Secrets in the Sand by Carolyn Brown

            The kitten whirled and spun and scratched, but Abby held on, even when it sank needlelike teeth into Abby’s hand.

            “Shh. Shh.” Abby got to her knees and stroked the kitten’s dark tortoiseshell fur. A girl, then. Like calicos, tortoiseshell cats were almost always female. “You’re okay, little girl. You’re all right.”

            Abby’s robe had come open in the front, and the kitten pedaled all four feet with claws extended, scratching gouges in Abby’s exposed skin. She held on to the scruff of the kitten’s neck, crooning and humming. “You’re okay, baby.”

            Georgia leaped with excitement, begging to see the kitten, who continued to struggle and scratch and bite.

            “No, Georgia.” Abby wrapped the kitten in the folds of her robe and held it close. It calmed, but Abby could feel its body heaving with every desperate breath. “Not yet. She’s too scared.”

            If this catch didn’t stick, Abby wouldn’t get another chance. Her fingers touched a raw, bloody patch on the kitten’s back: road rash from being thrown out of a moving vehicle.

            God, Abby hated people. No wonder Aunt Reva had all but turned into a hermit, living out here in the boondocks alongside the kind of people who would do this. But then, Abby had learned that evil lived everywhere—north and south, city and country. She cuddled the kitten close, even while it tried to flay her skin with its desperate claws.

            “Nobody’s going to hurt you, I promise. Nobody’s going to hurt you, not ever again.” She could make that promise, because she knew Reva would keep the kitten or find it an even better home. All strays were welcome at Bayside Barn.

            Abby herself was proof of that.

            Disgusted with all of humanity, Abby struggled up out of the ditch, her mud-caked barn boots slipping on the dew-wet grass. She had just scrambled onto solid ground when a Harley blasted past, turned in at the drive next door, and stopped just past the ditch.

            Uncomfortably aware that her bathrobe gaped open indecently and her hair hadn’t seen a hairbrush since yesterday afternoon, Abby hid behind the tall hedge between Aunt Reva’s place and the abandoned estate next door. Georgia clawed Abby’s legs in a “Help, pick me up” gesture.

            “Lord, Georgia, I can’t hold both of you.”

            Determined, Georgia scrabbled at Abby’s legs. One-handed, Abby scooped up all thirty pounds of the scaredy-cat dog. “It’s only a motorcycle.”

            The sound of garbage trucks in the distance promised an even more terrifying situation if she didn’t get the kitten into the house soon. She held Georgia in one hand and clutched the covered-up kitten with the other, jiggling both of them in a hopefully soothing motion. “You’re okay. You’re both okay.”

            The loud motorbike idled near the estate’s rusted-out mailbox. The rider put both booted feet down on the gravel drive. Tall, broad-shouldered, he wore motorcycle leathers and a black helmet with a tinted visor.

            Georgia licked Abby’s chin, a plea to hurry back to the house before the garbage trucks ravaging the next block over ushered in the apocalypse.

            “Shh. I want to go home, too, but…” If she fled from her hiding place, the motorcycle dude would notice a flash of movement when Abby’s yellow robe flapped behind her like a flag. What was this guy doing before 8:00 a.m. parking his motorcycle in a lonely driveway on this dead-end country road?

            The rider got off the motorcycle and removed his helmet. His light-brown hair stood on end, then feathered down to cover his jacket collar.

            His hair was the only soft thing about him. From his tanned skin to his angular face to his rigid jaw, from his wide shoulders to his bulging thighs to his scuffed black boots, the guy looked hard.

            He waded through the tall weeds to the center of the easement and pulled up the moldy For Sale sign that had stood there for years. He tossed the sign into the weed-filled ditch and stalked back to his motorcycle. The beast roared down the potholed driveway to the old abandoned house, scattering gravel.

            ***

            Quinn Lockhart sped down the long drive, a list of obstacles spinning through his head:

            Cracked brick facade: Possible foundation problems.

            Swimming pool: Green with algae and full of tadpoles, frogs—probably snakes too.