by Sheryl Lynn
“She has a motive.”
“According to Janine, lots of folks have a motive.”
“Daniella threatened to kill you.”
“She knows I’m not Bradley Carter. The deputy talked to her.”
“I saw her face, the way she was looking at you. She doesn’t believe Nicky Alonza and Bradley Carter are the same man.” She smacked him with the sweater. “Why are you being so stubborn? You know she did it, just like she pushed the boulder at us, and then hit my horse.”
“In the first place, the rock slide was an accident. In the second place, considering you’re the one who had the row with the young’un with a slingshot, I’d say you were the target, not me.” He showed her his open palms. “If you’re fixing to accuse Daniella you have to prove she thinks I’m that Nicky fellow. Then prove she knew what car I’m driving. Then find someone who saw her tampering with the brakes.”
She waggled the dirty sweater in his face. “This is proof.”
“It’s a dirty shirt. That could be mud, or chocolate syrup, or soot from a fireplace. Could be shoe polish. Use your head, honey. Only proof of wrongdoing around here is you breaking into her room and pawing through her private things. If a hotel employee did that to me, I’d be raising Cain.”
Megan’s mouth compressed stubbornly. She clenched the sweater so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Why don’t you let that universal balance thing do its work. What goes around, comes around. If Daniella wrecked the brakes, then she did wrong and the universe knows it.”
Fire faded from her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. A great, crushing tenderness filled his chest as he smoothed strands of hair from her cheek.
“You’re a passionate woman, Megan Duke.” He desired her passion as he’d never desired anything before.
“She tried to kill you.”
“Considering the hell my truck back home puts me through, it’s real hard to get excited about losing the brakes. Now, put the sweater back where you got it and let’s—”
The doorknob rattled, and a key turning the lock made an unmistakable clack. In Tristan’s ears it cracked like a gunshot. His breath caught in his throat and stayed there like a guilty dog with nowhere to hide.
Gasping, Megan whipped the dirty sweater behind her back. Wild escapes flashed through her brain—leap out the window, throw the bedspread over Daniella’s head and run through the door during the confusion, or hide in the armoire or underneath the bed.
The doorknob turned. Staring at it, Tristan and Megan backed away.
Daniella Falconetti entered the room, and all hopes of escape vanished.
Megan’s heart pounded as visions of her father’s wrath flashed through her mind. He’d lecture in an icy voice, turn from her in disgust, then turn back to lecture again. Worst of all would be the pain in his eyes, that awful mingling of disappointment and confusion. She’d never be his good soldier again.
Daniella Falconetti opened her mouth as if to scream, but all that came out was a wispy eek. In that moment of frozen shock, Megan took in the sight of the woman’s mud-streaked violet denim jeans, dirty sweater covered in oak leaves and pine needles, mussed hair and ripped gloves. She looked as if she’d dropped off a cliff.
Daniella focused her glare on Tristan. A dark flush spread across his face and over his neck and ears.
Daniella recovered her composure quickly, managing an elegant stance despite her filthy clothing and dirty face. There were scratches and red spots on her face, the redness showing signs of evolving into bruises. “What are you doing in my room?”
Megan mused that the universe acted very quickly. Tamper with brakes, get dumped off a cliff—if that wasn’t balance, nothing was.
Keeping an eye on them, Daniella stalked through the room as if assessing what may have been stolen or vandalized. Megan turned to face her, keeping the sweater behind her back.
“Answer me! Explain what are you doing in my room.” She snatched up the telephone. “Shall I call your father? The police? Answer me immediately.”
Megan swallowed hard, unable to speak. What about her mother? Elise rarely lost her temper and never raised her voice, but the look of weary sadness in her blue eyes always crushed Megan and made her wish for punishment.
Tristan wrapped an arm around Megan’s shoulders. “It’s my doing, Ms. Falconetti. I lost the brakes on my car and nearly got killed, not to mention my boy and Megan. So I made Megan here—”
Megan gasped. She’d be disgraced, but he was setting himself up for a lawsuit or jail time. “Stop it, Tristan!” She jangled the master key for Daniella to see. “I used the key to get in the room. Tristan tried to stop me, but I insisted because you tried to kill him. Go ahead and call my father.” She thrust the dirty sweater in Daniella’s direction. “There’s grease on this sleeve. I know you tampered with the brakes. So better yet, call the sheriff. I’d love to see what he thinks of this.”
Daniella slowly lowered the handset to the cradle. Her gaze was cool as blue marble. “You’ll never prove anything.”
Megan’s breath caught in her throat. Tristan’s arm muscles contracted, tightening around her shoulders. He heard it, too—Daniella didn’t deny the murder attempt. If anything, her rigid stance and gelid gaze defied them to try and prove her guilt.
“My son was in that car, ma’am.” His voice lowered, the anger barely held in check. “We could have crashed in the mountains and gone over a cliff. We could have hit another car. Is mass murder worth getting even?”
Daniella’s lips tightened and paled, but she lifted her chin.
“You’re thinking I’m Nicky Alonza, but I’m not. I never met you before, ma’am. I’m sorry as can be you were hurt, but I didn’t do it.”
Megan advanced a step and the woman flinched, her nostrils flaring as if smelling the danger. “Go ahead, Ms. Falconetti, call the sheriff. We’ll get to the bottom of this one way or another.”
Daniella stepped away from the telephone and crossed her arms. She gazed out the window at the black forests in the distance. “If some person tampered with your automobile, then it was most likely a mistake. A foolish act partaken in the heat of passion. An act you could never prove in a million years, so you may as well forget it. As I will forget this invasion of my privacy.”
Megan gawped in astonishment. Daniella all but admitted she’d committed a crime, and then dared to make deals? “Ha! I’m supposed to let you get away scot-free? You’re out of your ever-lovin’ mind, lady. I’m not making any deals.”
“If you pursue this, so will I!” She pointed a rigid finger at Megan. “I will ruin you! This—this—man taught me well how to plunder and pillage. I will sue this resort and your family, wresting first your wealth and then your name.” She tossed her head, her pale hair whipping over her bruised cheeks. “I will ruin you as that monster destroyed me.”
Megan’s mouth fell open. “Go ahead and try, you—”
“Hold it.” Tristan spread his arms as if separating prizefighters. “Just hold on, ladies. What we have here is a standoff, and all the yelling in the world won’t find a solution. Give me the sweater, Megan.”
Loathe to part with the evidence, she hugged it to her breast. He held his hand out, waiting patiently, his gaze steady and firm. She handed it over, reluctantly.
Her gaze murderous, Daniella groaned. “That is my sweater! Thief! It is bad enough you would steal from me, my family and my fortune, but you must stoop to stealing my clothing, as well?”
“I am not Nicky Alonza. I never have been him and never will be. If you can’t believe me or the sheriff, then hie on over to California and look at the man yourself. Shoot, he’s locked up, not going anywhere.” He stretched out the sweater sleeve, revealing the greasy smudge. “As for this sweater, well, let’s not call it stealing. Let’s call it safekeeping, ma’am.”
“Safekeeping? This is American euphemism for theft?”
“Don’t know about euphemisms, ma’am. I’ve got more in mind a
trade.”
“No deals, Tristan. She’s going to prison! If not for tampering with the brakes, then for hitting Doc!”
At that, Daniella narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “I hit no doctors.”
“My horse! You hit my horse with a rock and nearly killed me.”
“Well!” Daniella clamped her arms over her bosom and appeared genuinely offended. “Princess Amore uses no animals in cosmetics testing, and I personally would never in a million years harm a horse. I am disgusted you would accuse me of such a despicable act!”
Megan raised an eyebrow. “All right, fine, you didn’t hit my horse. What about nearly creaming me with a boulder?”
Daniella sniffed and examined her wounded hands. She picked a piece of debris off her reddened palm. “These mountains are very dangerous. Everywhere there are signs, Beware Of Falling Rocks.” A cold grin thinned her lips. “You should take such good advice.”
“Why, you—”
Tristan grabbed Megan’s arm, preventing her from launching a frontal attack. “Ladies, ladies, this is getting us nowhere.” He glanced between Daniella and the sweater. “Reckon the police have all kinds of tests to figure out where stains and such come from. I imagine with the right kind of incentive they could pinpoint right on the nose where, say, a spot of grease comes from?”
Megan’s mouth dropped open. Only minutes ago he’d been telling her the stain wasn’t proof of anything.
“You hush all that hot talk about suing and such, and put right out of mind any ideas about me being Nicky Alonza. In exchange, I’ll put out of mind giving this sweater to the police.”
“That is blackmail,” Daniella said through her teeth.
“Call the sheriff, then. I’ll hand over the sweater and be done—”
“No! You can never prove I did anything.” Her chin quivered and tears glazed her eyes. “You took from me everything! You left—”
“Hush. I did no such thing.”
She reached out with both hands, her fingers grasping air. “Give me my sweater!”
“This sweater’s going to a safe place, ma’am. Can’t see a lady like you wearing it, anyway. It being stained and all.”
Megan saw it in Daniella’s face and rigid posture. Nothing Tristan or the sheriff or any member of the Duke clan could say would ever change Daniella’s mind. She looked at Tristan and saw the man who’d been the subject of her revenge fantasies for twenty years. In other words, she was completely nuts.
“Here’s the deal, ma’am. You check out of the resort. Tonight.” He nodded, as cold as a poker player holding a royal flush. “You’re not going to sue, you’re not going to do anything except smile and square your bill. You’re not going to bother the Dukes, or me, ever again.”
Slowly lowering her hands, Daniella sniffed loudly, recovering her haughtiness. “You are a liar and a thief. Why should I believe anything you tell me?”
“Back home we’ve got a saying. If a mule won’t heed reason, make him listen to a two-by-four. One way or the other, ma’am. It’s up to you.” He shook the sweater. “Here’s the two-by-four.”
“You can’t make a deal with her,” Megan protested. “She’s a killer.”
Daniella flinched, her eyes narrowing. “I think I have had more than enough peaceful wilderness and rustic charm.” She sank to the edge of the bed and studied her scraped hands. “You are a fool, Miss Duke, but what can I say? He has deceived better women than you, a hard lesson you will learn soon enough.”
“Ms. Falconetti has some packing to do.” He took Megan’s elbow, herding her toward the door.
Megan started to argue, but Tristan tightened his arm and shook his head. It’s over, he told her with his eyes, drop it.
Over her shoulder, she said, “At least you could say you’re sorry.”
Daniella Falconetti lowered her eyelids in a slow, reptilian blink.
Karma’s going to get you, Megan thought sourly. She and Tristan walked out of the room. Megan managed to contain herself until they left the guest lodging area, but every footfall whispered stupid Once they were in an alcove with some privacy, she turned on Tristan.
“Are you crazy? She all but admitted to attempted murder—twice!—and you’re letting her go?” She made a grab for the sweater, but Tristan shoved it behind his back. “We have to turn that over to the police. We can’t let her get away with it!” He smiled blandly. “Calm down, honey.”
“Don’t ‘honey’ me, Tristan Cayle. You’re letting—”
“I’m not letting nobody do nothing. It’s over. She’s leaving and won’t bother us anymore.”
She searched his face, and his calm demeanor had the opposite affect on her agitation. Her insides twisted into knots. “She tried to kill you. Us. Me!”
“She’s mad, hurt, and she did something stupid, but nothing bad came out of it.” He grimaced at the sweater. “We can’t prove anything with this, anyway.”
“They can do tests—”
“So what? Grease is grease. I use barrels of it at home, and it’s all the same. Slap it under a car, on the tractor, on hinges. Ms. Falconetti isn’t going to confess to anything. She’s got too much to lose. Now, I gave the lady my word, and as long as she keeps hers, I’ll keep mine. That’s that.”
She shoved his chest with both hands. Caught off guard, he stumbled and had to grab at the wall for balance. He looked shocked.
“I was right. You are stupid.”
She turned on her heel and stomped down the hallway. He called her name, but she walked faster.
He was just too dumb to love.
“I CANNOT BELIEVE she checked out like that,” Janine said. She pushed her spoon around in her oatmeal bowl as she glared across the table at Megan. “Sure, she took a good tumble last night, but she wasn’t hurt or anything. Was she hurt, Mom?”
Megan focused on her breakfast. The conversation this morning swirled around Daniella Falconetti. Last night Cody had led the Princess Amore group for a moonlight ride in the forest. When they reached the campfire site for a marshmallow roast and storytelling, Daniella had tripped on her way to the rest room and tumbled down a small hill. The woman had been upset about ruining her clothes, but hadn’t claimed any injuries. Still, she’d checked out of the resort. Most members of her group were staying the remainder of the week, but several had left with Daniella. Janine was beside herself with curiosity, especially as to why an astute businesswoman would not only leave early, but pay the entire bill up to and including the days she’d reserved but wouldn’t use.
Megan focused on her breakfast. Except for the principle of allowing a criminal off scot-free, she no longer cared about Daniella Falconetti and her idiotic delusions about Tristan being her ex-husband. She had bigger problems.
She’d done the right thing with Tristan. She was too young to be William’s mother. If she insisted on pursuing the romance, their squabbling and immaturity would drive Tristan insane. He’d end up having to choose sides. Without a doubt, if either of her parents were forced to choose between their children and another person, they’d choose their offspring every single time. She saw no reason Tristan would be different. Nor would she expect or want him to be.
She’d done the right thing, but it still hurt like the devil.
She watched her father and Janine, still deep in a discussion over Daniella’s strange behavior, leave the dining room. Megan wished she hadn’t taken the week off. She had nothing to do, nowhere to go, and Tristan wore heavily on her mind.
“Megan?” Elise offered a plate of toast. “Are you all right, dear? You aren’t eating.”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Last night, she’d stayed up until well past midnight, reading Tristan’s letters, seeking some reason in them to hate him or, at least, dislike him, but all she’d done was grieve his loss. No more kisses, no more sweet dreams, no moving to Wyoming to be a rancher’s wife. Fate had tromped her for a third time.
“You need to eat something.”
�
��I’m okay.”
“Are you ill? You’ve got big circles under your eyes and you’re pale.”
Her throat seemed to swell, and her eyes burned. Horrified at being so close to tears, she shoved away from the table. “Where’s Kara? I need to talk to her.”
“She took William rock climbing.”
The sound of Tristan’s voice pierced Megan like a stake through the heart. He stood in the doorway, looking big and handsome and so glowingly wonderful Megan feared she might collapse and bawl like a baby. He held his hat over his chest.
“Good morning, Tristan,” Elise said pleasantly. “Please, come in and join us.” She indicated the chair next to hers.
“Thank you, ma’am. Don’t mean to intrude, but I hoped to find Megan before she ate.” He jutted his chin at the remains of breakfast on the table. “Looks like I’m too late.”
Before Megan could think of a gracious excuse to leave, Tristan had taken a chair and accepted a cup of coffee. His shy smile threatened to break her heart in two.
“What do you mean they went rock climbing?” She stared at her coffee cup.
“Kara offered and William jumped at the chance. It’s something he’s been wanting to learn for a while. I thought since the boy is busy, you and I could take another stab at Cripple Creek. I’m feeling lucky today.”
“It’s a gorgeous day for riding the narrow-gauge train,” Elise said helpfully.
Don’t look at him, Megan told herself. One glimpse of his soulful brown eyes and she’d crumble. She’d hope again, she’d fall in love again.
Elise glanced at her watch. “Oh my, the chef is waiting for me. I do hope you two will be back in time for dinner this evening. He’s roasting a suckling pig.” She made a gesture at her mouth. “An apple and everything.” She hurried out of the dining room, leaving Megan and Tristan alone.
By degrees she grew aware of his steady breathing and knew he was watching her. By degrees, she shifted her eyes until she could see him. By degrees, her stony resolve to hate him melted, leaving her dry and empty and sad.
