The Hideaway

by Meryl Sawyer

“Why am I not surprised?” Zach said, smiling inwardly.

  “‘Course, I didn’t want to be a number in her little black book, so I didn’t take the bait.”

  Zach hooted, then high-fived Yeager. “Me either.”

  “I don’t think you’re off the hook yet, buddy. She wants you to give her a second opinion on her ‘security.’ I told her I’d pass the message on.”

  Zach watched a group of cowpokes butt shoulders, a precursor to a fight. Aw, hell, he didn’t want to haul anyone to jail tonight. He wanted to go off duty and see Claire. He was breaking her down, bit by bit, day by day. One kiss at a time. But he was getting somewhere, wasn’t he?

  Yeager broke into his thoughts. “Thelma Morrell suspected Duncan had a thing for Stacy Hopkins.”

  “Do you think she’s the woman Morrell fell for?”

  “Nah, Seth said Stacy was with them at The Hideaway until dawn,” Yeager reminded him. “Why would she be making love to two men—at once—while her lover was in a nearby room?”

  “It doesn’t make sense, but I’ll double check with Stacy tomorrow.”

  “I turned up something else interesting,” Yeager said while Zach watched the milling crowd of cowboys near the stalls, knowing a fight was minutes away. “Carleton Cole is an alias for one Edwin Shumski. He has a rap sheet thick as a Bible.”

  “Hot damn!” Zach couldn’t help smiling. With luck this would break open the case. “What was Shumski in for?”

  “Petty crimes mostly, but let’s keep our eye on him.”

  Nineteen

  Her father was on a gurney waiting to be taken in for tests when Claire arrived at the hospital. A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed hard, then tried to give him an encouraging smile.

  “I’m okay, honey …” His voice drifted away, leaving so much unspoken, but she detected the anguish in his eyes. She realized her own fear was dwarfed by his. He needed her now in a way that he had never needed her before.

  When he had suffered the first stroke, she had been living in Scottsdale, managing a gallery there. By the time she arrived home, the crisis was over, and her father had put up a brave front. But the front was gone now.

  He closed his eyes, yet she doubted he was resting. He didn’t want her to see how frightened he really was. Pride etched every plane of his face, and even his unnaturally pale skin didn’t disguise it. She took his hand and gently squeezed his trembling fingers.

  She gazed at him and the years slipped away … away.

  Suddenly, she was a small child again, reaching up, up for her father’s hand. He clasped her small hand in his, and she saw the love in his eyes as he said, “You look so pretty today, Claire. I swear, you’re the image of your mother.”

  Mentioning her mother made Claire study the shiny tips of her new Mary Janes, guilt pricking at her. Even though her father was devoted to her, deep in her heart, Claire loved her mother more. She didn’t know why exactly; she simply felt closer to her mother.

  In those days her world was perfect and she believed nothing could go wrong. Daddy would fix everything. Foolishly, she’d still believed this myth when she’d discovered her “perfect” mother wantonly making love to Jake Coulter.

  She had run straight to the bank and barged into her father’s office. He’d listened, his face expressionless as she explained what she’d seen.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he assured her.

  After school, she reluctantly went to her ballet lesson, then returned home. The house was dark, and the usual sounds were not coming from the kitchen. Good, she thought, going up the stairs to her room. She did not want to face her mother. She felt like a rat for having tattled, but she was furious. How could her mother let a man like Jake Coulter touch her?

  Worse, she’d been enjoying it. The image of her naked mother, head flung back, hair streaming down to her buttocks was seared in Claire’s brain.

  Inside her room, she plopped down on the bed, then noticed the envelope propped against her pillow. She stared at it, afraid to even touch it. Minutes passed before she found the courage to open it.

  Darling Claire,

  I’m leaving Taos with Jake Coulter. Your father will explain the details. I know you’re upset, and I ask your forgiveness. I pray that one day you’ll understand.

  There is perfection in art, darling, but not in life. Please keep Wild Horse, my favorite bronze, as a symbol of the happy times we shared. I love you and I want nothing but the best for you.

  All My Love,

  Mother

  Claire wanted to ask about the “details” but didn’t. Her father returned home that evening a solemn, shattered man.

  Late that night Claire was staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. She’d sobbed for hours, muffling the sounds as best she could with her pillow. Why upset her father even more? Now her eyes were dry and itchy, her nose raw and sore. Anger still burned inside her coupled with disbelief.

  Her mother had deserted them for the town stud. Unbelievable.

  Her fury intensified every time she thought about Zach Coulter. She hadn’t spoken to him since she had caught their parents together, but her sixth sense told her that he’d known all along. Why hadn’t he told her? If she’d been warned, she would have been prepared. She might not have run so recklessly to her father.

  She might not have driven her mother away.

  But there had always been a mysterious side to Zach, an aura about him that seemed dangerous and made him even more attractive. Now, though, she recognized this secretiveness for what it was—a destructive force. He could have forewarned her, but he’d chosen to remain silent.

  A crunching of tires and a flare of headlights sent her flying to the window overlooking the driveway. Thank God. Her mother had come to her senses and returned home.

  The sliver of a moon perched high above Taos mountain revealed a black and white police car parking in front of their house. A prickle of anxiety became a thundering drumbeat of fear as Ollie Hammond emerged from the car. The chief of police was above making routine calls; everyone in town knew that. Something was terribly wrong.

  She threw on her robe and yanked open the bedroom door. The lights were on in the hall and her father was standing there, his eyes squeezed shut. The doorbell rang, cutting through the silence like the crack of a rifle. She gazed at her father, silently pleading for him to make her world perfect again.

  But those days were over. Her father wasn’t even capable of moving. Only when the doorbell rang again and she grabbed his hand, did he follow her downstairs. Claire was the one to switch on the lights and open the front door.

  “What is it?” she asked Ollie, her voice pitched so low she could hardly hear it.

  Ollie had taken off his hat and tucked it under his arm. He walked into the entry, saying, “You’d better go to your room, Claire. I need to speak with your father.”

  “No! Tell me what’s happened to my mother!”

  Ollie looked at her father, then took a deep breath. “Alex, there’s been a terrible accident—”

  “Is Amy still alive?” her father whispered.

  Ollie slowly shook his head. “Their car was hit by a semi-truck. Amy and Jake Coulter were killed instantly.”

  “No!” Claire cried. “It can’t be true!”

  Ollie didn’t look at her. Instead he put his hand on her father’s shoulder. “There’s no mistake. I went out to the scene myself. Amy’s gone.”

  Her father said nothing, letting Ollie’s heavy breathing pulse through the foyer. Finally, her father turned away. Without another word, he mounted the stairs, leaving Claire standing beside the chief of police.

  The cold, cruel reality of the situation swept over her as Ollie muttered something about being strong for her father’s sake before he backed out the door. She stood alone in the foyer staring into the family room where she had spent so many wonderful hours with her mother. Scalding tears seeped from Claire’s eyes, blurring everything around her.

  It’s al
l my fault. Why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? Why didn’t Zach warn me?

  Everyone in town—except Zach and his mother—attended Amy Holt’s funeral. Claire forced herself to be strong. Her father was so quiet, so unlike himself that she was truly afraid for the first time in her life.

  She didn’t dare look in the casket, fearing she would break down, but when everyone left, she tiptoed up to her mother’s coffin. She was almost overwhelmed by the cloying scent of the hundreds of flowers sent by friends. Peeking into the mahogany casket lined with white silk, Claire saw her mother for the last time.

  Her mother had on more makeup than she ever would have worn and every hair was in place. Even if she didn’t look natural, her mother appeared serene. Claire prayed she was at peace and with God the way the minister had claimed. But Claire had her doubts.

  Amy Holt had been young, far too young to die such a violent death. Had she felt much pain? Claire wondered. What had been her last thoughts? Had she forgiven Claire for what she’d done?

  “Oh, Mama, I’ll never forget the wonderful times we had. I promise, I’ll make you proud of me. Just forgive me, please. I love you so much. I never meant for this to happen.”

  She had no idea how long she stood beside the casket talking to her mother for the last time. There were so many things she longed to say. So many questions she had planned to ask her mother. So much she needed to share with her mother. But time had run out. Now, there could only be good-bye.

  “Mommy, you’ll always be with me in spirit, won’t you,” Claire whispered. “I love you and bless you for all you did for me.”

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips to her mother’s cheek. The skin was as smooth as she remembered, but cold, lifeless. Her mother’s cheek had always been warm. It was only then that the reality of her mother’s death struck her. Memories. That’s all that remained of her warm, vibrant—loving—mother.

  Memories. Nothing more.

  “No! No!” she screamed, the sound echoing though the empty church. She sobbed hysterically, unable to control herself. Her father walked up and stood beside her, his back straight, silent sobs racking his body.

  “We’re ready for you now,” said a nurse to her father.

  The voice jolted Claire back to the present, cutting off the emotional onslaught of memories.

  “I’ll be waiting with Maude,” Claire assured her father as they wheeled him down the hall. Somehow the faraway look in his eyes reminded her of that day when they’d stood crying beside her mother’s coffin. The day the father of her childhood had disappeared forever.

  Claire stared up at the clock in the waiting area outside the emergency room. One thirty-two. She and Maude had been at the hospital for over two hours. What was taking so long?

  Her father’s health hadn’t been good since his stroke. The tight feeling in her chest increased until she was out of breath. The same sensation gripped her every time she thought of losing her father the way she’d lost her mother. She truly loved him, and even if they had their differences, he was her father and he was devoted to her.

  After her mother had been killed, he willingly accepted the role of both father and mother, never begrudging the time it took from his work. He’d supported her emotionally and encouraged her to be anything she wanted to be. It was only when she decided the world of art—her mother’s love—was what she wanted to do with her life that her father had become difficult.

  Oh, he’d always been a bit possessive and domineering at times, but she could handle him. Whatever his faults, he was her father, and she couldn’t imagine life without him.

  “Alex claimed it was just indigestion,” Maude said as they waited in the reception area while Alexander Holt underwent tests. “I insisted he go to the emergency room. You just can’t be too careful.”

  “Good thinking,” Claire responded.

  A commotion in the hall near the admitting station interrupted their conversation. Claire looked through the double door and saw Zach Coulter strong-arming two men with cuts and bruises. Zach didn’t look much better. His black outfit was mottled with dust as if he’d rolled on the ground, and one sleeve was torn. He looked up and saw her, then rolled his eyes and grinned.

  Obviously, he’d broken up a fight and now had to see that two of the men received medical attention. She watched him talking to the admitting nurse, thinking this wasn’t a job that challenged Zachary Coulter. He’d never really had a chance to explore his options.

  Maybe a self-made man was a stronger, better man. No matter how infuriating Zach could be, she knew he would never have left her at The Hideaway to fend for herself. She was in a mess now, and she could blame the man her father worshipped—Seth Ramsey.

  Zach let the nurse lead off the two men, then turned toward her. Claire rushed across the room into the admitting area. The last thing she wanted was to have Maude hear their conversation and report back to her father.

  “How’s your father?” Zach asked as she came up to him.

  “They’re still running tests.” She scanned Zach’s face, a little surprised at the concern she saw. He looked terrible himself, tired and cut up and covered with dust, but he seemed worried about her. “Are you okay?”

  He smiled, his laser-blue eyes searching her face. “Sure, it was just a fistfight that turned into a brawl. Brad Yeager and the Mounted Patrol took the rest of the bunch to jail.”

  She followed him as he began walking toward the exit. “I’m glad the FBI agent was there to help you,” she added, not knowing exactly what to say. How could she tell him that seeing he’d been in a fight worried her? His job was dangerous, yet he took that risk for granted. It frightened her, but even more frightening was her own reaction.

  She was beginning to care what happened to Zach.

  He shouldered his way through the swinging doors with just the slightest wince. Outside the air was slightly cool yet soft, summer in the mountains, a time when the lower elevations hit triple digits. The moon had risen above the majestic peak of Taos Mountain, casting light across the dark parking lot.

  “Claire, where are Lobo and Lucy?”

  She reluctantly admitted, “Still in the gallery. I’ve been so upset, I forgot them.”

  “It hasn’t been that long. They’re okay. Give me the key and I’ll get them. You may be here all night. If you can leave, spend the night at your father’s place with Maude. You’ll be safe there.”

  Claire pulled the key ring from her pocket. “Thanks. I-I-…”

  He reached for her and without a thought she moved into his arms, her head coming to rest on his sturdy shoulder. He smelled of dust and leather with a faint trace of soap, a masculine smell. His strong arms were reassuring and comforting. Unlike other times he’d held her, there was nothing sexual about this embrace. He was dusty and dead tired, yet he wanted to help her.

  “Your father will be all right,” he whispered, stroking the back of her head with his large hand.

  “I hope. He’s all I have,” she replied before she realized Zach had no one. He’d been alone since he was seventeen. She felt ashamed of herself for not being braver.

  Her mother’s death had been almost unbearable, but her father had taken good care of her. Zach had lost the one stable parent in his family. He’d been forced to become an adult overnight. How could she complain about being alone to this man?

  He tipped her chin up so he could look into her eyes. “It’s going to be all right.” A frown furrowed his brow and he was silent for a moment. “Word of your father’s illness will get around. If Seth Ramsey shows up, don’t have anything to do with him.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t discuss it,” he said, hugging her again. “Just trust me.”

  He held her a minute, then said, “I’ve got to run. I’ll pick up the dogs, then head back to the station. Call me there when you get word on your father.”

  Claire watched Zach get into his Bronco. He waved as he drove out of the parking lot, and
Claire waved back. She liked him; she honestly liked him, she thought, as she watched his taillights disappear in the distance. He was cocky and irreverent, but he was a far nicer person than she had wanted to believe.

  She forced herself not to remember too much about the day they’d met years ago. No recalling the sweet, earthy scent of the high mountain meadow. No recalling the purling of the stream over the smooth stones along the creek bed as it formed a pool. No recalling how Zach looked, his shirt off, standing with his back to the summer sun.

  As if it were happening all over again, Claire could feel the cool mountain breeze and the sun blazing overhead, its hot rays filtering through the pines and shimmering off the aspens’ leaves as she came down the trail to the shallow pool formed by the stream. Rounding the bend, she spotted Zach Coulter leaning against a fallen log next to the pool.

  She halted with a jerk; dust from the trail swirled around her sandals. His head was down as he concentrated an whittling something in his hand. She took a half step backward determined to head back up the trail before he saw her.

  “That’s it, Claire,” he called. “Turn tail and run.”

  Anyone with half a brain would get away from Zach Coulter as fast as possible. He was constantly in trouble in school. A chip off the old block, her father claimed. A boy who needed love and attention, her mother told her.

  Whatever the case, Claire steered clear of him. She’d caught him watching her several times that spring. He stared at her with unnerving boldness, not caring when she coolly looked through him.

  “I’m not running,” she fibbed.

  He stopped whittling and shoved the piece of wood into his pocket, but he didn’t put away the knife. “You’re scared of me. Admit it.”

  Never one to ignore a challenge, Claire walked forward. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Then come over here and talk to me.” His gruff voice projected hostility and something else she couldn’t quite identify.

  Common sense said to run, but she refused to let him have the satisfaction of frightening her away. She had to admit that she was a little curious. The boys she knew were tame, predictable. Zach Coulter had been suspended for smoking. He’d been sent to juvenile hall for joy-riding in one of the Tribal Police squad cars.