by B. J Daniels
She cried out softly, her head lolling back as his thumb found the hardened tip of her nipple. Her arms slipped from around his neck to grasp the front of his Western shirt and pull, the snaps coming undone to reveal his smooth, tanned flesh and the dark trail of fine hair that disappeared in a V into the waist of his jeans.
“Dulcie,” he said on a ragged breath.
She closed her eyes as she felt him bare her breasts to his mouth, to his hands, and squirmed against him, wanting him like she’d never wanted any other man.
She opened her eyes and reached for his belt. His mouth came down on hers again as he lifted her higher and worked her canvas pants down. She felt the heat and hardness of him and nothing on earth could have kept her from fulfilling this desire burning in her as he pulled back to look into her eyes.
She reached for him, rocking against his hips, as he took her to the edge of climax and then even higher before quenching her aching need.
RUSSELL HELD HER AGAINST the wall and tried to catch his breath. They were both covered in sweat, their bodies glistening. He slowly lowered her feet to the floor.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t the way I…” His voice trailed off as he realized what he’d been about to say. That wasn’t the way I envisioned making love to you.
She laughed softly. “Oh. And what had you planned?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “A bed?”
She shook her head as she slowly began to button her blouse, her brown-eyed gaze locked on his. “I wouldn’t have had our first time be any other way. I wanted you as much as you wanted me.”
“I doubt that.” Their first time? He told himself there wouldn’t be a second. He could see that she wasn’t taking this as seriously as he was. Hell, the woman wasn’t taking any of this as seriously as he thought she should. Just being in this house was dangerous. Investigating an unsolved murder could be deadly.
“I know you drove out here to scold me,” she said as she dressed.
He couldn’t help himself. He leaned toward her and gently kissed her. “I want you to be safe.”
“I know.” She cupped his face in her hands and, smiling, brushed a kiss over his lips before letting go.
He stepped back, determined that if they ever made love again, it wouldn’t be in this old house against a wall and it would be for the right reasons. It wouldn’t be lust or fear.
He could hear the rainmaker driving his metal pipes into the ground again. He could see that Dulcie was listening as well. “What did that man want with you?”
“Nothing,” she said as she hugged herself, rubbing her arms with her hands even though they were both perspiring in the heat of the closed-up house. “Nothing.”
“He had to have wanted something. I saw the look on your face. Dulcie—”
“I’m fine. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“Scared me? It’s you I’m concerned about. That man is going to be working just across the creek from you. If he touched you or threatened you—”
“I told you, he didn’t do anything. He just…startled me, that’s all, and I overreacted.”
She was lying and for the life of him he couldn’t imagine why. What would have happened if he hadn’t come along when he did? Yesterday it had been Ben Carpenter. Today that damned rainmaker.
Worse, Russell had made love with her and complicated things even more. He wanted to cross the creek and pummel the truth out of that old man, but he had a feeling he’d get the same answer from him.
“That man,” she asked. “What kind of work is he doing across the creek?”
“He’s a rainmaker.”
“You hired him to make rain?”
Russell wasn’t in the mood to debate this and said as much. He had enough doubts of his own.
She must have seen that he was angry with her as he shoved back his hat and prepared to leave, because she didn’t argue the issue. “He said he was here before.”
He studied her for a long moment. “Twenty-four years ago.” He saw her expression and felt the import of his words on her.
The last time the rainmaker had been here would have been that hot, deadly dry spring when Laura Beaumont was murdered.
THE SCHOOL DAY SEEMED to drag. During recess, Jolene sat in the shade and read the short stories, but her mind wandered.
When the time came to dismiss the students, she was relieved. Monday the school term would end. Since she’d been hired for the coming year as well, she would be allowed to live in the small house down the road for the summer.
She’d been looking forward to the time to read and explore the area. But the heat this spring had curbed her enthusiasm. That and the murder story.
No wonder she felt restless. Tomorrow was Friday. There was only one more segment of the short story. Then the ending on Monday. Would Friday’s be waiting for her on the corner of that used desk in the morning when she opened the classroom?
Or would the killer?
She shivered at the thought.
“See you all in the morning. Don’t forget,” she said as she watched her students noisily preparing to leave. “Keep working on your stories.”
She watched from the window as they loaded onto the bus or climbed into waiting pickups and SUVS, then began to gather her belongings, anxious to get home.
At the sound of footfalls, she looked up to find a woman standing in the doorway, looking around as if she’d never seen a one-room schoolhouse before.
“Can I help you?” The woman was studying the birthday wall, where everyone had posted their upcoming birthdays, hers included, complete with photographs.
As the woman turned, Jolene recognized her. It was the woman she’d bumped into on the street that day outside the newspaper office. The same woman she’d seen at dinner last night at Northern Lights.
“Jolene Stevens?” the woman asked. “I’m Dulcie Hughes. Do you have a minute?”
THE TEACHER’S HAND WAS ice-cold as Dulcie shook it.
“What is this about?”
“Laura Beaumont’s murder.” Dulcie saw the young woman’s surprise. “Don’t bother to tell me you don’t know who I’m talking about. I saw the copy of the newspaper article you dropped on the street that day. I checked at the newspaper office and found out which stories you copied.”
“I don’t understand why—”
“I recently inherited Laura Beaumont’s house. Is there somewhere we could talk about this privately?”
Jolene Stevens seemed to hesitate, but only for a moment. “Let’s go to my place.” She pointed down the dirt street to a cute little cottage. “Just let me lock up the school.”
Dulcie waited in the car with the air-conditioning running. She had tried to pull herself together after Russell had left her at the farmhouse. He’d been angry and she couldn’t blame him. They’d shared an intimacy that a man like him didn’t take lightly. Nor did she, even though she’d let him believe she had.
Even now she couldn’t regret what happened, but she also couldn’t let it happen again. She’d gotten too close to Russell Corbett.
He’d realized that as well and that was one reason he was so upset with her. He knew she was keeping things from him. But explaining what had happened between her and the rainmaker before Russell had burst in was impossible.
She still didn’t understand it herself.
After he’d left, she’d thought about going upstairs to do more digging. She’d already found one photograph. There had to be more since nothing seemed to have been taken but the child’s clothing. Wasn’t it possible there were old letters? Something that could provide the answers she so desperately needed, especially now?
She had started back up the stairs, her legs still weak, her heart still racing from their lovemaking, but the sound of the rainmaker’s hammer clanging against the pipes reverberated inside her skull and sent her rushing from the house. That and the memory of the rainmaker’s face.
Dulcie brushed the thought away as she waited for the schoolteacher. J
olene had been investigating Laura Beaumont’s murder and apparently didn’t want anyone to know. Dulcie couldn’t wait to ask the schoolteacher why.
Jolene came out of the school and double-checked the door to make sure it was locked. Dulcie thought of how she’d done the same thing at the farmhouse. Was Jolene worried that someone had been getting in—just as Dulcie was? What else did they have in common? she wondered, as she followed the teacher to her house.
“I have some iced tea,” Jolene said as she parked her bike against the side of the house and opened the front door.
“I’d love some.”
Fans whirred in the windows, circulating the hot air. “Sorry, I don’t have air-conditioning. Just have a seat anywhere,” Jolene called from the kitchen.
Dulcie remained standing until Jolene returned. She took the tall, sweating glass offered her and sipped the tea. “This is wonderful. Thank you.”
Jolene nodded, looking nervous. “I really don’t know anything—”
“Let’s sit down,” Dulcie said, taking a seat across from her. “Why are you researching Laura Beaumont’s death?”
“I was just curious.”
“Why would you be interested in her murder? I know you aren’t from around here. All I can assume is that you learned something about her death that made you curious.”
“If you inherited the house then you know more about—”
“I never heard of Laura Beaumont until after my parents died and I was told I’d inherited property in Montana,” Dulcie said. “I didn’t even know there was a house on the land, let alone that the woman who’d left it to me had been murdered—or that she’d had a little girl.”
Jolene took a sip of her tea.
Dulcie saw that her hands were trembling. “Jolene, some very strange things have been happening from the first time I laid eyes on that house. If you know something, please, help me.”
“What kind of strange things?”
Dulcie sat back, holding the glass in both hands as if she could soak up the cold. She started at the beginning, telling about her elderly parents, her mother’s trouble conceiving, the complete shock of the Montana property, her fear that she was Angel Beaumont.
“When I saw those yellow curtains…” She shook her head. “I know it sounds crazy, but I knew I’d seen them before. That wasn’t all. There’s a sound out there on the place…” Her voice broke.
“You felt you’d been there before?”
“I know I have. How else can I explain these feelings of déjà vu? I need to find the connection. Why leave this property to me?”
Jolene put down her glass. “You can’t be Angel Beaumont. They found her drowned in the creek. She’s buried up on the hill. I had planned to go up there—”
“What if she didn’t drown in the creek? Come on, have you seen how shallow the creek is right now and this spring is just like that one. There wasn’t enough water in the creek for her to drown.”
Dulcie sighed. “I guess I want to believe she is alive because it would explain why I inherited the property.”
“But that would mean…”
She nodded. “That I’m Angel Beaumont. My parents had to have had a reason for keeping the Montana property a secret. I feel as if it was something they couldn’t bring themselves to talk about. Something they had to let me discover on my own. I know that sounds strange.”
“Not really.”
“It’s like they were…ashamed to talk about it. See? Crazy.”
“Maybe not so crazy.”
Dulcie studied the young woman over the rim of her glass. Jolene knew more than she was saying. If there was one thing Dulcie had learned in business, it was to be patient. Let the other person fill the silence.
“You’re going to think I’m crazy now,” Jolene said finally and gave a nervous laugh.
“Try me,” Dulcie said.
“I get the feeling that the community knows something about the murder but they’ve made a secret pact not to tell.”
“A conspiracy?” That didn’t sound crazy to Dulcie at all.
Jolene nodded. “What if the little girl discovered her mother’s body and she saw the killer? Since the killer was never caught and for all we know he still lives here, what if the community is protecting him?”
“Or protecting Angel Beaumont,” Dulcie said. “Isn’t it possible the community faked her death so the killer wouldn’t find out she was alive?”
Jolene shivered and put down her glass. “The killer could be a woman.”
Dulcie stared at her. “Why would you say that?”
“It’s a possibility, isn’t it?” Jolene picked up her tea again, avoiding Dulcie’s gaze.
She’d been right. Jolene knew something. That’s why she’d researched the murder at the newspaper office.
“You never told me what got you interested in this murder case,” Dulcie said.
Jolene slowly raised her gaze to meet hers. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“Because I can tell you’re terrified for some reason,” Dulcie said. “So am I.”
Jolene studied her openly for a moment, then rose and went to the drawer in a cabinet. She took out some papers and, holding them against her chest, returned to her chair and sat down.
“I gave my students a short-story assignment. The story is to continue for six days with a small part turned in each day until the story ends on the last day.”
She glanced down at the papers she held tightly against her chest. “The first day I got an extra story. Someone had left it on an empty desk in the schoolhouse. The story is about the murder of a widow who had a young daughter.”
Dulcie wasn’t sure what she’d expected but definitely not this. “Laura Beaumont?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Who is leaving you the story?”
“I have no idea. Apparently, some of the residents have keys to the school, so it could be anyone.”
“This story, do you have reason to believe it’s not fictional?”
“It takes place during a hot spring just like this one. It reads as if it was written by someone who knew the murder victim, someone who watched her and her daughter.”
Dulcie felt her heart begin to race faster. “Someone who might know who killed her?”
“Possibly.”
Her gaze went to the pages Jolene held. She was trying to be patient. “Why would this person give it to you, do you think?”
“At first I thought they just wanted me to read their story and critique it.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m afraid it might be a confession.”
Dulcie sat forward. “May I read it?”
Jolene seemed to hesitate for a second before she handed it over. “It’s only the first four days’ worth. There are still two more segments. One tomorrow, with the ending on Monday. At least I hope there is an ending.”
“We already know how it ends,” Dulcie said absently, her attention on the papers in her hands.
“Do we?” Jolene said. “I’m not so sure about that.”
Chapter Nine
Russell spent the remainder of the afternoon making sure Finnegan Amherst didn’t return to Dulcie’s farmhouse.
Watching the rainmaker work only convinced him that he and the other ranchers and farmers had just thrown away fifteen thousand dollars.
“So where did you learn this?” he’d asked Finnegan.
“I met an old Indian who could make rain. He taught me everything he knew.”
Finnegan had driven a series of steel pipes into the ground near the water along the creek. Occasionally he would stop, listen for a long while, then uproot a pipe and sink it elsewhere.
“And the purpose of the steel pipes?”
“They act as an antenna to redirect the energy flow.” He must have heard the skepticism in Russell’s voice. “I don’t make rain, Mr. Corbett. Only God makes it rain. I influence the weather. The earth is your mother.” He lifted his arms and r
aised his face toward the heavens. “I reach out to her to redirect the jet stream.” As he dropped his hands, he added, “Prayer is good, too.”
“Have you ever not made it rain?” Russell had to ask.
The rainmaker smiled his twisted smile, the dark eyes shining. “Ranchers have been known to string up men who don’t make it rain. I’m still alive, aren’t I?”
When Finnegan finally quit for the day to return to his tent at Trafton Park in Whitehorse, Russell had gone by the farmhouse to check on Dulcie.
Seeing that she’d gone left him torn between disappointment and worry. What would she do next? Maybe she’d given up on this quest to find out more about Laura Beaumont and had returned to Chicago. Without saying goodbye?
That thought filled him with a sense of loss for a woman he’d known less than forty-eight hours. But then again, a woman like Dulcie Hughes got under a man’s skin immediately.
He told himself she wouldn’t leave without telling him goodbye, but he wasn’t completely sure about that. He was, however, sure she wasn’t the kind to give up easily and he doubted she’d solved the mystery this afternoon in that old house.
As he drove toward the ranch, he thought he must have conjured her from his imagination because a car like Dulcie’s rental was headed down the road toward him right now, coming from the wrong direction.
Why would she be coming from Old Town Whitehorse?
He slowed the pickup, pulling to the side to let her pass.
She slowed and then seemed to reluctantly pull to a stop next to his pickup. He waited as she whirred down her window and smiled but not before he’d seen the exhaustion in her face.
“You look tired,” he said.
She didn’t deny it, confirming that she was dead on her feet. The strain of her quest, no doubt.
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“Breakfast,” she said with the quirk of her mouth. “It gave me indigestion.”
“I don’t think it was the food. Park your rig in that turnoff behind you and come with me. No arguments for once in your life.”
She smiled at that and surprisingly didn’t put up a fight, instead backing her car into the turnoff to a pasture. He pulled up, reached over to open the passenger’s-side door and she climbed in. As he drove toward the ranch, she leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.
