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Chance slowed the truck so he could take the turn that led to his house. The horse trailer he was towing rattled as they hit the gravel road. It was filled with Cordy’s stuff; they’d spent most of the morning packing up her apartment. Cordy was with Rye in the flatbed truck, coming along behind.

“We’re friends,” Chance said, keeping most of his attention on the road.

He felt like a broken record at this point. Maybe he ought to put a flyer on the Donut Palace bulletin board:Chance Kessal and Cordelia Johnson are only friends. They are not sleeping together. He’s not the father. They’re not even kissing.

He wondered if anyone would believe it.

“She needs help.” Chance was getting sick of saying that. “Glenn’s about to kick her out, and the Saxons are being assholes to her. Someone had to step up.”

“She meets most everyone in the Swing Inn. She doesn’t know anyone who can help?” Quint cut him a look. “She could have even posted an ad in the Donut Palace.”

Okay, poking at Chance was one thing, but he was damned if he’d let Quint say shit about Cordy.

“Does this whole town have nothing better to do than run their mouths? Maybe instead of snickering at Cordy behind her back, they could give her a hand. She’s good enough to sling them drinks and deal with their drunk asses on a Saturday night, but not good enough to talk to on a Monday morning?”

Quint let loose a long whistle. “Jiminy Christmas, that set you off. I want to point out, for the record, I’m here helping. So when you start on a sermon, keep me out.”

Chance’s jaw tightened. “Wasn’t a sermon.”

“I haven’t seen you get this upset about something in… well, never. Not even when Dad…”

Quint didn’t finish because he didn’t have to. They both knew what he meant. Too many examples of their father falling apart to even start to list off.

“Yeah, well…” Chance dropped his voice. “She can’t ever meet Dad.”

“No, of course not.” Quint rubbed his jaw as he stared out the window. “Sometimes, I think I should have taken Ruby far away from here. Before we even got married. Just do what Lane did and never look back.”

“Ruby never would have left. And it ain’t working out so well for Lane. Last time I saw him in Cheyenne, he got drunker than I’ve ever seen and cried about Dakota for hours.”

“Huh. I thought he was over her.”

“He’ll never be over her.”

Lane was as much a Kessal as the rest of them. He’d die loving Dakota Cresswell, even if he’d never admit it.

“Hmm.” Quint screwed up his face. “I asked him about her once, and he wouldn’t even say her name.”

“In vino veritas, I guess.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“When you get drunk, you tell the truth.” Chance had overheard Cordy saying that one night at the Swing Inn. “When Lane’s sober, he’s too hung up on Dakota to talk about her. Get some alcohol in him, and it all comes out.”

Lane was yet another victim of the Kessal family curse. He fell hard for Dakota Creswell in high school and asked her to run away with him after graduation. She must have said no because Lane had left Star Crossed Springs without her, never came back even to visit, and never spoke her name again.

Quint wouldn’t let go of his love, and Lane threw his away as hard as he could. Still didn’t cure either of them.

And here was Chance, the one who’d swore he’d never even touch the stuff, moving a pregnant woman into his house. Cold sweat dripped down his neck. He wasn’t in love with her. Lusted after her, yes, but he could handle that. It would be fine. Still, his hands were slippery on the wheel.

“If that’s true about getting drunk,” Quint asked, “what kind of truth was coming out of Dad all those years?”

The question settled heavily between them. Dark things swirled in Chance’s gut.

Before Chance could answer—although what could he say to that?—they’d pulled up to his house.

Ruby was waiting for them on the porch.

“Did you invite her over?” Quint demanded, suddenly all roiling aggression.