Page 75 of Mr. Darcy’s Forgotten Heir (Pride and Prejudice Variations #1)

The storeroom was small but surprisingly clean, with shelves stacked neatly with flower pots, bags of soil, and boxes of ribbon.

Max sat on the edge of the narrow cot, a now-empty bowl of soup balanced on his knee.

The warmth of the food in his stomach and the relative safety of four solid walls around him created a drowsy comfort he hadn’t felt in days.

He set the bowl aside and took stock of his surroundings.

A small window high on the wall let in thin moonlight through the break in the clouds.

The rain had slowed to a gentle patter, no longer the driving force that had pushed him into town.

The cot had a thin but clean mattress, and the blanket Lily had provided smelled faintly of lavender soap.

It was more than he deserved, and nowhere near what he needed.

Five thousand dollars. A fortune to most people in a town this size. Enough money to fix a leaking roof, buy a better delivery truck, or put away for hard times. Would Lily’s kindness hold against that temptation, once she knew?

He refolded the poster and tucked it away. It wouldn’t matter. By first light, he’d be gone, sparing her the choice and himself the inevitable disappointment.

Max stretched out on the cot, not bothering to remove his boots.

His clothes had mostly dried by the fire in Lily’s small kitchenette, but the chill remained deep in his bones.

He pulled the blanket up to his chin and listened to the sounds of the shop settling—the tick of a clock somewhere beyond the curtain, the occasional creak of the building as the wind pushed against it, the distant sound of waves breaking against the shoreline.

As exhaustion claimed him, his last conscious thought was of Lily’s face when she’d told him about her husband. Not the grief, which had been carefully contained, but the quiet resilience beneath it. The strength to continue offering kindness in a world that had taken so much from her.

Dawn seeped through the storeroom’s single window like watered-down paint, pale gray and hesitant. Max woke instantly, the soldier’s habit of snapping from sleep to alertness still embedded in his nerves after all these years.

A glance at his watch told him it was just after six. He sat up, wincing as his muscles protested. Three days of running, of sleeping rough, had taken their toll. Still, he felt more rested than he had in weeks.

Max stood, stretching muscles stiff from tension and hard running. He ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. What he wouldn’t give for a proper shave, a hot shower, clean clothes. The simple luxuries of a normal life, now as distant as the stars.

It was time to go. He’d promised Lily he’d be gone before the shop opened, and if nothing else, he could still keep his word.

The thought of stepping back into the fugitive’s life waiting beyond the shop door made his chest tighten, but he’d known this shelter was temporary.

One night of kindness in a world gone cold.

He folded the blanket she’d given him, creasing it with military precision.

His clothes had dried overnight, though they still carried the gritty feel of days on the road.

He smoothed them as best he could, then gathered his few possessions—a wallet with almost no money, a pocketknife, a battered photograph of his parents that he hadn’t been able to leave behind when he ran.

The shop was quiet as he slipped through the curtained doorway.

The front room stood empty, flower arrangements waiting in peaceful formation for the day’s customers.

Ribbons of morning light streamed through the front windows, catching on glass vases and turning ordinary blooms into something magical.

Max paused, struck by the simple beauty of it all. After the ugliness of war, after the betrayal that had sent him running, there was something almost painfully pure about this small shop with its offerings of beauty.

“You’re up early.”

He turned to find Lily watching him from the bottom of a narrow staircase he hadn’t noticed before. She was already dressed for the day in a simple blue dress with her apron tied nearly around her waist.

“I said I’d be gone before you opened,” Max replied, suddenly aware of how rough he must look in the clear light of morning.

She studied him. “Did you sleep?”

“Yes. Thank you.” The words felt inadequate for the gift she’d given—not just shelter, but a moment of peace in a life that had become a desperate scramble.

She nodded, then moved past him toward the counter. “There’s coffee, if you want some before you go. And toast.”

The simple offer caught him off guard. He’d expected her to be relieved to see him heading for the door, not inviting him to linger.

“Just coffee,” he said finally. “I don’t want to delay you opening.”

“The shop doesn’t open until eight,” she replied, moving toward the back room. “The coffee’s already made.”

Max followed, keeping a respectful distance. The kitchenette beyond was small but tidy, with a hotplate, a percolator, and a few cupboards. A small table with two chairs sat beneath a window overlooking a tiny garden, more functional than decorative.

Lily poured coffee into a blue mug—not the chipped one from last night, he noticed, but one with a delicate floral pattern—and handed it to him. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Black is fine,” he said, taking the mug with a nod of thanks. The coffee was strong and fragrant, clearly not the cheap stuff he was used to. “This is good.”

“My one luxury,” she said, pouring a cup for herself. “Life’s too short for bad coffee.”

He accepted the mug, the heat seeping into his palms. “You’re being kind again.”

“Habit,” she said with a small shrug. “Hard to break.”

Max took a sip, the coffee bitter and strong. Real coffee, not the watered-down stuff from diners where he’d hidden during his flight north. “I meant what I said last night. I won’t bring trouble to your door.”

“By leaving, you mean.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.”

She turned away, moving to adjust a display of carnations. “Where will you go?”

The question hung between them, simple and impossible.

In his desperation to escape the Bay Area, he’d followed the coastline to avoid going in circles.

He couldn’t hitchhike but he should have perhaps jumped onto a railroad cart and let it take him far into the interior.

Now, he was exposed with the sea on one side, and the towns growing smaller and farther between.

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.” This wasn’t a lie. “Just figuring it out as I go.”

Her quiet nodding assessment saw through him. He was sure. He had to leave immediately before she would recognize him from the Wanted Posters that hung at post offices across the state.

“I should get going.” He set the half-empty mug on the counter. “I’ve imposed enough.”

Lily looked like she was about to respond when the shop bell jingled from the front. Her head turned sharply toward the sound, a frown creasing her brow. “I’m not open yet,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

A man stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the morning light. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a star pinned to his chest and a hat held in his weathered hands. The county sheriff.

Max’s muscles coiled, ready to run, but there was nowhere to go. The only exit was the door the lawman blocked. His eyes darted to Lily, a silent apology forming in his mind. This was exactly what he’d feared—bringing danger to her doorstep after her kindness.

But Lily’s face betrayed nothing. “Morning, Sheriff Buckner,” she said, her voice casual, impossibly steady. “What can I do for you today? Alice’s birthday isn’t until next month.”

“Not looking for flowers today, Lily.” The man’s voice was deep, unhurried, with the measured cadence of someone accustomed to authority. “Got something else I need to ask you about.”

With nowhere to go, Max kept his head down and moved toward the flower displays, rearranging them and picking up stray petals that had fallen on the floor.

The sheriff stepped inside and spotted him immediately. “Who’s your helper? I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Max’s heart hammered so hard it was like a battering ram through his ribs. One word from the sheriff—one flash of recognition if he’d seen the wanted posters—and it would be over. He opened his mouth, but Lily spoke first.

“My cousin from Oakland. Came up to help me with some repairs after that last big storm took out part of my back wall.” She gestured vaguely toward the storeroom. “Finally getting around to fixing it proper.”

The lie fell from her lips with such ease that Max almost believed it himself. He watched the sheriff’s face, searching for any sign of suspicion.

Sheriff Buckner nodded slowly. “Didn’t know you had family in Oakland.”

“Mother’s side,” Lily replied, turning to rearrange a vase of lilies. “Not close, but handy with a hammer, so I won’t complain.”

The casual dismissiveness in her tone was perfect—just disinterested enough to be convincing. Max forced his shoulders to relax, his face to assume an expression of mild boredom rather than the panic churning beneath his skin.

Max kept his head tilted down, focusing on stacking crates with methodical precision, as if the conversation held no interest for him. His mind raced through options—the distance to the woods visible beyond the town’s edge and whether he could outrun bullets if it came to that.

“That so?” The sheriff’s gaze remained on Max. “What line of work you in down in Oakland, son?”

Max cleared his throat. “Mechanic,” he said, offering the truth where he could. “Mostly engines, but I can manage carpentry when needed.”

Something flickered in the sheriff’s eyes—not quite suspicion, but a lawman’s native caution. “You picked a hell of a time to visit. Roads were washed out all over the county last night.”

“Got in before the worst of it,” Max said, the lie bitter on his tongue. “Lucky timing.”

“Lucky indeed.” The sheriff unrolled a paper in his hand—a wanted poster that made Max’s blood run cold. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have seen this fella on the road yesterday? We got word a fugitive might be headed this way from San Francisco. Dangerous character. Wanted for murder.”

Max felt rather than saw Lily stiffen slightly, her hands pausing over the flowers before resuming their work.

“Can’t say I have.” Max forced himself to stare at his own face in grainy black-and-white, alongside words that damned him: WANTED FOR MURDER, while shaking his head in consideration. “Wasn’t paying much mind to other travelers in that downpour.”

The sheriff’s gaze lingered on him for a beat too long before shifting to Lily. “How about you, Lily? Seen any strangers around?”

Lily didn’t hesitate. “Nope,” she said, her voice steady despite the lie. “Haven’t seen him. We don’t get many murderers stopping by for roses.”

Buckner grunted, refolding the poster with deliberate slowness. “Keep an eye out. Five thousand dollars is a lot of money. Could set a person up real nice.”

“Need anything else, Sheriff Buckner?” Lily maintained a friendly tone. “I can always do a special order for lilies if you need them.”

“With a name called Lily’s Bloom, you’d better keep them in stock.” The sheriff chuckled but his eyes remained locked on Max. He forced himself to meet the gaze briefly before returning to his task, projecting an indifference he was far from feeling.

After what felt like an eternity, Buckner tipped his hat and ambled toward the door.

“Well, keep an eye out all the same. Never can be too careful.” He settled his hat back on his head.

“Lily, you let me know if you need anything. And you—” he fixed Max with a final assessing look, “—take care of that back wall. Supposed to rain again by week’s end. ”

With a final nod, the sheriff turned and left, the bell jingling.

Lily moved deliberately to the window, pulled the shade halfway down and turned back to him. Her eyes sharp, searching, and distant.

“Max,” she said. “I think we need to talk.”

End of Excerpt. To read more, go to The Fugitive’s Flowers: Wrongfully Accused, Rightfully Loved