by Kat Martin
Brendan thought about her as he returned to the kitchen. He had run a check on her after the first call she’d made. Callie Marie Sutton was twenty seven, just five years younger than he was, originally from San Antonio. With her big brown eyes, long dark brown curls, and dynamite figure, he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since the first time he had seen her.
He and Deb Younger were no longer dating. If Callie gave any indication she was interested, Brendan planned to ask her out.
He just hoped like hell she wasn’t a killer.
Chapter Six
Awaiting the sheriff’s return, which seemed to take forever, Callie tightened the sash on her robe and wished she’d had time to put on some clothes. Finally, Trask walked back into the kitchen, his features grim.
His glance strayed to the table and he noticed the long-stemmed red rose.
“It was him,” she said, her pulse hammering again.
“Looks like.” He fixed her with a stare. “But you don’t need to worry about him anymore.”
“You caught him?”
“Your admirer is lying at the bottom of the staircase. He’s dead.”
Callie gripped the back of a kitchen chair. “He...he fell down the stairs?”
“No, Callie. He was pushed.”
The coroner arrived, a local physical who said his name was Elias Halpern. While Dr. Halpern examined the body, Callie sat in the kitchen drinking coffee, doing her best not to think of the dead man in the other room and answer the sheriff’s questions.
“So you heard noises on the stairs but you didn’t go outside your bedroom to see what was going on?”
“I told you, I was waiting for you to get here.” She frowned. “In a roundabout way, that’s the third time you’ve asked me the same question. You don’t think I’m the one who pushed that man down the stairs?”
Before Sheriff Trask had time to answer, Dr. Halpern walked in, an older man with thinning gray hair and glasses. “It wasn’t Ms. Sutton,” he said. “Bruising on the neck indicates a big man’s hands, someone strong and extremely fit. The struggle didn’t last long, then one good shove and it was over. This little gal ain’t big enough nor strong enough to do the job.”
Trask looked relieved. “Looks like you’re in the clear, Ms. Sutton.”
“I wasn’t really worried since I knew I didn’t kill him.”
Trask’s sexy mouth edged up and she felt a slide of heat. It was crazy considering the circumstances.
His smile faded. “This is a crime scene. Is there somewhere you can stay for a day, maybe two?”
“I just moved here. I don’t know many people. The Westerner Motel will have to do.”
He nodded. “Pack what you need and I’ll follow you over there. Use the back stairs so you don’t disturb anything.”
“All right. So...who do you think killed him?”
“We’ll no more in a couple of days.”
Callie hoped so. But as she climbed the backstairs to her room, a strange thought occurred. Was it possible for a ghost to kill?
While the sheriff spent the next few days searching for a killer, Callie went to work searching the past for the man she thought of as her protector.
Chapter Seven
After the murder--as the coroner had labeled it--her boss at the clinic, Dr. Reynolds, had insisted she take the next day off. Callie used the time to begin her search, starting at the local library.
She wanted to know the history of the house, who built it, who had lived there, who might have had a reason to stay in the house long after he was dead.
It was insane. No way was the man in her dreams a ghost. On the other hand, the intimate kiss they’d shared in her bedroom seemed far more real than any dream.
Fortunately, the task she had set for herself proved easier than she had imagined. The old Victorian was a landmark in the community. Barb Dawson, the local librarian, a silver-haired lady in her seventies, knew all about it.
“I love history,” Barb said. “It’s one of the reasons I wanted to be a librarian. Since my family has lived in the county for three generations, I know all about Sweet Springs.”
“My aunt, Mary Sutton, owned the house before she died and left it to me. Can you tell me who owned it before my aunt?”
Barb walked over to a big leather-bound book, set it on the library table, and opened it. She shoved her half glasses up on her nose.
She ran a finger down the list of names. “Otto Lansing. Now I remember. Lansing built the house in the eighteen sixties as an anniversary gift. He and his wife lived there a few years then sold the place to the Trask family. They were some of Sweet Springs original settlers.”
Callie’s head came up. “Sheriff Trask’s family?”
“That’s right. He’s a descendent, named after a great great great grandfather. The first Brendan Trask lived here with his wife Priscilla before they moved out to the ranch. Ranch stayed in the family. Land belongs to the sheriff now, though he doesn’t do much ranching these days.”
Callie’s mind was spinning, running through possibilities, all of which connected the blue-eyed outlaw in her dreams to the equally blue-eyed Sweet Springs sheriff.
“The Trasks were very successful ranchers,” Barb continued. “When they moved out of the house, they rented the place instead of selling it. Years later, when Priscilla began to have medical problems, they moved back in. She was in her eighties by then. She died peacefully in her sleep, and her husband sold the house. He died a few months later. A real love story, it was. Kind of a romantic legend.”
“You wouldn’t have any sort of photo of the original Brendan Trask?”
“The library doesn’t but the sheriff has all kinds of family memorabilia.”
And since Trask had called to say he needed to speak to her in regard to the case, she would have a chance to ask him about it.
Barb returned her attention to the book and went down the list of owners through the years, using county clerk records, but Callie had the information she needed, at least for now.
“The house is more than a hundred fifty years old,” Callie said, approaching the subject carefully. “Anybody ever say anything about ghosts?”
Barb shook her head. “Nope, not that I ever heard. Kids used to make up stuff to try to scare each other, but none of the owners ever said anything like that. At least nothing that was ever passed down.”
Callie wasn’t sure if that was good news or bad. “Thanks, Barb. You’ve been a great help.”
“No problem. Always fun to talk history.”
From the library, Callie drove to the Sheriff’s office on Main Street at the opposite end of town. With its false front brick buildings and slant parking in front of the stores, Sweet Springs had an appealing, old-fashioned charm. Or at Callie thought so.
The sheriff’s white pickup sat in front of the office when Callie walked in, ringing the bell over the door.
“May I help you?” a large woman behind the counter asked, MILLIE, read the sign on her desk.
“I’m looking for Sheriff Trask. I talked to you the other night. Thanks for your help, by the way.”
“You must be Callie Sutton. I’m glad you’re okay. Welcome to Sweet Springs.”
Callie looked up as the sheriff walked out of his office. He smiled when he saw her and she felt a little kick. There was something about a man uniform, or so it was said. Plus this man was just flat hot.
“I’m glad you stopped by, Callie,” he said. “I was on my way out to get something to eat. You got time to join me?”
“I’m off today. I could use something myself.”
The sheriff seemed pleased. She figured he probably just wanted to discuss the case but she couldn’t help hoping it was more.
At the Sweet Springs Café, they sat down in a red vinyl booth across from each other and both ordered burgers and fries.
“So how is the case coming along?” Callie asked as the waitress brought their food. “Do you have any leads?�
�
Trask swallowed the bite of burger he had taken and set the rest back down on his plate. “On the killer? No. No DNA, no fingerprints. Nothing left at the crime scene. The guy did a spectacular job of cleaning up. Must have been a pro.”
Or he wasn’t really a guy, or at least not the living, breathing kind.
“We IDed the man who broke into your house. His name’s Raymond Whitley. He’s wanted for serial rape.”
The French fry she had just picked up dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers. “Oh, my God.”
“Whitley’s signature was a single red rose. He broke into his victim’s home and left a rose while she was sleeping. Then he returned on a different night to attack her. He was brutal, liked to inflict pain. Four women that we know of--all ended up in the hospital.”
Callie swallowed, no longer hungry.
“His last victim was in a small town outside Shreveport, Louisiana. No reason to think he’d show up here. You’re a very lucky woman, Callie.”
“Yes...yes, I am.” But maybe it wasn’t luck. Maybe someone had saved her. Someone who looked a lot like Sheriff Trask. “I was wondering...I’ve been researching the history of the house. Barb Dawson told me it once belonged to your family. Would you happen to have any information on the Trask family who lived there?”
The sheriff smiled, a flash of white against his swarthy skin. “I’ve got a ton of old stuff out at the ranch. I’m not a great cook, but I’m a kick-ass barbeque griller. I could fix you dinner and show you what I’ve got.”
“No wife or kids?”
“Nope. Never found the right woman.”
She toyed with another fry. “Barb told me about Brendan and Priscilla. I guess you’re waiting for that kind of romance.”
The look in those intense blue eyes softened on her face. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Callie couldn’t tear her gaze away. “I’d love to come out for supper,” she said softly.
Trask’s eyes remained on her face. “How about tonight?”
“What time?”
“Gets dark early. I could pick you up around six. It’s not that far to the ranch house.”
Chapter Eight
Brendan was right. It wasn’t that far. The original ranch house was gone, he told her as they drove along the two lane road. She couldn’t see much through the darkness, but she knew the terrain was rugged in places, lots of trees and the river not far away. The house had been built by his parents, Brendan said, who had wanted to be closer to town. He’d moved back in a few years ago, when his dad and mom retired to Florida, a longtime dream.
He pulled up to a two-story brick house with upstairs dormer windows and a long covered porch out front. “Welcome to my humble abode.” Brendan went around and helped her down from his truck then walked her to the door.
“I haven’t changed much since I moved in,” he said as they stepped into the entry. “I’ll get around to it eventually.”
Callie glanced at the comfortable living room furniture, the antique buffet, and the handmade doilies. “I like it. It has a very warm feeling.”
“It’s homey, I guess.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
They went into the kitchen and Brendan poured her a glass of white wine. He grabbed a beer for himself then started making supper.
As eager as she was to see the information Brendan might have on his family, she decided to relax and enjoy herself. She was out with a gorgeous man and she hadn’t done anything but work since she had moved to Sweet Springs.
She smiled as she watched him work. Brendan was a serious griller. While Callie made a salad and put a couple of potatoes in to bake, the sheriff used his big stainless barbeque to perfectly cook two medium rare steaks.
It was a delicious meal and Brendan was a good conversationalist, asking questions about her job and telling stories about his work as county sheriff.
From the moment she had met him, she’d felt a deep pull of attraction, not just because of his good looks and hard muscled body, but because he was smart, and she felt that she could trust him.
The attraction seemed to be mutual, reflected in those amazing blue eyes. There was heat there, plenty of it. Like the blue tip of a flame.
When the meal was over, she helped him clear the dishes, then he led her into the living where an overstuffed burgundy sofa and chairs sat in front of a mantled brick fireplace. Photos dominated the wall above an antique mahogany buffet.
“You wanted to know about my family. I’ve got old letters, photo albums, and all kinds of stuff. The photos are my favorite.”
Callie walked over for a closer look, an odd sensation prickling her skin. “Some of these pictures are really old.”
He nodded. “The daguerreotypes date back to the eighteen sixties.”
She studied the early tin types. Two in particular caught her eye, a man and a woman in oval mahogany frames facing each other. Her pulse quickened. “It’s them, isn’t it? Those two photos. Brendan and Priscilla.”
He nodded. “Silla, he called her. He would have been in his late thirties, early forties at the time the picture was made.” He turned toward her. “There’re a lot of photos up there. How did you which ones they were?”
She toyed with a pretty lace doily on the sideboard. “If I tell you, you’ll think I’m crazy.” She gazed up at him. “I don’t want that to happen. I really like you, Brendan.”
He smiled. God, she loved the way he smiled, like it was always close, ready to surface at the first opportunity.
“I really like you, too, Callie.” One of his big hands settled at her waist and he drew her closer, until they were touching full length. He framed her face between his palms and Callie closed her eyes as he tipped her head back and settled his mouth over hers. Softly at first, then deeper, their lips melding, fitting perfectly together.
A little whimper escaped at the rush of heat that burned through her and her arms slid up around his neck. She could feel the muscles moving beneath his shirt as Brendan deepened the kiss, which went on and on, long, hot, and hungry, thoroughly arousing.
The ghostly Trask had nothing on the living, breathing version standing right in front of her. When the kiss finally ended, Callie swayed toward him, and Brendan steadied her.
He ran a finger along her cheek. “I had a feeling it was going to be like that.”
Callie looked up at him. “So did I.” But then she’d had a sneak preview.
Brendan’s gaze returned to the pictures on the wall and Callie’s gaze followed. “You thought it was the outlaw Trask because he looks like me?” he asked.
Outlaw. Shock rolled through her. “Your great great grandfather was an outlaw?”
“For a while he was. He was pardoned. Something about helping catch a bunch of smugglers down in Natchez. They wrote a book about him, one of those pulp fiction westerns that made him more of a hero than he probably was. It’s called Natchez Flame.”
“I’d love to read it sometime.”
Brendan studied the photos, including one taken with the couple and their kids years later. “You know, you look a lot like Priscilla.”
She’d noticed that, too. “I’ve done some family genealogy. I don’t think we’re related, but looking at her picture, I can certainly see the resemblance. It’s uncanny how much I look like her.” She studied the face of the woman with big dark eyes and thick dark hair. Same chin, same nose, same mouth. “Maybe that explains it.”
“Explains what?”
She turned and looked up at him, into those amazing blue eyes. “The reason he came back to the house. Maybe he thinks I’m Silla.”
“Wait a minute--”
“I know, I know. But he’s been coming into my bedroom at night. At first I thought I was dreaming, but one night...one night he kissed me and I opened my eyes and I saw him. He was dressed like an outlaw or a gunslinger. He looked just like you, Brendan, except for the scar below his jaw.”
“Whoa. You think the ghost of my grea
t great grandfather is in your house?”
She managed to nod. “He’s young, though. Somewhere around your age.”
“Sorry. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Neither do I. At least I never did. You know what’s even crazier? I think he protected me the night Raymond Whitley broke into the house to rape me. I think Brendan killed him.”
Chapter Nine
She hadn’t seen Brendan for the last three days. She’d said she had seen a ghost. He thought she was crazy. No way would he ever call her again. It bothered her more than it should have, considering how little time they’d spent together.
It was probably that amazing kiss. She couldn’t remember a kiss affecting her so strongly, turning her knees to jelly and setting her body on fire. She’d wanted to tear off his clothes and drag him into the bedroom. She’d wanted to make love with him all night long and start again in the morning.
It wasn’t like her. She hadn’t thought about sex for nearly a year, not since she had ended things with Adam. Now Brendan was gone and there was no way he was coming back. It made her heart hurt a little.
She was working at the clinic when her cell phone rang, just finished stitching up a little white schnauzer that had cuts its paw on a barbed wire fence.
“I’ll finish up,” Dr. Reynolds said. He was mid-forties, a little too thin and a really nice guy. “Go ahead and take the call.”
Callie hurried over and picked up the phone. “This is Callie.”
“It’s Brendan. Have you got a minute?”
Her stomach clenched. For him, she had all the time in the world. “I’m not busy at the moment.” She walked into the back room for a little privacy, the phone pressed against her ear.
“I can’t stop thinking about you, Callie. I really want to see you.”
A warm feeling spread through her. She’d begun to accept that she wouldn’t be seeing him again. “I’d like that, too.”
“Good. That’s great. Has the...ahh...ghost been back?”
Her fingers tightened around the phone. She didn’t want to talk about ghosts. She didn’t to ruin things again. “No, not since...not since the night of the murder.”
