A Dark Lure (13 page)

Cole stared at Barney, his chest suddenly tight.

“Well, it’s been really good to meet you, son.” Barney reached out and gave Cole a hearty handshake and a slap on the shoulder. Another smoker’s cough rattled through his lungs. “Stop by for a drink, you hear? Myron used to do that before that chair took him. We’d cast a few lines together, tie a few flies.” He coughed again. “Damp weather is coming, all right. Hits my chest right here.” He thumped his sternum. “My rig is parked at number twenty-seven, right on the water. Like I said, I’m here until Monday, if that storm holds.” He jerked his head toward the sky. A bank of dark cloud was building low on the southern horizon.

On the way back to the truck, Cole couldn’t help saying it.

“I didn’t know.”

She opened the truck door, bent down, and wrapped her arms around Ace’s belly. She hefted him into the truck. “Know what?”

“That my father even saw the film. He never wrote or called to mention it.”

She ducked into the driver’s seat and started the engine. “He’s seen both movies that were made from your books. Did you ever call to tell him they were showing?”

He met her probing gaze, said nothing.

She gave a shrug. “He’s got every single one of your books in his library. The
Hunt for the Wild
poster hangs in his office.”

Cole swallowed, looked out his window, and cursed softly. He’d been hoping this would be simple. In and out. That his father’s anger and barriers would make it so. But this? No, he had not expected this.

Olivia drove about a hundred meters and pulled up at a neat gravel clearing where two wooden outhouses flanked an information sign, two garbage bins, and a tap. She got out, pinned a new bear warning on the notice board, and replenished the box that held pamphlets. She returned to the truck for her gloves, then began to empty the full garbage bag from the first bin. She dumped it into the bed of the truck. Cole got out, came up behind her, and as she tried to heave the last bag out the bin, he took it from her.

Their arms brushed. Their eyes met.

Her mouth was so close. He could almost imagine the feel of her full lips against his. His pulse quickened as he saw the darkness of sexual attraction in her eyes.

“I can manage.” Her voice came out hoarse.

“You brought me along,” he said quietly. “The least you could do now is let me help.”

She relented, letting him lug the heavy bag of garbage to the truck.

She grabbed fresh rolls of toilet paper and replenished the stash in the outhouses. Then she hauled a rake from the back of her truck, and with fast movements she began to smooth out the gravel. Cole restocked the bins with fresh bags, and Ace watched them both from the truck.

Sneaking a sideways glance at him, she tossed the rake back into the truck and climbed back into the driver’s seat, where she waited for him.

He got in, patted Ace, and gave her a grin. “So, what’s next?”

Her mouth tightened, and she refused to meet his eyes as she restarted the truck. “Check in the newcomers, see if anyone wants firewood. Let campers who haven’t gone out for the day know there’s a storm coming Monday night.”

She drew up to a wide gravel area along the waterfront, which was occupied by fifth-wheel RVs and trucks. Awnings stretched out over picnic tables that were draped with plastic cloths. One table boasted a vase of fake flowers. Generators chugged, and the scent of wood smoke and bacon and coffee filled the air. Camp chairs had been positioned to afford a view of the lake, while others ringed the fire pits. A small satellite dish sat atop the corner of one RV.

“So much for old-fashioned tenting and peace and quiet in the woods,” he said, taking in the scene.

“It’s mostly what we get these days. Especially at this time of year when temperatures drop below freezing at night. These guys are equipped with everything including gas furnaces. Mostly retired couples, or single guys obsessed with hunting and fishing, like Barney, eking the last drops out of a season.” She reached for the clipboard on the dash, checked the vehicle registrations against her list.

A couple sitting in chairs at one of the fire pits waved as their black poodle lunged at the end of his line, trying in vain to yap. He’d been de-barked, poor bugger.

The old man got creakily up from his chair and ambled toward the truck, travel mug in hand. The woman shaded her eyes, watching them.

Olivia put her elbow out the window. “Morning.”

The dog lunged again, making a hoarse but valiant effort to warn them off.

“Top of the morning to you, too. I see there’s some nasty weather building,” the man said with a nod to the south horizon. “Think it’ll hold until after the weekend?”

“Forecast says so, but if it changes, I’ll let you know. You still planning on staying until Tuesday?”

“We’ll play it by ear, keep an eye on that weather.”

“How’s the fishing?”

“Trout have turned skittish. Went out at first light—not a thing. Will give it a shot again this afternoon.”

“Sounds like they’re onto the glass worms,” she said. “Any sign of the bears?”

“They came through the barbecue pits during the night—knocked over two chairs.”

“After the meat drippings, I bet. You guys need any firewood?”

“We’re good.”

They moved on.

Farther along the lakeshore the campsites were small and nestled deep among tall evergreens and willow scrub with peekaboo views of the water. Olivia checked off three vehicle registrations against her book. She seemed to tense as they approached the next site.

A gray Ford truck was parked across the entrance. She slowed, bit her lip.

“What initially brought you out to Broken Bar?” Cole said casually.

“I was looking for a change.”

“Change from what?”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. He could see her pulse racing above the bandana around her neck. The scarf was a different color from the one she’d been wearing yesterday.

“From the north.” She reached for her clipboard, cash pouch, and credit card reader. “The job advertised was for a fishing guide, but it’s morphed into general ranch duties as staff has been laid off. I used to guide on the lake as well as do the trail rides. The rides stopped when most of the horses were sold last year. And of course everyone associated with the cattle has gone.”

“A lot of work, ranching. Might be best to sell it.”

Her gaze flashed to his. “Yeah, right. Seems no one is up for the job. End of an era and all that.”

His jaw steeled. He thought of the generations of McDonoughs who had farmed this land. “You’re fond of this place.”

“It’s my home. I hate to lose it.”

“Where was home before this? Where did you grow up?”

Her gaze probed his, as if searching for the trick in his question. “Look, you can talk to your father about what he wants from this ranch, and from me as an employee. Beyond that, I don’t see my role here as being your business.” She hesitated before getting out of the truck again. “For what it’s worth, Cole, Myron insisted I did
not
let you or Jane know that he was dying.”

“Yeah. He made
that
clear.”

“He figured you’d both . . .” She wavered. “He said he didn’t want you and Jane squabbling over inheritance and trying to sell the place out from under him while he was still alive. He’d rather you messed with the ranch once he was dead, and he wouldn’t have to witness what you did.”

Cole held her gaze, a dark twist of anger threading through his guilt. He’d already signed papers. Jane was already moving ahead. He made a mental note to deal with Jane and those papers when he got back to his cabin. “So, why did you go against his wishes, then? Why
did
you call me?”

She heaved out a heavy breath. “Okay, I’m just going to say this straight. In spite of his protestations, I had a gut feeling Myron needed to see his kids. You especially.”

He raised his brow. “Meaning?”

“I believe he needs to atone, for . . . whatever it was that happened between you and him. He needs to make his peace.” She swallowed. “I felt it might be good for him. Maybe even both of you. To say sorry.”

“And you call
me
blunt?”

“You asked.”

“My old man doesn’t want to atone, Olivia. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. He hasn’t wanted anything to do with me or Jane since—”

“Since after the accident. I heard. But sometimes people are broken and don’t know how to mend because they aren’t able to say what they need or deeply want. Sometimes you get to a point in life where you realize you’ve made a terrible mistake and you desperately need to fix it, but it’s so deep and bitterly ingrained you can’t start.”

“Well, I never,” he whispered, his gaze lasering hers. “What are we now, the ranch psychotherapist? We’re all going to hold hands and sing ‘Kumbaya’ before he dies?”

She glowered at him, her face reddening. “Well, fuck you, too,” she whispered. “I’ve said my piece. Calling you probably was a mistake. I’ll get you back to the lodge as soon as I’m done, then you can do the hell what you want and clear out of here.”

She got out, slammed the door, marched toward the gray Ford parked across the site entrance.

He got out behind her. “Olivia—”

“Spare me.”

He hurried over, reached for her arm.

She spun around, a wild heat crackling in her eyes. Electricity pulsed between them. Trees swished in a gust of wind, raining down dead needles.

“I like him, okay. I
like
Myron. He’s been a dear friend. He . . .” An unexpected surge of moisture glittered into her eyes. She paused, glanced away, corralling her emotions. When she spoke again her voice was level.

“He gave me a job. He gave me and Ace a place to stay when we both needed it most. I
owe
him. He’s dying and I feel powerless, and just wanted to help. Calling you was the least I could do. Now that I’ve gotten that off my chest, do with it what you will.” She turned, took two paces away, then swung back to face him, as if she was unable to drop it. “I had a harebrained notion you were somehow better than this, you know that?”

“Better than what?”

“I thought you might be big enough to take the initiative, to say sorry, make peace . . . before he passes.”

“Where on earth did you get
that
idea?”

“From your book, the way you write. I thought you had this . . . this view of the world that was somehow deep. That you cared about meaning.” Her eyes crackled with light. “But I was wrong. You’re a fraud.”

She turned her back on him and stomped around the back of the Ford, disappearing down a track behind dense brush.

Cole stared after her, dumbstruck. Wind swirled and rushed through the pines, as if whispering with memories, with the susurrating voices of the dead. He dragged his hand through his hair. She was right about one thing. This was a mistake.

And he was wrong about another thing—this woman was not some Machiavellian seductress after an inheritance. Her feelings for his father felt genuine. And his cantankerous beast of a dad appeared to have helped a woman who Cole now believed was hiding a big-ass wound. A woman who’d maybe tried to kill herself because of it.

I’ll be damned.

He inhaled deeply, a strange surge of emotion in his chest. But as he was about to return to wait with Ace in the truck, a scream pierced the air.

Olivia?

Cole raced down the path, adrenaline busting through him. He rounded the bush and saw her on the ground next to a picnic table. White-faced. Blood trickled down her temple. Looming over her was a tall bearded man with an ax in his hand.

CHAPTER 8

Eyes of pale amber trapped hers. Lion eyes. Hungry, consuming.

His
eyes.

His scent filled her brain. His coldness, his evil, crawled alive over her skin. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and her heart hammered. A tunnel of dark tightened around her, blocking out the ranch, the sky. All she could see was him. She was naked again. On the bearskin. Rope around her neck.

“Olivia!” Cole’s voice broke through.

She blinked, scrambled rapidly backward in the dirt, butted up against the picnic bench. Panic flared. She fought to pull herself into focus. To stay present.

The man with the ax took a step back as Cole rushed up to her and dropped to his knees. He cupped her face.

“Are you all right?” His eyes were bright with concern, adrenaline. He fired a brief glance at the man before returning full attention to her. “What happened?”

“I . . . I came around the back of the camper and he just appeared from behind it, with the ax. I got a fright, that’s all.”

I lurched straight into a full goddamn flashback
. . .

Cole took her arm, helped her up. She wobbled to her feet, dusted off her jeans.

“I’m so sorry for my overreaction,” she said to the man. “You spooked the hell out of me. I must have tripped over my own feet.” She put her hand to her temple. Her fingers came away with blood. Confusion chased through her. “I . . . must have hit my head on the picnic table.”

Cole felt the corner of the table. “There’s a nail end sticking out. You probably caught it. Let me take a look.”

“No! No, I’m fine.” She gathered up her fallen book, money pouch, and card reader. “Please, let me try again,” she said to the man, giving a light laugh that sounded false even to her own ears. “I’m Olivia, the ranch manager. I saw that you got in yesterday afternoon.”

Sorry was an understatement. She was mortified. Her whole body, her insides were shaking. She was an idiot to have returned so soon, when the blood on this man’s freezer had come close to triggering her first full flashback in years. It didn’t help that his eyes happened to be the identical color as Sebastian’s. Same height, too. Something about him . . . She shook herself.

She was in a worse way than she’d thought. Her eerie experience while tracking, the basket of berries, that episode in the kitchen cooler with the deer carcass—it had all conspired to plunge her back into the past again. Over the last three years she’d begun to believe she’d fucking slayed the flashbacks. This was a devastating blow.

The man regarded her steadily. He was wiry-strong with a shock of steel-gray hair, thick beard and mustache that hid his mouth and much of his face. Dark patches stained the thighs of his jeans. His fingernails were black. Dirt. Maybe blood. Fear spurted afresh. She cleared her throat.

“You got in yesterday?” she prompted.

The man cast a glance at Cole, and something in his face darkened as the atmosphere between the two men seemed to shift. Again Olivia was touched by a sense of brooding malevolence. She swallowed, trying to push it away, knowing it was a fabrication of her own mind.

He’s dead. Gone. This is just your brain playing tricks
. . .

Cole placed his hand momentarily at the small of her back. Surprise then relief shocked through her. His touch was grounding. Her eyes burned. As much as she fought for independence, as distant as she kept herself physically from people, she was profoundly grateful to have someone at her back right now.

“Got in around sunset yesterday,” the man said. His voice was hoarse and whispery, like that of a heavy smoker. Or a de-barked dog.

“And how many nights will you be staying?”

“Until after Thanksgiving.”

“Just so you know, there’s a storm coming. Snow could start falling by Monday night.”

“Snow?”

“There’s no plow service. You could be stranded. I’ll keep campers informed as I get more weather updates.” She cleared her throat again. “The site is twenty bucks per night. Wood is five dollars extra. Let me know if you need any, and I’ll deliver a bundle each morning.”

“Got my own wood.” He propped his ax against the picnic bench and fished his wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans.

Out of the corner of her eye she noted Cole scrutinizing the ax blade, the camper, the freezer. The blood streaks down the side.

She entered the dates into her book as the man dug a wad of notes out of his wallet and peeled off the requisite amount. “I’ll pay up to Tuesday, then you won’t have to come back.”

Suited her fine.

“Thank you.” She took the cash from him. He allowed his hand to linger against hers. Olivia’s gaze shot up to his. He smiled, a slash of white teeth through facial hair.

Like his teeth
. . .

She counted the money quickly, zipped it into her cash pouch, then handed him a brochure. “There’s a map, everything you need in there. We do dinners up at the lodge. You need to reserve before noon on the day. And we have a Thanksgiving special on Sunday night. Turkey. The works.”

“I’m good. Thanks.” He took the pamphlet, holding her eyes.

“It’s probably best if you wipe that blood off your freezer,” she said. “It’ll bring in the bears.”

“Gotcha.”

“Well, enjoy your stay.” As she moved, she caught sight of the bow inside his camper. “Bow hunting?”

“The only kind,” he replied with another hint of a smile. Flat eyes. “I like a real hunt.”

“Bow-hunting regs are in there, too.” She nodded at the brochure in his hands. “No hunting on ranch land. The ranch border is denoted on the map. Conservation officer comes by every couple of days or so, checks permits, tags.”

She started up the path to her truck.

“You just bagged something fresh?” Cole said.

Olivia swung around. Cole was looking at the blood on the freezer, hands in his pockets.

A hawk shrieked up high, and small birds scattered from trees.

“Deer,” the man said.

“In the Marble foothills?”

“Canyon. Got him on the way up.”

Cole nodded. “Enjoy your stay.” He joined Olivia, and they rounded the Ford together. She jotted down the BC plate number.

Back in her own truck, Ace nuzzled against Olivia. He was stressed and trying to sniff the fresh blood on her brow. She inhaled deeply. “It’s okay, boy.” She dropped down the truck visor and peered into the small mirror, dabbing at the blood with a tissue from the glove box. It wasn’t a bad gash. Nothing some disinfectant and butterfly bandages wouldn’t fix. But she was going to have a mother of a purple egg.

Cole climbed in beside her.

“Want me to look at that?”

She shook her head, balled up the tissue, stuffed it into the cup holder, and started the engine. She was still trembling as she drove to the next site, about a hundred yards farther down the lake.

“He’s off.”

“That guy? Yeah. We get weird ones sometimes.”

“You okay?”

She nodded.

“You’re going to have a nice lump on your head.”

She snorted.

“He really spooked you, huh?”

Olivia felt her walls slamming up. “It was the ax, I guess. Startled me, coming around the camper with it in his hand like that.”

She drew up at the entrance to the next site. Gray Ford trucks appeared to be the choice
du jour
, but the one parked in this site had a long box, and the camper was affixed to it. Two fold-up chairs flanked the fire pit. There were also two plates, two mugs, and two sets of knives and forks on the picnic table. The boat had been removed from the trailer and floated in the water, roped to a snag jutting out from the low bank.

“So what
do
you do with the troublesome guests, or, say, a big rowdy bunch of drunk guys? The cops are at least an hour out—where do you get backup?”

She sat for moment, sighed, then pulled a wry mouth. His gaze went to her lips, and she was suddenly conscious of the subtle electricity that seemed to radiate from him.

“I haven’t really had a problem to date—this campsite gig wasn’t part of my job until last summer.” She carefully pushed flyaway strands of hair away from her cut. “I’ve got my knife, bear spray. Bear bangers. Radio. Sat phone.” She wasn’t going to mention the illegal Smith and Wesson stashed behind the truck seat that she’d bought from a logger up north. “And Ace.”

He smiled. The warmth in his features was instant, and the friendly lines that fanned out from his deep gray eyes tugged at something deep in her chest. She hadn’t seen him smile yet. It stole her thoughts. The cab suddenly felt smaller, the air closer. A soft panic flickered through her stomach—a very different kind of fear from what she’d just experienced in the last campsite.

“Yeah,” he said. “A killer German shepherd, with bad eyesight and gimpy joints.”

Ace licked his face in ignorant approval. But Cole saw something in hers—a glimpse of just how deeply losing Ace would cut her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She shrugged. “It’s true. He’s going blind. His back legs will give him trouble sooner or later. I should probably stop him from following me when I go riding.”

“How old is he?”

“Not old enough to have these problems, but he had a rough start.” She opened the door. “One more to check in.”

Cole followed Olivia down into the campsite, thinking this was a vulnerable job for a lone woman. It stirred something protective in him, along with an unexpected sense of responsibility, proprietorship.

“Anyone home?” She knocked on the camper door.

The door opened. A man with white-blond hair in a close brush cut smiled and put his finger to his lips. “Wife is sleeping,” he whispered as he came lightly down the rickety metal stairs, agile for his size. He stood about six-foot-two. He sported a neatly clipped mustache and Balbo beard with a soul patch. His blue eyes sparkled, and his skin was bronzed by sun. He had the look of a buff but gaunt vegan—virile. He drew them toward the picnic table, out of earshot of his wife in the camper. Cole guessed him to be in late fifties, early sixties.

Olivia appeared edgy in his presence. Mr. Axman back there had spooked her good.

“I’m Olivia,” she said. “De facto ranch manager. This is Cole. He grew up here.”

The man reached out and shook their hands in turn. Solid, confident grip.

“Algor Sorenson. I was going to come around to the lodge later to check in. We arrived yesterday evening. My wife, Mary, is sleeping in.”

Olivia quoted the rates and asked how long the couple planned on staying.

“I’d like to wing it day to day, if that’s okay with you?” he said, glancing at the lake. “As long as the fish are biting we’ll hang in.” He gave an easy smile. Bright white teeth.

Olivia’s gaze flickered. She cast her eyes down, entered the guest details. “Probably a good idea,” she said as she copied down the truck registration. “Big storm in the forecast. Could blow in early, and if it does, roads will become impassable for a while. Right now it’s supposed to hit Monday night. I’ll come around and let everyone know if that changes. How would you like to pay? Credit or cash?”

Cole noted she wouldn’t meet the man’s eyes. Her hands were still trembling.

The guest gave Olivia his credit card. She glanced at the name on the card, ran it through her reader, and handed him the portable device so he could punch in his PIN.

“Do you need any wood for tonight?”

“Love some.”

Cole jogged back to the truck to retrieve a bundle. He carried it back, cataloguing Sorenson’s gear.

Olivia was explaining the dinner reservation procedure and Thanksgiving meal.

Sorenson smiled, hands in pockets. “My wife and I like to do a turkey in the camper oven. Small one. Did one last year in Moab.”

“You originally from Washington?” Cole said, dumping the wood next to the fire pit and dusting his hands off on his jeans.

“Excuse me?”

“Saw your ham radio operator’s plate on the back of the camper—I’m also a licensed operator.”

“Oh, that. Yes.” His eyes flickered. “My wife. She’s the radio buff. I let her at it. Not my thing.”

“Well, enjoy your stay,” Olivia said.

As they drove the rest of the circular road through the campground, Cole noted it was only the few sites along the water that were occupied. The rest of the big campground was empty, desolate looking.

“Does it fill up in the summer?”

She shook her head. She was pale. Compassion mushroomed softly through him, and he realized he liked this prickly woman. Olivia West was rekindling his interest. He wanted to know more about her, what made her tick, how she’d gotten those scars.

Cole fell quiet, watching the lake, the forest. Memories of Jimmie
and him playing here washed through his mind.

“How could you tell?” she said suddenly.

“Tell what?”

“That he was originally from Washington—Sorenson had BC registration on his truck.”

“Each amateur radio license plate comes with a unique call sign that has a prefix showing where it was issued. It’s like that all over the world—you can look the sign number up and find out who the ham operator is. There’s software you can use to track their movements on a map if they have their radios on. Ordinarily, if someone from the States moves here, they’d get a new Canadian call sign.”