Sinister

by Nancy Bush

  “And I told you her husband is really ill. Stop arguing, Brook. The Major isn’t well and Georgina’s taking care of him.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to hate the Kincaids?” Brook lifted her brows.

  “Where do you get this? Never mind.” As soon as she said the words she wished she hadn’t because prolonging an argument with her daughter was exhausting and a waste of time. Besides, she knew who Brook had been listening to. Ira used every opportunity to bad-mouth his neighbors.

  “I don’t have any friends here,” Brook said morosely. “Not real friends, not like Sophie.”

  “Give it time,” Ricki said. “You’ll make some friends.”

  “How much time? We’ve been here like … an eternity already!”

  “Maybe Sophie can come for a visit.”

  “Why would she want to? There’s nothing to do here, and … and Dad said it would be okay for me to move in with him and Oona. When he said I could come for Christmas, I asked if I could move back and he said he’d like that.”

  Oh, Jesus. Ari, you bastard! “You talked to him? Tonight?”

  “Texted. He was at some gig. Taking a break between sets.”

  And probably getting high. With Oona.

  “He must have forgotten about Grandpa’s wedding. You need to stick around for that.”

  Brook rolled her eyes in a classic save-me expression as the cat hopped onto the windowsill to stare outside. “Why?”

  “Because Grandpa wants everyone there.”

  “Big effin’ deal.”

  “Watch it, Brook.” Seeing the set of her daughter’s jaw, that Dillinger jaw, Ricki added, “Look, if your dad and I can work something out, after the wedding you can probably visit him.” She hated herself for the lie. Ari Vakalian didn’t want his daughter living with him. Ari could not handle his daughter, and after a few days, Brook would not be able to cope with her childlike father. Ricki knew it. Ari knew it. And, though she wasn’t showing it, Brook probably knew it as well.

  Denial. It was a family trait that ran through the Dillinger clan gene pool as much as red hair and obstinacy.

  As she walked toward her bedroom, Ricki glanced at a picture of her family, taken years before, when she was just a child. All of her siblings were gathered around their parents on the porch of the “new house.” She stood between Colt, the oldest, and Delilah, who was two years younger than she. Tyler stood on the step below while Nell, the youngest, was huddled up against their mother’s leg.

  Now, Ricki’s lips twitched as she saw her youthful self, full of promise and idealism, her hair falling around her shoulders in a tangle of flame-colored curls. Her skin was tanned from the long Wyoming summer, her teeth not yet straightened, a skinned knee poking out of her cut-off jeans. Her brothers and sisters were all staring at the camera, all displaying a strong Dillinger chin and eyes that varied from green to gray.

  “Headstrong! That’s what you are, every last one of you!” their mother had said often enough. That day on the porch, Rachel Dillinger was smiling broadly. Ira’s arm was draped across her slim shoulders and her fingers were entwined with those of three-year-old Nell, whose ringlets were dark brown with hints of red, her legs and arms still chubby.

  How happy the family had seemed.

  How united.

  Back in the day.

  When they were all young and the world was wide open to them.

  Before reality and heartache had set in.

  Before Rachel Hargrove Dillinger had contracted uterine cancer and died long before her time. With a pang of heartache Ricki felt that adulthood wasn’t what it was cracked up to be.

  She glanced back to the living room where Brook was slouched on the couch. Her daughter, like so many members of the Dillinger family, knew her own mind and had the blistering temper that went with it. Though Brook took after Ari with her olive skin, brown eyes and dark hair, the Dillinger genes wouldn’t be denied. When the sunlight hit her just right, there was a scarlet glimmer in her hair, and the Dillinger jaw was unmistakable, especially when it was set. Which was most of the time.

  Like grandfather, like granddaughter.

  Leaving Brook to the housewives and her love affair with her phone, Ricki shut the door of her bedroom, plopped onto the end of the bed and speed-dialed Colt.

  When he answered she said, “Thought I’d call and warn you to brace yourself.”

  “Okay.” She heard the hesitation in his voice.

  “You’re about to have a visitor, Colt. Muhammad appears to be coming to the mountain.”

  Chapter Five

  “The hotel is superb. Just beautiful,” Pilar gushed to her fiancé over the phone. He had been in a piss-poor mood when he’d called, but she’d done a good job of cheering him up.

  She wiggled her newly lacquered toes propped on the chaise and reached for her lemon drop. “It’s actually sort of a spa. All the gals got mani-pedis and hot stone massages.” She sipped her drink, her tongue flicking over the sugared rim as Ira responded.

  “I’m glad you girls are enjoying yourselves,” Ira said. “Just hurry on back, darlin’. You know I miss you.”

  “Mmm, miss you, too,” Pilar said.

  “Is it snowing there?” Ira asked.

  “Uh-huh.” She lifted her chin to take in the white stuff dancing past the golden hotel lights. “I’m surrounded by white.” That included the posh white bedding that had been so heavenly for sleeping, and the bed stacked with cushy pillows in all shapes and sizes. “Sitting in the lap of luxury. You know, after the wedding, we really need to come back here. I was thinking maybe we could get a condo here and split our time. There’s so much going on, all the time, and Rourke would have much better educational opportunities here.”

  Ira’s laugh cackled over the line. “There’s plenty of education to be had here, the good old-fashioned kind.”

  She hated the way he did that, laughing off her ideas. He forced her to do an end-run around him to get the things that she wanted … the things she needed. She ended the call with fake kisses and tossed the phone on the bed.

  She collapsed against the puffy white comforter, her head and arms landing on a stack of cushy white pillows. She dreaded going back to Ira and that big-ass house in the sticks. Everything about this place just oozed luxury. She squeezed a fat, square pillow to her chest and wiggled her toes. If only there was a hotel this nice in Wyoming. But no. She was stuck out on the prairie, with cows serenading her instead of handsome bartenders.

  Rolling over, she tapped her phone to search for “luxury bedding” and eventually saw photos of posh comforters and pillows. King size, right into her shopping basket. Buy now. Yes, yes, yes.

  How easy was that?

  It was about time to redo their bedroom and get rid of those old floral sheets that Ira’s first wife had picked out. Not her style. If she couldn’t live in a luxury spa, well, she would make her home into one.

  Wiggling into the soft bedding, she imagined herself at home in this wonderful fluff. Yup, this was just the thing she needed to keep her sanity back in Wyoming. Atop sweet-scented bedding, anything was possible. She could close her eyes and pretend. In the dark, a man was a man; the parts were the same, and they worked the same way. In a bed like this, she would be able to close her eyes and ride her husband like a wild woman and almost believe that she was making love to Brad Pitt.

  Almost.

  It wasn’t as if she didn’t care for Ira, she did. Maybe she even loved him, and it wasn’t his age that bothered her a bit. No. It was the fact that he was insistent that they live in that tiny little town in the middle of nowhere. Prairie Creek was in his blood, but it just wasn’t in hers. Yet. Probably never, but she’d try to make the marriage work because she desperately wanted to be Mrs. Ira Dillinger.

  Somehow, in her transformation, she would rid Ira’s house of Rachel Dillinger’s ghost, even if she had to have Mrs. Mac and those little maids scrub it away, inch by inch.

  In town, Sabrina stayed late at
the clinic to take on a feline emergency.

  “I’m sorry to call you at this hour, but I was just so worried about Buster!” Sally Jamison’s round face was twisted into a knot of concern. With a grunt, she hauled her cat carrier onto the reception counter of the clinic. Though Sabrina’s expertise was large animals, three days a week she covered after-hours emergencies and gave Antonia a break. Tonight, it seemed, was her lucky night.

  “Come on out of there, baby.” Deftly, Sally unzipped the carrier from which guttural, low growls and an occasional hiss erupted. She reached inside and the cat screamed his discontent. “Be good, baby.”

  Slowly she pulled out the huge gray tabby. Buster, a.k.a. “Baby,” wasn’t happy. His gold eyes were nearly black, the pupils dilated. His ears had flattened to his head and he showed his needle-sharp teeth in hisses aimed at Sabrina as if she were the devil incarnate. He tried to scramble off the counter, but Sally held him firmly. “You’re okay,” she said, trying to stroke Buster. In response, he cringed and took a swipe at her with one meaty paw.

  “What’s going on with him?” Sabrina asked.

  “He just won’t eat, no matter what I give him.”

  Sabrina fought a reaction. It was obvious the cat hadn’t missed a meal in years.

  “He threw up yesterday—not just a hairball—and … well, I’m just worried about him. When I checked on him at lunchtime, he was listless and hardly moved and …” She lowered her voice. “He’s been missing the litter box. On purpose. He either just lies in the box on top of the kitty litter and won’t come out or he …” Her nostrils flared as she tried to come up with delicate words. “He’s been doing his business on one of the rugs in the bathroom. It’s … well, it’s just not like him. He’s always been a very neat and tidy kitty. Never has accidents. Or, um, never did, did you, baby?” She made little kissy noises at him, then added, “And he howls sometimes, too.”

  “When he’s urinating?”

  “I … I don’t know.”

  Buster glowered, moans of fury emanating from deep in the cat’s gut.

  Just then Sally’s cell phone rang shrilly, startling the cat. Fortunately, one hand remained clamped on him as she fished in her purse for her cell phone. Apparently she was used to his antics. “It’s the shop. I have to take this. Sorry. We’re so busy at work, I’ve been running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Christmas, you know. All the parties and the big wedding.”

  Sabrina gestured for her to go ahead as she checked Buster’s record.

  “Hello? Yes, I can hear you! Uh-huh … Oh, Cal, don’t tell me that. If we can’t get that specific rose, then she’ll have to pick out something else and you know how Pilar can be. I’m just saying … did you call her? Still in Denver. Well, how is she going to approve flower samples from there? For the love of … Okay, I’ll call her.” She let out a long-suffering sigh. “I know. Love you, too.” As she hung up, she rolled her large eyes toward the heavens. “Cal has the devil of a time with the shop when I’m not around.”

  “Let’s take Buster into an examination room,” Sabrina suggested, leading the way.

  Sally carried the unhappy cat into the small room and placed him on the table. Immediately, he tried to escape.

  “You poor thing,” Sabrina said, trying to console cat and owner. “Nobody likes to be sick.” Buster growled through the exam, but allowed Sabrina to look him over, even weigh him and take his temperature without delivering a bite or a swipe of claws.

  “Looks like an infection, but let’s see. I’m going to have to do some tests, including a urinalysis to make sure there’s no blockage.”

  “I’ll have to leave him?”

  “Yes.”

  Sally frowned as she eyed her pet. “Well, if that’s what it takes. But can I pick him up tomorrow?”

  “Probably. We’ll call you.”

  Sally helped transfer Buster into his carrier again and while the cat growled his displeasure, she bundled up in her coat and gloves. “I guess I should have noticed something was wrong earlier, but I’ve been working round the clock on the Dillinger wedding.” She lowered her voice as she zipped her down coat. “Pilar changes her mind more often than most people change their underwear. It’s been hard on everyone in my shop, but Emma is really getting hit hard.”

  Emma Kincaid was a local dress designer—a talented seamstress who could stand up to any top-notch salon in Cheyenne or Denver. “Emma told you about the dresses?” Sabrina asked.

  Sally was nodding. “Just when Emma was about finished with the first one, Pilar saw something different in some magazine, something she thought would be more flattering. And the same was true of the second dress. As if this were her first rodeo. Hah!”

  Sabrina had heard the same story over coffee at Molly’s Diner.

  “And you know Emma’s just about the best seamstress this side of the Mississippi.”

  “Emma is terrific,” Sabrina agreed.

  “As to the flowers,” Sally went on. “Oh, my Lord! She can’t make up her mind. First it was the peonies, had to be peonies, then, once we found some, she decided to go with lilies, until someone told her people would be reminded of a funeral and with poor Rachel, you know, barely cold in her grave, Pilar decided against lilies. Now, she’s settled on roses and baby’s breath, right where she should have been from day one. Oh, but she still wants some birds of paradise, has a thing for them, despite the cost. Dear Lord! Pray she doesn’t change her mind again.” Sally crossed her gloved fingers to make her point. “It’s driving us, all of us at the shop, crazy. Especially Mia, her being kind of related to the Dillingers, you know. Her daughter being Judd’s and all.”

  Oh, Sabrina knew. Only too well. Mia’s daughter, Kit, was seventeen, and she spent most of her time traveling the Dillinger lands, communing with the animals and the land, by all accounts. No one and nothing could keep her in school. Mia, who wasn’t Sabrina’s favorite person by a long shot—she was too needy and grasping and intent on burrowing into the Dillinger clan by hook or by crook; she still used the injury she’d sustained in the fire eighteen years earlier as a lever to extort guilt and money—had all but despaired of Kit and given up trying to get her to conform. Kit was a wild child and had no use for convention, whether it was the law or not. She was a Dillinger by blood and simply roamed their lands as she pleased, living in her own world. She steered clear of her mother, and Sabrina wondered if maybe Kit was as loath to be around Mia as she was.

  “Everyone at the shop tiptoes around Pilar right now. Especially Mia. She really wants the wedding to go well.”

  Does she? Sabrina wondered. Mia wasn’t eager to share the spotlight with anyone and especially someone as exacting and beautiful as Pilar.

  “I think Mia’s hoping Colton will show.” Sally adjusted her stocking cap on her head. “I wouldn’t put it past her to make a play for him. She finds a way to remind everyone that he saved her from the fire, and, well, he’s a Dillinger, and we all know how she feels about them.”

  “I heard Colton wasn’t coming home.”

  Sally cocked her head to one side. “I heard that too, but my money’s on Ira getting his way.”

  Sabrina really didn’t want to think about Colton.

  Sally gave her a hard look. “You were involved with Colton once, too, weren’t you?”

  “Too long ago to count,” Sabrina said, deflecting the conversation, as she reached for the cat carrier. “I went to school with his sister Ricki.”

  “I know, my son graduated with you two. You remember Jeff?” There was a gleam of pride in her eyes at the mention of her only son. “Ricki’s back in Prairie Creek, too. I guess all that big-city cop business just didn’t take.”

  Sabrina was tempted to point out that Ricki had come back because her mother was dying, but there was no point in correcting someone like Sally Jamison.

  “Well, anyway, I’m sure Jeff told me you dated Colton when you were a senior.”

  “High school romance, Sally.”
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  “Sometimes they’re the most tricky to get over.”

  Sabrina managed a smile she didn’t feel as she led the way to the reception area. “Thanks for bringing Buster in. We’ll give you a call as soon as we know anything.”

  “You’re a godsend,” Sally said as, finally, she headed out the door.

  By the time Sabrina locked the door behind Sally, her heart and head were swimming with pain. Why did she let Sally rile her about something that had ended when she was a kid?

  “You know,” she told Buster, “your Sally and gossip are like salt and pepper; you never find one without the other.”

  The cat hissed in response.

  “The worst part is that now I’m stuck going to the wedding and maybe facing Colt again.”

  Buster arched his back and glared at her.

  Sabrina ignored him, her mind on Colton whether she wanted to think of him or not. She’d shared a few words with him earlier this year at his mother’s funeral—just enough to know that her heart still stupidly raced a little when he was near. It was ridiculous after all this time. Colton had married, had a child, and suffered an unbelievably tragic loss, and yet Sabrina’s thoughts kept traveling back to her own time with him, remembering how much she’d loved him, how hurt she’d been when he left her high and dry.

  “It isn’t about you,” she told herself sternly, but she already knew she wouldn’t listen.

  She’d always felt this way about Colton Dillinger. She’d been seventeen and flattered by his attentions. A couple of years older, he’d been a rodeo rider with a little college under his belt, rough-and-tumble, a cowboy in the making. All muscle and sinew, with a square jaw and a sexy smile that matched the irreverent spark in his eyes, Colton Dillinger had been trouble, a man to avoid. And she hadn’t. Sabrina had found him dangerously fascinating and been hooked from the moment his lazy smile had stretched across the stubble of his beard and his eyes had found hers. That fall, when she should have gone away to school, she’d changed her mind and taken classes at the nearby community college. Because of Colton Dillinger. Because she’d thought she’d marry him and have a passel of Dillinger babies. Because she’d been willing to set aside her own dreams to be with him.