Dark night hunched over Mariana Balducci as she stood outside the back door of her shop and double-checked the locks. The light in the parking lot behind the building was out, and she was the last to close along the row of stores. For months, every time she heard the metal snap into place on the glass door, it sounded final. Customers avoided her place, and sales were terrible. It was only a matter of weeks or days before she locked up one last time and handed the keys to a stranger.
A shape forty feet away sent a startled shock up her spine. Through the glass back door she peered down the length of her store to where a man stood at her front window. She’d already been on edge from the deep shadows surrounding her, and the figure on the other side of the building froze the breath in her lungs. A streetlight carved out his features enough for her to recognize him. He’d been in her shop that day.
When he’d first come in, she’d thought about walking him through all the organic apple products she had, produced directly from her fifth-generation orchard. But there was a quietness about him that demanded a little space as he discovered things for himself. He was a handsome black man, clean shaven over a square jaw and close-cropped hair. Broad shoulders. Somewhere in his early thirties, around her age or a little older. It was probably a good idea that she hadn’t tried to hand-sell him any cider, because when their eyes did meet, an unexpected heat bloomed across her chest. Her mouth had managed only a simple greeting. Anything wordier would’ve tied her tongue in knots.
The surprising blush on her skin had persisted as he’d walked her store. His thoughtful eyes had captured hers as if he’d already known her and her struggles. As if he understood. But the man didn’t say much, and instead of buying anything, he spent most of his time looking at the antique black-and-white photographs on the wall. They’d been passed down through her ancestors, Italians who settled in the Monterey Bay of California and the Mexican families they’d married into. For a moment, she’d considered telling him what little history she knew from the pictures, then maybe asking if he wanted to get a cup of coffee. But her tongue still felt too thick for nimble words, and it wouldn’t have been fair to flirt with the man while she was buried under two tons of trouble.
Now, standing at the back of her store, seeing him lurking out there on the other side, she wondered if he was part of that trouble. Usually the men who hovered near her shop or prowled just at the edge of her property outside town wore a more stony expression. Their eyes were hard, with zero sympathy. Predators, sent by the Hanley Development Group to intimidate her customers and scare the hell out of her. All so she’d close up shop and sell her land to them. The damned plan was working.
Mariana kept one eye on the man through the windows of her store and backed quickly toward her parked pickup truck. His body straightened, as if he’d spotted her movement. She lost sight of him when she whipped her keys out and tried to get them into the truck door.
Another wave of fear crashed coldly through her. Clothing rustled close by, way too close to her. The presence of a man loomed from the shadows at the bed of her truck. Was it the man from the front of the store? How did he get there so fast? She didn’t even hear any footsteps.
“Back off.” She forced her voice into a command and jammed her hand in her purse for a canister of pepper spray.
“You back off,” a deep voice growled. A hand swung out and slapped the purse from her grip. “Back off your store. Back off your land. Back off this whole county.” Shadows erased the details of this man, but she fully understood the threatening step he took toward her.
“I know who sent you.” It hadn’t been hard to figure out that the Hanley Group was behind this. A few months ago, they’d reached out to buy her orchard and land. She’d refused. Then the goons started showing up.
The man sneered. “I doubt it.”
Her muscles tensed. Words hadn’t been enough to end this. Balling her fists, she tried to control her breathing. Panic would only make her an easier target. Until this moment, none of these threats had been overtly physical. The rules suddenly changed, though, and she had no idea what it would take to make it through this night. The man moved forward again, shadowy arms upraised. She had to fight.
All her fury at being bullied, being afraid, feeling helpless, was released in a punch toward his throat. The man turned at the last instant and her knuckles glanced off the top of his hard chest, then found the side of his neck. He flinched to the side. The impact jarred up her arm and threw her off balance.
The man recovered quickly and lunged, barking, “You little—”
She ducked her head beneath her arms and braced for the impact. Two bodies slammed together with a loud grunt, but she was untouched. Her attacker and someone else thumped into the side of her truck, rocking its squeaky suspension. The new man was equally obscured in the darkness. Maybe he was local police. Her ex, Pete, was one of them, and still came around sometimes. But the police always identified themselves first.
The only things the new man spoke with were his fists. He drove them with brutal efficiency into the attacker. Rough, pained wheezes answered that the new man knew what he was doing. While she was in the clear, she dived to the ground in search of her purse. Her attacker might be armed, and she needed any advantage she could get. The idea of the new man getting injured while helping her boiled her blood. She found the
