Melody had helped him plan it out. They’d spoken about how they would deal with it, had a strategy. Tori was to have been left with her mother. Melody was not supposed to go first.
Olivia placed her hand gently on his arm.
“Do you want to talk about it, Gage?”
And it was all he could do not to break, to tell her everything. This woman he’d been watching from afar ever since she’d been found on that logging road. Half naked, delirious. A fighter. A woman who knew pain and understood trauma. This woman who was so closely intertwined with his own past, and now, the future. His need to share everything with her, confess it all right now, was suddenly fierce and consuming.
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
He met her eyes. Beautiful eyes. Even in the dark, he could feel her beauty. Inside and out.
“What you did today with Tori on the boat . . . it was more than I could have hoped for. Thank you.”
His sincerity, gravity, appeared to stall her a moment. She held his gaze in the dark.
“The violent streak I’ve seen in her since her mother’s death really worried me. But the way you pulled her around, showed her with that damselfly, the fact she chose to release her fish in the end . . .” His voice caught, thick with emotion. Embarrassing.
“Anytime,” she said softly. “And I do mean that. Come.” She hooked her arm through his. “I’ll show her how to tie a damselfly tomorrow, if she wants. Or maybe she’d like to help Ace with his tracking. I think they like each other,” she said with a smile.
It cracked Gage’s heart. There was love out there in the world for Tori. There would be a way forward for his daughter.
You’re doing the right thing, Gage, by bringing her here. By seeing this through to the end . . .
A twig cracked in the bush. They both stilled. Listened. A cat may have run through the shadows.
Cole plugged in his laptop to charge. It was dim inside the library, just the glow from the fire and one animal-hide lamp. He was eager for his computer to juice up so he could resume his research on the Watt Lake case, learn more about Olivia.
He walked over to the big picture window in the library and dug his hands deep into his pockets, losing himself in thought as he looked out into the darkening evening.
When the clang of the old dinner triangle had reached him in his cabin, it had hurled him back in time, way back to when Jimmie was alive. To when the two of them had been allowed to work alongside the wranglers, and come dusk they’d been as hungry as little wolves. Being permitted to eat with the big cowboys had been thrilling. His dream at the time had been to ride with the guys full time, herding the cattle, working this ranch alongside his father and brother. Nostalgia rode hard on the back of the memories.
He wondered for a moment about choices, and whether he could really make a go of it on the ranch, if he put his mind to it. A wry smile twisted his lips. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Now that he was toying with the idea of actually trying to stay, the land was going to Olivia.
The woman who’d once been Sarah Baker. A true survivor.
You’re no survivor, you know that? You know dick about surviving . . .
Yeah, he fully got where she was coming from, now that he knew who she was.
Everything else about her made sense, too. Her scars. Her awkwardness about being touched. Her flashbacks, and why the Birkenhead news had triggered them. His thoughts turned to his father’s words about how Broken Bar had helped heal her. And he wondered what had transpired with her husband, Ethan. Her family. Had she so thoroughly expunged her past in an effort to obliterate all memory of her ordeal? Had she needed to excise everything associated with her life in Watt Lake, including her name, in order to forget? He understood that need to forget. He’d left Broken Bar and this house in an effort to erase negative memories, too. Nothing compared to hers, though. It made his issues feel almost trivial.
It was almost full dark outside now, little solar lanterns weakly lighting the paths through the trees. And as he looked out into the dark, it struck him, the truth of it—why he’d favored selling the ranch when Jane asked. Because even though, deep down, this place still held magic for him, selling it was just another way of obliterating bad memories, of thumbing his nose at his father.
But something almost imperceptible had started to change in him. He remembered some good times, too, along with the bad. And those good times had been core, character-shaping times, things he’d forgotten about himself. And now that he’d been brought back to Broken Bar while at a crossroads in his life, it almost felt like a sign.
Yes, the ranch was falling into disrepair. Yes, it would require major effort and a serious investment of capital if they were to attempt to rebuild the livestock side of the business. But the possibility of a new chapter held allure.
What else did he have to go back to right now? If the muse ever did grab him by the balls again, he could still write from Broken Bar.
His thoughts returned to Olivia, and he gave a soft snort. If he wanted to stay now, it was going to have to be by her grace. It was her place to run. So why did that not bother him? Because she deserved it, that was the hell why.
The image from his laptop filled his mind—the photo that had been taken just before she’d disappeared twelve years ago. The one used for the “Missing” poster.
Same thick brown hair, prettily shaped, full lips. Mossy-green eyes. But in that photo she’d possessed the clear fresh-faced innocence of a young woman with promise in her life. Hopes. Big dreams. Before she was taken, maimed, marked, owned, terrorized.
Goose bumps crawled over his skin as he thought about the choker of scars around her neck.
She was found with a frayed rope still knotted around her neck. Frostbitten feet . . .
The last victim. The lone survivor. The one who’d fought back hard enough to get away and take him down. But at what cost? Her life in Watt Lake? Her husband and family?
At what low point had she tried to kill herself?
Like a desiccated flower on the vine she was when she arrived. This place healed her. Those scars on her wrists that were so red and angry, they began to fade . . .
He glanced at his watch. He should go down for dinner. The laptop would have to wait until after. He wouldn’t confront Olivia about his discovery, either. He wanted the truth to come voluntarily from her. His new goal was to win her trust to a point where she felt comfortable, safe enough, to share her past with him.
He was about to leave his post at the window when a movement down among the darkened trees caught his eye. A couple emerged from the shadows and stepped into the light spilling from the porch. Olivia with that Burton guy. Her arm was crooked into his, their heads bent low as they conversed intimately. Cole’s body flexed.
He stared down at them, curiosity and a possessive twinge of jealousy curling through him. But before he could think further, the phone on the long low table in front of the window rang.
Attention still fixated on the scene below, Cole reached over and snagged up the receiver. “Broken Bar Ranch.”
“Cole? It’s me, Jane. Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get hold of you—what in heaven’s name is going on there!”
He glanced at his watch again. It was an ungodly hour in London. “Jane? What’s the—”
“I heard the news.” Her voice was pitched high. “Why didn’t you call me at once?”
“I was going to. I—”
“I told you to watch out for that woman. I warned you she was manipulating him, exerting undue influence. That’s potentially a criminal charge, do you know that? Exploitation of the elderly and the infirm. And now he’s leaving her the entire bloody ranch? You have got to do something. You’ve got to get rid of her.”
Cole inhaled a long, slow breath, his gaze still locked on the couple conversing under the trees below the wind
ow. “How did you hear about this, Jane?”
“Clayton Forbes phoned me. He suggested we sort this out before Dad dies, that we get him to amend the will. Because if we don’t, it’s going to cost a fortune in protracted legal battles to fight that woman. We could be in court forever.”
“How,” he said quietly, “does Forbes even know that Dad changed the will?” He leaned forward, watching as Olivia and Burton came up to the porch and disappeared under the eaves, entering the lodge. Mistrust curled through him. Along with a surge of testosterone-fueled protectiveness. His feelings for Olivia were growing complicated. He wondered again about the newspaper and lure that Burton left in the office. It took on an ominous light now that he knew who Olivia really was.
“I don’t know how he found out. One of his employees told him, I think.”
Adele’s odd words from the stairwell closet suddenly sprang to his mind.
You’ve got to find a way to get rid of her . . .
His thoughts leaped to Adele’s words a few minutes later as she’d handed him the Dodge keys.
A sale would be of great benefit to the whole region . . . there’s talk of a development—it’s just a proposal, mind you, for high-end estate lots and some commerce. It would bring jobs and tourism . . .
Suspicion braided into him. Adele had been standing in the library doorway with a tray. She’d overheard his father saying that he was leaving the ranch to Olivia.
“This should have nothing do with Forbes, Jane. It’s not his business.”
“It has everything to do with him. And with us. If we don’t inherit the property, there is no sale. The financing for the development . . . the up-front fees, it all falls through. Do you realize what a big deal that is at this stage?”
His hand tightened on the phone. “He’s securing investment on a nonexistent deal?”
“He has our legal letter of intent that we’ll enter into good-faith negotiations to sell. That’s something you can take to the bank. Jesus, Cole, you’re not taking this seriously—do you understand this is serious? Do you know what kind of money we stand to make here?”
“Maybe I no longer want to sell, Jane.”
Dead, deafening silence.
“Cole?” Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “You’re messing with me.”
“I’m in no rush. I have no place I need to go.”
Another crackle of silence.
When she spoke, her voice was changed. “You signed that e-document. We both did. I had lawyers vet it on both the British and Canadian ends. It’s binding.”
He cursed inwardly. He needed to speak to Forbes, and a lawyer, figure out how to wangle out of this thing.
“Listen to me, if you try to pull out now, I will fight you on this. Clayton and I both will. We’ll contest the validity of Dad’s new will in the courts. Clayton will rake you and that Olivia woman through a protracted legal nightmare. It’ll break you both financially. I promise you that.”
“God, Jane, listen to yourself.”
“Oh, don’t go all high and mighty on me now. Toddy and I need that extra financing. I. . . it’s a long story. We need that windfall. And you sure as hell don’t need that ranch—you never wanted a thing to do with it.”
Cole thought of Adele and her husband and his small disability fund. Jane needing money. Clayton Forbes up to his neck in house-of-cards financing. The Clinton community being promised jobs, tourism.
How many people’s dreams were resting on the sale of Broken Bar, and the promise of development?
He thought of Olivia.
“I need to make a call. Good-bye, Jane.” He hung up.
Cole was now ready to draw his battle line in the sand. Whatever in the hell his father did with this ranch, it wasn’t going to Forbes, not on his watch. It was the principle of the thing. Before, Cole didn’t care. Now he did. This ranch fell under the Agricultural Land Reserve. By law it had to be used for farming. It couldn’t be developed without government maneuvering. And he suddenly couldn’t bear the thought of it being sliced and sold off in pieces.
Maybe it was his own long-held animosity toward Forbes. Or maybe it was Olivia. He didn’t the hell know, but the fire was back in him. And he liked the feel.
He looked up Clayton Forbes’s home number on his charging computer. He dialed. The call went straight to voice mail.
He left a message. “Forbes, it’s Cole McDonough. I’m back on Broken Bar. Our deal is off. We need to speak.”
Almost as soon as he hung up, the library phone rang. It was Forbes.
“Cole! Welcome back, buddy. I heard—”
“Listen, don’t waste your breath, there’s no deal. At least not from my end. I don’t care what you’ve arranged with Jane, but should part of the estate ever fall into my hands, there will be no sale.”
“Now, now, McDonough. Take it easy. Hear me out. I have a legal document, vetted by my corporate legal team. And—”
The line went silent.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
Cole tapped the hook switch. “Forbes, are you there?”
The phone was dead.
Cole moved quickly to the phone in his father’s office. No dial tone, either. Landlines must have gone down. Wind gusted on cue, ticking branches against the library window. The loose shutter banged repeatedly. The storm was closing in, and they’d lost contact with the outside world. He peered out the window into the dark.
An eerie green glow rippled across the sky, reflecting on the black surface of the lake. Northern lights. He stilled a moment as he caught sight of someone moving around the side of the house. But perhaps it was just a trick of light and dark.
Eugene fingered the cables and glanced up the wall to be certain he had the right ones for the sat dish. He’d already taken care of the phone lines. He reached for the bolt cutters slung at his hip, but stilled as he heard someone come out the kitchen door. He ducked back into the shadow of the wall, waiting while a garbage can clanged as refuse was emptied out. The lid banged again, then the kitchen door shut. It went quiet and dark again. He moved back to the cables. He didn’t need a flashlight thanks to the soft green-blue haze that was now billowing gently across the sky. It wouldn’t last long. Along the horizon a blackness grew, marching closer. It carried snow. Urgency crackled like soft electricity over his skin.
He reached for the bolt cutter . . .
CHAPTER 15
Cole entered the open-plan lounge and dining area. Ace lay in front of the fire on an old Persian rug worn thin over the years. Cowhide lampshades and flickering candles cast a warm glow through the room. Wood paneling, heavy log beams along the vaulted ceiling, the bleached antlers above the kitchen entryway all added to the old hunting lodge ambience.
At the far end of the hearth his father was parked in his chair, staring into the flames and nursing a rather large tumbler of whisky. On the sofa sat the daughter of Gage Burton, looking burdened by a serious chip on her young shoulder.
Two older couples conversed animatedly at the bar. One pair Cole recognized from the campsite—the owners of the de-barked poodle. Gage Burton joined them.
Behind the rustic bar, a man in his late twenties poured drinks for the guests. A slender blonde woman about the same age as the bartender was busy setting wineglasses on the linen-covered dining tables. Music in the background was a soft jazz.
Cole went up to his dad. “How’re you doing?”
Myron just grunted. He was clearly well into his cups, and his cheeks appeared even more sunken than earlier.
Cole inhaled deeply, worry worming through him. His dad was taking a turn for the worse. He needed to call the doc, find out what next steps were required in the management of his father’s care.
The flat-screen television that had earlier shown news of the horrific murder was muted and set to the weather cha
nnel. He watched for a moment the meteorological images of a massive storm cell moving in fast from the south. The pilot in him cringed at the sight of that weather hump. It was going to be a big one. And it could hit by morning. Already he could hear the wind moaning eerily and continuously in the top of the old stone chimney flue.
The Burton child was giving him the eyeball. He turned and smiled at her. She was quite beautiful under the carapace of her foul mood. And he wondered where her mother was—why she and her father were alone at a lodge for Thanksgiving.
“Hey,” he said, deepening his smile. “I’m Cole. I grew up on the ranch.”
Her eyes narrowed. She seemed to be weighing whether to answer him at all. “I’m Tori Burton.”
“I saw you guys out in the boat with Olivia this afternoon. You catch any fish?”
“Olivia did. She let me bring it in.”
“Big one?”
“Big enough to keep,” she said. “But I released it.”
The television screen flickered suddenly, then died to black. Cole went up to it and turned it off, then on again. No life. He checked the wires. Everything was connected.
“Is it dead?” Tori said.
“Stone cold,” he said. “That weather heading our way must be interfering with our sat signal as well as the phones.”
Which likely meant no Internet. No more laptop research on the Watt Lake Killer, or Sarah Baker, until things were up and running again. So much for charging his laptop. And with phones down, too, they were pretty much cut off from civilization now, with a serious storm closing in around the wilderness.
As if on cue, the wind moaned again, and shutters banged somewhere.
The kitchen door swung suddenly open. Olivia exited, carrying two bottles of wine. She paused as she caught sight of Cole. His pulse quickened as their eyes met.
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