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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One: Miguel

  Chapter Two: Nate

  Chapter Three: Miguel

  Chapter Four: Nate

  Chapter Five: Miguel

  Chapter Six: Nate

  Chapter Seven: Miguel

  Chapter Eight: Nate

  Chapter Nine: Miguel

  Chapter Ten: Nate

  Chapter Eleven: Miguel

  Chapter Twelve: Nate

  Chapter Thirteen: Miguel

  Chapter Fourteen: Nate

  Chapter Fifteen: Miguel

  Chapter Sixteen: Nate

  Chapter Seventeen: Miguel

  Chapter Eighteen: Nate

  Chapter Nineteen: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty-One: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Miguel

  If you don’t know what you want, would you recognize it if you found it?

  Miguel Ramirez is the definition of a pocho: a half-breed, whitewashed Mexican–American who doesn’t speak Spanish. He’s also unapologetically bisexual. Three years ago he arrived in Skagit a broken man, having barely managed to escape an abusive relationship. Slowly, he’s rebuilt his life. He’s tried hard to discard his deepest desires and be happy with what life has doled out. Family feels out of his grasp; no one really wants to keep a stray, after all. Except, maybe, a red-haired stranger with a galaxy of freckles who seems to encompass everything Miguel’s learned to avoid.

  Nate Richardson is a focused, solid, reliable, career-minded Federal Agent with no time for relationships outside of work. Then he runs into Miguel with his sparkling green eyes, rakish smile, and outrageous sense of humor. Nate starts thinking about Miguel as more than just another guy. Nate was sure he didn’t care about sex and didn’t believe in love… until he met Miguel Ramirez.

  Things quickly heat up between Nate and Miguel. Crime in Skagit is heating up as well. Nate is sidelined when the case he is working on reaches a frustrating standstill. In the meantime, unnerving incidents transpire, some literally on Nate’s doorstep. Will outside forces—or their own baggage—keep Miguel and Nate apart? What exactly is family, and can Miguel and Nate make one of their own?

  Copyright

  Dedication and Acknowledgments:

  Chapter One: Miguel

  Chapter Two: Nate

  Chapter Three: Miguel

  Chapter Four: Nate

  Chapter Five: Miguel

  Chapter Six: Nate

  Chapter Seven: Miguel

  Chapter Eight: Nate

  Chapter Nine: Miguel

  Chapter Ten: Nate

  Chapter Eleven: Miguel

  Chapter Twelve: Nate

  Chapter Thirteen: Miguel

  Chapter Fourteen: Nate

  Chapter Fifteen: Miguel

  Chapter Sixteen: Nate

  Chapter Seventeen: Miguel

  Chapter Eighteen: Nate

  Chapter Nineteen: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-One: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Three: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Miguel

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Nate

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Miguel

  The Accidental Roots Series:

  Storm Season

  No Pressure

  Spring Break

  As Sure as the Sun

  Copyright

  eBooks are not transferrable.

  They cannot be sold, shared, or given away, as doing so is

  an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and

  incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously

  and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons

  (living or dead), actual events, locales, or organizations is

  entirely coincidental.

  Dirty Dog Press

  Seattle, WA 98118

  River Home (Accidental Roots 5)

  Copyright 2018 by Elle Keaton

  Edited by Alicia Z. Ramos

  ISBN:

  Cover design: Cate Ashwood

  http://www.cateashwooddesigns.com/

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or

  reproduced in any manner without written permission,

  except in the case of brief quotations for critical reviews and articles.

  Ellekeaton.com

  Amazon.com/author/ellekeaton

  Facebook.com/ElleKeatonWrites

  Twitter @piratequeenrdz1

  Instagram elle.keaton_author

  goodreads.com/ellekeaton_author

  Dedication and Acknowledgments:

  Thank you, everyone.

  This past year has been incredible, magical, life affirming… I am still stunned. Complete

  strangers put their trust in me—trusted that I would be able to write a tale that would transport them, even if only for a little while, away from the mundane and to the imaginary city of Skagit, Washington.

  To those who read the very first very rough draft: Sherri, Jenni Lea, Robert; thank you for encouraging me, for helping me believe in myself.

  To my readers: without reader support and enthusiasm for my characters and the little city of Skagit, I wouldn’t be about to hit “publish” on the fifth installment in Accidental Roots.

  So many generous people helped me along this journey, not least of whom is my editor, Alicia Ramos, who edited the heck out of this manuscript, checked facts (Himalayan blackberry), and made certain I didn’t stray too far. Any errors are mine alone.

  The town of Skagit and the eclectic people who inhabit it exist only in my imagination; any similarity to real people or places is coincidental.

  This book is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.

  Thank you in advance to Disney, Maroon 5, The Temptations, Jack Purcell, Volkswagen, Pontiac. Anyone I have neglected to acknowledge is my fault alone.

  *This publication is intended for adults aged eighteen and over, due to sexual content, language, and other matters adults are supposed to know about (but most of us don’t).

  To Erik. Because.

  Thank you.

  Elle

  Chapter One: Miguel

  “For crying out loud, Miguel, pull yourself together.”

  The bedroom door banged shut, vibrating in its frame for a few seconds. Joey’s angry tread faded away as he stomped back downstairs. Not good. Miguel didn’t think he’d ever seen Joey angry before. Whimpering, he rolled over, misjudged where he was on Joey’s bed, and ended up in a painful pile on the hardwood floor. He landed on something hard and pointy that dug painfully into his lower back. He grunted and pulled it out from under him. A shiny black dress shoe. He glared at it.

  Right. Wedding. Drinking and dancing. Sex.

  Miguel groaned again, louder and longer this time. His head throbbed painfully in time with his heartbeat. He struggled against gravity until he was mostly upright—on hands and knees anyway, nowhere to go but up. Finally he stood, still naked, but upright. He kicked spitefully at the shoe, and it skittered across the hardwood before thunking against the wall under the windowsill.

  Yeah, it hadn’t been the wisest choice to hook up with the hot boy from the east side of the mountains. Even then, it wouldn’t have been so bad if Owen had stuck around for a little bit of post-hookup snuggling. Miguel liked his skin
time, and he could take the heat from Joey over the indiscretion. Waking up in an empty bed with only shame for company? That was different.

  The bedroom was dim; late-evening shadows stretched across the hardwood floor, creating monsters out of stacks of laundry and making the open closet door especially menacing. Miguel squinted around, trying to locate all of his clothing before making his body move in the general direction of his crumpled dress shirt and rented tuxedo. Only for Buck, Joey’s new husband, had he donned one of those monkey suits. If he ever tied the knot—he snorted at the random thought, because no way in hell was he ever getting married—it would be on a beach wearing board shorts and a T-shirt, or maybe a swanky Hawaiian print shirt, with the sunset behind him. Fuck, his head hurt.

  For him to be anywhere close to considering marriage he’d have to date, meet someone who’d evolved past crawling up onto the hot desert sand—at least he assumed the sand would be hot; why would a creature crawl out into the cold? And why was he thinking about marriage when the evidence of a very recent poor choice surrounded him? The strewn clothing and lingering smell of sex were damning.

  In fairness, Miguel mused as he struggled to make himself fit for public, Sara Schultz was absolutely decent. They just weren’t quite right together—and that was okay; they’d managed to get back to being friends. They’d danced, hadn’t they? He was pretty sure he remembered dancing and Sara laughing while he demonstrated his moves to an Arctic Monkeys song. Or maybe it had been Maroon 5. Or not Sara? No, it had been Sara. He was sure.

  Checking the full-length mirror hanging on the back of the bedroom door, he grimaced. His unruly black hair stood up in random tufts, making him look like an unsexy version of that actor from Shakespeare in Love. There were bags under his eyes the size of carry-on luggage, and his skin had a sort of ghostly pallor. Also, he’d missed a button on his dress shirt, so it was bunched up awkwardly. He stared down at it for a minute trying to decipher which button to undo and rebutton before deciding it was never going to happen. He shoved his arms into the uncomfortable suit jacket and gingerly made his escape.

  Joey was right: it was time for him to get his shit together. The wedding debacle was another in a long string of poor choices. All those choices started with wanting something that just wasn’t possible, but he’d allowed himself to keep trying anyway… with the same results. Wasn’t that the definition of insanity?

  Miguel shut Joey’s door behind him and negotiated the stairs one careful step at a time. He needed to focus, decide what he was going to do with his life. Between the top stair and stepping out into the hallway two floors below, Miguel swore off men. And women too. Done. For a while, anyway.

  He’d been in Maureen James’s house enough times by now to know there was a side door leading out to the almost-wraparound porch. The murmur of wedding guests lingering in the living room and kitchen reached his ears. Probably some were still out in the backyard as well. It was late, but in the Pacific Northwest this time of year it was barely dusk, and the cleverly placed mason jars with solar-powered lights inserted into them were beginning to wink on.

  Miguel tiptoed along the hall toward the side door, his best and only hope. The voices behind him rose in laughter. Joey was probably telling a work story. Or Kon, Maureen’s foster kid, was entertaining. Miguel twisted the crystal doorknob, pushing the door open just enough so he could slide out sideways and pull it shut behind him. Turning as quickly as his hangover would let him, he ran smack into someone. Someone with a hard chest. They were the same height, and their foreheads cracked together, leaving Miguel with black spots dancing in his vision and a stomach threatening to empty itself. “Jesus fucking Christ, watch where you’re going!”

  The man who’d run into him glared back, rubbing his forehead with a pale, freckled hand. Miguel recognized him as one of Adam Klay’s cops; couldn’t remember his name. “Excuse me? I think you’re the one trying to sneak out of the house. You need to work on your exit moves, buddy.”

  What’s-his-name had fiery red hair, the kind that looked like a copper penny that had been in someone’s pocket for a while. Freckles exploded across his face and down his neck like a galaxy of stars. Miguel wondered if he had them all over. He almost smacked himself in the forehead again. He’d just been ditched by a hookup.

  “Whatever, just move already.”

  “Are you all right? You smell like a distillery.” The man waved a hand in front of Miguel’s face. Should he bite it? “You aren’t driving, are you?”

  “Fucking fuck.”

  Miguel had come with Joey and Buck, not having a car of his own. Why would he have one, since he worked at an auto repair and could borrow the shop car anytime? Miguel cast around, thinking who he could hit up for a ride. He’d have to slink back into the celebration to find someone. He hadn’t thought he could feel any worse. Someone turned up the sound system; Dennis Edwards crooned Papa was a rolling stone… wherever he laid his hat was his home… Buck had finally wrested control of the music selection from his new husband.

  What’s-his-name pulled a set of keys out of his pocket. “Let me drive you home. Even if you aren’t drunk, you look terrible. You aren’t going to be sick, are you?”

  Home sounded so good.

  He would have walked, truly he would have, but the thought of making the three-mile trek in rented dress shoes made him want to cry. Or throw up. Maybe he was going to be sick. Relentlessly he squashed the feeling, refusing to admit he felt less than stellar. “No, I’m not going to be sick, thank you very much.” Taking a deep breath and letting it back out, he tried to gain some control over this weird situation. Sticking his hand out, he said, “Miguel Ramirez.”

  “Nate Richardson.” The man grinned, and his somewhat plain appearance went from what Miguel privately called “cop face” to a thing of beauty. He was devastating. It was a good thing Miguel had sworn off men only minutes earlier, or he might be tempted to see if Nate wanted to take a walk on the wild side.

  “It’s, ah, great to meet you, Nate. Normally I’d say ‘No, thanks,’ but I need to get out of here. I could use a ride.” He’d done an inadvertent double take and now was trying not to stare… and probably not doing a very good job of it. Awareness spiked inappropriately, rolling thunder careening across his sensitive skin, reminding Miguel of what he could not have.

  “Thank god; I need a reason to leave. I’m happy to give you a ride. Hopefully you’re miles out of town?” Nate asked, blue eyes sparkling with humor. Miguel wondered if he had any idea how attractive he was. “My boss made me come. I’ve never been forced to attend a wedding before. Let’s get out of here.”

  Yes, let’s, Miguel thought, only barely managing to suppress the urge to flirt. Nate was slim and strong; he’d look good behind a desk or out in the field—a modern-day cowboy. And the way he looked at Miguel, thoroughly, assessing, like maybe he was really seeing him. It left Miguel breathless.

  Nate led the way across the porch and down the three small steps to Maureen’s driveway. He pointed his keys and squeezed the fob. In the distance, red lights flashed.

  “You don’t need to say goodbye to anyone?” Miguel asked.

  Nate looked over his shoulder, giving Miguel a knowing glance. “Do you?”

  “Fucking hell no. Let’s get out of here.”

  Nate drove one of those shiny, black cop-style SUVs meant to intimidate other drivers and pedestrians. On the other hand, it had a decent sound system that blared a song Miguel didn’t recognize when Nate cranked the engine. “Oops,” he said sheepishly, reaching to turn it down.

  Miguel stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Not on my account. I need something to wash all the sappy love song crap out of my ears.”

  Nate chuckled. “It was a little over the top.”

  “Dude. You have no idea. The things Joey wanted to do; he claims he settled.” Miguel settled into the passenger seat, leaning back against the headrest. “Buck would have let him do anything. I think we’re lucky we didn’t
have to all sit and watch a special showing of Beauty and the Beast. His mom put her foot down, and Kon—the ring-bearer kid—claimed he would be embarrassed at school. Thank god.”

  It was only a fifteen-minute drive between the two houses, with traffic lights, and this time of night traffic was almost nonexistent. Dark had fallen by the time Nate pulled up in front of Buck and Joey’s. Miguel’s stomach plummeted when he remembered something else he didn’t want to think about. Buck and Joey didn’t need a third wheel hanging around their marriage. He had to find his own place to live.

  Briefly he considered going back on his newly minted vow of chastity and seeing if Nate wanted to come inside for a while. They would probably have some fun in the sack. Chances were that the guy was open; he’d witnessed a marriage between two men, after all. But really, it was too depressing, inviting a guy back to a house that wasn’t his.

  Nate fumbled around, and the door locks clicked open. Miguel opened his door. “Thanks for the ride, man. I owe you one.”

  “Seriously, it’s fine. You have no idea how much I wanted to leave.”

  “Weddings aren’t your thing?” Miguel chuckled, standing with his hand on the door, not ready for the empty house.

  “Not really.” The engine rumbled as the SUV idled. “I hate making small talk, and I hate talking about myself, and I’m new to town so I don’t know anyone.”

  “We’d make the perfect couple; I have no trouble talking about myself.” Miguel waggled his eyebrows. Then realized what he’d said. “Oh crap, I’m sorry.” He dragged a hand down his face. “Sometimes my mouth gets away from me.”

  “Only sometimes?” Nate teased.

  “I need to put myself to bed before I dig an even bigger hole for myself. Thanks for the ride. Look me up sometime. I work at Swanfeldt’s; maybe we can grab a coffee or something.”