Rising Storm (MacKenzie Cove Romantic Suspense Book 1) Read online

  RISING STORM

  MACKENZIE COVE ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

  EDIE JAMES

  COPYRIGHT 2022 by Edie James

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  BEGIN with the series that started it all… Hope Landing Romantic Suspense. Click HERE to join my newsletter and download the first book FREE.

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  CONTENTS

  Copyright page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  First in Series FREE

  PROLOGUE

  STOP CRYING. Stop it.

  Knees trembling, he sank down next to the body and ground his teeth, trying his best to choke back the sobs. Real men didn't cry. They fought and yelled and drank. They got things done. Made things happen.

  Exactly what he did tonight.

  He should be happy. He wanted to be happy, but killing her had been worse than he expected. She struggled hard. On TV, the women died quickly, but she refused to stop.

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. She sprawled in the dirt where he'd dropped her, long hair knotted and tangled. Not so pretty now. Her make-up had run, marking her cheeks with dark tracks. She'd hate that if she knew. She was so proud of her perfect complexion.

  Proud of that stupid ring, too, for the few days she'd gotten to enjoy it. That made him snigger.

  What if he used it to further the story? He laughed out loud now, but quickly slapped a hand over his mouth. He was positive there was no one to hear him, but still. Stupid to take unnecessary chances.

  He sat back on his haunches, thinking it through. He loved the idea of using her own vanity against her. Another sliver of revenge for the stress she put him through all these months. So he'd take her prize, the thing she wanted above all else, and turn it against her.

  Mind made up, he lunged for her hand, pulling and tugging, but he couldn't get the ring off her rubbery finger.

  He swore. The word sliced through the pre-dawn chill.

  Calm down. It would be easier to get off once her body cooled.

  He took her wrist, grimacing at the flaccid weight. She'd still be alive if she wasn't so selfish. He offered money to leave—a lot for a girl like her—but she didn't care that her plans would have trashed his shining future.

  The breeze off the ocean stirred the air, bringing the bite of salt air and the muffled boom of breakers on the cliffs below. His teeth chattered. He was soaked with sweat and ready for a hot shower. The sky grew lighter, the outline of the hills behind him darker. Time to dump the body before the sun hit the old ranch house.

  He pulled himself up and crouched next to her, sliding one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and heaved. Her body barely moved.

  Panic flooded him, tasting heavy and metallic. What if he couldn't get her up the hill? She was a small girl, and he was a strong guy. How could she be so heavy?

  Tears flooded his eyes again. This time, they were hot with rage. He should have killed her by the well. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Just like always, his plan wasn't quite good enough.

  A family curse. Not big enough or fast enough or smart enough to take first place.

  "Think!" he whispered harshly.

  The truck. A blanket.

  He raced back to his vehicle and grabbed the old blanket he kept behind the seat. Rolling her up in it was easy. Pulling her up the hill took everything he had.

  Back and shoulders straining, he stayed to the center of the worn path. Since the fire a few years back, no one ever came up to the old place, but he couldn't be too careful. Dragging her over the weeds might make someone curious. He was too smart for that.

  See? He'd get himself out of this. No question now. Once he calmed down—used his brain—the solutions came to him. Always had.

  Be smart. Be bold. His father said it so often he had grooves in his ears from hearing it.

  By the time he reached the old well, his quads felt like rubber bands. But he was done. Almost.

  He dropped the ends of the blanket and dug his fingers into the warped boards covering the hole. Now things were going his way again.

  With the hard part over, he took a minute to arch his back, stretching the overworked muscles. Now all he had to do was throw her in.

  He paused for a second, thinking it through. The blanket he'd toss somewhere far away, just in case. He watched TV. DNA was on everything.

  Dragging and tugging, he positioned the body at the lip of the well and pulled the blanket away, sending her down the shaft.

  An ugly thud echoed up from the dark. He squinted into the well, but he couldn't see the bottom. Perfect.

  He folded the blanket. Smart that he remembered not to drop it in with her.

  The wind blew stronger now. The sun would crest the hill any minute. Blanket tucked under one arm, he tore back down the hill and jumped into his truck, careful not to slam the door. Play it safe. Play it smart.

  He was almost to the highway before it hit him. The ring.

  He slammed on the brakes, making the rear end fishtail, and pounded the steering wheel. No. No, no, no. He needed it to complete the story, to prove she changed her mind, handed it over, and left town. The ring was the key to everything.

  What should he do? What could he do?

  No way to climb into that pit without a ladder. Maybe come back later?

  Stupid idea. He couldn't come out to the property again, ever. Besides, he'd risk leaving evidence behind. All the cop shows talked about that kind of thing. No. He couldn't risk it. Not ever.

  The sun crested the hill and got swallowed by the dark clouds hovering over the swelling ocean behind him. His fear evaporated. If no one found her, the ring wouldn't matter.

  It would rain tonight. Hard, if the weatherman was correct. Every bit of evidence—every footprint and tire track—would be washed away. The well would fill, and the mud would bury her.

  Her and the stupid ring.

  1

  ALYSSA ARCHER HAD big plans for her Sunday afternoon: unpack a few moving boxes, then watch the fog roll in. But fatigue slammed into her before she even reached the turnoff to her new property. Too many days wondering if escrow would close, if she'd be able to find a competent contract
or, then movers, all while running the diner short-handed.

  Too many things to tackle on her own.

  "You should be used to it by now," she told herself.

  Even before JJ destroyed the last of her friendships with his tragic mistake, she'd been mostly alone. Just her and Nona and a few close friends, none of which survived in the wake of her husband's horrific accident.

  She steered one-handed as she opened the driver's side window. The brisk sea air would perk her up. Her hair whipped around her face as she breathed in the scent of the ocean, of adventure. She'd lived by the sea all her life. The scent never failed to make her think of ships sailing past the edge of the horizon, and anglers rolling back into the harbor in their well-loved boats. Back to their small town, where everyone was a neighbor.

  Or an enemy.

  Impatient with her dark thoughts, she moved to close the window, but the smell of smoke hit her. She sniffed again, urging her old SUV on faster as she turned off the main road onto the rutted dirt track leading to the ranch house.

  Her rutted track now, since yesterday at noon precisely. Her land. Her beat-up outbuildings and worn farmhouse. Her view, until the fog rolled back in. Ten acres at the top of Widow Hill, all of it facing the wide open Pacific. All she had to do was sign her life away to pay the mortgage.

  Her nose twitched. She bent her head, craning her neck so she could see the line of buildings on the ridge above her. The ranch house, barn, and tool shed were silhouetted by the light reflected off the ocean, a wide horizon of blue. The last structure, the sway-backed old chicken coop, sat farther down the hill, just out of view. No smoke was visible, but that acrid odor couldn't be anything else. It smelled like the leaf piles old timers used to burn before the practice was banned along the coast.

  Her heart thumped fast and hard, shooting adrenaline into her bloodstream.

  She hadn't made any fires. The fireplace in the main house needed serious masonry work before it would be safe enough to light, and she hadn't cooked so much as an egg on the stove yet.

  Maybe she was imagining things. Three days spent running her restaurant short-handed had left her with aching feet and a sore brain. Owner, manager, hostess, busboy and chief dishwasher were too many roles for one person to take on. Even her. Apparently, growing up in the diner didn't give a person extra stamina.

  She was badly in need of a hot bath and a good book. Maybe a grilled cheese for dinner. And no trouble. Her day had been bad enough already.

  But the onshore breeze brought the smell closer. Definitely smoke. She gunned the engine, sending her old 4x4 plowing through the grooves in the road. Once she hit the gravel parking area between the barn and the house, the roofline of the chicken coop appeared. Tendrils of smoke leaked out the broken windows.

  Wispy ones, thankfully, but still. Smoke.

  She hit the parking brake and flew out of the car. Where was that extra fire extinguisher she'd brought from the restaurant? She started toward the sagging barn doors, but then she remembered she'd set the big red canister in the kitchen, next to the stove. The only source of ignition—that she knew of—on the property.

  Heart racing hard enough to make her hands shake, she fumbled with her keys, dropping them twice before she got the door unlocked. Leaving them in the lock, she ran to the kitchen and scooped up the heavy extinguisher.

  She thought about calling the fire department, but the smoke was light. Engines would take ten or twenty minutes to reach her remote property. If she hurried, she might put it out quickly.

  Skidding on the dry dirt, she made it to the coop and peered through a crack between the door and the frame. Small yellow flames, only a foot high, shot up from the far corner.

  She kicked open the door, pulled the pin on the extinguisher and fired thick foam at the base of the flames.

  Please, Lord, let this work.

  She lifted a prayer to her Savior, and then a few words of thanks. The dented canister still had plenty of life in it. Smothering the handful of flames took just seconds.

  She dropped the empty can. The flames might be out, but her pulse still pounded in her ears. She circled the space, making sure she'd drowned every spark.

  It looked like the fire started in a far corner, where years of ocean breezes had blown old leaves into a thick pile. The dry tinder made sense, but what had ignited it?

  She squinted up at the vintage light hanging overhead. Old wiring, maybe?

  Couldn't be. The electricity was off to the entire property, except the main house. The engineer who inspected the place insisted on it until she could get an electrician in. One more thing to add to the growing list of renovations that already included re-drilling her well and shoring up the ancient septic system.

  Fumes from the extinguisher caught in her lungs, making her cough. She backed outside, but the sea air didn't clear her mind.

  A chill ran down her spine.

  Buying the property had been a long, stressful task, especially given the strange roadblocks that popped up every time she got close to closing the deal. And now this?

  Hands on her hips, she stared out over the undulating water, willing the black thoughts to cease. The buildings were old. The chicken coop was the worst. A good storm would flatten the thing.

  Not surprising a fire might start there.

  Except she couldn't imagine what would ignite it.

  Another coughing spell wracked her. She bent forward, hands on her thighs, until it passed, then she wiped her nose with the back of her hand and surveyed the damage.

  She'd caught the fire in time. The walls were barely singed. Just to be on the safe side, she hauled a couple buckets of water from the kitchen and doused the spot until water ran under the walls and out into the parched soil outside.

  She was trudging back up the hill to fill one last bucket when a flutter of white caught her eye. A piece of paper weighted down with a rock sat atop an oak barrel at the door to the barn. In her focus on the fire, she'd run straight past it when she parked her car.

  Her steps slowed. The page fluttered in the building breeze, the sound jarring, almost malevolent.

  She turned in a tight circle until she'd eyed her surroundings from every direction. Strange, the nasty feeling the page gave her. She had to force herself to inch toward it.

  Now within arm's length, she snatched it quickly, as if a rattlesnake might bite her if she hesitated. The printing was rough and uneven. Angry.

  You don't belong here. Leave now, before things really get hot.

  Ugly emotions scalded her cheeks. Fear. Anger. Embarrassment. Someone hated her enough to sneak all the way out here and deliver this awful note.

  The note pinched between her thumb and forefinger, she scuttled to the far side of her truck and pulled out her phone to dial 911.

  The call wouldn’t connect. She checked her bars. One.

  Cell service was spotty this far outside of town. She wasn't used to that yet. Clutching both her phone and the vile note, she ran for the house. The signal was strongest around the back, on the ocean side. Heart skittering, she tripped across the uneven porch and threw herself down in her lone plastic chair.

  Four bars now.

  She forced herself to breathe, to take a minute and collect her thoughts so she could explain the issue without sounding like a crazy person. A moment's clarity helped her realize that calling 911 wasn't necessary. She should call the department directly. She needed a detective, not emergency services.

  It took a minute to google the main police department line, but at least by the time she dialed, she had her thoughts sorted.

  "MacKenzie Cove police, how may I help you?" Rosalie Gamble's reassuring voice came over the line.

  The softness of the other woman's greeting brought tears to her eyes. Officer Gamble was a regular at the diner. She liked berry French toast with extra hot syrup, and hot, black coffee.

  She swallowed hard, hoping she wouldn't sound like a loon. "Hi, Rosalie, it's Alyssa, from the Famished
Fisherman. I've had an intruder."

  "Hey, Alyssa." The woman's voice sharpened with concern. "Are you safe? Are they still on the property?"

  "I don't know. I don't think so."

  But she hadn't looked. She didn't even see that note until she'd gotten the fire out. She reached out with her senses. Would she know if someone was lurking in the barn? The house?

  She pressed her head back against the rough wood of the wall, willing herself to stay calm.

  "Hang tight, Alyssa. I'm sending two units right away. Once they arrive, I'll call the new chief, too. He's probably already in town. We'll have help up there in less than two minutes."

  Alyssa shook her head, and then remembered Rosalie couldn't see her. "I'm not at the Fisherman. I'm at my new house, the Martinetti place, outside of town."

  The sound of a keyboard came over the line. "Gotcha. We've got two officers on patrol today. Simpson and Bollinger are ten minutes from your position. How about you and I stay on the line until they get there?"

  "Thank you."

  Phone still to her ear, she stared out over the ocean, but fear sucked all the beauty from the view.

  "It's my pleasure," Rosalie said. "It's slow here today. You're doing me a favor."

  The comforting little lie made Alyssa smile. The Lord reminding her she wasn't as alone as she imagined.

  But the fear seeped right back in. She didn't dare go inside, where she might lose the signal, so she grabbed a hunk of wood from the pile next to the back door. Not the most sophisticated weapon, but far better than nothing.

  "How we doing?" Rosalie asked.

  "I'm okay. Mostly."

  The other woman laughed. "I never doubted it. Any woman who can sling hash, negotiate with a grouchy fish broker, and get the freshest eggs in town can handle a little extra excitement, right?"

  "Sure. No problem."

  Wanting to let Rosalie know she was okay, Alyssa cast about for something to talk about. "You said, 'New chief.' I didn't know the town counsel had already hired Chief Gunderson's replacement."

  The older man hadn't planned to retire for another year yet, but after a second mild heart attack, his wife insisted he resign, effective immediately.