Just Say Maybe: A Thistle Bend Novel (9 page)

Holly pushed aside the papers in her lap, scooted to the edge of her seat, and got a good look at the newspaper collection. Bryce settled on the ottoman and they sorted through the stacks.

“These go all the way back to the days when Adam Evanston first came to town.” The time line was fresh in her mind since she’d just shared her family’s story with Lindsey this morning. “When he was courting the town council—or, most would say, bribing—trying to get the loan from the bank, and lobbying to win the tiebreaking vote from the bank’s president.” Her heart plodded from beat to beat as she assessed what she’d just said. She wasn’t about to fake ignorance about the history of it all—or about anything, for that matter. But she didn’t want to reveal the extent of her family’s involvement. She’d already spilled her story about Max, and that was enough personal information for one day.

“Sounds like you know a lot about what was going on back then.” Bryce dropped the newspaper he was holding on top of a stack. “I could really use your help understanding it all, since a lot of it’s liable to get thrown in my face when people find out I’m reopening this place.”

Holly tensed. She hadn’t forgotten that he was trying to change her opinion about the lodge. No doubt he wondered if it was simply a general dislike of the place, or if a specific incident had fostered her negative feelings. “I was only seventeen when it all started. Mostly interested in high school, and college applications. That was eleven years ago.” She handed him one of the oldest newspapers in the stack to verify her time line. “I wasn’t around for a lot of the conflict.”

Although it tore through my family constantly.

“I’ll fill in the blanks when I can,” she said. “But your best source is all the articles circled in those papers.” Holly tipped her head toward the drawer. “From what I can remember, they reported about the lodge objectively. It’s a fair historic account.” She’d started to sound like a lawyer—a reliable defense mechanism—and she worried she might be giving herself away. Even if she was, there was no way she was going to tell her family’s gut-wrenching story twice in one day. Her head was still fuzzy from getting all weepy this morning. It would take a good night’s sleep before she’d feel like herself again.

If Bryce took her advice and read the articles, there’d be much less for her to tell. He’d easily make the connection between her and her grandfather—Birdsong wasn’t the most common name in these parts. Bryce seemed perceptive enough to realize the ramifications of her grandpa’s no-win decision. By then, Holly might be more open to sharing the rest of her family’s story, if things were still moving forward with Bryce.

The thought stuttered in Holly’s mind. Had she decided to
move forward
with him? Her body had always screamed
yes,
and now her heart had made it to
maybe.

Just say maybe, and see where things go.

“That’s good advice,” Bryce said about reading the newspaper articles, not seeming put off by Holly’s reluctance to offer her historical account. He got up, grabbed his backpack from the side chair, and pulled out several plastic garbage bags. “Guess I’ll load up, because I’m not walking out of here with a bureau drawer, even though I’ll own the thing soon enough.”

Working to keep them in some semblance of order, Holly helped him bag the newspapers. About halfway through the first stack, a circled article caught her attention.

Birdsong Votes YES. Construction to Begin on Controversial Lodge.

She quickly buried the issue beneath another handful of papers that she piled on top. When the bag was filled, she hitched her chin toward the end table. “Should we put the picture of that guy in here, too?” she asked, hesitant about the idea of removing things from the suite.

Bryce pressed his lips into a frown. “I’ve already done more damage than I should have—kicking a hole through the paneling, busting plywood with a maul. I’m keeping a list of everything I’ve torn up, and I’ll do the same for anything we remove. If something unforeseen puts a snag in the sale, I’ll return the items we take and reimburse the bank for the damage I caused.” He stepped over to the end table and picked up the picture of the man from the 1800s. “So I think this guy should come with us. I’ll put him in my backpack.”

He left the bag of newspapers on the ottoman, turned to the console below the television, and opened each of its three cabinets one by one. Inside was a hodgepodge of things like candles, thriller novels, DVDs, and seasonal decorations—a miniature Christmas tree made of pinecones covered in silver glitter, a small American flag wrapped around a dowel with a pointed gold tip, and a Halloween diorama of a graveyard with sinister skeletons and ghosts lurking among the tombstones. It was particularly creepy, considering the circumstances, but Holly decided not to say so.

“Clearly some woman lived in this suite,” she said. “Unless I’m totally clueless about the hospitality industry and you guys provide in-room holiday decorations to enhance the guest experience.”

Bryce shook his head, his hair skimming the base of his shirt collar. “As much as I want my guests to have a memorable stay, Christmas trees and skeletons aren’t included. So I’m with you on the woman living here, considering all the clothes and jewelry she left in the bedroom.”

“I can think of several women who’d love to have some of the more casual clothes in there,” Holly said. “They’re not my style, but a couple pairs of her boots caught my eye. I’m not saying I want to take anything, I’m saying it’s curious that she’d leave all that nice stuff behind.”

Bryce nodded as he closed the door of the last cabinet in the console halfway, then hesitated. He stepped over, grabbed his flashlight from the floor in front of the sliding glass door, flicked it on, and aimed it toward the back corner of the cabinet. Leaning down, he reached inside, pushed the diorama out of the way, and pulled out a small box with a flap lid, made of thin cardboard. A brand name was printed in red on the light brown cardboard, the labeling and the lid done in black.

Bryce shot her a disturbed look and shook the box. Weighty metal clattered inside.

Having trouble reading the smaller print, and not recognizing the brand, Holly narrowed her eyes. “What is it?”

He handed her the heavy little box. “Bullets for a .38 Special.”

Bryce clenched his jaw as Holly read the copy on the box, opened the top, and looked inside. His heart ticked off a couple beats per second. The rumor about the woman disappearing from the lodge had bothered him plenty—especially since he’d found that picture of his father with the woman who’d likely lived in a suite that had been intentionally hidden. Add to that the fact that her bedroom was full of belongings that a person operating under free will wasn’t likely to leave behind, and the sum of things was looking awfully suspicious.

But finding a box of bullets had him second-guessing his decision to play amateur sleuth. He should have told George about the suite, and let him and Thistle Bend Bank decide what to do about it. The bank still owned the lodge, after all. This wasn’t his business or his problem.

But you can’t walk away from it.

The lodge was going to be his—with all its background and baggage. He was there to try to make good on all the bad it had wrought in the past, no matter what that entailed. And now he was also there for Holly, whom he hadn’t expected to meet, much less become drawn to so quickly. From the moment he’d heard her voice, she’d been magnetic and elusive all at the same time. He’d had no idea how alone he would feel when he came here to buy the lodge, as if, by association, he were a dubious interloper suspected of no good.

With Holly by his side, he was less tense. She gave him a sense of comfort, diverting his attention away from the lodge’s checkered past and toward its potential. He wanted to see where things might go with her, and involving her in this might not have been the best start. Or maybe it was. Right now, only circumstantial evidence hinted at foul play. He’d do his best not to get too amped, connecting dots that weren’t necessarily on the same page. Maybe Holly would help him keep his head straight, since she wasn’t so personally invested in the situation.

Maybe she can help me with more than that.

Holly had surprised him in so many ways. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been entranced by a woman as quickly, and found himself attracted so fast. His romantic tendencies had always been the opposite of his approach to adventure sports. Give him a rugged trail to ride, an angry wave to surf, or a jagged rock to climb, and he was immediately all in. But when it came to women, he’d been way more averse to risking his heart. He’d fallen for Whitney little by little, but somehow Holly had had him at “Are you okay?”

His initial reaction to her had been so uncharacteristic that he’d been reluctant to call her after she’d put her number into the contact list on his phone. He had wanted to carefully think through everything he did in Thistle Bend. Acting on impulse and calling a girl who had so thoroughly turned his head around hadn’t seemed like the wisest move. Then there she was—the real estate lawyer who George had recommended—and he couldn’t resist her a second time.

“This box is missing some bullets,” she said softly. “Think we’ll find the gun they went in?”

Bryce wished they would find it, with all the missing bullets chambered inside. “Hard to say.” He strode over to the couch and tossed the cushions, testing their weight and shape in case a gun—or anything else—might be hidden inside. Same scenario with the side chair. “Nothing there.” He took the box of bullets from Holly, pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of it, and returned it to the corner of the cabinet, behind the Halloween diorama.

“Let’s have a look in the bedroom and bathroom and get out of here.” He’d had enough of the lodge for now. At least of this suite. The next time he stepped inside, he wanted it to be during his final walk-through, just before he began transforming it into someplace gorgeous and good.

And he wanted to take Holly somewhere else—anywhere else. A place they could relax and enjoy each other without the specter of his father shadowing them.

Bryce had managed to pry only one side of the plywood away from the huge picture window in the bedroom, so they grabbed their flashlights and each picked up a work light. Now that the sky had gone gray, very little natural light seeped in. Adding the work lights alone made everything appear surreal and artificial, and feel that way, too.

Bryce drew in a deep breath and squinted. “I hate to say it, but the woman who stayed here wore some awful-smelling perfume. Thank goodness there’s only a hint of it in the air, but it’ll get worse when we open those drawers again.”

“I wondered if it was just me that it didn’t appeal to,” Holly said. “But you gotta give it to the woman, she sure got her money’s worth with that scent—it clearly has some staying power.”

“Lucky us.”

Holly kneeled in front of the bureau, getting started with the remaining bottom drawer.

“Don’t be surprised at what you find in there,” he said, curious to see her reaction to what was inside.

She lowered her eyebrows and wrinkled her nose, then pulled out the drawer, undeterred.

That’s my girl.

Holly stared into the drawer, then switched on her flashlight, illuminating the collection of tawdry lingerie ensembles that Bryce had seen yesterday—garish getups made with faux leather, fishnet, or cheap lace—styles that probably hadn’t changed much over the last five years. She gazed up at him, a wisp of an amused smile on her lips, eyebrows raised. “I guess this stuff had your imagination running wild.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “It’s not really my style.”

“That’s a relief.” She lifted out a filmy black bra with red velveteen lips embossed in the middle of each cup. “Because this would not flatter you at all.”

He laughed, low and rumbling, and it eased his tension. “Correction. That style of lingerie doesn’t really do it for me.” But the sliver of light blue lace he’d seen on Holly’s bra definitely did.

Her gaze met his, and lingered. “Good to know.”

Bryce took a long look at the lingerie. He was all for being playful and naughty when it came to sex, but his stomach clenched when he thought about the woman in the picture wearing those outfits for his father. “My instincts may be off, Miss Birdsong, but I can’t picture you wearing anything like that.”

Holly absently licked her lips, a move that was sexier than anything in the drawer. “So you’re picturing me in lingerie?”

“Damn right I am.” And his body was all stirred up. It wasn’t the heat of the work lights causing sweat to prickle on his skin. He sat on the end of the nearby bed, within arm’s reach of her. “It’s only natural since you’re sitting there next to a drawer full of the stuff.” He combed his fingers through her silky ponytail and tugged the end gently. “But you strike me as the kind of girl who wears sexy lingerie with class—shimmery silk, soft lace. It’s slaying me just thinking about it.”

She glanced at him shyly, then her eyes sparked with mischief. “And here I am debating about you, totally stumped between boxers and briefs.” She winked.

He shot her his sexiest look. “Let me know when you’re ready for the big reveal.”

Holly grinned and opened her mouth to reply just as her phone pinged. Her eyes widened. “Maybe that’s Lindsey.”

While Holly checked her phone, Bryce reluctantly pushed thoughts of her in satin and lace from his mind. He opened the jewelry box on top of the bureau, and scanned its contents again, his gaze drawn to the monogrammed silver ring. Against his conscience, but in case he might need it, he pulled it from its spot and tucked it in his pocket.

VRS.

The initials still meant nothing to him. But if they ever found VRS, he would gladly return the ring.

“Lindsey identified the man in the old photo out there.” Holly tipped her head toward the living area. “It’s Warner Montgomery III, the guy who brought the railroad to Thistle Bend back in the late 1800s and helped make it a thriving mining town. Most people agree that the town wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for Warner Montgomery.” She stared at her phone, looking perplexed. “I have no idea why there’d be a picture of him in here—unless pictures like that were used as décor in all the rooms as a way to root the lodge in history, by showcasing some of Thistle Bend’s early movers and shakers.”

No doubt Bryce was more perplexed than Holly, considering he had more pieces of the puzzle to try to fit together. And Warner Montgomery was an outlier, for sure. “Too bad all the other rooms and suites are stripped bare. George and I checked out every one of them a month ago when I was here looking at the property. There were a lot of random items left behind in the rooms—lampshades, mirrors, stuff like you and I saw yesterday—but we would’ve noticed a framed, old-timey picture of someone.” In hindsight, he and George should’ve noticed that a suite was “missing” too, but they hadn’t.

“I could ask around if you’re really interested to know if pictures like that were in the rooms,” Holly said. “There’s a fair number of people in town who used to work here.”

The last thing Bryce wanted was for people to be talking and thinking about the lodge the way it used to be, or for them to wonder why Holly was asking questions about it. “Thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t. It’s more important for people to focus on the future of this place, not its past.”

Holly gave him a thumbs-up.

A thorough check of the rest of the bureau drawers and the closet revealed only women’s clothing, shoes, and accessories, most of them of cheap quality, as far as Bryce could tell. He’d even looked under the mattress, an obvious hiding place—where he hadn’t expected to find anything, and didn’t. Nothing to help him flesh out the bony skeleton of a story that was developing—and no gun.

The only thing left in the bedroom to search was the nightstand, which Bryce hadn’t done yesterday. He’d been too eager to get the framed picture of his father and the mystery woman zipped into his backpack before Holly came in and caught him. “I’ll finish up in here,” he said, not willing to risk her having the first go at the nightstand. “How about grabbing a light and checking out the bathroom?”

She did as he asked and Bryce stepped over to the nightstand, a Craftsman-style table with one drawer and a lower shelf. Holding his breath, he opened the drawer, hoping he’d see a loaded .38 Special inside—the only thing he could imagine finding that might settle his imagination. Again, he didn’t find a gun. But he did find seven years’ worth of wire-bound calendars stacked in the drawer, alongside a dark green ink pen with
The Lodge at Wild Rose Ridge
embossed on it in white. He exhaled, disappointed, yet still curious about the calendars.

Bryce glanced toward the bathroom where Holly kneeled in front of the open main cabinet of the vanity. He quickly flipped through the stack of calendars—the kind issued by businesses and organizations, with scenic photographs for each month on the top half, and a box grid of days and weeks on the bottom. They had all been issued by the Thistle Bend Bank, with various themes each year. But all of them had notations made on them, written in similar tight, cursive handwriting that was difficult to read at a glance.

His pulse picked up pace. He hadn’t found the revolver, but these calendars might be the next best thing. The newspapers would tell an objective story about the history of the lodge, as Holly had said, but the calendars might reveal the personal, biased story that he was really looking for.

I’ll have to take these, too.

Bryce checked to make sure Holly was still occupied then grabbed the calendars and tucked them under his arm. Flicking off the work light, he cast the bedroom into near darkness in case she should happen to glance behind her. He strode into the living area and stowed the calendars in the large compartment of his backpack—the same place he’d put the picture of his father and the mystery woman yesterday.

Guilt tugged at his conscience. He hated to hide things from Holly since she seemed eager to learn what had happened there as well. But what would she think of him if she found out he was Adam Evanston’s son? She’d given off the vibe of being open-minded and fair. But if she’d known right off about his relation to his father, would she have given him a chance at all?

Despite his work removing the plywood from the door and windows, the light had dimmed measurably in the living area. Outside, a blanket of angry clouds darkened the sky. A storm was brewing, and he and Holly needed to get down the rugged road to the lake before the rain made it more difficult to pass.

Bryce collected the work light from the bedroom then ducked into the bathroom, where Holly peered into a cabinet of girly products—everything from lotion to hair spray. “Find anything interesting?”

Holly stood; pulled out the top drawer of the vanity; grabbed a small, light pink rectangular plastic case from the front corner; and handed it to him. “Birth control pills. But it’s a sample, not a prescription, so no luck getting a name for this woman.” She gestured toward a couple of shiny light pink packages labeled in black nestled in the corner of the drawer. “There are a couple more sample packs here. All of them are expired now, but they would’ve been fine when she was likely taking them five years ago.”

Bryce tapped his thumb against the top of the plastic case in his hand, and pills rattled inside. “Anything else?”

Holly met his gaze, an are-you-ready-for-this look in her eyes. She dipped the bill of her cap toward the case. “Open it.”

He clicked open the case. Four rows of pills had once filled the plastic bubbles lined up inside, yet nearly two rows were gone, leaving a row and a half of pink pills, and a full row of white ones. “She stopped taking them.”

Holly gave him a pointed look. “Mid-cycle.”

His stomach pitched. “So she wasn’t around to take them.” He shook his head as he pulled out his phone, snapped a picture of the rows—empty and occupied—and tossed the pill case into the drawer. “This doesn’t look good.”

Her eyes told him she agreed, yet she said, “You never know. Sometimes a few odd coincidences lead us to assume one thing, but time reveals something totally different.”

He appreciated her positive outlook, but could hardly say that he shared it. “I don’t have a lot of time to wait for a revelation. We’re moving forward with the sale, and inspectors will be in here within days.” He pressed his hand over his mouth and dragged it down under his prickly chin. “Either I figure out what happened here myself, or I alert the authorities and let them have at it. Then a couple of things are likely to happen. One”—he grabbed his index finger and pressed it down—“they classify this place as a possible crime scene and likely hold up the closing. And two”—he pressed down another finger—“people in town get all stirred up over another salacious story about the lodge.” He stared up at the ceiling and blew out a long breath. “I just can’t risk getting off to a start like that.”