Indigo Lake

by Jodi Thomas

He zipped up his leather jacket and walked to his bike. Let the coyotes and hawks have this place. Maybe one more circling of the land tomorrow and then he was leaving. When he got to Denver, he’d call the lawyer who contacted him about this inheritance and ask for a Realtor who’d sell the place. Land, house, and heritage. They could buy it all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAKOTA DAVIS TURNED OFF the county road, driving way faster than the speed limit. In five minutes the dirt road would be a river of mud. If she wanted to get home without all her supplies soaked, she’d better make the farm pickup fly.

  A few minutes later, as she passed the old Hamilton place, she thought she was hallucinating. A man dressed in black was standing knee-deep in the muddy lake, looking like he was swearing at heaven.

  For just a moment he reminded her of something her shichu, her grandmother, had said about a legend of the lake. Shichu said the last man to die in a battle over this land was a strong warrior, but he’d simply walked out to the middle of Indigo Lake until the water was over his head because he’d lost his will to live. Apache legends, tales of her people who fought and died over this land, were common, but this story was about the Hamiltons.

  Shichu knew them all. Ancient tales and stories of battles fought near this quiet lake between neighbors who’d settled here over a hundred years ago. The Davis family and the Hamilton clan. Curses once screamed across the water now simply whispered in the trees lining its banks.

  Grandmother said the land was damned and all who fought to keep it would die in water. Maybe that was why the last one, Henry Hamilton, stayed away, Dakota thought as she stared at the vision before her.

  When the man in black turned to stare at her pickup, she had to remind herself she didn’t believe in ghosts. But the stranger looked exactly like the Hamilton men she’d seen in pictures at the museum near Crossroads. Tall, broad-shouldered, slim.

  Only, all the Hamilton men were dead, even Henry, who she’d never seen. Folks in town said he was killed six months ago in a car crash somewhere in Louisiana. As far as anyone knew he hadn’t been back to the place for forty years, but the Franklin sisters whispered that the crash had pushed both his car and him off the highway into water.

  The man standing in the lake looked very much alive and was waving for help. Curiosity got the better of her, and Dakota turned away from her farm and toward Hamilton Acres.

  A heartbeat later she slammed on her brakes.

  The bridge that usually stretched across a stream that fed the lake was now halfway in the water. There must have been an accident: what looked like the back wheel of a motorcycle spun in the lake as if trying to tread water.

  Jumping from the truck, she yelled to the man, “You need help?”

  “No,” he yelled back. “I’m fine. My bike just wanted to go for a swim.”

  Dakota frowned, then turned around. “Oh, all right. Sorry to bother you.” She climbed back into the truck.

  “Wait.” The man stormed out of the water. “I’m sorry. The bridge gave way as I was leaving. I just watched a classic 1948 Harley drown.”

  “I can see that.” She thought of asking what he was doing on Hamilton Acres in the first place, but she had a feeling he belonged here. Black hair. Angry. Too noisy to be a ghost. “Why don’t you pull it out and dry it off?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. I’d have to take it apart and rebuild. It will no longer be original, and parts cost more than the bike, if I can find them.”

  Too much information. She didn’t have time to visit or cry over the loss of a motorcycle.

  Her grandmother had told her once that the men of this ranch only had two possible traits: stubborn or crazy.

  This one had both, plus he had the look of a Hamilton. She’d bet his eyes were that funny color gray of a wolf. “Anything else you want to educate me about motorcycles? I need to get these supplies home.”

  “You wouldn’t want to help me pull my bike out?” he asked in a calmer tone.

  “Nope. I don’t go on Hamilton land. There’s a curse. Anyone named Davis who steps foot on that land dies a violent death.” She didn’t add by a Hamilton bullet. Never give ideas to the insane.

  “We all die sometime, lady.”

  She stepped into her truck. “I’ll have to test the curse later. Good luck with your bike.” Thunder rolled over the land as if pushing her away. “I’m in a hurry.”

  “Wait. I’m sorry. Let me try again. I’m Blade Hamilton and I’ve just lost a sixty-thousand-dollar bike in the mud. Forgive me for not caring about an old curse or your groceries.”

  “You’re forgiven, Hamilton, but I’m not stepping on your land. The good news is that bike isn’t going anywhere. It will still be right there in the mud tomorrow, but if I get these supplies wet, we’ll lose a week’s income.”

  Lightning flashed as if on cue. The blink of light showed off the skeleton trees dancing in the wind near the water. Dakota fought the urge to gun the engine. For as long as she could remember she’d always feared this land. It felt like Halloween night without a light.

  The man didn’t seem to notice the weather or the creepiness of the place. Who knew—maybe Hamiltons were used to scary nights.

  “Fine,” he said. “Any chance you’d rent me your truck? I just need it for ten minutes and I’ll pay you fifty.”

  “Nope,” she said. “But I’ll loan it to you if you’ll help me get these supplies under cover before it rains.”

  “Deal,” he said, and walked toward the passenger side of her old Ford.

  “In the back, Hamilton,” she ordered. “I don’t want mud all over my seats.” She fought the urge to add or you near enough to strangle me. Her grandmother told her once that there was an old cemetery, way back on Davis land, where all the deaths were recorded on headstones. Died in childbirth. Death from cholera. Died in accident. Death by Hamilton.

  Besides, she didn’t have time to clean all the property listings off her passenger seat. Her mobile office was always a mess. Four mornings a week, the farm truck was her business vehicle.

  He swung up into the bed of the truck with the ease of a man who’d done it many times and she started backing up before he was seated. The sooner she was home safe, the better. She’d loan him the pickup and tell him to just leave the keys in it. He could cross the pasture and walk back to his place easily enough.

  The road was bumpy between her land and his, but she flew toward home, not much caring if the man bounced out or not. Her people had always hated Hamiltons. They told stories about how mean they were and even though she’d been told they were all dead, she felt it her ancestral duty to hate this new one.

  So, why was she loaning him her truck?

  Dakota shook her head. It was the neighborly thing to do. Having a grandmother with Apache blood and an Irish grandfather had messed her up for life.

  A guy she’d dated a few years back broke up with her because he said she had Apache skills with a knife and an Irish temper. She almost hit him for insulting both sides of her family, but then she would have proved his point. She’d told him this was the twenty-first century and she was a skilled chef like her sister, which wasn’t true, but it sounded good. He left before she cooked him anything and proved herself a liar, as well. She heard him mumbling something about being afraid to sleep beside her for fear he’d be carved and thin sliced if he snored. He’d called her hotheaded just before he gunned the engine and shot out of her life.

  Dakota gripped the steering wheel, realizing the old boyfriend had been right. She did have a temper, but with a Hamilton riding in the back of her truck, now didn’t seem the time for self-analysis.

  She could be nice. She’d loan Hamilton the truck, and when he brought it back she’d tell him to never step foot on Davis land again. Simple enough.

  When she slid to a stop a few feet fro
m the kitchen door of her place, she glanced back. He was still there and raindrops were spatting against her windshield.

  She jumped out and ran to haul the boxes of supplies to the cover of the porch.

  To his credit, he did his share to help. More than his share, actually, because he carried a double load with each trip.

  The guy was strong and obviously well built. And a biker. Black leather jacket. Leather pants hugging his legs. Boots to his knees. His cowboy ancestors were probably rolling over in their graves.

  In a few minutes they had the boxes on the covered porch and the rain started pouring down in sheets.

  “We made it.” She laughed. “Thanks. No supplies got wet.”

  “I’m glad I could help. I’m already soaked so the rain won’t bother me.”

  She decided he didn’t sound like he meant it about how glad he was to help. Maybe it was the tone in his voice—it didn’t sound right without a Texas twang. She frowned at him, wondering what northern state he’d come from.

  He looked down at her with his gray wolf eyes and added, “If you got wet, you might shrink and then you’d be about elf size.”

  Dakota studied him a moment. No obvious signs of insanity. “You don’t have many friends, do you, Hamilton?” She tossed him her key. “Park the truck at the turnoff on my land. You won’t have as far to walk. Leave the keys in the glove box.”

  “Aren’t you afraid someone will steal it?”

  “Nope. Nobody but you.”

  He nodded and disappeared into the downpour.

  Dakota straightened to her five-foot-two height and frowned. “Sounds just like what a Hamilton would say,” she mumbled, thinking it was obvious the Hamiltons had been the ones to start the feud.

  Elf size. No one had ever called her that.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LAUREN BRIGMAN STOOD in the shadows of hundred-year-old cottonwoods planted to slow the wind off the open plains. The lights of town were nothing more than a glow of tea candles in the distance.

  The night’s breath rattled the dried leaves in the trees as it had a dozen years ago. She felt a hint of old fear creep over her as a memory circled in her mind.

  Strange how you live thousands of days, thousands of nights but only a few live in your mind, in your heart, as clear as the moment they happened.

  She stared at the home her high school friends had called the Gypsy House. An old woman who’d died there decades ago was almost a skeleton before anyone had come to check on her. After her passing, the house was left to rot and became the setting for ghost stories told around campfires.

  Finally, the grandson of the old woman, Yancy Gray, moved to Crossroads and found himself drawn to the place. He’d discovered he owned the house and had completely remodeled it. Yancy had painted the outside a cream color with shutters the burnt orange of sunset’s last glow. He’d enlarged the second floor and landscaped beautifully.

  Yet in Lauren’s mind, the house was still abandoned and rotting, as it looked when she was fifteen. She’d danced with death that night twelve years ago; they all had. Tim O’Grady, Reid Collins, Lucas Reyes, and her. Just four kids walking home, looking for something to do, hoping for an adventure they could brag about at school.

  Three boys and her, the youngest, the only girl, all in their teens. Sometimes she felt as if they’d been bound together by fear and the lie they all kept after that night. She’d never be free of the memory. One day she’d be bent over with age, but she’d still come to this spot every year and remember what had happened.

  Footsteps played a rapid tap on the wet pavement behind her as thunder rumbled above.

  Lauren stepped farther into the shadows and watched. There was no mistaking Reid Collins’s quick, confident step. He might be twenty-eight now and rich, thanks to a trust fund from grandparents and a ranch a few miles from town, but there was still a bit of the little boy in him. Spoiled, arrogant, and handsome. Word was that he’d be running for mayor of Crossroads in the fall with his eye on the Texas State Senate in ten years, but Reid would never have her vote.

  As far as she knew, he never finished college or anything else he’d started. Her father, the town’s sheriff, told Lauren a few months ago that the only way to kill an improvement project in the county was to put Reid in charge. He’d never get around to the planning meeting, much less completion.

  The tapping of his boots stopped a few feet in front of the cottonwoods. “I know you’re in there, Lauren. That long, blond hair of yours glows in the dark. You might as well come out.” His laugh wasn’t quite real. Too polished, too practiced.

  She slowly stepped onto the road. “I didn’t think you’d be in town, Reid. Did they run out of parties in the big city?” He didn’t look entirely sober, but she didn’t mention it. “Pop said they canceled the city council meeting because you had to be in Austin today.”

  “I just got back. The Governors Balls are not what they used to be.” He smiled as if really looking at her for a change. “You know, Lauren, I miss our once-a-year dates from college. You were the only girl I took out now and then that I didn’t sleep with.” His gaze traveled down her long, slim body.

  She didn’t miss him. Those dates had been torture. Putting up with his loud, self-centered fraternity brothers, trying to act like she was having a good time watching them brag. He’d said once that he liked having a tall blonde on his arm, like she was an accessory.

  She and Reid were from the same town; their dads had been friends, so she’d gone out with Reid Collins a few times. She felt sure half the people in town wanted them to marry, but she’d never match with him. She loved learning almost as dearly as he loved partying.

  “I was a perfect gentleman.” He bragged as he moved closer, almost nose to nose with her. “Never even made a pass.”

  “You’re right, but I’m surprised you remembered I was there. Weren’t you engaged two or three times while you were at Tech?”

  “Two. The third one was all in her head. Once I came home to run the ranch, I was so bored I almost married the first girl who came along. Big mistake. She’s still spreading trash about me.” He tried to loop his arm over her shoulder but she stepped away. “You’re looking good, Lauren. Aging well.”

  “I’m twenty-seven, Reid, not exactly a centenarian.”

  “I know, but you wouldn’t believe how some women change after college. I went to the planning meeting for my ten-year high school reunion and some of the kids I graduated with had slipped into middle age. I thought one girl must have sent her mother to the meeting.” He slurred a few of his words.

  Lauren didn’t want to talk to Reid Collins, not ever, much less on the anniversary of the accident at the old Gypsy House. “I just came out to remember what happened twelve years ago. How about you?”

  Collins looked around, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. As far as she knew, he’d never mentioned the night of the accident to any of the three who were with him. He’d simply taken credit for saving everyone that night. An account none of the others shared.

  She smiled, wondering why they’d silently watched him play the hero. The school even had a pep rally for him, and the mayor had given him a key to the city. Lauren, Lucas and Tim remained silent and let the lie about that night stand, even though the truth wouldn’t hurt anyone now.

  “I spotted your car at the truck stop and decided to walk off the long drive. Thought you might have wandered down this direction,” Reid said, a bit too loudly, almost as though he thought someone might be eavesdropping and he wanted them to hear him. “Strange we meet here at almost midnight. The people in this town are like ants. They disappear as soon as it gets dark.”

  “Maybe they don’t disappear. Maybe you just don’t notice them.”

  “You want to go for a drink?” he asked suddenly, as if the timer in his br
ain went off and it was time for another.

  “No.” She didn’t bother with a reason.

  He rocked on his heels and went back to their conversation. “I doubt anyone except you, Lauren, remembers that night we got trapped in the old Gypsy House. Ancient history. Four kids almost died when they ventured into an abandoned house. Why don’t you do an article in that little online paper of yours about it?”

  “You really think no one remembers? Twelve years ago tonight was when Tim was crippled. He still limps a bit, so he’s not likely to forget.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I was hurt too, you know.” Reid backed away a few feet, as though not wanting her to see him so clearly. “My ankle still gives me trouble when I play tennis.” He rushed on as if needing to change the subject. “My last stepmother put in a court and a pool at the ranch headquarters to make sure I exercise it regularly.”

  “How are your father and his new bride?” Lauren had no idea if this was number five or six.

  Reid shrugged. “I don’t know. They mostly travel. She hates the ranch so Dad bought her a town house in Dallas and she owns a vineyard outside of Paris, thanks to her last husband. Dad lucked out marrying this one. He plays golf and she shops while they’re in the States, and who knows what they do in Paris? I run the ranch, you know, have for years. It’s a real headache. Dad and I would both like to be rid of the place. He sold several pastures before he left town two years ago.”

  She started walking and he fell into step. Neither mentioned the light rain.

  “Why don’t you drive out some weekend? It’s only a few miles, but it might feel like a retreat after living in this town. We could talk about our college days, maybe watch a Tech game. I’ve got the whole fall season recorded. Man, I miss those days at Tech. The games, the parties, the carefree life.”

  She smiled. He hadn’t mentioned the classes. “You could invite Tim O’Grady and Lucas Reyes to come too. Maybe we could talk about the night the old house almost swallowed us.”