Copyright © 2007 by Sandra Hill
Excerpt from Wild Jinx copyright © 2007 by Sandra Hill
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Warner Books
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New York, NY 10017
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ISBN: 978-0-446-19742-7
First eBook Edition: July 2007
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
Wild Jinx
Chapter 1
JOIN THE FUN FROM THE BEGINNING WITH PINK JINX
“4 Stars! A hoot and a half! Snappy dialogue and outrageous characters keep the tempo lively and the humor infectious in this crazy adventure story. Hill is a master at taking outlandish situations and making them laugh-out-loud funny.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“Hill has yet again given us an adventure that is unbelievably funny! I am eagerly looking forward to another treasure hunting book from the incomparable Sandra Hill.”
—TheBestReviews.com
“A hilarious story filled with adventure, romance, danger, and mystery.”
—BookLoons.com
“With this comic contemporary romance’s great plot, witty dialogue, humorous asides, and quirky characters, readers will be impatient for book two.”
—Booklist
“Loaded with snappy dialogue, heartwarming moments that will pull at the most hardened heartstrings, engaging characters, and incredible sexual tension! It is always a great time to pick up a book by Sandra Hill.”
—ChicklitRomanceWriters.com
“Nobody does romance quite like Hill. She is always creating fresh new characters and imaginative new storylines with a style that’s all her own…[An] auspicious beginning to what promises to be another inventive series with memorable characters.”
—RomRevToday.com
“So hilarious that I actually laughed until I had to wipe tears from my eyes…If you need a healthy dose of laughter that’ll help you forget your troubles, pink up a copy of Pink Jinx.”
—NightsandWeekends.com
“So absorbing I could hardly put the book down…Treasure hunting has never been more fun…a comical and compelling read by one of today’s leading authors of entertaining romance.”
—CurledUp.com
“Romantic comedy at its best…Hill has written a fabulously funny story…an entertaining tale that must be read.”
—FreshFiction.com
“Sandra Hill is the queen of comedic love stories…Fans of lighthearted, jocular, modern-day novels will as always appreciate Ms. Hill’s wild sea ride.”
—Midwest Book Review
AND REVEL IN SANDRA HILL’S RAGIN’ CAJUN SERIES
THE RED-HOT CAJUN
“In need of a laugh? Look no further than this funny, sexy, warmhearted tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine
“Hill’s thigh-slapping humor and thoughtful look at the endangered Louisiana bayou ecosystem turn this into an engaging read.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Ms. Hill provides a Louisiana summer heat romance filled with passion and humor.”
—Midwest Book Review
“A brimming romance for people who like to laugh [and] people who like to cry.”
—Booklist
THE CAJUN COWBOY
“Hill will tickle readers’ funny bones yet again as she writes in her trademark sexy style. A real crowd-pleaser, guar-an-teed.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“An intoxicating addition to her Cajun Bad Boys series.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A pure delight. One terrific read!”
—Romantic Times BOOKclub Magazine (four stars)
“Sandra Hill’s writing is fabulous. Look forward to a book by her because it will be a great read.”
—The Literary Times
TALL, DARK, AND CAJUN
“If you like your romances hot and spicy and your men the same way, then you will like Tall, Dark, and Cajun . . . Eccentric characters, witty dialogue, humorous situations . . . and hot romance . . . [Hill] perfectly captures the bayou’s mystique and makes it come to life.”
—RomRevToday.com
“Fast-moving . . . the bayou setting filled with humor . . . The love scenes had me running for a tall glass of iced tea. This is one of those books I wanted to devour in one sitting.”
—TheWordOnRomance.com
“Get ready for hours of laughter, page-turning intrigue, passion, sexy hunks, and danger . . . Tall, Dark, and Cajun is even better than I dreamed it would be.”
—RoadtoRomance.com
Also by Sandra Hill
The Cajun Cowboy
The Red-Hot Cajun
Tall, Dark, and Cajun
Pink Jinx
There is an Amish thread in this book, and it is with much respect and many prayers that I dedicate this book to the Plain people of Nickel Mines, Pennsylvania, who suffered such a serious tragedy this past year. It is also dedicated to all those, Amish and otherwise, who manage to practice a simple lifestyle in the midst of all of our modern world’s turmoil.
And, of course, I dedicate this book, like all my others, to you, the readers, who support my books. You are a priceless gift. Over and over, you tell me how important humor is in your lives. Perhaps, like the Amish, we all need to find joy in simple things, like laughter, love, and family.
To show my appreciation, I once again have something free for you on my Web site. Last time it was an original novella, not available anywhere else. This time . . . well, come visit and see what I have to offer. You are always welcome.
Fondly,
Sandra Hill
www.sandrahill.net
Dear Reader:
I hope you like my second Jinx treasure-hunting book.
Caleb holds a special place in my heart, being ex-Amish and an ex–Navy SEAL. His seventeen-year estrangement from his twin brother was particularly poignant to me. And funny. Especially with Tante Lulu along for the ride.
Spruce Creek also has a special place in my heart. My husband and I have a cottage there, and yes, there are caverns and snakes and premier fly fishing. One of the many Warrior Paths that crisscrossed Pennsylvania at one time traversed the very mountainside that is visible from our front deck. I often imagine I see Indian braves standing on the high cliff that overlooks our property, which is appropriately named Indian Lookout. For sure, they used the ice caves that are situated directly across our stream.
And “Robber” Davie Lewis really did exist, calling himself an equalizer as he stole from the rich and gave to the poor; however, the cave he hid in was not the imaginary Spruce Creek Cavern, but probably Indian Cavern in nearby Franklinville.
This book in no way reflects the real Amish people of Sinking Valley or the inhabitants of Spruce Creek, Pennsylvania. As a side note, the Amish of
Lancaster County are well known, but here in central Pennsylvania, you haven’t lived till you’ve gone to the Wednesday-morning farmers’ and flea markets in Belleville. They start at six a.m. and end at noon. They auction everything from butter to fresh produce to cows. I kid you not!
Please continue to follow the madcap adventures of my Jinx treasure-hunting team. Next up will be that rascal Tee-John LeDeux in Wild Jinx. Of course, you will want to know how Lizzie, the Amish J-Lo, does on American Idol. Laughter and sighs guaranteed!
And please visit my Web site for a free gift to show my appreciation for all your support, past, present, and future.
Wishing you smiles in your reading,
Sandra Hill
www.sandrahill.net
Chapter 1
Crazy is as crazy does . . .
Caleb Peachey jogged along the road, his eyes on the log cabin up ahead. It sat nestled in the thick woods on the banks of the Little Juniata River, almost hidden from view. He hoped to find the crazy woman at home this early in the morning.
Crazy Claire, that’s what she was called by some of the locals. Dr. Claire Cassidy, historical archaeologist, by her colleagues. PhDiva, by him. Actually, he was beginning to feel like the crazy one as he attempted to make contact with the elusive woman. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if she even existed. Crazy Claire is gonna be Crazy-Friggin’-Dead Claire if she doesn’t stop hiding from me.
Five miles back and a half-hour ago, at dawn, he’d left the Butterfly Bed & Breakfast in Spruce Creek, where he and his team from Jinx, Inc., a treasure-hunting firm, would be staying. He’d arrived here in central Pennsylvania yesterday morning. The rest of the team would be here this afternoon, but the project itself couldn’t start until Dr. Cassidy was on board, per orders of the National Park Service, which made sure no historical artifacts were disturbed. Now, he could understand the government being worried about metal detecting on a battlefield, trafficking in relics, defacing previously undiscovered prehistoric rock wall art, that kind of thing, but dammit, they were just going to take some pearls out of this cavern . . . a privately owned cavern, to boot. They weren’t exploring King Tut’s tomb here.
Stopping in the clearing before the house, he bent over, hands on thighs, and breathed deeply in and out to cool down, not that he had broken a sweat or anything. Hell, he’d been a Navy SEAL for ten years, up till two and a half years ago, and they ran five times as far before breakfast, wearing heavy boondockers, not the two-hundred-dollar ergonomically designed Adidas he had on now.
He knocked on the door. Once. Twice. No response except for some cats mewling inside. Same as yesterday, except there was a battered station wagon here now, which he took as a good sign. The woman hadn’t responded to the messages he’d left on her answering machine, either. Hi! This is Claire. Your message is important to me. Blah, blah, blah! Caleb mimicked in his head. Apparently not that important.
A fat calico cat—probably pregnant—sidled up to him and gave him the evil eye, as only a cat could do. Then she sashayed past, deeming him unworthy of her regard.
With his side vision, he noticed another cat approaching, but, no, it wasn’t a cat; it was a rat. Okay, it was a teeny-tiny dog that resembled a rat, and it started yip-yip-yipping at him as if it was a German shepherd, not a rat terrier.
Caleb couldn’t fathom people who wanted such itty-bitty things for pets. But then, some people even took slimy creatures into their homes. Like snakes. Having a fierce aversion to snakes, he shivered.
The dog stopped yipping and gave him the same you-are-so-boring look as the cat through its beady eyes and sauntered off, around the side of a modern addition to the old cabin.
He decided to follow.
The back of the cabin was a surprise. While the front was traditional log-and-chink design, the back was all windows facing the river, down below some fifty feet. Cushioned Adirondack chairs had been arranged on a wide deck. An open laptop sat on a low wooden table.
You-know-who must be home. Ignoring my calls. Son of a bitch! Oooh, someone is in big trouble.
He turned toward the river. And inhaled sharply at the view. Not just the spectacular Little Juniata with the morning sun bouncing off the surface, creating diamond-like sparkles, fish actually jumping out of the water to feed on the seasonal hatch of newborn insects hovering above. He was familiar with this river, having grown up in an Amish community about ten miles down the road in Sinking Valley. What caused him to gasp was the woman standing waist-deep in the middle of the river. She wore suspendered waders over a long-sleeved white T-shirt. Her long dark-red hair was pulled up into a high ponytail that escaped through the back of a Penn State baseball cap. Auburn, he thought her hair color was called.
Could this possibly be the slippery Dr. Claire Cassidy? Crazy Claire? For some reason, he’d expected someone older, more witchy-looking. It was hard to tell from this distance, but she couldn’t be much older than thirty, although who knew? Women today were able to fool guys all the time. Makeup to look as if they were not wearing makeup. Nips and tucks. Collagen. Boob lifts, ferchrissake!
The woman was fly fishing, which was an art in itself. Caleb was the furthest thing from a poet, but the way she executed the moves was pure art in motion. Like a ballet. Following a clock pattern, she raised her long bamboo rod upward with her right hand, stopping abruptly at noon to apply tension to her line. Then she allowed the rod to drift back slowly in the forward cast, stopping abruptly at eleven o’clock, like the crack of a whip. The follow-through was a dance of delicacy, because the fly should land on top of the water only for a few seconds, to fool the trout below water level that it was real live food. Over and over she performed this operation. It didn’t matter that she didn’t catch anything. The joy was in the casting.
And in the watching.
Dropping down to the edge of the deck, elbows resting on raised knees, Caleb breathed in deeply. The scents of honeysuckle and pine filled the early-morning air. Silence surrounded him, although it was not really silence if one listened carefully. The rush of the water’s current. Bees buzzing. Birds chirping. In the distance, a train whistle. He even saw a hawk swoop gloriously out of the mountains, searching for food. He felt as if he’d been sucker punched, jolted back to a time and place he’d spent seventeen years trying to forget.
The Plain people, as the Amish called themselves, were practical to a fault. Fishing was for catching fish. No Lands End angler duds or fancy Orvis rods or custom-made flies. Just worms. But his Dat had been different. As stern as he was in many regards, he had given Caleb and his four brothers an appreciation for God’s beauty in nature and the heavenly joy of fly fishing. Much like that minister in the movie A River Runs Through It, Caleb’s old man had made fly fishing an exercise in philosophy, albeit the Old Order Amish way of life. Caleb smiled to himself, knowing his father would not be pleased with comparison to an Englisher, anyone not Amish, even a man of God.
And, for sure and for certain, as the Amish would say, they didn’t believe in that wasteful “catch and release” business, which the fisherwoman in front of him was doing now with a twenty-inch rainbow. How many times had Caleb heard: “To waste is to destroy God’s gift”? No, if an Amishman caught a fish, he ate it. With homemade chowchow, spaetzle oozing with butter, sliced tomatoes still warm from the garden, corn fritters, and shoofly pie.
Stomach rumbling with sudden hunger, Caleb shook his head to clear it of unwanted memories, stood, and walked down the railroad tie steps to the edge of the river.
The woman glanced his way, then did a double take. After a brief hesitation, she waved.
Yep, she must be crazy.
He was a big man, six-four, and still carried the musculature that defined a Navy SEAL. The tattoo of a barbed-wire chain around his upper arm usually gave women pause. Plus, he was a stranger. But did she appear frightened? Nah. She just waved at him. He could be an ax murderer, for all she knew. She was brave or stupid or crazy, he figured. Maybe all three.
r /> Enough!
He waded into the cold water. It soon covered his shoes, his bare legs, his running shorts, and then the bottom of his T-shirt. Once he reached the woman, whose mouth was now gaping open, he gritted his teeth, then snarled, “Your phone broken, lady?”
She blinked. Tall for a woman—maybe five-nine—she was still a head shorter than him and had to crane her neck to stare up at him. “Ah, the persistent Caleb.” Then she smiled and shook her head as if he were not worthy of her attention. Just like her damn fat cat and her damn rat dog.
Taken aback by her attitude, he failed to register the fact that she had, unbelievably, resumed fishing. She’s ignoring me. I don’t fuckin’ believe this. Three days of chasing my tail, and she thinks she can ignore me. I. Don’t. Think. So.
Without warning, he picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, just barely catching the bamboo rod in his other hand as it started to float downstream. With her kicking and screaming, he stomped through the water, probably scaring off every fish within a one-mile radius.
“Put me down, you goon.”
“Stop squirming. I’ll put you down when I’m good and ready. We’re on my clock now, baby.”
“Clock? Clock? I’d like to clock you.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
“I mean it. Put me down. Aaarrgh! Take your hand off my ass.”
“Stop putting your ass in my face.”
“You are in such trouble. Wait till I call the police. Hope you know a good lawyer,” she threatened to his back.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m shakin’ in my boots . . . rather, Adidas.”
“Ha, ha, ha! You’re not going to be making jokes once you’re in the clink.”
The clink? Haven’t heard that expression in, oh, let’s say, seventeen years. Once on the bank, he propped the rod against a tree and stood her on her feet, being careful to hold on to one hand lest she take flight or wallop him a good one.