaps it was expected, but she was never one to cry on cue. She would have made a wretched actress.
“I am here today on particular business for the law firm of Montgomery and Montgomery. We would like to first offer our sincerest condolences on the loss of your belov—” Mr. Montgomery cleared his throat awkwardly and redirected “—loss of your family member at this time. We are here to assist you in any way you deem necessary.”
“Thank you, Mr. Montgomery, that is most kind,” Mrs. Presley said, jarring Kate out of her stupor. She had forgotten that the headmistress was seated directly across from her, so preoccupied she was in her recollection of Split Tree Manor. She’d not allowed herself to think about the place in years. She had only one fond memory of it, and it involved seeing the manor out the back window of the carriage taking her away for the last time.
“Of course,” Mr. Montgomery nodded solemnly, “we had some trouble sorting the will and inheritance, which is why a few weeks passed before I could locate and inform you of the situation. I am afraid your uncle was buried a fortnight past in the local parish cemetery in Larkfield. The estate was not entailed, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“The estate?” Kate asked, her brow pulling down in confusion. 
“Split Tree Manor.”
“Yes,” she said, no less confused.
“The estate in all of its entirety, along with the sum set aside by your late father are now yours, except for…” He perused a document in front of him before tapping it once with his forefinger and grinning. “Any and all horses.”
“Any and all horses?” Kate was stunned. Surely she hadn’t followed Mr. Montgomery’s explanation very well. Baffled, she cleared her throat. “You are saying, sir, that I have inherited an estate from my uncle and a sum of money from my father, but not any horses?”
He delivered a self-satisfied smile. “Precisely.”
“Well, now that we’ve got that sorted,” she muttered to herself.
Quiet settled in the room. Mr. Montgomery looked through the documents on his lap, most likely trying to see if he’d missed anything. Mrs. Presley remained seated with her hands tightly clasped on her desk and her mouth pinched. Kate would have worried about her headmistress if that wasn’t her regular demeanor. 
Part of Kate felt an overwhelming rush of relief. Not that she’d inherited a dilapidated manor, no…that was not something she was ready to consider. She was relieved that the ever-looming man in the back of her mind was now gone. She had never actually believed Uncle would snatch her from her present life and thrust her back into one of servitude and isolation. But irrational fears were just that: irrational.
Mrs. Presley’s voice sliced through Kate’s musings. “Are you able to provide Miss Kingston with any numbers today? For the purpose of planning.”
“Oh, of course. Of course!” Mr. Montgomery hurriedly looked through his papers. He really was a bit unorganized, so perhaps he wasn’t entirely boring. “Let us see here…your father left you a sum total of ten thousand pounds to be—”
“Ten thousand pounds?” Mrs. Presley and Kate exclaimed in unison before glancing at one another briefly, both of their expressions laced with self-consciousness.
“—obtained upon your twentieth birthday or date of your marriage.” He looked up at Kate. “Of course you know about that. You've been benefitting from the interest for some time. Now, the matter of Split Tree Manor is a different conversation. It is my understanding that—”
“I am sorry, Mr. Montgomery, might we pause for a moment?” Kate crossed her ankles under her chair and clasped her hands together, only to release both of them, stand up, and walk to the window. The implications were clear, and Kate was intelligent enough to follow them quickly. Only, she didn’t want to believe them. Certainly her uncle wouldn’t have kept her inheritance from her. “Would you explain the concept of interest? You said I’ve been benefiting from the interest for some time, yet I am afraid I do not follow.” She tried to give Mr. Montgomery a sweet smile and was rewarded with a condescending one. He turned in his chair and let out a sigh as if he was preparing to address a child, lowering his voice a bit. 
Kate bristled but clenched her teeth and let her irritation pass. 
“Your father was the oldest son and heir to the estate of Split Tree Manor and all that his own father possessed. The estate was not entailed, so when your father and mother died, it was passed on to you. Of course, as you were only a small child at the time, the property was placed in the hands of your guardian until you were either married or turned the age of twenty.”
Despite her request for further understanding, Kate was no simpleton. If she’d heard the man correctly, then she should have gained the rights to manage Split Tree on her last birthday. An unwelcome snake coiled in her stomach. “But I’ve been twenty these six months past and I’ve heard nothing from my uncle about any of this.”
Mr. Montgomery paused, as if pondering the new information. “It is my understanding that your Uncle Bartholomew was not entirely coherent this past year. His illness was advanced. He must have been unable to contact you and begin the transfer of the money and property to you, the rightful owner. Of course, with the extent of Mr. Kingston’s illness, it may come as no shock that the manor has fallen into slight disrepair.” At this point he looked up into her eyes and tried to give her a hopeful grin. “But it is nothing that cannot be put to rights with proper time and money, both of which you have.”
“Neither of which I have,” Kate said unthinkingly. “Well, I suppose…” Her mind drifted into a mass of jumbled thoughts. She turned toward the window and watched from the second story as the townspeople and Lytle’s servants continued setting up for the school social. A smile tilted Kate’s lips at the community she was so thoroughly involved in. She did not have a family who cared about her, but she had a family of neighbors whom she loved, who loved her in return. She wasn’t prepared to leave the only pleasant home she’d ever had.
She supposed Split Tree had been that for her once, but Kate had been an orphan for so long now, she hardly spared a thought for the parents who’d once loved her. The only things she held in her heart associated with Split Tree Manor were unpleasant memories of a tyrannical, controlling uncle. 
She heard the din of voices behind her as Mr. Montgomery and Mrs. Presley spoke to one another, but she couldn’t focus enough to listen to what they were saying. Letting out a shuddering breath, Kate wrapped her arms around herself, squeezing tightly.
“What if I don’t want it?” 
“Pardon me?” Mr. Montgomery said. Kate had spoken so quietly she did not realize she had been heard. 
“Shall we adjourn for the day, Mr. Montgomery?” Mrs. Presley asked, leaning forward on her elbows as they rested atop her desk. “This is quite a lot to take in for Miss Kingston, and perhaps it is better digested in small doses.”
“Absolutely.” He stood. “Forgive me for bearing such news.” He gave Kate a sorrowful look that she accepted with a small nod and an automatic curtsy. She was vaguely aware of Mrs. Presley escorting Mr. Montgomery away before the woman returned some minutes later and closed her door with a soft snap. Gently, she guided Kate to the small sofa on the other side of the room and helped her to sit before taking a seat beside her.
“This is a lot to take in, my dear.” Mrs. Presley spoke in a soft voice. “Perhaps you would like to take some time to consider your options before coming to any decisions.”
Kate nodded automatically. She was obedient to a fault. While her personality had always been a bit more difficult to suppress into a small, graceful package, she was used to taking and obeying commands. It is what had made her such an agreeable student and then employee these past eight years.
“I cannot say I am surprised that he would keep my inheritance from me,” Kate said, her voice sounding small. “Uncle was a tyrant and a brute.”
Mrs. Presley seemed to weigh her words carefully. “I realize we’ve discussed this scarcely in the past, but you once assured me that your uncle did not injure you. Please, be frank with me now. Is that true? Did the man ever—”
“No, he never hurt me. Not beyond taking a switch to my backside. Which I daresay is not the height of abuse.” She continued to stare ahead as memories of her time at Split Tree Manor arrived in her foremind as snatches and images. “I was four when my parents died and was sent to live with a family outside of the parish. I am unsure why, but I always assumed my uncle did not want the burden of such a small girl, so he passed me on to someone of his acquaintance.”
Mrs. Presley nodded, listening intently.
“I was nine years old when I was pulled from that house and brought to live with my uncle, but never given a reason why he suddenly wished to have me at Split Tree—nor do I understand it now. When I first arrived, he merely locked me in my room with a nurse. He didn’t know what to do with a child, I suppose, but he never treated me with any more regard than he did his servants. He was highly irregular, and I am certain I shall never understand him.”
Mrs. Presley offered a sad smile. 
“Then I came here, shortly after I turned twelve.” Kate looked at her mentor and schoolmistress, warmth blooming in her heart. “I found a home here within the strict rules and rigid schedule. I thrived on it.”
“What shall you do?”
Kate felt the ripple of shock flow through her once more. Mrs. Presley was asking what she was going to do? That was a first. She had a choice for the first time in her life. Even when she had been offered the position of art teacher, she had not had a choice—not really. She’d had nowhere else to go.
“I do not know.”
Would you like to keep reading? A Forgiving Heart is available to purchase on Amazon, and in Kindle Unlimited!
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]]><![CDATA[First Chapter of Snowflake Wishes]]>Wed, 28 Aug 2019 05:05:37 GMThttp://kaseystockton.com/blog/first-chapter-of-snowflake-wishesI am really excited to bring you my first contemporary romance! And, even better, it's a Christmas story. I've been watching Christmas movies and listening to holiday music a lot lately as I've prepared for the launch of this story, and I am ready for fall. Because really, isn't fall just the start of a fantastic few months of holidays and good food and lots of fantastic family time? Bring on the hot chocolate, pecan pie and twinkle lights!

And now, just to help you get into the holiday mood as well, I've decided to share a sneak peek into this novel. Snowflake Wishes is the first of three books in the Holly Springs Romance series, but the only book written by me. The other two books will take place in the same town and occur at the same time, but are written by my author friends, M.T. Knights. Want to know a fun tidbit about that author? It's actually two people, and they are a super cute husband and wife team. They are debuting in this series and I think you'll love their stories as well. 
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Watch in the future for some fun sneak peeks into the other books, but to get us kicked off, here is chapter one of Snowflake Wishes...

Chapter One
​*Madison*

I saw the object flying right before it hit me square in the face. 
“Watch out!” a masculine voice yelled from the other side of the street. 
His warning was too late. Struck between the eyes by the small, but hard object, I dropped the box of Christmas decorations I’d been clutching and fell flat on my back, the wind leaving me in one quick swoop.
My lungs searched for air as I lay sprawled on the sidewalk, my eyelids heavy and thick. A headache formed instantly between my eyes and I blinked slowly as a sparkly silver object came into focus on the cement beside me. My tinsel garland, of course. I blinked away the fog threatening to descend on me, the trash can next to me and tree branches above it slowly coming into focus. My nose throbbed and tears sprang to my eyes, blurring my vision and the man that was now leaning over me.
“I am so sorry!” he said, picking up the errant Christmas decorations and shoving them back in the box. “I didn’t think that through.”
I sat up slowly, pushing away the strong hands that gripped my shoulders. “I’m fine,” I lied. I was fairly positive my nose was broken and this idiot was to blame. My hands came up to gingerly cup my nose and I winced involuntarily, eliciting a frown from the man squatting beside me. Warm, gooey blood seeped from my nostrils and covered my fingers. 
The stranger pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and shoved it at me. I balled it up and pressed it to my nose. I couldn’t help but notice his expensive watch. What kind of man carried around a handkerchief? A rich one did. 
“Please, let me drive you to the hospital.” He glanced around, obviously unfamiliar with the area. “We should get someone to look at your nose.”
We did not get strangers often in our small town of Holly Springs. When we did, they were either adventurers stopping for gas, or lost tourists in need of directions to one of the larger ski resorts they were heading to. 
“That’s really not necessary,” I said, coming to a stand. I felt fine. Aside from the probably broken nose and fuzzy feeling in my brain, naturally. And the blood. I glanced down at my shirt and groaned. It was never going to come out. Somehow it had even managed to drip on the short apron tied around my waist.
He reached forward as though he meant to steady me and I pushed away his hands. Why was he constantly touching me? Uncomfortable, I stepped away. “But thanks anyway.”
He scoffed. “I can’t just leave you like this. At least come in and sit down a minute.” He gestured toward The Bell behind us. “This place looks quiet.”
I clenched my jaw. He didn’t know; he couldn’t. I leaned down and picked up my box with one arm, keeping the other pressed to my nose. My voice came out nasally. “Yeah, it’s quiet.” 
He stepped forward, his longs legs crossing the distance in one stride, and held the door for me. I set the box on the floor and took a seat at a booth along the back wall. The blood seemed to have slowed. I grabbed a napkin from the table and pressed it to my nose, shoving the sodden handkerchief into my apron pocket.
He slid in opposite of me, his dark eyebrows pulled together in concern. Combine his angular jawline and piercing blue eyes, and I had a veritable romance novel cover model on my hands. Perhaps that was what he was doing around here—an on-location photo shoot. 
Honestly, a man this conventionally handsome could not be anything but a model. His shoulders were too broad and eyes too blue for much of anything to be going on in that perfectly styled head of his.
“What was it that hit me?” I asked, a headache forming above my eyes.
He grimaced. “A bottle of hot sauce. I was aiming for the trash can.”
“From across the street?”
He had the grace to look chastised. He glanced away, giving me a view of his profile—he even looked perfect from the side. If he was not a cover model for romance novels yet, then he really should be. He could make a killing in that field.
“Wow,” he said under his breath. “The service here is something else, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure they’ve got a good reason for taking their time.” I glanced around the small diner, trying to see it from an outsider’s perspective. It was quiet, yes. But it was also simple, and lovely, and rich in history. But then again, I was biased.
“If I yell out to Duke do you think he’ll answer?” He indicated the framed photo on the wall behind the counter. It hung beside the award for Best Diner in Town, with the name Duke Bell typed in the winner’s line. “No wonder this place is empty. No one is working.”
I stiffened. Reminding myself that this stranger knew nothing and would shortly be gone forever, I pasted a smile on my face. “Are you hungry?”
“Actually, yes. I went into that market down the street but all I got was an energetic sales pitch on the guy’s homemade hot sauce. I bought a bottle just to get him off my back.” He laughed. “Then I escaped.”
“Fred.”
“Excuse me?”
I kept the annoyance from my face. Or, I tried to. “That guy’s name is Fred and he runs the market. The market where he sells his homemade hot sauce.”
Hot sauce which this guy used to break my nose.
I stood, my irritation nearing a breaking point. The bell rang over the door. I glanced at the entrance and caught Britney’s eye before turning back to the stranger and pulling a notepad from my apron pocket. “What can I get you?”
His eyes bulged as he took in my apron for seemingly the first time. “You work here?”
“You could say that.”
He was either dumbfounded or working really hard to recall every point of our conversation where he’d talked about my diner. I shoved the napkin in my pocket, the blood seemed to have stopped for now, and tapped my pen on the pad while I waited. Britney took a seat at the bar behind me and my false smile stretched further the longer I waited.
He cleared his throat and turned to face me, his arm lying lazily across the back of the bench. “Do you have a decent soup selection?”
“I’m not sure what qualifies as decent, but I’ve got a French Onion today and a corn chowder.”
“I’ll take a French dip sandwich then.”
“Soup?”
“French Onion.”
“Drink?” I asked.
“Coke.”
I pivoted away, sliding behind the counter and giving Britney exasperated eyes. I caught my messy reflection in the picture frame on the wall and dipped a fresh napkin in a cup of water before wiping the dried blood from my face. 
Britney looked over her shoulder and turned back to me, her sleek blonde eyebrows raised in question. I tried to silently convey that I would not be discussing the stranger while he was sitting in my diner. I filled a glass with Diet Coke and placed it in front of her with a straw before starting the sandwich on the stove against the wall.
Whether from sheer stubbornness or an effort to assuage my pride, I delivered the best French dip sandwich and soup I had ever made with a fresh Coke and a side of hot fries.
“I didn’t order the fries,” he said when I placed the plate in front of him on the table.
“On the house.”
“Oh, but I don’t…”
I looked at him expectantly. He didn’t what? Want them? I tried to smile, growing less patient as the headache grew more pronounced. The ring of the bell above the door saved him from answering and I left him to eat in peace as I seated Mrs. Hansen and began brewing her regular mug of tea.
I delivered the mug with a side of plain rye toast—there really was no accounting for taste sometimes. 
“Madison, you’ve a little something right there,” Mrs. Hansen said, pointing to the bridge of her own wrinkled nose.
Instinctively I reached up to touch the bridge of mine and regretted it instantly. “It’s probably a bruise,” I explained. “Let me know if I can get you anything else.”
Safe behind the counter again, I slumped forward, resting on my elbows.
Britney peered at me over the rim of her cup, her head tilting to the side, her eyes squinting. 
“That bad, huh?” I asked, my voice low and nasally.
“Um,” she said. “No?”
“I just hope it doesn’t turn into two big black eyes.”
Britney grinned, loudly sipping the dregs of her Diet Coke. “You could always reschedule your date with Patrick.”
I groaned. “I can’t, though. I’ve rescheduled three times already and I need his help moving my furniture.”
“I’m going to tell him you only want him for his body.”
“Don’t you dare,” I said, laughing. “But I might need to borrow a little concealer.”
“Girl, you’re going to need more than a little.”
A throat cleared to the side of the counter and I straightened. The cover model was standing a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets. That was quick.
“Can I get you something else?”
“No, it was great. I left cash on the table.”
“Wonderful. Thanks for stopping in,” I said, trying very hard not to sound sarcastic. “If you’re ever back in Holly Springs be sure to stop by The Bell.”
He gave me a look that clearly said he knew I was delivering my spiel with a side of sarcasm. 
He nodded and left.
“Explain,” Britney said before the door had even closed all the way behind the guy.
I shrugged. “Nothing to say.”
Her face was a picture of doubt. “There’s a handsome stranger eating in your diner that you seem to have a strong dislike for and you’re sporting a bruised nose. There’s a story here.”
“He hit me in the face with a bottle of Fred’s hot sauce.” I raised my hands to stave off her indignation. “It was an accident, but then he had the gall to insult my diner.”
“Ah, I see,” she said, leaning back on her stool. “And he’s only passing through?”
“Probably,” I said, removing her empty glass and wiping the counter to remove water rings. Hardly anyone passed through anymore, and when they did, they never stayed long. It was something which would need to change if I was going to save the diner.
Britney sighed. “I hope you’re wrong.”
Ignoring her, I moved around the counter to clear Hot Sauce Guy’s table. The full plate of fries sat untouched. Scoffing, I dumped the plate in the clean-up bin with the rest of the dirty dishes.
“My boyfriend is constantly out of town and I need some eye candy. We could use some fresh men,” she said, spinning around on her stool. “Especially if they look like him. They don’t make them like that in Holly Springs.”
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