Army Ranger Redemption

by Carol Ericson

  “There are just the two bedrooms. You already visited the one bathroom, and then the room at the end of the hall—my studio.”

  He pushed into the bathroom and placed his palms flat against the small, beveled-glass window. “Someone can slide this up and out. You can buy a rod to put across the top of the slider to prevent that, or you can even use a pencil.”

  “Good idea. I never realized how unsafe I was before.”

  “You never found a dead body on your property before—have you?”

  “That was a first, although I guess it’s not all that rare for Timberline cabins to be housing dead bodies. Did you hear about Jordan Young killing his mistress twenty-five years ago and stuffing her body in the chimney of his cabin?” She sucked in a breath between her teeth and shivered.

  “I read about the whole thing online when I got here. So much for peaceful little Timberline.”

  He checked the windows in the guest bedroom, and then she led him to her own room. As he took a turn around the bedroom, she actually blushed—not out of modesty but because she’d just had a sudden vision of this man spread out on her bed.

  “You should keep these closed at night.” He yanked the curtains together and she jumped. “Are you still nervous?”

  “It’s not every day someone is murdered in your neighborhood.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She should be feeling more anxious about that instead of daydreaming about Jim Kennedy in all his naked glory. She’d put it down to shock.

  He tilted his head and that lock of dark hair fell over one eye—just like in high school. “Let’s take a look at that back door.”

  As she led him to her studio, she clasped her hands in front of her, twirling her ring around her middle finger. She usually didn’t invite people into her inner sanctum, unless they were other artists. Not even potential clients saw her workspace.

  Dragging in a breath, she threw open the door and flicked on the light.

  Jim froze at the doorway, his mouth hanging slightly ajar. “I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life.”

  “Well—” she waved her arms around “—it’s an artist’s studio.”

  “You’re very...productive.” He swiveled his head from side to side, taking in the work on the walls, canvases stacked in the corner and unfinished pieces languishing on easels stationed around the room. “And kind of schizophrenic.”

  “I guess that’s one way of putting it.”

  “You’ve got normal stuff over here—” he flung out his right arm “—and...different kind of stuff over here.”

  “Landscape watercolors on the right and modern, abstract oils on the left.”

  “Let me guess.” He pointed to a painting comprising of skyscrapers, a pair of eyes and a wolf head. “This is the expensive stuff.”

  “Good guess.” She held her breath waiting for him to ask her to explain the painting.

  He studied it for several seconds with his head to one side and then shrugged. “This room isn’t secure at all.”

  She released the breath. “Because of the glass wall.”

  “It must look incredible during the day, but at night anybody could peer right into this room. If you keep expensive work in here, I’d think you’d want to protect it better.”

  “This is Timberline. I really didn’t expect to move back here and experience a crime wave.” She rapped on the glass. “What do you suggest?”

  “This is the back door?” He navigated through the easels and stands and yanked on the handle of the sliding glass door. He crouched down and inspected the track. “You can put a rod in here for an extra measure of safety in case someone breaks the lock. A camera wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.”

  Twisting her braid around her hand, she sighed. “I might as well go back to the big city.”

  “That man who died tonight probably has nothing to do with you.”

  “Don’t try to make me feel better now after you just did a security check on my home...and found it woefully inadequate.”

  “Problem is, we don’t know what he was doing out there, why he was killed or who killed him.”

  He straightened up, grasping the door handle for support. She would’ve offered a hand, but Jim didn’t seem like the type of man who would accept assistance easily.

  “Hopefully the county sheriff’s department can figure that out. I don’t need any more people lurking around my cabin, causing trouble.”

  “Jordan Young was after that TV reporter, not you, right?”

  “Jordan turned out to be Beth St. Regis’s biological father. He’d murdered her mother, his mistress, twenty-five years ago and sold Beth on the black market when she was a baby. He just turned his attentions toward me because I was helping Beth.” She shivered and pressed her hands against her stomach. “Pure evil.”

  “He figured if anyone noticed his daughter’s disappearance, he could pass it off as another Timberline kidnapping?”

  “Something like that, but nobody noticed the disappearance of mother and daughter since Beth’s mother had moved away after the pregnancy and had just returned to Timberline. Young had kept them hidden away in his cabin until he killed Angie, Beth’s mother.”

  “Makes you wonder.” He shoved one hand in his pocket and stared out the wall of windows at the forest lurking in the darkness beyond.

  “Wonder what?”

  “If there was an active black market for children, maybe that’s what happened to the Timberline Trio.”

  “Not you, too.” She shut off the light in the studio. “Ever since Wyatt Carson kidnapped those three children to recreate the Timberline Trio so he could play the hero, everyone and his brother have been snooping around looking into the Timberline Trio case.”

  “You think that’s a bad idea?” He’d turned from the window and his eyes glimmered in the dark room.

  “It’s over.” She’d never admit to him that she had her own reasons for finding out what had happened twenty-five years ago. She’d never admit that to anyone, since curiosity about the case seemed to put a target on your back.

  He said, “I suppose it’s never over for the families. Look what it did to Wyatt Carson. Losing his younger brother like that must’ve jarred something loose in his psyche for him to go on and kidnap those children years later.”

  “You’re right.” She stepped back into the light from the hallway. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but...”

  “You’re Quileute.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She jutted out her chin.

  “Just that I know your people had some fears and superstitions around the whole Timberline Trio case.” He held up his hands. “Hey, they weren’t the only ones.”

  As far as she could recall, Jim never had a problem with the Quileute, but his father was another story—loudmouthed bigot. Members of her tribe had been in a few barroom brawls with Slick Kennedy.

  He’d gotten the nickname Slick because of his movie-star handsomeness and pumped-up physique. Her gaze tracked over Jim as he stood in the middle of the room, and she swallowed. The apple hadn’t fallen too far from that tree.

  But Jim had never been in any trouble with her people, although all the guys her age had been wary of him because of his father, his brother and his father’s buddies—beer-drinking, bigoted bikers.

  She lifted and dropped her shoulders quickly. “Yeah, there were some crazy stories going around at the time.”

  He crossed the room and joined her at the door. “Anyway, you might want to look into securing this place better—at least until the deputies can figure out why that man dropped dead in the woods outside your cabin.”

  “I’ll do that, thanks.” She closed the door to the studio. Halfway down the hallway, she turned suddenly and Jim bumped into her. She placed a palm against h
is chest where his heart thundered beneath her touch. “Sorry.”

  His body tensed as he stepped away from her, and she dropped her hand.

  “What are you doing back here, Jim?”

  His lids lowered over his eyes and he studied her from beneath his thick, dark lashes. “Trying to get away from it all, just like you.”

  She blinked and turned, calling over her shoulder. “How long have you been out of the army?”

  “Over a year.”

  “Is that...is that what happened to your leg?”

  “Long story.”

  It didn’t sound like he had any intention of sharing it with her. Maybe he’d loosen up after a few beers or a shot of whiskey.

  When they reached the living room, he made a beeline for the front door. “See you around.”

  Scarlett blinked. “I was going to offer you something for your trouble tonight and for staying with me. Beer? Coffee?”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Now it seemed as if he couldn’t get away from her fast enough. Must’ve thought she was prying into his business. She followed him to the front door, which he’d already opened.

  He stepped out onto the dark porch.

  “Oops, I turned off my porch light. Be careful. I have some plants...”

  As he turned, Jim tripped over one of the pots and stumbled down the two steps, falling to the ground.

  He cursed on his way down and landed with a thud in the dirt.

  “I’m so sorry.” Scarlett switched on the porch light and flew down the steps. As she lowered herself to the bottom step to help Jim, his bare back, exposed by his shirt hiking up, drew her gaze.

  Shock tingled through her body as she saw the edge of Jim’s tattoo—an L and a C curled together—just like the tattoo on the dead man.

  Chapter Four

  “Dammit.” If Scarlett touched him or tried to help him, his humiliation would be complete.

  She jerked back and pushed to her feet. She must’ve sensed the vibe coming off him.

  “Why’d you turn off the porch light?” He rolled to his back and peered up at her wide eyes. “I’d forgotten those damned potted plants were there.”

  “Yeah, sorry. It’s a habit for me to turn off that light when I come inside for the night.” She took another step up, reaching for the door behind her. “You okay?”

  “I’m all right.” He hoisted up to his feet and brushed the dirt from his jeans.

  “Maybe one of the deputies can give you a ride home.”

  She wasn’t offering? He didn’t blame her, the way he’d snapped at her. Wasn’t her fault he had a gimp leg.

  “I think I can make it.” He stomped his boots on the ground. “No permanent damage, or at least no more permanent damage.”

  “Okay, then. Good night.” She slipped into her cabin and slammed the door.

  That spark he’d felt between them had just been extinguished. The fall made her realize he was damaged goods. A woman like that needed a strong man to match her, not some physically weakened, brain-addled vet.

  He trudged through the trees toward the deputies canvassing the crime scene, giving them a wide berth to avoid being questioned tonight. He couldn’t handle it right now.

  Seeing Rusty Kelly’s dead body had been a shock. What was Rusty doing back here? That type always rode in packs. Did that mean the rest of them were close on his heels? Was it a coincidence that Rusty had turned up dead a week after Jim had arrived in Timberline?

  He edged around the squad cars and took the long way back to his cabin by following the road. When he got back to his place, he withdrew his Glock and checked out the perimeter of the cabin.

  Unlike Scarlett’s place, this cabin had a wide clearing around it that extended all the way to the road. He believed in having an unobstructed view of whatever was coming at him.

  But he hadn’t seen Scarlett Easton coming at him. He’d noticed the smoke from her chimney since he’d been back, but he’d figured it was Gracie Butler living in her folks’ place. He hadn’t been prepared for a dark-haired beauty to hit him like a thunderbolt.

  Scarlett had been something of a mystery in high school—a rebel but not a bad girl, lost both of her folks in a car accident. She’d never partied much unless it was on the rez, and she’d traveled with a pack of very protective guys from her tribe. That bunch wouldn’t have let him within two feet of Scarlett, but then they’d judged him based on his old man. He didn’t blame them.

  Satisfied there were no strangers or, worse, people he knew lurking around the cabin, he went inside. He locked the door behind him and faced the room, his breath coming in short spurts.

  Squeezing his eyes shut, he massaged his bad leg. It didn’t hurt him anymore, but sometimes it ached in remembrance.

  He dragged in a deep breath, but it didn’t do any good. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel the room spinning, the darkness closing in on him.

  He managed to make it to the couch, dragging his left leg behind him. Collapsing to the cushions, he ripped off his jacket and dropped it to the floor. He sank, his head in his hands, his fingers digging into his scalp.

  The heat. He couldn’t take the heat. He yanked off his shirt and the T-shirt beneath it. He bunched them both into a ball and pressed it against his face to mop the sweat pouring from his brow.

  Falling to his side on the couch, he let out a low moan. Then the images began flashing behind his closed lids. He drove his fists against his eyeballs to make the pictures in his head go away...but they kept coming.

  He needed his medication. How had he thought he could do without it, especially in this place?

  He needed a drink. He needed to sleep. He needed a warm body.

  He needed Scarlett Easton.

  * * *

  “HE WAS KILLED somewhere else?” Scarlett cupped her hands around her mug of tea and inhaled the fragrant steam as it rose to meet the cool morning air. “I suppose that’s...a relief.”

  Deputy Collins, from the county’s homicide division, nodded. “We’re thinking maybe someone stabbed him in a car or even before, and then loaded him up and dumped him out on the side of the road. There were some blood spots on the asphalt. Then he dragged himself through the woods. Maybe he was heading toward your cabin to get help.”

  She shivered. “He didn’t have a cell phone on him?”

  “No, and he didn’t have a wallet.”

  “You haven’t identified him yet?” She laced her fingers around her cup.

  “Not yet. The coroner’s doing an autopsy this morning, and we’ll get his prints and DNA. Nobody’s reporting anything yet—no missing persons, no accidents, no barroom fights.”

  She didn’t know why she wasn’t telling this nice deputy all about the tattoo the dead man shared with Jim Kennedy. Why hadn’t Jim said something? Maybe he hadn’t seen the man’s tattoo emblazoned on his neck. But why did he have the same one?

  How could that possibly be a coincidence? It had an L and a C. It’s not like it was the tattoo of a hula girl. It meant something.

  She kicked the toe of her boot against the planter on the corner of her porch, the same one Jim had tripped over in the dark.

  What had happened to his leg?

  The man was as full of secrets as the boy had been—and just as dangerous. She’d been as drawn to him last night as she’d been in high school, but this time she’d sensed an answering spark of interest.

  She hadn’t been alone in her feverish daydreams about Jim Kennedy during high school. Lots of the girls at school—even the popular ones—had whispered and giggled about Jim, but none of them, including her, would’ve been allowed to go out with him. He was every parent’s nightmare—long hair, motorcycles and a bad, bad family.

  It had just been Jim, his older br
other and their father. They all rode motorcycles, and the older brother and Slick had been hard drinkers and hard partyers. She had no idea what had happened to his mother.

  Deputy Collins glanced at his notepad. “A Mr. Kennedy was with you when you discovered the body?”

  “That’s right. He lives in the next cabin up the road.”

  “Thanks for your help, Ms. Easton. We’ll contact you if there’s anything else or if we think you might be in some kind of danger.”

  “Danger?” Her pulse jumped. “You mean if the man’s death was some random murder and there’s a killer on the loose?”

  “I don’t think that’s the case. He looked like a rough customer, probably ran with a rough crowd. Once we ID him, we might be able to put your mind at ease. You probably don’t have anything to worry about.”

  Yeah, except for her attraction to Jim Kennedy, who had the same tattoo as the dead man. That worried her.

  “Well, I’ll be here if you have any more information for me.”

  He tipped his hat, and the copse of trees ringing her property swallowed him up as he made his way to his car.

  Through narrowed eyes, she watched him get into his car, the last of the emergency vehicles that had been out here all night.

  If this rough customer had died in the woods beyond her cabin as a result of a fight, she had nothing to fear. She hadn’t seen anything. She couldn’t point the finger at his killer, and she didn’t know the dead man.

  But if someone was running around Timberline stabbing people and dumping them on her property, then she had plenty to fear.

  She snorted and took a gulp of lukewarm tea. Why would someone want to do that? She knew nothing about anything—no more dream quests for her, no more psychic mumbo jumbo, as her cousin Jason called it.

  Except that she did know something. She knew Jim Kennedy and the dead man shared the same tattoo, and Jim hadn’t said a word about it to anybody.

  She retreated to her cabin and slammed the door. She’d come back to Timberline to work, and she planned to keep her head down and do just that.