As stubbornness and loyalty joined forces, Dylan finally responded. “She was a good woman. And the best mother any kid could’ve asked for.” A woman who loved me so much, she might have been willing to kill to raise me. “And you’re about five months late with your condolences...sir.”
“You’re right.” The words twisted Jethro’s lips, as if he’d rarely had occasion to admit such. Or was he disappointed in Dylan’s reaction? “Faye Frick was a fine employee and a caring teacher to my children, to all the children on this ranch. A beautiful woman, too, back when she first came here.”
Dylan blinked in surprise, remembering his mother as a plump, matronly figure who kept her dark hair plainly styled and wore little makeup. Come to think of it, he realized he had never seen a photo showing her in her younger years, and his early memories of her were a blur.
“I see you don’t believe me,” Jethro told him, “but she was a real beauty then, almost as pretty as my first wife, Brittany.” This time, the old man’s probing look left little doubt that, though he’d been kept isolated to protect him from infection, he clearly had heard something about the suspicions swirling around his ranch wrangler.
“Tell me about her,” Dylan said, wondering which of the employees had been currying favor by feeding Jethro bits of information. “I’ve been curious about your first wife.” Curious why she’d abandon you and her kid, then get herself killed in a one-car accident a few months later...
“Why would you be?” asked Jethro bluntly, clearly wanting him to admit that he knew she might be his birth mother.
But Dylan wasn’t ready to give him the satisfaction. “Because someone’s tried to kidnap your heir, Miss Amanda’s daughter. And judging from the number of attacks and killings these past few months, there’s no indication this is over. So if there’s an answer somewhere in your past, a way to stop this violence and figure out who was behind my mother’s murder—”
“It was nothing to do with Brittany or—” Jethro coughed, sounding like a truck with a bad starter, and his face reddened. “Nothing to do with her or the boy, either one.”
This is the point where Amanda and her sisters would want you to back off, Dylan told himself, to avoid upsetting Jethro. But there were questions far too important to allow to go unanswered—or to be taken to the grave.
“Sir, I think it just might. Please. My mother died in one of these attacks, and you waited five long months to say you were sorry.”
“I’ve been a little damned distracted lately, in case you haven’t noticed,” Jethro answered, his face growing a shade redder. “And you’re still an employee, at least for the time being.”
Dylan didn’t know whether Jethro was referring to the DNA test or threatening him with dismissal, but he no longer cared. “All I’m asking for are a few answers.” I wouldn’t take another damned thing from you if you begged me.
Jethro scowled fiercely, a look that would have once made Dylan back off. But this morning, he felt reckless—or desperate—enough to hold his ground.
Jethro looked away first, glaring back into the fire. “She was a real beauty, that little Brittany. Prettiest girl I’d ever laid eyes on. Young, too. So damned young and so sweet. And dumb enough to imagine she’d be happy out here in the middle of nowhere with no company but a baby and a man too busy building an empire to spend time worrying over how she’d feel about every little thing.”
“So it was the ranch life that made her leave? That was it?” Had it driven her to drink, too, an issue that eventually caused her to swerve off the road, or was Jethro, difficult as he was, to blame for her defection?
Jethro answered with a deeper cough, only this time, Dylan went to a small table at his bedside and poured him some fresh water.
“You all right?” he asked as Jethro drank from his water glass and repeatedly cleared his throat. “You need me to get Dr. Colton?”
Jethro waved off the suggestion. “It’s just this fireplace, drying me out. I’ll be fine—fine for a dying man, that is—as soon as those electricians get their tails out here and get the power back on.”
Dylan nodded, making no mention of the night he and many other employees had spent shivering beneath extra blankets in their cooling rooms. Some had bedded down on the floor of the great room instead, after the Colton daughters had suggested they light the huge fireplace to keep warm. If the power wasn’t back by tonight, he imagined he would join them, under the imperious gaze of the huge portrait that hung above the mantel, of a virile, vital Jethro Colton in full rancher regalia. As if they were a bunch of damned supplicants, worshipping at his altar.
But since this might be his only chance to speak to Jethro in private, Dylan ventured another question. “So she never contacted you again? Never called to ask about her baby after she—”
Jethro stiffened. “I’m not so damned sick I don’t know impertinence when I hear it. And I’ll remind you, wrangler, the last fellow who got delusions that he might be entitled to a share of Colton money found himself very much mistaken on the matter. That Jagger journalist fellow took us all for a ride.”
Stunned by that assumption, Dylan blasted back, “Everyone knows that was never Jagger’s intention, and it’s sure as hell not mine.”
“Out. Now. And take your questions with you.” Jethro broke into—or faked—the loudest, longest coughing spell yet.
Moments later, there was a tap at the door, and Misty Mayhew came in, pushing the cart of cleaning tools and supplies all the maids took with them to their assigned areas. After darting an alarmed look from Dylan to the still-hacking Jethro, she said, “Let me get Dr. Colton. I think he was coming up the hall right behind me.”
He must have been, for Levi arrived quickly and pulled a stethoscope from his medical bag to listen to Jethro’s lungs.
“I’m not hearing any rattles,” Levi told him. “Your lungs sound clear for now.”
While Jethro reached for his water glass again, Dylan explained, “He said the dry air from the fire’s bothering his throat, or maybe it’s the woodsmoke.” Or my questions. “Let me see if I can find someone to help me crank up a portable generator outside, and we’ll snake a line and an extension cord either up the stairs or through the bedroom window.”
Normally, Mr. Black would have done more to make the family comfortable by now, but as far as Dylan knew, he was still in Cheyenne with his wife.
Levi nodded. “Definitely do that, and we’ll get space heaters and a humidifier going. Also, could you see about getting the infirmary back on line, too, just in case I need to treat him there?”
“Sure thing, Levi,” Dylan answered before leaving disappointed, dead certain he’d just blown what might be his last chance to get the answers that could lead him to the mastermind.
And hoping like hell he wasn’t related to either Jethro Colton or the woman who had left her infant, seemingly without so much as a backward glance.
* * *
Hope worked more quickly than usual, counting on her exertions to help warm her. She wore a light cardigan sweater over her dress, but despite the mansion’s chill, Mathilda Perkins was unwilling to relax her strict dress code further to allow any of the maids to wear long pants—as if Amanda Colton or her sister Gabby would have an attack of the vapors at the sight of the household staff in jeans.
Come to think of it, Tawny, who was packing her stylish designer overnight bag in the next room, might. But soon, she would be gone, driving to Denver with her equally snobbish mother, where they would check into a five-star hotel until the power was turned back on at the ranch.
With any luck, they’d convince Trip to leave with them, too, and he’d become so engrossed watching sports—or porn—and ordering room service, he’d forget to come back home.
Smiling at the thought of their absence, Hope scrubbed at some stubborn spatter on Tawny’s bathroom counter. When she saw that she was making no headway, she glanced back at her cleaning cart. What was it that Hilda Zimmerman had suggested would do t
he trick?
Frowning at a white bottle with a torn label, she went ahead and sprayed, but before she could put a sponge to the problem, she heard a sharp tap at the suite’s hallway door a moment before it was opened.
“Hey!” said Tawny, sounding as annoyed as ever. “Did I tell you you could come in?”
“Sorry, miss. Excuse us,” called a male voice. A voice that made Hope’s vision swirl as the blood rushed to her head. “Electricians. Mr. Colton wants the whole place gone over to make sure everything’s unplugged so we can—”
Every cell of her being shrieked at Tawny: order them to go away! Throw a giant tantrum! After all, it’s the one darned thing you’re good at.
But Tawny only said, “About time you people got here. Think you’ll have it fixed soon?”
Heart pounding like a snared rabbit’s, Hope looked frantically to the bathroom window, with its smoked glass. But it wasn’t made to open, and even if she smashed it, she’d have a bone-shattering drop to the ground from up here on the third floor.
“Two, three days,” said another male voice, one Hope didn’t recognize. Was he another of her husband’s soldiers, or a freelance hit man the organization had contracted just for this job? Or had she been wrong about the first man, the one who sounded exactly like— What was his name? Oh, yes, Joey Santorini, the one she’d once naively imagined was nicknamed “The Jawbreaker” because he liked the candy.
“Makes no difference to moi,” said Tawny. “I’m off to Denver, or maybe I’ll fly into New York City, if the shopping gods are with me.”
Hope might have rolled her eyes if she weren’t so concerned with trying to keep herself from screaming. Or being killed, if she’d been right and it was really Joey, here to find her. Joey, who was plenty smart enough to bribe someone to start last night’s basement fire in order to gain access to the mansion.
“Well, you have yourself a good time,” the first speaker told Tawny.
Her head spinning and lungs burning, Hope eyed the shower and wondered if she could be seen inside it if she hid there. But its glass-brick construction offered little in the way of cover. Where, then? Where could she go? The linen closet—yes! Maybe she could stuff herself beneath the bottom shelf.
“Oh, I intend to,” Tawny purred. “And don’t mind my maid. She’s just finishing her scrubbing in the bathroom.” Raising her voice, Tawny added, “And this time, do a better job, or I swear, I’ll have you fired!”
More quietly, she confided in the electricians, “You can’t imagine the incompetence I’m forced to deal with.”
Caught halfway through the act of squeezing herself into the cramped space, Hope wanted to explode. Or faint. That would be so much better, to be unconscious when the two men stained the freshly mopped floor with her blood.
But she didn’t faint. She couldn’t, and her pounding heart didn’t burst like a balloon in her chest, either. So rising from the linen closet, she decided to try to bluff her way out, counting on her rumpled appearance and her disguise to see her through.
Except that no one buys it.
What was it Amanda had said to her last night? About her posture and the way she moved giving her away?
Hope forced herself to take a deep breath. To channel the energy of some of the battered women, when they first came into the shelter where she’d volunteered back in New Jersey. Beaten down, defeated, vulnerable to whatever abuse might next come their way.
Put yourself in their shoes. Imagine you never had a champion, never knew a parent who had taught you to believe you could accomplish anything.
At the thought of her poor father’s fate, she found her shoulders slumping. Mop in hand, she trailed through Tawny’s room, her head down as she shuffled toward the door—and her sole hope of escape.
“What’re you doing?” Tawny shrieked at her. “You’re dripping dirty water on my nice rug.”
“Sorry.” Hope’s voice rasped as if she were coming down with something. “This old mop needs a new head.”
“Why don’t you try replacing yours, too, while you’re at it?”
Tawny laughed lightly at her own wit, and Hope wondered if she would have time to strangle the little witch before Joey and the other man recognized her. But instead of taking her best shot, she murmured, “Yes, Miss Lowden,” and resumed what felt like an endless journey toward the door.
When two sets of men’s work boots came into sight, her stomach roiled and tiny white dots exploded like phantom popcorn across her field of vision. But dizzy as she felt, she couldn’t afford to faint now, not this close to freedom.
“Excuse me, sirs,” she managed, “and I’ll be out of your way.”
One of the two sets stepped aside, but not the other.
Scuffed, dark brown and enormous, the boots in front of her didn’t give an inch.
Chapter 7
It was sheer suspense that broke her, that forced Hope’s gaze to rise above the level of the work pants of the huge man who stood in her way. To look into the smirking face of a blond stranger with a heavy jaw and thick neck.
“Forgot the magic word, did ya?” he asked, shooting a grin toward Tawny and his partner.
“Please excuse me,” Hope murmured, her heart bumping its way into her throat as she recognized the even larger hulk that was Joey Santorini dressed in workman’s coveralls.
The question was, would he know her, too? Would he kill her here and now, and maybe gun down Tawny, too, before leaving their bodies to be discovered later?
When the blond man laughed and got the door for her, Hope shuffled out with her mop. They hadn’t recognized her—either of them! But then, they were looking for Aurora Worthington-Calabretta, not some drudge to be mocked and tormented.
She wanted to weep for joy, or scream, or at the very least, run from this spot as fast as she could. But she’d only walked a few sedate steps when Tawny moved into the hall behind her. “You forget something?”
Hope turned to face Tawny, who had her overnight bag slung over one shoulder. And a brand-new mop head, wrapped in plastic, in her outstretched hand.
“Honestly, they should change your name to Hopeless,” she said. “I found this on your cart. And by the way, that bathroom stinks to high heaven. You’d better go rinse off whatever it is you were using in there before it melts the paint off the walls.”
When Hope didn’t move fast enough to suit her, Tawny jabbed at her midsection with the mop head. “Here. Take it and get back to work. I don’t have all day to stand here.”
Nodding, Hope took the bag.
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” Tawny noted. “What’s wrong with you today?”
“Can’t seem to get warm,” Hope lied, her voice even raspier. “My room was so cold last night.”
Tawny hesitated, and Hope swore she could hear gears whirring as she thought through the explanation. Did she realize Hope’s shivering had far more to do with the “electricians” in the room behind her?
“You know,” said Tawny, a strange look twisting her mouth. “I—um—there’s a box just inside my walk-in closet, clothes I’m getting rid of to make room for this year’s styles. There’s a good wool sweater in there, nice and heavy. Take it. Put it on. Then get that stink out of my bathroom.”
“Thanks,” Hope managed, as though Tawny’s rare act of charity might not be the death of her.
Behind them, the door opened, and the two men came out of Tawny’s suite. Neither spared her a glance as they wished Tawny good shopping and strode toward her mother’s suite two doors down.
Stomach heaving, Hope ducked back inside of Tawny’s room and raced into the bathroom to splash cold water onto her face. She ducked over the sink, gulped in several deep breaths before she was slammed with the harsh chemical reek Tawny had complained of, an odor she had been too upset to notice after she had sprayed the cleaning solution seconds before the arrival of the “electricians.”
Rinse it down, she thought, remembering what Tawny, of all people, had suggeste
d. But by this time, the white popcorn had burst back to crowd her vision, and a wave of dizziness brought her to her knees.
From there, it was only a short drop to the floor.
* * *
Luck was on her side, as the one referred to as the mastermind caught sight of the thick-necked blond man before he spotted her. Cursing under her breath, she cautiously followed, wondering what her old partner and his huge friend were doing in the mansion.
Up to no good, she was certain, despite the coveralls that both were wearing and the small toolbox the blond was carrying. She was certain because she knew he’d never done an honest day’s work in his life, the man she’d teamed with to dupe old people into coughing up thousands for repairs that never happened.
She knew, too, that if he saw her here, he’d find a way to ruin everything. Maybe he would try to blackmail her with the threat of going to her employers with what he knew about her background. Or maybe he would threaten to tell police about another time, when a too-talkative senior had told them enough about his churchgoing habits to entice them to break into his house to relieve him of a valuable coin collection he couldn’t help but boast about. Except the old chatterbox hadn’t been feeling up to church that Sunday, and so had surprised her while her partner was in the next room.
He’d ended up dead on the floor for his trouble, a strangulation death that had been utterly missed by a medical examiner who had presumed that the octogenarian with known heart trouble had died a natural death. With no close relatives to press the matter—or notice the missing box of coins—they’d gotten away clean, and there was no way she was allowing that old crime to come back to haunt her now....
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