A Dark Lure

by Loreth Anne White

  “Liv.”

  She jumped down from the saddle and led Spirit toward him.

  “I’m glad I caught you,” she said, a little breathless. “How is he?”

  The doc reached up and took Spirit’s bridle. He scratched the mare’s forehead, then he sighed, looked away. Wind gusted. For a moment he watched Ace sniffing about his vehicle tires, then met her eyes again. Olivia’s heart sank at what she saw there.

  “I spoke with the oncologist this morning—the results of his CT scan came in. The cancer has spread rapidly. There are masses matting his lungs, along his spine, in his liver. He’s in a great deal of pain, Liv. He’s going to need round-the-clock palliative care. There are decisions that will need to be made.”

  Her chest went tight. “How soon?”

  “As soon as possible.” He hesitated. “Myron could take a turn for the worse any second now. Or it could take longer. Much will depend on how badly the old badger wants to hang in and battle the pain. His son and daughter should be informed, and we all know that Myron isn’t going to do that himself.”

  “I don’t think he ever stopped blaming Cole for Grace and Jimmie’s deaths,” she said quietly.

  The doc nodded. “I’ve known this family for years, and that accident changed everything. Myron’s bitterness toward his boy is part of who he is now. Lord knows there’s no love lost on Cole’s side, either. Still, if it were my father, I’d want to know. I’d want the choice of saying good-bye, of maybe making amends as best I could.” He hesitated. “Myron might take it better if it came from you—if you called them.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re his friend.”

  “But you’re an older friend, Doc.”

  “I’d do it, but I’d really prefer not to alienate him right now. I’m going to need his trust as we head into this next phase of his health management. You know what he can be like.”

  Olivia exhaled, pressure crushing into her chest at the thought of losing Myron, of losing her place on this ranch. Her home. As the cold wind gusted she felt it again, that sense of a dark cold closing in. Things coming full circle.

  Her mind strayed to the framed photographs hanging in Myron’s library. The fact they hung there at all showed he had some feeling for his remaining children.

  “I don’t know his kids,” she said softly. “I’ve never spoken to them.”

  “Liv, someone needs to do it.”

  Deep in thought, under the glow of the kerosene lamp hanging from the barn rafters, Olivia groomed and watered Spirit and put her in her stall for the night. She then returned to her cabin, where she fed Ace. Beneath a steaming shower she gathered her thoughts before dressing warmly and going up to the lodge to talk to Myron. Ace followed, leaves crunching underfoot as they made their way along the narrow path that led from her cabin through a dense grove of trembling aspen, then up over the lawn toward the three-story log house.

  The porch and interior lights spilled yellow and welcoming into the darkness. She climbed the wood stairs, scuffed her cowboy boots on the mat, and pushed open the great big wooden door.

  As she entered the stone-tiled entrance hall, Adele bustled past with a laden tray. She started at the sight of Olivia and came to an abrupt halt at the base of the sweeping wood staircase.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, looking oddly flustered. “I . . . was just taking Mr. McDonough’s supper up. He’s taking it in the library tonight.”

  “No one booked for the lodge dinner?” Olivia hung her jacket over one of the antler hooks near the door. A wrought-iron chandelier strung from the vaulted ceiling above cast a faceted light over the entrance hall. To her right lay the open-plan living room where guests were welcome to sit by the fire, watch TV, or use the computer station or pool table. A small bar in the living area opened at mealtimes. Beyond that were the dining area and kitchen.

  “Not tonight,” said the housekeeper. “But we do have reservations for Friday and the rest of the weekend.”

  While guests no longer stayed in the upstairs rooms, the lodge still opened for dining, depending on reservations from guests staying in the cabins or campsite. But from what Dr. Halliday was saying, the kitchen would probably not be reopening again next summer. This was likely the last weekend for the ranch guests ever. The thought was sobering.

  “Here,” Olivia said, reaching out. “Let me take that up for you. I need to speak to him anyway.”

  The housekeeper handed her the tray.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Full of piss and vinegar, if that’s what you mean.”

  It brought a smile to Olivia’s face. “Well, that’s a good sign. You might as well head on home. I’ll sit with him while he eats, then clean up the kitchen after.”

  Adele regarded her for a moment, an unreadable look entering her eyes. She reached behind her back to untie her apron. “If that’s what you want, then. I’ll just finish up and be gone.”

  Irascible as Adele could be, she was indispensable to this place, and to Old Man McDonough. Olivia wondered what the woman would do when he died.

  She found the library door slightly ajar, and edged it open farther with the tray.

  A fire had been lit and crackled in the hearth. Myron was in his wheelchair watching out the window, his back to the door. Ace made straight for the hearth.

  “Hey, Old Man.”

  He turned, and his craggy face crumpled into a grin beneath his shock of steel-gray hair. “Livia!” He rolled his wheelchair around.

  He’d been a great, big, gruff mountain of a man before this disease had felled him. He still reminded Olivia of an old Sean Connery and Harrison Ford bundled into one. With a bushy pirate’s beard.

  “Hungry?” She held up the tray.

  He wheeled over to the hearth. “Bring it to the table by the fire. Pour a drink. Join me?”

  “I think I might.”

  She set the tray on a small table next to the fire and went to the buffet, where she poured a whisky for each of them. She placed the bottle on the table next to Myron where he could reach it, and seated herself in a big leather chair on the opposite side of the hearth. She sipped her scotch, watching him bring the soupspoon to his mouth. His tremors had worsened. Soup spilled. His complexion had taken on a sallow pallor, and beneath his whiskers his cheeks appeared sunken. His eyes were rheumy, the whites yellowing. A great big hollow filled her stomach.

  “What’s eating you, Olivia?”

  She cast a reflexive glance up to the large photographic study of Myron’s son hanging in pride of place above the river rock fireplace. Cole McDonough seemed to peer down at her with the same deep-set, moody, probing gray eyes as his father’s. Where Myron’s hair had grayed, Cole’s was still wild and dark, his skin deeply sun-browned.

  It was an iconic study of him shot at a Nanga Parbat base camp. He exuded a rugged virility, a devil-may-care attitude. The photo had been used for an Outside magazine cover some years ago, a publication to which Cole had contributed a firsthand account of a tragic Taliban attack on Nanga Parbat climbers, which he later expanded into a book. It had subsequently been made into a movie. One of two to his credit.

  Cole was an ex-military psychology and philosophy scholar turned war correspondent turned narrative nonfiction adventure writer. A literary adrenaline-seeking junkie who lived life on the razor’s edge of death, and sought to psychologically deconstruct others who did, too. It was the underlying theme in all of his works—why men and women did extreme things, why some people survived against all odds, yet others perished. She’d read the jackets of his books lining Myron’s shelves.

  His was a narcissistic pursuit. Olivia had decided this some time ago. She resented the very idea of him—maybe because she envied his freedom, his ability to live life with such full-throttle lust.

  Myron’s gaze followed hers up to the portrait. His hand hold
ing the spoon stilled.

  “What is it?” he said.

  Olivia cleared her throat. “Where is he now?”

  “Cole?”

  “Yes. And Jane. Is Jane still in London, with her family?”

  Myron slowly set his spoon down and reached for his whisky tumbler. He took a deep, long swig and closed his eyes. “You’ve been speaking to Halliday?”

  “Yes.”

  He said nothing. The fire popped, cracked. Ace rolled onto his back, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, relaxed as the puppy he once was.

  “He told me,” she said.

  Myron opened his eyes. “What, exactly?”

  “That you’ll need to make decisions about palliative care. He said someone should call Cole and Jane, let them know what’s happening.”

  His thatch of gray brows lowered, and his eyes narrowed to flint. Very quietly, he said, “Over my dead body.”

  “What over your dead body, Myron?” she said, just as quietly. “Getting nursing care? Going into a hospice, or someone calling your kids?”

  “All of it.” He downed the remainder of his whisky, reached for the bottle beside him and sloshed another three fingers into the crystal. She knew he was on a lot of medication. Drinking like that was probably not a good idea. But good for what, if one was dying anyway?

  “I don’t give a pig’s ass what the fine doctor says. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it right here. On my terms. On my ranch, in my own goddamn home. Where I’ve lived my entire goddamn life. Where I brought my wife. Where we had babies . . .” His voice faltered, leaving unspoken words hanging in the void.

  Where my wife died. Where my youngest son died . . . where my family fell apart . . .

  The firelight caught a glint in his eyes.

  Olivia set her glass down and leaned forward, arms resting on her knees.

  “Myron, if you don’t move into a place where they can care for you, you’ll need in-home nursing—”

  His palm shot up. “Stop. Don’t even think about it. The day I need a nurse to wipe my ass, brush my teeth, and empty my bedpan is the day I die. Dignity. Goddamn dignity. Is that too much to ask?”

  “Your children should know. They have a right to—”

  “Enough!” He slammed his glass down, cheeks reddening. “No way in hell. I will not have those two squabbling over their inheritance, trying to sell this ranch out from under my feet. And they will try, mark my words.”

  “You can’t be so sure they—”

  “Of course I can. Cole doesn’t give a rat’s prick what happens to Broken Bar or to his old man. And I don’t need him here, rubbing my face in it. They can have the ranch when I’m dead, when my ashes are scattered and my memorial cairn has been placed up on that glacial ridge alongside Grace’s and Jimmie’s. Then my ghost can haunt them.” He paused, looking suddenly bone tired but no less determined. “You’ll do it for me. Scatter my ashes, sort out that stone cairn.”

  She rubbed her brow, stole another look at the photo above the fireplace. “Where is he now?”

  Silence.

  She turned to look at Myron. An odd expression had overcome his features. His shoulders had rolled inward, compressing him into his chair. In his eyes she detected regret.

  Olivia felt a sharp tug of emotion.

  If it were my father I’d want to know. I’d want the choice of saying good-bye . . .

  Was it possible to set certain wrongs right? Was it foolhardy to even attempt to do so when anger, bitterness, regret, blame were all so deeply rooted in the soil of one’s psyche, each twisting so tightly over the other that if you tried to extract one root, the whole tree died?

  “He’s in Havana,” he said finally. “Drowning his sorrows.”

  Surprise rippled through her. “Havana, Cuba? How do you know?”

  He gave a halfhearted shrug and looked away, staring into the flames, his veined hands resting limp on the arms of his chair. The fact that he even knew where Cole was told Olivia he still cared. At least a little. And she was besieged with a sense that Myron needed to do this—to make peace with his son. His daughter, too.

  Or was it Olivia’s subterranean guilt about her own estranged family that was fueling this sentiment? She swallowed, forcing herself to remain present. Bad things happened when she allowed her thoughts to feather back into the past.

  “What sorrows?” she said quietly.

  Still refusing to give Olivia his eyes, he said, “Cole seems to have come to a standstill after his woman and her kid left him.”

  “I . . . didn’t know he had a family. Was he married?”

  “Common-law partner. Holly. She had a son, Ty, from a previous marriage. She returned to her ex after some horrendous incident with Cole in the Sudan that endangered her kid’s life. Took the boy with her, back to his father. The boy would be eight now.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “Read about it in that magazine he writes for. He has a knack for that, you know—living his own life to the extreme, chasing the storm, at the expense of those around him. Cole never even brought Holly or Ty home—I never met them.” Myron gave a harsh snort. “Then again, Cole stopped calling Broken Bar ‘home’ a long, long time ago.”

  “What happened in the Sudan?”

  Myron waved his hand, brushing the whole thing away like a bad smell. “Don’t want to talk about it.” He cleared his throat, then said, “Jimmie was also eight. When Cole drove him into the river.”

  A chill washed over Olivia. She was overcome by an eerie sense of time warping and weaving and replicating like the double-helix strands of DNA.

  Myron fell silent, his mind seemingly drifting away on some sea of secret sorrow, buoyed by booze and painkillers.

  She stole another look at Cole’s image above the fireplace.

  “All things have their season, Liv,” Myron said, his words thick and slurring slightly now. “Each life has a cycle. One makes one’s choices and bears one’s punishment. Even this ranch . . . maybe it is time. The end of an era. The end of the McDonough legacy.” He reached for his glass, swirled the dregs with a shaky hand, watching as the liquid refracted firelight. “It’s unrealistic to expect my progeny will carry it on.” He cleared his throat and continued.

  “Even if someone did want to start running cows again, the financial outlay would be huge. But the guest and tourism business—that could be year-round. The lodge could be full again. With some work the cabins could be refurbished, go a little higher end, bring greater yield per guest. There’s a market for that sort of thing now. German tourists. Asians. Brits. This wilderness gives them something they simply cannot find back home.”

  She stared at the Old Man. It was fatigue, whisky, painkillers talking, yet it afforded her a rare window into his thoughts, one she had not expected.

  “I had no idea you’d even thought about it—a winter business.”

  “It would never work.”

  “But it could. If there was a will.” She couldn’t help saying it. This was something she’d dreamed about so often that she’d even created spreadsheets, broken down potential staffing costs, called around for quotes and estimates, because . . . well, because she didn’t have a life, that was why. This place had become her life. Because she’d had a stupid fantasy that she might one day present Myron with the paperwork and formally propose something. But then had come his diagnosis.

  “I could see a higher-end lodge experience,” she said. “Expansion of the guided trips—even horseback rides to fish the steelhead runs up in the Tahkena River; float-plane companies flying in executive guests; excellent organic and ranch-grown produce, top-end cuisine. Fresh lake trout, venison from the forests. Add to that a winter experience with a focus on Christmas. I believe it would work. I know it would.”

  He regarded her for a long while, an inscrutable look
entering his eyes. He shook his head.

  “Forget it.” He set his glass down and wheeled himself across the carpet, the effort twisting his features. “I need to hit the sack early tonight. Can I leave you to lock up?”

  She came to her feet, took the handles of his chair.

  “No. I can do this myself.”

  But this time she overrode him. “Forget about it, Old Man. I need you to live a few more days.” She pushed him toward the library door.

  “Why do I let you boss me around like this?”

  “’Cause I’m nice,” she said with a smile. “And I don’t cost much.” She wheeled him out into the hall and up to the small elevator that had been installed last spring. She reached over to press the elevator button.

  “You come from a ranching background yourself, don’t you, Liv?”

  She tensed. “You’ve never asked about my past.”

  “But you do—the hunting, fishing, horsemanship, it has to come from somewhere. Where’s home to you, Olivia? Were you raised in BC? Another province?”

  The elevator doors opened.

  She hesitated. Trapped. She owed him some kind of truth after all he’d done for her. Myron had made it so easy for her to stay here on Broken Bar, to fit in, to begin to heal, to finally find a measure of peace. And it was easy because he never did ask where she was from, beyond the basic résumé stuff when he first hired her. He’d seen the scars on her wrists. But not once had he ever mentioned them. This was a man who knew about secrets, and reasons for keeping them.

  “Yes.” She wheeled him into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. The doors closed, and the elevator hummed upward. “A ranch. Farther north.”

  He was silent, thank God, as she steered him out the elevator and along the corridor to his room, a corner suite that afforded him views over the lake and the mountains to the south, and the rolling aspen-dotted hills to the west.

  “Thanks,” he said as they reached his bedroom door. “I can handle it from here.”

  “You sure?”

  “Not goddamn dead yet. Like I told you, the day I need someone to brush my teeth, wipe my ass, put me to bed in diapers, is the day I stop living.”