Above It All (Eureka, Colorado Book 4) (Contemporary Romance)

by Cindy Myers

  What if Sandy really did love her daughter for more than the money she brought in—and Shelly was the one in the wrong, for turning her back on her family when they needed her most?

  Maggie stared at the blinking cursor on the screen and tried to concentrate, when all she really wanted to do was put her head down on her desk and take a nap. Angela had refused to go to sleep last night, transforming from gurgling, happy infant who wanted to play, to angry, wailing baby. Maggie and Jameso had taken turns walking up and down the hallway with her, cooing and bouncing and pleading with her, until the three of them had finally collapsed in exhaustion on their king-sized bed sometime in the early morning hours.

  Maggie yawned and tried to remember what it was she was supposed to be writing about.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Her boss, Rick Otis, emerged from his office, a coffee mug from Eureka Bank in his hand. Maggie had two identical mugs in her kitchen at the B and B. One she’d received when she opened her account at the bank. The other she’d inherited from her father, Jacob Murphy. She’d never known the man while he was alive, but his death had brought her to Eureka, and a completely new life.

  “Earth to Maggie,” Rick said. “I asked you a question.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired.” Exhausted. But she’d be fine—in eighteen years or so.

  “Have a cup of this coffee.” He held up the mug. “It’ll wake you up.”

  “Caffeine isn’t good for the baby.” She was still nursing, and pumping breast milk to fill bottles for when she was away. She checked the time on the computer—almost ten. Maybe she’d run home to feed the baby—and grab a nap. The thought of the bed, with its fluffy down comforter and many pillows, almost made her moan with longing.

  “Nobody told my mother that,” Rick said. “She drank coffee all day long, and smoked like a chimney, and I turned out all right.”

  That contention might be debatable, considering Rick’s curmudgeonly, loner ways. But Maggie wasn’t about to argue the point. “Did you need me for something, Rick?” she asked.

  “What do you know about this detective who’s in town?” he asked.

  So much for hoping she could sneak back to the B and B. Rick obviously wanted to gossip. He defended his interest as “having a nose for news” but he was more of a busybody than any woman in town. “Do you mean Duke?” she asked.

  “How many other private investigators are running around Eureka this week?”

  “There might be dozens, for all I know,” she said.

  He scowled at her—though really, Rick’s normal expression was a scowl, so only someone who knew him well could sense the change—a slight deepening of the lines on his forehead and a squinching up of his crooked nose. “I thought new mothers were supposed to be all sweet and happy,” he said. He was dressed in his summer uniform: baggy khaki shorts, an aloha shirt—this one featured dogs on surfboards—and black Converse high-tops.

  Maggie’s laugh was this side of hysterical. “Who told you that lie?” Of course, she was thrilled and crazy in love with Angela, maybe even more so than the average new mom, since at forty, she had thought her opportunity to be a parent was behind her. She’d let her first husband talk her into not having children. By the time he’d left her, she figured it was too late for the children she’d always wanted.

  Then her father had died, she moved to Eureka, met Jameso . . . and here she was.

  “What are you smiling about?” Rick asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” Everything. It was just so amazing how life turned out sometimes.

  “So what do you know about Duke?” he asked.

  “Almost nothing. He says he’s looking for Gerald Pershing.” The supposed financial manager from Dallas had swindled the town out of most of its funds, only to be swindled in turn when the city fathers and mothers sold him a half interest in a bogus gold mine—that turned out to be loaded with gold ore after all. After being trapped in a mine collapse for five days in late spring, he’d sold out his interest in the Lucky Lady Mine and left town—everyone in Eureka hoped for good.

  “Who hired Duke to look for Pershing?” Rick asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, we need to find out,” Rick said. “He’s staying at your B and B, isn’t he?”

  Technically, the Idlewilde Inn belonged to Maggie’s best friend, Barb Stanowski, who lived in Houston. Maggie and Jameso managed the property for her. And yes, Duke had checked into the inn late last night, following Maggie home from the Dirty Sally to unload his bags and claim the smallest back bedroom, the only one available now that summer tourist season was in full swing. “How do you know where Duke is staying?” she asked.

  “I already called the motel and he’s not there. Unless he’s got a private rental, that leaves the Idlewilde. Plus, you’re a terrible liar. He’s there, isn’t he?”

  She nodded.

  “Great. You can chat him up, find out who’s paying for him to come all the way here from Texas.”

  “Who Duke is working for isn’t any of my business,” she said. “Or yours.”

  “It might be news.” Rick sipped his coffee. “What if Pershing drove off a cliff after he left here? He was certainly in a hurry to get away.”

  “Anything is possible, Rick.” Maggie tried to focus on the computer screen once more. She was working on a story about last night’s road commissioner meeting. How could she make the purchase of ten tons of road base and the repair of one of the county road graders into interesting reading? Clearly, the subject wasn’t doing anything to help her stay awake.

  “Chat him up,” Rick said. “See if you can find out anything. Maybe there’s a story there.”

  “You talk to him,” she said. “You’re the one who’s so interested.” Though Rick did his share of reporting for the weekly paper, he tried to put as much work as possible off on Maggie.

  “He’s a man. He’ll respond better to you.”

  “Right. Because over-forty new moms are so sexy.”

  Rick made a face, then brightened, “Speaking of sexy, have you seen Shelly Frazier’s sister?”

  “Mindy?” It was Maggie’s turn to make a sour face. “We’ve met.” The young woman had been practically drooling over Jameso last night in the Dirty Sally. Not that Jameso had reciprocated, of course.

  Not for the first time, Maggie reminded herself that she needed to get used to the fact that other women would look twice at her handsome, younger husband. But Jameso loved her. He had turned his back on his player ways to marry her. Last Christmas, he had skied over a mountain pass in a blizzard to bring her the engagement ring he’d had specially made for her—if that wasn’t true love, she didn’t know what was.

  Except, now he was married, and to a forty-year-old new mom who felt anything but sexy. Arrgh. She gave up and rested her head on the desk. Even jealousy couldn’t beat out exhaustion.

  “I didn’t even know Shelly had a sister.” Like a dog with a bone, Rick continued to worry the subject. “She never talks about her family.”

  “Lots of people don’t talk about their families,” Maggie said, her voice muffled by the fact that her mouth was pressed against the blotter. “You don’t talk about your family.”

  “I’m not a woman. Women always talk about their families.”

  “I never did.” What had there been to talk about? She was an only child, raised by a woman whose husband deserted her when Maggie was three days old. Her mother had died of cancer a few years before, and her dad had succumbed to a heart attack eighteen months ago. End of story.

  “I never said you were normal,” Rick said. He set the coffee mug on the edge of her desk and turned to stare out the front window. His eyebrows rose. “And speaking of women who aren’t normal . . .”

  The door opened and Cassie Wynock charged inside. “I have the press release about this year’s Founders’ Pageant,” she said, waving a sheet of paper over her head.

  “So you’re doing that again?” Rick asked. “O
nce wasn’t enough?”

  Cassie’s cheeks, already flushed from her walk over from the library, grew redder. “Of course we are. This play is the most important part of the Hard Rock Days celebration.”

  “I thought the competition for the Hard Rock trophy was the most important part,” Rick said. “We always run a picture of the winner on the front page.”

  “Watching half-naked men pull heavy ore carts and wield hammers appeals to a certain lowest common denominator,” Cassie said. “The Founders’ Pageant is a much more elevating tradition.”

  “Last year was the first year the play was done,” Rick said. “That doesn’t make it a tradition. And for people who don’t want to watch the Hard Rock competition, we’ve got the craft fair and the street dance.”

  “Well, the pageant should be a tradition,” Cassie said. “We should honor the founders of the town.”

  Meaning, they should honor Cassie’s great-grandfather and great-grandmother, who featured prominently in the play, which Cassie had written and in which she played a starring role. “Who’s in the play this year?” Maggie asked.

  “I’m repeating my turn as Emmaline Wynock, and Doug Raybourn will reprise his role as my great-grandfather, Festus. Lucas Theriot will play the boy who spreads the news of the gold find. Then we have some new roles. I’m thinking of adding a schoolteacher. I decided we needed more representation of women.”

  “Is Bob reprising his role as the town drunk, Jake?” Rick asked.

  Maggie shot him a scolding look. Cassie had it in for Maggie’s father, and had written the part of the drunk as a dig at him. Never mind that Jake Murphy had already been dead six months by that time. For Cassie, the past was as vital as the present, and apparently it was never too late to exact revenge.

  Cassie’s face grew even redder. “I’m not letting Bob Prescott near the production,” she huffed. Last year, Bob had not only stolen the show with his onstage antics, he’d almost burned down the opera house where the play was staged with his fireworks finale.

  Cassie shoved the paper at Rick. “Run this to let people know we need help with sets and costumes.”

  “I thought the members of the historical society and the drama society took care of all that.” Rick took the paper and handed it to Maggie.

  “It never hurts to get the community involved,” Cassie said.

  Maggie couldn’t imagine too many people would be lining up to volunteer to work with Cassie.

  The librarian finally looked at Maggie. “I’ll let you know when we hold the dress rehearsal so you can come take pictures,” she said. Not waiting for an answer, she turned and left.

  “What if I don’t want to take pictures?” Maggie asked the closed door.

  “You’ll take pictures,” Rick said. “People will want to see it. Besides, it’s always a good idea to keep tabs on what Cassie is up to.”

  “You make her sound as devious as Gerald Pershing.” As far as Maggie was concerned, Cassie wasn’t devious, just mean.

  “She might be worse,” Rick said. “After all, librarians know things. And they know how to find out things.”

  Maggie wanted to laugh, but Rick’s expression was too serious. He really did look, well, almost afraid of Cassie. “What kind of things?” she asked.

  “Secrets? Lies?”

  “Then it’s a good thing I don’t have secrets,” she said.

  His eyes met hers, dark and troubled. “Everyone has secrets, Maggie. You just have to know the right questions to ask.”

  On this note, he drifted back into his office. Maggie stared after him, a chill running up her spine. What the heck was Rick talking about? What secrets was he hiding—especially from Cassie, of all people?

  Chapter 4

  Travis couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a library. High school? College, maybe, though his college days were a blur of too much beer and not enough sleep. But he had a degree, so studying must have taken place somewhere in there.

  The Eureka library occupied what once must have been a house, white pillars flanking an ornate wooden door into which had been inserted a brass book-return slot. When Travis pushed open the door, a buzzer sounded, apparently to alert the librarian that she had a customer.

  The woman who emerged from the back rooms of the building was not his idea of the small-town librarian. A fall of dark hair framed a heart-shaped face and big Bambi eyes. She reminded him of his favorite Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, or a waitress he’d known at Hooters....

  “Hello. May I help you?”

  He snapped out of his fantasy and offered his most charming smile. “I was trying to remember the last time I was in a library. Back in college, I think.”

  “So, a while ago, huh?”

  So much for charming this one. He’d almost forgotten one lesson he’d definitely learned in college: the best-looking women were almost always stuck up. “Who really needs a library when you have the Internet?” he said.

  She shook her head disapprovingly. “Don’t let Cassie hear you say that.”

  “Cassie Wynock, the librarian? I came here hoping to talk to her.” He leaned across the counter. “I was hoping you were her.”

  The young woman took a step back. “Why do you want to talk to Cassie?”

  “I’m a reporter with the Dallas Morning News. I’m working on a story and I was told Cassie might be a good source of information.” No one ever checked with the paper, and he did still have his old press pass if a particularly suspicious person gave him any flack.

  He waited for the woman to ask what his story was about, or who had suggested he talk to Cassie. People in small towns were always up in each other’s business, right?

  But she merely shook her head and took another step back. “Cassie should be here in a few minutes. There are chairs in the magazine section where you can wait.” She nodded toward a grouping of chairs around a scarred mahogany table. She started to turn away, but Travis had learned to never give up on a potential source.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  She frowned, as if debating answering this simplest of questions. Did she dislike him so much, or was she this standoffish with everyone? “Sharon,” she said at last. No surname, but right now that didn’t really matter.

  “I’m Travis. Travis Rowell.” He offered his hand, but she’d already turned away.

  “I have work to do, Mr. Rowell,” she said. “You’re welcome to make yourself comfortable while you wait for Cassie.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any coffee?” he called after her retreating figure.

  “We’re a library, not a café. But the Last Dollar has very good coffee, if you want to buy some.”

  “See, that’s why libraries are going the way of eight-track tape players and slide rules,” he said. “They don’t pay enough attention to what customers really want.”

  “Young man, did you come here to read, or to harass my assistant?” The strident voice echoed in the quiet room, bouncing off bookshelves and display cases, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Travis looked around and finally spotted a short, squat woman in gray marching down an aisle toward him. A halo of gray curls framed a round face with a circle of pink rouge carefully applied to each cheek. She wore a gray knit dress and flat gray shoes. From the shoes up, she looked like someone’s sainted grandmother. But the sour set of her mouth and the arctic scorn in her eyes cancelled out the grandmotherly image.

  Unless, of course, your grandmother hated you.

  “Ms. Wynock?” He had to work a little harder to keep his smile in place, but he was a pro. “I’m Travis Rowell, from the Dallas Morning News.”

  “It’s Miss Wynock.” She marched past him and took her place behind the front desk. “If you’re going to put that in the paper, you want to get it right.”

  Her directness caught him off guard. “Oh, of course.”

  She clasped her hands together and continued to glare at him, as if expecting more. “Um, I . . .” he stammered.
<
br />   “Aren’t you going to write that down?” she asked.

  “Right.” He pulled out his notebook and scribbled Miss Wynock. He was tempted to add scary old bat but was afraid she was the type who could read even his poor handwriting upside down.

  “Are you ready?” she asked.

  Ready for what? “Yes,” he stood with pen poised over his notebook. “Of course.”

  “Then I’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

  So it was true what he’d heard about small towns and gossip. Someone had already informed the librarian that he was on the hunt for inside information about Shelly Frazier, and she couldn’t wait to give him all the dirt.

  He slipped a small digital recorder—twin to the one he’d given Mindy—from his pocket. “Maybe I’d better record this,” he said. “I don’t want to miss a word.”

  Cassie nodded in approval and waited while he turned on the device and set it between them. Conscious of her watching, he spoke into the recorder. “Interview with Miss Cassie Wynock, head librarian of the Eureka County Library and president of the historical society.” He leaned back. “Proceed whenever you wish.”

  She cleared her throat, folded her hands in front of her, and began speaking. “My great-grandfather, Festus Wynock, came to this area in 1889. In 1890, he founded the town of Eureka. Along with my great-grandmother, Emmaline, he began a tradition of instilling a rich culture and respect for our heritage that persists to today. As the sole remaining heir to the Wynock heritage, I felt it was my duty—”

  “Whoa. Wait a minute, Cassie.” Travis held up a hand to silence her. “While I’m sure your family history is a fascinating story, I’m not sure it’s pertinent to the matter at hand.”

  She stared at him, owl-eyed behind steel-framed spectacles. “Not pertinent? Of course it’s pertinent. Without my great-grandparents, there would be no Eureka today. The Founders’ Pageant is all about them.”

  “Founders’ Pageant?” What did this have to do with Shelly?

  “This was all in the press release I sent. Didn’t you read it?”