A Dark Lure (6 page)

In this image his steel-gray eyes were tempered by a glint of what appeared to be amusement. The photo had been shot in some African locale. His skin was tanned dark, and a half-smile played across his wide, sculpted mouth. As if he knew a secret. Perhaps the secret of feeling alive. She swallowed, feeling an odd sensation as she once again noted the genetic echoes between son and the father for whom she cared so deeply. And it hit square between the eyes why she disliked this man.

It wasn’t that he seemed to exude a screw-you, rugged in-your-face alpha virility. Nor was it the way he seemed to flip a bird at caution. It wasn’t that she envied his courage to bite into life so fully and zestfully—no, it was none of that.

It was a slow-dawning admission that she was attracted to him. In a way that felt dangerous to her. And it was not just his looks but his mind. She was turned on by the masculine beauty of his prose, the clean, muscular sentences that bespoke a latent empathy in the author. He was an acute observer of the world and human nature in it.

The idea of a man like Cole McDonough was both alluring and threatening. Olivia set the book aside and turned off her kerosene lantern. It was a good thing he wasn’t coming. She’d rather not face him. She didn’t want to find any man attractive again. Seeing revulsion in her own husband’s eyes when he’d perfunctorily tried to make love to her after she’d healed had crushed her.

She had no intention of even getting close to putting herself through that debasing kind of humiliation ever again.

Eugene watched the small light in her cabin go out. Wind whispered cold about his ears, and a wolf howled in the distant black hills. Hairs rose along his arms at the haunting sound. His thoughts turned to home. Wilderness. Freedom. Yes, he could taste it. After all this time she—all of it—was finally within reach. He could fulfill his purpose, go back to the beginning, end it where it had all started. He liked the sense of destiny in this. It had the right patterns.

He’d arrived just before sunset today. He’d scoped out the campsite, the cabins, the stables, the lodge. He now had a decent sense of the lay of the land. There weren’t many people about. Once darkness had come, he’d gone up to the lodge and watched the lighted windows for a while, trying to get a handle on how many people stayed there, worked there.

That’s when he’d caught sight of her through a big picture window on the second floor, talking to a gray-bearded man in a wheelchair. He’d known it was her in a blinding instant.

Known it with every fiber of his being. It was in the color and fall of her hair. The shape of her face. The way she angled her head to the right as she talked. It was in the line of her neck, the curve of her chin.

He knew Sarah Baker more intimately than any man ever would. He knew the taste of her mouth, the taste of her most intimate parts, the taste of her blood and meat. He swallowed at this thought. She was inside him, part of him.

Already he’d catalogued much about how she handled herself out here. He’d seen the sheathed fixed-blade knife on her belt. Her dog wasn’t young and looked as though it navigated primarily by scent. She moved with confidence through the dark, but the slightest crack of a twig brought fear, fast. She was quick. Alert. Which meant, surely, that she still remembered him well. She still carried with her a fear he’d put there. He smiled quietly.

The nearby cabin through the trees appeared vacant. No telephone lines led into her cabin. No satellite dish was mounted on her roof. He couldn’t see hydro wires, either. She carried a phone on her belt. It was likely reliant on the cell tower he’d seen in the mountains when he came in. There were landlines to the lodge house, and a big dish on the roof. The dish was most likely for television. Possibly Internet. Apart from those lines, this whole area was likely dependent on that one tower for cell coverage. This worked in his favor. Especially with the coming snow that he could taste on the night breeze.

Adrenaline rustled through him.

But the game was not on. Yet.

It wasn’t a game until she knew she was playing.

They probably hadn’t got his message yet—there’d been nothing on the radio today, nor in the papers he’d perused at the gas station in Clinton on his way up to Broken Bar. But it shouldn’t be long now until his message was found. And what a message it was.

He’d strung the body up in a grove of cottonwoods just off the road.

He would drive back into town maybe tomorrow or the next day, pick up a newspaper and other supplies he’d need. A few more days, and she would be his.

An owl hooted softly. Wings
fwopped
invisibly through trees. He waited until the mantle of night was cold and heavy upon him, until frost began to glitter on grass in the rising moonlight. Until the constellations had moved across the sky, then he sifted like a ghost back into the shadows.

He’d return in the morning, bearing the first little gift. It was time his presence began to whisper around the periphery of her consciousness.

CHAPTER 4

O’Hare International. Friday.

Cole lugged his duffel bag toward a coffee stand, questioning his motivations for having boarded the plane in the first place.

He’d snagged a flight four hours after Gavin dropped him at the small Keys airport. In Miami it’d taken three hours to score a standby seat to Vancouver with a layover at O’Hare. Outside the terminal windows dawn was a soft orange streak along the Chicago horizon. A mother of a headache dogged him. He felt surreal, as if suspended in a dreamscape between day and night as he chased time westward. Part of him began to think he’d imagined Olivia West’s phone call in a drunken delirium.

He ordered a double-shot of espresso and headed off to find his gate. This was a mistake. He was the last person on earth his father would want to see, especially if the old codger was weak. His old man detested showing weakness. Especially to his son.

A trickier, darker thought snaked through him as he took a sip from his cardboard cup—given his absence for so many years, suddenly showing up on the ranch now that his father was apparently dying was going to smack of Machiavellian opportunism. The last goddamn thing Cole wanted was to let his father think he needed, or wanted, anything from him. Like an inheritance. A share of the ranch. He meant what he’d told Jane—they could do what they liked with the place, and its ghosts.

Cole found a seat near his gate and opened up his laptop, head pounding, brain thick. While it fired up, he called Jane in London. She hadn’t picked up when he’d tried before departing Miami.

This time she answered on the third ring.

“Jane speaking,” she said in her adopted, clipped-Brit accent. His sister could be such a fraud.

“It’s Cole. Did you know that Dad was dying? Is it true?”

There was a moment of dead air.

Cole cursed inwardly. “Goddammit, Jane, you
knew
?”

A sigh. “No. Not really. Not until I got a call from his manager at some ungodly hour this morning about Dad needing hospice care. It was a shock, to be honest. All I knew was that he had the cancer, but he’d told me he was fine after the chemo. He’d said he was in remission. Appears he was lying—which is nothing new. Always ‘fine, all fine,’ you know how he is. I’ve been trying to reach you. Where are you?”

He inhaled deeply as he watched a father and his boys pushing bags. It made him think of Ty. Holly. Lost chances. “O’Hare. I’m going home.”

“What?”

“I got on a plane, and I’m going home.”

“I
. . .
well
. . .
I
. . .
no, this is good.” She cleared her throat. “This actually works out really well, because Toddy and I can’t get away right at this moment. It’s a bit tricky with the ambassador position possibly coming up in Belgium. Once you’re at the ranch you can let me know how Dad really is, and whether things are as serious as his manager claims, and whether I need to come.”

Cole closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. He counted to ten, then said, “Who is this ranch manager, anyway, this Olivia West? Do you know anything about her?”

Another odd hesitation. “She works on the ranch as a fishing guide and general farmhand, I believe. This was the first time I’ve actually spoken to her.” She wavered. “Listen, about Dad’s will—”

“Jesus, Jane, stop. Right now.”

“But you’re still on board, right? To sell the ranch?”

“I don’t know where they found you, do you know that? When you called me in Havana about selling, I was under the impression
. . .
” He swore under his breath. He couldn’t even remember what Jane had really been going on about. He had zip idea what she’d gotten him to sign.

“Why
did
you call me about selling? If you thought everything was fine with Dad?”

“Because Clayton Forbes contacted me with that proposal, that’s why.” Her voice was sharp, defensive suddenly. “He was sounding me out on the hypothetical possibilities because—well, because I’m easier to talk to than our father is, let’s face it. He was hoping I’d massage things in the right direction if I—we—were interested.”

“Interested in what, exactly?”

“You’re kidding me, right? You signed the document.”

“I don’t remember what I signed.”

“You were blind drunk, probably, that’s why.”

“Humor me, Jane. Refresh my memory.”

She muttered a curse. “Forbes wanted to get a read on our family because an incredibly exciting opportunity came up for a major real estate development. He wanted to be certain where you and I stood on selling the ranch before he entered more serious negotiations with financiers, and before he started commissioning plans, environmental impact studies, that sort of thing.”

“Securing financing? Planning? For
Broken Bar
?”

“Yes. For a big high-end commercial development and private estates.”

His head reeled. “Dad would
never
agree with that. Ever.”

“But we agree.”

“It’s not ours to sell.”

“Oh, spare me, Cole. Dad’s ill. No one lives forever. I’m a pragmatist, that’s all, and so is Clayton. He knows Dad will leave us the property. And I know you want nothing to do with the place, so what’s the problem?”

Dark feelings sifted through Cole at the thought of Clayton Forbes. His nemesis at school. Forbes had always had a cunning, duplicitous, aggressive approach to life, and people.

“What did I sign?”

“A document of intent to enter into good-faith negotiations with Forbes Development Company when we inherit Broken Bar.”

Shit.
He pinched the bridge of his nose harder.

A call came over the intercom. His flight was boarding.

“I’ve got to go. I’ll call you when I get there.”

“Wait. There’s one other thing. Clayton believes Dad’s ranch manager is exerting undue influence on him in his frail state. He thinks she’s gunning for her own share of the inheritance, if not all of it, and if that ever happened, she would not be willing to sell. The whole deal would fall through.”

“And Forbes believes this why?” He watched the first-class passengers lining up. His ticket said
D
. Cheap seat.

“I don’t know. He called me about it and suggested we do something.”

“When did he call?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Cole, recently.”

“Like this morning? After the news that Dad will need to move into palliative care?”

“Listen, I also need to run. Kids have a school field trip. Just call me when you get there and let me know how Dad is. And check this Olivia woman out, okay? Apparently no one really knows what her background is, or where she comes from. She’s young and very attractive, and Dad seems smitten.” She hung up.

He blew out a chestful of air. Christ, what had he just landed himself in? Myron McDonough being smitten by a younger woman was an improbability, given the way he’d clung so bitterly to the loss of his wife. But what did Cole know—it had been thirteen years since he’d last seen his father. His mind turned instantly to the creased photograph he always carried in his wallet, to the reason he’d fallen afoul of his father’s affections all those years ago, but he quickly shunted thoughts of Jimmie and his mom to the back of his mind. He didn’t want to dwell there, but at the same time, he knew going back meant also having to face those memories.

As the next seating section was called up, Cole quickly turned his attention to his laptop and pulled up the Broken Bar Ranch website. He found the staff page and clicked on Olivia West’s photograph and bio. Her image filled his screen.

Cowgirl. Devoid of makeup. Clear green eyes that brought to mind the colors of spruce forests and moss. Direct gaze. Vitality exuded from her features. Her hair was a warm chestnut color and fell in thick waves onto her shoulders. Full, pretty mouth. She wore a red-and-white bandana around her neck, checked button-down shirt, cowboy hat. She was attractive, in an understated, athletic way
. Her blurb stated that she’d worked as a fishing guide up north. Yukon. Alaska. Northwest Territories. She’d cooked at remote logging camps and worked at a cattle ranch in northern Alberta. She’d been at Broken Bar for the past three years.

Cole dug a little deeper, following links to the camps mentioned in her bio. It all stood up on the surface, but his sister was right. He could find no online reference to this particular Olivia West prior to eight years ago. No social media links. Zip. He heard his seating section being called and closed his laptop, grabbed his bag. As he joined the queue to board, Olivia’s words taunted him
. . .

. . . You’re no survivor, you know that? You know dick about surviving. All you know is your own narcissistic pursuit . . .

What did
she
know about survivors that made her so angry with him? While he knew squat about her, she certainly knew personal things about him, and she’d judged and found him wanting. Curiosity nibbled at him.

He handed over his passport and boarding pass.

A woman with a mystery past? Exerting undue influence over his tough-ass father—the man who’d put his dead wife on a pedestal to the detriment of the rest of the family? It was unlikely.

Just as unlikely as him going home after all these years.

Broken Bar Ranch. Friday. Dawn.

Temperatures had dropped below freezing during the night. Down near the dock, red rose hips and dead leaves sparkled with diamonds of hoarfrost. The sun hadn’t yet broken over the mountains, and mist rose in ghostly tendrils off the mirror-still lake. Trout darted in shallows beneath the untroubled surface.

Early morning gunshots cracked through the hills, echoing through the valley. Olivia huddled deeper into her down jacket, frosted grass crunching beneath her boots as she tramped out a half-mile track for Ace to follow, dropping scented articles at intervals along the way—bits and pieces of fabric, a leather glove, some wood, plastic bag ties, a hair clip
. . .
items she’d stashed under her sheet while she slept so that they’d absorb her scent. She was still pissed at Cole McDonough’s rudeness. Arrogant, self-indulgent, narcissistic drunk. What kind of man had zero interest in his dying father?

Yet she remained selfishly relieved he wasn’t coming.

Once the track was laid, Olivia circled around and back to her cabin. She stomped up the three steps onto her small porch that looked out over the misty lake. A loon quavered out on the water.

Behind the door Ace was snuffling, whining.

“Whoa, old boy,” she said as he tried to nose through the door the instant she opened it a crack. “Go wait on your mat.”

He dutifully obeyed, panting, watching her with milky eyes as she took out his tracking line and harness.

Crouching down near the door, harness and line in hand, she called him over. “Okay, boy, you wanna track? Huh? Come on then!”

Ace squiggled excitedly over. Her heart did a funny little squeeze as he tried to lick her face while she clipped on his tracking harness. She loved him with all her heart. He was about eight years old now—not ancient for a German shepherd by any means, but he’d had a rocky start in life, and it was showing. His teeth were ground down to nubs, and he was having some trouble with his hips. He was also going blind.

She’d found him just over three years ago along a deactivated logging road shortly after she’d released herself from hospital. The bandages around her wrists had been fresh, and she’d gone straight from the hospital to the liquor store. Her goal had been to drive out into the wilderness, get drunk, and end her life properly this time, where no good Samaritan who happened to be a paramedic could rescue her again in the nick of time.

She’d made good inroads into a bottle of vodka and shouldn’t have been behind a wheel at all. But it was almost winter, the logging roads empty, and she was driving to nowhere when she’d slowed at the sight of a matted brown-and-black shape lying on the side of the road. She’d thought it was wildlife roadkill at first. But something made her stop.

With shock she’d realized it was a dog and it was alive—a bag of bones in mangy fur, unable to walk, with eyes so beseeching it had clean broken her in two. Carefully she’d felt the animal’s body and had detected fractured bones. She’d carried the dirty, stinking, flea-ridden pile to her truck. Shoving the half-empty vodka bottle off the seat, she’d used her jacket to make a bed on the passenger side where she could rest her hand on the dog as she drove. Then she’d turned her truck around and steered back toward civilization in search of a vet.

Ace had been the U-turn in her life. He’d forced her to act outside of herself, given her a simple purpose.

The vet figured the dog was about four years old but said it was hard to tell given his malnutrition. He’d been chained probably most of his life, a rope still partially embedded in flesh around his neck. That had slayed her. She knew what that felt like. And from that moment she’d known she could never let this dog down.

Ace had saved her. Ace gave her unconditional love. And she gave it back in buckets. Loving had started to mend the dead things inside her.