by Lisa Childs
Who was he talking to now?
“You’re not my baby,” a woman replied. He’d not heard her speak very often, but he knew it was Bonita. “You’re not my baby.”
“No, I’m your grandson,” Teddy told her. “My dad is your kid—yours and Bainesworth’s. You had him at the manor, and they took him away from you and sold him to some desperate couple that couldn’t have kids of their own. But he finally found out the truth a year ago and told me. So now I know that property should be mine. But those two legitimate heirs lord it over everybody else. Firing me for making a buck, trying to take everything that’s mine.”
Genevieve cried out and through the sheer curtains hanging over the tall bay windows in the parlor, Whit could see that the kid had grabbed her arm.
“Just like your damn sister tried taking you away,” he said. “Nobody’s taking what’s mine anymore. Give me the keys to that truck, Grandma! Or I swear I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill all of you!” With his hand not on Genevieve, he waved around a shovel—probably the same one with which he’d struck Rosemary.
Thinking fast, Whit grabbed one of the rockers off the porch and hurled it through the bay windows. With the explosion of glass, he kicked open the front door and rushed into the foyer. And just as he entered a shot rang out.
He’d been wrong. The kid must have had a gun.
* * *
Rosemary was numb and it wasn’t just from the local anesthetic the doctor had injected into her forehead before he’d stitched up her wound. She was numb with shock.
Edie had been waiting when she’d returned from X-ray, and the expression on her face had scared Rosemary more than being attacked had. Then she’d had only herself to worry about—although she had been pretty certain Genevieve was the one who’d screamed the warning at her.
So she’d been worried about her, too. Always ...
But now she was worried about Whit as well. She shouldn’t have sent him off to look for her daughter. He was a judge, not a lawman. She should have insisted he leave the investigation and protection to the professionals. But instead she’d sent him off . . .
To his death?
“What is it? Who’s hurt?” Rosemary asked Edie.
“Bode.”
Rosemary furrowed her brow and flinched at the pain. The local anesthetic must have worn off. “Bode?”
“Bode James. The famous fitness guy from the hall,” Edie added.
“Oh . . .” A pang of guilt struck her that she’d forgotten who he was. “He’s hurt? How—what happened?”
“That kid—the groundskeeper—he fired, he attacked Bode, too, like he did you, with a shovel,” Edie said. “And then he left him outside in the cold for hours.”
Remembering all the time she’d spent out in the snow, Rosemary shivered. “Oh, no, is he okay?”
“He’s in another emergency room. I tried talking to his brother, but Cooke wouldn’t tell me much,” Edie said, her face flushing—probably with anger. “He thought I was just after a story.”
“What did the sheriff say?” Rosemary asked.
She looked away, as if unable to meet her eyes before replying, “He had to leave for another call.”
Rosemary’s stomach dropped. “What?” she asked. “What’s going on?”
Edie shrugged. “I don’t know for certain. . . .”
“But you suspect . . .” The same thing Rosemary suspected—that the other call involved Whit and maybe Genevieve. “I asked him to check on the Pierce sisters,” Rosemary reminded her. “Teddy Bowers had stayed with them before he moved to one of the cabins on the hall property.”
“I’ll see what more I can find out,” Edie said as she rushed out of the room. For Rosemary or for her story?
Rosemary needed to find out for herself. She tried to get up from the bed, but her head spun with dizziness. The doctor, who’d just stepped back into the area, grabbed her and settled her back against the pillows. “You have a concussion. We need to keep you for observation. You could develop a subdural hematoma.” She must not have looked suitably worried because he added, “That’s very serious. That’s bleeding on your brain.”
She didn’t care about herself—not now—not when her heart was bleeding with fear for her loved ones. For Genevieve . . .
And for Whit ...
“We’re going to move you to the ICU,” he said, “so we can keep an eye on you overnight. If you’re fine in the morning, you can go home.”
Home . . .
The boardinghouse had begun to feel like home, the Pierce sisters like family. She hoped nothing had happened to them. Tears stung her eyes and her nose, but she squeezed her lids shut to hold them back. She couldn’t give in to them now or she might not stop crying. Ever ...
The doctor must have given her more than anesthesia for her wound because when she opened her eyes again, she was somewhere else. It wasn’t exactly a room because it only had three walls; the fourth was glass that looked onto a nurses’ station. Or the nurses’ station, and a couple of nurses at it, looked onto her.
But they weren’t the only ones. Rosemary felt someone else watching her. She was not alone.
* * *
Elijah stood next to the hospital bed, staring down at the pale face of the patient. He’d never seen anyone look as lifeless ... but then he wasn’t the sheriff. He didn’t find corpses.
Until today ...
Today when they’d found his brother lying outside the groundskeeper cabin, he’d thought they’d found a corpse. He’d thought Jamie was dead. Jamie . . .
That was whom he’d seen then—his baby brother, not the world-renowned fitness expert, who’d renamed himself Bode. That was whom he saw now as he stared down at the man lying in the hospital bed.
He hadn’t regained consciousness yet. Not even when Elijah had left the hospital for the short time that he had.
He’d had to return to the hall—not for work—but for her.
His niece.
Bode’s daughter ...
He bent his arm, trying to adjust his grip on her. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held a baby. Maybe never ...
A pang of guilt struck him that he hadn’t been involved in her life before now. What if Bode didn’t wake up? Her mother had already deserted her a few months ago. That left Grandfather or him to care for her. Grandfather couldn’t really even care for himself anymore. At least not physically . . .
Mentally the old man was as cunning and manipulative as he’d ever been, which made him the last person who should ever raise a child. Elijah had thought that Bode was as well. He’d judged his brother harshly—too harshly—without ever giving him credit for his accomplishments.
Sure, he was famous. But more than that, he was keeping and caring for his daughter with only the help of a nanny he’d hired when the baby’s mother had left.
“Tell your daddy to wake up,” Elijah told her as he stared down at her face. She was beautiful with perfect pale skin, dark hair, and eyes that were nearly as light as the Bainesworth silver. “Tell him to wake up. . . .”
“Adelaide,” a deep voice murmured. “Her name is Adelaide.”
Guilt and relief rushed over Elijah, nearly staggering him.
“Don’t drop her,” Bode said, his voice sharper now with alarm.
That perfect little face crumpled into a scowl and the rosebud lips began to quiver.
“Shhh . . .” Elijah said, and he rocked her.
“Are you shushing me or her?” Bode asked.
“You,” Elijah said. “You’re scaring her.”
Bode’s cracked lips curved into a grin. “You’re the one who looks scared. Afraid you were about to become responsible for a baby?”
Elijah opened his mouth, but the sarcastic retort he’d intended to make stuck in his throat. He could only shake his head as emotion overwhelmed him.
“What?” Bode asked.
Elijah shook his head once more but then cleared his throat and admitted, “I was afraid
I was going to lose my brother.” Bode had looked so lifeless lying on the snow. He’d never seen the vibrant young man look like that. “And my partner,” he added.
Bode grinned. “Are you sure you’re not the one who was hit on the head? You can’t stand me. I’ve always been the nuisance, the pest, not your pal like your cousin David.”
He and David were the same age, so he’d always been close to him, especially because David’s parents had been there for him more so than his own had ever been. “You’re my brother,” Elijah said. “And the hall thing—it was all your idea.”
“A bad idea most of the time,” Bode murmured as his grin slipped away.
Elijah shook his head. “No. We’ll make it work.” Bode nodded, then grimaced. “So my brain isn’t too scrambled?”
Elijah shook his head. “Concussion. Bad one. But you probably would have had hypothermia if you weren’t so used to working out in all elements.” His fitness had saved his life was what the doctor had said. Elijah would share that with him when he was sure that Bode wouldn’t gloat too much about it. He had a bigger concern now—the tiny baby in his arms. “What would have happened to her if you weren’t okay?”
“She has a mother,” Bode said.
“She does?” Elijah wondered aloud.
“I don’t know where she is,” Bode admitted. “So if nobody was able to find her, Adelaide would become your responsibility.”
Elijah glanced down at the baby who stared up at him with nearly the same eyes as her father and as him. She appeared to be comfortable in his arms now, much more comfortable than he was holding her.
“But don’t worry,” Bode said. “I have a hard head. I’ll be fine.”
“Like a rock,” Elijah agreed. “But about her mother . . .”
Bode’s face flushed. “I told you I don’t know where she is.”
“That wasn’t Genevieve Walcott’s body that the sheriff found,” Elijah said. “What if . . .”
“She left,” Bode said. “There was a note. She didn’t die.”
“But while Adelaide is here, maybe we should have someone swab her cheek for DNA,” Elijah suggested. It wouldn’t be the only DNA test that was being done. The sheriff had informed him that Teddy Bowers had claimed to be a Bainesworth, that Grandfather had raped one of the Pierce sisters.
It wasn’t over. It was never going to be over. . . .
But he pressed his lips together, unwilling to burden his brother with all that information right now. He would explain it all to him later, when he was out of the hospital. He’d tell him then why Teddy had gone after him, that he’d resented not just Bode’s firing him but also Bode for having what he’d thought should be his.
“Is that why you brought Adelaide here?” Bode asked. He pushed himself up in the bed and reached for his daughter. “To help identify that damn body?”
Elijah stared down at her again, for a long moment, before handing her over. “No,” he said. “I brought her here for you. I figured you’d wake up for her.”
And the doctor had said that the sooner he woke up, the better the outcome for Bode.
“I’d do anything for her,” Bode said as he cooed at the baby.
“Then find out if that body is her mother,” Elijah said. “Find out the truth for her.”
“What is the truth?” Bode asked. “Was that woman murdered?”
Elijah shrugged. “I don’t know. . . .”
After that cryptic comment their grandfather had made, he had no idea how many bodies might be on the estate. He was just damned relieved his brother’s hadn’t been one of them.
Bode was alive and so was he. But they definitely hadn’t escaped the curse. Would it ever let them go?
Chapter Thirty
Maybe she was dreaming, but instead of having her usual nightmare, she was having a fairy tale happily ever after. How hard had she been hit on the head? Maybe the doctor had been right to keep her for observation. But it wasn’t a medical professional who stood next to her bed, staring down at her; it was Genevieve.
She jerked fully awake, sat up, and reached out for her daughter. Closing her arms tightly around her, she nearly pulled Genevieve into the bed with her. “You’re alive! You’re really alive.”
Genevieve’s hands trembled as she patted Rosemary’s back. “Yes, yes, I am.”
Rosemary pulled back to study her daughter’s beautiful face. Genevieve looked exhausted with big dark circles beneath her blue eyes, but those weren’t the only marks on her skin. She had bruises, too, and her blond hair was tangled and matted around her face. Rosemary’s breath caught. “Oh, my God. Has a doctor seen you?” she asked anxiously. “Have you been examined?”
Genevieve nodded again but grimaced as if repulsed at the thought of even a medical professional touching her. What had she endured the past couple of weeks?
Rosemary’s relief in her being alive slipped into concern again. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said.
“Tell me the truth,” Rosemary implored her. “I can see the bruises. . . .”
Genevieve touched her swollen cheek. “This is from today. He really lost it. But he can’t hurt me anymore now.”
“So he did ... ?” Rosemary asked, tears stinging her eyes as she considered that her daughter might have been violated the way she had been.
Genevieve shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. It was my fault, really. I wanted out of that hall so bad that I sweet-talked Teddy into helping me, but once he got me out ... he didn’t want to let me go. He thought that if I got to know him, or if he got back money or property he had coming, that I would fall in love with him. Like he thought he was in love with me . . .”
“That wasn’t your fault,” Rosemary assured her. “He’s ill. Are you sure he didn’t hurt you?”
Genevieve shook her head again. “No. He kept me locked up in a room in this little cabin on the property. It was warm and there was food and water, but he wouldn’t let me leave.”
Rosemary squeezed her hand. “You must have been so scared.”
Genevieve nodded. “But it’s over now. How about you? How are you?”
“I have a concussion,” Rosemary replied. She squeezed Genevieve’s hand. “If not for you screaming, it would have been so much worse. You saved my life.” She glanced around then. “What about Whit? How is Whit?”
Genevieve looked up at the glass wall and motioned to someone standing on the other side. The wall slid open, and Whit joined them. “There’s only supposed to be one of us in here at a time,” he said.
And he’d had her daughter come in first ...
Love warmed Rosemary’s heart. Love for him and love for her child. “You’re all right?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’m fine. And it’s all over . . .”
Genevieve had said the same thing. “So he’s been caught?” Rosemary asked.
“If not for you macing him, he might have gotten away,” Whit said, and he smiled at her with something like pride.
“What happened?” Rosemary asked.
“He stopped at the boardinghouse, like you suspected,” he said.
A pang of fear struck her heart. “Are the Pierce sisters okay?”
Whit sighed. “Physically, yes. But . . .” He shook his head. “Teddy told them that he was Bonita’s grandson, that his father was Bonita’s child who was given up for adoption.”
“So she did have a baby,” Rosemary murmured. And she’d been looking for him all these years.
“The sheriff’s trying to get some warrants for DNA, trying to get the full story,” he said.
And she was sure Whit was helping him. While he looked fine—handsome, wonderful—she had to ask, “Are you okay?”
He nodded. “I’m fine.”
“He’s a hero,” Genevieve murmured. “If he hadn’t come when he had . . .” Her lips quivered as if she was about to cry.
So Whit had put himself in danger—at Rosemary’s request. She squeezed his hand now
. “I’m sorry ... about everything . . .”
He squeezed her hand gently in return. “You need to talk to Genevieve now. And I want to check in with the sheriff. I’ll be back soon.” His hand slipped from hers as he stepped away from the bed and from her.
“He’ll come back,” Genevieve assured her.
A pang of guilt over her selfishness struck Rosemary’s heart. She needed to focus on her daughter—on telling her that she was her daughter. But first she had to know how stable she was. “Are you really all right?” she asked.
Genevieve uttered a ragged sigh. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I was such an idiot. I thought I was using him to get me out of there. I didn’t know that he would hold me hostage.”
“Hostage? Did he know about the trust? Was that the money he was after?”
Genevieve’s brow furrowed beneath a fall of dirty blond hair. “What trust?”
Rosemary cursed her mother and Bobby. They had definitely stolen it. “Yours,” she said. “Mother must have used it all up.”
“That?” Genevieve asked. “She said you used it all up.”
“That lying bitch . . .” Rosemary murmured.
Genevieve’s lips finally curved into a slight smile. “That would be our mother.”
“No,” Rosemary said. “She’s mine. Not yours . . .”
Genevieve’s eyes narrowed. “Are you really okay? How hard did you get hit?”
“It’s true,” Rosemary said. “I’m your mother.”
Genevieve shook her head. “No . . . You’re not that much older than I am.”
“I was sixteen,” Rosemary said. “I wasn’t even sure how it happened. Or who your father was . . .”
Genevieve glanced at the wall of glass. “Is it Whit? He said he knew you when you were kids.”
“I wish it was him,” Rosemary said. “I don’t know if I should tell you this right now . . . with everything you’ve been through.” What if she was too fragile?
“Tell me now,” Genevieve insisted. “Tell me while I’m all messed up—because I don’t think it can get much worse for me right now.” Tears slipped out of her eyes and trailed down her bruised face. “He was so mad when you showed up, so determined to kill you. It’s my fault you got hurt. I screwed up so badly, Rosemary.”
