Dark Horse & the Mystery Man of Whitehorse

by B. J Daniels

  For years he’d been busy running the ranch and taking care of his elderly parents. He’d told himself he hadn’t had time for relationships, but the truth was he hadn’t met a woman who’d interested him enough to get involved.

  Until now.

  He had an idea what he was getting into with Laci. She was without a doubt a walking bundle of contradictions. Underneath all that sexy blond cuteness was a talented, imaginative, intelligent woman who would have to be reckoned with. She would be a challenge for any man.

  He watched her dust flour off her hands as he stepped closer. She turned to him. Her smile was his undoing. He reached to brush the dab of flour from her cheek. Her skin was warm and silken. He felt a shaft of desire shoot through him like nothing he’d ever experienced—and knew he was lost.

  * * *

  “LACI.” HE CUPPED her cheek with his hand, his eyes locked with hers.

  She didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare move, as his mouth dropped to hers. The kiss rocked her back on her heels. His arms surrounded her and pulled her closer.

  She let herself go, lost in his kiss, in the warm, sweet taste of him, in the luscious feel of being enveloped by him. A soft moan escaped her lips. There was no turning back, and she suspected Bridger knew it, as well.

  “Laci?”

  She wrapped her arms around Bridger’s neck as he swept her up in his arms. He drew back to look into her eyes. She saw the question and answered it with a kiss as he carried her upstairs to his apartment above the restaurant.

  He kicked open the bedroom door and lowered her slowly to the bed. “You sure about this?”

  She’d never been so sure of anything. She smiled up at him and pulled him down as she pushed aside her vow not to jump into anything. She needed this. She needed Bridger. All her emotions were so close to the skin. She needed to be nurtured, and this felt so right. It couldn’t possibly be wrong.

  Bridger lowered himself beside her. She felt shy and excited all at the same time. Her heart raced and her fingers trembled as she began to unsnap his Western shirt, averting her eyes from his.

  He covered her hand with his, stopping her.

  With one finger he lifted her chin so that their eyes met. Slowly, painstakingly, he leaned toward her and brushed a kiss across her lips.

  She caught her breath as he slowly began to undress her. She ignored the little voice in her head that argued that this was too soon, that she didn’t know this man, that she’d just leaped, that she would regret it...as Bridger drew her close and she melted into his arms.

  * * *

  A SOUND AROUSED LACI. It took her a moment, lying there in Bridger’s arms, to realize what it was. The timer on the oven.

  “My tortes!” she cried and jumped out of bed, throwing on her clothing as she rushed downstairs to the kitchen.

  A few moments later, Bridger came down dressed in jeans and a shirt, his feet bare. He came over to where she stood.

  “Wow,” he said, admiring her creation. “Wow,” he repeated, only this time focusing on her.

  She beamed under his gaze and stepped easily into his arms for a kiss. “Wow.”

  He smiled at her, making her recall too well their lovemaking. It had been a healing for her, a need that was tied up in her grief over her best friend’s death, in her sense of loss.

  “Your guests will be arriving in less than three hours,” she said.

  He nodded and sighed. “Laci—”

  She touched a finger to his lips, afraid of what he might say. Her eyes locked with his and the kitchen suddenly felt much too hot. He was going to kiss her again, and she feared neither of them would remember dinner—or his guests—if he did.

  “Congratulations!”

  Bridger jerked back, swinging around.

  Laci felt her heart plummet—not just from the disappointment of the almost kiss—but from the recognition of the male voice.

  Spencer Donovan burst through the kitchen doors and froze. She pressed herself into the counter, trying to make herself invisible. Just the sound of the man’s voice stole her breath and sent her heart pounding in her ears.

  “You always said you were going to open a restaurant someday,” Spencer was saying as the two men shook hands. “I just never imagined it would be in Whitehorse, Montana.”

  Spencer and Bridger knew each other? Had known each other before the wedding? The realization was an arrow to her heart. She’d just assumed Bridger had been at the wedding for the bride since he lived in Old Town Whitehorse—not there on groom’s side.

  She must have let out a gasp at Spencer’s words. He peered around Bridger and saw her. His expression changed instantly. She saw something flicker in his gaze.

  “Thanks,” Bridger said, drawing Spencer’s attention away from her. “I never thought my first restaurant would be in Whitehorse, either. Spence, I’m so sorry about Alyson.”

  Spencer only nodded, looking upset. “Well, I just had to stop in and congratulate you. I couldn’t miss tonight—not when I know how much it must mean to you. Even when we were kids you always talked about opening your own restaurant.”

  Laci felt sick. All she wanted to do was flee. But she couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

  Spencer should have been in mourning, but here he was out on the town. She knew she wasn’t being fair. The man had a right to eat. But it ticked her off that he looked better than he had at the supermarket earlier. His tan seemed more prominent, and he was dressed up in jeans and a sports jacket over a button-up shirt. His gaze shifted to Laci. She looked into his dark eyes and felt as if she were drowning in a deep, dark, bottomless well.

  “Well, I should go,” Spencer said and shook Bridger’s hand again, slapping him on the shoulder. He gave Laci a nod and was gone.

  She gasped for air, grabbing hold of the counter for support. “You two know each other?” she demanded the moment Spencer was out of earshot.

  Bridger looked at her as if worried about her sanity. “You saw me at the wedding.”

  “But I had no idea you were there as his guest.”

  “I thought you knew. Spencer and I are both from Roundup.”

  She hadn’t known. But she should have. She’d just assumed because Bridger lived in Old Town Whitehorse that he’d been Alyson’s guest. The entire community was always invited to every event, whether it was a wedding, a baby shower or a birthday.

  “You should have told me he was your friend.”

  “We’re not exactly friends,” Bridger said. “I hadn’t seen him in years.”

  She groaned. “He certainly sounded like your friend. Why did you let me go on about him being a killer without telling me about your friendship?”

  “Laci, I knew you were in shock and upset. I didn’t really take what you were saying seriously.”

  She couldn’t believe the man was capable of actually making her more angry. “You didn’t take me seriously?”

  “What you were saying seriously.”

  She threw her hands up in the air, almost too exasperated to speak. “You saw him just now. Did he look like a man who is grieving?” she demanded.

  “I know you’re upset about the death of your friend, but you can’t believe he purposefully killed his wife. Why would he do that?”

  Admittedly that part didn’t make any sense, especially given what the sheriff had told her. Spencer Donovan appeared to be an upstanding citizen. But appearances, as they say, could be deceiving.

  “I don’t know why he killed her, just that he did,” she said, her chin going up in determination. “But I’m going to find out.” She took off her apron and tossed it down.

  “Laci—”

  “You should have told me you were his friend.”

  “I told you—we aren’t—”

  “Do not say you are
n’t friends again. You were at his wedding as his guest.”

  “Only because we ran into each other in Whitewater a few weeks before the wedding. Before that, I hadn’t seen Spencer in years.”

  She waved that off, wondering why he was trying to hide the fact that they were friends. Probably just to get her to work for him. She tried not to think about their lovemaking. Was that also to get her to cook with him?

  “Come on, Laci,” Bridger said as she picked up her purse and keys to leave. “I’m sorry he upset you. I really was enjoying having you here.”

  She could see that he wished they could go back to where they’d been earlier. About to kiss—and probably make love again. What made it worse was that so did she. “I have to go.”

  He looked as if he was trying to think of something to say to get her stay. But maybe he realized there was nothing he could say at this point.

  She wasn’t sure what made her more angry: the fact that he’d failed to tell her he and Spencer Donovan were friends, or that he didn’t trust her instincts about Spencer after what they’d shared.

  She gave him one last look before stalking out. The look felt filled with regret as well as anger that she had to leave this kitchen and him and, maybe worse, that there wouldn’t be an encore to the kiss. Or the lovemaking.

  Outside, she opened her car door and started to get in when she saw it. A single long-stemmed yellow rose. She stared at the flower, uncomprehending. Bridger hadn’t put it there. When would he have? But who else would give her a rose?

  She looked around, seeing no one. It had to have been Bridger, but she liked to think he was too imaginative in the kitchen to resort to flowers, the oldest cliché in the world. That he would have given her a perfect petit four that he’d baked and decorated.

  Unless, of course, she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did. She sighed and tossed the rose onto the passenger seat, reminding herself that she hadn’t seen his friendship with Spencer coming, so clearly she didn’t know Bridger as well as she’d thought.

  The car smelled sickeningly sweet. She glanced over at the rose as she started the engine, feeling guilty for her lack of gratitude. Someone had left her a rose, no doubt as a nice gesture. So why did the mere sight of it make her feel queasy?

  * * *

  A FEW MILES down the road, she rolled down her window and tossed the rose out, feeling terrible and yet relieved to have it gone.

  She hated to think what her sister would say about her throwing away a gift. Fortunately Laney was in Hawaii and would never know. Otherwise, Laci feared that this might be seen as just more irrational behavior on her part.

  Everyone else thought Spencer was just who he appeared to be. All the evidence backed it up. And surely no one would see a rose as a threat. Or Bridger’s friendship with Spencer as a betrayal.

  She knew she wasn’t being fair to Bridger. But she couldn’t help how she felt. She was so lost in her mix of emotions that it didn’t even register that she was being followed until she was almost to Old Town.

  She glanced in her rearview mirror and saw the headlights, belatedly aware that the car had been back there ever since she’d left Whitehorse.

  Her heart began to pound as she drove through the near ghost town, past the school, the community center, the old Cherry house. There was no moon tonight, no stars peeking out of the low cloud cover. The sharp black lines of the house were etched against the dark sky. She felt a shiver as she thought of the note she’d been left about her mother. Had the same person left the rose?

  Down the county road, she swung into her drive, anxious to get home, hoping there would be no more presents, no more surprises tonight. She’d been so happy earlier, so fulfilled in Bridger’s big kitchen. And in his bed. She had loved working with him. The thought made her feel even worse since they wouldn’t be working together again. Or making love again.

  As she parked in front of the house, she realized she hadn’t thought to leave a light on when she’d left. The place was cloaked in darkness. She cut the car lights and engine but didn’t get out.

  She waited, hoping she was wrong about the car following her. Bridger wouldn’t have followed her. He couldn’t have left the restaurant, not with guests coming.

  The car’s headlights came down the county road, the driver seeming to slow. She slid down a little in her seat, hunkering in the dark car and holding her breath, fearing the car would turn into her lane. But it went on past and took the next road—the one to the Banning ranch house.

  Spencer!

  She sat, gripping the steering wheel, her heart a bass drum in her chest as she fought to catch her breath. Rational thought argued that he hadn’t followed her. That he’d just been going home himself.

  But she knew. Just as she knew that he was responsible for Alyson’s death. Spencer Donovan hadn’t just followed her home, he wanted her to know that he’d followed her and was close by. And that there was nothing she could do about that any more than she could prove he was a killer.

  She let out a cry of frustration as she opened her car door and raced up the porch steps. She stumbled and almost went down. Otherwise, she might not have heard the scuttling sound of something sliding across the porch floor as she caught herself.

  She unlocked the front door, reached in and turned on the porch light, already knowing what she was going to find on her porch floor. A small white envelope. Exactly like the last one, right down to the two neatly hand-printed words: Laci Cherry.

  Chapter Six

  THE WEATHER IN Old Town Whitehorse could—and did—change in a heartbeat. The next morning the air was cool and crisp, the sky a crystalline blue. Every day was a gift since it wouldn’t be long before winter set in with below-zero freezing temperatures and snow often accompanied by howling winds.

  The one thing that never changed was the speed and intensity of the gossip in the community.

  The Old Town Whitehorse grapevine was as dependable as death and taxes. And this bright fall morning it hummed with the news du jour leaving everyone for miles shocked.

  Word that Violet Evans might soon be released from the criminally insane unit of the Montana state mental hospital was the talk of the town.

  The Whitehorse Sewing Circle was no exception.

  “Why, that woman has always been crazy,” whispered Muriel Brown, who probably knew crazy better than most. She took a few stitches before she added, “Do you remember when she was about eleven? That fire at the school?”

  “There was no proof Violet was responsible for that,” Alice Miller pointed out with a frown. Violet Evans was now being blamed for everything that had happened in Whitehorse from the time she could walk.

  “How about the summer that all the cats in the neighborhood started disappearing,” whispered Ella Cavanaugh. “I told you that Violet Evans was behind it. I saw her pulling her little red wagon up the road, just grinning like the cat that ate the canary. She had a dirty old blanket over whatever was inside that wagon. I should have stopped that girl right there.” Ella shuddered. “She always gave me a bad feeling, that one.”

  “If Pearl was here, she wouldn’t allow this kind of talk,” Alice Miller said pointedly.

  “Well, Pearl isn’t here,” Muriel snapped. “But Violet Evans will be soon.” She lifted a brow. “She and her mother might both be back here sitting across from us. How do you feel about that?”

  Alice pursed her lips but said nothing. Everyone had been quite pleased that Arlene Evans had announced she was too busy with her internet dating service to quilt for a while.

  “I just think it’s shameful the way her mother tried to marry her off,” Corky Mathews said in an attempt to still the ruffled feathers. “All the humiliation that poor child went through, it’s no wonder she had bad feelings toward her mother.”

  “Bad feelings?” snapped
Muriel. “The poor child tried to kill her mother!”

  “Who hasn’t wanted to kill Arlene?” Shirley Keen shot back with a laugh.

  No one could argue that Arlene wasn’t a bone of contention in Whitehorse. Just as no one would have been one bit sorry if Arlene took that bunch of bad seeds of hers and left the state.

  “Have you seen her son lately?” Shirley asked, glancing toward Helene Merchant, who had brought the news of Violet’s imminent release.

  “Now there is the scary one of that family,” Helene said. “Bo Evans, mark my words, is a psycho killer in the making. Have you seen how long his hair is? And you know Floyd left Arlene. I heard she leased the land. What else could she do? It wasn’t like that boy of hers was going to run the place.”

  “I saw him hanging out by the old Cherry house the other night,” Corky said. “I’ve seen lights in that place again.”

  “Probably because the house is haunted,” Helene said with a shiver.

  “I saw Bo once trying to break out the rest of the upstairs windows in that house,” Corky said.

  “I know he’s the one who threw that rock through my window two years ago,” Helene said. “He’s always been a bad seed.”

  “It’s Charlotte Evans who scares me,” piped up the small voice of the elderly Pamela Chambers.

  “I heard Charlotte got fired from her nail job in town and hasn’t even looked for another one,” Muriel chimed in.

  “So they’re all going to be in that house again,” Ella said. “You know it’s just a matter of time before something tragic happens out there.”

  “Will probably end up killing each other,” Helene said.

  They all nodded as if that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

  “Just so long as they never let that Violet out of the mental hospital,” Muriel said.

  The talk turned then to Alyson Banning Donovan’s funeral later that morning and what a tragedy it was.

  “That poor man,” Alice said of Spencer Donovan.

  “I wonder what he’ll do now. Can’t imagine him staying,” Helene said.