Sinister

by Nancy Bush

  Word would be out by next week’s wedding that Rourke was his son. After that, Sabrina would see Pilar and Rourke in town. She might run into him when she went out to the Rocking D. It was going to be hard, any way around it; Prairie Creek was just too small not to have Colton’s affair with Pilar be a hot topic.

  But was she being too self-protective? Ira knew Rourke was Colt’s and he was dead set on marrying Pilar anyway. Maybe she should just throw caution to the wind and go for it.

  She loved Colt; that much she now knew. Well, maybe she always had, deep down. Denial always made life so much easier, until it made it harder. The truth was Colton Dillinger was the only man she’d ever really loved and she had never gotten over him, no matter how much she’d tried to deny it.

  Here’s your chance, Sabrina. Admit that you love him. Be honest. That’s what you want from him, isn’t it? What have you got to lose?

  Turning off the lights, she wondered what it would be like if Colton were still here, if she had taken him by the hand, led him upstairs … They were adults; what would making love to him hurt?

  She was about to head upstairs when she heard a buzzing coming from the couch. Digging through the cushions, she discovered Colton’s cell phone. A text message from Rourke glowed on the screen. With the lock on, she could only read the first part of it:

  when r u talking to mom about riding? I want to go with you ok?

  Sabrina stared at the words and knew how important it would be to have Rourke reach out to him.

  “Change of plans,” she said to the cat. Though it was after eleven, she tossed on her jeans and sweater, then found her jacket, socks, boots and gloves. With the cell phone tucked in her pocket and her heartbeat accelerating, she set out to track Colton down.

  With the Ford’s headlights flashing, his horn blaring, Colton drove over the final rise and stood on the brakes in front of the conflagration that had been the small, historic church.

  Flames, spitting and hungry, shot skyward through the roof while black smoke billowed in the snow flurries. As he watched, a window splintered, spewing hot glass, the roar of the rolling flames thunderous. He flung open the door to his SUV and, despite the freezing temperature, the heat hit him in a wave. Snow was melting around the burning building, while flakes continued to fall.

  No vehicles were parked in the lot, but there was one set of tracks in the otherwise pristine snow. His heart thudded, adrenaline spurred by fear racing through him. Dear God, was anyone inside? If so, how could they survive?

  He couldn’t wait for firefighters.

  More intense, stark images of the fire eighteen years earlier swept over him as he ran forward. Mia, her hair aflame, screaming and rolling off the porch. The smell of burning flesh. His uncle’s grotesquely charred body.

  The steps to the main doors were still intact, and as he blinked against the smoke he realized the fire was on the far wall of the building, rising above the altar like a ghostly monster. The steeple tower was still, for the moment, standing. He would start with the church bell.

  Quickly, he backtracked to his SUV, stopping to hit the PANIC button on his remote. The blaring horn began pulsing into the night. Ehh! Ehh! Ehh! Ehh! Ehh! He grabbed gloves and a towel from his trunk and quickly soaked them in the melting snow. Holding the wet rag over his nose, he slogged through the smoke and watery snow to the broad front porch.

  The front doors hung open, the entrance a great yawning maw of darkness from which smoke boiled. Squinting, holding his breath, he peered inside, shined his flashlight over the interior. The altar was engulfed, the curtains behind the pulpit a mass of flames, the pews at the front of the church already burning.

  He knew the building. He had explored it as a kid. Past a coat closet, he found the door to the bell tower and inside, the ropes that were still attached to the ancient bell overhead. Throwing his weight on the chain, he yanked hard and was rewarded when the bell began to peal.

  Bong! Bong! Bong! The bell tolled through the night, echoing in the tall tower and drowning out any other sound but the car alarm and the pounding of his own frantic heart. The noise was deafening, but it didn’t smother the questions blaring in his mind. What had happened here? Why was the church ablaze in the middle of a snowstorm?

  Coughing, he threw his weight into the ropes. As the bell pealed loudly, he considered the hazards and extent of this fire. Even if the church burned to the ground, there were no other buildings nearby. Granted, the church was a piece of Prairie Creek history, but buildings could be replaced.

  People couldn’t.

  When two more windows blew and the crash of exploding glass punctuated the ringing bell, he knew it was time to get the hell out.

  His hands were blistered from the ropes, his body soaked in sweat as he finally let go and backed out of the tower closet. Shooting a glance toward the burning altar, he winced against the heat as flames enveloped the first three rows of pews … and then he saw her.

  Sitting in the third row, a woman faced the altar.

  “Oh, Christ.” How could she stand the heat?

  He didn’t have time to think. Holding the towel over his face, he raced down the aisle toward the wall of heat. Overhead, the old beams creaked. His eyes burned and smoke forced him to stay as low as he could and keep moving forward, passing row after row of pews whose varnish was already blistering.

  “Lady!” he screamed. “You have to get out of here!” But she would know that. She had to. If she was aware. But she wasn’t. She had to be passed out from the fumes. Or worse. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself forward. Heat scorched the air around him, sparks flew and the smoke seared his lungs as he finally reached the pew and grabbed the woman by the shoulders.

  “Come on!” he barked through the mask of the towel.

  She didn’t move.

  He lifted her onto one shoulder and that was when he knew. She was already gone. Dead.

  Creeaaak! Old timbers splintered overhead and another window shattered. The building shuddered and Colt knew within minutes the whole roof would collapse.

  Without thinking, Colton threw her over his shoulder and raced to the front doors of the church, the wall of heat pressing against him, closing around him, melting the air so that he had to close his eyes and navigate by memory.

  His knee banged into a pew, but he kept moving forward. A deep crackle overhead told him the old roof was giving out. Off to the side, a chandelier dropped down and smashed onto the pews. Flaming debris followed. The hair on his arms singed.

  Two more steps!

  He threw himself out of the building, carrying the woman, leaping down the stairs, his boots sliding on the wet snow. Somewhere over the honking of the Explorer’s horn and the whoosh of the conflagration behind him, he heard the scream of sirens.

  Thank God!

  Relief soaked through him along with cold, fresh air.

  He hauled the dead woman far from the flames to the other side of his truck and laid her gently on the ground to see her face.

  Blood drizzled from her lips. Her dark hair was shiny, as if she had just brushed it, but her skin … His stomach lurched at the sight of her skin. The skin had been stripped from her arms and torso—almost peeled off in a horrendous way that reminded him of that dead coyote.

  Despite the mutilation, he recognized her. The missing Amber Barstow. Her picture had been on all of the newscasts in recent days, as well as highlighted on the front page of the local paper.

  Through the blur of smoke and falling snow he saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles as they rolled into the pristine white parking lot.

  Amen.

  He sank down into the snow of the parking lot and stared at the dead girl. What happened to you? he wondered. A coughing spasm overcame him. He turned away to spit in the snow, then looked back at her. What the hell happened to you?

  The glow on the horizon was unmistakable: fire.

  Sabrina slowed as she tried to figure out the location of the orange flames burni
ng through the haze of falling snow. The old Pioneer Church?

  She didn’t think twice, but cranked on the wheel of her truck as she reached the turnoff. From the flashing lights, she could see that the fire department was there, but she was a licensed EMT. Maybe she could help. Heart in her throat, the wheels of her truck slipping a little, she hit the accelerator and bumped up the lane to the rise.

  Emergency vehicles were already on the scene, strewn haphazardly across the snow-covered parking lot. Firemen pumped water high into the air, creating dazzling fountains that fell onto the church, fighting the flames, sizzling against white-hot timbers. Smoke billowed out of the open front doors and through gaps in the roof.

  At this time of night, chances were no one had been inside.

  As she turned her truck to park away from the emergency vehicles, her headlights hit a familiar truck. Colton’s truck.

  Oh, God.

  She threw the truck into park and bolted out. “Colton!” She wove around the pump truck and lunged toward the double doors.

  “Stand back!” a fireman ordered. A man she recognized as Hunter Kincaid stepped in front of her, blocking her way.

  Sabrina pounded the arm of his heavy coat. “Colton Dillinger!” she screamed. She must have sounded like a lunatic but she didn’t care. “I’m looking for Colton Dillinger. His truck is here and—”

  Another fireman said, “We’re clear. No one else in the building.”

  “Else?” she repeated. “No one else?” Was she too late? Had Colton been caught in this horrid inferno?

  Oh, God, she couldn’t lose him now. All the cold fear she’d felt eighteen years ago came back in a rush. “No!” she cried, tears filling her eyes.

  “Stand back,” Kincaid said, all business. “Now!”

  “Sabrina … Is that you?”

  She turned and found Sam Featherstone standing near his department-issued Jeep.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked as she made her way toward him.

  “Looking for Colt! I know he’s here. His rig’s right there!” She jabbed a finger toward his SUV. “And, and …”

  Then she saw him. Covered in soot, black from head to toe, but standing upright, tall and rangy as ever, he emerged from behind his SUV.

  “Colt!”

  He tossed his blackened gloves into the snow, then looked up at her.

  “Oh, God.” Her knees threatened to give way, and she willed herself not to sink to the ground in sheer relief. Instinctively she ran to him and threw herself into his waiting arms. “I thought you were dead,” she cried, clinging to him, not caring who saw.

  For an answer he kissed her, hard. She could feel the pounding of his heart. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said on a shaking breath, keeping her tight against him.

  Sabrina bit back a sob. He was alive! Alive! “What were you doing in there? For the love of God, what happened?”

  “Nothin’ good,” he whispered into her hair. “Nothin’ good until now.”

  She couldn’t let him go again, couldn’t deny what had become so crystal clear to her in the past few hours. “I want to start over. I do. I do, Colton. I don’t know what was holding me back.”

  “Good. Good.” He held her like he’d never let go, but then he finally lifted his head and guided her farther from the noise of the trucks and the shouts of men and the hiss of the dying fire. “I want a new beginning, too. With you.”

  “I’ve been too careful. I won’t be anymore.”

  “They’ve got it now. Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  The distraction was working.

  From his own truck, the killer had witnessed the lights and sirens of emergency vehicles tearing up the narrow streets of Prairie Creek, on their way to the biggest fire to hit this part of Wyoming since the Dillinger ranch blaze nearly two decades earlier.

  No one would suspect the fire was only a diversion meant to direct attention outside of town. As soon as he was satisfied all the rescue vehicles and police were on their way to the church, he drove to the far side of town, parked his truck in the deserted lot of a school and strode, head down, along the sidewalks where others had trod.

  The night was quiet, traffic on the main street through town hushed by falling snow. Even the few sounds that escaped from a late-night bar or the dog barking from an apartment were muffled by the snow.

  Her house was small, unkempt, a cabin where the neighbors were far enough away that, unless something went very wrong, he could do what he had to do and get out unseen. His hand slid into his pocket to finger his trophies once again. Soon hers would be among the teeth now massaging his fingers.

  Then he located the house key, the one he’d stolen from her purse as she’d set it down when he’d asked her advice on a bouquet for his girlfriend. As she’d looked into the case of cut flowers, he’d lifted her set of keys deftly. With that weird limp, he knew she could never make it back to the front counter in time to catch him in the act.

  Now, he slid on his gloves and took her key ring from his pocket as he stole around to the back of the house. He knew she had no animals and that her untamed daughter was camping out in one of the Dillinger cabins.

  Everything was coming together perfectly, he thought, as he slipped the key into the back door and felt the lock spring open.

  Waiting for her sleeping pill to kick in, Mia tossed and turned in the worn groove of the double bed she’d slept in most of her life. The room was dark except for the glow that filtered in through her window shade. With the ground outside covered in white, the light from the street lamps was magnified and darkness was never complete.

  The house still smelled of chili, and the pot still sat on the stove, ready for Kit to reheat when she got home.

  If she got home. She’d promised, but then Kit couldn’t be counted on unless you were a horse, or a cow, or a goddamned dog.

  Mia was sick of waiting for her, sick of living alone. It galled her to no end to think that her daughter, a Dillinger, mind you, had turned into a strange animal whisperer that other people looked at as if she weren’t right in the head.

  “What do you do out there?” Mia had asked her daughter countless times, but Kit just looked away and shrugged. “Talk to me,” Mia had demanded, but her words never penetrated Kit’s veil of secrecy. It was downright embarrassing.

  Mia knew that the Dillinger foreman, Davis Featherstone, encouraged her, tossing food here and there in return for work in the stables. Mia had told Featherstone in no uncertain terms to leave Kit alone, but the man had looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language. That was typical of the help Mia got from the Dillingers—none.

  The first wave of slumber teased at her brain. She let her breath out slowly and stared at shadows playing on the ceiling, shadows reflected from tree branches outside her window. Finally, she might be able to sleep.

  Turning over, the bed springs creaking a bit, she thought she heard something. A soft click.

  The back door?

  Had Kit come home after all?

  She listened hard. Nothing. Huh. Oh, well. Had she really expected her daughter to follow through? Her eyelids were getting heavier and she almost had Pilar’s sneering face out of her mind.

  Thump.

  The soft sound of a door closing. The kitchen door.

  So Kit was sneaking in again, trying not to wake her mother. Didn’t she know better? Mia was happy to have her home. “Honey?” Mia called toward her opened bedroom door to the darkened hallway.

  Nothing.

  Just the tick of the clock at her bedside, her mother’s favorite, and the quiet hum of the furnace.

  “Kit?” she called again and then listened.

  Silence. Nothing but the beating of her own heart.

  And yet Mia sensed she wasn’t alone.

  The hairs on the back of her arms lifted a bit.

  “Honey, this isn’t funny!”

  She rolled over to turn on the bedside lamp just as the
door to her bedroom opened further. In the half light she saw the silhouette of a man, a big man, dark against the white woodwork.

  “Who the hell are you?” she demanded.

  Her blood ran cold.

  Frantically, her fingers scrabbled across the scarred nightstand, reaching for the lamp, for the clock, for anything.

  He leaped across the room. She screamed bloody murder, but he was on her in an instant. A gloved hand muffled her cries as his body pressed her hard against the mattress.

  Fear screamed through her body. Her fingers curled over the clock and she tried to strike him with it, but he used his free hand to rip it from her fingers and toss it aside.

  “Don’t!” She tried to plead with him. “Don’t hurt me!” But her words were muffled by the fat glove. She wriggled and writhed, trying to get him off her, but he was too strong. Her broken body was unable to dislodge him.

  She felt her bladder release as he yanked something from his pocket and held it up.

  A knife. Its long blade gleamed dark silver in the light from the window.

  She screamed again, but it was a feeble noise behind his big hand. A shiver rippled through her body and she struggled harder, intent on shaking him off. She twisted and bucked and tried to pummel him with her fists, but even as she fought, she realized her efforts were futile.

  He was stronger, and he had a weapon.

  A very sharp weapon.

  God help me, Mia thought as he leaned closer.

  His breath was hot against her ear as he whispered, “Practice makes perfect.”

  And then the knife descended.

  Back at the bunkhouse, Colton kicked open the door and carried Sabrina in, all the while his lips pressed to hers in the kiss begun when he’d insisted on carrying her through the deepening snow.

  He burned to have her, with all the heat and fury of the fire he’d dodged earlier in the night. His kisses were hungry, greedy, but she answered with a fervor that said she shared his desperation.

  He ended the kiss and moved his mouth along her jaw, his lips teasing the silken texture of her skin. “Sabrina …” he said unsteadily.