The Hideaway

by Meryl Sawyer

  “Miss Trent,” the reporter said, his voice stern. “Why did you fail to call the authorities until two hours after the death?”

  “Hot damn!” Angela slapped the table. “This is why I watch CNN. First on the scene, first to ask tough questions.”

  Vanessa sniffed, then paused, ever the drama queen. “I-I didn’t want to tarnish Max’s image as a beloved philanthropist. I—we”—she gazed fondly at Seth, who lapped it up with a flavor straw—“wanted to consult Murray, my manager. Poor, poor Murray wasn’t at home. It took almost an hour to find him.”

  The camera zoomed in on “poor, poor Murray” who did not look poor at all in his Armani suit with the cuffs rolled up to the elbows and a titanium earring.

  “She called poor, poor Murray, and he reminded her how Hugh Grant became a household name. That’s why there are so many reporters here,” Paul said. “Poor, poor Murray saw to it.”

  “You’re right,” Angela said. “Murray’s one of those spin doctors who put the best light on everything for their clients. He told Vanessa the world would be fascinated that she’d been in bed with a man when another man came upon them and dropped dead of a heart attack just seeing her make love. He convinced her this will help her movie career.”

  The reporter was now moving over to question Zach. Angela had to admit that central casting couldn’t have provided a more fitting sheriff. Tall and powerfully built with dark whiskers shadowing his masculine jaw. He looked dead tired, but projected an inner confidence that was reflected in his eyes, a tribute to the badge pinned on his chest.

  “Sheriff, I understand you have some questions about the time of death?”

  Zach looked right into the camera, and Angela imagined women across the country steaming up their television sets. “To me it appears Bassinger was dead for much longer than two hours.”

  “That’s why Seth Ramsey called me.” Ollie Hammond poked his face in front of the microphone. “Coulter’s still green. I’ve been chief of police for thirty-six years. I say Bassinger died exactly when Miss Trent said—at 2:00 A.M.”

  “I agree with the sheriff,” Brad Yeager said and the camera cut to him. The reporter scrambled to retain control of the interview, introducing Brad Yeager. The agent then continued, “I believe Max Bassinger was dead at least three, maybe four hours—not two—when we arrived. The FBI’s forensic team is going to perform a complete autopsy.”

  At ten o’clock Claire was walking across the plaza to her father’s bank, knowing he’d be upstairs at his desk. It would take more than the scare on Friday night to keep her father away from work. From down the street, a low rumble like distant thunder became a teeth-rattling roar. A dozen or more scary-looking men circled the plaza on Harleys. Leading them, on his chrome and crimson hog, was Bam Stegner.

  He was wearing a black leather vest, without a shirt, of course. Naturally, he was wearing spurs. They were gleaming silver with stiletto points like lethal weapons. A shudder went though her. Just what Zach didn’t need—a gang of Hell’s Angels. Wasn’t it enough that Zach had to deal with Duncan’s murder and the mysterious circumstances of Max Bassinger’s death?

  Bam Stegner spotted Claire and he gave her a leering grin, but his eyes telegraphed pure hatred. She had no illusions about what he would do to her if he ever got the chance. She waved as if they were old friends and kept walking.

  She rushed into the bank and smiled at the tellers she’d know for years as she hurried upstairs. The second she walked into her father’s office, she knew he’d heard from the Fosters.

  “Claire, how could you cause a scene like that? Muffy Foster was totally mortified. She suffered another of those migraines that send her to bed for days.”

  “Good for Muffy.” She pulled out the chair in front of his desk. “I didn’t come to discuss the party. I want to talk to you about Zach Coulter.”

  He looked away, clearly stunned, his stern expression hardening. “That bastard. Look at the trouble he’s causing by claiming Max Bassinger was dead a lot longer than Vanessa and Seth say.”

  “Special Agent Yeager agreed with him,” she responded, trying to keep her tone level, but it was hard. Where Zach was concerned, her father refused to see anything good. With Seth, it was the complete opposite.

  “At the Fosters’ party last night, Seth confessed he’d put the Roofie in my drink. He knew I was out of it because he gave me the pill, but he didn’t bother to see I got home safely. I’m just lucky a nice man found me. It certainly could have been a lot worse, but Seth didn’t care.”

  He father aged visibly as she told him, slumping forward in his chair and slowly shaking his head. “Seth did that?” He seemed on the verge of tears. “Seth isn’t good enough for you. I’d hoped but … well, seeing him with Vanessa Trent and knowing the two of them are involved disgusted me.”

  “Something’s strange about their story. Zach will get to the bottom of it.”

  “No, this case will prove Coulter’s worthless,” he insisted. “So what about the sheriff? You wanted to talk about him. He isn’t trying to pin Morrell’s murder on you, is he?”

  “No, Father, he’s not.”

  She took a deep breath, thinking of how she’d walked away from Zach last night to go to the Fosters’ party. She should have taken him into the party with her. He’d been hurt, and she couldn’t blame him.

  She inhaled a calming breath, hoping … no, praying she wasn’t just being impulsive. She had mulled over the situation and had decided that telling her father was her only choice. True, nothing might come of her relationship with Zach, but keeping it secret wasn’t fair to him.

  Zach had made something of himself, yet most people believed he was the town bad boy when they saw him. Or they remembered his father. Few people knew the real Zachary Coulter. Last night, Claire had seen another side of him, a very frightening side. But it was really an echo of the hurt and frustration he was experiencing.

  Everyone deserves a second chance. He said that to her once, and she’d chosen to ignore it. Well, she wasn’t ignoring it any longer. She promised herself to give their relationship a chance.

  “I’m seeing Zach Coulter. I wanted to tell you myself. I didn’t want you to hear it from some old gossip.”

  She’d expected her father to be so shocked that he might have another stroke, or so angry that he would shout loudly enough to be heard out at the pueblo. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and nodded, slowly releasing his breath as if he were in pain, but taking great care to hide it.

  “I knew it. I sensed it when you talked about him the other day. It reminded me of your mother telling me how talented Jake Coulter was and how she intended to exhibit his photographs.”

  Now was not the time to argue that Jake Coulter had also created one of the best bronzes she’d ever seen. She was just thankful her father was taking this with apparent calm.

  “I knew your mother was lying just the way I knew you were lying.” He gazed at her with a bleak, level stare, still speaking in a relentless monotone. “You’re exactly like her. Exactly. I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. A Coulter will ruin your life just the way a Coulter ruined hers.”

  “Now, Daddy—”

  “Don’t call me Daddy,” he said, his voice low but lethally serious. “You’ve made your choice. You’re not my daughter. Get out of my life.”

  “Please, listen to me—”

  “No! Get out!” he cried, showing the first real hint of emotion in his voice. “Get out of my office. Get out of my life.”

  Claire was halfway across the plaza, having left her father’s office, when she spotted Lowell Hopkins. The older man looked as miserable as she felt. What had she expected? Her father was never going to accept Zach Coulter.

  Perhaps they had nothing going except one night together. Zach hadn’t said or done anything to make her think he wanted the kind of relationship she wanted. Maybe she was a complete fool for telling her father.

  But she didn’t think so. The problem w
as really with her father. He wasn’t the only man on earth to lose his wife. Yet he hung on to his grief year after year despite living with a wonderful woman who adored him.

  Claire truly loved her father, but he was beyond her help. She’d done what she’d believed was right. Her father’s reaction hadn’t changed her mind. Zach Coulter was getting his second chance.

  “I guess you’ve heard the news,” Lowell said as they met, his voice cracking.

  Claire wasn’t sure how to respond. The only news she knew of was Max’s death, but surely, Lowell Hopkins wasn’t broken up about that.

  “Stacy has run off with Carleton Cole. After all I’ve done for her, spending every dime, she leaves me for the brainless hard body Angela brought to town.”

  Claire wasn’t surprised, but didn’t say so. She was too upset about her father to do much more than utter a few hollow-sounding condolences.

  Angela was waiting for Claire at The Rising Sun Gallery. She was gazing at the paintings of Paul’s that she’d bought but not yet taken home.

  “Oh, Claire,” Angela cried when she walked in. “Paul’s never going to paint again.”

  “Of course, he is. Paul just needs a little time, that’s all.” She was still reeling from her confrontation with her father. She did not need more bad news.

  “No,” Angela insisted. “We just had the most god-awful fight. Paul discovered the studio I built for him. He threw a fit. He says he doesn’t want to be cooped up in a room painting. He wants to live.”

  Evidently, Paul hadn’t told Angela about being “cooped up” in prison. Claire understood his desire to enjoy all he’d missed. “He just needs to get some stuff out of his system.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” Angela said. “He packed his duffel and left. He said if I couldn’t accept him the way he was, there wasn’t any point in staying.”

  This sounded much more serious than she realized. Perhaps Paul Winfrey would never pick up a brush again. It would be an astounding waste of God-given talent, but considering the years he’d spent behind bars, Paul just might not want to spend hours with an easel and brush.

  “Can you accept Paul the way he is? What if he’s just an ordinary man, not a famous artist? Would you be interested in him then?”

  Angela didn’t hesitate. “Of course, I would. When he left this morning, I walked around the house, seeing the world through his eyes. He’s so happy, so full of life. Things I take for granted, he sees as special.”

  “Have you fallen in love with him?”

  “Yes,” Angela admitted. “I never would have believed it could happen so quickly. I truly love him.”

  “Then tell him so. And dismantle the studio to prove it.”

  “Oh, Claire, this is going to be a disaster for you. Now you’ll lose your best artist.”

  She shrugged. “What else can go wrong? My father just disowned me.”

  Angela listened as Claire explained how her father had reacted to the news she was seeing Zach.

  “Don’t make the mistake I made years ago,” Angela advised. “Listen to your heart. I wanted to marry the tennis pro, but I let my father convince me that he was only after my money. Don’t let your father say you’re exactly like your mother or make you believe Zach is going to ruin your life. Give him a chance. Give love a chance.”

  Claire managed a smile as she sent Angela off to find Paul. Her “find of the century” was interested in living—not painting. Her father had disowned her over a man who might tire of her any minute. What else could go wrong?

  It was late afternoon before Angela tracked down Paul. His pickup was parked in front of Zach Coulter’s home, a lonely place at the edge of the national forest. She suspected he would be here. Zach was his only friend. Where else would Paul have gone unless he’d left town?

  She had been terrified he had gone away. She’d found the one man who truly made her happy, and she’d lost him. What if he had driven out of Taos, out of her life?

  Paul didn’t answer her knock, so she peeked in. She didn’t see anyone inside. Thinking she heard something, she went around back.

  Behind the main house, under the shade of a stately cottonwood, was a small shed with a large glass window. She tiptoed up to the window, seeing it was dark inside. A soft clink-clink came from the room. Craning her neck, she saw Paul sitting in what was apparently a storeroom. He was tapping a bronze object with his fingernails, making a clinking sound.

  She ventured into the dark room. “Paul, I need to talk to you.”

  Without turning, he responded. “You want talent?” He waved his hand at the table before him where statues of a bronze eagle and a bear were partially cloaked by a sheet to protect them from dust. “This is talent.”

  “Nice,” she said as she pulled up a wobbly stool and sat beside him. “The studio’s gone. Maria’s brothers hauled everything down to the Indian School in Santa Fe. I’m sorry I broke my promise. I won’t do it again, I swear.”

  He slowly turned toward her. She could never have explained the sense of dread that came with his steady gaze. He didn’t believe her; he didn’t trust her.

  “I love you, Paul. I just want to be with you. I don’t want an artist. I want you. Please come home.”

  He ran his hand over the surface of the bronze bear, lovingly touching the piece, studying it, not her. The words she’d just spoken seemed suspended in the air, then they drifted away, and the only noise was the chuff of the cottonwood branches against the roof of the small room.

  “Please come home,” she repeated, not knowing what else to say.

  He turned to her, his gaze world-weary, and she was struck by how distant he seemed. Had they really been close, or had she imagined it?

  “Where is home?” he asked.

  Once, home had meant her father, money and security. She’d been on her own now for years. She had several homes, the one here being her favorite, but it wasn’t her only “home.” She hesitated a moment, the answer to his insightful question terrifying her. “Home is where the heart is. My heart belongs to you.”

  “Does it?” Sadness had extinguished the twinkle of delight she’d come to expect when she looked into his eyes.

  “We haven’t known each other long, but I feel I’ve been waiting for you my whole life.” She took his hand and clutched it in both of hers. “I truly love you.”

  He rose, still holding her hand and led her outside the shed and up to the front porch of Zach’s small home. They sat on the front steps, facing Taos Mountain as the sun slowly disappeared behind the bluffs, searing the drifting clouds with amber light. A breeze combed the meadow, parting the grass and ruffling the wildflowers. Paul’s favorite time of day, she reflected as she recalled the other sunsets they’d enjoyed together.

  But this time something wasn’t right and her anxiety increased, leaving her feeling weak and helpless. She looked across the meadow, the clover shimmering in the golden light of the setting sun, but the peaceful scene did nothing to calm her.

  “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.” He turned to her, withdrawing his hand from hers in a way that chilled her even more. “Before you decide you love me, you’d better know everything.”

  She listened, never saying a word, to the story of his horse, Misty. Oh, my, God, he’d been in a fight and the other man had been killed. Paul’s words barely registered. He was so gentle, it was impossible for her to imagine him causing anyone’s death.

  Yet there was earnestness in his words, and she knew he was being completely candid with her. Paul had spent years in prison. She listened, stunned, as he finished his story. The last, feeble rays of sunshine were nothing more than back lighting for the mountains. Somewhere the plaintive howl of a lonesome coyote lingered on the mountaintop, but Angela had no idea what to say.

  “I paid for my crime.” Paul waved his hand at the postcard perfect setting. “I lived in the Graybar Hilton. That’s what they call prison. Nothing but gray walls. Twice a week—if you’re lucky—they l
et you into the yard for exercise. Do you know what I’d do? I’d march around the yard, looking up at the blue sky, and promising myself that one day I’d be free. Then I’d spend time outdoors making up for all I’d missed.”

  Angela struggled to express herself, but it was hard. The last time she’d felt so strongly about a man, her father had convinced her to send him away. Now she loved Paul even more, but he was emotionally damaged. Could she give him the love he needed—enough love to make up for his years in prison?

  Her whole life she’d been a taker, not a giver. She’d allowed her father to use money to isolate her from meaningful relationships. Paul had endured a life of hell, paying for his crime. He deserved to have someone love him with all her heart.

  She scooted closer and looked directly into his eyes. “I love you. I can’t make up for the past, but I want to be with you forever.”

  He pressed his lips to her forehead for a moment before saying, “Then there’s something else you should know.”

  Angela stifled a groan. What else could there be?

  “Those bronzes back there” he said. “That’s an artist with immeasurable talent. There are at least a dozen of them. What did I do? Two lousy paintings.”

  “Fabulous—”

  He silenced her with a finger on her lips. “Angela, everyone made a big deal about the cowboy and the woman. So mysterious, they said. Everyone had a different interpretation. I put my heart into that painting, but I had the woman turned away because I couldn’t see what she looked like.

  “The painting was me, offering flowers to a woman. I was so lonely and miserable in prison. The closer I came to getting out, the more I imagined meeting someone and having a life. The woman is you, Angela.”

  “Me?” Tears suddenly flooded her eyes as the impact of what he said hit her full force. Art was—had been—her passion, her great love. His paintings were the most emotionally moving works she’d ever seen. How could they be her? “That woman is me? I don’t understand.”

  “The woman is you, darling, believe me. I just hadn’t met you yet, so I couldn’t properly paint your face.” He wiped away a tear on her cheek with his thumb, gently caressing her. “Now that I know you, I want to be with you. I love you. All I ask is that you love me—even if I’m never going to be a famous artist.”