by Joanna Wayne
Ashley curbed the urge to go to him, to knead the tight flesh at the back of his neck. Dillon had been fighting his battles his way for years without letting anyone help him. She’d be a fool to think it could be different now.
“So exactly what is it the press has on you,” she asked, “besides a rehashing of the land-deal story?”
“There’s an inconsistency in the accounting for my campaign funds to the tune of sixty thousand dollars. Insinuations are flying like dust in a windstorm, and they all come down to the same accusation. I took the money for my personal use.”
“But you didn’t, you couldn’t.” The words sputtered from her mouth.
“Thanks, but apparently the powers of the newspapers and television tubes don’t feel that way.”
“But you can prove your innocence.”
“Not yet. But I could grovel, which is what the media would really like. I won’t.” Head high and shoulders squared, he turned to face her as if she was the enemy.
“If the people of Texas can forget everything I stand for, forget who I am because a bunch of dirt grubbers latched on to a trough of insinuations and rumors, then I’ll walk away from politics and never look back.” Jerking his hat low over his forehead, he turned to walk away.
Jumping up, she blocked his path. “And you’ll regret it as long as you live.”
His gaze raked over her, and he wrapped his hand around her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. But it was more than anger she read in his eyes. A heated tremble charged the length of her spine.
“I’ll live with it,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse and drawn. “Living with regret is my specialty.”
He pushed past her and stooped to gather Petey in his arms before Ashley realized she was leaning against the tree trunk for support and that her eyes burned with threatening tears.
MURMURS OF RELIEF echoed in Ashley’s brain as she climbed off Surefire. The no-problems event Dillon offered had been transformed into a conflict-laden affair. And if Dillon had made any headway at all in winning his son over, it wasn’t discernible.
Toddlers possess a sixth sense about anxiety. Ashley had read that bit of knowledge in more than one article on parenting. And anxiety and tension crackled in the air between Ashley and Dillon at every meeting.
If the past few days had been any indication, Petey’s second birthday would come and go before Petey acknowledged Dillon existed, much less bonded with him. And the birthday was still just over a week away.
“No, no, no!”
Petey’s wails were accented with sobs as Dillon pried his short fingers loose from the saddle horn. Petey at his worst, so tired he could barely hold his eyes open and too irritable to close them.
“We have to get off the horse, Petey.” The joys of fatherhood had Dillon all but pleading. “I’ll take you riding again tomorrow or the next day for sure.”
Ashley left them negotiating a tomorrow that was beyond Petey’s comprehension and unlocked the back door of the house. With a shove, she pushed the door open and stuck her head inside.
Late afternoon shadows weaved feathery patterns on the tile floor, darkened the shiny counter and dusted the place mats on the wooden table. An icy chill prickled her skin.
“Is anybody here?” Her words echoed in the otherwise silent house, coming back to her like a cry.
“What is it?” Dillon asked, stepping in and setting Petey on the floor.
“I don’t know. It was just a feeling I had when I opened the door, like someone was watching me.”
“Did you see anything?”
“No. It’s more like I sense it.” Her explanation sounded ridiculous, even to her. “A little paranoia, I expect,” she admitted, not convinced that it was.
“I’d say you’re entitled.”
“Who else has a key to the house?”
“There’s one on the key rack up at the big house, but no one in the family would come in uninvited, not with you living here.”
No one but Branson. She didn’t bother to interject the fact, though she wasn’t sure why. Maybe because Dillon had enough to deal with without a confrontation with his brother.
Dillon’s hand moved quickly, slipping inside the top of his boot and coming out with a glint of metal shining from beneath his fingers, turning his hand to keep the gun from Petey’s view.
“You stay in here with Petey,” he said, easing to the door that led into the den. “I don’t expect to find anything, not with the security I have at the gate and around this area, but I’d like to search the house thoroughly before I leave.”
Staying put was not her choice method of handling things, but she didn’t have a lot of options. She had Petey to think of. Still she followed a few steps behind, going into the den for a look when Dillon finished his search.
Bending over, she reached for Petey’s bear to rescue him from his nose-down position on the floor. One hand on his arm, she stopped, her breath catching and holding.
“Want Bear, Mommy.”
She picked Petey up and clutched him to her breast, silencing his request. The bear had been on the floor when she’d started to leave. She’d almost tripped over it, then stopped and stashed it atop a stack of magazines on the bookshelf. It fell, almost to the same place she’d found it the first time. That had to be what had happened. She hadn’t pushed him far enough, and he had toppled over the edge again.
Retrieving the bear from the floor, she pressed it into Petey’s hands and dropped to the rocker. By the time her heartbeat had returned to normal, Petey was fast asleep.
“Not a sign of anyone or anything out of place,” Dillon announced, the gun no longer in his hand. “I checked every closet and under every bed.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you mind if I carry Petey up to bed to finish off his nap before I go? It would be nice to hold him for a second without him struggling to get away from me.”
Awkwardly, Dillon fit Petey against his broad shoulder. The resemblance between the two was striking. Dillon, his dark, sun-roughened complexion and rugged features, wearing his rampant virility like a second skin, and Petey, a softer, gentler version of his dad.
Cruel fingers pinched at Ashley’s heart. All her life she’d hungered like a starving waif for a chance to belong to a real family. But once again she was only playing the role, not quite on the inside, not quite on the outside.
Only now, the role had become deadly.
She’d loved three people in her life. One was dead, and the fallout from his brief, unhappy life was bringing the other two into danger. Dillon had vowed to protect her, and she was certain he meant to keep that vow no matter how he really felt about her.
Protect her now, steal her son away later. It was part of his twisted sense of honor.
Dillon came down the steps, stopping on the one that squeaked. “I meant to fix that before now. It must be driving you nuts.”
“I’m getting used to it.” Besides, noises she could account for were the least of her worries. “When did you start to carry a gun in your boot?” she asked when he’d made it to the foot of the steps.
“A day or two ago.”
“If you need to carry one, then maybe I do, too.”
“Guns are for people who know how to use them.”
“So Branson did talk to you about his visit the other night?”
“And he was right. Armed and nervous leads to trouble. But you don’t need to worry. If you hear a noise, call for help. A guard will be right outside.”
She followed him to the door. “Will you be back tonight?”
“Not unless you call,” he said, tipping his hat. “I wouldn’t want our pasts catching up with us again, our memories—what was it? Reliving dead passions?”
She would have thought he was laughing at her if his words hadn’t been so sharp. As it was, they both knew her words were a lie. The passions between them had never been more alive.
ASHLEY CURLED into a ball atop the moonlight-dappled sheet. Sleep ha
d come and gone, as fleeting as the hummingbirds that dived for nectar at the back porch feeder and then disappeared into the brush. Slowly and methodically, she ran her fingers over the smooth gold of the locket.
This afternoon she’d gained her first inkling of the forces that drove Dillon, and for a second he’d almost seemed human. He wasn’t, of course. He was hard as a rock and just as unforgiving. Given half a chance he’d take her son away.
But like it or not, he’d been the one who had given her the most wonderful gift in the world. Her son, sweet and perfect, asleep in the next room. And Petey was reason enough to never be sorry she’d fallen in love with Dillon. No matter that the love just wouldn’t die.
Stretching, she slipped her legs between the satiny sheets and closed her eyes. The house was quiet and her thoughts drifted randomly, in and out of the first stages of sleep.
A white house sat on a hilltop, the porch railed and beckoning, the windows open. If she ran faster she could reach it in a minute or two. But she couldn’t run faster. Her legs were tired, and she was only a little girl.
A willowy blond woman waved from the porch and then stretched her arms in welcome. A second later, she folded them about her chest and backed toward the open door.
Panic took hold. Faster. Ashley would have to run faster if she hoped to reach the house before the woman disappeared inside. Her heart raced erratically, hammering against her chest.
And a loud squeaking noise thundered in her ears.
Chapter Eleven
Ashley jerked to a sitting position, her pulse racing. Cold sweat dotted her brow, and fear knotted inside her. Clutching the bedpost for support, she forced her lungs to take in air and her mind to function.
The house was deathly quiet. No sounds, no movement, no one standing over her. Her breath steadied. It was only the dream that had awakened her. The same nightmare that had come a thousand times before.
She’d been only six when the dream had made its initial appearance, her first day of school, a day that still lived in the far corners of her mind. All alone, she’d faced the teacher and the daunting task of finding her place in a roomful of children clinging to their mothers.
The fear of first grade had died quickly. The fear of facing the world alone had never fully receded, though she had made tremendous gains since Petey came along and gave her a reason for conquering old fears and hurts.
Grabbing a tissue, Ashley dabbed at her forehead and clammy hands. It was amazing how the dream had lived through two decades without changing. The blond woman, tall and willowy, her mouth split in a broad smile, her floursmeared apron twirling about a housedress that had gone out of style with hula hoops,
Running a toe under the edge of the bed, she felt for her slippers, scooted them out with the ball of her foot and shoved her feet inside. She was wide awake, still trembling and destined to be awake for a long time. Experience had taught her that.
Funny, though. The dream had always left her shaken, lonely and aching for someone to reach out to. Tonight the feelings had been different. The door had slammed with the same finality as always. Only the squeak was new.
The squeak. That was it. The infamous herald of the seventh step. Ashley’s finger was already on the lamp switch, but she jerked it back, a chill dipping inside her and fastening around her nerves.
Was it only the dreaded nightmare that had awakened her, or was someone in the house? Even now, Lester could be standing outside her door, waiting for the right moment to slide inside. The trembles escalated into hard shudders, and she could all but feel the blade of Lester’s knife on her skin, the way she had felt it the other night. Cold and sharp against her flesh.
No, it couldn’t be. She shook her head to clear it and stood on legs that wobbled in protest. With a quick movement she flicked on the lamp. No one was in the house except her and Petey. The house was under constant watch.
Just the same, it paid to be careful, especially with Petey asleep in the next room. Grabbing the cellular phone Dillon had promised was her instant contact with security, she tiptoed to the open door and stared down the hall.
Moonlit shadows and huge chunks of black hovered against the walls, silent and still, without a hint of trouble.
One call and cowboys would come running, guns drawn, to save the damsel in distress. Just like an old movie. A comedy. Mrs. Randolph had a bad dream and called in the rescue squad. That would make wonderful breakfast fodder around the horse barn.
Feeling braver, she walked to the window in her room and pulled back the curtains. One of the ranch hands was in full view, sitting atop his horse not more than fifty yards from the house. The darkness hid his features, making it impossible to identify him, but she could see the outline of his cowboy hat silhouetted against the skyline.
No doubt he could see a lot more of her, her form backlit by the illumination from the bedside light. In no mood for entertaining guests, even safe ones, she smiled and waved, a signal that all was well, and he waved back.
Ashley crossed the room and started down the hall, stopping at the door to Petey’s room. The soft sound of his breathing soothed her, and she headed down the stairs and to the kitchen. She flicked on all the lights. Nothing was ever quite as spooky with a hundred watts of power shining on it.
She pulled a tall glass from the shelf above the sink and filled it with cold milk. A midnight snack of milk and one of Mary’s homemade cookies, and maybe she could relax enough to get a little sleep before Petey got up to greet the sun.
She scooted back in the kitchen chair. It was man-size, solid pine, with rugged legs and arms, so like Dillon she could almost see him there beside her. They’d planned the kitchen before the wedding, too, just like they had the rest of the house. A big window, Dillon had insisted, for letting the outdoors in. A huge range with room for big pots of chili and stews so that they could entertain friends and families.
“And what do you want in the kitchen?” he’d asked. She’d been hard-pressed to answer. The only thing she’d needed in the kitchen, in the whole house, had been him. Now Dillon had his dream kitchen with all the amenities he’d wanted. She wondered how happy it had made him.
Dreams, the good and the bad. When you came right down to it, they were merely illusions. It was reality she needed to deal with. And the reality was that staying here on the ranch, protected by Dillon’s guards, was not solving her problem.
Eventually she had to go on with her life. This was Dillon’s life, one more place she didn’t belong, no matter how much she’d thought she did a few years ago. Two years and nine months, to be almost exact, and Petey’s second birthday was right around the corner.
She walked to the counter and turned on the radio, rolling the revolving dial until she located a soft jazz tune. She hummed along for a while, then munched on her cookie and sipped the milk.
A copy of Texas Monthly rested on one corner of the table. Growing groggy with sleep, she browsed its pages, lingering on the article about Senator Randolph. One of Texas’s finest young senators, progressive and honest. Obviously written before the brouhaha about missing campaign funds and stolen revenues.
Missing money, threatening notes, stray bullets and now Lester Grant. So much for literature’s depiction of the peaceful life on the range. She got up from her chair and flicked off the radio and the kitchen light. She was two steps up the stairs before a shuffling noise caught her attention.
She stopped and waited, her hand clamped around the handrail. She couldn’t go on this way, spooked at every happenstance sound. If anything, the presence of guards outside her door was making her more jumpy, convincing her Lester would do exactly what Dillon claimed he wouldn’t be man enough to chance. Invade Dillon’s private space.
Maybe the thought of a million dollars stiffened Lester’s backbone enough to try anything. Hurriedly, an uneasy feeling snaking up her spine, she climbed the steps. Again she paused and stared at her sleeping son before following the stream of light to her bedroom and anothe
r attempt at sleep.
She rounded the corner and stopped. Oh, no! Not this. Not now. Anger rocked her forward as she staggered through the door. The neat room she’d left a half hour ago lay in chaos. Underwear and lacy nighties peeked out and slid over the edge of open drawers. The sheets had been pulled from the bed and dropped in a wrinkled heap in the middle of the room. Even the mattress lay askew.
Fingers trembling, she dialed the number Dillon had given her. Leaving the trashed room behind her, she inched backward, down the hall to Petey’s room.
Her insides were fighting now, pushing and knotting, clawing at her equilibrium. Silently she stood at the side of the crib, her fingers clutching the rails so hard, her knuckles trembled in pain.
She’d dialed the number. Help was on the way. And Petey was safe. That was all that mattered, and she knew she would do whatever it took to keep him that way. Even if it meant…
Giving him up. The words wrung at her heart. Alert for any sound or movement, she ran her hand over Petey’s tiny fist, tracking the curl of his fingers around Bear’s ragged ear.
Her fingers brushed the soft flesh of his cheeks, caressing a curly lock of dark hair. Something crunched beneath her fingers. A sheet of notepaper. Locking her fingers around it, she leaned low, catching the gleam of the night-light.
The letters were scrawled in black ink, large and uneven. But the words were unmistakable.
Dillon can’t save you forever. I’ll be back for you or the money. Last chance to live!
Icy fingers clutched at her heart, wringing it raw. Lester had been here, in this room, standing over Petey’s bed. Her legs turned to water and she dropped into the rocker, the note clutched in a shaking fist.
DILLON TOOK the stairs two at a time. “Ashley!” Her name echoed up the stairwell, but there was no response. He called again, his gun drawn, adrenaline flowing like a roaring river through his veins.
Reaching the top of the stairs, he stuck his head in Petey’s door and stopped dead in his tracks. “What happened?” The question stuck in his throat as he stepped in front of the rocker and reached for her hands.
