She snatched the roll from the plate, then winced at the pinch of the IV needle in her right arm.
“It’s just saline solution,” he said when she turned her head to look at the clear bag that hung beside her, “since you weren’t drinking. Last chance to eat your roll before we get to find out where the one for the food goes.”
She tore off a piece of the bread and popped it angrily into her mouth, wondering why on earth she’d ever kissed him. Temporary insanity was the only explanation she could come up with. She’d been out of her mind, after learning of her father’s—
She shoved both the thought and the wave of pain that followed out of her head. In the back of her mind, she knew she was being difficult, and unreasonable as well, but she wasn’t going to cry again, especially not after this bossy cowboy...
Warm and featherlight, the bread began to melt in her mouth. And it was wonderful, so delicious that her first, insane thought was to get the recipe to share it with her cook at home. As if she’d ever have a cook, or her own home, to return to. She couldn’t even make her own decisions.
She forced herself to swallow. “So where is it you’re taking me?”
“I’m driving out to Jackson, Wyoming, for a few days. Have some questions that need answering.”
“About your mother, you mean?”
He nodded, his expression a grim reminder that not everything was about her.
“I thought—” He cleared his throat. “I thought you might as well come with me. It’s a good seven-hour drive from here—and then some, since I’ve planned a route that’ll help us avoid the bigger towns. But first, I’ll put the word out that I’m dropping you off at the bus station in Cheyenne. With your lungs the way they are, you can’t be cleaning for a while, so we’ll tell people you’re going to visit with your sister in Nebraska. The brown-eyed you, I’m glad to say. Amanda got in your new contacts this morning.”
“Sounds like you and Amanda have everything all worked out.”
She tried to imagine endless hours riding across the empty state. Hours with nothing to do but think about what Renzo had taken from her and whether, in some fashion, she deserved it. She was tired, so very tired, of running. She wanted to stand, to fight, though it still hurt to breathe.
But as frustrated and upset as she felt about her situation, she realized that taking it out on Dylan wasn’t going to change things. Especially since he was clearly making it his business to look after her welfare.
Then again, she realized, maybe looking after her really was his job. “Amanda asked you to look after me, didn’t she? Right after that first morning, when we met in the stable.”
“She did,” he admitted.
“So when you came to find me in the stable that first night, you were only there because Amanda, your boss, assigned me as one of your duties.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that,” he said.
“How would you put it?”
He shrugged. “She was worried about you, so she asked me a favor. A favor from a friend, not an employee.”
Hope wondered, when he’d kissed her, had that been as a favor to his boss, too? But in her heart, she knew better, for she’d been in that stall with him. She had felt it, just as he had, had been drawn to the combination of rugged strength and real compassion, all wrapped up in one gorgeous package.
She reminded herself to forget his package—and the rest of that hard-muscled body—and focus on the business of survival these next few days.
Because if she did nothing else with the remainder of her wrecked life, she swore that she was putting her ex-husband behind bars for life.
* * *
Levi insisted that Hope stay and rest another night, which gave Dylan time to run to a medical-supply store in Cheyenne that afternoon to pick up a portable nebulizer and several prescriptions she would need. It gave him time, too, when he returned for the evening meal, to “confide” in any number of people that he was heading out to Jackson to ask questions about his mother’s background and the fate of the infant the murdered Desiree Beal had been seen with.
He took care choosing his confidants, speaking first to Mr. Black, who looked relieved now that his wife had insisted on returning to work, completely recovered except for her still-missing memory of the incident the night of the basement fire. Next, Dylan talked to Agnes, Mathilda, one of the ranch hands—the quiet, intensely private Stewie Runyon—and finally to Misty Mayhew, who practically quivered with excitement to be let in on his secrets as they spoke in the stairwell.
Though he had no doubt that her recent interest was purely mercenary, he tried not to mind all the unnecessary touches. Tried to act halfway friendly, though he wanted nothing more than to get her out of his personal space before his crawling skin gave him away.
“Just be careful out there,” she said, batting her dark lashes. “I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you.”
Probably start sucking up to Trip again, he figured, but what he said was, “I’ll be just fine—don’t worry. As soon as I’ve dropped off Hope at the bus station in Cheyenne tomorrow morning, it’ll be just me and the open road.”
Misty made a face. “Her again. I suppose it’s nice of you, befriending the new girl, but don’t get too attached to that one. She won’t be around much longer.”
He took a step back. “What’s that supposed to mean? Have you heard something?”
Misty shook her head, an escaped curl from her chignon bobbing merrily by her face. “No, not really. It’s just...she clearly doesn’t have a head for this work. Anyone can see it. Even Hilda’s been complaining, telling Mrs. Perkins she should fire anyone stupid enough to poison herself.”
“Hilda said that?”
Misty shrugged. “Well, maybe not exactly, but her point was clear enough. She’s old-school like Mathilda, takes a lot of pride in working on a grand estate and doesn’t want anybody here to blight its reputation.”
“Regardless of what Hilda did or didn’t say,” he said, not entirely believing her, “Hope’s not a stupid woman. She’s—well, like you said, she’s new to cleaning.” And set up to poison herself...
He might never be able to prove it, considering that he hadn’t yet located the missing spray bottle. But its absence in and of itself was evidence enough for him. Still, he kept his suspicion to himself, not wanting to give away more than he had to.
“I’m certain Mathilda will let her go as soon as she can. Especially now that we’re all left scrambling to cover for a woman who’s only been on the ranch for a week.” She shot him a sly look. “Not that we’ve ever gotten a single day’s real work out of her.”
It took everything he had not to jump in to defend Hope, but instead he picked up the duffel bag that he’d been carrying downstairs and pulled a flashlight from his pocket. “I’ll catch you when I’m home again.”
“That would be wonderful,” she answered eagerly. “I’d love a chance to really talk...to get to know you better.”
He faked a smile and went outside, to pack his pickup to get an early start come morning. Although the ranch provided several big four-wheel-drive vehicles for the hands’ use, he’d never liked asking the foreman’s permission to go places on his own time, so he’d picked up the two-door, dark gray Ford a few years back.
Opening a door, he slung the duffel into the space behind the front seat. Though the truck was fairly Spartan and just a little beat-up, it ran like a champ and represented freedom, along with an opportunity to pick up extra money working with animals on neighboring ranches whenever his schedule allowed it. Because he didn’t want to spend his whole life working on other people’s outfits, he’d been saving all he could for a down payment on his own land.
His own land, with his own stock on it...maybe with a training facility where he could rehabilitate troubled animals and teach others to do the same. It would be hard work, he was certain, and he’d most likely never be a rich man, but the joy of building something lasting with his own
hands was all he asked for in this world.
Though he never spoke of it to others, he had carried the idea of it with him for years, nurtured the tiny flame of it as if his life depended on its warmth. But what would happen if he were forced to face the fact that he had begun life as Cole Colton? Would the new reality—and all that came with it—snuff out the cherished dream?
Or maybe the question ought to be, did he mean to let it?
As he stooped to check the air in the truck’s tires, he heard boots coming up behind him—someone in a hurry. Instinct—and the news he’d been circulating—had him reaching inside his jacket pocket, where he’d tucked Hope’s snub-nosed revolver.
Just before he reached it, he recognized Amanda, looking as angry as he had ever seen her.
“What are you trying to do,” she demanded, “get yourself killed?”
Letting go of the gun, he huffed out a relieved sigh. “Me? With everything that’s been going on around here, you should know better than to come stomping up on a person like that, especially after dark. I could’ve— You might’ve been hurt.”
He decided there was no need to alarm her by mentioning the gun.
Still too wound up to notice, she said, “Yes, you. What on earth are you doing, spreading it around that you’re heading out to Jackson to do your own investigating?”
Pleased his plan had worked so quickly, he couldn’t help but grin. “That sure got around fast. Mind telling me where it was you heard it?”
“Tom Brooks,” she said, naming Cheyenne’s ex-cop “babysitter.” “He said he’d overheard it in the employee dining area after dinner. But why on earth would you be happy about it getting around? Don’t you understand? The mastermind could hear about it, could follow you out there and—”
“Give herself away, assuming that it really is a woman.”
“Give herself away?” Amanda echoed. “So that’s your plan? To lure her out of hiding?”
“Something like that,” he admitted.
She shook her head. “That’s crazy, Dylan. Whoever this person is, she’s already gotten away with murdering or arranging the murders of three women.”
“I can take care of myself,” he assured her, “and my mother’s killer.”
“Why? Because you’re a man, Mr. Macho? I hate to break it to you, but even the biggest, baddest Y chromosome out there is no protection from a bullet.”
“I’ll be watching out for trouble,” he said, then decided that, in this case, admitting to the gun wasn’t such a bad idea. “Besides, I’m not going unarmed. I have Hope’s revolver, for one thing, and Mr. Black’s promised to loan me an old shotgun.”
“You’re not invincible,” she said, sounding unimpressed. “You know that? And you’re not expendable around here, either—no matter how that DNA test finally turns out.”
“Thanks,” he said, forcing himself not to react this time to her mention of the looming results. “I’ll be just fine. I promise. And I’ll just be gone a couple of days, tops.”
“And you’ll watch out for Hope, too?”
“I won’t let her out of my sight,” he assured her.
“I only hope that she’s up to keeping an eye on you, as well.”
* * *
In the dirty gray light of this morning’s false dawn, Joey Santorini remembered slivers of another dream, interspersed between the nightmares about being knocked off for his failures. Or not another dream, quite, only a repeated image—the memory of a woman’s face.
It took him a long time to remember where it was he’d seen it. Longer still to figure out why that particular little nobody would have stuck in his mind, considering how much time he’d spent easing his tensions with fantasies centering around the hot, rich blonde Tawny Lowden, in the sweater that clung to her perky young breasts like a second skin.
But it was that maid with the dark hair and ugly glasses, the one who’d practically huddled into a ball of misery when they’d had a little fun at her expense, that continued to nag at him over the next few minutes. The more he thought about it, the more familiar she seemed.
Could it be? Could he have actually spoken to the bitch he was pursuing and not even known her?
Finally, he felt his lips pull back in the peculiar expression that had frightened off all too many women. A leering smile, he had been told, a look that hinted he was anticipating either a very personal encounter or the possibility of bloodshed.
Or both, as in this case, he thought as he abruptly tabled his plans to leave the country for a safer climate, for it seemed he still had business right here in Wyoming.
Business he could scarcely wait to begin.
* * *
Dr. Levi Colton handed Hope back the small plastic device and asked her to blow into the mouthpiece one more time.
“Again?” she asked, feeling too restless and cranky to endlessly repeat the same test.
“Again, please,” he said, without a trace of the impatience she was feeling. “Do a good job, and this’ll be the last time.”
Exasperated, she made an extra effort, blowing until she was dizzy.
“That’s what I was looking for,” he said, smiling as he checked the measurement. “Your lung capacity’s improved immensely.”
“And all it took was badgering me until I finally did it right.”
He shrugged and said, “Comes with the territory. That and a lot of sleepless nights.”
“Sorry you’ve been missing sleep on my account. And for the grumpy mood, too.”
“Trust me, after tending to Mrs. Black and my father lately, you’re a model patient. And Dylan’s insisted on being the one to stay here with you at night.”
It warmed her, the idea of Dylan sitting in the chair beside her in the darkness, guarding her sleep as he listened to her breathing. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be treated like an invalid forever, nor deprive him of his rest on the night before their long drive.
“Could I maybe go back and sleep in my own room tonight?” she asked him. “Not that I’m not enjoying your lovely accommodations, but a girl likes a little space of her own now and then.”
Even if that space was as cramped as it was Spartan, it was clean and tidy and hers alone.
The young doctor shook his head. “If there were only your lungs to worry about, I’d say go ahead and just stop back for one last breathing treatment in the morning. But Dylan’s convinced—and he’s nearly convinced me, as well—that you could be in danger in the mansion.”
“In my locked room on the third story? I can’t see how that would be an issue.”
“Listen, Hope, when Dylan checked, he couldn’t find that white container that you mentioned anywhere. Meaning it could only have been taken—and tampered with, most likely—by someone who belongs here.”
“But why would anyone here want to hurt me? It makes no sense. It’s not as if I know anything about this so-called mastermind. I’ve only been here for a few—”
They were interrupted by a knock, which Dr. Colton excused himself to answer. Though a screen blocked her sight of the infirmary door, Hope could easily hear a woman she thought might be Amanda’s sister Gabby saying, “Hurry, Levi. Grab your bag. It’s Dad. He’s coughing something fierce, and he can’t catch his breath.”
He uttered a curse, then added, “I’ve been warning him that cough could be the start of pneumonia.”
A moment later, Levi stuck his head around the screen. “I’m leaving for a while. May have to bring my father back down here for treatment, since there’s no way he’ll let me take him to the hospital. If you head straight up to your room and promise me you’ll keep your door locked—”
“Of course,” she said. “Don’t worry about me another moment.”
Once he was gone, she scouted around to find fresh linens and changed the hospital bed she had been using in case it would be needed for the ailing Mr. Colton. As she worked, she realized that for all her past efforts on behalf of the causes she had once supported, making up a b
ed was the kind of humble, useful effort she would never have thought of personally doing in the past. But of late, she’d come to realize that the simplest of gestures—the delicate, handmade spiced cookies the pastry chef had added to her tray this evening, the compassion Dr. Colton had shown her, or the sleep Dylan had sacrificed so she could rest in safety—meant more than all the money she had helped raise at formal galas.
Besides, with nothing else to give now, a few minutes’ effort was the least she could offer to show her appreciation.
Afterward, she dressed and followed Levi’s instructions to the letter, relieved to encounter no one on her way upstairs to her room. Let’s hope that means that no one sees me, either, she thought, unable to muster the energy to deal with either curiosity or kindness, much less the suspicion that anyone she spoke with might be the very person who had poisoned her.
* * *
Trip paced the confines of his suite, cursing with frustration over Levi Colton and the wrangler, neither of whom had bought his repeated claims that he only wanted to see for himself how the poor maid was recovering. Even if they had allowed him to see Hope, Trip suspected any attempts at conversation would be strictly monitored.
So much for his plans to question her about the brown contact lens, much less threaten to use the missing laptop to have her dismissed. He’d have to wait, to bide his time until she’d recovered and returned to her normal duties.
But Trip had never been known for his patience, and tonight was no exception. Too restless to sleep, he sat down on a richly upholstered sofa near the fireplace in his suite and took another crack at gleaning something useful from his sister’s computer.
Once again, he tried the names of Tawny’s childhood pets, her favorite shoe designers, even such obvious choices as his sister’s birthday, but no matter what he typed into the password field, he couldn’t open Tawny’s email. She’d been less careful with her web browser’s history, which led him to searches mostly related to “designer handbags,” “luxury spa resorts” and “hot fashion trends.” He’d already clicked through to dozens of sites the first night he’d liberated the laptop, but this time he went back further into the browser’s history.
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