Autumn Skies: 3 (A Bluebell Inn Romance)

by Denise Hunter

  There was a lot she wanted to ask him. About his job, his life—and yes, his love life. But her job was to be his guide, not to pry into his personal life. If he wanted to talk, he’d talk, and she’d be happy to accommodate. If not, it was going to be a long, quiet two days.

  “What was it like growing up here?” he asked as if privy to her thoughts.

  Grace’s first thought was of that terrible afternoon when the minivan had followed her down the deserted country road they lived on at the time.

  “Pretty great really. I had loving parents, and we didn’t want for anything. A nice, comfortable small town where everybody knows everybody, a lake to swim and fish in, and mountain trails to hike. Couldn’t ask for much more.”

  “Some people think small towns are boring. Especially teenagers.”

  “It would be if you didn’t like the outdoors.”

  “I guess you found the right business to launch. Did you like the space you looked at in town yesterday?”

  “Loved it. Unfortunately, the building’s as old as Methuselah, and it’s been vacant awhile. It needs a lot of TLC. Did you find what you were looking for at the library?”

  He paused a beat. “Mmm. Not really.”

  “Right genre, wrong author?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’m not much of a reader myself. I think Molly got all of the literary genes, though Levi likes to read a little too. Molly’s husband is an author—writes under the pen name of Nathaniel Quinn.”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “He lives in Bluebell now. Nice guy. They met when he came to stay at the inn.”

  “And your brother’s engaged?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “How’d you know that?”

  “He was on the phone discussing wedding plans when I passed him yesterday.”

  “Yeah, their wedding’s coming up in just over two weeks. His fiancée lives in LA, and the wedding will take place here, so the planning’s been a little tricky.” She left out the part about his fiancée being a celebrity. They were trying to keep the wedding quiet to keep reporters away.

  There was a nice lookout just up the hill with a grassy bank that overlooked the rippling water. “I’m about ready for a water break. How about you?”

  “Sounds good.”

  At the designated spot she shrugged off her backpack, but it connected with Wyatt’s shoulder.

  He flinched at the impact, his lips going tight. He pressed his hand to the spot.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, even though she hadn’t hit him hard enough to inflict pain. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I’m fine.” His hand fell away. “It’s nothing.”

  Maybe he had a bad shoulder or something. In that case he probably shouldn’t be carrying that heavy backpack. But he dropped the pack and rooted through it. He seemed fine. Maybe she’d jabbed him with something.

  She mentally shrugged and went in pursuit of her own water bottle.

  * * *

  By the end of the day Wyatt’s shoulder was throbbing. Two days of backpacking had set him back. He’d also neglected the physical therapy regimen he’d been religious about before this trip. He needed to get back to it but suspected the injury was aggravated enough for now.

  “I’ll gather some firewood,” he told Grace, scanning the small, primitive campground they just reached. “It’ll get chilly tonight.”

  “I’ll get out our supper.”

  “Sounds good.” He grabbed his pack and headed up a path through the woods. They’d made decent progress today until they came to the deer path. It had been slow going, cutting through the underbrush.

  He’d started to doubt his sanity. What if this was all a big waste of time? They wouldn’t be able to go much farther tomorrow before they had to head back. What if he never found the spot? Or what if he did and it didn’t bring the healing he sought? What if he was just as broken when his leave was finished? He couldn’t entertain that thought. Not when he was about to be promoted to PPD.

  Wyatt didn’t bother looking for firewood as he walked. He was headed first to the creek. He had a day’s worth of sweat, dirt, and cobwebs coating him, and he couldn’t wait to shed it. He was pretty sure Grace had already bathed when she disappeared for a bit after they’d set up the tents.

  She was in good shape, he’d give her that. They’d hiked, mostly uphill, for hours and not a word of complaint. She was a good traveling companion—chatty when he was, quiet when he wasn’t. It went back to that good intuition he’d noticed before. She hadn’t even pried him for information about this place he was searching for.

  Did she even know about the murder that had happened somewhere in these mountains fourteen years ago? Probably not. She’d only been a child at the time, not likely to be scanning newspaper headlines or watching the eleven o’clock news.

  When he reached the creek, he ditched his pack and took a few minutes to stretch out his shoulder. The creek was deep enough here for a swim. And no one was around, even at the campground, so he stripped off his clothes and went in.

  * * *

  Grace set out some of the food Miss Della had packed for them—peanut butter sandwiches, chips, granola bars, and bananas. The old campground had grills, but Grace hadn’t been sure of that, so she played it safe. There were napkins, paper plates, even instant coffee and coffee cups. God bless Miss Della.

  The sound of a thumping bass hit her ears just before the rumbling of an engine. A pickup truck approached from the dirt road, turning into the campground. Looked like they had company. There was still plenty of light, but the shade of the trees made it seem later. She couldn’t make out who was inside the extended cab.

  The truck slowly wound around the dirt lane, then stopped and parked two sites away from theirs. There were at least a dozen spots, all of them open, so the proximity seemed overclose. But maybe they fancied the idea of company.

  When the doors opened, three guys spilled out, wearing jeans and T-shirts, mid- to late twenties, she guessed. They greeted her with waves and smiles before they got down to the business of unloading things.

  She couldn’t make out their quiet chatter, but judging by a glance or two, and some guffawing, she got the feeling they were talking about her. A prickle of unease squirmed down her spine. Maybe this would be a good time to check in with Molly. She pulled out her phone, but of course, there was no service.

  Might be time to go after some firewood herself, and if she stumbled upon Wyatt, all the better. She slipped away, glancing back to make sure no one was following. Adrenaline had shot into her bloodstream, making her heart beat obnoxiously fast. Her breaths quick and shallow, she heard every snap of the twigs beneath her feet, every rustle of underbrush.

  She was being ridiculous. But she was glad Wyatt was here. She was strong, but that wouldn’t amount to much against three grown men. And she’d left her bear spray at the campsite.

  She picked up sticks as she walked, scanning the woods for Wyatt. But she didn’t glimpse his white T-shirt anywhere. She heard the rippling of the creek and went toward the sound. She’d washed up earlier, best she could. Maybe Wyatt had decided to do the same.

  She came through the clearing and found him right there on the bank, facing the creek, wearing only jeans. His short hair was damp against his neck, and droplets of water peppered his skin.

  The rushing water had covered the sound of her approach, so she took the opportunity to appreciate the broad slope of his shoulders, the artful curve of his muscular back. She could see part of the tattoo on his bicep now, some kind of symbol she didn’t recognize. Her eyes homed in on his shoulder where a circular scab was surrounded by pink, puckered flesh.

  She must’ve made a sound because he whipped around.

  A matching wound appeared on the reverse side of the same shoulder. She blinked at the wound. “Is that a . . . ?”

  He grabbed his shirt off a rock, and her eyes caught on the possessions remaining there. Boots, socks, and a
black pistol.

  She stepped back, her eyes darting to his.

  He was watching her, expressionless. Calm as you please, he shrugged into the shirt, then grabbed the gun and slipped it into a holster inside the waistband of his jeans. He sat on the rock and proceeded to put on his socks.

  She tightened her arms around her small bundle of kindling. She’d been with him all day and had no idea he carried a gun. Why would he have a gun? Sure, he was in “security,” but there was nothing to protect himself from out here. Wildlife, mainly bears, could be defended against with the bear spray she carried—she’d mentioned that before they left the house.

  And then there was that bullet wound on his shoulder—what else could it be? Of course, he could’ve been shot in the line of duty. It was time for a few questions, even though she was half afraid to hear the answers.

  “You carry a gun.”

  “I have a concealed-carry permit.”

  “Okay, but why are you carrying out here? And who shot you?”

  He gave her a long, searching look before he proceeded to tug on his boots. “Look, I can see you’re a little shaken up. There’s no need to be. I was shot on the job. The guy who did it is in jail.”

  “Is it loaded?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him, wishing he’d look at her so she could read his eyes or something—not that they ever gave much away. But he was looking down, tying his laces.

  He might very well be telling the truth. Then again, he might just be a good liar. How did she know if he was really in security? And what did that mean, anyway—security? She’d told Molly he was a security officer, but she supposed the mafia might consider themselves in security too, or a hit man or a random thug for that matter.

  Wyatt gave his laces a final tug and looked up at her. His gaze roved over her face, and she had a feeling he saw a lot with that one sweep.

  “I carry because I never want to be caught off guard. I don’t want to be vulnerable in the case of a threat, and I don’t want innocent civilians to suffer because I couldn’t protect them.”

  She took in his unwavering expression and his unthreatening posture. She hoped he was telling the truth. For better or worse she had bet her life on it when she’d set off on this adventure. And now she had nothing to protect her but three burly guys who seemed like more of a threat than Wyatt did.

  He held her eyes captive with that invisible magnetism he seemed to possess in spades. “I would never hurt you, Grace.”

  The sticks in her arms began snapping. She loosened her grip. “Right. Okay. Well . . . supper’s ready. We’d best get back.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Back at camp Grace and Wyatt settled at a picnic table and ate, mostly in silence. From the other site the delicious aroma of grilled burgers carried to her nostrils, teasing her senses. It was getting darker, the shadows pressing in on the campground.

  One of their neighbors let out a guffaw, drawing Wyatt’s attention. “You didn’t tell me we had neighbors.”

  “We have neighbors.”

  His eyes slid briefly to hers, then back to the men.

  So she was feeling a little bristly. She didn’t much like feeling vulnerable, and now she was out in the middle of nowhere with three strange men and a mystery guest who carried a loaded gun. And she had no one to blame but herself.

  “Doesn’t look like they’re staying the night. No tents.”

  Grace glanced over, making out a cooler and snacks. Wyatt was right. They could have tents in the truck bed, but they would’ve set those up before they lost daylight. They’d already laid a fire with wood they’d brought along. It was burning bright, sizzling and snapping in the relative quiet.

  A tall, dark-haired guy manned the grill while the other two sat on the tabletop, swigging beer and chatting. One of them, the more attractive one, wore a baseball cap and had a sturdy build. The other sported longish blond hair and a beard and looked like he might’ve already eaten too many burgers.

  They seemed harmless enough, just a few friends enjoying the great outdoors. The tension seeped from her muscles.

  “Long way to come to grill out.” Wyatt was still staring at their neighbors.

  “Depends where they’re coming from.”

  “Did they have to set up so close?”

  “Maybe they like to socialize.”

  Just then the guy with the cap looked at them—at her. His gaze swung to Wyatt next.

  “No doubt.” Unsmiling, Wyatt held the man’s gaze for a long moment.

  “Lighten up,” Grace whispered. No need to make enemies of them after all.

  The guy finally gave Wyatt a nod, then turned a smile on Grace. “Want to join us? We have a couple extra burgers, some hot dogs. Luke made brownies—they might be edible.” He got an elbow from the other guy on the table.

  “No thanks,” Wyatt said before Grace could answer.

  “We brought plenty of food,” Grace added.

  “Suit yourself.” The guy turned back around.

  Grace gave Wyatt a look. “You got something against burgers? You could be a little friendlier.”

  “I said ‘thanks.’”

  “They have brownies. And he’s kind of cute.” Why did she say that?

  His face unreadable, Wyatt looked back over at the table. A moment later he began cleaning up his trash. “I’ll start the fire.”

  Grace finished her meal in peace. When she was done she bagged her trash and pushed it underneath the log teepee Wyatt had made along with the dried bark he’d collected.

  “Somebody was an Eagle Scout.”

  He took out a lighter, thumbed it, and the tip lit with a snick. The kindling caught fire quickly and slowly spread to the smaller logs.

  Grace took a seat on a nearby log, shucked her boots. Ah, much better. She had blisters forming on her heels. It had been a while since she’d worn the boots.

  She crossed her arms against the breeze. It would get down to the low sixties tonight, and a fire would go a long way toward chasing off the chill. What were they going to do until bedtime? Wyatt wasn’t exactly talkative, and though she had a lot more questions about who he was and what he did, he’d probably answered them as thoroughly as he planned to.

  She was still a little miffed about that. Seeing that gun had unsettled her, and she didn’t like being unsettled. It made her question things. Like what was so significant about this place he was searching for? Was something buried there? Treasure? Stolen money? A body?

  A country song kicked up at the nearby campsite, something by Keith Urban. The guys were now settled at the table, wolfing down their burgers in the waning light, their chatter and laughter carrying over.

  Wyatt sat across the fire from her, carving something from a small block of wood he’d pulled from his pack. She couldn’t deny he looked handsome in the firelight. Handsome and slightly dangerous. But maybe that was the flickering shadows—or the knowledge that he was packing.

  She remembered his promise that he’d never hurt her. The fervent look in his eyes. If he was a liar he was a darned good one.

  The campfire’s sparks shot into the sky, then sputtered out. The smell of smoke was a pleasant reminder of many childhood bonfires and campfires. She’d camped at least once every summer with her dad and Levi. She missed her dad so much. Missed both her parents. Sometimes it was still hard to believe they were gone.

  She glanced at Wyatt, wondering about his parents, his childhood. He was aloof and hard to read. She could practically feel the silence getting heavier. “What are you making over there?”

  “A cross.”

  “What for?”

  “Something to do.” The quiet scraping of the knife filled the silence.

  Okay then. She checked her watch in the firelight. It was only nine thirty. She’d never wanted to knit, but she was starting to wish she’d learned how.

  “How do you feel about the area we’re in?” she asked. “Is it feeling familiar at all?”

&
nbsp; “It’s too hilly. I think the area I’m looking for is higher up in the mountains.”

  “Maybe tomorrow then.”

  “We won’t have a lot of time; need to leave time for our return.”

  “There’s a road that loops up into the mountains about a half mile from the creek. We can take that back—it’ll be a lot faster.”

  “That’ll help.” He kept whittling. Didn’t seem to have anything else to say.

  Grace pulled out her phone and opened a game. She probably shouldn’t waste the battery, but she had to occupy herself somehow.

  She was fifteen minutes into Angry Birds when she heard Wyatt shift. His attention had zeroed in on something behind her.

  Grace turned as the guy in the ball cap appeared in their circle of firelight. He offered her a smile and a small paper plate. “I know you brought your own food, but I thought you might enjoy a couple brownies.”

  She took the offering. “Thank you.”

  “I’m Evan by the way.”

  “Grace. And this is Wyatt.”

  Evan gave Wyatt a nod.

  The two guys remaining at the campsite were sniggering, making Grace feel like she was in the middle of a sixth-grade camp dare.

  “Luke actually makes a pretty good brownie. I was just giving him a hard time earlier.”

  Grace took a bite of the brownie. “It is good. Tell him thank you.”

  She offered the other to Wyatt, but he shook his head and went back to whittling.

  “Where you from?” Evan asked.

  The laughter down the way was louder. The beer had been flowing awhile.

  “Bluebell. How ’bout you?”

  “Me and my buddies are from Tennessee, but we’re staying with a friend in Hollis for a while.”

  “If you’re hoping to make it back tonight, you’ve got a bit of a drive.” Grace hoped Evan was the designated driver because it sounded like the other two were already hammered.

  “Yeah, we do. I’ll let you get back to your . . .” He glanced at Wyatt. “Evening.”

  “Thanks again for the brownies.”

  Evan’s friends got louder as he returned to the site, some of their conversation carrying over. Enough to know they were talking about her. One of them made a vulgar reference to what he’d like to do to Grace.