Trouble in Tennessee. Tanya Michaels

Treble grunted. “You know, before you came to get me, I was expecting ‘Doc Caldwell’ to be a good bit older. And Ronnie’s definitely not what I anticipated. Lots of surprises for such a sleepy little town.”

      Sleepy? A twinge of foreboding rippled through him as he regarded the woman seated in his truck. He’d watched her varied reactions to Joyous—apprehension over arriving, sassy rebuffs to an ex-boyfriend, nearly sensual enjoyment of good barbecue—but now he wondered how the town would react to her. Treble James looked like a wake-up call waiting to happen.

      Chapter Four

      Treble stepped down from the truck, shaking her head. She’d always teased Charity over her affection for routine. “Don’t you ever want to mix things up a little?” she’d asked her younger sister.

      “Nope,” Charity had maintained. “Predictability suits me just fine.”

      At the moment, Treble could use a few less surprises herself. “You’re the mechanic?”

      The woman nodded. She was shorter than Treble, their height difference exaggerated by the mechanic’s flat-soled sneakers. Her clear jade eyes were lovely, but Treble wondered if men looked past the freckles bridging her nose and the shapeless, grease-stained overalls to notice.

      “Ronnie Carter.” The redhead extended a hand, noticed some black smudges near her fingertips and winced, dropping her arm to her side. “Technically, Veronica. No one calls me that. My brothers use ‘Red,’ but only to make me crazy.”

      Keith came around the side of the truck to stand with Treble. At his renewed nearness, her body hummed—it was like static electricity she couldn’t control. Try harder. The good doctor probably wouldn’t appreciate it if she drifted closer and stuck to his clothes.

      “Afternoon, Ronnie,” he said. “Treble had some car trouble outside town, and I assured her you were the best in the state at taking care of the problem.”

      “Flatterer.” Ronnie grinned at him, but then her eyes widened and she swung her gaze back to Treble. “Good Lord. You’re Treble Breckfield, aren’t you?”

      “James. Treble James.” The distance she put between herself and her stepfather’s name was automatic, although at least Harrison Breckfield attempted to stand by his responsibilities. More than she could say for her biological father. “I’m Charity Breckfield’s sister. Er, Charity Sumner’s.”

      “Wow. My brother Devin was crazy in love with you in high school.” Ronnie nodded thoughtfully. “I can see why.”

      Treble couldn’t remember Devin but hoped she wasn’t awful to him.

      “Daniel warned him that a guy two years younger didn’t have a shot.” Ronnie’s tone was matter-of-fact, not vengeful on her brother’s behalf. Good thing. A mechanic wielding a grudge was not someone you wanted tinkering with your engine.

      Treble searched her memory for Carter brothers and finally landed on a name, though she couldn’t put a face with it. “Are you related to William Carter? He was in my grade. Salutatorian, I think?” Her high school graduation ceremony was a blur, mostly occupied by plans to leave that summer. Despite the times she’d been sent to the principal’s office for behavior problems, she’d kept her grades up and aced her SATs—college had represented her ticket out of town.

      “Yeah, Will was the bookish one,” Ronnie confirmed. “Though you wouldn’t know it to look at him—he’s as hulking as the other two. He went to university in North Carolina and settled there. The rest of us stayed,” she said wistfully. Gifted mechanic or not, Ronnie didn’t sound one hundred percent satisfied with her life.

      Well, who is? Treble ignored the impulse to draw out the conversation and brainstorm solutions; this wasn’t a radio broadcast. “So, Ronnie, are you as good with cars as I keep hearing?”

      “No. Better.” The woman’s confident smile completely endeared her to Treble.

      They chatted for a few minutes about where Trusty was parked, what the escalating symptoms had been before the vehicle died altogether, and where Treble could be reached.

      “I’ll call you this evening at your sister’s,” Ronnie said after she’d filled out some paperwork and taken Treble’s keys. “I doubt I’ll have fixed anything yet, but I should at least have an idea of the problem.”

      Moments later, Treble and Keith were back in the truck and en route to Charity’s house. Charity had issued several invitations to visit over the years, and Treble might have been quicker to accept any of them if her sister had moved more than four miles away from the Breckfield family manor. Treble wondered if she could ever step inside the ancestral home—built on profits of the century-old dairy—without immediately thinking that it seemed cold. She’d been four the first time she’d visited, once her mother and Harrison were seeing each other, and it had seemed large and drafty. Like the haunted houses in scary stories. It hadn’t improved her opinion that the place was full of antiques and Breckfield heirlooms that she was admonished not to touch.

      At least Mom warmed it for a while. With her gone, the place had become positively glacial, full of long, mournful silence and, as Treble grew more rebellious in her teenage years, even colder arguments and chilly words.

      “Hey.” Keith’s voice was amused. “I’ve seen people in hospital waiting rooms less nervous than you. Your car’s in great hands with Ronnie.”

      “Hmm?” Treble followed his sidelong gaze to where she’d been drumming her fingers on the passenger side windowsill. “Oh, no, I…” On second thought, it suited her fine if he attributed her apprehension to vehicular woes and not her dubious homecoming.

      “You what?” Keith prompted.

      “I’m sure Ronnie’s terrific. I guess I’m anxious because I know the car’s on its last legs. Or tires, as the case may be. I need it to hold out until I find a house, get approved for financing and close.” The goal warmed her from the inside, and she smiled at the plans she couldn’t wait to start making. Decorating, furnishing, even landscaping. “My apartment’s become a bit claustrophobic over the past year.”

      Keith nodded. “For me, the city got claustrophobic. A mentor of mine knew Doc Monaghan and let me know he was looking for a replacement. I’d never even heard of this place, but as soon as I moved…It’s like I could finally breathe again.”

      She chuckled wryly.

      “Guess that was corny,” he said, sounding more guarded.

      “No. No, I was laughing at the irony. I feel free in Atlanta, whereas here I would suffocate.” Under expectations, the watchful eyes of nosy neighbors, the weight of the past.

      “To each his own, right?”

      “Exactly. To each her own.” Because her natural inclination was to fill dead air, when it became clear conversation had lagged, she turned back toward him. “So, did you always know you wanted to be a doctor?”

      He stiffened, so imperceptibly she wouldn’t have noticed if her body weren’t bizarrely attuned to his. “It…seemed right for me.”

      She hadn’t expected his profession to be a sore subject. Yikes, she’d promised her boss she wouldn’t lose her edge out here in the sticks, yet only a few hours in, she was already floundering her way through awkward chats.

      “What about you?” Keith returned. “You always know you wanted to be a radio host? Charity makes it sound fascinating.”

      Treble smiled self-consciously. “It probably seems more glamorous than it is because she’s lived in the same place her whole life and works for her dad.” The girl should have been named Patience; Treble would have snapped by now.

      “You mean she’s easily impressed because she’s a local yokel?” Keith’s tone was deceptively mild, his delivery belying the disapproval of his words.

      “I