Keep It Together - By Lissa Matthews Page 0,4

vulnerability. She was a proud Southern woman. Her mother’s voice started ringing in her head, telling her to keep it together, that she couldn’t let Colt see her cry. For once, she would have agreed with the stoic Mrs. Browning.

With a flip of her hair and the best tight-lipped smile she could call up, she said, “Thank you, Colt. I appreciate you driving out here. None of this is your fault. Please have a safe flight back home.”

“Chrissie, I—”

Chrissie stood tall with her head held high in her baby-blue robe and red flannel pajamas with little green Christmas trees dotting the fabric, her hair tangled and going any which way, her makeup smudged, and her breath smelling like roadkill. She looked a sight, less like a woman and more like the rejected, walking dead. The longer she looked at him, the more she had to blink back the tears. She wouldn’t cry in front of this man with the sincere eyes watching her. She. Wouldn’t. “Merry Christmas, Colt,” she interrupted, effectively stopping whatever he had been about to say. She nodded with finality and closed the door on him.

Chapter One

“You’ve given me six months to think about it, and I have an answer for you.”

Chrissie’s head twitched to the side as she finished loading the Browning shotgun. She’d been dreaming about that voice nearly every night for months, and it seemed that it was invading her days now. Probably a sign that she’d finally lost her mind. She lifted the gun, lined up her shot, cocked the hammer, and fired. She was so used to the sound in her ear and the kickback of the butt into her shoulder that it didn’t faze her anymore.

“Nice touch with the wedding dress. New style for this year?”

Chrissie’s gaze darted toward the oak tree. “Well, the day after I saw you, I went to the bridal store, but they wouldn’t take it back, and I didn’t want it anymore. Plus, shooting your brother woulda been against the law. So, I did the next best thing I could think of,” she explained. Which was to hang the dress, rig the hanger with rope, anchor it to the tree, and blow so many holes in the gown, she’d had to go get another box of shells within thirty minutes.

What was left resembled some of her grandmother’s lace doilies.

“Chrissie? Will you look at me? Please?”

Definitely not a good idea. “Nope.” She fired another shot. Even though she didn’t hunt anymore and hadn’t for years, she loved shooting. It was a power she could control. Her mother thought it was a terrible hobby for a girl, but her father had ignored her protests and lavished guns, ammunition, and bows and arrows on his only child.

Chrissie liked the focus it took to hit a target. She liked the definitive sound of cocking a hammer and the pressure applied to pulling a trigger. And whereas shooting had been recreational for her in the past, it had helped her get over Russ. If she imagined Russ when she fired at a tin can or a picture tacked to a hay bale… If she shot her wedding dress all to hell between Christmas and New Year’s, well… At least she was over him and rightly so.

That she could crochet an afghan too? That was just something to do when it was too dark and too late to be making a bunch of noise playing with firearms.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.” I might jump you and rip your clothes off if I do.

“Fair enough. I can talk to your back. My answer is yes, by the way.”

Something in his tone, the way it softened, lingered on the word “back,” sent shivers down her spine, shivers she chose to ignore.

“I was in Atlanta on business,” he continued, “and thought I’d fly down to Savannah to see how you were doing and give you the answer in person.”

“As you can see, I’m doing fine, and I don’t have the slightest clue what you’re talking about.”

Colt chuckled. The sound carried, even on the heavy summer afternoon air. “So the gun you brought out on the porch when I was here last time wasn’t just for show, huh?”

“Nope.”

“I didn’t know you could shoot.”

“Yep.”

“Russ said you had some unusual hobbies, but he never elaborated.”

Was he attempting small talk? “Guess he didn’t think it was important.” She tried lining up another shot, but it wasn’t working. Her brain was done concentrating on the gun and the target and