Echoes (14 page)

It seemed he followed her train of thought to its unpleasant conclusion because he stood suddenly and took his cup into the kitchen. She heard water in the sink as he rinsed it. Caitlin had fallen asleep and gently Tess eased her up so she could scoot out from under. She settled a cushion under Caitlin's head without waking her. She leaned against the counter behind Grant, watching as he carefully set his cup in the strainer.

He faced her in the narrow kitchen and leaned against the opposite counter. "The wood is right outside on the porch," he repeated.

"Thank you."

The kitchen was dim and his face was shadowed, but she felt his gaze, felt the light touch of it as it traveled over her face. "I'm just next door if you need anything else. I'll give you my phone number and you—"

"You're next door? You mean you're a neighbor?"

Grant Weston was Tori’s neighbor?

Westons, Westons, everywhere…

"Well, our properties border, if that's what you mean. The ranch is the only thing between here and Piney River. It's a fair hike to my front door, but if you give me a call, I can be here in five minutes."

She frowned. "You and Craig
both
have property bordering this one?"

"This place is part of the ranch. The foreman used to live here."

"Who owns this house now?"

"I do."

The ranch means everything to Grant.

A convulsive shiver stood her hair on end and toppled down her spine. "Tori pays you rent?"

"Not yet."

What did that mean?

"She had something worked out with my father."

"Is that who hired Tori? Your father?"

"No. She did some accounting for a producer I know. He recommended her when he heard I was going into business."

"What
is
your business?"

"Horses. I started in
Hollywood as a stunt rider."

"And then you were discovered?"

He shrugged. "Something like that."

"So Tori is managing your accounts now? Is your business doing so well that you need a full time accountant?"

Grant half laughed and shook his head. "Not. I can't afford her, but I can't afford not to have it done. She's just trying to get me to ground zero. Dad hasn't—Dad didn't keep track of things. I can't tell where the money's gone. I sent enough home when I was making it—but who knows where it is now." He let out a breath. "I think she's close to finishing up."

The frustration in his tone was clear. The two people who might get him answers were both gone now.

"Tori's been working out of your house for several weeks. You've probably gotten to know her fairly well..."

He drew back, his expression wary. "We say good morning and good bye."

"Did you see her yesterday?"

"Just for a minute when she came in. We were both busy."

"Did she seem different to you?"

He grinned sardonically. "Tori always seems different to me. But no, she didn't seem more different than usual. It was just another day. She was working on the books, I was cleaning out the stables. Dad was…" His voice trailed off.

What? Dad was what?

He took a breath and continued. "I'd pulled out the tractor to work on it. I didn't know he was going to try to clear out that stump."

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah. It's a mess, isn't it? Dad's dead, Tori's gone. Who knows what the hell happened yesterday."

"Sheriff Smith told me that money is missing from your house."

"That's right."

"He thinks Tori took it and ran."

"He thinks a lot of things."

"How about you, Grant? What do you think happened?"

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable and then he lifted his hand and brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. "You seem like a nice person, Tess. Don't go looking for answers here."

She flashed on Craig, leaning across the table at dinner, saying in an anxious voice, "
He doesn’t want the ranch tied up in probate by a lengthy investigation.
"

"That's a strange thing to say."

"You think so? You think you're going to like what you find? You think you're going to feel better if you know that Tori took off and left her kid and a dying man for five grand?"

Tess stiffened. "I don't think that's what I'm going to find at all. Tori wouldn't do that."

His expression made her want to look away. She fought the urge.

Finally he answered, "Like I said, I don't know her that well."

A clap of thunder followed his words and bright white light shot their features into stark relief.

"The storm isn't letting up at all." He frowned and reached past her to the phone, pressed the on button, listened, tried again. "Damn it. The phones are out, too." He stared at Tess with a look of indecision while outside rain pounded against the roof and windows.

"Listen," he said slowly. His voice was pitched low and it rubbed against her heightened senses. "Why don't you two come back to the ranch with me? There's plenty of room and…."

And? And they'd be safe there? Was that what he'd been about to say? Safe from what? From whom?

"And what?" she asked.

Grant leaned forward as if to catch her words and the narrow corridor of the kitchen brought him close enough to touch. Close enough to breathe in the clean smell of him, the light, mysterious scent of his cologne, the warmth of his skin. She stared into his face, trying to see beyond the barriers to what he thought, what he felt. He shook his head, as if to deny her access, but when he spoke his voice was gentle and low. "And I won't have to spend the night thinking about you," he said.

What she read in his eyes made his statement less about concern and more about the electricity that seemed to flow and spark between them. Another blinding bolt of lightning came almost in the same instant as earth shaking thunder that cracked and rumbled and shook the house. In the other room, Caitlin cried out in fear, breaking the spell Grant had cast on her. Quickly Tess rushed to her niece's reaching arms.

"Shhh, honey, it's okay. Just the storm," Tess soothed, holding her trembling niece. Over Caitlin's head, Tess met Grant's eyes. "It's just a storm. Nothing to be frightened of."

He kept her stare captured, looking for a moment like he would press the matter. Did he want them to go with him because he wanted to be with her? Or was he worried about them being here alone? Was he thinking of Tori? Did he know something about her disappearance? Something that made him fear they wouldn't be safe in a storm?

He exhaled and rubbed a hand over the light bristle on his cheeks. "You're sure you won't come? The roads were flooding when I got here. It might be hard to get back later."

"It's just a storm," she repeated, though her voice lacked the conviction she'd hoped for.

Awkwardly they stared from one to another, each waiting for a sign.

"I'll leave you my flashlight."

Caitlin buried her face in Tess's shoulder and held tight when Grant walked through the door. In silence they watched again as his headlights climbed the wall and then slid away.

"Hey," Tess said, catching Caitlin's chin between her finger and thumb. "What's that long face for? We're not afraid of a little rain, are we?"

But as Tess looked around her it felt as if Grant's departure had released the clustered shadows from corners to walls. Now they danced and writhed in the flickering firelight, waiting for her to let down her guard so they could close in. If the fire should die, they would take control, growing like a stain from the far reaches to the center where she and Caitlin sat, defenseless.

Knock it off, Tess…

But like it or not, silly or not, she was afraid.

Chapter Fifteen

Lydia
wiped away her tears as she stepped through her front door. She'd spent the day wallowing in her despair, crying, eating, stalking. She felt both naïve and stupid, horrified by the magnitude of her gullibility. She'd even toyed with the idea of taking Highway 53 and never coming back. If Tori France could disappear into thin air, why couldn't Lydia Hughes? But she knew Tori hadn't performed her vanishing routine willingly and becoming her follow-up act would be a mistake of untold magnitude. Worse, if Lydia disappeared, there'd be no sister or daughter to care. All Lydia had was her pathetic little coffee shop and the largest dress size in town.

She hung up her wet coat and reached for the light switch, wanting to cry when the lights didn't come on. With a deep sigh, she made her way through the dark to the kitchen cupboard where she kept candles and matches. Always prepared, that was
Lydia.

When she'd opened her Bed and Breakfast, she'd had big dreams of success, power and respect. But instead of growing and thriving like their neighbor
Piney River, Mountain Bend had dwindled, taking with it her hopes. Now the town was just a potty stop on the way to somewhere else. That could change though—would change—had to change. She was mortgaged to her dyed roots. She'd lose everything if it didn't.

She sighed, looking around the shadowed back rooms which made up her home, a place that usually brought her peace. But tonight she hated every prissy doily and velvet chair. She hated the dainty parlor lamps and provincial tables. She even hated her prized Precious Moments collectibles. Mostly, though, she hated herself.

He'd played her for a fool and she had let him.

In her bedroom, she undressed, fighting to control the unbearable ache of betrayal as she did. She faced her closet and the full length mirror hanging inside trapped her in its glass. Caught unaware, her reflection was enough to bring her to her knees.

She reached past her favorite white sweats to the aqua lounger he'd bought her for her birthday. Betrayed or not, she had to be prepared. He might show up at her door. He was worried about her cracking under pressure, after all. It would serve him right if she did.

But even as she hated him, she felt a thrill at the thought of seeing him. She wanted him the same way she wanted cheesecake and pizza when she wasn't even hungry. She couldn't deny herself, even when the consumption brought sickness and self loathing.

Numbly, she brushed her teeth, repaired her face by candlelight, and then arranged herself on the sofa with a fresh pot of Earl Grey. An hour later, she'd worn a path from the couch to the window. The tea was gone. So were the dozen brownies she'd made that afternoon. She felt panicked, alone. What if he didn't come?

But then she heard his knock and it silenced the screech of fear in her head. The brush of his knuckles against her door was soft and intimate. It coaxed her to her feet and drew her forward a step before she even realized it.

I’m here, the knock whispered. Let me in...

He didn't have a key of his own. Why would he need one when she was always there waiting for him? Any other night she would have been standing at the opened door before the sound of his engine died.

But now everything was changed, everything was wrong. She pressed her damp palm against the cool wood of the door and called, "Who is it?" when she couldn't bring herself to say, "Go away."

She felt the pause on the other side of the door, she felt the shift in the night air and she knew he'd heard her thoughts. Thunder rumbled and bright lightning illuminated the windows.

"Baby, open the door," he said when it faded. His voice was gentle and persuasive.

She shook her head, unable to force the word "no" past her lips.

"Come on, Lydia, I know what you're thinking, but it's not like that. Open the door, let me explain."

A part of her grasped at the hope that he
could
explain. That he might have the words to make it right. But transposed on that hope was the reflection of herself. Obese and unlovable. She'd been fooling herself with him, and it was time to face that.

"
Lydia," now his tone was firm, not yet angry. This was his "reasonable man" voice. She was no stranger to it. "Open the door."

She swallowed around the dryness in her mouth, wondering at the insanity that had possessed her. He wouldn't tolerate this defiance. Her expectations and doubts fell outside the margins of their relationship. He made the rules, she followed them. Why else would he keep a woman like her?

The silence on the other side screamed as she stepped back, staring at the door with dread and indecision. What should she do? If she opened it now after delaying, he would be angry with her.
Very
angry. But if she didn't open the door... The pounding of rain on the roof grated against her raw nerves.

Her hands were sweaty, the silky lounger clinging to her clammy skin. They shook violently as she reached for the deadbolt and checked that it was still secure. She needn't be frightened, she told herself.

But then the small oblong knob shivered for a moment as a key slid in the other side and the lock began to turn.