Chapter 2

“Well, caring for that feral cat colony is very compassionate of you, but it sounds like you’re taking on too much. Come stay with us for a week. Or even just a couple days—you could use a break.” Brynne hesitated for a moment. “I miss you. And Alan said he wants you to come as well.”

Owen stiffened at the mention of his half-sister’s husband. After their mother died, Brynne had taken over and raised Owen. They hadn’t had much—just the safety and security of belonging to each other. But then Brynne had met Alan and, for some inexplicable reason, decided to marry the conservative dolt.

To be entirely truthful, Owen did have to give the man a little credit for accepting that Brynne and Owen were a package deal. And maybe if Owen had been bright and bubbly and blonde like his half-sister, Alan would have dealt with an instant family better. But instead, the man had been handed a graceless teenager with long, ink-black hair and an even darker attitude. The situation had been doomed from the start. But Alan moved in anyways, unpacking all his possessions and his prejudices. And one of those prejudices was a total opposition to anything connected with the Wiccan religion.

Which really shouldn’t have been a problem. After the death of his mother, Owen had let his commitment to her religion lapse. But, just to pique Alan’s ire, suddenly Wicca was promoted to great importance in Owen’s life. Wiccan symbols and tools were prominently displayed in their home, rituals were performed, and holidays observed. The tension was constant.

And when, in an already strained situation, Owen announced he was gay, any chance for domestic harmony rolled over and died. Alan was not a happy man. Neither was Owen. At least not until Owen moved out to attend college, seeking solace—and a degree—in music.

After a silence too lengthy to be comfortable, Brynne said. “Look, I know you feel obligated to take care of those cats—really, I get it. But you can’t give up your life for them. You should sell that place and move back here. Find a nice, quiet apartment and finish your project. You could bring Gideon with you.” Her voice wavered. “Please, Owen, at least think about it. I hate this distance between us.”

Regret at causing her pain stung him. “Brynne, I miss you, too. And I’ll try to get there. Soon.” He sighed. “Look, I’ve got to go now. I still have a lot of work to do tonight.” They said their goodbyes, and Owen set the phone down.

A huge, long-haired, orange tabby strolled into the room, settled on the tattered rug, and stared at Owen with bright amber eyes.

Owen’s spirits lifted immediately. “Hi, Gideon, I wondered where you were. Brynne thinks the two of us should move back there. Any opinion?”

The cat gracefully lifted his rear leg and began to lick his butt.

Laughter bubbled up. “That’s exactly what I thought you’d say.” No, Gideon wouldn’t willingly leave this place. The enormous Maine Coon cat—all twenty-six pounds of him—had been waiting on the porch when Owen first arrived to check out his unexpected inheritance. The inscrutable feline was apparently part of the odd bequest from Owen’s estranged father. No one understood why the man had left forty acres and a threadbare house to a son he’d barely known. But whatever the reasons, Owen had been delighted with the rent-free solitude the place offered. Of course, that had been before finding out it was a dumping ground for unwanted cats, courtesy of the residents of the small town of Sadler’s Mill.

Gideon suddenly abandoned his grooming and crouched, his claws digging into the rug. Tufted ears pricked, he growled, low and rumbling.

Catching the cat’s sense of danger, Owen rose and moved quietly into the shadows, waiting.

A moment later, the window in the front door exploded, and jagged glass shards showered the room, tinkling like wind chimes. A fist-sized rock rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor.

Shock hit Owen hard. It was immediately followed by incandescent anger. Heart racing, he flung open the door. Remnants of the glass still in the frame shattered as the door crashed against the wall, but Owen was already down the front steps and running through the overgrown yard.

From the left, he heard rapid footsteps crackling through the tall, dry weeds. Fueled by rage, he pivoted and headed straight for the sound, determined to catch the bastards who did this. Up to now, they’d only thrown trash into the yard or left dead animals on his porch—just “pranks” according to the sheriff. But this was actual property damage—maybe enough for the lazy-ass law officer to actually do something about.