Jacob's Ladder: Gabe (Jacob's Ladder #1)

I heard some rustling of papers before the woman’s voice became slightly muffled. “Listen, there are actually two towing calls ahead of you, but I’m going to radio Ray to come to you first.”

Jackpot. “Thank you so much…I’m sorry, but I don’t think I got your name.”

“It’s Candice, but everyone calls me Candy.”

“Thank you, Candy.”

At the sound of her name coming from my lips, Candy dissolved into a fit of giggles. After a few deep breaths, she managed to compose herself. “Okay, now, you just sit tight, Gabe, and Ray should be there in about ten to twenty minutes.”

“I will. I can’t thank you enough for all your help,” I replied in my sincerest voice.

“Oh, trust me, it was my pleasure.”

“Bye, Candy,” I drawled.

After another fit of giggles, she replied, “Bye, Gabe.”

I shook my head as I hung up the phone. Even after years of being famous, it never ceased to amaze me the reactions fans had. When it came down to it, I was a person just like anyone else, but to them, the fact that I played in a successful band elevated my status slightly above them.

While I waited on Ray, I hopped back onto Jeep’s front seat, thanking God again, this time for the leather seats so my soaking jeans wouldn’t ruin the upholstery. After opening the dashboard, I took out my notebook. I figured I might as well try to make the most of the time I had. Sure, the Jeep might be stuck, but part of my plan was still intact. After all, I was in the middle of nowhere with no distractions. Nibbling on the pen cap, I closed my eyes and searched for the right words.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. Fuck. Nothing was coming. Not words, not images—absolutely nothing. With a frustrated grunt, I hurled my pen onto the dashboard. Once again, a sense of dread cloaked me. I swallowed hard before taking in a few deep breaths. The last thing I needed was to go into full-on panic attack mode in the middle of nowhere. Lifting my head, I gazed up at the sky. “I could really use some help right now.”

At the sound of a vehicle coming down the road, I tossed my notebook back into the glove compartment. I threw open the door and jumped back down into the muddy water then watched as the black and red wrecker moved closer to the stream. After the engine was cut, the driver’s side door opened.

When a chunky high-heeled boot slid out, I slowly trailed my hand down my face. Another boot dangled out the open door before the driver jumped down, and I muttered, “Holy shit.” The stereotype of a potbellied, trucker hat-wearing guy named Ray was not what I saw in front of me. The owner of the sexy boots wore skin-tight blue jeans, a white tank top, and an open flannel shirt. One would adequately describe her body as bangin’, and if I focused any longer on the way her perky tits strained against her tank top, I was going to get a boner right here in the boonies.

I forced my gaze back to her face. Her long dark hair was pulled into a ponytail, and her dark eyes locked on mine. I couldn’t help being further surprised by the somewhat amused glint burning in them.

“Looks like you got yourself into mess, city boy,” the woman said with a teasing lilt in her voice.





After huffing out a frustrated breath, I dipped my paintbrush into the container of bright yellow paint. Usually when I sat at the table in our formal dining room, I stared out at a sea of culinary delights. Today, however, I merely saw red Solo cups filled with vibrantly colored paints, Styrofoam balls, and a black poster board sitting on top of the plastic drape protecting the table. Basically, it was everything you could possibly need to construct a model of the solar system.

Normally, I didn’t enjoy spending my Sunday afternoons painting the planets. After a full week of managing my family’s collision business, I wanted nothing more than to drink a glass of wine while catching up on the Real Housewives I’d DVR-ed. But, as it tends to be with motherhood, my life wasn’t truly my own, and Sundays inevitably became project time.

“Remind me again when this is due?” I asked as I put the final yellow touches on the largest sized ball we’d deemed the sun.

My nine-year-old son, Lincoln, AKA Linc, glanced up at me sheepishly. “Um, Tuesday.”

I shot him my best ticked off mom look. “And why have you only started working on it today?”

“I guess ’cause I forgot.”

“Please tell me we’re not going to have to go back to me really checking your agenda every night instead of me just signing it so you don’t get in trouble with your teacher?”

With a scowl, Linc replied, “No. I’ll do better, I promise.”

My older sister, Kennedy, shook her dark head of hair at me before turning to Linc. “Don’t let your mom give you grief. When we were growing up, she was notorious for waiting until the last minute to do her homework and projects. It used to drive Papa crazy.”

I stilled my paintbrush to glare at her. “Thank you so much for undermining my parenting.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome.”

As I sat the sun down to dry, I said, “You know, you really shouldn’t feel like you have to help. I’m sure you have a ton of other things you could be doing.”

“Nope, I’m good. Just waiting until it’s time to head to the shop to get started on tomorrow’s prep.”

Kennedy was co-owner of Harts and Flowers, a combination bakery and florist that used a cutesy play on our last name. The other half of the business was owned by our younger sister, Eleanor Rose—or Ellie, as we called her—who did the floral arrangements.

From our names, one might assume our parents had a thing for the presidents. The love of historical figures really falls to my dad. It had started when his parents gave him the moniker of Abraham Lincoln Hart. He was known as Abe for the better part of his life, and most people in town also called him Honest Abe for the way he ran our family’s collision business.

Our mother hadn’t really cared too much for the business of naming us, so she had deferred to my father. The truth was Mommie Dearest hadn’t really cared too much for anything regarding her three daughters. She’d blown town with a traveling musician when I was just four years old, leaving my father to raise us girls all on his own.