Sinister (20 page)

As the party began to wind down, Sam directed guests out to his Jeep. “If you need a Christmas turkey, be sure to grab one from the Jeep out front.”

“Thank you, Sam.” A short woman with dark hair shook his hand. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Sam told her. “But thank Menlo’s Market. They provided the turkeys.”

It was a lie, but Ricki would give him that one. ’Twas the season of love and generosity, and she knew Sam didn’t want anyone to suspect he was the one playing Santa.

As her plane landed beside the majestic Teton Mountains and taxied up to the rectangular terminal framed by rustic-looking timbers, Delilah Dillinger did a quick inner assessment of her feelings. It felt good to be back for Christmas, yes, but she was still ambivalent about returning home to Prairie Creek. Still, it was great to be greeted by her oldest brother, who updated her on recent news.

“Did they find that killer?” Delilah asked.

Colton’s brow was set beneath the brim of his Stetson. “Not yet.”

“I’ve got to be nuts, coming back now, while Prairie Creek has its own roving serial killer.”

“You can take that up with Deputy Ricki,” Colt said.

“Deputy Ricki,” she repeated with a smile as they climbed into Ira’s Jeep, which Colton had brought to the airport rather than his truck to stow Delilah’s luggage. “Didn’t know you’d just have one bag,” he observed, then added that the Jeep would be available for Delilah’s use during her stay, as Ira preferred his Dodge Ram truck.

“There’s something else you need to know,” Colton said. “Better for you to hear it from me first.”

“Uh-oh.” Delilah didn’t like the sound of that. “What?”

As they drove into Prairie Creek, Colton explained that Rourke was his kid. Hard to believe, but his half-drunk relationship with Pilar all those years ago had produced a son. “I just found out about it recently,” Colt admitted.

“Good. God.” Delilah stared at her brother’s profile, the hard line of his jaw. Her own biological clock had been making noise for a while inside her head, but to hear that Colton and Pilar had a son together made its insistent
tick, tick, tick
sound like a roaring freight train bearing down on her. “That adds a new level of ick to this relationship Dad’s gotten himself into,” Delilah said.

“Yeah, well . . .”

Delilah’s misgivings multiplied when they arrived at the lodge and Pilar grabbed her arm as if they were long-lost friends rather than classmates who ran in opposite circles. She could do little more than drop the handle of her rolling bag and let Pilar propel her toward the living room.

“Thank God you’re here,” Pilar said on a huge sigh. “I only have an hour or so before I have to take off, and I’ve got a million questions for you. Let me show you the mantel first. The flowers aren’t here yet, but you can get a sense of it from the Christmas lights. I think this should be the backdrop for the actual wedding ceremony, but I’m afraid it’s lacking the charm I was hoping for.”

“I’ll be out in the stables,” Colt said, faint amusement in his eyes. The traitor. “Want me to take your bag upstairs first?”

“Uh, sure,” Delilah said as Pilar waved him off.

“Just leave it,” she ordered. “We’ve got a big crew coming in and I don’t know who is staying where. Now, Delilah . . .” Pilar turned away from Colton and immediately switched the topic back to the nuptial arrangements. “I’m thinking we should line the stairs with a hundred tiny votive candles . . .”

As Delilah unbuttoned her coat, she forced herself not to stare at the doughy look of Pilar’s lips, the tightness around her eyes. Plastic surgery. Delilah knew all the signs from living in Southern California. Not that she minded, but what in God’s name was her father thinking?

Though wedding planning wasn’t on her résumé, Delilah let Pilar go through her wish list. Half of Pilar’s ideas just weren’t going to work, but Delilah could see solutions to the big issues. And although Delilah really didn’t want this wedding to come off, from her conversations with her father, it was clear that he did. Ricki had been right on that.

So, fine. She would keep this wedding moving forward. She could do that for her dad.

Within half an hour, she had convinced Pilar to put on one of the rejected wedding bridal gowns to do a run-through procession down the front staircase. Delilah wanted to see how the staircase worked, and she thought the rehearsal would help put Pilar at ease. While Pilar was upstairs changing, Delilah paced across the vestibule, measuring its width. She was sketching out a schematic on her notepad when the front door opened and in came her niece, Brook, along with a younger boy.

“Aunt Delilah! Thank God!” Brooklyn hugged Delilah tight and pressed her head against her aunt’s chest. “Everyone else here is clueless.”

“I missed you, too,” Delilah said, though she was surprised by her niece’s wholehearted reaction. From everything she’d heard, Brooklyn had been withdrawn since she’d moved here, and though Delilah had always gotten along with Brook, they didn’t see each other that often.

Over Brook’s shoulder she saw Ricki clamber through the front door behind them, stomping the snow from her boots. “I told you guys, either take your boots off or go around back,” Ricki said, then smiled up at her sister. “You made it.”

Delilah hugged her sister, then was introduced to Rourke. So . . . this was Colt’s boy, she thought, trying not to stare. Delilah wondered why things in her family had to be so complicated. She watched as Rourke went off to the stables to help Colt with the horses.

“Uncle Colt is Rourke’s father,” Brook said. “Isn’t that weird?”

“Brook,” Ricki intoned. “Don’t talk about your cousin that way.”

“It was a surprise, for sure,” Delilah agreed.

“I think it’s weird. This whole family is weird. Is that your luggage?” Brook stepped away to examine the shiny silver luggage. “It’s so retro! What room are you in?”

“I don’t know, but I hear it’s going to get tight here with Nell on her way and Tyler’s family driving up. Everyone’s going to be here.”

“I have to stay here, too. Maybe we can share a room?” Brook suggested.

Delilah shot a look at Ricki, who asked, “Would that be okay?”

“It’d be great,” Delilah said.

“I’ll take your bag,” Brook said, grabbing the handle. “There are two single beds in the room I’m staying in.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Brook.”

Delilah and Ricki watched as Brooklyn lugged the shiny suitcase up the stairs.

“Nice kid you got there,” Delilah said casually. “What the hell have you been complaining about?”

“That’s the good Brooklyn. You don’t want to meet her alter ego.”

“She’s a teenager. No worse than we were, I’m sure.”

“Don’t remind me. So how was your flight?”

“Fine, but I was bushwhacked by Pilar as soon as I got here.”

Ricki looked toward the top of the stairs. “I’ll be glad when this wedding is over.”

Delilah handed her the tab of her tape measure. “Hold this against the bottom step, will ya?”

They were interrupted by the ringing doorbell. Delilah was joking with Ricki when she peered through the sidelights and nearly choked as she recognized the woman standing there.

“What’s Georgina Kincaid doing here?” she whispered under her breath at Ricki.

“She’s here to see me,” Ira called from down the hall. He squinted ahead, focusing on his middle daughter as his boots tapped the runner. “Delilah? Good to see you, girl. We’ll get together later and catch up.” He patted her shoulder as he passed her on the way to the door. “Right now I’ve got a meeting. Looks like we’re getting into the oil business.”

“What?” Ricki’s head snapped around. “You said you would never drill on our land.”

“Not our land. Kincaid land.” Ira flashed his daughters a cocky grin, then opened the door and greeted Georgina, just as Brook bounded back down the stairs.

For a moment Brook and Georgina glared at each other, then Ira gestured for Georgina to come into his office, saying that Mrs. Mac had set out coffee and cookies. The older woman tore her cold gaze from Brook, gave a curt nod to both Delilah and Ricki and followed after Ira.

Brook looked at her mother with a “See?” expression, but before Delilah could ask what the hell was going on, a gray-haired man in his forties in a string tie and leather jacket came up the porch and through the open front door.

“Len Mercer, Century Petroleum,” he introduced himself, offering a hand to both Ricki and Delilah. Brook had edged away, and now turned and headed back upstairs. Delilah felt much the same way. She didn’t want to be involved with any plan Ira had to wangle Kincaid land into an oil deal.

Ira came out to usher Mercer inside, then said, “There’s one more coming from Century Petroleum. Send him in when he arrives.” Both men ducked inside the den and Ira shut the door firmly behind them.

Ricki scowled as she held the tape measure. “Since when does Dad serve snacks for a meeting?”

“Since when does Dad conduct friendly business with the Kincaids?” Delilah asked. “Brook is right, you know. Our family has issues. As evidenced by you and me working our asses off to make this wedding happen when we know it’s a match made in hell.”

A third man hurried up the outside steps as Ricki was about to shut the door. He was younger, a tall, good-looking man in a shearling coat with amazing blue eyes. Delilah let her tape measure snap back into its casing as he stepped inside and introduced himself to Ricki, who was standing closest to the door.

“Hi. I’m Tom Unger, from Century Petroleum.”

“And I’m Ricki Dillinger, Ira’s daughter,” Ricki said. “And this is my sister Delilah.”

“Hi,” Delilah and Tom said to each other at the same time. He extended his arm and shook both of their hands. His grip was sure and strong, a man who could use his muscle when he needed to. Delilah smiled but didn’t let her hand linger too long within his. Handsome men, in her experience, were lacking in other areas. Most of them, anyway.

“Delilah?” Tom said. “I always liked that song, but I guess you hear that all the time.”

“Mostly I hear, ‘hey, there, Delilah,’ and people think they’re hilarious.”

“Delilah just got in from Los Angeles,” Ricki said. “We’re having a wedding here soon.”

“I heard. It’s big news around Prairie Creek.”

“So, you’re doing oil business with Ira,” Delilah said.

“Hope to.” He pointed a thumb toward Ira’s den. “I’d better go.”

After the den door closed behind him, Ricki waggled her brows suggestively. “He’s cute.”

“A lot of them are,” Delilah said noncommittally. The last thing she needed was for her sister to start playing matchmaker.

“Cynical.”

“Yep. That’s what happens in Hollywood. We become cynical, ironic and arch.”

“Maybe you just needed to come back to Prairie Creek and find a real man.”

Delilah didn’t answer as her mind jumped to Hunter Kincaid and the summer of the homestead fire. She saw herself as she’d been that night, waiting for him at the tire swing, the one that had been hung from the lone pine tree with the hollow where they’d left notes for each other. Well, she’d left notes and he’d picked them up, mostly. Love notes ... from a girl sick with love.

Dropping to her knees to measure the stair width, she vowed to scrub Hunter Kincaid from her mind completely. She’d managed for eighteen years; a few days or a week in Prairie Creek wouldn’t change that. If her luck held, she might get through the whole visit without even seeing him. Ira had invited the Kincaids to the wedding because of the proposed oil deal. She now understood that part of the puzzle. But knowing Hunter, she doubted there was any way he would actually attend a Dillinger wedding. Thank God for that.

This whole debacle would be over soon enough.
Then what, Delilah?
she asked herself honestly.
Where are you going to go next? Back to Santa Monica?

The prospect was fast losing any appeal.

 

 

Hard to believe, but as Colton looked around the dinner table, he actually felt happy to be back at the Rocking D. With Pilar off in Jackson and Delilah and Nell here, it was beginning to feel like old times, the days when they were a family under Rachel Dillinger’s steady hand, the days when they worked and played and ate together and gave each other a good ribbing from sunup to sundown. His sisters were here, his brother was on his way, Sabrina was seated on his right, his son—who was actually beginning to like him—was on his left, and his childhood friend Sam Featherstone sat across the table, holding the potted pork chops for Ricki to serve herself. Kit had been invited but was bound and determined to stay at the stables. Davis was with her. Looking down the table, he could see the old man had a little glimmer in his eyes as he held court at the far end.

Damn, but the Waltons had nothing on the Dillinger clan tonight.

“So, can we go riding tomorrow?” Rourke asked eagerly as he broke a roll in half.

“That’s the plan,” Colt said. He’d broken the news to Pilar that he intended to teach Rourke to ride. She’d objected as a matter of course, then had thrown up her hands and said, “Go ahead. You’re going to do what you want anyway.”

“And shooting?” Brook asked, showing more interest than in anything they’d seen to date.

Pilar hadn’t voiced any objections to Rourke handling a gun, so Colt and Sam had taken Brook and Rourke out to an empty field just before supper. In the purple twilight, they showed the kids how to handle a pistol. Like riding, shooting was a rite of passage for anyone growing up out here, and with the killer still at large, there was no time like the present to prepare the kids to defend themselves.

Colt was going to have to talk to Pilar about the gun issue soon, but for now, he was just content to be with the family. Looking past the edge of the windows, he noticed fat flakes floating through the haze of the Christmas lights.

“Are we getting another blizzard?” Ricki wondered aloud.

“Nah,” Colton said. “The winds have died down and the mercury is hovering right around freezing. We’ll see snow, but the stock can handle it.”

“The snow is probably holding up Tyler and Jen,” Ira said. “I thought we’d see them by dinnertime tonight, but they’ll get through. The last of the clan, all under one roof.” Ira’s eyes glinted as he lifted his wineglass. “My progeny.”