Broken Read online

  Broken

  KC Enders

  Copyright © 2020 by KC Enders

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at https://www.kcenderswrites.com/

  Cover Designer: Alora Kate

  Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofreader: Judy Zweifel

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

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  To my husband.

  And to my family—those of love and those of blood.

  Contents

  Letter to Reader

  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

  Epilogue

  Rules Of Being A Gentleman

  The Salvation Society

  Inspirational Music

  Acknowledgments

  Books by KC Enders

  About the Author

  Letter to Reader

  Dearest Reader,

  Have you ever had a dream so big, it’s seemingly out of reach? One that, when it actually happens, you’re not quite sure whether to laugh, cry or pinch yourself? That’s what this whole writing thing is for me. A dream come true.

  Now, imagine if you stretched that dream to include the possibility of writing a story in the world of one of your favorite authors. Right…RIGHT? That falls solidly into the shoot-for-the-moon category of dreaming, because I love Corinne’s Salvation characters like it’s my job!

  Corinne took a chance on me, allowing me to add my words to her world. The timing was perfect since I had a character from my series of stand-alones who was speaking to me. Chloe Triplett needed a chance at salvation. Her story was introduced in Tombstones, the final installment of my Beekman Hills series—maybe. Who knows, there could always be another one!

  Beekman Hills is my hometown, it’s where I grew up. Where I fell in love and experienced heartbreak, because, let’s be honest, you can’t have one without the other…or so they say. But my characters have a habit of jumping books, sharing space, and showing up wherever they want. So, when you’re done here, go check them out! Pour yourself a beverage and dive into the Irish pub in small town New York. Listen to sweet nothings whispered in Gaelic. Find out what’s so special about the lead guitarist in the band. And don’t forget about going back to where it all started for Chloe Triplett…

  All my love,

  KC

  Prologue

  Chloe

  A hush falls over the cemetery as the doors of the hearse creak open.

  My husband’s best friend, Jack, walks with me behind Dallas’s casket, quietly supporting me. I reach out, searching for one last moment with my dead husband. I’m not ready to let him go. I’ll never be ready to let him go.

  Jack escorts me to the chairs set in two precise rows, occupied by my son, my parents, and my brothers. Dallas’s parents, his sister. Even Dallas’s granddad—God bless him—is here, refusing a seat, instead leaning on his cane.

  “Thank you,” I whisper as Jack lowers himself into the chair next to me.

  The chaplain speaks, his voice ringing out sad and clear, but nothing he says registers. How can it? My husband is dead, lying in the flag-draped box in front of me. It’s too soon. We had too many things left undone in our lives for him to be ripped away from us now.

  How am I going to do this on my own?

  The air changes as the uniformed service members shift, standing at attention, tall and proud. Jesse Dennison, the team sergeant for Dallas’s unit, moves into position next to the casket. Even though I know what’s coming, I flinch as he starts the final roll call.

  “Staff Sergeant Riojas,” he calls in a booming voice.

  “Here, Team Sergeant,” comes the response.

  “Sergeant First Class Baker.”

  “Here, Team Sergeant.”

  The crack in my chest deepens.

  “Sergeant Vance.”

  “Here, Team Sergeant.”

  “Sergeant Triplett.”

  Silence. And my heart stalls in my chest.

  “Sergeant Dallas Triplett.”

  Crippling pain sears through me, ripping me apart.

  “Sergeant Dallas H. Triplett.”

  My life is in tatters, my love lying broken at my feet.

  The only sound is my gasped sob. Jack wraps an arm around me, pulling me back from the brink. Back from where I was reaching out for Dallas, my hand grasping at nothing but air. I’m only barely aware that Jack is supporting me, holding me up. Holding me back because, without him, I think I could throw myself across Dallas’s casket.

  I don’t know how much more I can take.

  I don’t know how I can live without him.

  The crisp report of rifle fire echoes across the hill.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Jake startles next to me, crying out, “My daddy. I want my daddy.”

  Tears stream down my face, unbidden and unwelcome.

  The chilling strains of “Taps” rise up. Sunlight glints off the bugle as the flag is removed from Dallas’s casket, precisely folded, and carefully smoothed. Three brass shell casings rest on top.

  With my husband’s flag clutched tightly to my chest and Jake sobbing as Jack tends to us, I say my final good-bye to the only man I’ve ever loved.

  Chapter One

  Chloe

  Five years later

  Deep breath in, slowly exhale. Deep breath in, slowly exhale.

  Anxiety pulls at every cell in my body, panic looming, staring me down. My gaze darts around the inside of the gas station as I try to commit each face to memory, looking for a sign that one of them is harboring a secret. Searching for a tell, a flash of metal, a nervous twitch that comes just before the strike.

  “Mom, can I get a soda?” Jake asks.

  I scan the faces again, and with a terse nod, my hand clamped firmly on his shoulder, I guide my son to the wall lined with cups and fountain drinks.

  “You’re doing it again, jeez. I can get it,” he whines, shrugging against my hand.

  I miss my sweet, polite, respectful little boy and wonder for a hot minute who replaced him with this prepubescent Jekyll. Or is it Hyde? It doesn’t really matter at the moment because we just need to get out of here—and fast.

  “Quickly, please,” I tell him, paying more attention to the bodies filtering in and out of the store than I am to Jake.

  Concerned about what is taking so long, I dart a glance to Jake, only to see it’s not just a soda he’s getting. The biggest cup they have is nearly overflowing with the sugariest, most caffeinated bright red beverage availab
le.

  “Jacob Wyatt Triplett, what are you thinking?” I scold.

  He, of course, rolls his eyes and gives me a frustrated sigh that would test the patience of Mother Teresa. There are only so many things I can concentrate on at once, and right now, I need to focus on our safety.

  “Put a lid on it, and let’s go,” I say through gritted teeth.

  I steer him to the register, already holding my debit card and hating that I have my back to the room. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Scared.

  Jake stands next to me, the ridiculous vat of soda clutched possessively in both of his hands. And with each step we take toward the register, he takes a half-step to the side, putting distance between us.

  I swallow, trying to push down the lump that’s formed in my throat.

  “That’s three dollars and twenty-two cents,” the cashier says, sounding tinny and far away, already ringing up the next customer on the register to her left.

  I shove my card into the slot, and the sun glints off something shiny, reflecting a burst of light into my eyes. I flinch, reaching blindly for Jake but he’s not there. He’s just out of reach, at the end of the counter, looking at brightly colored candies, oblivious to the world.

  With a metallic flash, panic surges through me in a way it hasn’t in a very long time. I bend my knees, lowering into a crouch, and step toward Jake. As my fingers brush against the sandy-brown hair curling behind his ear, what sounds like a gunshot slices through my heart, and the feel of shrapnel bites through the backs of my legs.

  My only thought is of getting to my son, keeping him safe.

  Another flash, and a hand latches on to my shoulder, pulling me back, away from Jake. Away from the object of my singular focus.

  My heart thrashes in my chest, my blood like lead in my veins.

  My lungs contract, pulling in tiny bursts of air, but I can’t breathe. There’s no in and out right now. Just in.

  My eyes are wide, but I see nothing as black dots fill my vision, tunneling and then finally closing in on me.

  I’m dying.

  My eleven-year-old son is going to be all alone. How long will it take his uncle Jack to find him? At least he’ll have a real family again. Jack will step into the dad role, and Kate will treat him like one of her own. Siblings. Jake will finally have the siblings he so desperately wanted before his dad died. He already fights with their twin boys like he is the older brother, and God knows he watches over their daughter, Hays, like it’s his mission in life.

  He’ll be okay. He’ll be okay. He has to be okay.

  * * *

  Jake’s voice is the first to filter through my fuzzy head. Not so much the words, just the sound of him chatting—but to whom? I don’t recognize the deep rumble asking Jake questions, but instead of pumping up my anxiety, the deep timbre soothes me.

  Awareness slowly comes back to me in drips and pieces, and I take stock of myself. My head is killing me, and the tiles of the floor pressed to my back are cold.

  The buzz and chattering of conversation between Jake and the stranger take form.

  “Her name is Chloe Triplett. I’m Jake. We just moved here, so we don’t really know anybody yet,” Jake says.

  A loud slurp through the straw tells me I’ve been out long enough for him to finish most of his drink.

  Three warm fingers wrap around my arm and press into my wrist below the meat of my thumb. I don’t know if it’s actually possible, but I feel each heartbeat thrum against that pressure. And each thump seems to be stronger, more electrified than the last. Pushing harder, beating sturdier. Like my heart is grasping at something just out of reach. Something exciting but safe. Something new yet soothingly familiar at the same time.

  My eyes flutter open, and I immediately seek out my son. When I find him safe, totally okay, breath whooshes from my lungs.

  “Hey, buddy,” I croak, my voice raspy and quiet.

  What I get in return is a dramatic eye roll and a look of absolute disgust from my almost teenager.

  “Why do you do that? Can we just go now?”

  My thoughts jump from concern for my precious boy—the last link I have to his father—to the obnoxious reminder of why tigers sometimes eat their young. I push myself up to sitting and try to shake off the big hand still firmly wrapped around my arm.

  “Slow down, ma’am.” The deep voice only registers in my brain in that it’s connected to the man holding me in place. Or maybe he’s holding me up.

  “Jake.” The warning in my voice is clear to everyone standing, gawking, except my kid, if facial expressions are any indication.

  I shove my feet underneath me and push myself up with my free hand, barely acknowledging that the stranger next to me is in fact helping me to stand. Panic bleeds through when I call to Jake again, and he turns and bolts out the door. I scoop my wristlet from the floor near my feet and search for my keys, but they’re nowhere to be seen, and I can’t let Jake be out there alone. I can’t trust him to make good choices, even for an eleven-year-old. His shitty judgment, which gets him into trouble, is half the reason we’re here in Virginia. The other half … I just can’t go there right now.

  With as much dignity as I can muster, I mumble, “Thank you,” to the kind stranger next to me and hurry out of the convenience store.

  I close my eyes and blow out a sigh of relief at the sight of my kid, pouty and sulking, standing with his back against the side of my car.

  “Hey, you’ve got to stick with me, Jake. I know you were embarrassed, but you can’t just take off like that. Especially now, in a new place, right?” I keep my voice low and calm because fear is a close friend of embarrassment, and neither party is particularly welcome at the moment.

  My friend, Kate, refers to it as the teacher voice. As a kindergarten teacher, hers is way different from mine, though there are times that I think her students are more mature than the ones I deal with in high school.

  “This is stupid,” Jake mumbles. “What if somebody saw you? What if they recognize me in school on Monday? I’ll literally die of … of …” He screws up his face as he searches for the right word.

  “Mortification,” I offer, leaning against the side of the car next to him, reveling in the bright winter sun. January in Virginia is a stark contrast from what New York would feel like now.

  “Yeah, that,” he says, focusing on the scuffed, frayed toes of his sneakers.

  I reach over and take a quick sip from the last of his soda, handing it back before the scowl fully settles on his face.

  “The good news is, anyone your age is in school right now, so they missed the entire thing. You’re safe from humiliation for at least another couple of days.” I manage to let only a half-smile find its way to my face.

  “And the bad news?” he asks, pushing his hair out of his face.

  I nod toward the store. “We have to go back in there together and find my keys. I dropped them when I went down.”

  His face scrunches up, and for a brief moment, I have a glimpse of sweet Jake. My little boy shows his face at the strangest times—when I least expect it and, if I’m lucky, when I need it the most.

  Chapter Two

  Miles

  I step up to the register and push a burrito and a liter bottle of water toward the center of the counter.

  A second burrito, an energy drink, and a couple of tallboys appear next to my lunch. “Add this to his tab, too.” Chance Robinson flashes his grin at me and then turns his attention to the cute blonde behind the counter.

  The cashier looks to me for confirmation, and I give her a quick nod.

  “Really, man?” I nudge one of the tall cans of beer he grabbed. “You prepping for happy hour already?” I ask, sticking my card into the reader. I should have gotten a bottle of ibuprofen and a sports drink to help with my hangover. I should seriously consider finding a better way to spend my evenings than drinking with my coworker.

  He stretches his arms over his head before dragging one hand down his face. Th
e sound of several days of dark stubble rasps across his palm. “I’m like a Boy Scout, man. Ready for anything.” A shit-eating grin slides across his face as he winks at the cashier.

  She’s all but drooling at his attention. Poor girl.

  “Don’t bother, sweetheart. This heartless bastard is called Tin Man for a reason,” I tell her.

  A set of keys skitters across the floor as I take a step back. I scoop them up and glance around. “Did that woman have her keys when she took off?”

  “Who, Sleeping Beauty?” Chance asks, never taking his eyes off the chick behind the counter. “Go save the day, Clark. Get on that.”

  I snag my lunch and walk toward the glass door. She’s leaning against the side of a dark red SUV, one of the small crossover ones. Her dark hair, piled high on her head, sways as she nods toward the store. Loose curls tease against the pale, creamy skin of her neck.

  I push through the door and drop my aviators down over my eyes as I approach. “Ma’am, you dropped these,” I say, stepping off the curb. A medallion jangles against the key fob as I hold the keys out for her.

  The kid throws me some serious shade, but the gorgeous woman cringes when she looks over her shoulder, embarrassment tingeing her cheeks pink. Black hair, sparkling blue eyes—she looks more like Snow White than Sleeping Beauty.