by Jenna Ryan
Still too shocked to speak, Raven raised her eyes to the sky. For a heartbeat of time, the mist vanished. In that moment, she spied the glittering outline of an enormous raven. It hung over the ridge, until, slowly, slowly, the wings began to fold in on themselves.
One by one, the sparkles winked out. In a matter of seconds, all that remained were two red eyes staring into the blackened ocean waves that slammed against the base of Raven’s Ridge.
Epilogue
The remainder of the night passed like a fragmented dream.
Revived and relatively uninjured, Gaitor was disgusted with himself. After days of surviving the perils of his ankle-length coat, his first attempt to run in a raven’s cloak had resulted in him tripping on the hem and plowing headfirst into a rock.
“Knocked myself out cold,” he said from his freshly made bed at Blume House. “Thankfully, I don’t have to answer to anyone for my clumsiness.”
Although she examined him for signs of concussion, Raven found nothing and in the end let Rooney take a pot of tea and two large mugs upstairs for a visit. By morning, she imagined her great-grandfather would have concocted a new and greatly embellished version of the night’s events.
“The Ravenspellers are eating this up,” Steven relayed during one of many passes through the great hall. “I’m starting to think we, as a community, are not making the most of our family’s history. If any of what Rooney says is to be believed, there are all manner of addendums to the original Hezekiah legend. ‘The Soldier’s Tale’ is the tip of the iceberg.”
At last, Raven thought, the light was back in her cousin’s eyes. True, it had a mercenary tinge, but for a disbarred lawyer, purpose was paramount, and apparently Steven had found one that appealed.
As for Aidan... Inasmuch as she loved and believed in him, he still had a great deal of explaining to do about last night. However, with no town authority present in the Cove, it was left to him and the county deputies to fill in. That included the filing of assault, kidnapping and attempted murder charges against Guy Biggs. When foggy daylight returned, it also entailed the unpleasant task of searching the rocks and indentations under Raven’s Ridge for the body of Joanne Demars.
As the first light of morning pearled the sky, Raven showered and dressed. She borrowed coffee from Aidan’s stash in the attic, brewed a pot of dark roast, then hunted up two travel mugs and headed for the beach.
“I love you more than life itself,” Aidan said when he saw her.
Laughing, Raven handed him a steaming mug. “Back at you, Lieutenant. But you’d say that to anyone who brought you coffee at the crack of dawn.”
“I wouldn’t mean it, though.” Curling his fingers around her neck, he set his mouth on hers for a very long, very thorough kiss. “How’s life up at Blume House?”
When her head cleared, she smiled. “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Poor Fergus is moping around like a lost and mournful soul.”
“He feels guilty for not guarding you properly after Gaitor and I left the ridge.”
“I appreciate the sentiment, but as I’ve told him a hundred times, if he hadn’t left on his own, Joanne might have shot him.”
Aidan drank a mouthful of coffee. “Not might, Raven. She’d have killed him without compunction. She emulated her husband’s style in order to maintain the facade, but, beyond the mother-child connection, I didn’t sense much feeling in her.”
“Guess we have something to thank Johnny for, after all.”
Dropping an arm over her shoulders, Aidan tapped his mug to hers. “Here’s to Johnny and maintaining the illusion.”
She sent him a humorous look. “Speaking of illusions, it was very clever of you to switch disguises with Gaitor and become Reverend Alley yourself. Your idea?”
“More or less. I heard snatches of your conversation with Joanne on my radio while Gaitor and I were heading back to the Ravenspell site. A switch seemed like the way to go.”
Raven kissed his cheek. “You’re such a good cop, Aidan, and an even better husband. Did you hear the part of our conversation where Joanne admitted to murdering Johnny?”
“Yeah, I heard it. But not as part of her talk with you. The fatal conversation, if you can call it that, between Joanne and Johnny is on the flip side of the mini cassette Weasel stole from wherever he stole it from. Jason’s possessions as they were being packed away, I imagine. Obviously, Jason was talking to his mother on the side of the tape we all heard.”
“And the man who said his name at the end?”
“My guess would be Johnny. Jason probably taped over an old conversation he’d had with his father. His name was there from an older recording.”
Raven’s gaze touched on the white-capped waves that broke against the rocks with a foamy vengeance. “I don’t know about Johnny, but I do think Joanne really loved her son. Why else would she have been so determined to make you pay for taking him away from her?”
“Joanne was obsessed, Raven, and she let that obsession eat her up. We didn’t get much out of Biggs, but he did tell us that she was furious when she heard I’d died in an explosion.”
“Furious enough to come to your wake, apparently. She posed as one of the caterers. I finally put the two faces together—the server who’d been trying to get me to eat a smoked salmon canapé with the raven dog lady in the silver truck.”
“Aidan, Raven! Over here!” A fisherman waved his arm. “We found her. She’s pretty bashed up.”
“Lovely.” Raven made herself walk with Aidan toward the water. “Always fun to view a bashed-up corpse before breakfast.”
“Better before than after. Are you sure you want to see her?”
“Sad to say, I need to.”
But she had to admit, Raven thought afterward, the grisly image wasn’t one she’d forget any time soon.
She watched from a high beach rock as Joanne’s body was prepped for its journey to the county morgue.
“You know, I’m really glad I didn’t choose forensic medicine,” she admitted to Aidan. Looking up, she visualized the starburst raven they’d seen last night. “You told the organizers to start the fireworks ahead of schedule, didn’t you?”
“As distractions go, it seemed like a good one.” He settled behind her, let her lean back into his chest. “So what now, angel? Do we move to Raven’s Cove, lock, stock and China barrel—you as town medic and me in some kind of law enforcement position?”
She smiled. “I’ve been giving that question a great deal of thought. It’s true, Raven’s Cove needs a clinic, and I’ll be happy to help set one up, but I contacted a colleague at Mayo and one of his associates is looking to relocate to a small town. He’s fifty-one, he earned his medical degree in Germany and he worked as an army surgeon for the first ten years of his career. His name’s Froy.” Her eyes sparkled at Aidan’s narrowed expression. “Froy, not Freud. Mind you, he does have a goatee beard, but his first name’s Henrik.”
“Okay, well that still leaves us with a choice. Rochester or Milwaukee?”
She shook her head. “Honestly? I’m so happy you’re alive, I don’t care where we live.”
“In that case, lets go with Rochester. I want to brag to my colleagues about my brainy wife.”
“Yeah, right. Your wife who has a cursed ancestor she half believes she saw floating in the sky last night.”
“You saw a pyrotechnic illusion, Raven.”
She grinned. “You think that, and I think that, but Steven, who arranged for those pyrotechnics to be shipped, swore to me there was no red-eyed raven included in the order that he himself placed on Rooney’s behalf six months ago.” She arched a teasing brow. “Explain that one away, Lieutenant McInnis.”
“I don’t have to.” Catching her chin, he ran his thumb over her bottom lip, then slowly lowered his mouth to hers. “As you said—it is Ravenspell, and we’re in Raven’s Cove, after all.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt of Cowboy Cop by Rita Herron!
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Chapter One
Three months later
“Dugan is out.”
Miles’s fingers tightened around his cell phone as he wheeled his SUV around and headed toward the station. “What?”
His superior, Lieutenant Hammond, didn’t sound happy. “Based on the Kelly woman’s murder and some technicality with the chain of evidence when they’d searched the man’s place, Dugan’s lawyer got his conviction overturned.”
The past few weeks of tracking down clues and false leads day and night taunted him. He released a string of expletives.
Hammond cleared his throat. “If we’d found evidence connecting Dugan to a partner, maybe things would have gone differently, but...”
Hammond let the sentence trail off, but Miles silently finished for him. If he and Mason had found such evidence, Dugan would still be in a cell. And the world would be a safer place.
But they’d failed.
The day Dugan’s verdict was read flashed back. Dugan’s threat resounded in his head—you’ll pay.
“Now that he’s back on the streets—”
“I know. He’s going to kill again,” Miles said. And he’s probably coming after me.
His cell phone chirped, and he glanced at the caller ID. Marie’s number.
Damn, she was probably on his case for working again last night and missing dinner with Timmy. He’d thought he might have found a lead on the copycat, but instead he’d only chased his own tail.
The phone chirped again.
You’ll pay.
Panic suddenly seized him, cutting off his breath. Dammit...what if payback meant coming after his family?
“I have to go, Hammond.” Sweat beaded on his neck as he connected the call. “Hello?”
Husky breathing filled the line, then a scream pierced the receiver.
He clenched the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip. He had to clear his throat to speak. “Marie?” God, tell me you’re there....
But the sudden silence sent a chill up his spine.
“Marie, Timmy?”
More breathing, this time followed by a husky laugh that sounded sinister, threatening...evil.
Dear God, no...
Dugan was at Marie’s house.
He pressed the accelerator, his heart hammering as he sped around traffic and called for backup. The dispatch officer agreed to send a patrol car right away.
A convertible nearly cut him off, and Miles slammed on his horn, nearly skimming a truck as he roared around it. Brush and shrubs sailed past, the wheels grinding on gravel as he hugged the side of the country road.
Images of the dead women from Dugan’s crime scenes flashed in his head, and his stomach churned. No, please, no...Dugan could not be at Marie’s house. He couldn’t kill Marie...not like the other women.
And Timmy...his son was home today with her.
The bright Texas sun nearly blinded him as he swerved into the small neighborhood where Marie had bought a house. Christmas decorations glittered, lights twinkled from the neighboring houses, the entryways screaming with festive holiday spirit.
Somehow they seemed macabre in the early-morning light.
He shifted gears, brakes squealing as he rounded a curve and sped down the street. He scanned the neighboring yards, the road, the trees beyond the house, searching for Dugan.
But everything seemed still. Quiet. A homey little neighborhood to raise a family in.
Except he had heard that scream.
His chest squeezed for air, and he slammed on the brakes and skidded up the drive. He threw the Jeep into Park, and held his weapon at the ready as he raced up to the front door.
Cop instincts kicked in, and he scanned the outside of the house and yard again, but nothing looked amiss. He glanced through the front window, but the den looked normal...toys on the floor, magazines on the table, TV running with cartoons.
Only the Christmas tree had been tipped over, ornaments scattered across the floor.
He reached for the doorknob, and the door swung open. His breath lodged in his throat, panic knotting his insides. No sounds of holiday music or Timmy chattering.
Gripping his weapon tighter, he inched inside, senses honed for signs of an intruder.
Slowly, he made his way through the den to the kitchen. The Advent calendar glared at him, mocking him with a reminder that Christmas was only a few days away.
There was a half-empty coffee cup on the counter and an overturned cereal bowl on the table. Milk dripped onto the floor.
Timmy...God...
Terror seized him.
A creaking sound suddenly splintered the air, and he swung around, braced to shoot but he saw nothing. Then another sound came from above, water running...the shower? No, the tub...overflowing...
He clenched his jaw, then inched toward the staircase, slowly climbing it and listening for an intruder, for Marie, for his son.
Any sign of life.
A quick glance into Timmy’s room and it appeared empty. Bed unmade. Toy airplane on the floor. Legos scattered. Stuffed dinosaur on his pillow.
Where was his son?
His hand trembled as he bypassed the room and edged toward the bedroom where Marie slept. One look inside, and his heart stopped.
The lamp was broken on the floor. Pillows tossed on the carpet. The corner chair overturned. Glass shards from the mirror were scattered on the vanity.
A sea of red flashed in front of him. Blood...it soaked the sheets and led a trail into the bathroom.
His stomach revolted, but he forced himself to scan the corners of the room before slowly entering the bathroom. Blood streaked the floor and led toward the claw-foot tub.
A groan settled deep in his gut.
Marie. Her eyes stood wide-open in death. Blood dripped down her neck and bare chest. Her arms dangled lifelessly over the tub edge, one leg askew.
For a moment, he choked. Couldn’t make himself move. He’d seen dozens of dead bodies before but none so personal...none that he cared about.
Emotions crowded his throat and chest, and he gripped the wall to steady himself. He had to. Had to get control. Slide that wall back into place so he could do his job.
Every second counted.
Fighting nausea, he slowly walked toward her and felt for a pulse. Although he knew before he touched her that it was too late.
Dugan had done this. Had gotten his payback by killing his son’s mother.
That creaking sound suddenly echoed again. He froze, hand clenching his gun, then spun around.
Nothing. Except the evidence of Dugan’s brutal crime.
Where was Timmy?
For a fraction of a second he closed his eyes on a prayer. The sound echoed again...
The attic.
Heart hammering double-time, he headed toward Timmy’s room. The door to the space had been built inside his closet. Timmy had called it his secret room.
Had Dugan found it?
Hope warred with terror as he inched inside the closet and pushed at the door. It was closed, but he had insisted the lock be removed for fear Timmy might lock himself inside and be trapped.
Now he wished he’d left that damn lock on so his son could have locked Dugan out.
Darkness shrouded the cavernous space as he climbed the steps. He tried to move soundlessly, but the wood floor squeaked. As
he reached the top step, a sliver of sunlight wormed its way through the small attic window, allowing him to sweep the interior.
It appeared empty, but he had heard something.
“Timmy,” he whispered. “Son, are you here?”
Praying he was safe, Miles examined the room. Timmy’s toy airplanes and horses, his train set...
Another squeak, and he jerked his head around. An antique wardrobe sat in the corner, one Marie had used to store old quilts. He held his breath as he approached it, then eased open the door.
Relief mingled with pain when he saw his little boy hunched inside, his knees drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. He had buried his head against his legs, silent sobs racking his body.
“Timmy, it’s okay, it’s Dad.” Anguish clogged his throat as he gently lifted his son’s face. Blood dotted Timmy’s T-shirt and hands, and tears streaked his splotched skin, a streak of blood on his left cheek.
But it was the blank look in his eyes that sent a wave of cold terror through Miles.
Timmy might be alive, but he was in shock.
He stooped down to Timmy’s level and dragged him into his arms, but his son felt limp, as if the life had drained from him just as it had his mother.
Three weeks later
JORDAN KEYS WATCHED the busload of new campers arrive at the Bucking Bronc Lodge, her heart in her throat. The troubled kids ranged from ages five to sixteen.
Her brother had fit in that category. But he was gone now.
Because she hadn’t been able to help him.
She fisted her hands, silently vowing to do better here. She’d read about the BBL and how hard the cowboys and staff worked to turn these kids’ lives around, and she wanted to be a part of it.
If she saved just one kid, it might assuage some of her guilt over her brother’s death.
A chilly January wind swirled dried scrub brush across the dirt and echoed through the trees. She waved to Kim Woodstock, another one of the counselors and Brandon Woodstock’s wife, as she greeted the bus, then Jordan bypassed them and headed straight into the main lodge to meet with Miles McGregor and his five-year-old son, Timmy.
