Grave Danger

by Rachel Grant

  “Yes. I finished it yesterday.” Libby set the flowers next to the headstone and brushed dirt from the etched lettering. “Rosalie told me that after your mother’s mom died, Billy started bringing her to the reservation. He was close to Frances and Rosalie and wanted the two most important women still in his life to be substitute mother figures. Your mother grew up learning about Millie from the tribe’s perspective.

  “The mill workers believed she fell in love with the wrong man and the entire population of Coho had to pay for it. The tribe was different. They hated Lyle, too, but they didn’t blame Millie. They knew she was trapped. They understood what it felt like to be trapped by a white man and admired her courage every time she stood up to him. They accepted both her strengths and her weaknesses. Your mother grew up in that kind of atmosphere. She had perhaps the most honest and complete picture of Millie. And, somewhere along the line, she decided to avenge her, stand up for her, as no one had from the moment Lyle threw the first punch at his twenty-year-old bride.”

  “This became personal for you, didn’t it?” Jason asked.

  “Yes. I got sucked in to Millie’s story just as much as your mother did. When I talked to Enid on the phone and realized that the will was still intact, that it could still be valid, I think I felt the same satisfaction your mother must have felt. I understood her need to bring Lyle down.” Libby also knew what it was like to be beaten and terrorized by a man, though on a far smaller scale.

  “But you wanted to bring Earl and James down.”

  “It was more than that. I had to listen to several loggers and mill workers complain about how Millie betrayed them. But not one of them ever once tried to help her. They were complicit with Lyle every time they went to work and accepted him as their boss.

  “I’m glad I found the will so the world will know that Millie fought Lyle right to the end. She was brave in a way none of them could imagine. She woke up every day with a man who beat the crap out of her. She protected her children and did what she could to protect the town. None of those big burly loggers stood up to Lyle.”

  “I’ve never thought of Millie and the loggers that way before,” he said.

  Libby softened her voice. “That’s because you’re a man.”

  He laughed, and then said, “But I would have helped Millie.”

  “I know you would have. Because you helped me.” She paused. “Are you going to fight the will?”

  “No. That will was signed with the blood of my mother and great-grandmother. If a court decides the will is invalid and the agreement to sell TL&L was legal, then I’ll give the tribe the money.” Jason bent down and smoothed the flower petals that were crushed when he hugged her. “We’ll bury my mom here, next to Millie,” he said. “Earl’s talking. Mark came by today and told Jack and me what happened, how Earl ended up killing my mother.”

  “I assume Earl was at the Pasco cabin the night Angela found the will.”

  “Yes. She was already there when he arrived. He saw her car parked out front and was curious. She rarely went to Pasco, and she never got along with Earl—she hated his pothunting, but he refused to stop. Earl snuck inside the cabin to find out what she was up to. She was on the phone with Jack. Earl heard her say she was in Coho—she probably said that because she planned to surprise us in Spokane the next day—and he said he was curious about why she lied, so he stayed hidden and kept listening. Next she called Lyle. She told Lyle she’d found the will. She said she would use the will to give TL&L to the tribe and demand the Coho PD open an investigation of Millie’s death. Thirty-nine years after killing his wife, Lyle was finally going to face prosecution.”

  “But Earl heard everything.”

  “Yes. She thought no one knew where she was. Dad and I were safe in Spokane. She must have been looking for the will for years at that point. If Earl hadn’t been there, she would have driven to Spokane the next day and surprised Jack and me.” Jason looked up at the twilight sky. “According to her journal, she’d just ended her affair with Dan. She probably wanted to surprise us because she planned to confront Jack about his own affairs. I think she was hoping for a new start between them.”

  “I think you’re right. But Earl killed her and hid her body on the Pasco property. Five years later, Lyle sold off the part of the land where she was buried. Earl retrieved her, moved her bones to the lot that was about to be paved. He must have really freaked out when he heard we were going to dig there.”

  “He’d never told anyone where he hid her. He didn’t know what to do. So he told James what he’d done. James thought Earl was stupid, so he took over from there.”

  Each time Jason said the name James she flinched. She’d killed him. It had been justified, but that wasn’t complete solace. She’d taken a man’s life.

  Every time she allowed herself to think about what happened in the Montgomery mansion on Thursday afternoon, she felt a deep regret. She had brought her own gun to the house with the intention of defending herself. Had she wanted the fight?

  She held her guilt close to her as always. She was the reason her father stayed away. It was her fault Aaron had beaten her. Her fault he had stalked her. If she’d done things differently, the stalking would never have happened. Then when she’d met Mark, she would’ve had a clean slate. But she’d screwed up in the past, and she paid for it in the present.

  Jason took her hands and squeezed her fingers. “I’ll leave you alone now. I just wanted to thank you for what you did for my mom and for me. And I wanted to say I’m sorry I made it harder for Mark to trust you. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Thank you, Jason.”

  He took several steps and then stopped. “How is Simone?”

  She smiled. “You should ask her that question.”

  “She’s not taking my calls.”

  “Keep trying.”

  “I will,” he said, and walked away.

  Alone again, she sat next to Millie’s grave in the gathering darkness. She and Jason had talked longer than she’d realized. The sun had gone down and the summer twilight offered only gray light and shadows. The perfect ambiance for her melancholy mood.

  She stared at the lichen growing on Millie’s stone. “You can’t choose who you love, can you, Millie? I suppose you learned that hard lesson more than anyone. Funny, but given all that I know about you, the one thing I don’t know is if you loved Lyle or not. You must have loved him in the beginning. You were so young and foolish, or fooled. I know you were a woman of your time, trapped by circumstance. Strong enough to fight even at the end, but never strong enough to leave. But how could you leave your children?” She rearranged the crushed flowers. “I suppose you could have still loved him even after you learned to hate him. But did Lyle ever love you?”

  Did her own father ever love her mother? Had he loved his daughter?

  She closed her eyes and asked herself what she wanted. The answer came to her in an instant. She wanted to forgive herself for being unlovable.

  She didn’t know how long she sat there but she wasn’t cold anymore. Something had left her. Perhaps because she brought closure to Millie, Angela, and even Rosalie, she could give herself closure.

  She’d done nothing wrong when she refused to have sex with Aaron. She didn’t deserve to be beaten and nearly raped any more than Millie deserved to be beaten and Angela deserved death. It had never occurred to Libby to blame Millie, so why had she blamed herself?

  She stood and walked away, knowing exactly where she had to go. Ten minutes later, she pulled into Mark’s driveway. His house was dark, and his car wasn’t parked in front. She rang the bell anyway. There was no answer.

  She sat on the front steps and waited. Full darkness descended and the minutes became hours. Stars lit the night sky and she watched the pinpoints of light in their slow rotation around the North Star. She had made three different wishes on shooting stars, when Mark finally pulled into his driveway, fulfilling her first wish.

  Mark made a call on his cell
phone as he walked toward her. “Simone,” he said when he came to a stop in front of Libby. “You can stop worrying. Libby’s at my place.” He listened for a moment. “I’ll take good care of her.” He hung up. “I think Simone’s a little peeved with you for not checking in.”

  Libby smiled. “Simone is never ‘a little’ anything. I’m sorry she was worried.”

  “And what about me?” Mark pulled her to her feet.

  “Were you worried?”

  “I’ve been waiting for you at the Shelby house since eight.”

  “So I was here and you were there.”

  He kissed her lightly and then pulled back and studied her. “Something’s changed.”

  “It took me a while, but I’ve come to my senses.”

  “I was ready to give you all the time you need.”

  Her hands cupped his cheeks, her thumb pressed lightly into his dimple. “I don’t need any more time.” An enormous rush of joy infused her. They really had a future together. “What do we do now?”

  “There are five colors in your flannel shirt. I’m betting your bra matches the blue, but hoping for red.”

  She laughed and let him pull her inside his house. In the vestibule, he hooked a finger through a belt loop on her jeans and pulled her closer. He kissed her throat and undid the top button of her shirt, and then stopped suddenly.

  “Why are you stopping?”

  “I almost lost you.” He touched her neck, gently tracing a bruise. “I wish I’d gotten there sooner.”

  “I’ve learned to stop wishing to change the past. Now I only make wishes for the future.” Libby undid another button on her shirt. “Think about this.” She flashed a red bra strap.

  “God, I love you,” he said, making her second wish come true.

  “I love you, too. Now, I’m two for three in wishes on stars. Take me upstairs and make my last wish come true.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PORT GAMBLE, WASHINGTON, a small, historic, company-owned sawmill town not far from where I live, was the inspiration for the setting of this story. Years after the first draft of this book was written, my husband was at a meeting with members of the Port Gamble S’Klallam Tribe to discuss protection of cultural resources during environmental clean up of the mill site.

  At the meeting, while discussing the tribe’s relationship with the company that owns the town, one of the tribal members told my husband that when the mill was founded in the 1850s, an agreement was made with the tribe in which the mill founders promised to return the land to the tribe upon closure of the mill.

  The mill closed in 1997.

  The woman went on to tell my husband that a tribal elder had been keeper of this promissory note, but the document had been lost.

  My husband was stunned to hear a tale so similar to a major plot point in my fictional story. To the best of my knowledge, no such document has been located. If such a document existed, it may have been destroyed long ago. But of course, I can’t help but wonder, what if…

  It is worth noting that claims to the territory that is now the town of Port Gamble remains a point of contention between several Northwest tribes.

  THANK YOU FOR READING Grave Danger. I hope you enjoyed it!

  If you’d like to know when my next book is available, you can sign up for my new release e-mail list at www.Rachel-Grant.net. You can also follow me on Twitter at @RachelSGrant or like my Facebook page at www.facebook.com/RachelGrantAuthor. I’m also on Goodreads at www.goodreads.com/RachelGrantAuthor, where you can see what I’m currently reading and post reviews.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  THANK YOU TO MY DEAR friends, Teresa Tennant, Paula Burke, Holly VanSchaick, and Tara Morgan, who all read early drafts of this book, when it was so far from polished, it had to be painful. I owe you all, big time. Thanks also to Marcia Montgomery, Dana Thompson, and Heather Staples for your friendship, support, and proofreading.

  Thank you to Chris Karlsen, for critiquing this book and for helping with the police procedural details. Chris’s information was detailed and accurate, any errors are my own.

  Thank you to the authors who have critiqued this manuscript over the years, including Adrianne Lee, Gwen Hernandez, and Sharon Wray, you women are the best!

  This book was my 2008 Golden Heart® finalist, the one that made me a Pixie Chick. Even though none of the Pixies critiqued this book, it still feels like “our” book. Thank you, ladies, for being beside me on this journey.

  Thank you to my agent, Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein, for your support and encouragement.

  Jill Barnett, I owe you so much. You were able to tell me what was wrong with a scene and why, but you always left it to me to figure out how to fix it. I learned so much from you about craft, which has shaped who I am as a writer. I am grateful for your willingness to share your knowledge and treasure our friendship.

  To my sisters, Becky Stevens and Naomi Raine, thanks for being there for me over the years and for reading. Naomi, my cover and website designer, thank you for the endless hours of work and for your patience. I’m so lucky to have you!

  To my children, who don’t remember a time when I wasn’t writing, thank you for learning how to cook so you can make dinner when I need to work. I love you both more than I can say.

  Dave, thank you for your encouragement and support all those years ago when I first told you I wanted to write a book. Thanks for the plotting help and for making sure my archaeological details are accurate. I love you.

  CONCRETE EVIDENCE

  Read on for a sneek peek at

  CHAPTER ONE

  July 2011

  Bethesda, Maryland

  MUSIC PULSED THROUGH ERICA KESLING’S headphones as she thrust her foot high, hitting the hanging punching bag right where Jake Novak’s face ought to be. Her gloved fists found the same spot, two blows in rapid succession, guaranteed to shatter Jake’s imaginary nose. The next kick connected with his groin. In her mind, he doubled over and begged for mercy.

  She showed him the same measure of mercy he had shown her. If this were real, the roundhouse kick would have finished him off.

  The repeated kicks rubbed the skin on her foot raw until streaks of blood marred the blue bag. She ignored the pain. Each sore, each bruise, only made her stronger. She would be ready when she faced the thieving treasure hunter again.

  As she abused the imaginary Jake, she felt real hope, a first since walking out of the jungle a year ago. She’d just kicked Jake in the stomach when the door opened and a very tall man in workout gear entered the room. He nodded to her and went straight for the free weights.

  She acknowledged him with a tip of her head, annoyed her private workout time had ended. She’d never seen him in the company gym before, but Talon & Drake employed over two hundred people in Bethesda and several hundred more in other offices. He could be the hydrologist from the Boston office who was supposed to help out in Bethesda for a month. One of the chemists had told her the incoming hydrologist was hot and had called dibs.

  She felt his eyes on her as he lifted weights. She waited until he looked away before she checked him out. Impressive delts and triceps, a nice complement to his handsome face. He hadn’t shaved, and his short, light brown hair was mussed in a way that made her think he’d come here straight from bed. He had to be the hydrologist, because even his messy hair and stubbly jaw were sexy.

  She looked back at the bag and planted another kick in Jake’s abdomen. The guy might have a nice face and body, but she still wished she had the employee gym to herself.

  She kicked and punched until she was dripping sweat and her breathing was ragged with exhaustion. From the corner of her eye, she saw the guy put away the weights and approach her. She twisted and kicked the bag from behind. He stopped on the opposite side of the bag and held it. He was imposing, even taller than she’d thought at first.

  “You should take a break,” he said.

  With a gloved hand, she tapped her headphones and lied, “Can’t hear you!�
� She kicked left, then spun around and kicked right, in the zone, her blood pumping, her aggression high. No one would tell her when she was done.

  Her foot came dangerously close to him, but he didn’t budge. “I’d like a turn with the bag,” he shouted.

  “I get the bag every morning until seven.” Distracted, she missed her target and just glanced the slippery vinyl with her foot. Momentum sent her to the floor, hard. The headphones clattered to the mat next to her. Crap. Could I look any more ridiculous?

  She caught her breath and winced, then tried to sweep her hair from her face, but the thick foam glove was awkward and made her feel even clumsier, answering her own question. Defeated, she blew her hair from her eyes and looked up at him. “And sometimes the bag gets me.”

  Warm hands encircled her wrists just below the gloves, and he pulled her to her feet, the light in his eyes hinting at a smile. “It’s not your fault. The bag jumped out of the way.”

  “Damn thing has it in for me.”

  He picked up her fallen headset and used the cord to reel her to him. His actions were smooth, confident. She didn’t hesitate to step closer and couldn’t fathom why.

  A scant foot separated them when he said, “You have a fantastic ass. It’s a shame to see you fall on it.” His eyes lit in playful challenge—daring her to object?—as he grinned, then placed the headphones over her ears and walked away.

  Stunned, she stared after him. If it weren’t for the teasing grin, she’d be offended. Turnabout was fair play, however, and she paused to admire his ass, which was damn fine in her estimation. She shook her head as if to clear it. She had artifacts to find, a reputation to redeem, and a treasure hunter to put in jail. Juvenile flirtation with the new hydrologist ranked dead last on her list of priorities.

  She escaped to the shower. A half hour later, dressed and ready for work, she headed to the juice bar in the lobby of the large office building and treated herself to a smoothie. The five-dollar drink was extravagant, but today was special. Or at least it would be, if her boss gave her the Thermo-Con Environmental Assessment for the Menanichoch Tribe.