Appalachian Prey. Debbie Herbert

cabin. No surprise there. Lilah snatched two plastic jugs from the back utility room and marched to the kitchen, intent on pouring the illegal hooch down the drain. Corn liquor had destroyed her parents’ marriage and her dad’s liver. Would have killed him, too, if he hadn’t been murdered a week ago.

      Unexpected tears blurred her vision as she unscrewed the lid on one of the jugs and poured the liquid poison into the chipped enamel sink. Not that she and Dad had been all that close in recent years, but still, the man had been her father. Lilah tipped the jug. Glug, glug, glug...a hundred dollars’ worth gone. Could have bought a used college textbook with that money.

      She blinked and gazed out the open window. The cabin was nestled in the foothills, with rolling mountains standing sentinel in all directions like a green fortress. A deceptive beauty, as though the price for living in such a visual feast meant being taxed with rampant poverty and violence. Dad’s death was the latest evidence of that.

      Whoever said you can’t go home again was dead wrong. After a mere week, Lilah felt like she’d never left Lavender Mountain. Memories washed over her, most of them unpleasant—her parents’ screaming matches, brutally cold nights where they’d all huddled in front of the fireplace. But it hadn’t been all bad. Some days, wandering the woods with her older siblings, Jimmy and Darla, had been magical.

      A faint scrape of boots on leaves and pine straw jarred her senses. Someone approached.

      Lilah stilled, picturing in her mind’s eye the open front door and windows. Had the murderer returned? She fought the instinct to flee to the back bedroom and lock herself in. Probably just one of Dad’s old customers who hadn’t gotten the word yet.

      Quickly, she raced across the rugged pine floorboards to the den. Through the battered screen door emerged the silhouette of a tall bearded man dressed in denim overalls. What mountain had he just climbed down from? Lilah sprinted to the door and latched the rusty lock into place. A joke of a defense. She reached for the weapon always propped by the door frame, and her right hand curled around the barrel of the twelve-gauge shotgun, its metal smooth, familiar and comfortable.

      And loaded.

      “What you want?” she called out in her fiercest voice.

      The man didn’t appear the least bit intimidated as he shuffled forward, his foot on the first porch step. “I got bizness with Chauncey Tedder.”

      “Guess you could say my dad’s out of business,” she said, sliding the shotgun next to her hip.

      He climbed the second step. One more and he would be within six feet of where she stood. He swayed and squinted, peering into the room. Lilah was painfully aware he could see straight into the little kitchenette.

      “Looks to me like you got some ’shine in there,” he boomed. “Go git me a jug afore I get really riled.”

      She didn’t aim to find out what the stranger was like “really riled.” This place was well out of range for anyone to hear if she screamed, and Dad was shot not far from the cabin. Lilah unhitched the lock and kicked open the screen door. She drew the shotgun up to shoulder level, finger twitching at the trigger. “I repeat—this place is closed for business. I’d appreciate you spreading the word.”

      “Whoa, little missy.” He threw up his hands and backed away. “Don’t mean ya no harm.”

      He tripped on the step and took a tumble. Oomph.

      Chagrined, Lilah bit her lip and lowered the shotgun. “You okay there?”

      He rose, brushing dirt off his overalls. “I reckon. You sure are a touchy thing. Best be gettin’ on my way.” With one last sorrowful glance at the jugs on the kitchen counter, he ambled away, gingerly limping on his right foot.

      What the hell.

      She returned inside, retrieved the full jug she hadn’t yet dumped out, and stepped out onto the porch. “Hey,” she yelled. “Come on back, you can have a jug.”

      He shot her a wary look, clearly suspicious of her change of heart. But in the end, the pull of the moonshine outweighed his reservation, and he returned.

      Lilah set the jug down at the bottom of the stairs and scampered back to the door.

      “Same price as always?” the man asked, carefully pulling out a wad of dollar bills from his side pocket.

      “It’s on the house. Just don’t come back, ya hear? This is the last of it.” Unless she found more while cleaning out the cabin. No telling how many bottles were tucked away in nooks and crannies.

      A grin split his weathered face as he tucked the money away. “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

      He picked up the jug and gave a quick nod before walking across the yard. A sheriff’s cruiser rounded the bend in the road and turned into her dirt driveway. The man momentarily froze at the sight, and then took off running to the nearby tree line—more like hobbling with his injured foot—but almost quick enough to get out of sight. Couldn’t have hurt too bad, she mused.

      The cruiser came to an abrupt halt, and a man started to climb out.

      Lilah’s heart skittered, even faster than when the stranger had suddenly appeared at her door minutes ago. Could it be...

      Oh, yes, it most definitely was.

      Harlan Sampson. The man who’d quickly won her heart three months ago and then had dumped her twice as fast after a week of fun and games. Her left hand involuntarily fluttered over her stomach, and Lilah hastily jerked it away.

      “Well, looky here,” Harlan drawled, eyeing the man carting his haul off into the woods. He faced her and pushed the dark sunshades up on his head, revealing the startling beryl-blue eyes that had enthralled her on her last ill-fated visit, which—damn it—still sent her heart pounding into overdrive. He walked toward her. “Looks like I finally caught a Tedder point-blank in the act of distributing illegal whiskey.”

      “Wrong. I wasn’t selling. I was giving. Ain’t no money exchanged hands here.” Inwardly, Lilah winced at the slip into the local vernacular. It had been twelve years since she’d called Lavender Mountain home, but in times of high emotion—and now definitely counted—she lapsed back into the lingo.

      “So you say.”

      She pinched her lips together. “What brings you here?”

      “Came to pay my respects, see how you’re getting on.”

      Weeks ago, she would have flung herself on Harlan at those words. But not now. “I’m jim-dandy,” she replied, lifting her chin a fraction. “I saw you at Dad’s funeral. No need to come over.”

      “I believe I owe you an apology.”

      “Forget it.” There was no way she’d admit how much his silence had hurt.

      His eyes smoldered, and he slowly climbed the porch steps, close enough now to make her breath hitch. “I can’t forget it. And I can’t forget you.”

      * * *

      EVEN GLARING AT HIM, shotgun by her side, Lilah Faye Tedder was a hell of a sight. Harlan drank it in—the long blond hair that tumbled past her shoulders, the elfin delicate face with the determined chin, the slight womanly curves of her body. He had tried to wipe away the memory of her, but with one glance, the old familiar pull returned. He nodded at the firearm. “Mind putting that thing away? Hard to talk to an angry woman holding a shotgun.”

      A smile ghosted across her face before the hardened set returned to her chin. “You said what you came to say. Apology accepted.”

      “C’mon, Lilah. Let’s talk.”

      She hesitated, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

      With that, Lilah spun on her heel and entered the cabin. Not much of an invitation, but he’d hardly expected her to welcome him with open arms. The place smelled as clean and as fresh as the pine breeze that blew through the open