A Dark Lure (12 page)

Cole pushed open the door quietly and stepped into his father’s room. His attention shot immediately to the wheelchair next to the bed. Shock plunged through him. He had no idea his father was in a chair. The indignity of that wheelchair had to be killing a man like his dad. A man who once used to stride this land, hunt these forests, fish these streams . . .

His gaze shifted to a drip and oxygen machine against the wall, then settled on his father’s shape in the bed. He was snoring great big bear snores, but he was a gray shadow of the man he’d once been. His cheeks appeared hollowed, very lined. His skin was rough in texture and sallow, his bushy beard unkempt. Perspiration sheened his face. He seemed vulnerable in sleep.

Cole walked quietly over to the window that looked toward the lake and mountains in the distance. He dug his hands deep into his pockets as he studied the view. He felt exhausted suddenly.

He caught sight of Olivia below, walking across the grass toward the alders. She had a slight awkwardness to her gait, a bit of a limp.

His father stirred behind him. Cole’s pulse kicked. He shot a glance at the bedroom door that he’d left slightly ajar. He should leave, quickly, before his father woke, giving him some dignity.

But as he carefully crossed the room, a floorboard creaked beneath his weight. Cole stilled. Too late. His father’s eyes popped open.

“Who’s there? Who is that!” His father blinked as he tried to focus. “Cole?”

“Hey, Dad. Yeah, it’s me.”

A myriad of emotions chased over the old man’s features, from shock to pleasure, confusion, then firming into tight anger. His fists balled the sheets as he fought to sit up.

“What in the hell are
you
doing here?”

“Thought I’d stop by, see how you were.”

His father struggled to get himself into a position where he could lean back against the headboard, but as soon as he did, he sucked air in sharply and doubled over in pain. He groped blindly for the bedside table, fumbling and knocking over a container of pills.

Cole surged instantly to the bedside and caught the bottle from falling off the edge. He handed the container to his father, then tried to help him sit back up.

“Get your hands off me.” He smacked Cole away and fought himself up back into a sitting position. “You come to check on your inheritance? Did you talk to Forbes on your way up about selling?” He battled with gnarled joints to open his pills. His eyes, once such a piercing, clear gray, were rheumy and bloodshot.

“That’s not—”

“Who did this? Who called you? Halliday?”

“Olivia.”

“Shit.” He looked away. Then he swore again as he tried once more to open his pills.

“Need some help with that?” Cole nodded to the pill container.

“Get the hell out of here. I don’t need any help.”

Cole’s heart beat hard against his ribs, tension rising in his gut. He remained, silent, watching his dad struggle with the pills.

“What’re you standing there for—what do you want?” his father said again. “What the
fuck
did Olivia tell you that made you leave Cuba?”

“Florida—I was in the Keys. She told me you were dying.”

Myron stared. Silence hung. Then he reached over and bashed the intercom button on the wall next to his bed with the base of his fist “Carrick! Where in the hell are you, woman. Get upstairs.
Now
.”

He managed to pop the lid off his pills. He fisted a couple and stuffed them into his mouth. With shaking hands he reached for the glass of water on the stand.

Cole handed the glass to him. His father stilled as their eyes met. He helped his dad drink. The old man closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if awaiting the effect of the medication. Cole read the label. Big-gun painkillers.

Eyes still closed, perspiration beading on his brow, his father said, “Is Jane here, too? Have the two of you cut a deal to sell this place before I’m cold in my bloody grave?”

Cole blew out a chestful of air, guilt twisting through him. “Would you stop beating that drum for a moment—I don’t want this place. I don’t care what you do with it.”

Myron’s eyes flared open. With the back of his fist, he hammered at the intercom button next to his bed again, repeatedly, angrily, in frustration, pain.

“Get me Mrs. Carrick,” he barked. “Tell Olivia I want to see her. Now. Where is she?”

“I saw her heading down through the trees.”

His father winced, then took a deep, slow breath.

Adele Carrick entered the room.

“Thank God, woman,” his father muttered. “Pass me my clothes, please. And get my son out of my bedroom. Give me some dignity and space here.”

She hesitated, glanced at Cole, then bustled about the room, gathering clothes.

“Shall we get you ready for dinner, then, Mr. McDonough?”

“Not hungry. Just get him out.”

“Shall I prepare one of the lodge bedrooms for Cole?”

“He can have the empty staff cabin. Give him the keys.” He looked at his son. “You’ll prefer the privacy, I’m sure.”

Cole stepped outside the door, adrenaline hammering through his blood. From the passageway he heard his father muttering, “Thirteen goddamn years and he’s standing there next to my bed while I’m sleeping. The prodigal son returned. No warning, nothing . . .”

Cole started down the passage toward the stairwell.

What in the hell was he doing here anyway? It was a mistake. On so many levels.

Adele came out, closing the door softly behind her. She caught up to him. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McDonough.”

“It’s Cole, please. You make me sound like my father. And it’s fine—I didn’t expect less.”

“He’s in a lot of pain. He’s not thinking clearly. He asked if you would meet him in the library tomorrow at eleven.”

“Right.” He snorted. “A formal meeting.”

“Come, I’ll give you those cabin keys. They’re in the office downstairs.”

Eugene sensed the subtle shift in the weather. He could taste the coming snow on his tongue.
Tick tock, nature’s clock.
He hummed softly—a refrain from Beethoven’s
Fidelio
—as he wound shimmering purple thread around the hook secured in the vise clamped to the camper table. His mother used to like Beethoven, Bach, Mozart, Händel. Some Wagner. She used to play operas on vinyl records using an old turntable powered by solar energy and water from the creek. Totally self-sustainable they’d been.

He threaded one of the red beads and wound it onto the body he was creating around the hook. He added two more beads. Once the beads were securely tied, he dabbed them with a clear nail varnish he’d found in the bunk box beside the mattress. He shifted to a strain from Mozart’s
Don Giovanni
as he shredded pieces of lime-green surveyor’s tape.

Sarah would like this gift.

CHAPTER 7

Vancouver. Saturday morning. Two days to Thanksgiving.

The day dawned in shades of gray, and rain fell in a soft mist. From her upstairs bedroom window Tori watched her dad in the driveway. He was jacking up the camper so he could drive his Dodge Ram under it. He didn’t look sick. She wondered what could be wrong with him. Memories sliced through her—his big bear hugs. Him laughing at Mom’s jokes. A strange feeling tightened in her chest, and she was filled with a moment of compassion. He missed his wife. She’d seen real pain in his eyes yesterday. And now he looked so alone out there in the dark, wet morning. Alone like she felt. Her hands tightened on the windowsill.

He’d told her to pack her bags, and her gear was on her bed ready to go. She figured he’d be another twenty minutes at least, getting the camper hiked up and secured properly on the bed of the truck.

She took her digital reader and cord into her mother’s office and quickly powered up her mom’s laptop.

A dialogue box popped up asking for a password. She cursed, racking her brain for ideas. On a whim she entered her own name into the box.
Victoria
.

It opened.

Tori stared.

Her own name had unlocked the private world into her mother’s computer. Emotion stung her eyes. Love, a huge aching hole of it, burned in her chest. She heard the big diesel engine of her dad’s truck rumble to life. He’d be reversing it under the camper now. Her heart hammered. She didn’t have long. Hurriedly she did a computer search for the title of her mother’s draft manuscript:
The Pledge
.

Her father had locked the paper copy away, but there had to be a digital version in here.

Bingo. There it was.

Her hands started to shake a little as she plugged in her USB cord and connected her e-reader to the laptop. She hit the keys to send the manuscript to her e-reader. The truck’s engine went suddenly silent. She tensed.

The file transferred. Pulse racing, Tori disconnected her digital reader.

The downstairs door banged.

“Tori! You ready?”

She closed down the computer, and, grabbing her e-reader, she ran softly on socked feet out the door and down the passage. Leaning over the banister, she called down the stairs. “I’ll be down in a sec, Dad.”

“I’m just hooking up the trailer now, then we’re good to go.”

Mouth dry, hands clammy, she hurried to her room, closed the door. She checked her e-reader. It was there—her mother’s last work in progress was safely stashed inside her device. She was going to be able to take something of her mother with her. She was going to read her last words. Tori closed her eyes, clutching the reader to her chest. And she mouthed the words:
Thank you.

Cole was awake before sunrise. Last night he’d showered, shaved, and crashed like the dead. This morning he was a new man—without a hangover for the first time in six months, something of a stranger to himself. He made coffee in the small kitchenette that overlooked the lake. The staff cabin was tiny but warm from the woodstove, and Adele had seen to it that there were basic supplies in the cupboards and fridge. Propane heated the water in the bathroom and at the kitchen sink, but there was no electricity. Internet access was apparently available via the sat dish on the lodge roof. He’d be able to charge his laptop in the lodge and work down here. If he found the inspiration.

He shrugged into his jacket, took his mug, and stepped out onto the small porch. He sipped his coffee, listening to the loons. From here he could glimpse the other staff cabin through the trees.

The sun was just peeping over the ridge, the first gold rays hitting the snow on the Marble range. Ribbons of yellow deciduous foliage cut through the dense green décolletage of the mountains, and the air was delicate with cold. He could feel the whisperings of winter creeping silently over the high plateau.

He’d missed the sharp definition of seasons while in Africa, Cuba, Pakistan, Afghanistan. He’d always loved this time of year, when salmon came home to spawn, silvery and red in shining water. When the leaves turned gold and crackled underfoot, and hoarfrost grew on berry branches. When the scent of wood smoke mingled with the fragrance of pine. Memories, a bittersweet mix, filled Cole’s mind as he sipped his brew.

What now? He stood at a crossroads. Sober, he now had to face what he’d been avoiding—finding a way to move forward. To write again. A new story. Something that interested him.

He stilled as the door of the other cabin opened. Out came Ace followed by Olivia. She marched determinedly over the frosted grass. Long legs. Slim jeans. A thick down vest over her long-sleeved sweater. Her ponytail swung jauntily.

“Morning!” he called.

She stopped dead in her tracks. Stared.

Ace gamboled over and up onto his porch. Cole bent down and ruffled the dog’s fur.

Olivia came across the grass. “What are you doing in the staff cabin?”

“Apparently I like the privacy.”

“Myron said that?”

“He doesn’t want me in his house.” He sipped from his mug, watching her.

She stared up at him. This morning her eyes were the color of the lake—a pale green made luminescent by the underwater white marl shoals. Her cheeks and nose were pinked with cold. She seemed to be reevaluating him, taking in his cleaned-up appearance.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “I knew it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk.”

“Why
did
you come, then?”

He snorted. “Good question. I was on a plane before I had a chance to sober up and change my mind. So, what’s on the ranch work agenda this morning?”

Her shoulders stiffened slightly. This was her turf, and he was muscling in.

“I never got around to checking those campsite guests in yesterday. And I need to clean up the bins, put in new garbage bags, that sort of thing.”

“I’ll come.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you a hand.”

A wariness snapped through her eyes. He could see her walls shooting back up.

“Come on, humor me. Show me the lay of the land, how the ranch works. I’m not so bad to be around.” He set his mug down on the railing, reached over and shut his door. Jogging down the stairs, he zipped up his jacket.

She frowned. “I’d rather do it alone.”

“What? You don’t want interference from the ranch heirs? Feel like we’re taking over too soon?”

“You’re as blunt as your father is, you know that?” she said crisply. “No wonder you two don’t get on.”

He felt the corners of his mouth curve into a smile in spite of himself.

Her gaze held his—a subtle challenge with an underlying flicker of unease. She huffed, spun around, and began to walk up the path. He followed her through the aspen grove. Gold leaves quivered and fell like rain upon them. Their breath misted in clouds.

They reached her truck, which was parked outside the lodge. She helped Ace up into the cab.

“His hips giving him trouble?” Cole said.

“The vet thinks he might have early signs of degenerative myelopathy. It’s a progressive thing with no cure. I’ll just pick up my stuff from the office.”

Cole climbed in beside Ace while Olivia unlocked the office from the outside door. She exited carrying a box of brochures, a book, and a credit card reader. She shoved these onto the seat between her and Ace and stuck her keys in the ignition.

“Apart from being banished to the staff cabin, how did it go with Myron yesterday?” she asked as she fired the engine and put the truck in gear.

He leaned back against the headrest. “It didn’t go. He threw me out at first sight and set up a formal meeting with me in the library for eleven this morning.”

She cast him a quick glance as she pulled out onto the dirt track. He looked again at the scars on her wrists and wondered about her past, where she came from. Again, her words from the phone call dogged him.

You know dick about surviving
. . .

“Do the campsite guests still approach via the logging road on the other side of the lake?” he said.

“Yeah. Sometimes they’ll come all the way around and check themselves in. Mostly I just swing by once or twice a day and register them on-site. The cabin guests need to come past the lodge office.”

At the campsite entrance she stopped the truck, reached across him, and popped open the glove compartment. He caught her scent. Clean, soapy. Fresh. It brought to mind shampoos with names like
Rainwater
or
Forest Spring
. She removed a pair of work gloves from the compartment, slipped them on, got out of the truck. He followed.

She reached into the bed of the truck and hefted out a large sandwich board. It was yellow with black text that warned of bears in the area.

“Want help?” he said as she lugged the signboard a few feet down the road. Wind was picking up and washing through the swaying pines with the sound of a river.

“I’m good.” She placed the sign where the road forked. One side led to the small beach and picnic area, the other to the boat launch and campsites. Cole leaned against the truck, watching her, reabsorbing this place that was once so much a part of his life.

She definitely had an awkward gait—he wondered about that. She wore no ring, demonstrated no overt sign of being attached to a man, yet she was a close friend of his cantankerous father.

Cole was an astute observer, a cataloguer of facts, a reader of micro signs. It was a skill he’d honed over years of investigative reporting. Some called his powers of observation and memory uncanny, but it had made him damn good at his job. He could see through smoke and mirrors to the heart of a situation where others got sidetracked.

And he was seeing a woman who was trying to hide. It raised questions in his mind. Hide from what? Where did she come from prior to eight years ago? Had she tried to kill herself? Why? When? What exactly was she to his father, to this ranch? What would she do when his father died and this place was sold?

She pulled off her gloves as she approached the truck, her ponytail lifting in the wind.

“Still getting problem bears in the fall?” he said with a nod to the sign.

“More so over the last two seasons.” She opened the driver’s door and got in. He climbed back into the passenger’s side. “There’s a sow with two cubs-of-the-year who have been getting into garbage. Repeat offenders. We also had one get into the chickens last week.”

She started the ignition, and headed toward the concrete boat ramp.

A man in waders was tinkering with his boat on the ramp. He glanced up and waved. Olivia stopped the truck. She hesitated, then said to Cole. “He’s an old regular. I’m just going to say hi.”

He watched her walk down to the ramp. Ace whined and licked his face again. Cole noticed for the first time the cloudiness in the hound’s eyes. He peered closer. “Hey, bud, you losing your sight, boy? You wanna go see what she’s up to?”

His tail thumped.

Cole helped Ace out of the truck, and they followed Olivia down the ramp to where she was talking to a craggy-faced, sun-browned man in his late sixties.

“The trout biting?” Cole called out as he approached.

“Got totally skunked this morning,” the old guy said as he pushed up to his feet. “They’re no longer feeding off the marl—the colder weather at night has driven them into deep water. I think they’re on glass worms now, which makes it tricky to lure them with anything else. They get suspicious.” He grinned, showing missing front teeth. “But I got two over twenty inches yesterday.” He reached for the rope at the prow of his boat, began hauling it up the ramp. Cole helped him.

Once the boat was on the trailer, the man dusted his hands off on his waders. “I’m thinking of heading up to Forest Lake Monday. Maybe I can get a window in there.” He chuckled, then coughed, a hacking, rattling sound in his chest. “Before the big freeze and the snow blows in.”

“It looks like that might be early this year,” Olivia said. “A weather warning has been issued for late Monday. You might want to think of heading home before it barrels in. This is Barney,” she said to Cole. “He’s one of our regulars.” She smiled. It put a dimple into her left cheek, and a lambency into her mossy eyes, and it punched straight into his gut. He stared. Bewitched suddenly. The light in her eyes faded, her features sobering as she noticed his reaction. She looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was changed, lower. “Barney, this is Cole McDonough, Myron’s son.”

The old man scrubbed his grizzled beard. “Well, I never.
Myron’s
boy?”

Cole gave a half smile. “Haven’t been called that in a while.”

The old fisherman continued to scratch his whiskers, studying Cole intently. “You have his genes all right. You been gone a long time . . . over ten or twelve years or something? Before I met Myron and started coming here, that’s for sure.”

Cole glanced at Olivia. She was watching him closely, too.

“It’s been a while,” he said.

“That was quite some movie, that
Hunt for the Wild
.”

Surprise rippled through Cole. “You saw it?”

“Hell, yeah. Who in Clinton
didn’t
see it? Myron brought a DVD down to the Cariboo Hotel. He sprang for beers and moose burgers on the house. He brought copies of the books along, too. Door prizes, he called them. We watched on the large screen in the bar. That was some party.” He shook his head, grinning a mad, gap-toothed grin.