by Joanna Wayne
Dylan’s hand brushed the back of a worn leather couch as he walked past it. “At least the air conditioner works.”
And worked well, she noted. The house was pleasantly cool and free of dust and the myriad spiderwebs that would have given it a true haunted look. Someone had obviously readied the place for Troy Ledger’s arrival.
Dylan walked to the kitchen. She followed him.
He opened what appeared to be a new refrigerator. “There are soft drinks, bottled water and beer,” he said. “What’s your pleasure?”
“Water would be nice.”
He handed her a bottle of water and took a beer for himself. She nodded her thanks.
He unscrewed the top from his beer. The silence grew awkward.
“Why me?” she finally asked.
“You passed me back on the road.”
“That’s not much of a reason.”
He took a long swig of the beer. “Guess I just wanted to know why the hurry. Is news that scarce in Mustang Run?”
“Frankly, yes.”
“Must be an exciting town.”
“About the same as when we were at Mustang Run Elementary School.”
His eyes narrowed. “Should I recognize you?”
“I’d worry if you did. I’ve changed a lot since fifth grade. I’m Collette McGuire. I was a year behind you in school.”
He nodded as if he’d just had an ah-ha moment. “Collette the tattletale. You’re right. You’ve definitely changed. Is your father still sheriff?”
Her only claim to fame. In this case, it would work against her. “Yes, he is.”
“Is he part of the welcoming committee waiting outside?”
“I didn’t see him out there. As far as I can tell, the mob is all media sharks.”
“Like you?”
“Not exactly. I mean I am with the media today, but I’m not a reporter.”
His eyebrows arched.
“I’m a photographer—with Beyond the Grave,” she added hesitantly. “It’s a magazine that explores the paranormal.”
His muscles bunched, and his lips pulled into a tight line. “Let me guess. You want to help me connect with my dead mother.”
Ire burned in her veins. “I don’t communicate with the dead.” Or some of the living, either, she silently added.
He took another swig of the beer and leaned against the counter. “So why is Beyond the Grave interested in Willow Creek Ranch?”
“Word around town is that your house is haunted.”
“You people need to get a life.”
In theory she agreed with him. That didn’t keep his arrogance from rubbing her the wrong way. He’d been gone for years. What did he know of their town or her? But she should probably cut him some slack considering the reason he’d come back to Mustang Run. Besides, Eleanor and Melinda did need those pictures.
She placed her camera case on the kitchen table. “I realize the timing is not the greatest for you, but since you invited me inside, why not let me take a few pictures? And if there’s anything you want to say for the magazine, I can see that you’re quoted accurately.”
“I’ve nothing to say. But go ahead. Take your pictures.” He glanced at his watch. “Make it fast. My father will be here any minute now, and I seriously doubt he’ll be as accommodating as I’m being.”
“Thanks for the warning.” She started snapping pictures of the kitchen. Try as she might, she couldn’t find a way to make the place look spooky. She fared no better in the family room. The space just looked lonesome and bereft of human touch.
Intent on working quickly, she didn’t notice that Dylan had joined her in the family room until she caught sight of him in her viewfinder.
Her heart skipped a beat or two from the sheer masculinity of the man against the backdrop of the huge stone fireplace. The slow burn he ignited crept to her cheeks. She lowered the camera without taking the shot.
Dylan propped a booted foot on the low hearth and an elbow on the mantel. “What makes people say the house is haunted?”
“Some claim that they’ve seen a woman in white out by the gate when they pass it at night. She tries to wave them down as if she needs help. If they stop, she disappears.”
“Is that it?”
“Not quite. Some claim to have seen a woman standing at one of the windows.”
“Superstitious fools.” Dylan raked his fingers through his hair, parting the sandy locks into deep grooves that quickly filled back in place. “Are you one of them?”
“One of the superstitious fools? No. I have too much trouble with the living to worry about ghosts.”
Her cell phone rang. Probably Eleanor with instructions as to what photos she wanted for the magazine. “Excuse me,” she said, reaching for her phone.
“No problem.”
“Hello.”
“I saw you go inside the house with Dylan Ledger.”
Apprehension ground in her stomach. The lunatic who’d been stalking her must have followed her to Willow Creek Ranch.
She walked back to the kitchen, hopefully out of Dylan’s hearing range. “I told you to stop calling me,” she whispered.
“I can’t do that. We’re soul mates, Collette, meant to be together.”
She took a deep breath, hoping it would settle her shaky nerves and shakier voice. “I’m not anything to you, and if you don’t stop harassing me, my father will arrest you, throw you in jail and lose the key.”
“I’m not afraid of your daddy, Collette. But I have a message for him. Tell him I’ll soon be sleeping with his precious daughter. And you’ll like it. I promise you that.”
Her skin crawled. As much as she dreaded the thought, she was going to have to get a gun. This guy was nuts.
She broke the connection and rejoined Dylan. “I’m sorry for the interruption.”
“You look upset. Is something wrong?”
“It was a nuisance call.” She tried to take another picture, but her hands shook and she had trouble holding the camera steady.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dylan asked.
He was far too astute to buy her feeble excuses. “Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just that there’s this guy who’s bothering me. I’ll deal with it.”
She went back to taking pictures, and this time her hands remained calm. She finished in record time and walked to the kitchen. Dylan was staring out the window, his face a hard mask that revealed no emotion. She felt a weird connection with him, as if growing up in Mustang Run were a bond in itself.
She stepped closer. “It must be tough coming back after all these years. It’s a nice thing to do for your father.”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m doing it for him.”
So things weren’t fully settled between them, which made his inviting her in even more strange. “Did you stay in touch with him over the years?”
He shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Which meant he considered it none of her business. Fair enough. Only he was the one who’d started with the questions. “Why did you really let me in to take the pictures, Dylan?”
“You looked familiar. I just realized it’s because you look like your mother.”
“You remember my mother? I wasn’t even aware that you’d met her.”
“She came over the day my mother was murdered. She cooked dinner for my brothers and me. My memories from that night are sketchy, but I remember her telling us that no one would hurt us and that it was all right to cry. She stayed until my grandparents got here.”
“Where was your dad?”
“Being questioned by the deputies—and your father.”
Yep, that pretty much defined her parents. Mom had always been there to comfort. Her dad was always there to find fault and uncover the hidden sins.
“How is your mother?” Dylan asked.
“She had a stroke and passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry, “Dylan said. “Go ahead with your pictures. My father won’t like it, but t
he skeletons have been rattling around in this house for too long already. Might as well shake a few out for your readers.”
His voice was gruff and his tone edgy, an attempt, she suspected, to hide his emotions. Dylan was all man in every way that showed, but somewhere deep inside him, there must be some remnant of the boy who lost not only his mother to a brutal murder, but life as he knew it.
The clatter of voices outside rose to a crescendo. She joined Dylan at the window. A white truck was speeding down the road to the house.
“The return of Troy Ledger,” Dylan said.
Troy Ledger, not his father. That said a lot. His father might have gotten a get-out-of-jail-free card, but he obviously wasn’t getting a pass from Dylan. Maybe she had more in common with Dylan than she’d thought.
Surprising herself, she pulled out a business card. “If you need to talk, I’m available. You can call my photography studio or my cell number. Or you can stop by anytime. I live in the old Callister place. It’s the yellow house just past the Baptist church.”
“Your husband might not appreciate that.”
“What makes you think I’m married?”
“I saw you at the elementary school when I passed.”
“I was there to pick up my brother’s daughter, or rather to tell her I couldn’t pick her up and that she should ride the bus home.”
Their eyes met again as he took the card from her. His were tempestuous, yet mysteriously seductive. “I hope this works out for you,” she said.
“Yeah. Same for you. Be careful with the jerk who’s giving you a hard time.” He handed her the camera case and then walked her to the front door just as the back door swung open. “See you around.”
“Yeah, cowboy. See you around.”
She had a feeling he wouldn’t be looking her up. That was probably for the best, she told herself. He was far too complicated. She’d seen that in his intense, brandy-colored eyes. And she had complications and problems enough of her own.
Oddly, though, she found herself hoping that he’d call.
Chapter Two
He kept his distance, remaining unnoticed from his position behind the woodshed and sheltered by the low branches of a spreading live oak tree. Lifting his binoculars to his eyes, he watched as Collette McGuire walked out of the house and squeezed through the mob of reporters who were all but wetting their pants over the arrival of what looked to be the infamous Troy Ledger.
The wind tousled her hair like a lover might, lifting and teasing the fiery red curls before letting them fall to her narrow shoulders. Collette McGuire was both beautiful and spunky. Neither altered the outcome, but they had changed the game, likely even prolonged it.
She was a woman who could tempt any red-blooded male, even one as scarred and damaged as he was.
Too bad she had to die.
Chapter Three
Dylan dried the plate and put it away. The dishes were old, probably the same ones they’d eaten off of when he was a kid. Still, they were as unfamiliar to him as the man standing next to him.
Troy Ledger was tall and gaunt with slight bags under his tortured eyes and wrinkles that dug deep furrows across his brow. His nails were chewed down to his flesh, and a jagged scar ran along his right cheek and down to his breastbone. His forearms were muscled. He’d likely be a tough contender in a fight.
Fifty-five years old but he looked like a man who’d lived through hell. He acted only half alive, as if he’d been reduced to going through the motions, except that twice that afternoon he’d seemed to be in the grip of a mood so intense he could barely control it. One of those times, he’d clutched the glass he was holding so tightly that it shattered in his hand.
Dylan would have liked to ask what he was thinking at that moment, but his dad had set the rules of engagement from the moment he’d walked into the house. They’d shared a quick handshake and greeting, and then his dad had withdrawn so deeply into himself, Dylan might as well have been invisible.
They’d spoken briefly since then—about the steaks Dylan had grilled for their dinner, about the price of beef these days, about the weather. The closest they’d come to anything personal was when the formidable Troy Ledger had asked Dylan if he was married. He’d said no. His dad had only nodded. Who in hell knew what that meant?
His brothers had been right. Coming here was a mistake. But now that he was here, he’d stick it out at least a few more days. No reason to hurry off. No one was waiting for him anywhere.
“What are you going to do about the ranch?” Dylan asked when the dishes were all put away.
“Raise cattle, same as other ranchers.”
“Cattle cost money.”
He was pretty sure his dad didn’t have any. They were never rich, and the little Troy had would have been swallowed up by lawyers’ fees and taxes on the ranch.
Dylan had learned that much from his father’s attorney who’d handled the estate—the estate consisting of the ranch and this old house. The attorney had contacted Dylan and his brothers when their father’s release had become imminent and suggested they welcome him home. Dylan had been the only one who’d accepted the proposal. At his father’s request, the attorney had mailed Dylan a key to the house.
The family of Dylan’s mother was in much better financial shape. His and his brothers’ inheritance from their grandparents had gone into a trust fund that had put them all through college.
Uncle Phil had been upset when Dylan decided to go into the army after graduation instead of joining his uncle’s extremely successful advertising firm. Dylan had wanted to do something for his country and he’d needed adventure. The army had offered both.
Troy stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “Able Drake’s backing me for a start-up herd.”
“Do I know him?”
“Not likely. Lives up in Dallas now, but he’s from these parts.”
Dylan couldn’t help but wonder if Able was someone Troy had met in prison. As far as he knew, no one on his mother’s side of the family had ever mentioned the man, but then they hadn’t even spoken his father’s name in years. They were all convinced he’d killed their beloved Helene.
Dylan had acted as if he believed it, too. But he hadn’t. The father who lived in his dreams and imagination could never have killed his mother.
“Is Able the one who readied the house for you?” Dylan asked.
“He had it done.” His father looked around as if noticing the place for the first time. “Not much of a house, is it?”
“Structure’s okay,” Dylan said. It was the only positive thing he could think of.
“Used to look better,” his dad said. “Back when…” He stopped midsentence, looking as if pain was digging into his ruddy flesh like sharp nails.
“Yeah,” Dylan agreed. “It used to be better.”
His dad rubbed the old scar. “I’m beat. Think I’ll head on off to bed.”
And avoid any more feeble attempts at conversation with the son he hadn’t seen since the day he’d been convicted. All the boys had been there that day to say goodbye, against their grandparents’ will.
Dylan tried to muster up a bit of resentment for his father’s eagerness to escape his company. It didn’t come. Truth was, he wasn’t up to talking tonight, either. The chasm that separated them after years of zero communication was too deep and wide to be bridged by a steak and a few attempts at meaningless small talk.
“I’ll take the back bedroom,” his dad said.
Not the big bedroom he’d shared with Dylan’s mom, though Dylan had spotted him standing at that door earlier, staring into the room, his muscles strained and his expression as pained as if he’d been kicked in the gut by an angry bull.
Dylan sure as hell wasn’t sleeping there, either. “I’ll take my old bedroom. I checked earlier and it looks like all the beds have new sheets on them.”
“Guess the old ones would have rotted by now.”
Troy walked away, leaving Dylan standing alone
in the kitchen. Memories gathered around him like a suffocating fog. His mom stirring big pots of stews and soups at the range. Her singing while she worked. Trays of fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter. Her long hair flying when she’d grab him and dance about the kitchen. Her fragrance when she’d pull him into a hug. Her arms around him when he’d had a nightmare.
Returning footfalls in the hallway yanked him from the bittersweet reveries. He swallowed hard and turned to see his dad’s tall, lean body filling the open doorway.
“Thanks for being here, Dylan.”
The words were husky, as if they’d been pushed through a scratchy throat. His dad’s eyes looked moist. Dylan’s started to burn.
“Sure thing,” Dylan said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
He turned away as his dad’s retreating footsteps echoed down the hallway. The connection had been brief, but it had been there. It was a start.
Dylan searched the cupboard for a real drink, something strong enough to fight off the memories and regrets. He found a bottle of whiskey. Not his brand but now was not the time to be choosy.
He poured a couple of fingers of the amber liquid into a glass, swirled it around and then sipped it, welcoming the burn that trailed down his dry throat. He pushed through the back door and into the gray of twilight. Too restless to sit, he finished the drink, left the glass on the back steps and walked to his truck.
He’d be back, but right now he had to get out of here before the ghosts from his past made the woman in white who appeared for the superstitious think she was living in a freakin’ mausoleum.
COLLETTE RAISED THE CAMERA and framed the image of the bride dancing with her preadolescent nephew, an adorable red-haired lad who was stepping all over the hem of her gorgeous gown. The bride, Isabelle Smith, barely twenty-one herself, showed no sign of irritation.
This was her day, and the glow of love emanated from her like stardust. The only bad thing about stardust was that it had such a limited shelf life.
