Dirty Ginger by Stacey Kennedy

Chapter 1

Maisie’s paintbrush swept across the canvas, mixing the darker green paint in with the lighter, creating depth to the trees of the forest. The sun’s beams warmed her face, the wind swishing the long grasses behind her, while her painting of the sweeping meadow flowed easily. “Not Picasso yet,” she noted, leaning back to admire her work. She caught a hundred things wrong with the painting, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed at home. Few things made her feel content, but replicating the beauty in the world was one of them.

The slight heaviness in her eyelids from waking up at the crack of dawn was worth the spike of happiness painting gave her. She wiped off her paintbrush, tucking her supplies into her tote bag with COOL AF ARTIST written on the side, a present from her sisters for her birthday last year. The last letter from her grandfather peeked out from the bag. She reached for it as she heard the flapping of wings overhead. She unfolded the piece of paper and revealed the quote by Michelangelo: The greatest danger for most of us is not that our aim is too high and we miss it, but that it is too low and we reach it.

Even after two years, Maisie still didn’t know what Pops meant by this or why he’d chosen this quote as his very last thing to say to her. She’d never asked what Pops wrote in her sisters’ letters, and neither Clara nor Amelia had offered the information up.

Thinking of her sisters, and knowing she had a mile-long to-do list today, Maisie checked the time on her phone that rested on a fallen log next to her.

“Shit!” She jolted up, grabbed her bag and canvas, and took off running. The alarm she’d set to remind her about work hadn’t gone off. Her footsteps were muffled in the grass, but a squirrel ran away from her as she charged up the small hill. When she reached the top, she spotted the long driveway that led to the house and the black barn—now turned into a brewery—off to the right of it.

Prepared for a lecture, Maisie stopped at her MINI Cooper and deposited her tote bag and canvas onto the passenger seat before she hurried into the barn. Rows of huge steel tanks filled the space, with a main walkway that led to a room in the back for tastings. Some days the brewery held a metallic scent. Other days, it smelled earthy. As Maisie sucked in a breath, she realized today, it smelled fruity.

As she made her way through the tanks, she caught sight of Amelia, bent over the rim of a tank. Maisie held her breath and tiptoed past. Amelia must have been brewing last night and was now cleaning out the tank. She’d gotten into the habit of brewing Foxy Diva—their top-selling beer that had won over the locals—at night, since the brewery was part of local tours for travelers during the day.

“I see you,” Amelia called.

Maisie stopped dead and said in a ghostly voice, “I’m a figment of your imagination.”

Amelia laughed, straightening up. She had grain covering her ugly yellow apron with matching latex gloves. “Nice try,” she said, wiping the sweat beading on her forehead with her covered arm. “You better hurry before Clara sees you’re late. Again.”

“What do you mean, late?” Maisie asked, fluttering her lashes. “I’ve been here for an hour already. You need sleep, Amelia. Seriously, you need to take better care of yourself.” Before Amelia could respond, Maisie booked it, walking faster now. Clara only understood punctual. Maisie missed that gene.

“Hey, Maisie,” Amelia called, just as Maisie reached the door to storage room. “You’ve got paint on your cheek.”

Dammit. Maisie went to swipe away the paint when she walked straight into something hard. She bounced back and glanced up into something harder. Clara’s stormy blue eyes. “Hi,” Maisie said with a tight smile. “Oh, you look so pretty today.”

Not falling for it, Clara frowned, crossing her arms over her lacy blouse. “Three festivals. That’s what you’ve got on your plate for this week.”

Maisie nodded. “Yup. Got it.”

She slinked away when Clara’s cold voice stopped her. “You know what these festivals mean for us? This is our chance to take Foxy Diva and actually make something happen. If we screw this up, we need to start all over. You get that, right?”

Again, Maisie nodded. “Yes, I know how important the festivals are. Don’t you worry one bit. Everyone will know Foxy Diva’s name by the time I’m done with the festivals.” It took two years for Amelia to perfect their grandfather’s homemade brew. Maisie had come up with the name and the logo, which at least fed Maisie’s creative side, but now, she was expected to go on a road trip through Colorado to give their beer exposure. “I’ve got this handled. Promise. And I’m sorry I was late.”

Clara swiped at Maisie’s cheek, pulling away with a green finger. “You were painting again.”

It wasn’t a question. “A little, but the sunrise today was absolutely gorgeous. Besides, blame this one on my phone. I set my alarm to get here on time, but it didn’t go off. This time, it’s not my fault.”

Clara softened a smidgen. Like, a miniscule. “I don’t mean to be hard on you, but we can’t make mistakes now. You two put me in charge of running this company, so you have to trust me to do that, and take my advice seriously. We need to make sure we stand out at these festivals to get a buzz going. Without that, Foxy Diva cannot and will not take off.” Which was the only thing anyone thought about lately.

To be successful, Foxy Diva needed to become a staple across North America. So far, locally, they’d made it a huge success, but they needed distribution across North America to actually make decent money. They wanted Foxy Diva to be in every restaurant. Every bar. Every beer store. Or at least, Clara and Amelia did, and Maisie just followed along, doing her part to make the beer a hit.

Clara uncrossed her arms to take Maisie by the shoulders. She dropped her gaze to Maisie’s eye level. “I’m going to ask you again: Are you sure you can do this? No one is going to fault you if this is too much.”

Maisie could barely hold Clara’s fierce stare. Part of her wanted to run and hide, mortified her sisters were gliding through this brewery gig, while Maisie was basically drowning. She was an artist, not a business-minded person. But she owed this to Pops. He’d left them everything to make this dream happen. His final wish. And heck, she’d bartended for years. “It’s not too hard. I’ve got this. One hundred percent. You don’t need to worry.”

The look Clara gave her said she didn’t believe her. Though blessedly, she let Maisie off the hook and changed the subject. “I need to go to the post office. I’ve got Foxy Diva entered into five more contests, so I need to mail in the samples.” Which was how beer contests happened. Now all they had to do was wait to see if Foxy Diva won any awards.

“That’s great news,” Amelia cut in. “I’m crossing my fingers something comes of the awards. That will help us nail a distributor more than anything else.”

Maisie rolled her eyes. “Oh, sure, now you’re part of the conversation.” What about helping her out when Clara cornered her?

Amelia shrugged. “Just ’cause I’m the middle sister doesn’t mean I need to get in the middle of everything, including your conversations.” To Clara, she asked, “How long do you think it’ll take before we get the results?”

“Months,” Clara said with a long sigh before her voice perked back up. “But getting the awards is really just step one. We need to get buzz going, and social media is our greatest tool for that.”

“Which is where I come in?” Maisie asked.

“Exactly.” Clara nodded. “When we finally go to the distributor, we need all the ammunition to stand out from the other hundreds of craft beers sent their way.”

“And,” Amelia added, “if we get enough buzz going, they might come to us.”

Great. If that wasn’t a reason to drink, Maisie didn’t know what was. To avoid the pressure that became near suffocating, she grabbed the door handle to the storage room. “Well, I’ve got a four-day road trip, and a trailer that isn’t going to pack itself. See you later.”

“Maisie.” At Clara’s soft voice, Maisie froze. “I know today has to be hard for you. Are you okay?”

Maisie shut her eyes and breathed deep. She’d avoided thinking about what today was ever since she’d woken up. It was why she’d gone and painted, to bring a little brightness to a very dark day. But there was no running away. The articles that splashed across the media two years ago haunted her: Murder Rattles the Small Town of River Rock. Young Woman Brutally Murdered. Officer Hayes Taylor Leaves Denver Police Department After Wife’s Murder.

Laurel’s murder had been declared a robbery gone wrong at their home in Denver. Hayes had hunted down her killer, and after a shoot-out, the killer was dead. After that, he quit his job and moved back home to River Rock. But even with the justice of finding Laurel’s murderer, nothing had been the same since. For a month, Maisie could barely breathe, function. Her sisters had come to her aid. They’d fed her, forced her to shower, brought her out of the darkest place Maisie had ever gone. Laurel’s absence felt like half of Maisie’s body was missing, and she’d struggled to learn how to walk again. But slowly, through her sisters’ love, things had gotten better, and Maisie remembered how to take one step in front of the other. More importantly, she remembered life was a one-time deal. The loss of her parents, of Pops, and of Laurel had taught her that. The world, her life, was far too beautiful and special to waste the time she had.

For Laurel, for her parents, and for her grandparents, she looked for the beauty every day, until the beauty was all she saw. She drew and painted and never stopped until that ache in her chest, while still there, didn’t shadow her happiness.

“I’m okay,” she told her sisters, glancing back at them with the smile she knew they needed to see. “Thanks for worrying about me, but really, I’m remembering the good stuff about Laurel, not the bad memory that took her away. I know she’d want that.”

Amelia gave a gentle smile. “You’re right, she would.”

Clara added, “We’re here for you.”

Maisie glanced between her sisters. She’d always felt so different from them growing up, but Laurel’s death had changed that. And the best friend that gave so much love to Maisie, in death, had brought Maisie closer to her sisters. They’d loved her hard through her grief and brought her back from that unforgiving pain. For that, Maisie had stuffed her dreams of owning an art studio far away, giving all of herself to the brewery, even if she was late and didn’t always get things right. “Thanks,” she said to her sisters. “Now let me get back to work, would ya? Geesh, you’re always holding me up. Don’t you know I have a thousand things to do today?”

Amelia laughed softly.

Clara rolled her eyes.

Maisie chuckled, reminding herself that laughing was good. Especially on days like today. Smiling, enjoying life, was the best way she could honor Laurel’s life. She finally pulled the heavy door open and hurried through, when the reality of what was ahead of her hit her like a brick to the face. The first festival was in Fort Collins, then Colorado Springs, finishing up in Boulder. Panic creeped up like icy fingertips along her spine. She was in way over her head, never having done anything like this before. Her pink Converse scraped against the rough floor as she moved farther into the storage room, her nose scrunching at the musty air.

Pushing aside her fear of failing—since failure was not an option—she pulled out the note in her back pocket of her blue jeans, scribbled with her to-do list. The first item on that list: kegs. She grabbed the dolly, moving toward the kegs with the Foxy Diva label. She smiled at the label of the vintage sexy pin-up woman with Foxy Diva written in calligraphy around her. Maisie was proud of the design, and she was still surprised Clara approved the logo. But Foxy Diva was an Indian pale ale with a buttload of spices that Maisie knew nothing about, and Amelia had said the spiciness of the woman fit the beer inside perfectly. That had been the first time Amelia had ever taken Maisie’s side, and Maisie still felt the high from that.

Determined to get the trailer packed and the workday behind her, Maisie shoved the dolly under the keg and pulled back, her arms shaking as the dolly caught the edge of the keg.

She wobbled once.

And again.

Then she was falling. And something metal and shiny and big was coming with her.

* * *

Hayes Taylor refused to acknowledge today’s anniversary and kept his focus on this work, like he’d done every day for the last two years. The past was behind him, and he stood firmly in the present at Blackshaw Training, a horse training facility. Over the past sixteen months he’d worked there, he had seen a dangerous horse now and again, but nothing like the chestnut gelding with the white stripe currently staring him down. Threat. The gelding’s black eyes screamed at Hayes. Danger. And at the particular moment, Hayes was dangerous to the gelding. Horsemanship wasn’t about breaking an animal. It was about communicating, and somewhere in this horse’s life, that communication crossed a line it shouldn’t have.

“First thoughts?” Hayes asked, turning to Beckett Stone, his good friend since high school. Beckett’s sandy-brown hair didn’t seem to have a style, and his face needed a good shave. But Beckett’s rough edge was what the ladies liked most. Or so the gossip around town suggested.

Beckett removed his Stetson and ran a hand through his hair. “I think you’ve got your hands full with that one. And if it were me, I’d be wearing full body gear anytime I was near him.”

Hayes snorted, hooking his boot up on the fence railing. “That’s why you don’t ride the troubled ones and instead handle the young ones.”

Unbothered by the remark, Beckett barked a laugh. “Yeah, ’cause I’m not looking to die at thirty.”

While they were the same age, and Beckett hadn’t meant the remark as a dig, two years ago, Hayes was looking for that. Even he could admit that he’d taken risks a sane man wouldn’t. He gravitated toward working with mentally broken horses because he felt equally broken himself. He hadn’t recovered from Laurel’s death. When his wife was murdered, Hayes lost it. As a cop, he should have stopped it. After Laurel’s murder, he couldn’t protect anyone anymore. He walked away from the badge and his job at the Denver Police Department, moved back to River Rock, and found a home at Blackshaw Training. Getting back to a simpler life had been his salvation.

Hayes took a deep breath, letting go of the tension rising in his chest. The west wind picked up the floral scents of wildflower and ringing wind chimes in the distance. Hayes glanced back at the two-story log house with the wide, covered deck where Nash Blackshaw, the owner of the farm, lived with his wife, Megan, and son. A black-roofed barn housed injured horses or horses needing stabling for the night. Next to the barn was the sand ring used for training. Every sound, from the hooves stomping the ground, to tails swooshing, to the horses whinnying, all brought Hayes back to a place before Laurel’s murder. His childhood. He’d grown up working on the Blackshaws’ cattle farm during his summers throughout high school and police training. Those years held some of his favorite memories. His happiest for sure, when things with Laurel had been quiet and good, and she’d come out to the farm to go on a ride.

“Let me see exactly what his owners want from us,” Hayes finally said to Beckett.

Beckett slid his hat back in place. “Good luck. Remember not to sign your death warrant. You are allowed to turn down a job.”

Hayes nodded but didn’t reply. Saying no was near impossible after one look at the heartbroken teenage girl who came out of the barn to meet them. She wore fancy equestrian gear, beige breeches, tall, shiny black boots, and a black T-shirt. Her long blond hair was pulled up in a tight ponytail and her makeup was heavy. Hayes entered the ring, moving toward the horse that kept a close eye on him.

Colin Calloway, the father of the teenage girl, approached. He wore a suit, looked fancy, and he’d paid a good chunk of cash for a horse who was trained in show jumping and suddenly decided it didn’t want to do its job anymore.

“What did you see?” the father asked when he reached Hayes.

“A dangerous horse,” Hayes stated simply.

Colin’s dark eyebrows went up. “You got that from one look?”

“I got that from the way he’s sizing me up.”

Colin sighed and glanced back at his daughter, who had walked up to the horse and stroked his face. “Every trainer I’ve taken him to doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. It’s like a switch goes off. One second, he’s approachable. The next, the devil gets into him.”

Hayes started to explain that the problem wasn’t the horse, but the communication between the horse and the human, when suddenly Hayes caught the pinning of the horse’s ears, the tensing of his muscles. He jolted forward in the same second the horse went in for a bite. Hayes none-too-gently shoved the teenager aside, sending her toppling over, and rammed himself into the horse, getting his attention off the girl.

The gelding’s head shot up and his nostrils flared as he flew backward. Hayes grabbed the lead line, noting the girl getting up and out of the way. He acted immediately, using the end of the lead line to circle in the air and make the horse’s feet move. Hayes moved hard, fast, not stopping, until the only thing the horse was looking at was him. Without glancing behind him, he led the gelding to one of the individual paddocks, away from the other horses, and closed the gate. He took a few steps back, ensuring the horse didn’t ram the gate, then turned back, finding the girl brushing the sand off her pants. “I’m sorry about that. Are you okay?”

“Don’t apologize,” the father said firmly, offering his hand. “You saved her from an injury, but now, you can see what we’re dealing with.”

Hayes returned the shake and then moved closer to the girl, noting her curled shoulders. “You’re all right?” he repeated.

She lifted her head. Her smile looked forced. “Yes, I’m okay. Thank you.”

He got that pain in her eyes. Pain that came from a situation where a person had no control. “We’ll get him right for you. Don’t worry about that. Okay?”

Her chin quivered and her green eyes welled with tears. “Was it me that did this? I…I just keep thinking maybe I worked him too hard or something.”

Hayes dropped a hand on her shoulder and brought his gaze down to hers. “Nothin’ you’ve done caused this. The wires in his head aren’t firing right. We’ll get him straightened out.”

“Yeah?” she barely managed.

He gave her the firm nod she needed. “Without a doubt.”

This time when she smiled, there was warmth there. “Thank you.”

“Any idea how long it will take?” Colin asked.

Hayes tucked his hands into his pockets and shrugged. “The gelding decides that.”

They both seemed all right with that answer and confident in him, since they left a few minutes later, with Hayes’s promise of a daily email updating them on the progress. Hayes grabbed a few flakes of hay from the barn and the sweet scent infused the air as he tossed the flakes into the gelding’s paddock. He rubbed the fallen strands off his T-shirt when his cell phone rang. He smiled when he saw the name on the screen. “What trouble are you in now?”

A pause. “How do you know I’m in trouble?” Maisie asked.

Laurel and Maisie had been the best of friends since elementary school. Not bound by blood, but what they held had been deeper. And Maisie had been that type of friend to Hayes ever since Laurel’s death. “Because it’s midmorning and you never call me midmorning.”

A beat passed. The horse came over and began eating the hay.

Maisie finally spoke, her voice tight. “Fine. You’re right. I’m stuck under a keg and need your help.”

Hayes leaned his arm against the top of the coarse wooded fence. “Say that again?” He had to have heard her wrong.

She sighed heavily. “Please don’t make me repeat it.”

He grinned. “Sorry, I’m going to need you to.”

Another sigh, even more exaggerated this time. “I’m stuck under a beer keg in the storage area and need you to come help me.”

Unsure if this was serious or not, since on any given day, Maisie always seemed to get herself in unusual situations, he decided not to drag this along. “I’ll be there in ten.”

“Thank you. Oh, and Hayes?”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t say anything about this to Clara or Amelia.”

Hayes chuckled. “Mum’s the word.” He ended the call and approached his black RAM truck.

Maisie was the most accident-prone person he’d ever met. If something went wrong, she was usually involved. Hayes had tried to distance himself from Maisie after Laurel’s funeral. Hell, he’d tried to distance himself from everyone. Only Maisie and Beckett hadn’t allowed it. Hayes was pretty sure he’d be lost or dead without them.

The drive to the brewery took him eight minutes, and when he reached the farm, he drove up the long driveway, pulling in next to Maisie’s MINI. A beautiful landscape painting sat on the passenger seat. Maisie had more natural talent than Hayes had ever seen. He, for one, thought she wasted it working in a brewery, but who was he to argue with her life choices? He certainly had no idea where his life was headed anymore.

When he entered through the side door, he caught Amelia’s curses. She was bent over in the tank, looking like she belonged in a chemical lab. “What’s the brew this time?” he asked.

Amelia jerked up in surprise, covered in spent grain. She smiled when she realized who stood before her. “It’s a fruity beer I’m playing around with. You’d hate it.”

“Then I won’t ask for sample,” he said. Playing cool, he asked, “I’m here to see Maisie. She in the back?”

Amelia wiped the sweat off her forehead with her arm. “Yeah, she’s getting ready for some festivals.”

“Nice.” He gave an easy smile, hoping to hell Amelia didn’t pick up on his urgency, and gestured at the tanks. “Hope your day gets better.”

“You and me both.” She laughed.

Hayes loosed the breath he didn’t know he was holding as he left her behind. Luckily, Clara wasn’t in her office when he strode by. She was the toughest sister, and he really didn’t want to lie to her. When he passed the last rows of tanks, he lengthened his stride. The second he walked into the open storage area, he called, “Maisie.”

“Shh,” she said to his right. “Close the door.”

He shut the door gently and followed her voice, stopping short when he saw her. He didn’t initially see the problem.She was lying on her back, like she was waiting for him. His body temperature rose, his groin filling with heat. That wildly inappropriate reaction to her had started happening a few months ago. It was the day he remembered he was a man. Maisie had come to see him at the farm and wore a sexy, short dress. The hard-on that followed, and every single one after it when she came near him, told him how truly fucked up he was. She was his friend, not his to lust over. But when he finally spotted her hand stuck under a keg, he rushed forward. “Shit, Maisie. What happened?”

She gave him a lopsided smile. “I tried to move the keg. It didn’t like that.”

He circled her, getting a good look at the keg. “How hurt is your hand?”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Not hurting one bit. Get this off me.”

He doubted she wasn’t hurt but settled in front of the keg to free her. “I think there’s only one thing to say now.”

“What’s that?”

He grabbed the top handle of the keg. “This might sting a little.” As fast as he could, he yanked the keg up until she could pull her arm out.

Her eyes shut, lips parted in a silent scream, and her skin lost all of its color. “I’m okay,” she gasped, breathing deep. “I’m okay.”

He set the keg down and took one look at her hand. “Hate to break it to you, Maisie, but you’re definitely not okay.”

She slowly opened her eyes and looked at her finger that was bent in the wrong direction. Her eyes flicked to his and became distant. “Uh-oh.” Then she cried out in pain, those same eyes rolling into the back of her head.

He dropped to his knees, placing a hand on her head.

The door whisked open and Amelia rushed in, breathless. “Oh my God, what’s wrong?”

“It’s safe to say that no matter how bad you think your day is, Maisie’s is worse.”