by Cassie Miles
“I thought I saw someone,” she said. “Someone from my past.”
“Who?”
“It doesn’t matter because he wasn’t really there. I imagined him. Sounds a little crazy.” More than a little crazy. “There’s a psychological label for this. What do the shrinks call it when you see people who aren’t there?”
“Paranoid,” he said.
“That’s me.” Though she tried to shrug it off, her muscles were too clenched to move. “Paranoid.”
“You’re not crazy, Nicole. You’re having a natural reaction to a high-stress situation.”
Then why hadn’t she felt the stress earlier? She’d enjoyed her conversation with Mace on the drive down here. Their shared war cry was fun. It was only after they kissed that she saw a vision of Derek.
“This imaginary person,” he said. “It wasn’t Joey, was it?”
“No. I’m not scared of Joey.”
“Maybe you should be.”
She shook her head. Her panic had begun to subside. The more she talked, the less hysterical she felt. As long as she remembered that there could never be a real relationship for her, she’d be fine.
“Listen, Mace, I know your theory is that Joey staged his own kidnapping. But I don’t believe it.”
“We just heard from Don Blackbird that Joey had gambling debts. That’s a motive.”
“Ten or twenty thousand dollars isn’t enough to risk capital punishment. He could have gotten the money from his uncle Blake.”
“What if Uncle Blake turned him down?”
Daisy bounced back over to their table. “Look at you two holding hands. Just remember that I’m catering the wedding.”
Nicole released her grasp on Mace’s long, brown fingers. No wedding. No way. She grabbed the glass of orange soda and drained it.
“Can I bring you anything else?” Daisy asked. “It’s almost dinnertime.”
“We’ve got to leave,” Mace said. “Thanks for everything, Daisy.”
When he stood, he placed a twenty on the table. Daisy deserved a good tip. If she hadn’t been so pushy, he never would have kissed Nicole, and that was a moment he would never regret.
He helped her into her red parka and pulled her long flaxen braid out from the collar. The smooth texture of her hair slipped through his hand. Someday he would unfasten that plait and tangle his fingers in the silken length.
“Are we going back to the ranch?” she asked.
“I want to make a stop by Boot Hill on the way back. To get an idea of what Joey was painting.”
When he rested his hand on her back to guide her toward the exit, she scooted quickly ahead as though she wanted to avoid his touch. Her attitude had changed from lighthearted to guarded.
Whatever she had seen outside the tavern spooked her to the core. She’d been terrified. Mace had felt the trembling in her ice-cold hands.
Back in the Explorer, he checked in with dispatch for an update on the kidnapping. As he drove on the road leading back to Elkhorn, he passed on the information to Nicole, “The kidnappers still haven’t called back. And Blake Wentworth isn’t scheduled to arrive until tomorrow.”
“Does he have the ransom money?” she asked.
“He’ll have it by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. I’m not sure whether he’s raiding Joey’s trust fund or receiving a payment through his insurance company. But he’ll have cash.”
“Good,” she said. “This ought to be over soon.”
Then what? Would she leave? “I hope when the investigation is wrapped up, you’ll stick around.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to know you better.”
“Same here, but…” Her voice trailed off.
“Think about it.” He turned off the main road and followed a twisting road across an open plain. Boot Hill Cemetery was located halfway between Elkhorn and Las Ranas on a small rise above a streambed that was dry at this time of year.
As Mace parked and exited the car, he looked up at skies streaked with the red and gold reflections of the setting sun. Dusk came early in October. “Let’s hurry,” he said. “I don’t want to be here after dark.”
She stood beside him. The last rays of sunlight burnished her cheeks. “Tell me about Boot Hill.”
“Back in the old days, people used to bury their dead on their ranches or farms. Boot Hill was for townspeople who didn’t own land. Or for those who had no friends or family. Probably no one has been buried here for seventy years.” He pointed toward a ravine that was roughly fifty yards away. “This site is doubly sacred. A Ute chief was supposed to be buried over there.”
“Did the Utes have burial grounds?”
He led the way across a rickety wooden bridge that spanned the dry streambed. “My tribe isn’t always ritualistic about disposing of the body, but they believe in immortality. After death, two spirits battle for the soul. The good spirit usually wins and the dead person is welcomed to the happy hunting ground. When the evil spirit wins, the soul is doomed to walk the earth.”
“A ghostwalker. Like Don Blackbird said.”
Mace climbed the worn stairs leading to a weathered picket fence surrounding the headstones and markers. At the far end of the small graveyard, the bare branches of two cottonwood trees were silhouetted against the sunset. A cold wind whispered across the forlorn landscape. He didn’t like this place; nothing good could happen here. “Why did Joey want to paint a cemetery?”
“I kind of like graveyards,” she said. “They’re peaceful.”
Nicole strolled through the gate. She leaned down to read the name on a worn wooden marker. Her finger traced the letters. Almost without thinking, she pulled a few dead weeds to tidy the gravesite. She went to another grave and did the same.
“What are you doing?” Mace asked.
“Honoring the dead. It makes me sad when people who have died are neglected. You know, if I’d died here a hundred years ago, I’d be in Boot Hill.”
He got the point—she had no family, no friends, no land—but he didn’t like the image. “You wouldn’t have been alone. A hundred years ago, there’s no way a healthy young woman like you would have been unmarried.”
“I might have chosen to be single.”
“You’d have a thousand suitors knocking at your door. One of them would convince you.”
“A thousand suitors, huh?” She moved away from him and focused on a crumbling tombstone. “Look at this thing. All alone and forgotten. The dead need to pass on their memories. I think of my father and mother every day of my life. It keeps them alive.”
She wandered through the markers, reading off the names and dates. Her red parka and golden hair were the only splashes of color in this arid land of death. He had an urge to pull her away from here and take her to a warm, vibrant place where she might grow and flourish. The seeds were there. In her. But he knew Nicole would blossom only when she was ready.
Mace walked at the perimeter of the graveyard, trying to find the perspective Joey had used to paint this scene. In one corner, the dried weeds and grasses were bent and broken. Mace studied the area and discovered a discarded tube of acrylic paint.
This was where Joey had stood. What had he been thinking? Possibly, like Nicole, he found solace in the graveyard. But his paintings showed rage and violence, as if he came here to engage demons and ghostwalkers.
A shudder bristled the hairs at the nape of Mace’s neck. He wasn’t generally superstitious, but he had a bad feeling about Boot Hill.
The cell phone inside his jacket trilled, and he answered. It was Heflin, and he sounded angry.
“We had a call from the kidnappers,” he said.
“Were you able to trace it?” Mace asked.
“They got off too fast to triangulate their position. But they’re in this general area,” Heflin muttered. “They said they’d only talk to Nicole.”
No wonder he was ticked off. Heflin had made it clear that he was in charge of negotiations. Mace said, “I can ha
ve her back at the cabin in half an hour.”
“Don’t bother. Their next call will be tomorrow at ten o’clock with instructions for the drop-off.”
“I’ll be there with Nicole,” Mace said.
“Frankly, Sheriff, I don’t trust this woman. There are too many holes in her background. She’s got no friends, no family. It’s like she was dropped in Elkhorn from another planet.”
Mace watched as she came toward him. Her gait was lithe and athletic. Her head tilted as if to ask a question. Her eyes were solemn.
“Another planet,” Mace said. “Is that your theory? Joey was abducted by aliens?”
“Might as well have been. Forensics came up empty. There are no fingerprints in the cabin, except for Joey and Nicole. No footprints, either.”
Mace drew the logical conclusion. “The kidnappers didn’t enter the cabin.”
“Excuse me, Sheriff. That’s a little naive. These guys are pros. They wore gloves and protective coverings on their shoes. Maybe plastic suits. We’re dealing with a sophisticated gang who knows better than to leave clues.”
Mace wasn’t about to argue with this jerk, but it was obvious to him that the damage in the cabin—including the theft of Nicole’s money—had been done by Joey. He created the crime scene, then walked out the door and met his supposed abductors.
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Mace said.
“Bring Nicole with you.”
Mace disconnected the call.
She stood directly in front of him. Her delicate eyebrows pinched with worry. “That was Heflin?”
“He had a call from the kidnappers,” Mace said. “Seems they only want to talk to you.”
She groaned. “Why? What do they want from me?”
He ticked off the answers they both knew already. “They’re sure you aren’t a cop. They know you care about Joey. They expect you to do whatever it takes to get him back in one piece.”
Another reason took shape in the back of his mind. If Joey was part of the kidnapping scheme, he might have a personal agenda—some kind of rage against Nicole that he wanted to play out.
Mace didn’t like that possibility. Joey’s behavior was an unknown, uncontrolled factor. He posed a threat to Nicole.
“It isn’t fair.” She stomped toward the gate in the picket fence.
“I’m with you,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to deliver the ransom money.”
“I could refuse to take part in this. After all, I’m just a private citizen.” She paused at the gate, then slowly turned and gazed at the weathered graves of Boot Hill. “But I can’t walk away from Joey.”
Her loyalty to a man she considered to be nothing more than a roommate amazed him. In spite of her insistence that she was alone in the world, Nicole was a good person to have as a friend.
AFTER A PLEASANT DINNER at the ranch house with Mace and Jewel, Nicole went to her bedroom. She stood at the window, staring out and considering her options. Parked in front of the house was her blue Ford Escort, all gassed up and ready to roll. Unfortunately, two deputies were patrolling outside, and their car blocked the driveway.
There was no escape. She was stuck here for the night. And tomorrow morning she’d talk to the kidnappers and walk into certain danger delivering the ransom.
Still fully dressed, she perched on the edge of the bed. Her nerves were strung tight as piano wire. Too tense to sleep. Too trapped to escape.
Her gaze rested on the small framed wedding photograph of her parents that she’d brought from the cabin. She wished so much that they could be here to reassure her and keep her safe. When her father was alive, he kissed the tip of her nose every night before she fell asleep and whispered, “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
As a child, her only fear was imaginary bedbugs. Now she was a raving paranoid.
Nicole picked up the leather-bound diary where she had recorded her last days with her mother. Scattered among Nicole’s thoughts were notes written in her mother’s own hand.
There was a knock on the door, and Jewel popped her head inside. “Do you have everything you need for the night?”
“Your hospitality is perfect,” Nicole said. “I really appreciate staying here.”
“Worried about tomorrow?”
“I’m nervous as a tom turkey on Thanksgiving.”
“Would you like some company?”
“If it’s convenient for you,” Nicole said.
“I’ve already put the horses to bed.” Jewel eased into the room and sat in the chair beside a small desk. She nodded to the book in Nicole’s hand. “Catching up on your reading?”
“I’ve memorized every page. It’s a diary I kept after my mother had a stroke and couldn’t talk. She wrote in this book. I always felt like she hung on for a few more days because she wanted to give me advice.” Nicole gazed down at the diary. “Here’s one thing she said: Don’t be afraid to ask for help. Be ready to give in return.”
Jewel’s smile was gentle and understanding. “Your mother sounds like a wise woman.”
“How about this one: Never marry for money.” Nicole’s laugh was bitter. She’d certainly messed up on that one. Derek had been rich as a prince—the prince of darkness.
“My mother was like that, too. She gave a lot of advice about men. None of which I followed.”
“You never married?” Nicole asked.
“I came close a couple of times, but I like my horses better.”
“My mother made mistakes of her own.” Nicole read another passage, “She wrote, ‘I screwed up twice. My good husband died. The bad one was the death of me.’”
“Ouch, that’s a little dark,” Jewel said. “There are a lot of decent men out there. You have to be willing to peel through all the layers, like with an onion.”
“They’re still stinky, and they make you cry.”
“Talk about smelling bad,” Jewel said. “There was this one guy I dated who thought that if he took a bath more than once a week, he’d wash away his vital manly juices. Whatever that means.”
Nicole had a few bizarre dating stories of her own. For over an hour she and Jewel swapped tales and giggled like a couple of teenagers at a slumber party. It had been a very long time since she’d had a female friend to confide in.
“You remind me of someone I grew up with,” Nicole said. “A best friend. She was the only one I could really talk to. Without her, I’m sure I would have gone completely crazy in my teens.”
“What happened to her?”
“She moved, and we lost touch.” Nicole hadn’t thought of her best friend in a while. “Thanks for being here. I actually think I might sleep tonight.”
Jewel stood, stretched and came toward her for a warm hug. “I’m here whenever you need me.”
When she left, Nicole sighed. Maybe the world wasn’t such a desolate place after all. There was always room for laughter, kindness and friends.
She hummed as she got ready for bed. After a shower, she slipped into her cozy flannel nightie, brushed her long hair and fastened it on top of her head with a clip. As soon as she pulled the comforter up to her chin, she was asleep.
Her dreams were restless. She found herself in that half-awake state when you know you’re dreaming but can’t stop. She was running through a mist. The earth beneath her feet felt soggy. Each step was an effort. She didn’t know why, but she had to keep going, fast as she could. To escape. She had to run. Demons and ghostwalkers breathed down her neck.
Then she was at Boot Hill. A blood-red sky burned away the mist. The dark, bare branches of the cottonwoods clawed at the heavens. A filmy white form hung from a low branch.
She didn’t want to come closer but couldn’t stay away. The wind screamed through the tree branches as she looked up. The filmy white thing was a body hanging from a noose. The face was her own.
A cry tore from her throat, and she sat up on the bed, wide awake in the dark, disoriented. Where was she? Nothing was familiar. Was she safe?
He came through her bedroom door. “What’s wrong?”
“Only a nightmare. Nothing to worry about.”
“The hell it’s not.”
He closed the bedroom door and strode barefoot across her bedroom to the bathroom. Awakened from sleep, he wore only a pair of gray sweatpants. His chest was bare.
He returned from the bathroom with a glass of water. In his other hand he held his automatic pistol. “Take a drink.”
She held the glass in both hands and brought it to her lips. The cool liquid tasted of reality. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said. “You shouldn’t have to go through this. There’s no way you should be expected to talk to kidnappers and deliver ransoms. That’s my job.”
“Is it?”
“You bet.” He sat on the edge of her bed. Though his presence was overpoweringly masculine, she didn’t feel threatened. “As of now, you’re free. I won’t let you put yourself in harm’s way.”
She started to protest. “But Joey—”
“The kidnappers want money. There’s no need to terrorize you.” His dark eyes shone with concern. The lids slowly blinked as though he was not yet completely awake. “Now, tell me about your bad dream.”
“It was a silly nightmare. It didn’t make sense.”
“Still, it’s good to talk about it. You can tell me, then forget about it.”
She took another sip of water. “Something was after me. Maybe one of those ghostwalkers.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“I was at Boot Hill.” Fear started rising up in her again. She placed the water glass on the bedside table. “The sky was red, like an open wound. A body was hanging from a tree branch. I saw the face. It was me.” A violent shudder went through her. “Oh God, I don’t want to die.”
