A Dark Lure (32 page)

She pulled away sharply, spun round to face him.

“You’re not really okay, are you?”

She dragged a shaking hand over her sleep-tangled hair, glanced away, then met his eyes again. “I wish I were. I wish I was normal. God knows I try. But the truth? I don’t really know how I am right now.” She paused, then said, “Or who I am. Or who I can ever be.”

He reached for her hands, but she backed sharply up against the windowsill, another shard of panic slicing through her.

She clenched the windowsill behind her. “I . . . I’m sorry, Cole. I can’t do this with you. Not right now.”

“This?” he said, crooking his head.

Her face went hot. She didn’t even know what “this” was. “Us,” she said, tentatively.

He held her gaze, his stormy eyes unfathomable for a moment. Then a smile slowly curved his mouth, crumpling that gorgeous, rugged face and fanning lines out from his eyes. “How about some coffee?”

Relieved, she nodded.

He went to the counter, poured a steaming mug. “How do you take it?”

“Just a dash of cream.”

He found the coffee cream in her fridge and splashed some in. He brought the mug over to her by the window. She felt naked in the harsh dawn light, without her bandana or polo neck. But he managed to avert his eyes from her choker of scars.

As she took the mug from him, he said, “A friend of mine, Gavin Black, who quit war photography because of PTSD, once told me after our near-death incident with Ty that you’ve just got to keep living one day at a time, until you’re living again.” He paused. “I didn’t give those words any credence until your phone call pulled me out of the bar that night. Because I wasn’t living one day at a time—not even close. I was blotting it out. But I think I get it now. And it’s not easy. It involves exposing oneself to feelings that hurt. I don’t want to rush anything, either, Liv. Just one day at a time. And right now, the only pressing thing, my one step for the day, is to confront Forbes and make it clear where I—we—stand. I’m going to make it clear that his development proposal is no go.” He paused. “You’re okay with that?”

She nodded.

“Then that’s
our
job for the day—our one step.” He smiled, reached for his jacket hanging by her door. “You should take the Sunday off, just hunker down in the cabin, stay warm. Relax.”

“Why? You think I should be worried th—”

“No,” he said firmly. “I don’t think there is any danger out there. I believe Forbes and his cronies are being jerks about this development, but I can’t see that they’d physically harm anyone. Still, there’s nothing wrong with a day off.”

“I need to make sure the guests are leaving, with this snow.”

“Okay, so once you’ve driven around there, you come back and stay in the cabin. Or in the lodge with Myron. Until I get back—promise me?”

She gave a soft snort and couldn’t help a smile. “I don’t know whether to be affronted at being ordered around, or grateful to have someone watch my back.”

“That’s what friends are for—they watch out for each other.”

Her smile faded.

He shrugged into his jacket and exited the door with a cool blast of air.

From the window she watched him marching over the grass, and she was reminded of how he’d appeared in the sky over the southern horizon in his little yellow airplane. And how everything had changed.

Keep living one day at a time
. . .

Except, she didn’t know if she had time. Her secret would soon be out all over town. Taking her coffee, she went into her kitchen to make some toast.

She popped a bagel into the toaster and bumped up the volume of the radio as the signature tune for the hourly newscast sounded.

Snow was coming down a little more insistently now, clouds darkening over the lake, which had turned gunmetal gray. Across the water, spruce marched like black soldiers with spears in the sky.

You are strong.
You are enough
. . .

Cole had given her a gift in those words. They were words that should have come from her family, her husband, her community, and never had. Not even close.

Apart from that journalist, Melody Vanderbilt, who’d sat with her over so many days and just allowed her to talk. Melody had listened—
really
listened. She’d offered such nonjudgmental compassion that Olivia had been unable to stop talking to her. She’d just bled it all out. With Melody she’d never felt like a freak or a terrible human being. Melody had shown her a way forward.

For that, Olivia could not have been more thankful. As she waited for her bagel to pop up, she sipped from her mug, wondering where Melody was now.

You can always contact me. Look me up. Either through the adoption agent, or via this number on my card
. . .

Melody had given Olivia her business card.

Never feel afraid to call, even if just to know how she’s doing
. . .

Olivia hadn’t kept the card. She’d kept nothing of the past. But as she stared out the window now, at Ace snuffling along the frosted scrub that lined the shore, she wondered where her baby girl was. How she’d grown. Who she’d become.

An ache swelled in her chest, and Olivia was consumed with an acute and sudden sense of aloneness. Regret.

She shook it off, as the bagel popped up. She spread cream cheese on it, listening to the news about the coming storm, reminding herself she’d done it for her daughter.

It sounded like the front was much more intense than anticipated, and arriving sooner. Snow was already heavy in southern regions of the interior plateau. Olivia glanced at the clock. She needed to get moving and inform any campers who hadn’t already left, give them time enough to decamp and drive out before the roads became treacherous. Clearly the Thanksgiving dinner planned for tonight would have to be cancelled.

Then the news cut to the murder.

“IHit spokeswoman Constable Isla Remington says police have scheduled a news conference for 10:00 a.m. CBC has learned that police will release the ID of the Birkenhead River murder victim at the conference and will update the public on the progress of the ongoing investigation. According to a CBC source, the victim had recently undergone knee replacement surgery, and police have traced the surgeon through the serial number on the artificial joint. Remington would not comment further on the similarities between the Birkenhead case and the Watt Lake killings that occurred over a decade ago. The only surviving victim of the Watt Lake Killer was Sarah Baker, the young wife of Ethan Baker who identified her assailant as Sebastian George. Baker later testified against George, who was found dead in his cell just over three years ago. According to criminal analyst Dr. Garfield Barnes, the Birkenhead case could have been the work of a copycat, someone who identifies with—”

Olivia reached up and punched the radio button off. Her hands shook. Her mouth was dust dry. Blood began to boom in her head.
Thud, thud, thud,
thud
. . . the shovel hitting dirt as she peered through the chinking in her shed. She could see him, digging in the black loamy earth. She could smell the soil, the dampness of the forest, the rot of the siding on her shed.

He turned and looked toward her shed. His eyes, pale amber, met hers through the hole. Her stomach roiled.

Olivia grabbed the counter, braced herself, her brain spinning as she fought to stay present.

Tick, tick, tock, tock
. . . the sound of water dripping. Spring coming.

Time for the hunt, Sarah
. . .
never hunted a pregnant doe, Sarah
. . .

She spun around, knocking her mug of coffee off the counter. It crashed and shattered on the floor. Hot coffee burned down her leg. Pain, but nothing like the pain in her memory.

Olivia bent over and braced her hands on knees, trying short, shallow breaths, panting like an animal, stressed. Head down. Blood rushed back into her brain. Slowly she came around and stood up. Her skin was wet. She could smell the acrid scent of fear on her own body. She swallowed and steadied herself by holding the back of the chair.

How in the hell was she going to control these flashbacks? They were coming closer and closer together now. She had a real and sudden fear that she would actually go mad. End up in an institution. Rage erupted inside her
. No.

No way on goddamn earth was she going to succumb, or remain a prisoner of her past. She’d almost killed herself once—would be dead if some paramedic hadn’t found her and interfered. Now she wanted to live. Someone here on Broken Bar had conspired against her and was sending her back into a living nightmare, and she was not going to let them win. She could
not
live like this.

She marched into her room and began to thrust what was left of her belongings into her bags. She changed rapidly into jeans and a sweater, and dumped her toiletries into another bag. She stood in the center of her room for a moment.

Focus.

You can do this.

Move on.

Leave this ranch.

Myron was dying—it was over anyway. And she had one little window of opportunity before the snow locked her in. Before she’d be stuck here for days, even weeks on Broken Bar.

Where to go?

Didn’t matter where. East. Drive east. Alberta. Next province. Over the Rocky Mountain divide. Lots of ranches and rivers and lakes. Wide, wide spaces. People who didn’t know her.

She pulled on clothes. Shucking into her jacket, she gathered her bags, and began to lug her belongings up to her truck. Once everything was inside, she covered the back with a tarp and then ran through a mental checklist. All she had to do now was talk to Brannigan at the stables and tell him that she’d call with a plan to transport Spirit to wherever she ended up. She’d pay him to care for Spirit in the interim. She’d give Spirit one last ride before the storm set in, take her around to the campsite, where she’d kill two birds with one stone and check to see all the guests were gone. Then she’d say farewell to Myron and be on her way.

Olivia stalled.
Cole
. She dragged both hands over her hair. She had to leave him a note, explain.

Hurriedly she made her way back down through the grove and reentered her cabin. She found a pen and a piece of paper. On it she wrote:

Thank you for everything. Thank you for showing me that I was enough. You gave me back a piece of myself, and I will take that with me wherever I go now. With all my heart I wish you well with Broken Bar. Look after it for me . . .

Olivia paused, besieged suddenly with raw emotion. She gathered herself.

I know he probably won’t ask you this himself, but Myron made me promise him something. There’s a place up on the esker, the highest point where the grasses grow tall. It looks out over the entire forest canopy and lake. It’s where I promised Myron I would scatter his ashes, next to the stone memorial he built in your mother and Jimmie’s memories. I will think of him there. Please do it for me. For him . . .

Emotion snared.
Shit.
She stopped, rubbed her brow, wincing as she connected with the bruise from where she’d hit her head on the picnic table earlier.

I’m sorry we did not meet at another juncture in life, Cole. I like to think things could have been different had we crossed paths in another way. Thank you again. Take care of yourself. All my love, Olivia.

She stared at her hastily scrawled note.

All my love.

She could love a man like him. Maybe she already did, a little. With a twist of regret she tucked the corner of the note under her cactus pot on the kitchen counter so it wouldn’t blow off when the cabin door opened.

Stepping out into the cold, she went down the bank toward the water.

“Ace!” She waited for him to pop out from the bushes as tiny snowflakes drifted about her. Ace didn’t appear.

She whistled and called again.

The wind had died down, things had grown still and colder, whispering frost fingers appearing on the grasses. One day to Thanksgiving Day—always on Monday. Today was the anniversary of her abduction. Anxiety whipped through her, feeding into the adrenaline and urgency already strumming through her blood. She had to leave.

Ace was probably still busy down in the scrub somewhere doing his business. He’d be fine while she sorted Spirit out and gave her a quick run around to the campsite. Ace’s legs were better rested, anyway. She’d been working him too hard of late.

She started along the path, heading for the stables, snow crystals pricking against her face. Thoughts of Cole dogged her. The memory of his arms around her, the way he felt, the look in his eyes. She liked him. Too much. Too soon. She blew out a shuddering breath as she neared the paddock.

It would make things easier for him and Jane if she left. That much she could give him. And she’d brought him home to Myron. She believed she had actually made a tiny, tiny difference. Because now Cole might stay. He might fulfill Myron’s dream. Too little, too late, but she had given them that.