The Raven Master

by Diana Whitney

  “And your other tenants, are they from Southern California?”

  The underlying urgency of his question gave her pause. “I’m not certain.”

  His smile wasn’t particularly pleasant. “So of all your guests, only I have been singled out for your intensive interrogation. Should I be concerned or flattered?”

  Her face warmed. “It wasn’t my intent to interrogate you, Mr. Coulliard. I was simply making polite conversation.”

  A victorious smile played on his lips. “So was I, Miss Taylor.”

  Decidedly uncomfortable, Janine fidgeted with the detergent box. He was right, of course. She hadn’t grilled her other guests about their pasts. Quite frankly, she hadn’t been interested, and that realization opened an entirely new area of thought. Obviously she was interested in Quinn Coulliard yet was unsure as to exactly why. She’d have to think about that later.

  At the moment, however, she offered a conciliatory smile. “Jules and Edna are originally from Massachusetts, but from what I understand, they most recently lived in Seattle. They’ve been in Darby Ridge a little over a year. As for Althea, she’s lived here longer than any of us.”

  “Ah, yes, Ms. Miller. She’s quite an interesting woman.” He absently rubbed his index finger along his angled jawline. “Ms. Fabish and her grandson are also…rather unique.”

  Janine straightened and said nothing.

  Quinn pursed his lips thoughtfully. “All of your guests are so colorful, I can’t help wondering what has brought them to such a secluded place.”

  She forced a nonchalant shrug. “I wouldn’t know. Maybe they’re soul mates, too.”

  He regarded her for a moment, then posed a blunt question. “Don’t you find their peculiarities to be unsettling?”

  Shifting nervously, she fingered a rusted scratch on the washing-machine lid, remembering the horrible things Jules had said about poor Marjorie and how his eyes had gleamed with perverse pleasure. “No one is perfect, Mr. Coulliard. We have to accept people as they are, not as we’d wish them to be.”

  “But if such wishes could be granted, what changes would you make in the people living under your roof?” The moment the question slid from his lips, Quinn knew he’d pushed too hard.

  Janine’s shoulders squared stubbornly. She suddenly grabbed the detergent box, shoving it in the overhead cabinet with unnecessary force. “I don’t care for hypothetical questions, Mr. Coulliard, and I make it a point not to discuss my guests’ personal lives.”

  One look at the angry spark in those liquid amber eyes and Quinn knew that he had to act quickly or he’d lose the advantage. He took her hand, ignoring her startled expression as he expertly guided the conversation to a more intimate level. “I’m concerned about you, Janine.”

  As her eyes widened, she touched her throat in a gesture that could have been interpreted as an expression of shock or vulnerability or both. She managed to stammer a single word. “Why?”

  With slow strokes of his thumb, Quinn lightly caressed the back of her hand. “Surely you’ve noticed how Jules looks at you.” The fear in her eyes hit him like a body blow.

  She withdrew her hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Surprised by a visceral reaction to her distress, Quinn took a moment to compose himself and scrutinize the woman who had evoked the unexpected response. There was a purity about her, an air of innocence that he found oddly appealing. Hers was a quiet beauty, fresh and natural, her face framed by silky strands of chestnut hair cut in a simple style that complemented her dainty features. She neither used nor needed cosmetic enhancement but her exotic eyes, so delicately tinted with flecks of gold, reflected a vague sadness that he found strangely unsettling.

  Quinn looked away, breaking the spell and refocusing his mind on what had to be done. After a moment, he faced her again to gauge her reaction. “Jules appears to be an emotionally fragile young man.” As her perfect complexion faded, he deduced that Janine was well aware of her tenant’s emotional problems.

  To her credit, however, she defiantly lifted her chin and met his eyes without blinking. “To make such a denigrating statement about a man you’ve just met is presumptuous to say the least, and unless you have a psychology degree tucked in those ragged jeans, I suggest you keep your pompous opinions to yourself.”

  Quinn arched a brow and regarded the gutsy woman with a combination of admiration and renewed wariness. Under ordinary circumstances, he’d have appreciated such chutzpah. These, however, weren’t ordinary circumstances, and at the moment he’d have preferred the exquisite young lady to be less perceptive and more compliant.

  To obtain what he needed, Quinn had to establish her trust, and since she could not be easily manipulated, he’d have to open his own life just far enough to gain her empathy and confidence. He hadn’t wanted to do that but she’d left him no choice.

  Sighing, he rubbed his forehead. “Actually I do.”

  The cryptic statement appeared to knock the breath out of her. “Do what?”

  Dropping his hand, he smiled in what he hoped was a modestly endearing manner. “I don’t keep it in my pocket, though. Sheepskin tends to wrinkle.”

  She frowned, tilted her head and eyed him skeptically. “You’re a psychologist?”

  “I was.”

  Folding her arms, she aimed a pointed glance at his unconventional attire, dubious that a ponytailed man in torn denim could have ever held such a position. At least, that was Quinn’s assumption, so her next statement took him by surprise. “I should have guessed,” she murmured. “Especially after watching how you calmed those terrified children. You were wonderful with them.”

  Taken aback by such unexpected praise, Quinn covered his discomfort with an impassive shrug. “The children needed to express their fears in order to face them. I just asked the questions.”

  “Perhaps, but I recognized something deeper in the way you related to them—an affinity and concern that can’t be taught at a university.” She smiled and a dazzling warmth settled inside Quinn’s chest. “Do you specialize in working with children?”

  “No. I had hoped to but…” He hesitated, unwilling to expose such a painful part of his life. A quick glance confirmed her interest. He took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “I couldn’t afford to open my own practice, and since a depressed economy limited the number of positions available in my area of expertise, I ended up in a state clinic counseling adults with drug and alcohol problems.”

  “You didn’t find that fulfilling?”

  “At first I did.”

  “And something changed that?”

  He shrugged. “My patients were only there because treatment had been mandated by the courts.”

  “But you still helped them.”

  “No, I didn’t. When their probation ended, nearly all of them returned to self-destructive behavior.”

  “Oh.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “That wasn’t your fault, you know.”

  “Then whose fault was it? My patients were broken people, with lives destroyed by an addiction they were powerless to control. They wanted help—my help—and I failed them.”

  A dusty sadness clouded her dark eyes, an exquisite empathy that jolted him to the core. She laid a slender hand on his arm. “So you gave up your career?”

  His skin tingled beneath her soft touch. “It seemed a good time to reevaluate my life and my priorities.” After accepting her sympathetic nod, he offered a poignant smile. “Now that I’ve revealed all my innermost secrets, perhaps you’ll return the favor.”

  Instantly wary, Janine retrieved her hand and shielded herself with tightly crossed arms. “I have no innermost secrets,” she lied. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Although he returned her thin smile, his eyes were again veiled, unreadable. “In that case, I hope that you can reassure me that I won’t awaken to find one of your guests hovering over me with a boning knife.”

  “You are quite safe,” Janine said quickly, believing that a
ssurance in spite of having been undeniably shaken by events of the past days. “It’s just that everyone has been so jittery since the fire. Although frayed nerves have a tendency to exaggerate eccentricities, I can assure you that we’re all quite harmless. Everything will be back to normal in a few days.” She smiled brightly and fervently hoped that was true. “So you see, no innermost secrets there, either. Unless, of course, you consider the house itself.”

  Janine winced, wondering what had possessed her to blurt something so foolish. The words had slipped from her lips the moment she’d noticed Quinn glance toward the stairs, as though preparing to leave. For some odd reason, she hadn’t wanted him to go. Now that he was watching her with renewed interest, she felt silly.

  “A house with secrets?” An attractive web of laugh lines crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Should I keep an eye out for ghosts?”

  “The place only looks haunted, but it does have a rather colorful history. It, uh, used to be—” she cleared her throat and smiled wanly “—a bawdy house.”

  He arched a brow. “Complete with red velvet wallpaper?”

  “I, uh…” She coughed away an embarrassed tickle. “I wouldn’t know. This has been a respectable dwelling for over sixty years.”

  “And before that?”

  “Before that, this lovely old mansion was the highlight of Darby Ridge social life.” She couldn’t help smiling at his bemused expression and found herself relating the ancient gossip with considerable zeal. “Apparently, turn-of-the-century loggers were quite a rowdy bunch, and when the townsfolk finally got tired of the riffraff, they hired a marshal to clean up the town. The rumor is that the marshal took his job seriously, but after months of nightly raids never made a single arrest.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was never anyone to arrest. The deputies would stake out the place and see dozens of, uh, clients enter, but when the posse stormed inside they found no one except the ladies.”

  A gleam of amusement lightened his gaze. “So where did the men go?”

  “No one knows for certain, but there was whispered speculation that when the marshal came through the front door, the brothel’s clients escaped through a secret tunnel leading to the ravine behind the house, then forded the little creek and crept quietly back to their homes.”

  The amused twinkle faded. “Where is this tunnel?”

  “As far as I know, there isn’t one.” Janine was surprised by his serious tone and sudden interest. “The story is just folklore.”

  “Folklore is usually based on fact.”

  “Perhaps, but over so many decades, facts are frequently embellished to the point of fiction. Besides, I’ve lived here for three years and can assure you that there’s not a hidden door or secret passage in the entire house.”

  He considered that for a moment. “You’re probably right. Still, it’s an intriguing story, isn’t it?” He paused. “Well, I’ve held you up long enough. I’ll leave you to your work.”

  As he headed toward the stairs, Janine stopped him. “Mr. Coulliard?”

  Hesitating on the third step, he glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  She smiled sweetly. “You forgot the bucket.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  After rubbing cleaning foam into the stained carpet, Janine dropped the sponge into the bucket and decided that it was a losing battle. She sat back on her heels, disgusted. Even if she got the stupid spot out, the carpet would still be ugly. The putrid color reminded her of rotten lettuce and the original sculpted contour had long ago been tromped flat.

  Eventually she hoped to scrape together enough money to replace the matted mess—she’d already managed to recarpet all the bedrooms except her own—but until then there was little she could do to keep the upstairs hallway from looking like a moldy meadow.

  With a resigned sigh, she protected the wet spots with colorful plastic barrier, gathered the cleaning supplies and hurried downstairs. Since Jules and Edna were doing volunteer work at the church bazaar and Althea’s shift at the diner ended somewhere around midafternoon, there was little time left to complete her Saturday chores before the tenants returned.

  As for the mysterious Mr. Coulliard, Janine hadn’t seen him since breakfast. His van was still parked at the edge of the gravel cul-de-sac so she assumed that he hadn’t gone far. But then the man was constantly disappearing and popping up in the most unexpected places. His random schedule was puzzling. None of her business, of course, but definitely odd.

  As Janine replaced the cleaning supplies in the sink cupboard, she idly wondered if her newest boarder was a nature lover who enjoyed taking solitary hikes through the surrounding woods. Or perhaps he walked into town and spent long hours warming a bar stool at one of the town pubs.

  That was doubtful, though, since he never smelled of alcohol and hadn’t exhibited even the slightest symptom of inebriation. Besides, it seemed unlikely that a man who had once counseled alcoholics would spend his spare time in a bar—assuming, of course, that Quinn had been truthful about his background. That might be a rather large assumption but Janine believed him. At least, she wanted to believe him and at the moment she had no reason not to—except for a nagging intuition continually whispering that Quinn Coulliard wasn’t precisely what he seemed.

  Shaking off the disquieting notion, Janine focused on her chores by setting a package of pork chops on the counter to thaw. As she removed the vacuum cleaner from the broom closet, an agitated yowl in the backyard was followed by a peculiar rustling and a hollow wood-on-wood clunking sound. Then there was a horrible, bloodcurdling shriek.

  Rushing to the kitchen window, Janine saw the source of the ruckus was a huge black raven perched on a stack of firewood. One of the bird’s massive wings was fully extended; the other slanted down at an awkward angle. A stalking cat circled the woodpile, then flattened into a threatening crouch. The bird screeched, hopped to the edge of the woodpile and tried to intimidate its feline adversary with bristling feathers and a fierce hiss.

  The cat was not impressed. As Janine watched in horror, the animal leaped onto the woodpile and tried to bite the bird’s neck. The gutsy raven pecked viciously, forcing the thwarted feline into a temporary withdrawal. Janine feared that in spite of such bravado the injured raven would be hard-pressed to fend off another attack, so she snatched up a flimsy flyswatter and ran out the back door.

  An angry male shout greeted her. She jerked to a stop, and glanced around in confusion just as Quinn Coulliard appeared and shooed the frustrated cat away. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Quinn knelt, extended his hand and spoke softly to the terrified bird. In less than a heartbeat, the raven hopped down from the woodpile and limped toward his rescuer.

  Quinn stroked the animal, smoothing the injured wing, then gently gathered up the bird and carried it toward the back porch. When he’d nearly reached the steps, he saw Janine and hesitated.

  Awed by what she’d seen, Janine stared at the placid raven nestled in the crook of Quinn’s arm. “How in the world did you do that?”

  She hadn’t really expected an explanation and wasn’t surprised when he ignored the question and nodded toward the kitchen door. “Would it be all right to take him inside and tend his wounds?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She stepped aside and followed him into the kitchen. “Is there something I can do to help?”

  When he glanced over his shoulder, a tingling sensation brushed her spine and she realized that the man’s Svengali effect was not limited to feathered creatures. “His wing is broken,” Quinn told her. “I’ll need something to bandage it.”

  “I have some gauze and first-aid tape. Will that do?”

  “That would be fine, thank you.”

  As he turned away, Janine called out, “The hall carpet is wet. Watch out for the barrier.”

  He acknowledged her warning with a nod, then carried the injured bird upstairs while Janine gathered the supplies.

  Minutes later, she entered the open
doorway of Quinn’s room and saw that he’d placed the raven beside a folded newspaper on top of the dresser. He glanced up and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Would you mind closing the door?”

  Assuming he was concerned about keeping the bird confined, she complied without comment and laid the first-aid items on the bed. “I brought antiseptic, in case you found any open wounds.”

  “Thank you.” As Quinn tossed the newspaper onto the bed, a small scratch pad-size square fluttered to the floor.

  Janine started to mention the dropped item, but became completely intrigued watching Quinn’s expert examination of the injured bird. He carefully stretched the twisted wing to its full eighteen-inch span. The animal hissed a warning, parting its impressive beak to reveal a stumpy round tongue, which was as black as its feathers.

  With its peculiar yellow eyes darting wildly, the raven tried to back away but Quinn laid a restraining palm on its back. “I know it hurts,” he murmured softly. “Just a few more minutes.” The raven cocked its head and, seeming somewhat mollified by the reassurance, displayed uncanny trust by docilely allowing Quinn to fold the feathered appendage back into place.

  Janine rubbed her eyes. This was without a doubt the strangest thing she’d ever seen in her life.

  “I could use those bandages now.”

  “Hmm?” Janine blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”

  He accepted the cloth roll she handed him, gently bound the injured wing to the creature’s body and secured the bandage with surgical tape. Duly impressed by his expertise, Janine peered over his shoulder. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

  Quinn used a fingertip to stroke the shiny black head. “When I was a kid, my dad raised pigeons. He let me help.”

  “But those were domestic birds.”

  “They weren’t built any differently than Edgar.”

  She backed away, feeling stupid. “Well, of course not, but I’ve never seen a wild bird that would tolerate human contact…Edgar?”