A Dark Lure (30 page)

The sky darkened in the south as the band of cloud boiled forward, blotting out stars.

He was an asshole to have even tried to kiss her.

He could see what was going on. She’d wanted him, all right, but she wasn’t ready. She was full of shame and horrific memories. He sipped his drink, wondering if a woman who’d endured what she had could ever be ready. Maybe the kind of damage that had been wrought in her was something that would forever leave her crippled in certain ways—emotionally, mentally, physically. And what would that mean to someone who fell for her?

Shock rustled through him as he realized he
had
fallen for her. Wholly. He wanted to get to know her on so many more levels, and it wasn’t just to do with this ranch.

It was also why he’d pulled back, why he wanted to take her gently to bed, to move more slowly. But now he’d blown it. And there might never be a way to retrace steps and start over.

He sipped, pondering a deeper question as the warmth of brandy blossomed through his chest.

What might it mean to him, to fall in love with a woman with whom he might never consummate a relationship?

He heard the wolves now, primal. The sound raised hairs on the back of his neck. Wind gusted harder, changing direction.

He glanced toward her cabin. Her lights were still on. He could glimpse them through the ghostly white-barked trees. And he snorted softly. Perhaps he’d finally, after all these years, found the
survivor
for whom he’d been searching—the person who’d survived against all odds, the one who could help him, on some subterranean level, understand why he’d survived, too, when he shouldn’t have. Maybe if he could just be here for her, help her move steadily, comfortably forward, build something here with her on this ranch, he could atone in some way for having stolen the lives of his mother and brother all those years ago.

Being celibate might just be the cost of absolution.

He cursed softly, and took another sip. It was the drink talking. She was right. He was like his dad.

He’d clung to that twenty-three-year-old incident as bitterly as his father had. Or, it had clung to them. All of them. Even Jane.

Olivia yanked on a terry bathrobe and cinched the belt tight. Hair hanging in dripping wet strings, she went to her closet and hauled out her bags. Opening her drawers, she began to throw in her clothes. Everything. Fast, furious.

She zipped the bags closed and stood there. Ace was still fast asleep in front of the iron stove, oblivious, and she loved him for it. He was her sanity. She went over to him, crouched down, and just nuzzled her face into his ruff, drinking in his popcorn-doggie scent. He groaned and rolled over. She scratched his belly, exhaustion suddenly overcoming her.

She’d finish packing what was left of her meager belongings at first light. Then she’d load up her truck, warn the remaining guests about the storm arriving early. Say farewell to Myron. And hit the logging roads before the snow was too heavy. She’d call the ranch when the lines were back up to organize transport for Spirit. To wherever she’d found a new home.

She put out the kerosene lamps, leaving just the one by her bedside on. She cast back her covers.

Her heart stopped dead.

In the middle of the white sheet lay a sprig of rose hips.

Beneath it, in lurid red lipstick streaks, words were scrawled:

Time to finish the Hunt, Sarah

Run, run
. . .

Olivia lunged forward and yanked the covers right off her bed. She stared. His scent seemed to rise up from her bedding to fill her nose. He was here. She could smell him. He’d been in this private place where she slept. She staggered back, crashed against her closet, the past spiraling up to swallow her.

The scream that rose from her throat didn’t even seem to come from her.

She was back in the forest. Running on the numb stubs that were her feet in cold, wet leather.

He was behind her. Breathing heavily. She could hear his footfalls—soft thuds on the springy, mossy earth matted with needles. She fell. She couldn’t go on. She had no clue how long she’d hidden in the bear den, but when she finally came out, he was waiting.

She rolled onto her back in the pine needles. He was up on the rise, peering down the barrel of his gun at her. She knew this was it. He was going to take the kill shot. He was going to slice the baby out of her belly. She was the pregnant doe his fucking daddy never allowed him to hunt.

She lifted her rifle. Shaking, she aimed, curled her finger through the trigger guard, didn’t hesitate. She pulled. The recoil slammed back into her prone shoulder.

The bullet hit the trunk right at his face. Bark and chunks of wood exploded into him. He stilled, lowered his gun. Staggered sideways.

And fell like a log.

Her heart leaped to her throat. She waited. But he lay motionless. Slowly, she got to her knees, stood. He remained unmoving. All she could think was that shrapnel got him in the head. She had no idea whether he was dead, alive, or dying. She just ran. Down into an alder and willow-choked ravine. Scrabbling through branches and rotten snow deep in the ravine bed, she moved southwest. If she was right, if she was reading the direction of the sun correctly, she had an idea that southwest lay home.

A scream sliced the night.

Cole lurched to his feet, spun, slamming his drink onto the balustrade.

Olivia!

He raced down the path, through the grove of swaying trees, debris shooting down at him in the wind.

In one stride he was up on her deck. The cabin was in darkness now. He lunged for her door. But as he reached for it, an arm clamped around his neck like a vise, choking him backward. A cold blade pressed against his throat.

“Stay right where you are, you fuck. You think you can scare me, you bastard . . .”

“Olivia,” he said quietly, calmly, his heart thundering in his chest. “It’s okay. It’s me. Easy, just lower the knife.”

She didn’t move. Breath rasped in her throat. She couldn’t seem to think, either, as if unable to come down from whatever rush she was on, whatever place her mind had taken her to.

Slowly, he reached up and curled his hand around her wrist with the knife. He pulled it away from his neck. She had the iron strength of madness. “Easy,” he said. “Easy does it.”

He turned around.

Her arms were stiff at her sides, knife still clenched in her right fist. Her mouth was open. She was panting. Her eyes wild. Her hair a wet tangle.

Her bathrobe hung open. She was naked underneath. Warm wetness oozed down Cole’s neck. He touched it with his fingertips. They came away sticky with his own blood. She’d nicked his neck.

She stared at the blood on his fingers, then at his face, confusion chasing through her features.

“Talk to me, Olivia,” he said quietly. “What happened?”

She didn’t seem to know or be able to register. She wobbled, as if she were going to faint.

“Here,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m going to touch you, okay? I’m going to take you back inside. Can I do that? Will you let me touch you?”

He moved slowly forward and put his arm around her shoulders. He escorted her back inside the cabin, closing the door behind him. He took the knife from her hand and placed it safely atop a cabinet.

Her living room lamps were off, just the orange glow from the fire lighting the interior. A whining, scratching noise came from behind her bedroom door.

Tension snapped through him.

“Where is Ace, Liv?”

“I . . . in there.”

He went quickly to open the bedroom door.

“No!” she yelled, suddenly. “That . . . that’s private. My room.”

He paused, hand on doorknob.

Her robe was still hanging open. In the coppery gleam from the fire, he saw the big scars on her bare breasts. The ragged mark around her neck. The scars down her thighs and shins. His gaze lowered slowly. To her feet.

Oh, God.

Missing toes, parts of toes. It explained her awkward gait.

The horror of what Sebastian George had done to her was laid bare to him, mapped all over her body.

Muscles clamped across his chest. Emotion seared through him. Compassion and hot rage bubbled into him. And in that instant, he knew he’d do
anything
to protect this woman. This strong, incredible, beguiling, kind, generous woman who’d been shattered and shamed so that she couldn’t even allow him to love her.

She registered his scrutiny, and shock visibly rocketed through her body. White-faced, she scrambled to tie her robe. The look of shame, embarrassment in her features killed him.

“What’s inside the room?” he said, gently.

“It’s nothing. Just get out of here. I’m fine.”

He’d heard that one before. “Ace needs out. I’m going to open the door to let him out, okay? I need to see that he’s all right.”

Horror morphed back into her face as her gaze shot to the door. For a moment Cole feared she might bolt.

Carefully, he opened the door. Ace came wiggling out and went straight to her.

She crumpled down around the dog, wrapping in a human ball around him, burying her head into his fur as he licked her face.

Emotion filled Cole’s eyes as raw adrenaline thumped through his blood. Quickly he entered the bedroom, then froze in shock.

Across the white sheet, scrawled in what appeared to be crude strokes of lipstick, were the words:

Time to finish the Hunt, Sarah

Run, run
. . .

Next to the scrawl lay a sprig of rose hips.

Cole’s gaze darted around the rest of the room. Her window was closed. Bags littered the floor. Drawers were empty. The bathroom was steamy-damp from a recent shower, the floor wet.

He exited her room, closed the door behind him, went straight to put the kettle on.

“Liv?” he said, coming back to her and placing his hand on her shoulder. She glanced up, face white, hollow eyes. Dry eyes.

“Come sit over here by the fire.” He dragged an oversized stuffed chair closer.

“Cole, I—”

“Come,” he said again, helping her up. “You
need
to talk to me, Liv.”

Great big shudders took hold of her body, uncontrollable shakes. He sat beside her, wrapped his arms tightly around her, and just held her.

When finally she stilled, he said, “It wasn’t a crab-fishing accident, was it?”

CHAPTER 19

Tori huddled under the bed cover with her backlit e-reader. It was getting colder in the cabin despite the burning woodstove in the next room, and the wind was moaning through the eaves. But she was unable to put away her device and sleep. She started on the next chapter of her mother’s manuscript.

The truck driver put on his fog lights. Mist swirled and fingered among the dark conifers hemming in the steep logging road. Spring snow still lined the banks.

He blinked as he saw a shape in the fog. Right in front of his truck.

Jesus God. A woman? Bare legs, animal skin, matted hair. A rifle in her hand. He slammed on the brakes. His logging rig screeched and skidded sideways toward the apparition in the mist. He tapped the brakes, tried to steer into the skid, desperate to avoid jackknifing or spilling his load. Or hitting the creature.

He came to a stop inches from her. Sweat beaded his brow. The woman turned and looked up at his cab. His heart stalled dead. She was ghost white, dark hollows for eyes. Her skin was streaked with blood and dirt. She had a piece of rope around her neck, no pants on.

He scrabbled out of his cab and jumped down onto the road. She whipped up her rifle, aimed dead at his heart. He put out his hands, palms facing her.

“Hey, it’s okay. I mean no harm.”

She sighted him down the scope, unmoving.

Fear spurted through him.

“Please. It’s okay. Can I help you?”

She stared at him for what felt like an eternity. Like a feral thing. Measuring whether to flee. Or kill. Mist swirled around her bare legs. She had boots on. No socks.

It hit him. The missing woman from last year. The posters.

“Sarah?” he said. “Sarah Baker?”

Her mouth opened. She lowered the gun, and she seemed to hang in the air for several beats before she collapsed in a pile on the gravel.

He hurried over to her. Pulse was weak. Skin ice cold. She stank. It was her, the Watt Lake woman—had to be. He’d seen the missing posters everywhere. That was five or six months ago, before the winter.

He struggled to lift her with his bad back and carry her to the truck. She was wrapped in a rotten old bearskin. He gagged at the smell of her. Inside the cab he removed the wet animal skin. Shock imploded through him. She was pregnant. She had large, festering wounds on her breasts, arms, legs. Quickly he wrapped her in a survival blanket from his first aid kit. He covered this with his down jacket. He put his wool hat on her head.

She moaned in pain as he took off her wet boots. His chest tightened. Her toes were blackened with frostbite. She was going to lose some.

Her ankles were chafed raw and bloody. Pus oozed from marks that had been cut deep.

He wrapped her feet carefully in a spare set of work pants.

With shaking hands he reached for his radio, called dispatch.

“Call 911,” he told the dispatcher. “I think I found her—I found Sarah Baker. She needs an ambulance. I’m heading straight for Watt Lake Hospital—medics can meet me on the way.”

Tori swallowed as wind keened outside. A branch
tick tick
ticked
against the window, like something trying to get in.

Cole wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and brought Olivia some tea. She cupped her hands tightly around the hot mug. Her skin was clammy and cold, her breathing shallow, her pupils dilated. She was still in shock.

Quickly he stoked the fire up, added another log.

“I’m going to get you some socks.” He went back into the bedroom.

Her drawers were completely devoid of clothes. He found socks in one of her packed bags. Clearly she was intent on leaving. It was his fault. He should never have tried to kiss her like that. Remorse, self-recrimination sliced through him.

Returning to the living room, he got down on hands and knees to rub some circulation back into her feet before putting the socks on. She squirmed, trying to hide her damaged toes. “Please,” she said, voice small. “Don’t touch my feet.”

But he took them in his hand, gently massaging and warming them, not avoiding the stumps. He met her gaze. “You need to get warm. I’m getting circulation back.”

Her gaze fell to his hands against her maimed toes, and Cole knew what she was feeling. Embarrassment. Shame.

He put her socks on.

“You’ve got blood down your shirt,” she said. “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“Just a surface cut. It’s fine.”

She stared at the blood.

“Drink that tea. It’s sweet, hot, and will relax you a little, before the adrenaline shakes really kick in.”

Her eyes held his as she sipped.

Cole’s heart cracked at the vulnerability he saw there. This woman had been stripped naked before him, body and soul. Her physical secrets laid bare. And it was killing her.

“There’s no shame, Liv,” he whispered, taking the mug from her and setting it on the small table next to her. “No reason to hide yourself from me. You’re the strongest, most beautiful woman I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting, and I mean it in more ways than one.”

And for the first time since he’d barged in here, emotion pooled into her eyes and tracked down her cheeks.

Cole drew up a chair and sat beside her. He leaned down and scratched Ace’s neck. “There’s no need to finish packing those bags in there, no need to leave because of this. Nor because of me.”

She swallowed, looked away. “You know who I am, don’t you?”

He remained silent.

She turned slowly, looked into his eyes.

“I know there’s a name scrawled on your sheet that’s not ‘Olivia.
’
” He still needed it to come from her. Fully. On some gut level Cole knew it had to happen that way, knew that it would be good for her.

“It’s not me,” she said softly. “Sarah Baker is not me.”

“I know.”

“I left her behind.”

“Most of her,” he said, quietly. “But you brought the strong parts with you. You brought the survivor in Sarah here to Broken Bar. And you’ve taught me something—you were right. I know dick about surviving.” He smiled.

She stared at him. “It was my reaction to the news on TV that clued you in, wasn’t it? You went and looked it up, the Watt Lake story. You found Sarah, and you found she was me.”

“I did.”

“Fuck,” she whispered. She turned away, and for a long while she stared at the flames behind the glass in the little iron stove. Outside the wind increased.

He said nothing, just sat there, being there for her, letting her take the steps on her own. And there was no other place in this world that Cole wanted, or needed, to be right now.

“I built a new life. I . . . I don’t want anyone to know.” She began to shake—the adrenal aftereffects of shock. “He was
here
. Inside my cabin. My bedroom. My
bed.
How can he be here, how
can
he be back?”

“He’s not back, Olivia. Sebastian George is dead. This is something—someone—else.”

Her eyes flared to his, a desperation clawing through her features. “
Who
would do this?
Why?
”

She clutched the blanket tighter under her chin, and reached for her mug of tea. She spilled some as she sipped again, shaking badly now. “The rose hips . . .” She inhaled. “They’re a sign of fall. Like wild blueberries and the cry of the geese flocking south, like the scent of coming snow.
Time to finish the hunt
. . .” Her
voice cracked. She paused, gathering herself. “
He
said those words to me. How could anyone here possibly know this—about the rose hips, and berries, and what they mean to me?” She stared into the distance, into the past, eyes haunted.

“He kept me a whole winter. I knew it was spring by the lengthening light that was coming through the slats in the shack. By the dripping sounds of trees and the water leaking into the cabin. By the smell of the forest and soil around the shed. He kept me in the dark, and my sense of smell grew acute. I would smell him coming. I
know
his smell—I’d know it anywhere. I smelled him on my sheets in my bedroom.”

“Transference, Liv. It’s not possible that he was in there. He’s dead. Someone else did this.”

She slammed the mug down on the little table beside her chair. “Who! Dammit,
who?
Why?!”

“I don’t know why, or who, but what I do know is this: I looked up the Watt Lake story and I saw an old photo of the last victim, and recognized you instantly. If I could do that, anyone can. And my guess is someone did, and is now using this fact to scare you. It’s the
only
possibility.”

“The rose hips?”

“There must be some reference in one of the archived stories about rose hips.”

Doubt flickered through her eyes. “Why scare me—what have I done?”

He dragged his hand over his hair. “Maybe it’s what my father has done. By rewriting his will. If you take over the ranch, it’s pretty darn clear there will be no sale, no big development windfall. Someone might simply want to scare you into packing your bags and leaving, so that Broken Bar reverts to me and Jane. So that the development will go ahead.”

And the document that I signed will ensure the sale
. . .

Guilt twisted through Cole. With it came a bite of urgency. He had to get to Forbes first thing in the morning.

He splayed his feet and leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “From what I understand from my sister, there’s already big money invested in a future development proposal for Broken Bar land. Someone might have high stakes and really need the sale to go through. You can’t let them win, Liv. You can’t let them spook you off.”

“Who would know about your father’s amendments to his will? I mean, the change is so recent.”

“Adele heard about it. She came into the library, remember? She also saw your neck scar and your visceral reaction to the television news of the Birkenhead murder. And you heard what she said before dinner—her son is handling investment for Forbes Development. If Adele told Tucker what she knew, Forbes might also know about the will, and about you.”

A more sinister thought struck him. Jane knew about the will. Jane and Todd had big stakes hanging on a sale. His sister was a little Machiavelli, always had been. Acquiring physical things had been her way of handing their mother’s death and life on this ranch with a bitter father. He would not put it past Jane to hire someone to do something like this, and the idea hardened Cole’s resolve. He felt responsible.

“Look, I’m going to sort this out. I’m going into Clinton first thing in the morning to lay down the law with Forbes, make it clear there will be no sale. I’ll inform him that he needs to pull the plug and start damage control. And I’ll find out who did this. Someone must have come in here while we were all at dinner. So it could have been Adele—”

“She wouldn’t.”

“I think she has a lot at stake here. Her husband is on disability. Her job at the ranch is in question with my father dying. She feels she’s put her whole life into Broken Bar. She likely believes she has some right to at least part of it. And her son’s neck might be on the line with the investment. Desperate people can be driven to do very desperate things. And you made it easy—you didn’t lock your door.”

“I never locked my door because I
refuse
to be scared. After the news that Sebastian George had hung himself, I made a commitment to be free. I felt safe here. It was my way of taking a stand, fighting back.” She gave a weak, self-deprecating snort.

“And look at me now—” She opened her hands, palms up. She rubbed at the dried blood she saw there. His blood. Her wrist scars caught the coppery gleam from the fire. “I’m a pathetic mess of PTSD, jumping at my own shadow. Losing periods of time.” She looked up slowly. “I almost killed you. I . . . I thought you were him. I . . . hadn’t had a flashback in years. The therapist said there was a risk they could return, if exacerbated by stress or a traumatic incident.” She rubbed her temple, as if in pain.

“But I honestly began to believe they were over. Until I felt an acute sense of being
followed the other morning. There were boot
prints paralleling mine when I laid a track for Ace. And someone
dropped that scarf on my track.” She nodded to where a soft-looking
scarf was draped over a hook by her door. Cole glanced at it.

“When I returned to my cabin, I found a basket of wild blueberries outside my door. Berries were how Sebastian lured me to the river. Then came the news about the Birkenhead murder, and the flashbacks started.”

She swallowed.

“And then there was the fishing lure in the newspaper. The Predator. I created that design. I gave Sebastian that fly . . .” Her voice faded again as her face twisted with dark memories.