Twice Kissed (3 page)

“Because you’re twins?” He didn’t bother to hide his sarcasm.

“Because…well, yes. Yes! She and I are close.”

“You haven’t spoken in months.”

But I heard from her. Just a little while ago. She called to me.
Maggie started to utter the words, then held her tongue. She’d learned her lesson long ago. No one would believe her. Not the psychiatrists she’d visited, not her parents, who were now gone, and especially not Thane Walker, her first love, her sister’s ex-husband. Stiffening her spine, she refused to break down. “I just think I would know. Don’t ask me to explain it, okay?”

He hesitated, then shoved his hair out of his eyes with both hands.

“Is there something else?” she asked, determined not to let this man with his wild allegations get to her.

“Oh, yeah.”

Her insides churned. “More speculation?”

“Maybe.” He mounted the steps. “As I said, it looks like I might need your help.”

“You?”

“The detective in charge—his name is Henderson—he thinks I had something to do with Mary Theresa aka Marquise’s disappearance.”

“You? But why—?”

A sharp woof heralded Barkley’s arrival. Three legs moving swiftly, the shepherd tore into the yard and raced up the steps. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled, his fangs flashed an evil white, and his mangled ear lay flat and menacing against his head as he smelled the intruder. He growled low in his throat, his black lips curling back, eyes centered on Thane.

“Where’s Becca?” Maggie asked as if the dog could answer. Thoughts of her sister were thrust aside. Maggie’s heart pounded. She scanned the darkness, searching for her daughter.

Barkley snarled and barked.

“What?” Thane asked, then commanded, “Hush,” to the dog, who backed off but still growled from beneath the rusting porch swing.

Maggie, fear turning her heart to ice, walked down the steps and headed for the corral that opened to the trail Becca had taken. Her gaze pierced the night-darkened fields. “Becca. She went riding about an hour ago. Barkley was with her…” Maggie strained, hoping to see the horse and rider but spying nothing except a few head of cattle, dark shapes shifting against the grass. Why would the dog return alone? Goose bumps rose on her flesh. “I hope something didn’t happen…”

Brrring!

From the open door of the cabin the phone jangled.

Unnamed fear congealed deep in her soul. She turned on her heel, raced across the yard and up the steps to the house. Past Thane and through the screen door, she flew through the living room and snagged the receiver. “Hello?”

The screen door banged shut, and Thane, with the growling dog guarding him, stared through the mesh.

“Ms. McCrae? Margaret Elizabeth Reilly McCrae?”

Her heart hammered wildly. “Speaking,” she said, her eyes fixed on Thane’s as dread took a stranglehold of her heart.

“This is Detective Henderson with the Denver police.”

Her knees buckled, and she sank against the wall. “Yes?”

“Is Mary Theresa Gillette, also known by the single name of Marquise, your sister?”

Maggie began to shake. Her blood turned to ice. Biting her lip, she stared at Thane’s face visible through the screen and nodded slowly, as if the detective could see her. “Yes,” she whispered.

A beat.

She wanted to die.

Tears filled her throat.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you, Ms. McCrae,” Henderson said solemnly. Maggie’s head pounded, her fingers tightened over the receiver. “It’s about your sister…”

Maggie replaced the receiver slowly and licked her dry lips. She couldn’t breathe, could barely think. A thousand thoughts screamed through her head, a million denials. “That was Detective Henderson,” she said dully, her head pounding, her world suddenly out of kilter.

Thane had entered the house during Maggie’s short conversation and stood at the door, his expression intense, his eyes narrowed.

“I figured as much.”

“This detective. Henderson. Do…do you know him?”

“We’ve met.” Thane rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “He comes off like a damned bloodhound. Has a good reputation.”

“That’s what we want, don’t we?” she asked, and met eyes that were shuttered, an intense expression that didn’t give an inch.

“Yep.”

Still reeling in disbelief, Maggie sagged into a chair and propped her forehead with one hand. She felt as if a ton of bricks was weighing her down, dragging her into an emotional abyss she’d seen before—one she’d tried desperately to avoid.

“You’re right,” she admitted, as the shock gave way to pain. “Henderson thinks Mary Theresa might be dead.” The words were horrible, echoing painfully in her heart and bringing tears she refused to shed to her eyes. “I can’t believe it,” she admitted, shaking her head in silent denial. “I just can’t believe it.”

“No one knows for sure what happened to her.” Thane took a cursory glance around the small, cozy room and walked to the river-rock fireplace where he studied the pictures gathering dust upon the old notched mantel. “There’s a chance she may still be alive.”

“She has to be.” Maggie wouldn’t believe Mary Theresa was gone.

“What exactly did Henderson say?”

“Not much.” Not nearly enough. The sketchy details Henderson had given Maggie only begged more questions rather than answering any. “Just that her secretary, Eve…Oh, I’m really losing it, I can’t remember Eve’s last name.”

“Lawrence.”

“That’s it,” Maggie said, slightly disturbed that Thane knew so much about her sister’s life when they’d been divorced for years. “Anyway, Eve tried to get ahold of Mary Theresa and couldn’t—and I think someone from the station called as well. Anyway, the police and the news crew, I think, drove to her house and found a way in. Mary Theresa wasn’t home, and one of her cars was missing.”

“Didn’t anyone call you?”

“No.” Maggie shook her head.

“Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“Yeah,” she said, then leaned back in her chair. “But last weekend Becca and I drove up to Coeur d’Alene, and if anyone phoned, I wouldn’t have known it because I don’t have my answering machine hooked up.”

He looked at her hard. “Why not?”

“It’s a long story,” she said, evading the issue. It was bad enough that Thane put her on edge, but the entire situation had her doubting what was real, what was imagined. “I moved here to get away from all the rat race and chaos of the city,” she admitted, hedging just a little. Never in a million years would she have thought that she would confide in Thane Walker, the one man who had, years before, stolen her heart and callously shredded it into a million painful pieces. The less this man knew about her personal life, the better.

He cocked one eyebrow. “Seems like an answering machine would make life easier.”

“Sometimes, I guess.”

“Most of the time.” He picked up a recent picture of Becca, his eyes scanning the school photograph that showed off teeth still too big for her head, dark hair that refused to be tamed, and eyes that sparkled with the same green fire as Maggie’s. “Your daughter?”

“Yes.” No reason to lie. “She’s thirteen.”

“Pretty,” he said, slicing Maggie a glance. “Looks like her mother.”

She wasn’t about to fall for that line. At least not again. She was pushing forty, for God’s sake, not a naive girl of seventeen any longer. “People say she has my temper.”

The edges of his lips lifted a bit. “I pity anyone who crosses her.”

“Unfortunately, it’s usually me.”

“I imagine you can handle yourself.”

“Most of the time.” Maggie glanced at her watch, then gnawed nervously on the corner of her mouth and climbed to her feet. “She should be home by now.” Walking to the large window by the front door, she flipped on the security lamp that was suspended on a pole near the barn. Instantly the gravel lot was washed with garish blue light.

“Where is she?”

“Riding. The ridge, I think.” Maggie folded her arms under her breasts and stared through the glass. “She left when it was still light and I thought she’d be back by now.” Already worried sick about Mary Theresa, Maggie felt a gnawing anxiety about her daughter. Opening the door, she walked onto the porch and told herself to calm down, to ignore the rapid beating of her heart. Too much was going on. It wasn’t enough that she had to deal with Thane again, or that he was still as earthy and irreverent as ever, or that Mary Theresa was missing. No, she had to be worried about Becca as well.

She heard Thane follow her outside, felt him standing close behind her, sensed the raw heat and intensity that seemed to radiate from him.
Come on, Becca,
she thought, wishing her daughter to appear.

The temperature had dropped with the nightfall. Winter was steadily on its way, chasing away any hint of Indian summer. “I should never have let her go,” Maggie said, as much to herself as Thane.

Barkley let out a low, threatening growl, his dark eyes fixed on the stranger who had dared enter his domain.

“She’ll be okay.”

“How do you know?” Maggie whirled, her thin temper snapping. She nearly bumped into him as he stood so closely behind her, and she took one step back so that she could glare up at him. “You don’t know a thing about Becca, or this terrain, or her horse, or anything! You come riding up here with bad news, then…then…hang around and offer me platitudes about my daughter’s safety.” She knew she was ranting, that her tongue was running away with her, but her emotions were strung tight as piano wires, her frayed nerves barely allowing any room for sanity.

He arched one cynical eyebrow, and she bit her tongue. She was on edge. Anxious. And being this close to him didn’t help. All too vividly she remembered his embrace, the strength of ranch-tough muscles surrounding her, the feel of his lips against hers and then the aching, bleak days of living through the Stygian darkness of his betrayal.

For half a second he stared at her, and her breath got lost somewhere deep in her lungs. “You’re right,” he allowed, eyes thinning in the gloom. “I don’t know anything about you or your kid.”

The drum of hoofbeats reached Maggie’s ears.

“Thank God.” She was down the two steps as Jasper, his coat shining silver in the moonglow, galloped through the open gate on the farside of the corral.

Maggie’s heart nose-dived.

All her fears congealed.

No rider appeared on the gelding’s back. His empty saddle was still in place, the loose stirrups flopping at his sides, the reins of his bridle dangling and dancing as he drew up short and reared. Maggie was already running, speeding across the lot and opening the gate to the corral where the gelding, eyes wild and white-rimmed, sweaty coat flecked with lather, pranced nervously.

“I take it this was her horse.” Thane was right behind her.

“You take it right,” she agreed, snatching the reins and wondering what she would do. Fear coiled deep in the middle of her, and she had to tell herself silently not to panic. She wanted to latch on to Thane’s earlier bromides, to believe that her daughter was fine. “Something happened. I’ve got to go find her.” She glanced toward the darkened hills, her mind racing a hundred miles a second.

“I’ll help.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Maggie, stop!” Thane’s hands were on her shoulders, hard and firm.

“But—”

“I said ‘I’ll help,’” he repeated, and he gave her a tiny shake, as if to get her brain in gear. “You might need me.”

That much was true, and Becca’s safety was at stake. Nothing else mattered. “You’re right. I…I’ve got flashlights in the house.”

“Get them.” Squinting, he searched the darkness. “And a cell phone if you have it.”

“A cell phone?” she asked.

“In case we need to call for help.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t think like that, wouldn’t believe that Becca was seriously hurt. Not yet. “I don’t have one, and they don’t work well here anyway.”

“I’ve got one in the truck. I’ll get it.”

She didn’t wait. As he strode to his pickup, she tore back to the house, grabbed two flashlights, extra batteries, a couple of blankets, her jacket, and a first-aid kit. She smelled something burning and remembered the stew. Passing the stove, she cranked off all burners and scrounged in a cupboard until she found an old canteen that had come with the place, rinsed it out, and filled it with cold water from the tap. She didn’t want to think that Becca might be injured, but she had to be practical. There was a reason her daughter wasn’t on her horse.

And it probably wasn’t Becca’s choice.

Heart in her throat, she tore out of the house with her supplies.

Jasper, minus his saddle, was tied to the top rail of the fence and seemed docile enough.

Maggie jogged across the yard.

Pale light streamed from the windows of the barn. Through the cracked panes, Maggie saw Thane saddling two fresh horses, a pinto named Diablo and a buckskin who had been dubbed Sandman. Shouldering open the barn door, she snagged a leather saddlebag from a peg, then stuffed it with things she hoped she wouldn’t need.

“Here.” She handed Thane one of the flashlights.

“Thanks.” He took it from her, their fingers overlapping for a second. “She’s gonna be all right.”

“I know.” But she didn’t. She bit her lip and turned back to the gelding. With deft fingers she adjusted the cinch on the buckskin’s saddle. Her mind ran in circles, and images of Becca alone and hurt, bleeding and pale, frightened as night closed around her, played through Maggie’s mind. She worked by rote, fastening buckles, shortening stirrups, attaching the saddlebag. “We’ll ride up to the ridge,” she said, smoothing a corner of Sandman’s saddle blanket. “It’s…It’s Becca’s favorite spot. If she’s not there, we’ll double back on an old deer trail that winds along the creek. She could have stopped for a drink or to rest or…or well, who knows? If there isn’t any sign of her, we’ll check the north basin, and if she isn’t there, oh, my God, she has to be, she just has to—”

“Maggie!” Thane turned quickly and grabbed both her shoulders in his big, calloused hands. His fingers squeezed over the tops of her arms and his breath was hot against the back of her neck. “Just slow down a minute, okay. You’re working yourself into a lather.”

Words froze in her throat. She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, forcing the horrid pictures in her mind to retreat to the shadows. Taking deep breaths, she managed to grab the remnants of her composure. For once he was right. She nodded and felt his hands shift as he slowly rotated her to face him.

When she finally lifted her eyelids, she was staring into a craggy face that was hard and drawn, a face so close to hers she could see his pores, read the concern in his gaze as he stared at her with eyes that pierced deeply, searching for the bottom of her soul. “We’ll find her,” he promised.

Tears filled her eyes.

“Don’t do this to yourself.”

Sandman snorted.

“Of course we’ll…” She swallowed hard, her throat tight, her lungs constricted.

He gave her another little shake. “I said, ‘We’ll find her.’” His lips were flat over his teeth, his gaze unflinching as he stared down at her. “Do you believe me?”

She didn’t answer.

His fingers tightened, digging into the muscles of her forearms. “Do you believe me?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” His grip relaxed a bit, though he didn’t seem convinced of her answer. “Now, let’s get out of here. You’ll have to lead the way.”

“I know.”

“Don’t lose me.” He released her, and she nearly fell backward. The words, said so innocently, catapulted her to another time and place when she would have cut out her heart to hear him utter them.

“I…I won’t,” she said, catching herself and reining in her runaway emotions. Clearing her throat, she grabbed the buckskin’s reins and, determined not to break down again, led him smartly out of the barn. Outside, even with the security lamp, the night was dark, the breeze thick with the promise of winter. Clouds scudded across the slice of moon.

With a whistle to Barkley, Maggie swung into the saddle, turned the horse’s nose into the wind, and pressed her knees into his sides. “Let’s go,” she urged, and the gelding sprang forward, kicking up dirt as his strides lengthened. They sped through the open gate and across a dry field before heading into the vast acres owned by the government.

“Becca!” she cried as the cold wind tore at her face and tugged at the strands of hair escaping from her ponytail.

“Becca!” The flashlight’s beam bobbed as she swept it over the landscape with her right hand while holding the reins with her left. Barkley, swift on his three legs, tongue hanging out, raced earnestly beside the fleet horse.