"Today."
“Sometimes, you’re worse than my mother. Definitely worse than Fallon.”
“I take that as a compliment.”
“I suppose, in a way, it is.” He turned to look at her, and for a moment she saw everything he was holding back—the grief, the exhaustion, the anger that had nowhere to go. He looked like a man who'd been hollowed out and was running on nothing but fumes and stubbornness. "Okay," he said quietly. "Today."
She nodded and settled back into her seat, keeping her hand on his arm.
They sat there for a while longer, the Jeep idling, the gate hanging open like an unanswered question. Somewhere in the distance, a gator bellowed.
Dove didn't know what was coming. But she knew it wasn't good.
And she knew, with a certainty that settled into her bones like cold water, that whatever had started today wasn't going to end easily.
Chapter Three
Three Weeks Later
Trent had been nursing the same beer for forty minutes, and it had gone warm a while ago.
He didn't care. Drinking wasn't the point. Sitting here, in public, surrounded by people—that was the point. That was the promise he'd made to his mother right before she took her last breath.
Try harder. Be better. Less sharp-edged. Less alone.
Some nights, the promise fit like a sweatshirt. Tonight, it dragged like a blade against bone. Not because he didn’t want to crawl out of the grief that had swallowed him, because he did. He was tired, and the last thing he wanted was to slip back into living on the fringe between right and wrong like he had for so many years after his father had died.
However, the town notice sat on the table in front of him—taunting him—creased from where he'd folded and unfolded it a dozen times. He'd found it tacked to the bulletin board outside the general store this morning, right between a flyer for the church bake sale and a lost dog poster.
NOTICE OF PUBLIC HEARING: Sovereign Resources Inc. hereby provides notice of intent to file for mining permits in the Calusa Cove watershed region. Proposed limestone extraction operations would be located in Sections 12, 13, and 24 of Township 53 South...
Section 24. That was right next to Mallor's Landing. That was his home.
Trent had read the notice so many times that the words had lost their meaning. Mining permits. Limestone extraction. Environmental impact assessment. It all sounded so clean, so clinical, as if they were only talking about paperwork instead of blasting and excavation, and artificial lakes carved into land that had been wild since before humans had a name for it.
He knew the impact of mining. He'd seen the aftermath up near Lake Okeechobee—moonscapes where wetlands used to be, water tables poisoned, wildlife scattered or dead. The companies always promised minimal impact. They always promised restoration. And then they took what they wanted and left the land bleeding.
Bad enough he'd just buried his mother. Now, some corporate bastards wanted to gut the only thing he had left—the only connection he had to his father. The very same thing his father died trying to protect.
Worse—it brought all the guilt he’d carried for the past twenty years to the surface like heartburn collecting in the center of his chest.
He took a slow swig and scanned the bar. Massey's Pub hadn't changed since he'd been a kid. Same warped floorboards groaning under every step. Same ceiling fans chopping through air too thick to move on its own. Same neon Budweiser sign buzzing in the window like a dying insect, throwing red light across the bottles lined up behind the bar.
The place smelled like it always did—spilled beer soaked into wood, fried grouper from the kitchen, and underneath it all, the river. Always the river. You couldn't escape it in Calusa Cove. The water got into everything. Your clothes, your skin, your dreams—though he wasn’t sure he knew what he wanted anymore.
Trent sat at a high-top near the back wall, one shoulder angled toward the door out of habit. As he scanned the bar, contemplating whether he was actually going to try his hand at being social or not, his gaze landed on the Hendersons’ three tables away.
Shit. This couple was going to drive him crazy. They’d left him alone after his mother’s funeral, but two days ago, they decided to send him a letter with another offer to purchase Mallor’s Landing. They tried to sweeten the deal by suggesting he stay on as the alligator farm’s manager. As if being employed on his family’s land was enough of an incentive.
Beau eased from his seat and sauntered across the bar. “Good evening, Trent. How are you doing?”
“Fine. Yourself?”
“Just came down for a long weekend. We’re staying at Harvey’s Cabins. What a wonderful little establishment.”
“Can’t go wrong there.” Trent took a sip of his beer, reminding himself that his mother would expect him to be kind. That being a dick got him nowhere in life.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but we were wondering if you’ve had a chance to look over our offer.”
