by Adrianne Lee
This was exactly what Jack had prayed for day after day through all the years of his obsession—his father’s murderer brought to justice. Andy’s way insured that justice. Nightmare Man would not escape the proof of the only witness. Then why did Jack feel as if his guts were being torn from him? He raked his hands through his hair. The answer was obvious: fear. One look at her innocent, precious face and he knew he couldn’t risk her life. Couldn’t let her risk it. “I won’t allow you to put yourself in mortal jeopardy.”
“You don’t have a choice in the matter. Either you let me help you or I’ll strike out on my own investigation.”
“Andy, no.” At his plea, her chin snapped up, and she arched a determined brow at him. He had to talk some sense into her. “Why don’t you return to Seattle, marry that fiancé of yours, then if you remember who Nightmare Man is—”
“Let’s not argue.” He wasn’t talking her out of this. No one was. She squared her shoulders and headed for the door. “Come on, Jack. We have a scorpion to catch.”
All the lights were on inside her cabin. She thanked Jack for that and followed him inside, stepping gingerly, her gaze darting toward walls and ceiling where she half expected to see the scorpion hanging or perched overhead somewhere, waiting in ambush.
“Scorpions are shy.” Jack strode to the kindling piled beside the stove. “They like dark hiding places.”
Andy shivered.
“Like corners,” Jack said, tumbling the stacked wood with the toe of his boot, quickly hunkering down and scanning the floor for some sign of movement.
“Or behind desks.” Warily, Andy heaved the desk away from the wall and peered behind it. No scorpion.
“Or under the covers.” Jack yanked blankets and sheets from the bed and dumped them to the floor, then lifted the mattress, rousing a piteous squeaking from the old bed frame.
Andy noticed the dictionary on her desk had a gap between the pages—as if it held some foreign object. With shaking fingers she grasped the book by its cover and, holding it at arm’s length, shook it.
A pencil tumbled to the floor at the same moment someone rapped on the door. Andy jolted, dropping the book in a heap. She blushed, feeling foolish. She’d known she was tense, but this was ridiculous. Laughing at herself, she bent over to retrieve the book and called, “Come in.”
Minna Kroft swung the door inward, smacking the wall behind it with a bang. She glanced from Jack to Andy, her amber eyes narrowing in puzzlement beneath her fluffy gray hair, making her look every bit as curious as any of her cats. “Guest in number eleven claims they was a ruckus down here the middle of the night.”
“I wouldn’t call it a ruckus,” Andy said.
“She just had a bad dream,” Jack added, wondering if Minna Kroft had allowed someone to put the scorpion in Andy’s bed, hoping Andy would take the hint and let Minna give herself away if she had.
“I’m afraid I overreacted to it.” Andy brushed off the dictionary and returned it to the desk.
“So, whatcha doin’ now?” Minna stepped into the cabin, obviously disapproving of the mess they’d made.
“Well,” Jack said, scrambling for an innocent explanation, “we—”
“What the—?” Minna cut him off. She was glancing at the floor near her foot, her slanted eyes rounded. Jack’s gaze dropped to the floor. Minna drew a startled indrawn breath that sounded like a squawk. “Ye gods!”
Before Jack or Andy could stop her, Minna stomped her heavy gardening boot down on the creature as it scuttled toward her. The clomp echoed through the room, followed by a distasteful crunch as she ground her boot into the pink-and-gray floor, completely annihilating the scorpion, and any way of proving it had ever existed.
Minna was clutching her chest. “Danged nasty critters.”
Fury leapt inside Jack. Minna had reacted with the speed of lightning, or was it the speed of guilt? Had it been the natural reaction to a deadly creature—or had she killed the scorpion for reasons of her own? Jack struggled to keep his voice level. “I wish you hadn’t done that, Mrs. Kroft.”
“Are ya loco?” Minna looked astonished. “I’ll have ya know, young man, my aunt died from the bite of one of them critters.”
“The sting,” Andy said, still visualizing the curled tail.
Minna glanced at her, eyebrows twitching. “What?”
“Scorpions don’t bite,” Andy explained. “They sting.”
Minna puffed an aggravated breath. “Aunt Hetty’s dead jest the same.”
“Was her death recent?” Jack took a step closer.
“Lands, no.” Minna shook her head, setting her hair to waving. “Happened when I was a girl. Never forgot it, though.”
“Did it happen here in Alder Gulch?” Jack gathered the covers from the floor, tossed them onto the bare mattress and moved to Andy’s side.
“Nope. Florida.” A puzzled expression twisted Minna’s feline features. “Ain’t that curious. I never heard tell of scorpions in this here county. Winters is too cold. Where do ya suppose it come from?”
Jack shrugged. He, too, had never heard of scorpions in this part of Montana. He’d decided not to mention that to Andy last night, but he could see the questions in her eyes now, could see that she knew he’d never suspected the scorpion had gotten into her bed by itself. Jack hated the fear that realization was likely causing her.
The minute Minna left them alone, Andy rounded on Jack. She didn’t ask whether the scorpion was native to this part of Montana or—as he half expected—berate him for not telling her.
“Let’s go to the Golden Broom.” Instead of fear, there was a new determination in her voice. “I want to see if Red Yager is missing any scorpions.”
The earlier promise of a sunny day had given way to thick black clouds and a brisk, cold breeze. Andy hugged herself as they stepped from the path onto Main Street. Few tourists occupied the wooden sidewalks, fewer cars the road.
Wind whined between the aged buildings, whistling eerily as if the town were actually deserted, inhabited only by the ghosts of outlaws and gold miners who had roamed this countryside a century ago. Yesterday she would have treasured this day for the ambience it would add to her new book, but today her mind was directed elsewhere.
Breakfast was being served in the dining room as well as in the bar of the Golden Broom Hotel. There were fewer diners than the night before, but the noise level was just as high, and the clatter of dishes and voices conflicted with the player piano, further jarring her already frayed nerves. Even the wonderful smells didn’t tempt Andy; her stomach was one big knot.
She followed Jack, weaving between tables and diners, trying unsuccessfully to keep up with his great long strides. “Jack, slow down. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
Jack stiffened, then stopped and waited until she was by his side before starting out again, this time at a relaxed pace. Anxiety knotted his gut. He just wanted to get this over with, get her packed up, see the taillights of her Cherokee headed out of town.
The glass tank stood as usual on the end of the bar, occupying the exact same spot it had the first time Andy had asked him about it. He ordered two black coffees from the bartender, then edged closer to the tank, covertly studying it.
The lid was in place, tightly tacked down. A sign seemed unmoved—Deadly Scorpion. Approach At Your Own Risk—nailed to one edge of the tank to attract and titillate tourists, usually children. Sand covered the bottom of the tank, and a fist-sized rock and a hunk of bark occupied opposite corners.
There was no sign of the scorpion. In fact, the tank appeared empty. Andy shoved a cup of coffee toward him, but Jack didn’t notice. Chilly fingers of fear were wrapping his heart and no amount of hot coffee could melt the ice.
Nightmare Man knew Andy was Leandra Woodworth. There would be no keeping her safe now.
“Hey, mister, move over.” A boy of about eight elbowed Jack aside. “See this tank, Lisa.”
“Aw, there’s nothin’ in there,
Tommy,” groused the boy’s companion, a girl of about the same age.
Tommy thumped the tank with his fist. “There it is. Under the bark. Look! Look at its tail! I told you so.”
“Yuck.” Lisa shrank away. “It’s creepy.”
Andy was staring at the tank, the expression in her eyes unreadable, but Jack recognized the determined set of her jaw. For half a second he’d dared to hope. But he should have known better. There would be no getting her to leave now. He cursed under his breath. “Damn.”
Chapter Seven
“Something wrong with my coffee?” Red Yager asked.
Jack’s worried thoughts about Andy scattered. He jerked toward the source of the interruption, his stomach as jittery as a jar of jumping beans.
“I think Jack burned his tongue.” Andy patted Jack’s arm. “The coffee is hot but delicious, Red.”
Jack couldn’t believe how quickly Andy recouped from the upset, couldn’t believe her poise in light of the night she’d had. Sometime this morning she’d found a core of solid steel inside herself. But was it made of courage, or vengeance?
Deciding he’d better get a grip on his own composure, Jack reached for his untasted coffee and studied Red, who stood behind the bar, smelling strongly of Old Spice, his mustache twitching. Jack pointed to the tank containing the scorpion. “I was just wondering how you came by this nasty fellow, Red.”
Red squinted at the tank, then shifted an uneasy gaze between Jack and Andy. “Why are you asking?”
Jack hunkered down, settled both forearms on the bar and curled his fingers around his cup, breathing in the rich aroma wafting up from it. “You certainly didn’t get it around here.”
Thunder rumbled overhead, drawing “oohs” from the diners in the room at Jack’s back.
Red swallowed over his Adam’s apple and poured himself a cup of coffee. “It was a gift.”
“Really?” Jack lifted his own cup and sipped, relishing the heat the coffee sent through his middle as he swallowed. “Mind if I ask who from?”
Red looked on the verge of inquiring again why Jack wanted to know, but he just sniffed and reached for a pint of half-and-half. “Duke Plummer,” he said in a lowered voice as if divulging a secret.
“The museum curator?” Andy sounded incredulous.
Red gulped his coffee, leaving his mustache wet. “Ole Duke likes preserving more than the past. In his spare time he tinkers with taxidermy, and in the winter he rides his Harley all across the country. Brought four of these guys home with him last year.”
“Four scorpions?” Andy shuddered. “Whatever for?”
“Well, he gave one to me, and one to someone else.” Red shrugged. “Maybe he’s gonna stuff the two he kept.”
Jack wanted to pull Andy close, to somehow ease her dismay.
But her attention was all for Red. She rubbed her wrist, her eyes narrowing. “Do you know who else received a scorpion from Plummer?”
Red scrunched his face in thought for a full five seconds. “‘Fraid I don’t recall ever being told that.”
Jack didn’t believe him. But there was no way he could call Red on it without raising questions about himself.
Thunder rumbled in the distance and the pitter-pat of raindrops hitting hard-packed earth floated in through the swinging doors. Jack shoved his and Andy’s mugs toward Red. “Why don’t you refill these? Then we’ll find a table and order some breakfast.”
IF JACK HAD HAD HIS WAY, he’d be glued to her side still. But, rainfall or no, the players required his services. After promising not to visit the museum on her own, Andy had left him standing outside the Golden Broom, his face as dark as the clouds overhead. You should have seen him, Gram. She laughed. Black Jack—the name certainly fit him today.
Watch your step. And don’t trust anyone. Jack’s words of caution stole the cheer from her as she moved cautiously along the path and hurried unharmed to her cabin. She unlocked the door and stared at the mess they’d left. Memories of the night before, all that she’d learned and felt, including almost making love to Jack, assailed her. Andy stepped across the threshold. She would not think about being afraid. Fear robbed intelligence—and if she were to survive, she needed her wits intact.
But Jack was another matter. For the first time in her life she realized that what she knew about manwoman relationships she’d either learned from television and the movies or made up in her head. Gram had never remarried. Andy had had no real-life examples of what comprised a happy, successful union. Still, before meeting Jack, she’d thought she knew what love was. But did she?
She carried her purse to the desk and set it down. Did she love Tim enough to lay her life on the line for him? Did Tim love her that way? She doubted it. Yet, somehow, she felt Jack, whom she’d known less than forty-eight hours, would. What did that mean? An achy loneliness tugged her heartstrings. “I wish you were here, Gram.”
“Andy?”
She stiffened, thinking Gram had answered her, realizing a split second later that the raspy female voice belonged to Minna Kroft. Don’t trust anyone. Andy pasted a smile on her face and, braced for anything, spun around.
Minna was holding an armful of fresh linens. “Thought ya could use some help settin’ things aright.”
The phoniness left Andy’s smile as she relaxed a modicum. “That’s not necessary. I made the mess, I can clean it up.”
“Nonsense. Ya look all tuckered out.”
The truth was, she’d rather no one else had access to this cabin. Who knew what they might make off with, or leave behind? But Minna shuffled across the room and placed the sheets on the kitchen table. “Work always goes quicker with help.”
Andy realized it was unrealistic to think she could keep the motel owner from coming into this cabin whenever she wanted. Besides, Jack couldn’t seriously suspect Minna Kroft of being Nightmare Man. Andy closed the cabin door.
“Keep a sharp eye out for hostile creatures,” she warned as they gingerly shook out and bundled the soiled bed linen. “Caution is my new motto.”
“It’s a good one.” Minna restacked the wood and swept the floor, while Andy attacked her desk. “There’s lotsa beastly critters in this part of Montana.”
“Such as?” Andy asked absently, not so much interested in the wildlife of Montana as much as she liked the sound of Minna’s voice, the succor of her company.
Minna said, “There’s rattlesnakes and wolverines and grizzlies.”
Andy came across the packet of glossy prints she’d bought from Coop. Her heart caught. The special photograph. She no longer wondered who the man was; she’d seen his face in her nightmare last night. It was her father—Arlo Woodworth. But the nightmare image of him made her stomach lurch unpleasantly. She wanted to see him as he’d been in the picture Gram had saved, see his face so full of life.
She searched through the packet of prints. Hadn’t she put it here yesterday? She frowned, perplexed. It wasn’t here now. Perhaps she’d only thought about putting it with the others. Yesterday hadn’t exactly been uneventful. She dug through her purse. But the photograph wasn’t there, either. She peered behind the desk, then under the bed. Nothing.
“Whatcha lookin’ fer?”
“A photograph—of a bearded man, standing be fore an assay office. Have you seen anything like it?”
“Nope.” Minna swept a small pile of dust to the door.
Andy wondered fleetingly if Minna was lying—if her photograph was even now in one of the pockets of her oversized sweater.
“Was it important to yer new book?”
The question was asked with such genuine innocence, Andy felt ashamed of herself for her unkind thoughts about Minna. “It was incredibly important to the book.” But irreplaceable to Andy. Disquiet crawled over her as she shuffled through the prints a second time and still did not find her precious photograph.
Think, Andy. Where did you have it last? Fighting against the panic building inside her, she closed her eyes and mentally retraced her a
ctions upon returning from the graveyard yesterday. Her eyes flew open. She’d removed the photograph from her purse and sat at this very desk comparing it with the similar one she’d found at Virgil Cooper’s.
When she’d left for dinner, the photograph of her father had been right on the top of the stack, paperclipped to an exterior shot of the Golden Broom Hotel. She reached a trembling hand into the strewn pile of glossies and quickly extracted the photograph of the hotel. Her chest ached. The paper clip still clung to one edge, hanging on a corner that looked as though it had been torn by someone hastily separating the two photographs. Ice spread through her belly.
Someone had taken her father’s picture. Doubtless the same someone who’d put the scorpion in her bed. But taking the picture made no sense. Her knees wobbled. No, it did make sense, a crazy, awful kind of sense. Whoever had killed her parents would have recognized her father at once. Would have wondered where she’d come by the picture. Would probably have figured it out by now.
God help me, Gram. He’s one step ahead of me. Somehow I have to pass him, somehow I have to remember.
“Well, now.” Minna’s raspy voice sliced through Andy’s desperation as effectively as the swipe of a knife through Jell-O. “Sweepin’s done. Reckon I’ll get this stuff to the laundry room.”
Minna set aside the broom and gathered the bed linen.
“I’m coming with you. I need to use your telephone.” Andy grabbed one of the glossy prints, shrugged into her denim jacket and followed Minna outside.
The white-pawed cat stood on the porch, its fur damp from the misty rain.
“Off with ya, ya ornery puss.” Minna kicked her foot in the air above the cat.
The cat didn’t budge.
Andy hesitated, clutching the glossy print against her thundering heart. “Hello, Boots. Have you come to make friends?”
