A cow suicide, a revolving door rescue, and the birth of a
bright purple pig are starting to make Kate Saxee wonder if taking a job in her
small hometown of Branson Falls, Utah, was such a great idea. As The Branson
Tribune editor, Kate covers local news, which, more often than not, involves
her accident-prone mom. Nothing truly newsworthy has ever happened in the quiet
town until local teen Chelsea Bradford turns up dead in a Branson Falls lake.
The police rule Chelsea’s death an accident, but Kate suspects there’s more to the story—and she’s not the only one. Two of Branson’s most eligible bachelors are determined to help her solve the crime—among other things. But the small town social network is faster than Twitter, and gossip about Kate’s love-life is quickly branding her the Branson Falls hussy.
As Kate learns more about Chelsea, she discovers that plenty of people are trying to cover up the real story behind the girl’s death—including Chelsea’s parents. Now Kate has to juggle work, men, her mom’s most recent disaster involving a low-speed John Deere Combine chase on the freeway, and fend off the Mormons heaven-bent on saving her soul—all while solving Chelsea’s murder. Dealing with this is going to require a lot of coffee, chocolate frosted donuts, Neil Diamond's greatest hits, and a slew of words not on the town approved imitation swear list.
The police rule Chelsea’s death an accident, but Kate suspects there’s more to the story—and she’s not the only one. Two of Branson’s most eligible bachelors are determined to help her solve the crime—among other things. But the small town social network is faster than Twitter, and gossip about Kate’s love-life is quickly branding her the Branson Falls hussy.
As Kate learns more about Chelsea, she discovers that plenty of people are trying to cover up the real story behind the girl’s death—including Chelsea’s parents. Now Kate has to juggle work, men, her mom’s most recent disaster involving a low-speed John Deere Combine chase on the freeway, and fend off the Mormons heaven-bent on saving her soul—all while solving Chelsea’s murder. Dealing with this is going to require a lot of coffee, chocolate frosted donuts, Neil Diamond's greatest hits, and a slew of words not on the town approved imitation swear list.
I had just started working on stories for the week when my cell phone rang to the tune of “Sweet Caroline,” the ringtone that indicates the call is from someone I don’t already have in my phone contact list. I bobbed my head and sang along to the song while I debated answering, but when the chorus ended I decided I might as well pick up. “Hello.”
“Hi, Katie.”
I frowned at the nickname, and the voice. “Drake. What do you need?”
“You recognized my voice.” His tone was smug.
“No,” I said. “You’re the only person in the world who refuses to stop calling me Katie. How did you get this number anyway?”
“It wasn’t difficult.”
“Oh, right,” I said, nodding my head as I spoke, “because you’re charming, sexy, Dylan Drake.”
“No,” he said, “the Patriot Act, actually. But I’d like to hear more about me being sexy.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I didn’t mean to say that part out loud.” I tapped my index finger on the table. “And what do you mean the Patriot Act? Don’t tell me you put my name on a terrorist watch list.”
“Have you met your mother?” I could hear the disbelief in his tone even over the phone. “You only have to look at the front page of the Tribune to realize she’s a national security threat. In the wrong hands, she could be used as a weapon of mass destruction!”
“That’s my mom, not me.”
“You’re her daughter. You could have the same disaster tendencies.”
I clamped my jaw shut until I could get control and not bite his head off through the phone. “You’re not scoring any points here.”
He paused. “Maybe I could make it up to you over dinner?” he suggested. “My committee meetings are done for a couple of weeks so I’m back in town. I’d like to see you.”
This caught me completely off-guard. Why would philandering Drake want to see me? Maybe Spence was right and for Drake this was all just a game I kept playing into. When I didn’t answer, Drake said, “Katie, are you there?”
I closed my eyes as I leaned my head back against the chair. “I’m here. I’m just trying to decide how to answer.”
“ ‘Yes’ would be the easiest.”
“Uh huh. I know how you like things easy.”
I heard him sigh on the other end of the phone. “I usually don’t have to work this hard to get a woman interested.”
“Sorry I’m such a stubborn, independent, liberated pain in your ass.”
“I’m picking you up at seven tonight.”
“Just because you’re here to pick me up doesn’t mean I’ll be here to go with you.”
“From what I’ve heard, most of the town already thinks we’re practically engaged. We might as well go to dinner and make it official.”
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t go to dinner!” I yelled.
“Okay then, let’s go to dinner and discuss your story. I’d like to know more about what’s happened since the cocktail party. And you can ask me any questions you want,” he said. “You can even wear your press badge so people see we’re there on professional instead of personal business.”
The press badge wasn’t a bad idea, but I didn’t think it would help. In a place like Branson, even talking on the phone could force you into a relationship. Truth be told though, I did still have some questions for Drake. “All right,” I relented. “Seven.”
“What’s your address?”
“Ask the Patriot Act,” I said, and hung up.
“Hi, Katie.”
I frowned at the nickname, and the voice. “Drake. What do you need?”
“You recognized my voice.” His tone was smug.
“No,” I said. “You’re the only person in the world who refuses to stop calling me Katie. How did you get this number anyway?”
“It wasn’t difficult.”
“Oh, right,” I said, nodding my head as I spoke, “because you’re charming, sexy, Dylan Drake.”
“No,” he said, “the Patriot Act, actually. But I’d like to hear more about me being sexy.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I didn’t mean to say that part out loud.” I tapped my index finger on the table. “And what do you mean the Patriot Act? Don’t tell me you put my name on a terrorist watch list.”
“Have you met your mother?” I could hear the disbelief in his tone even over the phone. “You only have to look at the front page of the Tribune to realize she’s a national security threat. In the wrong hands, she could be used as a weapon of mass destruction!”
“That’s my mom, not me.”
“You’re her daughter. You could have the same disaster tendencies.”
I clamped my jaw shut until I could get control and not bite his head off through the phone. “You’re not scoring any points here.”
He paused. “Maybe I could make it up to you over dinner?” he suggested. “My committee meetings are done for a couple of weeks so I’m back in town. I’d like to see you.”
This caught me completely off-guard. Why would philandering Drake want to see me? Maybe Spence was right and for Drake this was all just a game I kept playing into. When I didn’t answer, Drake said, “Katie, are you there?”
I closed my eyes as I leaned my head back against the chair. “I’m here. I’m just trying to decide how to answer.”
“ ‘Yes’ would be the easiest.”
“Uh huh. I know how you like things easy.”
I heard him sigh on the other end of the phone. “I usually don’t have to work this hard to get a woman interested.”
“Sorry I’m such a stubborn, independent, liberated pain in your ass.”
“I’m picking you up at seven tonight.”
“Just because you’re here to pick me up doesn’t mean I’ll be here to go with you.”
“From what I’ve heard, most of the town already thinks we’re practically engaged. We might as well go to dinner and make it official.”
“That’s exactly why we shouldn’t go to dinner!” I yelled.
“Okay then, let’s go to dinner and discuss your story. I’d like to know more about what’s happened since the cocktail party. And you can ask me any questions you want,” he said. “You can even wear your press badge so people see we’re there on professional instead of personal business.”
The press badge wasn’t a bad idea, but I didn’t think it would help. In a place like Branson, even talking on the phone could force you into a relationship. Truth be told though, I did still have some questions for Drake. “All right,” I relented. “Seven.”
“What’s your address?”
“Ask the Patriot Act,” I said, and hung up.
BUY LINKS
Destiny Ford is a pseudonym for Angela Corbett. Angela graduated from Westminster College with a double major in communication
and sociology. She started working
as a reporter when she was sixteen and won awards for feature, news, and
editorial writing. She has also done
freelance writing. In addition to writing, she works as a director of
communications and marketing. She loves classic cars, traveling, cupcakes, and
U2. She lives in Utah with her extremely supportive husband and their
five-pound Pomeranian, Pippin, whose following of fangirls could rival Justin
Bieber's.
She writes adult titles under the name Destiny Ford, and YA/NA titles under the name Angela Corbett.
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