The Great Escape (Wynette, Texas #7)(57)

“Describe it.”

“What do you mean, ‘describe it’?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Describe the furniture that used to be in here.”

“A couch. Some chairs. Where is it?”

“What color was the couch?”

He gritted his teeth. “It was a couch. It was couch-colored. What did you do with it?”

“If you told me what it looked like,” she said with exaggerated patience, “I might remember.”

“It looked like a couch!” he exclaimed.

“You don’t remember,” she said triumphantly. “You don’t have a clue what anything in this room looked like. What anything in this house looks like. None of this means anything to you.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I know I had a couch and now it’s gone.”

“It’s not gone. It’s in the sunroom. Along with some chairs and a couple of other things you wouldn’t recognize. You don’t care about this house, and you don’t deserve it.”

“Tough. It’s mine. And I want my pig back.”

That stopped her. “Your pig?”

“The pig that was in the kitchen.”

“That ugly pig with the waiter’s apron and the missing ear?”

“The ear isn’t missing. It’s only chipped.”

That stunned her. “You remember the chip in that stupid pig’s ear, but you don’t know what color your couch is?”

“I’m more into the ceramic arts.”

“Panda!” Temple shrieked from upstairs. “Come spot me.”

Viper gazed toward the stairs. “It’s fascinating,” she said, “how well you’ve adapted to being Temple Renshaw’s bitch.”

He stalked toward the hallway. “That pig had better be back where it was the next time I walk in the kitchen, or you’ll never see your food again.”

“Your pig is ugly!” she shouted after him.

“So’s your mother,” he shot back, which made her furious. Not really at him. More at herself. Because she almost laughed.



BREE WAS CLOSING THE FARM stand for the night when the white pickup slowed, then stopped. The lettering across the door read JENSEN’S HERB FARM.

It was nearly dark, and she’d just finished packing up the last of her unsold honey in the cardboard carton she’d propped in the wheelbarrow. She’d been up since before six, trying to finish weeding Myra’s overgrown garden, she’d forgotten to eat again, and she was bone-tired. Still, there were a few good things about today. She’d sold eighteen jars of honey along with some strawberries and asparagus that had survived the neglect. She also almost had a friend, not that she believed someone as famous as Lucy would ever be a real friend, but still, it was nice.

Toby had done his customary disappearing act, but as the truck door opened, he came racing down the drive. “Big Mike!”

She barely avoided dropping the jars as Mike Moody climbed out. After such a grueling day, this was too much. She still couldn’t quite reconcile his current good looks with the fat, acne-faced teenager she remembered. If she didn’t know better, she’d have pegged him as an amiable soccer dad instead of a crass, loudmouth sneak.

He grinned and waved at Toby. “Hey, kid. I brought you something.”

“What?” Toby cried as Mike walked around to the back of the truck.

“What do you think?” Mike swung down the tailgate and, in a single effortless motion, pulled off a shiny silver mountain bike.

Classic Mike Moody. She knew exactly how this would play out.

Toby stared at the bike as if it would disappear the moment he looked away. She wanted to forbid him to take it, but of course she couldn’t. Mike’s ambush had made that impossible.

Toby’s voice grew small, uncertain, unable to comprehend that something so wonderful was happening to him. “For me?”

Bree blinked her eyes against a sting of tears. He’d received a gift he hadn’t needed to fight for. A gift she couldn’t have given him.

As Toby reached out to touch the handlebars, Bree understood what Toby couldn’t. The bike wasn’t being offered out of affection but as a way for Mike to horn in where he didn’t belong. He’d done the same thing when they were kids. Shown up with bags of Skittles and Lemonheads—entrance tickets to the group that wanted to exclude him.

“Brand-new,” Mike said. “I saw it when I was on the mainland yesterday and thought to myself, now who could use a great bike like that? Only one name came to mind.”

“Me,” Toby said on a long, soft breath. His lips were parted, his eyes so focused on the bike that nothing else existed. He looked exactly as David used to look when something he regarded as amazing happened. She ached with the pain of remembrance.

Mike pulled some tools from the truck bed and they worked together—man to man—to adjust the seat height. She was so angry she felt sick. She wanted to be the one giving David’s son a bicycle. She wanted to be the one who made Toby’s world brighter, not this master manipulator with his overpowering cologne, designer logos, and oily charm.

Toby mounted the bike. As his spindly legs found the pedals, Mike pointed down the drive. “It’s too dark to ride on the road tonight. Give it a spin in the driveway, then try it out on the path in the woods.”