Hidden Motive

by Alexander, Hannah

  “Nice fashion statement,” she teased, trying not to admire the fit of those jeans. “That shirt must be at least twenty years old.”

  “I’m a paramedic, not a male model.” He chuckled and shoved the sleeves of the shirt up to his elbows as he padded with stockinged feet down the stairs and across the carpet to join her. He sat next to her and rested an arm across the back of the sofa. “How are you holding up?”

  “Part of me is so tired I want to crawl into my bed and sleep for a week. Another part feels I may never sleep again.”

  “It was rough up on that cliff,” he said quietly. “For a moment I was afraid we'd lost you.”

  “So was I. You’re pretty good in an emergency.”

  “It was Bryce who suggested fastening our belts together for a rope. Good thing Perry Chadwick has a big waist.”

  “I barely reached it as it was,” she said.

  He gently touched a tender spot on her chin. “It’s turning a pretty shade of purple. Did it happen when you fell?”

  She was not unaffected by his touch. “It must have.”

  “Are there medical supplies here in the house? The way things are going we’ll need them.”

  “I have a treasure trove in my bedroom.” She examined the scratches on his neck. “You could use something on those.”

  “Yes Doctor.” He touched a series of scratches on the back of her hand. “I know I didn’t do that. Physician heal thyself.” His voice sounded…almost intimate.

  For a long silent moment she watched the flicker of flames and basked in his reassuring strength.

  Murph gestured to the letter she had placed on the arm of the sofa. “Is that from Josiah? Looks like his handwriting.”

  “You recognize it?”

  He picked up the pages. “I’ve seen his signature. Nobody else wrote with as much flair.”

  “I didn’t know the two of you crossed paths that often.”

  “I saw him at Noah’s a couple of times.” He frowned as he deciphered the script. “Did he give any hint about the surprise mentioned here?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  Murph handed the letter back to Sable. “Is it possible his surprise could be connected to all the happenings with the mine? Perhaps his death?”

  She heard his words but for a few seconds they didn’t register. Then she frowned at him. “You know he died in an automobile accident.”

  “Or so it appeared.” Murph’s voice was gentle.

  She met his gaze and saw such empathy in those deep green eyes that she couldn’t look away.

  “Think about it,” he said softly.

  She shook her head. That wasn’t something she could do right now or she wouldn’t be able to function.

  “It appears that Josiah collected incriminating evidence against someone,” he said. “Noah died for it. Don’t you think it’s too coincidental that your grandfather died before he could use it?”

  She looked down at her hands. “You think his death was made to look like an accident?”

  She thought once more about the confession letter. Why would he write that? It made no sense. None of this made sense.

  “We have to search this house and examine anything we find,” Murph said. “We need to do it without any preconceived notions.”

  Sable stood and walked to the fire. “This is a nightmare.”

  “I’m sorry you’re going through it.”

  “The morning after I received news about Grandpa’s death, I was packing to go home when Otis Boswell paid me a call with two of Freemont’s finest.”

  “The police?”

  She nodded. “He grilled me about Grandpa and flat out told me to my face that my grandfather was a criminal. He accused me of being an accomplice. He wanted me arrested. He apparently didn’t have his paid goons with him because I was allowed to leave.”

  There was a long silence. Sable turned to find Murph’s eyes blazing.

  “I didn’t tell anyone about that particular visit,” she said. “Not even Noah, who was our closest friend in Freemont.”

  Murph stood up and stepped to her side. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “It had to be hard for you to hear that about your own grandfather.”

  “It was devastating.”

  “We’ve both been devastated this week.”

  She sat on the raised stonework of the hearth. Something in Murph’s tone registered. She’d heard the sound of grief in his voice earlier. She remembered his shock last night when she’d told him of Noah’s death. More than shock. It had been more like stunned grief, deep to the point of despair.

  “How long did you know him?” she asked softly.

  Murph didn’t reply.

  She frowned. It was all coming together. More was going on—had been going on—for quite some time. “What haven't you told me?”

  He closed his eyes. With a deep sigh he rubbed his face with his hands and then looked at her again. “Noah was my uncle.”

  Chapter 9

  Sable stared at the man she thought she’d come to know well in the past six weeks. Murph, who had a big heart, a deft hand with patients, and a good attitude with the rest of the staff, suddenly seemed like a stranger. “Your uncle.”

  He nodded. “He was my father’s only brother. We were very close.”

  “You never told anyone.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  Feeling smothered in heavy black sand, she waited for him to explain. Her only ally in this house had been keeping secrets all this time?

  He joined her at the hearth. “Noah called me about some concerns he had a few months ago. He wanted me to investigate Boswell Mining. He’d invested his life's savings into that Seitz property. He and Josiah both got worried when Josiah dug into the history of the place and discovered a different title to that property.”

  “Why didn’t they tell me?”

  “It was the mindset of their generation never to worry loved ones. I’m surprised Noah told me. According to the old title he found,” Murph said, “there were previously productive galena mines in a circumference around the Seitz land.”

  So that was what Grandpa had been talking about when he suggested, before his death, that he was concerned about some discrepancies. Sable was no miner but she’d learned enough about mines to know that if there had been ore all around the property, that center part would have been barren. It was the nature of mines.

  “So the land had been misrepresented to them in the first place,” she said.

  “Exactly,” Murph said. “Boswell recently gave an agent orders to sell despite protests from my uncle and your grandfather. He had the majority of ownership. The new prospector became suspicious and checked it out.”

  “But Grandpa took the blame in spite of his protests.”

  “Noah told me about some events in Freemont recently,” Murph said. “The mining accidents, shoddy safety standards…a couple of people have disappeared.”

  Sable reached into her pocket, grasped the corner of Grandpa’s letter, and pulled it out with a sigh. “In light of what you’re saying, this might throw a kink in the works.” She handed it to Murph. “I found it in an unopened envelope in my mother’s bedside stand,” she said.

  They read the confession letter together. As Sable studied the words for the second time, she picked up on things that she hadn’t noticed before, such as the fact that he would miss her birthday party—she hated them and he knew it. Why would her grandfather write that?

  She knew it was his handwriting because no one else wrote like he did. But she couldn’t stand to consider his words—and the fact that it did indeed sound like a confession.

  “This doesn’t fit,” Murph said when he’d finished reading. “Why would he confess to fraud at the same time he was collecting evidence about someone else’s criminal activities?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “What an awful blow this has been,” Murph said. “This letter mentions your birthday. When is it?”

  “The
day after Valentine's Day.”

  “This coming Tuesday. How old? Or is it impolite to ask?”

  She appreciated the obvious diversion. “Thirty-one.” She rubbed her eyes, reconsidered the words she’d read, and looked at the letter again. “Tell me if you think there’s something about this that doesn't ring true.”

  He leaned over her shoulder to look at it.

  “It isn’t Grandpa's style,” she said. “It’s his handwriting, but not his writing style. This letter rambles about things that don’t make sense. Any letter he has ever written has been logical and direct.”

  “I agree.”

  She studied the note a moment longer, then folded it and put it back in her pocket. “Maybe I’m trying too hard to excuse away these words.”

  “Your grandfather influenced your life in many ways,” Murph said. “You’ve got to remember that the Josiah Kessinger who died in that wreck was a new man. If this note is authentic—and I’m not convinced it is—then maybe the guilt he felt about what he’d done was what drew him to Christ in the first place.”

  “And so I’m supposed to be happy about it?” She regretted the bitterness that crept into her voice.

  “You should withhold judgment until you know the truth.” Murph’s words, spoken with quiet sincerity, didn’t ease her pain.

  “I never thought there would be shame in being Josiah Kessinger’s granddaughter.”

  “Never be ashamed of who you are. You might have inherited your Grandpa’s impulsive nature, too.” He tapped her gently on the arm. “Along with his strong will.”

  “I wonder who gave the order to those goons who chased us last night,” Sable said.

  “So do I.”

  They stared into the flames as if a message might come to them in the spiral of smoke that drifted lazily upward.

  Something thumped against the front storm door. Sable froze. Murph leapt to his feet and pivoted, placing himself between Sable and the door.

  The thump came again, then a familiar scratching on the screen. Sable went weak with relief, reminding herself to breathe. They were certainly on edge.

  “It’s Dillon.” She stepped around Murph and walked to the front door.

  The furry head of a drenched German shepherd shoved through the doorway as soon as Sable unlatched the door. He barked, jumping up to splash her around the waist with his soggy paws. His tongue flicked out and caught her across the mouth before she could pull away. She laughed, hugging him in spite of the water and the smell of wet dog. He thumped his tail against the paneled wall.

  “That’s enough, Dillon,” she said, pushing him down. “Remember your manners.”

  Murph stepped forward. Dillon saw him and his lips drew back in a challenging display of sharp fangs. His wet hackles sprang up as a low growl rumbled from his throat.

  “No,” Sable ordered. “It’s okay. He’s a friend.” She rested her hand on his head. “Friend.”

  Dillon relaxed. His fangs disappeared and he looked up at her with trusting eyes. She glanced back at Murph. “Sorry. He’s very protective.”

  “Will he bite if I pet him?”

  “Not now. He understands the word friend.” She reached for a clean towel from the stack, unfolded it, knelt in front of the dog. “Feet. You know the routine.”

  “I thought he was in the basement,” Murph said.

  “He’s too well housebroken to use the basement, or even the cave, for a toilet.”

  Dillon sat and raised his left front foot, then his right one, for Sable to pat dry. Then he stood at quiet attention and allowed her to work on his back feet and coat. By the time she was finished, the towel was soaking wet and Murph had had made friends with Dillon.

  At Sable’s command, the dog lay in front of the fire with his head on his paws, his honey-brown gaze occasionally flicking toward Sable as she and Murph returned to the sofa.

  “He’s beautiful,” Murph said. “Does he understand everything you say?”

  “Sometimes it seems that he does. Grandpa got him for all of us but Dillon and I have a special friendship. He can sense my moods. Sometimes he’s an embarrassing barometer of the way I feel about guests in the house.”

  “You have a way with animals,” Murph said.

  “I like them. I guess they can tell.”

  He leaned forward and stroked Dillon’s fur, then turned and looked at Sable over his shoulder with an enigmatic smile. “You have a way with me,” he said softly. “Does that mean you like me?”

  She met his gaze, half persuaded to encourage his attempt at flirtation. But that would be a mistake. “Of course I like you,” she said dryly. “You’re good with patients and helpful in ice storms.”

  He chuckled and sat back. For a few moments they were content to listen to the crackle of the fire and the hiss and slap of the rain outside.

  “What are your plans after you get out of this…mess?” Sable asked.

  He didn’t answer for a few moments but stared into the fire as if searching for his words there. “I liked working in the clinic setting,” he said at last. “But I also like the adrenaline rush of the emergency department. I’d planned to return to med school next year. I’m thinking I’d like to be an emergency physician.”

  “Return? You were in medical school? You never mentioned that. What happened?”

  “My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer during my second year. My mother was taking care of him fine until they had a wreck on their way home from a chemo treatment one day. Mom had four broken ribs and Dad was pretty bruised up.”

  “They needed you. You quit school?”

  He nodded.

  “And now?” she asked. “Don’t they need you?”

  “Dad went home before Christmas.” He looked at Sable. “His true home.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “And now Noah.”

  “My losses aren’t permanent.” He nodded to Sable. “How about you? What do you plan to do?”

  “I want to do what Grandpa and I talked about when we sat this way years ago,” Sable said. “I still want to be a country doc who knows all the patients she passes on the street, knows their kids’ names, their parents’ names, and rubs shoulders with half her patients at the high school games.”

  Murph turned to look at her. The firelight gave a smoky glow to the strong outline of his face, bathing his hair with reddish-gold highlights. His thick dark brows showed a serious side that balanced out a nature that she had discovered, working with him at the clinic, held a great sense of humor.

  “Now that I know you’re Noah’s nephew,” she said, “I don’t understand how I missed the family resemblance. It’s in the eyes…and in your heart.”

  He blinked and looked away as if embarrassed by her words. Had she said too much?

  * * *

  In the light of the flickering fire and the gathering dawn, Murph watched Sable’s eyelids droop.

  “You’d better go upstairs before you collapse,” he said.

  She straightened her slender shoulders. “You too.”

  “And if we’ve been followed?”

  “Dillon will sleep outside my room. He always does.”

  “Are you afraid someone will try to check out the attic, maybe the safe, while we’re asleep?” Murph asked.

  “Not with Dillon standing guard. Besides, that thing is impossible to break into.”

  “I could post myself outside your door.”

  “Dillon will be more comfortable on the floor than you would,” she said.

  Dillon raised his head and yawned, then stretched, licked Murph's hand and closed his eyes once more.

  Sable stood and stretched as well, trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn. “You need sleep as badly as anyone else.” Firelight undulated against the heavy oak paneling of the room as Sable turned toward the fire.

  Murph couldn’t stop looking at her. She had delicate features, finely arched black brows, and thick lashes. Her face was soft and feminine, with high cheekbones and a f
irm, almost defiant chin. She looked fragile, but appearances were misleading. He’d seen the steel in her character. This morning, after a night of sleepless running, she was pensive, quieter than usual. That didn't stop his growing attraction to her even under these circumstances—or perhaps because of the circumstances?

  Without thinking, he stood and moved to touch her shoulder, then hesitated and dropped his hand. What was he doing?

  Sable turned around and smiled at him. Her smile faltered and she glanced toward the stairs. “You are going to nap?”

  He nodded. “Be careful. Lock your door.”

  “I will.” He saw that fear still lurked in her eyes. She turned away. “Rest well.”

  Murph watched her go up, bare feet silent on the carpeted steps. The black ringlets of her hair formed a halo around her shoulders from the soft lighting in the hallway. Maybe it was the storm or the excitement of the past week, but something about her affected him with increasing impact.

  After she disappeared from view, his last image of her lingered. If only he could help ease the fear that haunted her eyes. If only he could be sure he was capable of protecting her. He wasn't even sure he could protect himself.

  He stepped over to the fire to throw on another log. Dillon still dozed. Murph touched the soft fire-warmed fur on the dog’s neck. He closed the tempered glass doors of the fireplace, then stepped outside to check the weather. The wind and rain met him like a glacier wall. Icy limbs crashed to the ground in the gray distance.

  He returned inside and closed the door. The ice glaze must be at least an inch thick by now, most likely more.

  The lamp by the window flickered and went out as he crossed the living room. The electric lines must be down. That wouldn’t be a problem. He'd seen plenty of oil lamps upstairs, a hefty supply of batteries on the basement landing, and a wood furnace in the basement. Later today they would see about chopping more wood.

  “Come on, Dillon,” he called softly. “Upstairs. You need to keep watch over Sable.”

  The dog stretched to his feet from his comfortable perch by the fire and followed Murph up the stairs in the meager light of the stormy morning.