A Dark Lure (10 page)

He started the descent. He didn’t have to stay long. He’d check on his father, help organize the palliative care, if that’s what was needed, make any decisions required for the continued functioning of the ranch until Jane organized the sale. Then he was out of here. Duty done.

Coming in for the landing, it struck him—the fields were devoid of livestock. Not a cow to be seen anywhere on the ranch. He saw a rust-red truck parked on the east field. A woman stood beside it, hair blowing in the wind. Olivia. She raised a hand up high, giving him the all clear.

He brought his craft in.

CHAPTER 6

Olivia tensed as she held her hair back off her face—the wings of the little yellow single-prop plane were seesawing in high crosswinds, and it was coming toward the ground at a startling angle.

Fat tires smacked the dirt road with an explosion of soft glacial dirt. The bush plane bumbled along the track, a cone of silt roiling out behind it. She blinked into the blowing grit as the craft came to an abrupt halt. The cloud of dust overtook and enveloped the plane. The prop slowed then stopped.

Anxiety twisted through her.

The cockpit side flap dropped open.

A man, tall, climbed out. He raised his hand in greeting, then reached behind the pilot seat. He hefted out a military-style duffel bag. Closing the door flap, he ducked out from under the wings and slung his gear up onto a broad shoulder.

With a long easy stride, a smooth roll of the shoulders, he closed the distance to where Olivia waited alongside her truck. He was dressed in a dark-brown leather jacket that looked worn. Vintage. WWII bomber style with a sheepskin ruff and lining. His jeans were faded in places that screamed masculinity. His boots were scuffed.

He brought to mind paramilitary figures. A guy with authority, one who exuded a command presence.

Not surprising. This was a man who wrote about alpha men. Extreme risk takers. Conquerors of the world’s tallest peaks and remotest poles. He walked the walk, climbed the mountains, flew the skies. Yet in spite of his apparent machismo, his written words bespoke a sensitive view of the world. A beautiful mind.

Ace barked from inside the truck as he neared.

Her pulse quickened, little moth wings of nerves fluttering in her stomach. She wiped her hands on her jeans, thinking of all the negative emotions she’d directed toward him, his rudeness on the phone. Up close, in the flesh, he was even more formidable, more vital than anything in those photographs. A chiseled, tanned echo of his dying father. A mountain of a man.

“You must be Olivia.” He reached forward to shake her hand. “Cole McDonough.”

Her spine stiffened instinctively as she held out her hand. His grip was unapologetically firm. Calloused palms. Warm hands. As his gaze met hers, a sharp crackle of electricity shot through her body. His eyes were deep-set under a prominent brow and fringed by heavy lashes. And they were intense. Moody like a thundercloud. His chin was strong, darkly shadowed with stubble, his brown hair tousled. Everything about this man radiated a kind of feral aggression and power, yet there was fatigue in the craggy lines that fanned out from his eyes and bracketed his mouth. His deeply sun-browned skin seemed to belie a paleness, a quiet exhaustion beneath.

She cleared her throat. “Pleased to meet you,” she lied, firming her own grip, asserting her space, her place on this ranch. “And this is Ace,” she said of her dog, who was now sticking his head out the window and lolling his tongue out in anticipation of a greeting.

Cole held on to her hand a fraction longer. “How’s my father?”

She glimpsed real concern in his eyes. It threw her slightly. It messed with her prejudiced animosity toward him.

“In a great deal of pain,” she said quietly. “But he’s stoic about it. You know he can be
. . .
” She paused. “Then again, maybe you don’t.”

His features darkened. He released her hand. “And I presume you do. After all, you’ve lived here what? A whole three years?”

She felt something tighten reflexively inside her.

“Thanks for coming out to meet me,” he said, scanning the surroundings. “Would you mind giving me a ride to the house?” His voice was low toned, velvet over gravel. Her stomach tightened. A voice like that had cost her everything.

She glanced at the plane, and it struck her, given the ease with which he’d just landed, and those little fat-ass tundra tires: Cole McDonough could have brought this thing down just about anywhere on the ranch. “You didn’t need me to scope out the landing at all, did you? You just called me because you wanted a chauffeur.”

His lips curved slightly. Irritation sparked in her, and she latched fast onto it. It was a safety mechanism. It was easier to put up walls than deal with her very primal gut reaction to this man.

“Admittedly it would have been a bit of a walk—I can’t bring this puppy down much closer to the lodge because of the hydro wires and phone lines. More so, I was worried about livestock.”

“We no longer run cattle,” she said, words clipped. “Just a few horses and chickens left. Since Myron took ill last spring the place has gone downhill. Guests no longer stay in the lodge house. Only the cabins and the campsites open during season. Staff has been cut down to core.”

His brows rose slightly in interest.

She glanced at the plane again.

“It’ll be fine there. I’ll sort it out later.”

“Fine.” She yanked open the driver’s door of her truck and scooted Ace into the middle of the seat. “As long as you don’t mind my stopping by the campsite first—I have some guests who need to be checked in. I missed seeing them this morning.”

“I’d rather go straight to the house.”

She stilled, hand on the door. “After thirteen years you can’t wait a half hour?” She couldn’t help it. The words just came out. He’d made her jump to his bidding. He was here to stick Myron into a hospice, carve up and sell this ranch. Make her find a new home. And she was drawing her own line in the sand.

He regarded her, a silent energy coming from him in waves. He dipped his gaze, taking her in, head to boot. Absorbing her. She shifted uncomfortably, aware suddenly of her hidden scars, her latent shortcomings. Her shame. Her need for distance from people.

“Olivia,” he said quietly, his voice deep, resonant. It curled through her like seductive smoke, and she hated him for it. It scared her. Her reaction to him. Everything about this guy. He took up too much space—too much of
her
space.

“I don’t know who you really are,” he said quietly, “or what your exact role is on this ranch, or what your relationship is to my father, or why you have clearly prejudged and taken a disliking to me, but
you
were the one who phoned
me
, remember? When you told me that my father was dying, there was a very real sense of urgency. I went directly from the bar to the airport, and I slept on a plastic seat until they could get me on a plane. Then I flew to Vancouver, drove up to Pemberton, got my plane, and flew directly here. I’ve been in transit for almost twenty-four hours. I’m beat. And you might have noticed I could do with a shower. But I’ll concede.” He hefted his duffel into the back of her truck. It landed with a soft thud on top of the wood she had piled in there.

“Come. Let’s go do your chores first.” He went round to the passenger side and opened the door, got in.

She opened her mouth in shock, leaned into the cab. Ace was trying to lick his face. “What do you mean about my relationship with your father?”

“My sister said you and he might be involved.”

“
What?
Is that what you really think, that I’m in some kind of relationship with your
father
?”

“Get in, Olivia. I’m tired.”

“Jesus,” she muttered as she climbed in, slammed the door, and fired the ignition. “I’m taking you back to the lodge first.”

“I’d rather you got your cash from the guests.”

“Forget it. I’d rather offload you.” She rammed the vehicle into gear and hit the gas, spitting up dirt. They bombed down the hill, grass ticking against the undercarriage, her hands tightly gripping the wheel. “Maybe if you’d come home in the last thirteen years you’d know your father better, and you wouldn’t make such goddamn offensive insinuations. Because you would
know
he’d
never look at anyone other than your mother.”

“Right. I forgot. My mother who’s been dead twenty-three years. He holds so tightly to that bitterness he can’t let anyone else in. Not even his kids.” He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the headrest. “Glad to hear you’ve gotten through his bitter crust.”

She shot him a look, dumbfounded.

“I don’t owe you any explanations,” she snapped. “I don’t owe you a thing.” She spun the wheel sharply and barreled too fast over the cattle grid. The vehicle juddered like a machine gun, forcing him to sit upright and curse.

Cole stole a quick glance at her profile. She was prickly all right, but also easy on the eyes. Pretty, full mouth set in a tight line. Thick hair that fell to her shoulders. Like her photo on the ranch website, she was dressed cowgirl-style in worn jeans, button-down flannel shirt over a white T-shirt, boots that had seen the business end of a barn. He’d noticed right away how her ass fitted into those jeans, her slim, long legs. What red-blooded male wouldn’t notice? She was lean and fit looking with a soft tan that offset her haunting green eyes.

The color of her eyes made him think of the
National Geographic
photos Holly had shot of a young Bedouin woman. His mind darkened as he was reminded of Holly’s photojournalism. His own work. The Sudan. The politics.

Holly’s son. His little family. Lost to him.

Nausea and the thought of a drink washed through him.

She swung the truck onto the main road that led to the lodge, dislodging Ace, who slid along the seat into him. Cole put his arm around the German shepherd, holding the dog steady as they juddered over another grid. “It’s okay, big guy. I’ve got you.” He scratched behind the dog’s ears.

Olivia shot him a withering look.

She had a mother of a hunting knife secured at her hip, along with a holster of bear spray and a phone on her belt. His guess was this was a capable woman. No wedding band. No jewelry at all. Her words on the phone came to mind.

Wherever you’re wallowing in your own self-pity, drinking yourself into a stupor every night is not going to bring your family back to you. You’re no survivor, you know that?

Resentment and curiosity curdled through him. She knew things about him. She knew about Holly and Ty. About his time spent “wallowing” in Havana bars. Things that could only have come from his father. Which meant those two
were
close. At least on some level. He could see a confident, capable, and yes—very sexually attractive—woman like this managing to appeal to the old man’s aging ego. Or could he? She was right in that his father had always put his mother on a pedestal. Then again Cole hadn’t been home to see his father in a long while. Things could have changed.

He was too tired to dig at it all right now. He needed sleep. Food. A hot shower. And he needed to get his first meeting with his father over and done.

He wound down the window and let the cool wind wash over his face as he turned to look out at the rolling fields. Empty fields. Dotted with stands of ghostly white-barked aspens, gold leaves blowing free from the branches in the wind. Fences sagged in disrepair. The old wrangler cabins listed with sunken-in roofs. Swallows darted in a cloud out from the rotting eaves.

She was right. This place had fallen into a state of sad dilapidation. No one had told him it was this bad. But why should he expect different?

They neared the lodge house. It too looked like it could use some love—a power wash, a fresh coat of paint on the shutters. Cole tensed as she pulled up in front of the big porch. She hit the brakes hard, jerking him forward.

“There,” she said coolly. “Looks like you made it home in time for supper.” She waited for him to get out, engine running, her hands fisting the wheel.

He suddenly noticed the scars on the insides of her wrists. They were puckered and ran lengthways up into her sleeves. Scars that meant business.

She flinched as she saw him notice, then looked away, out the window.

He swallowed, off-kilter suddenly. Tension inside the cab was thick. He opened his door, got out, and reached into the truck bed for his gear.

“Where are you going?” he said, leaning back into the door. “You don’t take dinner at the lodge?”

“Not tonight. I’m going to park my truck and then go to my cabin.” She refused to face him.

He closed the passenger door. She pulled off, leaving him in a cloud of dust.

Curiosity rustled through him as he watched her go.

Cole slung his duffel over his shoulder, and turned to take in the lodge. A carved bear statue still stood guard at the base of the stairs. The old swing seat was still on the porch, but with fresh cushions. A cocktail of memories churned through him. He was in the last year of his thirties, yet he still felt a twinge of boyhood trepidation at walking into that childhood home. Facing his father.

Odd how life played those tricks on a grown man. He’d lived a rich life so far, had his own family for a while. Lost them. But the boy always lurked inside the man. And with that thought came the weight of exhaustion, failure. As if the past decades of his life had meant nothing.

He jogged up the porch steps and entered the hall, stepping back in time. The big rack of antlers was still being used to hang coats. The stuffed moose head, an animal his grandfather had taken down in the Sumas swamp, still peered down from the archway that led into the living area. A fire crackled in the living room hearth, and he could smell polish on the stone floor tiles.