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chapter

one

Under the Milky Way – The Church

CAMPBELL

By the time Campbell True roared across the South Carolina state line, doing eighty in a fifty-five, his stepmother had been dead for a week. He shot a glance at a gorgeous field of wildflowers, figuring he had to give Celia Ryland True one thing.

She knew how to make a stunning exit.

Her lover’s yacht moored off the coast of St. Lucia, she decided to take a midnight swim wearing nothing but a thong and a two-day cocaine high.

According to the constable’s report faxed to Campbell’s photo shoot in Nepal, Celia died from blunt trauma before she hit the shallow waters of the Caribbean.

All because she hadn’t dived far enough to miss the side of the boat.

Last-minute flight reservations had Campbell skidding into town a day after the hastily planned memorial service, leaving Kit, his eleven-year-old half-brother, to face the mess without him.

Of course, their grandfather was there. In a dozen frantic phone calls before boarding the plane, Campbell made sure of that.

A mother’s death was a horrendous thing to endure, even if the mother in question had been dreadful. Campbell found it a complete nightmare at fourteen, despite being prepared for years.

Shoving haunting remembrances aside, he punched the gas, and the convertible darted forward.

He’d kept his main studio in Atlanta, confident Celia would one day drop the gauntlet, marry some piteous bastard, move into an opulent penthouse in New York or Paris, and grant him custody.

She was still beautiful enough to hook a wealthy old fool, like his father.

She’d been a widow long enough to marry without anyone thinking twice about it.

No luck, however. Her last letter had been as vicious as the ones before. In defiant slashes of pink ink, she promised to make Kit’s life a living hell if Campbell returned.

Unless he returned under her conditions.

He downshifted across the decrepit bridge spanning Jensen Creek, the rattle of loose boards and rusted bolts echoing as cotton fields loomed on both sides—spatters of white on a withered russet canvas.

His fingertips tingled, remembering the roughness of a boll as he wrenched it from the branch, brushing stink bugs off his arms and drinking in the dense aroma of turned soil and sunlight.

Close to home, Campbell realized, releasing a shaky breath.

Defenses rotting as surely as that ancient goddamn bridge, suppressed memories stormed inside.

His ninth birthday party and the sound of a violent argument in the next room; helping his inebriated mother to bed the night before she accidentally ended her life by swallowing a handful of pills; waiting in the emergency room for his father to, for once, show up.

Even as understanding, chilling but real, circled viciously through his mind: I get it, Mom.

Promise , he thought with a choked laugh. Could there be a worse name for a town that had done nothing but fling the True boys out like rocks from a slingshot, landing them anywhere but home? Practically the day after graduation, they’d run as fast and far as they could, without looking back.

And in the process, they’d lost each other.

For Campbell, it had been about survival: escape or let the anger sizzling beneath his skin explode, leveling emotional shrapnel at everyone he loved.

He’d had to create a new life outside the blast radius.

A gust of wind tossed his hair into his face, and he tossed it back. Remembering was pointless. The loss of contact with his cousins after they’d scattered like shards of a vase smashed against marble—a done deal. His depressing childhood? A done deal.

Now, nothing mattered except making sure Kit’s life turned out better than his had.

Campbell finally had the chance to make that happen.

Nearly missing the turn due to the distressing thoughts crowding his mind, he jerked the wheel, tires screeching in protest as he swung onto Main. Slow down, Camp, slow the fuck down.

But the images kept coming, strikes as hard as a fist.

The red brick courthouse emerged from a copse of sugar maples shedding crimson and gold, the curtains on his father’s office window thrown wide, something they’d never been while Nathaniel True sat behind his imposing desk.

Wrought- iron benches circled the fountain his grandfather had constructed in the ‘60s, hoping to entice Southern Living to do a story on Promise.

Even with the small town regulars—drugstore, diner, bar, hardware store—holding court, the town appeared slightly revitalized, as his cousin Justin had promised.

Colorful storefronts, hanging baskets attached to lampposts, more of those damn benches.

Wisteria vines and magnolias, reminders of how far south you were.

Rustic charm, Southern Living had declared last year, thirty years too late in his grandfather’s opinion.

On the corner, Justin’s gallery, True Art, filtered into view, a photograph Campbell had taken of the Pantheon crowding the front window.

He didn’t know how he felt about his photos stepping back into Promise when he couldn’t.

As he crested the hill, he caught sight of Tammi’s Hair Extraordinaire.

Tapping his fingers on the wheel, the first genuine smile in days crossed his face.

Could it be the same Tammi who had led him on a two-month chase in 1981 that ended with them messing around on top of a rusted cotton press?

He’d picked slivers of metal from his ass and stored them in a cigar box beneath his bed—his loss-of-virginity trophy.

Campbell grimaced as his car shuddered across the tracks, and he fired a terse glance at the mill, wondering if that press was still in there.

Decaying smokestacks rose above spiked pines like points on a crown.

Crumbling brick, foot-high weeds, rotting wood.

What had his mother meant by leaving it to him?

Telling him he would understand the significance of owning her daddy’s mill someday.

When he grew up.

Grew up, hell . A thousand choices stood between him and his boyhood, with little of the wisdom his mother had expected him to gain as the payoff.

Memories hitting hard, Campbell drew a fast breath, the scent of cut grass and burning leaves, of Promise and everything he’d left behind, a curt, crisp slap.

Excessive speed, personal demons, and a wall of snarled kudzu nearly kept him from seeing her.

At the flash of movement on the side of the road, Campbell checked his rear-view.

A stalled army surplus Jeep hauling a trailer piled high with gardening equipment.

A second glance revealed miles of willowy denim flowing from beneath the shade of a raised hood.

Debating, he glanced at the brooding sky and miles of deserted asphalt snaking into the distance.

With a sigh, he spanked the brakes and popped into reverse.

The young woman turned when he climbed from the car. Heat flared in his gut as sunlight chased shadow from her face. Eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea swept over him as lips—lovely, rosy, full—tightened. Her shoulders rose and fell with a tense breath.

Feisty and skittish, the kind of challenge no man could ignore. Not when the woman in question embodied the Beach Boys’ California Girl so perfectly, she could have graced the album cover.

She was standing in accidental short light, the shadowed side of her face closest to him.

It perfectly captured her edge, the sexy tilt of her mouth, all smoothed out by the cornfields flowing like a gentle river behind her.

Without thinking, Campbell brushed his chest, a blind reach for his Leica, then checked himself with a muttered oath.

It sat, along with his equipment, in the back seat.

Raising her chin as he approached, her frown deepened, the end of her ponytail rolling forward to flick the rounded edge of her breast. Intrigued beyond measure, Campbell’s gaze traveled from the toes of her muddy Doc Martens to the collar of a bright orange T-shirt peeking from a pair of slim-fitting overalls.

He categorized as if he were preparing for a shoot.

Damp cotton and faded denim, forearms showing a tantalizing hint of muscle, dirt marring her nose…

He actually felt his reaction—a whisper, imaginary yet tangible, tickling his ear, a light stroke across his abdomen. For one second, time stopped. His heart tripped, his breath caught, until he was forced to release it in a ragged puff.

Fuck . She was luscious enough to swallow in one bite.

Would it be difficult to get a woman out of those things, with the metal straps and side buttons? Ridiculous thought, but he was a man.

And his brain went...right...there .

The luscious package shaded her eyes, pressed her tongue between her teeth, and offered the same clicking sound she’d toss to a dog. “Can I help you with something besides taking inventory?”

Man, oh man, this kept getting better . “Looks to me like I’m the one who’s going to help.”

Flustered, she glanced at her steaming engine. “Yes, well, I do have a problem.”

“It certainly seems that way.” He wanted to smile but knew it would appear overconfident, perhaps even wolfish. Or so he’d been told.

“I don’t suppose”—her gaze swung back, trailed down, the hopeful light in her eyes dying before she hit his belt—“you know much about engines.”

He hitched a shoulder. “Afraid I don’t.”

She shook her head, sending the gathered hair swinging. “Your kind never does.”

Properly stung, Campbell stepped forward, dry grass cracking beneath his suede loafers.

Granted, not shoes suited to engine repair, but ones perfect for funerals.

Intent on, hell , doing something masculine, he leaned in, a cloud of oily steam peppering his brow.

He’d never dabbled much with cars, but he could put together a camera and take it apart in minutes .