Lightning Only Strikes Twice
Praise for LIGHTNING ONLY STRIKES TWICE
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Lightning Only Strikes Twice
by
Stanalei Fletcher
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Lightning Only Strikes Twice
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Kim Finnegan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Cactus Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-686-4
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-687-1
Published in the United States of America
Praise for
LIGHTNING ONLY STRIKES TWICE
LIGHTNING ONLY STRIKES TWICE
won 1st Place
in the 2011 Absolutely Write Contest
“
LIGHTNING ONLY STRIKES TWICE
is the best time travel gem I’ve read in years. The love story was so packed with plot twists and mystery, I never wanted it to end. Fans of Stanalei Fletcher, a bright new star in the time travel firmament, will be calling for a sequel!”
~Rebecca Winters, award-winning author
Dedication
To Mike,
for giving my dreams flight
and holding me tight when I wake.
Acknowledgements
This story wouldn’t be possible without
Kent and Steve.
Thank you for keeping my feet to the fire.
To Mary and Lisa for your discerning eyes.
To Jude, for the glitter when I needed it most.
And lastly, to Wade for sharing his town.
“…we are made wise not by the recollection of our past, but by the responsibility for our future.”
~George Bernard Shaw
Chapter One
White Rock, Idaho, Present Day
“You can’t rewrite history with a bulldozer, Mr. Maxwell.” The words tumbled out before Annie Crawford realized she’d spoken aloud.
Luke Maxwell stopped rolling the development’s project plans and raked a stunned, dark-eyed gaze over her. “I beg your pardon?”
Annie cringed. His shock was warranted. She’d sold the old ghost town property to Maxwell Development a few months ago. It was his to do with as he pleased.
Overhead, thunder rumbled. An ominous reminder she was alone in this remote mountain valley with the owner of Maxwell Development and his project manager—strangers to her until today.
The impending downpour added to her unease of having driven three hours from Boise for one last visit without telling anyone.
“I’m sor—” She broke off the apology, squared her shoulders. “You asked for my opinion.”
“So I did.” He finished rolling the plans and slid them into the protective tubing. “I’m sorry you feel like that, especially after driving all this way. It wasn’t my intention to waste your time.” He glanced at the leaden clouds simmering over the craggy peaks above the valley, then turned his gaze on her once more. “I suppose, since there’s nothing more to discuss, I’ll wish you a good afternoon. Drive safely.” He pivoted on the heel of his expensive leather shoes and faced the clearing of meadow grass where his black Humvee was parked
Annie felt six inches tall. It wouldn’t have killed her to keep her opinions to herself. Luke Maxwell had gone out of his way to invite her to preview the development plans. By blurting out her objections, she wasted his time too.
Luke took couple of steps toward the vehicles then stopped. He turned and looked at her, a dark eyebrow raised. “I don’t understand. I thought you’d be pleased with the layouts.” He hefted the cardboard tube under his arm, tightening his jacket across broad shoulders. Given his occupation as a developer, his muscular build probably hadn’t come from a gym.
Barely six months out of a broken engagement, Annie chose to ignore her unexpected attraction. She didn’t need another unrealistic entanglement, and according the
Boise Statesman
, Luke Maxwell was practically engaged to a wealthy socialite.
“The designs
are
nice...” she said, referring to the blueprints he’d shown her earlier.
He tilted his head. “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”
“Yes…no.” She bit her lower lip. She may have a sizable amount in her bank account from the sale, but the financial insecurity she’d endured all her life hadn’t worn off. To a man who managed multi-million-dollar projects on a daily basis, her viewpoint must appear simplistic.
“Which is it?”
Maxwell’s question surprised her. If she’d been in his shoes, she doubted she’d be as tolerant. Annie stared at the grove of aspen beyond the old mining mill. A wistful longing filled her chest.
“Are you regretting your decision to sell?” His question pierced to the heart of the matter.
“No.” She swallowed the lie and faced him. “Well…maybe a little.” To avoid bankruptcy, she sold the land that had been in her family for generations. She’d accepted Maxwell’s invitation to see the plans for the property and assure herself that she’d made the right decision. She was in no position to criticize his project. “It’s just that…” The papers were signed. Most of her grandfather’s debts were paid. It was time to move on with her life.
“It’s just what?” He retraced his steps to stand beside her.
Thunder echoed against the mountains, resonating inside her as though she’d become part of the remote wilderness that shielded the old ghost town through decades of abandonment. A hint of ozone hung in the air, blending with the aroma of freshly unfurled aspen leaves and new pine. The smell of apple blossoms would soon add to the mountain bouquet—until the trees were dozed under to make way for Maxwell’s premiere resort.
“I hadn’t realized until today you were going to completely level the valley and fill it with cracker-box condos.” She sought out the few weathered and broken structures dotting the meadow. Remnants of homes surrendered to decades of disuse and neglect. “It seems so…disrespectful.”
“Million-dollar summer homes aren’t cracker-boxes,” he said with the assuredness of someone used to living in such accommodations.
Already neck-deep in the discussion, she might as well finish. “You can’t disguise the fact that all the houses will be variations of the same floor plan, with a fake lake in the middle of the property.”
“That’s what sells, Miss Crawford,” he replied. “The jobs this project will create could boost the economy in the areas surrounding White Rock for years.” He gestured over the valley. “You didn’t think Maxwell Development would purchase prime land and then sit on it?”
“Of course not. I knew you would develop.” Reflectively, she touched the chain that held the pendant her grandfather had given her. She really should have visited here more often—at least brought her grandfather one last time before he died.
She lifted her chin and swallowed her misgivings. “You’re right. The project will help the economy.” Because of her decision, none of the quaint mining ghost town would remain. Generations of her heritage—gone in a single act.
Luke looked as if he wanted to question her further, but Mr. Wade, the project manager, hailed him from across the meadow.
The stocky, fifty-something project manager had joined them on the tour, eagerly pointing out locations where they planned to reroute the creek to create the new lake. He’d had no idea that with each passing comment the pit of Annie’s stomach had grown colder.
Regardless of her feelings, she took pride in her integrity and wouldn’t go back on her word to lend her support, even though everything in this valley would change.
Luke waved to Mr. Wade then turned to her. His brown gaze softened a little. “I apologize that our plans upset you. Perhaps it was wrong to invite you here. I had hoped…” He shook his head. “Never mind.” He nodded toward Mr. Wade. “If you’ll excuse me?”
“Of course.” She wondered what he’d been about to say but supposed it didn’t matter. This would be the last time she saw him.
Wind tugged a few strands of hair from her barrette. She brushed them impatiently away and surveyed the mountain valley before returning her gaze to the wealthy developer as he stood talking to Mr. Wade.
She’d been surprised by the invitation to see the plans. Luke’s secretary assured her it was company policy to garner support from a previous owner for a major project. Especially if the land had historical significance.
Although White Rock had been abandoned decades ago, and the remains in the cemetery moved to the nearby township, at one time the community
had
played an important role in settling western Idaho. It had certainly contributed to the illusion of wealth for those early miners.
She knew part of the history from stories her grandfather had shared. Silver and gold mining veins had run dry in the late 1890s. As the miners left for better prospects, her great-great-grandfather had bought parcels of land with the hope someday the community would become viable again.
Instead of her grandfather, Luke Maxwell would be the man to revitalize the area, by doing what he’d been born to do—build premiere resorts for the rich and idle.
He wasn’t to blame. She was the one who’d sold her legacy to pay the dues of the present.
Maxwell and Wade appeared to be leaving. With the imminent storm, she should be scrambling to get home also. Her little Volkswagen had valiantly chugged up the hairpin climb on dirt roads but driving downhill on rain-slicked roads was another matter. After paying her grandfather’s debts, one of the first things she intended to do with the leftover money was buy a new car.
Now, as she stood alone in this meadow with her memories, she realized not selling the car was a symptom of her unwillingness to let go of the past. If she had understood that fact about herself before she’d sold the land, would she have made a different decision?
Probably not. She’d needed the money. Now that she had it, maybe she’d move out of Boise, away from the pain of losing her only family. Away from the sting of her breakup and find a place to start fresh. A smaller community, where neighbors knew each other’s names.
Since she’d driven all this way, she might as well take a final tour before leaving the little valley in the hands of the development crew.
She wandered around a tumbled-down cabin with its interior open to the elements. A small aspen sprouted where the kitchen table might have stood generations before. A family would have gathered here for prayer and companionship.
With a sense of melancholy, she started toward the hillside where the old mill perched near a gurgling creek. Had the sun been shining, she might have been tempted to dangle her feet in the water like she used to when she was little. However, the air had cooled with the approaching storm and the mountain snow runoff would be icy.
In the distance, an engine started and idled for a moment before the noise gradually faded as it left the valley. It was hard to accept that the next time anyone set foot on the property it would be with a backhoe to tear into the ground.
Annie shrugged off the unpleasant thought. There was nothing she could do to stop the changes. Nothing she
would
do.
She skirted the overgrown tailings dump. The mill’s two-story weathered wood still showed signs of charring from the fire that destroyed most of the town in the late 1800s. Aspen and willows crowded against the structure. Through decades of disuse, the forest had reclaimed the land.
In her mind, she heard children laughing as they played hide-and-seek in the nearby trees. Instead of the overgrown utility road, she visualized rows of homes and bustling businesses lining the muddy streets.
