by Joanna Wayne
“No, but as a favor to me, Troy gave them permission to take all the photos they wanted of the house and gardens and to do the story. They’re really trying to make a go of the magazine, and the story on the Ledger house did give them a giant boost in sales.”
Dylan tapped on the open door and stuck his head inside. Joey was a step behind him, holding on to a bag of wood scraps that Dylan had given him earlier to use as blocks.
“I’m going to drive Troy back to the house. I think that big construction project Joey had him working on wore him out.”
Joey skipped over to where Eve was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “We used the blocks to build a ranch with a place to ride horses and everything,” Joey said. “And we made a bridge to go over Willow Creek.”
“So that’s what’s kept you quiet for so long?”
“I can drive you two home later if you want to visit a while longer,” Dylan offered.
“No, I need to get Joey to bed, and I’m a bit tired myself. It’s been a long day.”
Eve grabbed the stack of magazines she’d put aside, stood and started to the door with Joey a step behind.
Collette followed them out to the truck.
“Thanks for everything,” Eve said as she climbed into the backseat with Joey.
“You’re welcome. Come back tomorrow and I’ll take some shots of you and Joey down by the creek. Maybe we can get one that’s frame worthy.”
A picture to take home with her to remind her of the week she’d spent on the run. Only, she wouldn’t need a reminder.
If all went well and Bastion was caught and returned to prison, the terror would pass, she told herself. The heated memories of Sean would haunt her forever, especially if she never got to finish that kiss. Depending on the plan brewing in her mind, that might have to be tonight or never.
And never was much too long to wait.
Chapter Nine
Eve lay on her back in the twin bed, staring at the ceiling and feeling totally alone as she let the plan take shape in her mind.
The most difficult part would be leaving Joey at the ranch with Troy and Sean so that he’d not witness any violence. He’d be anxious with her away, but not as traumatized as if she’d left him before he’d developed a case of hero worship toward Sean. Sean might be furious at her for leaving, but she was certain he’d keep Joey safe.
She’d go back to Dallas alone. When Orson made his move, the police would arrest him. Orson would return to prison instead of continuing his killing rampage. And it would all happen without Joey being exposed to violence and without putting the Ledger family in danger.
Orson was likely already watching her house, waiting for a chance to make good on his death threat. But he wouldn’t show his hand until she was on the scene.
He’d rely on his intellect, have what he thought was a perfect plan to kill her without getting caught. Why wouldn’t he feel confident? He’d killed three times since his escape. He carried no guilt. He had no conscience.
But this time Detective Reagan Conner and his team would be there waiting on him. They’d stop him before he could kill her, and then it would all be over.
Unless… Unless any one of a dozen things went wrong.
Suppose the police didn’t act fast enough. Suppose Orson really was too cagey to be apprehended again.
One mistake and she could be dead, and Joey would be left without one living family member to take care of him.
Doubts expanded into new avenues of dread. Apprehension rattled inside her like a nest of venomous snakes. She knew what Sean’s answer would be to the dilemma, but still the need to talk to him about it swelled to a painful ache.
Or maybe it wasn’t talk she needed at all. She touched her mouth, and anticipation heated her lips and curled around her fear.
She was trembling when she reached the door to Sean’s bedroom. It was ajar as before. She tapped lightly.
No answer. No sound of his breathing. No sounds coming from his room at all. She stuck her head inside. The bed was still made. There was no sign of Sean.
She hadn’t seen him since Dylan had driven them home, but his truck had been parked in the driveway at the side of the house. She’d assumed he was in his room. Obviously she’d been wrong.
Disappointment crept though her in fatiguing waves as she padded back to the bedroom she shared with Joey. Too unsettled to sleep and not wanting to wake Joey, she picked up the stack of magazines and carried them to the family room. The house was unsettlingly quiet as she flicked on a lamp and nestled into a corner of the leather sofa.
The journal on top was seriously out-of-date. She reached into the stack and made a random choice, not realizing what it was until she’d placed it in her lap.
Beyond the Grave. She hadn’t intended to bring that one with her. A chill settled in the room as she thumbed through the magazine, found the article and began to read. If there were facts to be discovered, they were concealed in the darkly evocative narrative.
The Ledger house had a reputation as being haunted. Strangers told of seeing a woman in white out by the gate when they’d pass it at night. She’d try to wave them down as if she needed help. If they stopped, she disappeared.
Others who had dared venture inside the gate claimed to have seen a woman standing at one of the house’s many windows. Speculation was that the woman in white was the ghost of Helene Ledger waiting for her five sons to come home. Others believed she was there to make sure that her husband never returned to the house where he’d killed her.
In all fairness, all the writers really attested to was that the house had a warm and welcoming feel to it and that Troy Ledger’s new daughter-in-law was totally convinced of his innocence.
The article included several pictures of the courtyard garden that Collette and Joey had decorated for the upcoming holiday this afternoon. It was said to be Helene’s creation and one of her favorite respites before her murder.
The garden had now been lovingly restored to its former beauty. If the ghost of Helene Ledger was still on the scene, the writers were certain her days would be spent there, even if she did roam the hallways at night.
Creepily grotesque, yet weirdly sentimental. Throw in a dollop of unrequited passion for a fascinating stranger and you’d have Eve’s life in a nutshell.
She didn’t believe in ghosts or goblins or any other paranormal elements. But her psychiatric training and experience had taught her that the mind could mold any fear or fantasy into a virtual reality.
If Helene’s ghost were real, it would surely be furious with Eve for bringing danger into the Ledger home.
Her eyelids grew heavy. Eve reached for a nearby throw, pulled it over her and snuggled against the back of the couch. Her head came to rest on her folded arms, and the magazine dropped to the floor.
An icy draft filled the room. Eve shivered and opened her eyes as a strange, vaporous shape floated past her and hovered above Joey’s bed. The vapor formed long, sinewy bands that wrapped around Joey like tentacles.
Eve rushed over and tried to beat them off him, but her efforts met with inhuman resistance.
“I’ll watch over him. He’s cradled in love.”
Eve jerked awake as the words echoed in her mind as if they’d traveled through a deep canyon. A cold sweat dampened her pajamas and they clung to her like a second skin. She sat up straight and took gulping breaths to clear her mind.
There were no remnants of a ghostly vapor. She wasn’t even in the bedroom where Joey was sleeping. But her conscience had found a way to get through the hurdles she’d erected in her mind.
Joey would be safe here at the ranch without her. She’d go back to Dallas. Detective Conner would get his man. Her world would return to normal.
Normal, but without Sean Ledger in it. She ached to go to him now, beg him to hold her until her nerves steadied.
But if he held her in his arms, she’d never find the strength or the will to leave him. That left nothing to do but go back to
her own bed. Alone.
She’d tell Sean and Troy of her plans the first thing in the morning.
SEAN STAMPED THE MUD OFF his feet and climbed the back steps. He’d slept very little last night and woke up with the sun. Hating to disturb the others at that ungodly hour, he’d moved through the house as quietly as he could, made a pot of coffee, and taken a cup outside with him.
He’d taken a brisk walk, got his blood circulating and still dreaded the thought of stepping back inside the house. He and Troy had found no meeting of the minds. They hadn’t even come close.
They wouldn’t, as long as neither of them took the lead in bringing up his mother’s murder. They sidestepped the subject like it was a cliff they’d fall over if they got too close.
Worse, he was losing it with Eve, letting his frustration turn him into a drill sergeant. But she wasn’t helping any. She didn’t have to look so damned irresistible or sway so seductively when she walked. Or return his kiss with a passion that left him dizzy with desire.
If he let himself, he’d fall so hard it would take a team of horses to right him. He’d even start believing he could actually make a relationship with her work, when experience had taught him it was a mistake to even try.
The only thing going well was his relationship with Joey. Sean could read Joey the way he read a troubled horse. The boy reacted honestly and without thinking about his every move. He wanted independence, yet his dependence on his mother got in the way of his claiming it.
What Sean couldn’t decipher was exactly how or why Joey had become so fearful, though he knew a traumatic experience could do that to a kid.
Like coming home from school and finding your mother lying dead in the living room, her hair matted with blood. Sean pushed the gruesome memories back into the crevices of his mind as he stepped through the back door. He took off his Stetson and tossed it onto an empty chair.
Troy was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the morning newspaper and sipping his coffee. He nodded and kept reading.
Sean stared at the jagged scar that punctuated his face from his temple to his cheek and he recalled the story Eve had told him.
Troy was not the fallen hero from his youth. Nor was he the heartless monster his mother’s family had claimed.
Sean refilled his coffee mug and joined Troy at the table. “Can we talk?”
TROY FOLDED THE PAPER and pushed it aside. He’d been expecting this ever since Sean had arrived. Still, he wasn’t prepared. Explaining meant revisiting the pain.
It meant saying things that should never have to be said. It meant facing head-on the revulsion that Sean had never really tried to disguise.
“I guess now’s as good a time as any for you to say what’s on your mind,” Troy said.
“Do you remember me?” Sean asked. “I mean really remember me and not just that I’m one of your sons that you dismissed from your life for seventeen years.”
“I remember you. When I was around, you took every step I did until you started school. Even as a tyke you loved horses. I brought a saddle in the house and you’d sit in it and act like you were riding. ‘Yee-haw’ was practically the first word you said.”
The first word had actually been “Momma.” Troy’s chest tightened at the memory. Sean was their second son. He’d been born just a year and a half after Wyatt.
It had been a difficult pregnancy for Helene. Not that she’d ever complained, though Troy had given her plenty of reason. He worked sunup to sundown trying to get the ranch up and running so that he could make enough money to pay the note on the land.
Ranching was all he knew. That and rodeo, and he couldn’t afford a wife and kid on his rodeo winnings.
Helene was used to luxuries. With Troy she’d gotten calluses and kids. Her parents had never forgiven him for that. Troy figured this was not the kind of information Sean was interested in.
“You were a heck of a baseball player,” Troy continued. “Your team won every game that last year….” The last year before Helene had died. Troy hadn’t meant to go there, but it was out there now, hanging in the air, waiting to sting like an angry wasp.
Sean looked him straight on. “Did you kill Mother?”
The answer screamed inside Troy, but yelling it out loud wouldn’t make much difference. He’d told the truth from day one. People made facts of whatever they chose to believe.
“You must have made up your mind about my guilt or innocence a long time ago,” Troy said.
“I had lots of help.”
“From your mother’s family?”
“And from a jury.”
“I’m not going to knock your mother’s family, Sean. They never approved of Helene marrying a poor rancher, but they loved her very much. And they stepped in and raised all of you boys when I couldn’t. There’s no way I could ever repay them for that, not that they’d want or take anything from me.
“As for the jury, I can’t even really blame them for convicting me on circumstantial evidence. I didn’t do a lot in my own defense. A big part of me died the day your mother did. I shut down mentally and emotionally.”
Troy forced himself to look Sean in the eye, hoping for some sign of understanding, if not forgiveness. The stare he got in return was unrelenting.
“I let all of you boys down, Sean. I let Helene down. I can’t change that now, but I’ll never forgive myself. But for the record, I did try to get in touch with you through the years. Your grandparents convinced me that you didn’t want to hear from me and that forcing myself on you would just make matters worse.”
“They were right,” Sean admitted. “I had never planned to see or talk to you again.”
Yet here he was. Troy was thankful for even that.
“I’d like to believe every word you said,” Sean said. “I’d like it more than you know. But just wanting to doesn’t make that happen for me, not the way it happened for Dylan.”
“It didn’t happen that fast for Dylan, either. We went through some tough times. But I can’t change any of the past.”
If he could, Helene would walk through that door right now, and her smile would make his heart sing.
“Just don’t let the past mess up your mind and keep you from finding happiness with someone you love,” Troy said. “You don’t have to take a chance on me, but take a chance on you.”
The silence grew heavy, and Troy was thankful when it was broken by the ringing of Sean’s cell phone. He’d said what he could. The rest was up to Sean.
He’d turned into a man’s man. Good. Honest. Brave.
Helene would be proud of him.
And knowing what a matchmaker she was, she’d no doubt be pushing him into the arms of Eve Worthington right now. In fact, Troy kind of liked that idea himself.
He stepped out of the kitchen, leaving Sean privacy for his call.
“DID I WAKE YOU?” Wyatt asked.
“Unfortunately, no.”
“A restless night?”
“And a worse morning. Tell me, Wyatt, do you think there’s a chance that the whole lot of Mother’s family misjudged Dad and that he really is innocent?”
“To tell you the truth, nothing seems black and white to me anymore. Dylan sees one shade of gray. You see another. Dakota and Tyler were so young back then, I’m not sure they remember enough to form a judgment.”
“I know why Tyler hasn’t come around. He’s fighting in Afghanistan.”
“And Dakota’s chasing a championship buckle in the Canadian rodeo circuit,” Wyatt said. “What’s your point?”
“I was just wondering why you haven’t made a visit to the Willow Creek Ranch.”
“Doesn’t rank at the top of my to-do list right now. I’ve got killers to get off the streets of Atlanta—not to mention the hottie model who either pushed or watched her prominent sugar daddy fall out of a penthouse window last night.”
“Are we still talking about Troy, or is that your way of telling me that you were too busy to check out Orson Bastion?”
“I managed to dig up a few specifics. I’m just not sure they’ll help you.”
“Hit me with them.”
“His mother’s name was Lydia Cantrell, though she’d gone back to calling herself Lydia Bastion before her death. She killed herself a couple of years back, supposedly because of Orson’s failed parole attempt.”
“Was she married?”
“Not at the time. Her third husband, Sam Cantrell, left her after Orson beat his son to death with a carjack.”
“Guess he figured the ‘till death do us part’ clause didn’t extend to a son’s murder as well,” Sean said. “Does Orson have any living family?”
“A sister named Alyssa Coleman. Divorced. One son, Nick, age eleven. She lives in San Antonio.”
Wyatt read off the address and Sean scrawled it on a napkin he grabbed from the kitchen counter, though he was certain Orson wouldn’t be hanging out there.
“Where does Alyssa work?”
“A bakery/coffeehouse a few blocks from where she lives. She looks like an aging goth girl. Heavy dark makeup around the eyes. Spiky hairdo. Jet-black hair.”
“You have her picture?”
“Found it on her Facebook page, so she might have deliberately chosen a weird snapshot.”
“I’ll look her up.”
“But don’t get any crazy ideas about questioning her, Sean. Anything I tell you is strictly to help you figure out how to keep Eve Worthington and her son away from Orson Bastion. You do not want to go up against him. He’ll make those wild horses you’re so fond of seem like puppy dogs.”
“Gotcha.”
“If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, no heroics. Death will not become you.”
“No heroics,” Sean promised. Unless Orson Bastion left him no other choice.
But neither would he sit around and do nothing until Eve gave in to Detective Reagan Conner’s pressure and became bait for a madman.
ALYSSA WOKE WITH A splitting headache. Orson had always given her headaches, though in the old days they were usually caused by his slamming a fist into the side of her skull or shoving her into the wall.
