CHAPTER ONE
Rafe stared down at the cream-colored envelope in his hand, the sixth one in the last five months. This one had his whole name written out, Mr. Raphael Nicolas Thompson Flanigan, as if the formal address would make him open the flap. He glanced at the trashcan next to his desk about to toss away the letter. Instead, he leaned to the right and shoved the envelope along five identical ones slotted into the square cubby.
He sat back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and put his feet on the desk in his favorite position, staring out the window at his fabulous view of the beach, the coconut palm branches swaying in the breeze, and the turquoise water beyond. Instead of seeing the fishing boat plying the tropical ocean, Rafe was swept back fifteen years in time to a warm Montana night.
His grandfather Harry Flanigan stood, fists clenched, hurling words as if they were weapons at eighteen-year-old Rafe.
Rafe’s older brother, Gabe—the catalyst of the explosion—cringed on the couch. Why had Gabe snitched to their grandfather?
“Why the hell would you go near the McCurdy’s?” The old man’s voice cut. “Have you no brains, boy?”
Apparently not, or Dustin McCurdy wouldn’t have swindled me. The truth of Harry Flanagan’s accusation stung. Earlier, his grandfather had cut off Rafe’s attempts to explain, leaving him to bottle up his frustration.
Rafe’s gentle mother sat in her wing chair by the river rock fireplace, weeping. Her tears wrenched at him in a way his grandfather’s yelling and threats couldn’t.
“That Howard girl’s got mongrel blood,” said the old tyrant, moving on to the second topic that had enraged him tonight.
“Angel’s blood’s red,” Rafe fired up. “The same as the rest of us.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “She’s not good enough for a Flanigan.”
“Her dad’s a respected attorney,” Rafe retorted. “They probably have as much money or more than we do, and Angel’s going to Harvard. What’s not good enough about that?” An unacknowledged insecurity chose that moment to surface. “Maybe it’s the other way around. I’m not good enough for Angel.”
His grandfather’s craggy features reddened, but his gray eyes remained as chilled as ice. “Your parents should have named you Lucifer instead of Raphael,” he said in a bitter tone.
His mother made a sound of protest.
His grandfather ignored her, focusing his wrath on Rafe. “Stealing a horse from the McCurdys, of all people!”
“I didn’t steal that stud!”
“I can’t believe a grandson of mine is a horse thief!”
Rafe’s control snapped. “Fine!” Like a knife, he threw the word at the old man. “Then I’m no grandson of yours!”
He stormed out of the family room and up the stairway to his bedroom. Slamming the door, Rafe grabbed his big duffle out of the closet and started throwing in clothes, then took cash from the dresser drawer as well as the folder of notes about his horses. In the bathroom connecting the bedroom to his brother’s, he scooped up toiletries and shoved them into his leather traveling case, a gift from his mother last Christmas. He didn’t let himself think of the warmth of that holiday.
Once packed, he carried his duffle down the stairs and encountered his mother in the entryway.
Her pale skin was red from crying. “If you’d just stop fighting with your grandfather, I’m sure you can make this right. He’ll pay off Dustin McCurdy.” She noticed his bag, and her eyes widened. “Raphael, where are you going?”
The fact that his mother, his staunch supporter for all his eighteen years, didn’t believe him hurt harder than a strike to the stomach. “I’m going straight to hell,” he said, using the words to punch, to damage.
Her face whitened, and she stepped back as if he’d really hit her. “Don’t talk that way.”
Shame curled around the edges of his anger, and he hesitated, wanting to explain that McCurdy must have set him
Rafe stared down at the cream-colored envelope in his hand, the sixth one in the last five months. This one had his whole name written out, Mr. Raphael Nicolas Thompson Flanigan, as if the formal address would make him open the flap. He glanced at the trashcan next to his desk about to toss away the letter. Instead, he leaned to the right and shoved the envelope along five identical ones slotted into the square cubby.
He sat back in his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and put his feet on the desk in his favorite position, staring out the window at his fabulous view of the beach, the coconut palm branches swaying in the breeze, and the turquoise water beyond. Instead of seeing the fishing boat plying the tropical ocean, Rafe was swept back fifteen years in time to a warm Montana night.
His grandfather Harry Flanigan stood, fists clenched, hurling words as if they were weapons at eighteen-year-old Rafe.
Rafe’s older brother, Gabe—the catalyst of the explosion—cringed on the couch. Why had Gabe snitched to their grandfather?
“Why the hell would you go near the McCurdy’s?” The old man’s voice cut. “Have you no brains, boy?”
Apparently not, or Dustin McCurdy wouldn’t have swindled me. The truth of Harry Flanagan’s accusation stung. Earlier, his grandfather had cut off Rafe’s attempts to explain, leaving him to bottle up his frustration.
Rafe’s gentle mother sat in her wing chair by the river rock fireplace, weeping. Her tears wrenched at him in a way his grandfather’s yelling and threats couldn’t.
“That Howard girl’s got mongrel blood,” said the old tyrant, moving on to the second topic that had enraged him tonight.
“Angel’s blood’s red,” Rafe fired up. “The same as the rest of us.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “She’s not good enough for a Flanigan.”
“Her dad’s a respected attorney,” Rafe retorted. “They probably have as much money or more than we do, and Angel’s going to Harvard. What’s not good enough about that?” An unacknowledged insecurity chose that moment to surface. “Maybe it’s the other way around. I’m not good enough for Angel.”
His grandfather’s craggy features reddened, but his gray eyes remained as chilled as ice. “Your parents should have named you Lucifer instead of Raphael,” he said in a bitter tone.
His mother made a sound of protest.
His grandfather ignored her, focusing his wrath on Rafe. “Stealing a horse from the McCurdys, of all people!”
“I didn’t steal that stud!”
“I can’t believe a grandson of mine is a horse thief!”
Rafe’s control snapped. “Fine!” Like a knife, he threw the word at the old man. “Then I’m no grandson of yours!”
He stormed out of the family room and up the stairway to his bedroom. Slamming the door, Rafe grabbed his big duffle out of the closet and started throwing in clothes, then took cash from the dresser drawer as well as the folder of notes about his horses. In the bathroom connecting the bedroom to his brother’s, he scooped up toiletries and shoved them into his leather traveling case, a gift from his mother last Christmas. He didn’t let himself think of the warmth of that holiday.
Once packed, he carried his duffle down the stairs and encountered his mother in the entryway.
Her pale skin was red from crying. “If you’d just stop fighting with your grandfather, I’m sure you can make this right. He’ll pay off Dustin McCurdy.” She noticed his bag, and her eyes widened. “Raphael, where are you going?”
The fact that his mother, his staunch supporter for all his eighteen years, didn’t believe him hurt harder than a strike to the stomach. “I’m going straight to hell,” he said, using the words to punch, to damage.
Her face whitened, and she stepped back as if he’d really hit her. “Don’t talk that way.”
Shame curled around the edges of his anger, and he hesitated, wanting to explain that McCurdy must have set him
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