Thanks to its tinted windows, he’d been unable to see if she’d looked back when the deputies drove her away. He only knew that she carried a bleeding chunk of his soul with her.
He swallowed hard, then told himself there was no point in dwelling on it since he’d never see her again. Yet as he drove through the ranch’s main gate, he still tasted her on his lips. Still felt the moisture of her tears on his face, even though they’d long since dried.
By the time he parked the truck and came inside, it was after eleven, too late to go looking for Amanda. An early riser with an infant to look after, she was most likely sound asleep, but she must have had someone watching for his return, for he’d barely gotten back up to his room with his duffel when her text came to his cell phone: Meet me in my solarium, five minutes.
It’s waited this long, he replied, wishing he had told her to rip that damned letter into a million pieces. It can wait till morning.
You sure? she asked.
I’ll come by to see you first thing, he responded. Because with his emotions so close to the surface—and the memory of Aurora’s blue, blue eyes cutting through him like a laser—he couldn’t handle dealing with the outcome of the DNA test, too.
As good as his word, he got there early, feeling as if he hadn’t slept at all. And maybe he hadn’t, for he kept worrying about Aurora—whether there was anything he could have done to stop her, how and where she was, and if she’d already put their interlude behind her.
If she’d already written off a one-night stand with a Wyoming cowboy.
“Are you all right? You look pale,” Amanda asked when she let him inside her solarium. Dressed for the day in jeans and a sweatshirt, she waved him toward a wicker sofa, where her tailless cat was curled up sleeping.
He remained standing to answer, his mug of coffee cupped in callused hands. “Didn’t sleep well last night. Every time I dropped off, another nightmare woke me.”
He didn’t remember all of them, but the last involved her stepbrother, howling with laughter as he handed him a silver spoon. “To muck out the stalls, of course,” Trip had said, grinning at his sister and their mother, Darla, both of whom glared murderously at Dylan.
“You should have called me,” Amanda said, her golden-brown eyes brimming with compassion. Shaking her head, she added, “I didn’t sleep well, either. I kept wondering how you and Hope made out in Jackson.”
“I need to tell you that she’s left. She’s back in WITSEC. She wanted to thank you, but she couldn’t stay—”
“I shouldn’t be surprised she didn’t feel safe here after she was nearly strangled.”
“Horrible as it was, it wasn’t that. She had to testify, especially after she found out her father was definitely murdered. And tortured, too, for information on her whereabouts.”
Amanda’s eyes widened. “Oh, no. Do they think— Do the authorities believe he told the killers anything?”
Dylan shook his head. “She said he never knew—and they never would have killed him if she hadn’t tried to get him a message saying she was alive.”
“Poor Aurora. She must be devastated.”
“She is, but she’s determined, too, to make her ex pay. And to stop the killing, no matter what it costs her. I tried to talk her out of it, but—but she was right about one thing. I’d do the same if it could put away my mother’s killer.”
Amanda sank down to the cushions of the wicker sofa and stroked the cat’s long, orange fur. Looking up at him, she said, “We’ll never hear from her again, then, will we?”
“Not if all goes well, we won’t. She’ll be living a new life, with another new name.”
“It’s funny...before she showed up, I hadn’t heard from her in years, but now, I’m really going to miss her.”
He found a chair and sat on its edge. “Wish I could say you were the only one.”
She studied him carefully, letting his admission sink in before saying, “I’m sorry you were hurt. When I told you to watch out for her, I never meant for the two of you to—”
“I never meant to care about her, either, but she’s—Aurora’s—” He blew out a long breath, then shrugged, needing to change the subject. And knowing he would continue to grieve the loss for years. “She’s gone now. And whoever tried to hurt her, whoever killed my mother, is still on the loose.”
“You really think it’s the same person? That the mastermind would go after Aurora twice?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I think it’s likely. We’ve had household staff targeted before.”
“What if her ex-husband’s men—”
“Someone would’ve spotted strangers. And if they’d really recognized her, she would have never escaped.”
“I suppose you’re right about that,” Amanda said, absently scratching the cat’s ear as she rolled over, purring loudly enough that Dylan heard the rumbling. “Did you get anything helpful from that waitress you went to speak to? Anything that could help us to connect the dots?”
“I’m not sure how, or even if, it’s all related to the mastermind,” he said before sharing the details of his conversation with Marnie Sayers. Hard as it was, he left out nothing—including what she’d said about his mother’s inability to bear children.
“Mind you,” he cautioned, “all this is coming from a woman with her own agenda. But I can’t imagine what she’d have to gain from lying about that part. I just wonder—”
“You don’t have to wonder anymore,” Amanda told him, moving aside the cat to rise and open the drawer of a small table. “I have your letter right here. Why don’t you just get it over with and open it? Then one way or another, we’ll at least know.”
“No matter what, I’ll always be Faye’s son,” he managed, the coffee shaking in his hands when she withdrew the envelope, still sealed. Just an ordinary envelope, like any other, though its contents had the power to change his life. To change him, if he let it. “She raised me, taught me—”
“And she loved you with her whole heart. Everybody knows that. Loved you enough that she’d hate seeing what all this wondering is doing to you.” She held it out to him.
“You open it,” he told her. “He’s your father.”
The hurt in her eyes told him he’d done it again, had said the wrong thing to her, but he couldn’t find the right words to apologize or to tell her that if it were possible, he’d do anything within his power to save the old man’s life.
“If you’re not ready,” she said nervously, “we don’t have to do this now.”
“Putting it off won’t change anything. And on my way here, someone mentioned that your father’s come down with pneumonia.”
“He has,” she admitted. “Levi’s treating him, but it’s very serious, in Dad’s condition.”
“Then we’d better stop the stalling and read the letter now.”
She shook her head. “You don’t have to do it ever if you don’t want. I promise you, Dylan, I won’t hold it against you.”
He considered it once more, tempted by this final offer to let things go back to the way they’d always been. But he thought about the high price Aurora had paid for pretending that nothing had changed that day she’d overheard her husband’s phone call. Thought about the guilt she carried for the people who had died because of her decision.
If he chose to have Amanda destroy the DNA test, she would lose her final chance—the chance she and her sisters had all prayed for—to save their father’s life with a marrow transplant. Regardless of Dylan’s feelings for their old man, he wasn’t about to break the Colton daughters’ hearts, certainly not out of fear for the effects on his own life.
“Open it,” he managed, the dry gravel of his voice betraying his emotions. “Open it right now, before I change my mind.”
“All right. Just know that no matter what it says—” Amanda sounded as nervous as he felt as she tore into the envelope. “I’m on your side, Dylan. Catherine, Gabby, Levi and I all are.”
He strained h
is ears, hearing the faint rustling of paper over the drumming of his heartbeat. In the moment, he imagined he felt a ghostly hand—Aurora’s warm hand—covering his, and illusory or not, he would later swear it was the only thing that anchored him to earth.
He heard a choked sound in the room, a sound that— Wait. Was that the stoic and sensible Amanda, weeping?
“What is it?” he managed. “Are you all right?” Has this all been as big a joke as I imagined from the start? The idea that a governess’s brat—most likely some unwanted bastard she’d informally adopted—could be a high-and-mighty Colton?
“Please don’t cry,” he told her. “Even if it had been me, there’s no guarantee the marrow would’ve been a match—”
“That’s just it,” said Amanda. “The marrow does match. Because you’re him, Dylan. You’re Cole Colton. You’ve been him all along.”
Chapter 15
Her eyes gritty and her nose sore, Aurora did not want to get up and start the day. Comfortable as the bed was in a secure Denver hotel room where the deputy U.S. marshals had tucked her away for the night before their flight east this morning, she wanted to melt back into a dreamless sleep, to forget she’d ever been so foolishly optimistic as to call herself “Hope” these past few weeks.
But with the silvery light of early morning rimming the edges of the heavy curtains, sleep refused her call, and she couldn’t help but wonder what new identity she’d be given and how long this one might last. Or if she’d ever again live in a place as magical, for all its hidden dangers, as the ranch she had been forced to flee.
One thing was for certain. She’d never meet another man like Dylan—the only man she’d been able to trust with both her secrets and her heart. She realized now how foolish she had been, how she’d risked her life as well as any chance of contentment for something that could never last.
But for all the pain it cost her, she knew she would have done the same thing if she’d had it to do over. Because even the briefest flare of love—struck like a match against her despair—had helped to light her way.
As quickly as it had ignited, she trusted that the feeling had been real, far more real than what she’d felt for a man who’d been more a father figure than a husband, a man whose evil had taken more from her than she’d ever believed she had to lose. Or was she merely being foolish, confusing the first flush of attraction with something that might last?
A tapping interrupted her thoughts: a knock at the connecting door between her room and the one shared by the two deputy U.S. marshals, a door the men had insisted on keeping open after putting some kind of locking device on her own door. The older of the deputies, a veteran named Smithfield, had claimed it was for her protection, but the look he exchanged with his younger partner told her it had just as much to do with the possibility that she might get cold feet and disappear in the night.
It was only then that it sank in that she was truly in custody, both protected and imprisoned, in a sense, for the duration. The thought was like a lead weight inside her chest, a burden as cold as it was heavy.
“Awake yet? I’ve got coffee, good and hot,” came a voice she recognized as that of the senior officer, a good-natured sort whose slight paunch, blue eyes and short, silvery haircut reminded her painfully of her father. “Sent out my partner for the real stuff, and he came back with pastries, too. Which is a damned good thing, considering the way he snored last night.”
She could hear the deputy in question—Mr. All Business—in the room, too, talking on the phone to someone. No surprise there, as he’d been glued to the thing most of last night, talking with Inspector Kinney on the East Coast.
“Thanks. I’d love coffee,” she said, then forced herself to add, “and a pastry would be nice, too.”
Nervous as she was about returning to meet with her liaison, she wasn’t certain she could eat it. But she’d try, or tuck it in her purse for later, since she had no idea when she’d get another meal.
“Soon as you finish,” he said, “you’ll want to go ahead and start getting ready. We’ll be leaving for the airport in about an hour.”
“Can I shut the connecting door, at least?” she asked, the old Aurora flaring to life.
His blue eyes were apologetic. “The bathroom door, yes, but not this one. Sorry, miss, but it’s for your own safety.”
“Or for yours, since your boss might kill you if I MacGyvered my way past that lock somehow.” Did he know she’d thought about it, her resolve wavering ever since she’d said goodbye to Dylan?
At the thought of him, she wondered, had he already learned the results of his DNA test? Was he celebrating, hurting—and did he have anyone to talk to who would understand?
Smithfield shrugged. “Orders are orders, miss.”
“Miss Who?” she asked, her mouth tightening in a grimace. “Do you have a new name for me?”
He nodded. “For this trip only, you’re going to be Yasmin Ahmed. Think you can remember it?”
“Remember it? Maybe. But if there’s a spelling test, I’m toast.”
“Kinney tells us you’re a real quick study. I’ll help you with that part and with the outfit we’ve brought for your disguise.”
Alarms went off in her head. “What outfit?”
He smiled. “Guess you didn’t notice the bag I put in your closet after we checked in last night. It’s a hijab and abaya.”
When she raised a brow in question, he explained, “An Islamic head scarf and cloak. About as far as you can get from the swimsuit competition.”
Wincing, she said, “That’s offensive on so many levels, I don’t know where to start.”
“How about with keeping you alive?” he asked, the mask of friendliness slipping to reveal the tough professionalism beneath. “Because I’m a hell of a lot more worried about getting you back East in one piece than political correctness. You got that?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it. But I don’t like it. At all.”
“Duly noted,” he said, resuming to his amiable persona before turning to get her the promised breakfast.
She drank most of the coffee, then nibbled on a pumpkin scone, which reminded her of her picnic with Dylan, surrounded by nothing but open sky and endless space. Sweet as it was, the memory spoiled the taste of the coffeehouse confection, making her ache with grief for that lost taste of happiness.
Or the possibility of it, anyway, for as she showered and attempted to figure out how to put on the unfamiliar dark blue garb, she told herself that what she’d felt for Dylan couldn’t possibly be real. Both of them in crisis, it made sense they’d come together, that they’d fall into each other’s arms for what amounted to, at worst, a one-night stand. Or maybe it had been more of an oasis in the desert, a necessity for their short-term survival but no long-term solution.
Confusing it with love had been a terrible idea. But as she arranged the scarflike hijab to hide her hair and neckline, all she could think about was ducking out on her two keepers and going back to slake her thirst.
* * *
Cole Colton. I’m Cole Colton, Jethro’s missing son.
But the fact of it lay like an oozing puddle on the surface of Dylan’s shell-shocked brain, where the knowledge stubbornly refused to sink in.
“Are you all right?” asked Amanda, peering into his face. “Maybe you should sit back down before you fall down. You’re white as milk.”
“I’d better—uh— I’ve got things to do,” he told her. “Outside stuff, with the cattle.” He hoped she didn’t press for details, because he wasn’t capable of thought, let alone coherent speech.
“The animals can wait for a few minutes,” she said.
He was certain she was right, but he couldn’t wait, not for an instant, so he turned and left, doing what he always did when emotion overwhelmed him. Shutting down, murmuring that she could tell whomever needed telling and make whatever arrangements would be needed to start the ball rolling for the transplant, then stalking down the hallway in his haste to get ou
tside where he belonged.
Wanting to avoid the busy kitchen and any of the staff who were already up and around, he made a beeline for a little-used back door behind the great room. Or at least, that was his intent before Trip Lowden came down the back wing staircase and called to him, “Hey there, wrangler. Hold up. I need a word with you.”
Dylan stopped in his tracks, his gaze swinging to Trip, who wore tousled blond hair and a smug expression over a plush velvet robe. Normally, he wouldn’t ooze out of bed for hours, but Dylan was too unraveled to care why—or put up with any of Lowden’s usual abuse.
Mistaking Dylan’s hesitation for agreement, Trip headed his way, dropping his voice to a rough whisper. “You tell your little friend Hope I’m done playing games now. She can quit avoiding me if she doesn’t want it spread all over that she’s really—”
“Really what?” Dylan said, the words in an ominous growl. “Really sick of your harassment, maybe? Because I’m sick—everybody’s sick—of the way you throw your weight around here. Especially Hope.”
Trip snorted, seemingly amused—and clearly oblivious to the way Dylan’s hands fisted the moment he brought up Hope.
“You just tell her that I know...and if she doesn’t want anybody else to find out about her past, she’d better come and see me the moment she’s— Agh!”
Moving in on him in two strides, Dylan grabbed the front of Trip’s robe and balled it up so tightly in his hand that the weasel’s face reddened and his eyes popped as he struggled to backpedal.
“You listen to me, Low-Down. Listen like your worthless life depends on it,” Dylan told him, not giving a damn who overheard him. “Hope’s gone, and if you ever try to find her—or I ever in my life hear the slightest suggestion that you’re bothering any of the women on this ranch—I will make it my personal business to stomp your ass so flat, we’ll be using it to wipe the muck off just outside the servants’ quarters.”
The Colton Heir Page 19
