“Thank you.”
Dylan cleared his throat, and she turned to him.
Dougie’s eyes got wide, but he didn’t move.
Dylan whispered, “Cote might come back.”
She focused on Dougie again. “Do you mind if we tell Detective Cote what you told us?”
“He’s not a very nice man. But I answered his questions. I answered right.”
“Is it okay if he comes back and asks you different questions?”
“Maybe you can come with him,” Dougie said. “You’re nice.”
“Or maybe Mr. Early could come,” Chelsea said. “Then Mr. Early can help Detective Cote to be nice.”
“Mr. Early’s good at making people be nice and asking good questions. That would be okay.”
“Good.” Chelsea lifted the drawings. “Thank you, Dougie. It was good to see you again.”
He turned and walked inside. The door slammed behind him.
Dylan and Chelsea made their way back to the trail. She was limping more now but moving quickly.
As soon as she stepped into the trees, she handed him the top sheet. “It’s me, at the cliff.”
It was the image of Chelsea’s back as she stared at the vista.
She said, “Just so you know, he captured my clothing, even my ponytail, perfectly. That’s exactly how I was dressed. I say that so you’ll realize how accurate Dougie is. He never improvises. He only draws—and tells—the truth.” She handed him the next sheet.
Dylan studied the pencil drawing in his hand. The image was of a man running through the woods, his hood pushed partially back, his face angled so that Dougie had caught his features. Large nose. Dark eyes. Lips pressed closed.
Chelsea asked, “Is that the man you saw at Daddy’s cabin?”
The image flashed of the shooter. He’d hardly seen anything beyond that black hood, but the nose… “I think so.”
She swallowed. “My would-be murderer.”
There was still one piece of paper in her hand. “What’s that?”
She shook her head, swallowed.
He stepped closer and looked over her shoulder. The picture was of a sedan that had crashed against a tree at the edge of the forest. Most of the car was mangled, but the back bumper was intact. Chelsea traced the emblem there—the four linked circles that indicated it was an Audi.
“My mom’s car,” Chelsea said.
Dougie’s intricate drawing showed that, on the road beyond the accident, an SUV was rounding the corner. No auto manufacturer’s logo, but the license plate was clear.
“Why didn’t you ask him about it?” Dylan studied the picture. It would have looked like a simple car accident, but that other car… He’d have to ask Cote if anybody had come forward to say they’d witnessed the wreck.
“He was done answering questions,” Chelsea said. “He was afraid to even give it to me. Which tells me… He saw something, something that scared him.”
“How could you tell?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You have to trust me. He was getting agitated. I don’t think we should tell Cote anything until we know more. Cote might scare him into keeping quiet. Maybe we can come back tomorrow.”
Dylan stared at the picture. On the face of it, there was nothing sinister about it. One car got in a wreck. Another car passed by. Maybe they hadn’t seen the Audi. Had the accident occurred at night? He’d need to find out more details. But if another car had been there, then maybe someone had witnessed the wreck—or caused it. “I think maybe your mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Chapter Sixteen
Chelsea couldn’t think about the drawings that were sticking out of Dylan’s back pocket. She couldn’t think about the fact that her mother’s car wreck might not have been an accident. All she could think about right now was pain.
Her foot throbbed. The walk from the parking lot to the cliff had been short, but the hike to Dougie’s shack had added another quarter mile up a steep hill. By the time they passed the cliff again on their way down, it hurt too much to speak.
Dylan stepped beside her, wrapped an arm around her back, and partially supported her. “Does that help?”
It did. She tried to indicate her thanks with a nod. They walked a few steps. She paused at a tree root that jutted into the path, adjusted to keep her broken foot from taking too much weight, and made it over.
“Why don’t I carry you?”
“No.” She twisted her broken foot, sucked in a breath. Continued.
A group of hikers came toward them. They exchanged hellos, and the strangers passed. When their voices faded, Dylan pulled her to a stop. “Don’t be so stubborn.”
She forced a breath. “I’ve got it.”
He turned his back to her and bent low. “Climb on.”
“I’m not a child.”
He spun, literally swept her off her feet, and held her like a baby. “Listen. If you’re…” He met her eyes, and his words faded. His face was inches from hers. His warmth, his strength, they drew her in.
The rugged Irishman was too handsome. And kind. And…
He blinked. “Is this better?” But the words sounded husky.
“Put me down.” Heavens. Her voice held none of the demanding tone she’d hoped to convey.
He cleared his throat. “I’m carrying you out of here. Like this or on my back. You decide.”
Being cradled in his arms—it was quite nice, actually. But it was a long walk down from here. And though she had no doubt Dylan could handle it, it would be difficult.
More than that, she didn’t think she’d be able to keep from staring at him. Those bright green eyes… they reminded her of the English countryside. Of long drives and rolling hills and frolicking sheep.
Frolicking? Oh, dear.
His eyebrows rose.
Right. He’d asked her a question.
“I can walk.”
“Like this or on my back?”
She forced herself to sound irritated, but she felt… Well, she wasn’t going to define how she felt. Not even to herself. Even if she wanted to, she wasn’t sure she had a word for it. “If you insist, then I can ride on your back. It would be easier on you.”
He set her down and turned, and she climbed on and wrapped her legs around his middle, her arms around his neck.
He hitched her up. “Hang on, and try not to strangle me.”
She giggled, then stifled the sound. She felt ridiculous and childish. And somehow… cherished.
Her father used to give her piggy-back rides all the time when she was a child. She remembered the feeling of her daddy’s back, his strong shoulders. The way he’d bounce when he walked, pretending to try to buck her off.
Dylan was not her father. His shoulders were wide and strong, his waist narrow. Being held like this, she felt protected again. His strong arms, his muscled back… She’d felt all alone in the world for so long. To have someone carry her burdens with her, to have someone literally carry her for a little while… It was almost more than she could bear.
She closed her eyes, rested her head on his shoulder, and decided not to analyze it too much. Instead, she allowed herself to enjoy it.
Dylan was quiet, only speaking when he came across someone on the trail. She kept her face hidden, partially out of embarrassment and partially because she didn’t want anything to ruin the moment.
She’d been on her own for too long. Daddy gone, Mum across the Atlantic. Grandmother had been a kind soul but about as affectionate as a granite countertop. When Chelsea complained, Grandmother would tell her to buck up and remind her to count her blessings.
Chelsea knew she was blessed to have so much money. But a thick wallet didn’t tuck a girl in at night like Daddy used to or kiss her on the forehead the way Mum had.
Oh, Mum.
Moisture filled her eyes. She lifted her head, shook the emotion off. No need to soak Dylan’s T-shirt with her tears. She’d asked enough of the man already.
“You okay?”
He didn’t even sound winded.
She cleared her throat. “You’re the one doing all the work.”
He chuckled. The sound vibrated against her palm. “All those squats at the gym are really paying off.”
She peered over his shoulder and saw the glint of sunlight off a car. “Put me down now. I’d rather not be seen like this.”
“When we get to the car. That foot—”
“Now, please.”
But he ignored her, kept walking.
“You’re quite the stubborn one,” she said.
“Said the woman who went hiking with a broken foot.”
“And it’s a good thing I did, too,” she said. “Or we wouldn’t have run into Dougie. You would never have gotten that information out of him.”
He didn’t argue the point as they stepped into the clearing that served as the parking area.
“Put my niece down. Right. Now.”
Dylan gripped Chelsea’s legs against his flat torso and faced the man who’d spoken.
Chelsea caught sight of Uncle Frank leaning against a tree, arms folded.
“Put me down. It’s my uncle.”
Dylan approached him. When they were within ten feet, he stopped and let her slide off his back.
She landed on her good foot, tested her broken foot—it felt a little better—and focused on Daddy’s only brother. “What are you—?”
But her words were cut off when he caught her in a hug and held on tight. “Thank God you’re all right.”
She hugged her uncle back, expecting to feel the same comfort she’d felt in Dylan’s arms. Uncle Frank was comforting, but it definitely wasn’t the same. She patted his shoulders, leaned back. “I’m okay.”
He studied her, his dark brown eyes taking her in. “Really?”
“Really. How are you?”
His lips turned down at the corners. “Worried about you, mostly.” He turned to Dylan, held out his hand. “Frank Hamilton.”
They shook hands. “Dylan O’Donnell.”
“Thank you for keeping her safe.”
Dylan nodded once. “What are you doing here?”
Uncle Frank focused on her again. “I got a call from a friend who heard you were here.”
“Seriously?” she said.
“What friend?” Dylan asked.
Frank glared at him, then pointed to the woman they’d spoken to when they arrived. “Bethany over there—she’s married to one of my employees’ brothers. She called him, he called me.” Frank said to Chelsea, “You’ve been living in the city too long. You forget how small towns are. Everybody here knows your face, and everybody here knows everybody else. When I heard you were on the mountain, I got worried. I mean, if I heard it, who else had? Maybe… I don’t know, but maybe the killer heard, too. I was afraid he’d show up.”
Her heart raced, and she looked around. Aside from Bethany, the lot was empty of people. Was the killer here? Watching her?
Dylan, too, gazed around the lot. “Let’s get somewhere safer. My truck is—”
“I was thinking Chelsea could come home with me for lunch,” Frank said. “I’d like to hear what happened, and I have some news, too.”
Chelsea glanced at Dylan, whose lips had pressed together.
“Dylan and I would be happy to come to your house. Actually, better yet, let’s go to mine. I need to get some more things, and I’ll feel safer if you’re both there.”
Frank sent Dylan a glare, though the look faded quickly. “I can take you. Surely your friend has some investigating he’d like to do without dragging you along. And after that hike”—he focused on Chelsea, though she was sure the words were meant for Dylan—“I’m sure you need to rest.”
“Don’t blame Dylan for bringing me here, Uncle. I insisted.”
“Mmm-hmm.” The murmur wasn’t exactly a hearty agreement. “Still, rest might be in order.”
“Actually, sir,” Dylan said, “I have a few things I’d like to discuss with you. Why don’t the three of us go to Chelsea’s house? I have some calls to make, so if you’d like some time alone with your niece, I can step outside. But I’d like to stay nearby to keep her safe.” He focused on her. “If that’s okay with you.”
She loved the concern she heard in his voice, the way he put her safety ahead of his own comfort.
Uncle Frank scowled. Chelsea rested a hand on his arm. “I want to visit with you, Uncle, but Dylan stays with me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Dylan followed Chelsea’s directions, weaving along narrow deserted roads until they turned down a driveway nearly hidden among the trees. He drove a good thirty yards before coming to a clearing.
He spied the house at the end and whistled. “Dainty little thing, isn’t it?”
“I can show you around before my uncle gets here.”
He’d never lived in a house where guests expected a tour. The place was pretty, but he had other things on his mind.
He pulled to a stop near the garage and considered her uncle. Frank was an enigma. First, he’d lobbied for Chelsea to ride with him. Dylan hadn’t protested, figuring he’d follow so he could keep her safe. But Chelsea had opted to ride with Dylan. Which clearly irritated Frank, but he’d said nothing.
And then, he’d called from his car and said he had an errand to run and would be along soon.
What errand could be more important than hearing Chelsea’s story and giving them information?
Dylan shook off the suspicion. Probably something innocuous, business related, irrelevant. After years as a cop, Dylan had learned to question every person’s motive. It wasn’t a good quality for someone seeking to make friends.
He hurried around the car. He needn’t have, though. She didn’t even try to get out without his help. That foot must have been aching badly. He shouldn’t have let her join him on the mountain today. He’d wanted to get a look at the place where she’d been pushed. He didn’t know why it had felt so imperative to him at the time, but now he was thankful they’d gone there and run into Dougie.
Not thankful, though, that Chelsea was hurting.
He walked beside her, close enough to help if she had trouble.
She led the way to a door going into the garage, but he took in the sight beyond the house. It had been built on the side of the mountain. Forest surrounded it on three sides, but the back looked over the valley and the lake below. The view was similar to the one he’d seen from the cliff earlier, just a lower vantage point.
“It’s breathtaking,” he said.
She didn’t even look up. “Isn’t it, though?” She pressed numbers on a keypad. “Mum installed the keyless entry back here so nobody could watch us open it and figure out the code.”
“Smart,” he said.
She pushed the door open. “It didn’t protect her.”
They walked through the garage, which housed a Mini Cooper and a Land Rover and still had two empty bays, and Chelsea keyed another code into the door leading to the house. She pushed it open, and they stepped into a grand room.
He resisted the urge to whistle again. Ahead on the right, a large kitchen was furnished with stainless steel appliances. An island roughly the size of his bedroom had space enough for six barstools. To his immediate right stood a round table with six chairs. Ahead on the left, a stone fireplace rose to the high ceiling. Sofas and chairs faced the fireplace and a back wall of windows, which opened to the gorgeous view of the valley and lake. Dark beams on the ceiling contrasted with beige walls.
Funeral flowers adorned almost every surface. Most of the blooms were wilted and drooping.
Aside from the dying fauna, the space was somehow both elegant and rustic. As Chelsea crossed the space to flip on some lights, he realized the room reflected her—sophisticated and tough. Soft and strong.
It was becoming harder and harder to keep those feelings from rising to the surface, especially after his boneheaded move on the trail, picking her up like that. Holding her in his arms, gazing into her bea
utiful eyes.
“Thirsty?” Chelsea called.
She’d stepped into the kitchen and was reaching for glasses.
He joined her. “Let me do that. You sit.”
“I can—”
“I know you can. Just let me.” He took two glasses from the cabinet, then looked at the refrigerator expecting to see an ice and water dispenser.
She hobbled to the kitchen table. “There’s an ice maker down and to your right.”
He opened the stainless door and tumbled ice into both glasses. “Water from the tap?”
“There’s a spigot at the sink for filtered water.”
So there was. With the filled glasses, he joined her at the kitchen table. “You need anything else? Maybe something for the pain?”
She sipped her drink. “I promised you a tour.”
“I’m too tired for that.” He settled in his chair and swiped imaginary sweat off his forehead. “After carrying that heavy load off the mountain—”
She smacked him in the shoulder, and he chuckled.
“You need to rest that foot,” he said. “Did the doctor give you anything for the pain, or—?”
“I’ve had enough pain medication. But I’ll take ibuprofen.”
“Can I get it for you?”
She directed him to a bathroom off the main room—all granite and gilt—where he found a bottle of Advil. She downed two with a sip of water. “Those should kick in soon.”
He stared at the view beyond the wall of windows. “This must have been a wonderful place to grow up.”
“My parents planned on having a big family, but there were complications when I was born. Mum almost died in labor.”
“Scary.”
“She wanted to try again, figured the next time would be different, but Daddy wouldn’t hear of it. He said he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.”
Chelsea’s voice hitched, and she turned away, took a deep breath.
A moment later, she continued. “There are three bedrooms on this floor and six upstairs. There’s another living area up there, too, with a TV and some game tables. The master bedroom and mine are down that hallway”—she nodded toward an opening between the kitchen and the living area—“along with a spare bedroom nobody ever uses. There’s a sitting area down there, too, where we used to watch movies. The upstairs bedrooms were often filled with friends or business associates. Rather than put business associates up in a hotel, my parents would house them here. After Daddy died, Uncle Frank didn’t like the idea of Mum continuing the tradition, thought she was too vulnerable to let people she barely knew into the house, but she insisted. Mum wasn’t comfortable being alone. I think she liked it when guests were here. This house can feel very isolated when it’s empty.”
Legacy Reclaimed Page 10
