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Woulds by JL Wilson

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  • Remembered Classics Romance

    Hey, y'all—I'm Tucker Frye, pub mistress and transplanted Southerner, minding my bar and my business here in Iowa. Then my nephew, an undercover animal rights activist, was murdered right in my back yard. I've got the evidence that might prove who killed him and it might put that god-forsaken operation out of business.

    First I need to figure out who I can trust, and that might be tough because as my daddy always said, good men are harder to find than deviled eggs after a church picnic. But I think John Smalley might be a keeper, and Alan Dale, too. With their help, maybe I can make Fitz Agribusiness pay for my nephew's death.

    Or maybe I'll die trying ...

    Rating: Sensual
    Page Count: 290
    Word Count: 76396
    978-1-5092-2185-1 Paperback
    978-1-5092-2186-8 Digital

    Excerpt

    I woke once and realized groggily I was snoozing on the couch. My face hurt and I shifted position, tucking a pillow under my ear so my bruised cheek wasn’t pressed against the fabric. I drifted back into sleep, lulled by the sound of the air conditioner as it kicked on.

    The brisk ringing of my phone woke me. I propped myself up on my elbow and fumbled for the receiver which sat on the end table near my head. “What?” I growled when I managed to find it.

    “Tuck, I need help.”

    I sat up straighter and rubbed my left eye. Luckily I remembered in time and didn’t touch my right one. “Rob? Is that you?” I asked around a yawn.

    “I need help. Can you come here? Can you come to the cabin?”

    “The cabin? Why are you there?” Rob had a cabin which his family owned for generations. It was situated north of town near the river in the middle of a tract of forest and near the flood plain. “I thought you went home.”

    “I had John bring me here. I need help, Tuck. Can you come out?”

    I peered at the clock on the wall over the dining room table. One-ten. Damn. One o’clock in the morning and Rob was calling me. “Why?” I snapped, waking up more fully.

    “It’s Guy.”

    “Guy? Guy Gibson? What about him?”

    “I think I killed him.”

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