Immediately, her mood lightened.
She had the oddest feeling in this house. She didn’t understand it and assumed it had to be the lingering effects from the pain medication. Nothing else explained why she felt this overwhelming sense of warmth and welcome here, why the very walls of the log ranch house seemed to be urging her to settle in and be comfortable.
She loved her own condo just a few blocks from the ocean and had worked two jobs for a long time to save for the down payment, but she wasn’t sure she ever felt the same sense of cozy contentment there.
A picture above the mantel drew her gaze, and she saw it was a mountain scene, with horses in the foreground who looked as if they could run off the painting, and a compelling old cabin with weathered log walls and fluttery lace curtains.
Even before she saw the flowing signature of Margaret Bowman, she knew by the style and skillful use of color and perspective that it must have been painted by Ridge’s mother.
That alone was enough to remind her she didn’t belong here. Like the painting, the feeling was only an artful illusion, and she would do well to remember that.
Chapter Seven
He stayed out in the cold for several hours, plowing neighbors’ driveways and digging out mailboxes buried by blowing snowdrifts and the county road crews.
The heater in the tractor cab had stopped working about an hour earlier and he was chilled to the bone. Though the snow had stopped for now, the clouds were heavy and dark, and he expected several more inches would fall overnight.
As Ridge finally drove the tractor up the long, curving lane that led from Cold Creek Road to the ranch house, nestled in the trees, he was greeted by a scene that belonged on a greeting card.
There, shining through the gloom, was the house where he had lived most of his life, the front window gleaming with color and light from the huge Christmas tree Caidy and Destry had spent the entire Thanksgiving weekend decorating.
He stopped the tractor and just savored the view. He loved this place, every last inch of it. The house, the barn, the outbuildings, the acreage. He knew it as well as he knew his own face in the mirror.
His houseguest must have turned on the tree lights. He wondered how she was doing and hoped she had found the chance to rest. Guilt pinched at him, knowing he had left her far too long. He should have checked on her an hour ago.
He meant to earlier, but time had this bad habit of slipping away from him. He could also be honest enough with himself to admit he was also a little leery about facing her again after that moment when he had nearly kissed her in the kitchen.
That hadn’t stopped him from thinking about her all afternoon. She was hiding something from him. He was certain of it, though he couldn’t have said why.
Hell, he’d only met the woman a little more than twenty-four hours earlier. He didn’t really know anything about her, other than that she was lovely as a spring meadow, that she didn’t have anywhere else to go for the holidays and that she made him begin to crave all these crazy things he never thought he needed.
Despite their short acquaintance, he still sensed secrets seething beneath her outward calm like rainbow trout darting around under the ice of Cold Creek. He wanted to dip his hand in and catch a few of them.
After enjoying the view for a few more moments, he drove up to the house and parked close. Broken heater or not, he was going to have to go out to plow again before the storm blew itself out and passed away from Pine Gulch. It was an inevitable part of wintertime here on the western slope of the Tetons.
When he walked into the mudroom, he was again met by something tantalizing, rich and hearty. His stomach growled in a rather embarrassing way. He took off his winter clothes and walked in to find an empty kitchen. One of Caidy’s slow cookers steamed on the countertop.
Though his sister had often instructed him on the cardinal rule of slow cookers—don’t lift the lid!—he was too curious, and, hey, male. He couldn’t resist doing just that. To his amazed delight, he discovered one of his very favorite winter meals: a beef stew brimming with onions, potatoes and carrots.
His houseguest must have thrown it together. How had she managed to peel and slice the vegetables with a broken arm?
A warmth that had nothing to do with the furnace seeped through him. After another quick, appreciative sniff, he closed the lid and went in search of her.
He found her snuggled up under a blanket on one of the sofas in the great room, positioned so she could see both the blazing Christmas tree and the fire that sizzled and hummed in the river-rock fireplace.
He opened his mouth to greet her, then realized her eyes were closed, her breathing even. A strand of auburn hair drifted across her cheek and he had to clench a fist to keep from pushing it back.
She looked so peaceful there, lovely and sweet and more relaxed than he had seen her since she arrived at the ranch.
Despite his better instincts, Ridge indulged his cold, achy bones and sank down onto the other sofa. He had a million things to do. Running a cattle ranch left him very little leisure time. He could always find some task to fill his downtime—ranch accounts, ordering supplies, tinkering with the stupid heater on the John Deere.
He hadn’t slept much the night before. Just for a moment, he decided to sit by his own fire on a cold, snowy afternoon and relax while the Christmas lights flickered on the tree.
The past week revving up to the wedding had been so crazy, he hadn’t had a single moment of downtime. As he sat there with the fire warming his feet, tension he hadn’t even been aware of began to trickle away. He exhaled heavily and closed his eyes—just for a moment, he told himself.
Sometime later, the sound of the front door slamming pierced through a hazy, delicious dream that involved a lovely woman with auburn hair and blue-gray eyes and a soft, eager mouth...
“Dad! I’m home!”
He jerked back to full awareness just as his daughter bolted in at full tilt, like a gawky energetic colt.
He blinked a few times. Surely he hadn’t been asleep. He never took naps. But the fire had burned down and his eyes felt heavy and swollen, so he must have been out for a while.
For a moment, Destry looked mildly surprised to find him sitting on the living room sofa, apparently doing nothing. “Hi, Dad!” she exclaimed.
“Hey there,” he said softly. He quickly rose and headed back to the foyer so their guest could keep sleeping.
Destry followed him, dropping her backpack on a chair as she went. “You wouldn’t believe the crazy roads. Uncle Trace had to drive like two miles an hour all the way here.”
“Is that so?” he murmured softly as Trace walked in carrying an unfamiliar suitcase, Gabi right behind him hauling a mysterious plastic bin whose contents he couldn’t discern.
“I didn’t think I would see you guys today. I figured you wouldn’t be able to make it through the snow.”
“You got a lot more out here than we did in town, and we didn’t have the wind,” his brother said. “Anyway, what’s a blizzard when you’ve got four-wheel drive and a couple of determined girls on your hands?”
Gabi and Destry both giggled, something they tended to do a great deal of whenever they were together. He never minded it. What else were girls their age supposed to do?
“Sorry to make you drive me home in the snow, Uncle Trace,” Destry said. “I just have so much to do before Christmas, you know? We’ve only got two days. Can you believe it? Now that we finished the, er, things we were making at your place, I wanted to come home to finish the rest. I didn’t want you out here by yourself, now that Aunt Caidy’s on her honeymoon.”
“I’m not by myself,” he started to explain, but at that moment, Destry’s attention was caught by something in the living room. Sarah, he realized. She had sat up and was looking around the room sleepily, her hair messed up
from sleeping on her side.
She looked completely delectable, especially when she flushed a little to find them all looking at her.
“Oh. Hi.”
Her voice sounded husky with sleep, and Ridge had to swallow hard at the instant heat that surged through him.
He did his best to ignore the arched eyebrow Trace sent his way. Sometimes younger brothers were a pain in the ass.
“Sorry we woke you,” he said. “Look who showed up. This is my brother Trace, my daughter, Destry, and Trace’s sister-in-law, Gabi. Everybody, this is Sarah Whitmore.”
Sarah tucked her feet under the blanket. “Hi,” she said with a nervous sort of smile. His family could be overwhelming. At least she was meeting them a few at a time.
“Hi, Sarah,” Gabi said cheerfully. “Did you really break your arm falling down the stairs?”
Sarah lifted her cast, her expression embarrassed. “Can you believe anybody would be so clumsy?”
“Does it hurt a lot?” Gabi asked. “I sprained my wrist one time playing dodgeball at school, and it hurt like crazy. I couldn’t use it for like two weeks. I had a cast and everything. It did help me get out of like four tests, since I couldn’t write the answers, so that was kind of awesome.”
“So that’s why you didn’t complain more about your injury,” Trace said, rolling his eyes at his young sister-in-law. Gabi was quite a character, someone who had grown up learning how to manipulate circumstances to her advantage. “All this time, I thought you were just being brave.”
“I was! It still hurt like crazy.”
Trace laughed and nudged her with his shoulder. He loved the girl like a daughter, something that warmed Ridge to see.
He didn’t look quite as favorably on his brother when Trace turned his attention to Sarah.
“Ridge was telling me last night about the painting you brought with you to Pine Gulch. He said you wanted to give it back to the family.”
“Er, yes. That’s the plan.” She looked down at her hands, clearly uncomfortable at the direction the conversation had taken.
“That seems like quite a remarkably generous gesture. It’s not a masterpiece by any means, but it’s still a valuable painting, especially given the history. Were you aware our mother’s work is beginning to fetch in the five figures?”
“I can certainly see why,” she murmured, gesturing to one of Ridge’s favorites on the mantel, one of her earlier works they had been able to purchase a few years ago. “She was very gifted.”
“But you still want to give it to us. Complete strangers.”
She sent a fleeting glance in Ridge’s direction, and her cheeks colored, which he interpreted to mean she didn’t consider him a complete stranger. Good thing, especially since he’d nearly kissed her a few hours earlier.
“Keeping it wouldn’t have been right. The painting never belonged to me,” she said quietly. “I’m not sure how my father obtained it, but it appears your family has rightful claim to it. Especially given that history you referred to.”
“That’s quite an unusual position to take. I’m not sure many people would agree. Possession being nine-tenths of the law in many people’s minds.”
“I’m sure you would agree, Chief Bowman, that legalities and moralities are sometimes two very different things.”
She said the words in that same even tone, and Trace studied her carefully as if he were weighing every syllable, every expression.
Ridge could tell Sarah was growing increasingly uncomfortable, and he found himself wanting to tell his brother to back the hell off.
“And you really have no idea how or where your father obtained it?” Trace pushed.
“I was estranged from my father for many years before his death.”
“And yet he left you what could be a valuable painting.”
“Yes,” she said, her voice tight, and Ridge had had enough.
“It’s in my office. Come on back and take a look.”
He said the words in a firm command his brother couldn’t mistake.
After a moment, Trace followed him down the hall with clear reluctance. Ridge could tell his brother wanted to push harder for information on the painting’s journey into her father’s possession, but he wasn’t about to let him badger Sarah.
His protective impulse toward her both surprised and alarmed him, but he told himself he would do the same for anybody.
The painting still held a place of honor on the credenza. He saw exactly the moment Trace caught sight of it. His brother’s rugged features softened with raw emotion, and he moved to stand directly in front of it. He touched a finger to the edge of the frame as if he couldn’t quite believe they had this piece of her back, after all these years.
“I remember the day Mom started this one,” he said, his voice low. “We all went for a picnic up by Winder Lake one evening. Do you remember? Taft and I were probably still single digits. You were maybe twelve. You and Dad and Taft went off fishing, but I had a stomachache and I think I was pissed at Taft for something, as usual, so I stuck with Mom and Caidy.”
He paused, his fingers tracing one of the brush marks. “I watched her do a bunch of sketches of Caidy that looked just like this, only more raw. She also did a few of me, as I recall. It was always kind of a miracle to me how she could make somebody come alive on paper with only a pencil.”
“She definitely had a gift. Too bad she didn’t pass it down to any of us.”
“I’m hoping my son will inherit it. He might only be six months old but I’m telling you, he has a great eye for color.”
Ridge smiled at the obvious love in Trace’s voice whenever he spoke about Will or about Gabi. It was a little odd seeing both of his brothers in these family roles, but he was exceptionally proud of the fathers they had become, probably because they had a damn good example in Frank Bowman.
It was kind of funny that both of the wild twins had settled down to become family men. Trace and his wife, Becca, had taken on responsibility for Gabi before they were married, while Taft had just a year ago formally adopted his wife Laura’s two children from her first marriage, the mischievous and energetic Alex and darling little Maya.
“Caidy is going to cry buckets when she sees this. You know that, right?”
“Oh, yeah. At least two or three. I thought maybe the three of us could give it to her for a belated wedding gift.”
“That’s a great idea,” Trace said. “I’m sure Taft will agree.”
“It’s good to have it back, isn’t it? Admit it.”
His brother frowned. “I never said it wasn’t. I’m as happy to see it again as you are. But if we knew more about how this woman’s father came into possession of a hot painting, we might be a step closer to cracking the case and bringing their killers to justice. Even a tiny clue—a name, a receipt, a wire transfer—could lead us in a new direction.”
Trace had never given up his quest to find the murderers. Ridge knew how important that was to his brother, partly because of the role Becca’s mother played in the crime. From what little they could piece together, Trace’s witch of a mother-in-law had been involved in reconnaissance for the planned art thefts that had unexpectedly turned into a double murder when the Bowmans had surprised the thieves by being home.
Unfortunately, the investigation into the crime stalled after Monica claimed she didn’t know who else had been involved. Ridge knew it chafed Trace that he hadn’t been able to interrogate the woman further about the crimes. Instead, he had been forced to make the difficult choice of letting Monica go free in exchange for her agreement to sign over permanent custody of Gabi to Becca.
Under the circumstances, he had to respect the decision Trace had made, choosing an innocent young girl’s future happiness over his own burning desire for vengeance. He understood and probably would have made
the same choice.
While he sympathized with Trace’s frustration after twelve years of dead ends, he wasn’t about to let him harass Sarah in his search for those answers.
“She said she doesn’t know, and I want you to leave it at that,” he said firmly.
“She might know more than she’s telling you. Even more than she thinks she knows. Sometimes it just takes the right question to bring out unexpected answers.”
“Back off,” he warned, his voice hard. While his younger brother might be chief of police in Pine Gulch, Ridge still considered himself in charge when it came to matters here at the ranch. And since Sarah was his guest, she was also his responsibility. “I don’t want you hounding her about this, you hear me? She’s a nice woman, who has done an amazingly generous thing to return the painting to us.”
“Maybe it’s the cop in me but I don’t trust that kind of unprovoked altruism.”
He snorted. “She teaches first grade, Trace. She’s not some kind of a criminal mastermind. Seriously, let it go.”
Trace looked as if he wanted to argue, but he finally shrugged. “You want to take things at face value, fine. I’ll let it go. For now.”
Ridge supposed he would have to be content with that. “So tell me what Destry and Gabi have been up to.”
“Beats the hell out of me. Everybody at my house seems to be keeping secrets right now, even Gabi’s ugly dog.”
That made two of them, Ridge thought. Apparently there were secrets to spare right now, and he had a feeling not all of them had to do with Christmas surprises.
* * *
Sarah fought down her dismay and fear while Ridge and his brother walked out of the room.
She had no idea how to deal with a hard-looking police chief who looked at her with suspicion and mistrust.
A Cold Creek Christmas Surprise Page 8
