A Dark Lure (16 page)

Olivia stared. Cole didn’t speak.

The fire crackled, and the
tick tock
of the library clock grew loud. A shutter began to bang rhythmically in the increasing wind.

“What do you mean by ‘in trust’?” Cole said finally.

Myron repeated himself slowly. “For as long as Olivia wants to live here and manage the Broken Bar Ranch, it’s hers to run. Until she dies. Or until she leaves of her own volition. After that it can go to you and Jane. If you outlive her.”

A soft noise sounded at the door behind Olivia. She swung around.

Adele stood white-faced in the doorway with a heavy tray in her hands. “Ah, sorry, I . . . uh . . . I have the tea and sandwiches you wanted brought up, Mr. McDonough.”

“Put it over there,” Myron snapped, pointing at the buffet.

She bustled over, moved aside a newspaper that was on the buffet, and set the tray down. The noises of teacups rattling and sandwich plates being set out was unnaturally loud as all waited in tense silence for the housekeeper to leave.

“Close the door when you go, Adele.”

“Of course, Mr. McDonough.”

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, briefly meeting Cole’s eyes before she exited the library door.

As soon as the door was shut, Olivia said, “You’re not thinking clearly, Myron. You’re under a lot of medication, and this is—”

“Goddammit, girl, I don’t have brain damage. I’m thinking more clearly than I have in years. I debated this at length last night. It’s done. Nothing you can do to change it, either.”

“It’s
not
done. You just said yourself that Pickett has yet to draw up the papers. You haven’t signed anything yet.”

“It’s as good as signed,” he said. “Pickett should have the paperwork here by this evening. He understands the sensitive time factor.”

She threw a desperate look at Cole. “
Say
something. This is your inheritance.
Your
land.”

“It’s not his goddamn land,” Myron interjected. “He left this place years ago. He can’t just waltz back in now that I’m at death’s door.”

“There is—”

“Olivia,” Cole said quietly. “Let it go. This cuts much deeper than the will. This is about me and my father and what happened twenty-three years ago. He blames me for killing my mother and brother.”

“I will
not
let it go, dammit!” she snapped, heat riding high into her cheeks. “I won’t accept this. I don’t want this ranch. I can’t take it from you.”

Cole gave a derisive snort. “That’s certainly not what Jane thinks. She’s convinced you’ve been using your feminine wiles to exert undue influence over our ailing father in his vulnerable state.”

Her jaw dropped. “And you believe that?”

“Well, it clearly looks like Jane was on to something, given
this
recent development.”

“You
bastard.
You’re just attacking me to rile your father. You’re better than this
.
”

His mouth flattened, and he regarded her with silent equanimity.

Anger pounded into her chest. “I don’t give a damn what you or your sister think about me, Cole McDonough.” She spun to face Myron. “And you—I won’t take the ranch from you or your children. You’re being a jerk.”

“What is it that you think belongs to them, anyway? This land? This
home
? They left both. They just want some developer’s windfall. And you? You’ve got nowhere to go. I know you love this place. I know what you could do with it. You could make Grace’s dreams come true, turn this place into a year-round destination.”

“Right,” Cole said quietly. “It’s all about Mother. Always has been.”

“My resignation will be on your desk tomorrow,” Olivia said. “I’m not getting involved in some family legal squabble. You’re forcing me to leave.”

Myron grunted. “And where exactly will you go? You have no friends, woman. Apart from a dying old man, an irascible sod who let his whole family slip away.”

Cole’s gaze darted to his father, his brow rising as if this was the first time he’d ever heard his father admit any culpability in the dissolution of their family.

“This is not about me, Myron. This is you trying to hurt your son, and him lashing back at you. It’s about stupid old battle lines between two macho assholes who can’t the hell see that those lines don’t mean a thing anymore.”

Myron gasped, doubled over in his chair as if he’d been punched in the abdomen. His face contorted, turned puce. His breaths came out in wheezes. He hit the arm of his chair, as if trying to speak.

“His pills!” Cole barked, lurching up and lunging for the pitcher of water at his father’s side. “On the buffet. Get them.”

Cole sloshed water into a glass.

Olivia rushed to the buffet, grabbed the pills, knocking a newspaper onto the floor. The headline blared up at her.

“Birkenhead murder—echoes of the Watt Lake Killer?”

A ringing began in her ears.

“Pills, dammit! Now!”

She hurried over, handed Cole the pills.

“How many?” Cole said to her, popping the cap, anxiety, adrenaline burning in his eyes.

But she couldn’t think. The ringing in her head grew loud. She felt herself going distant. His father held up two fingers. Cole shook two pills into his palm, put them in the old man’s mouth, brought the water glass to his lips.

Myron spluttered. Swallowed. Coughed. He clenched his armrests, his head bent forward and his eyes scrunched tightly as he waited for the medication to take effect. Gradually his breathing eased, and his whole face seemed to change. Tension melted from Cole’s shoulders. Olivia watched, numb, unable to fully absorb the present. She swallowed, walked woodenly back to the buffet, picked up the newspaper from the floor.

Her
name was printed in block letters across the top of the headline. Her gaze dropped to the teaser for the op-ed piece. She opened the paper to page six.

On some distant level she felt Cole watching her.

Something fell out of the pages and landed at her feet. A small plastic bag. She bent down, retrieved it.

Inside was a large fishing lure. Tied with lime-green surveyor’s tape. Three glossy red eyes. Shimmering holographic thread around a barbed hook on a leader.

The ringing in her ears rose to a screeching cacophony. Sweat prickled across her lip.

“Where . . . did this come from?” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

“It was inside the newspaper like that when it was delivered to the office this morning,” Cole said, standing behind his father, his hand resting protectively on the back of the wheelchair. “I brought it upstairs.”

“We don’t get delivery.”

“I just assumed it was delivered. It has your name and the ranch address on it.”

She stared at the lure.
“It was
inside
the office?”

“On the counter.”

Blood drained from her head. Nausea washed up into her throat.

“It’s not possible,” she whispered.

“What’s not possible? What’s the problem, Olivia?”

“Did you see who left it in there?”

“I have no idea who left it. Whoever it was must have come in between the time you left and the time I got down there to use the radio.”

It’s not possible. It can’t be him. He’s dead
. . .

She turned, and, clutching the paper and the packet with the lure, she walked woodenly, a zombie, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, like a drunk focused on looking sober.

She opened the door. Stepped out. Shut it quietly behind her.

CHAPTER 10

“What upset her like that?” Myron said.

“Beyond your leaving her the ranch and me acting like a jerk? I think it was that story in the paper about a murder.” Cole frowned at the closed door that Olivia had just exited so oddly. “It was breaking on television news downstairs. When she saw it, it was like she’d taken a twelve-gauge slug to the chest. Collapsed to the floor.”

“What murder?”

“Two teens found the naked body of a woman hanging from a tree by her neck. She’d been gutted like a deer. Entrails hanging out, eyes removed.”

Myron stared, worry etching into his features. “Do they know who did it?”

“Cops aren’t saying much. But there was an op-ed piece in the paper suggesting the murder had echoes of the Watt Lake killings from over a decade ago
.
”

Myron’s eyes narrowed sharply, an intensity boiling up around him. “And in the packet—what was in that packet she had in her hands?”

“A fishing lure. Someone must have left it for her tucked inside the paper. The paper had her name on it.”

“Go,” Myron said quietly, urgently. “Go after her.” He rolled his chair aggressively toward the door as if he would get up and run after the woman himself if his legs would bend to his will. “Don’t leave her alone like that.” His eyes flared to Cole. “You saw the scars on her wrists?” He pointed at the door. “That woman tried to kill herself once already, and it wasn’t long before she came here. When she arrived on Broken Bar those scars were livid and raw. This news has something to do with her past. It’s reminding her of something.”

Cole hesitated, then moved quickly out the door and into the passage. He leaned over the stairwell banister. “Olivia?” he called down the stairs.

The front door banged shut.

Cole clattered down after her.

His father yelled from the landing. “Just don’t press her too hard—you’ll spook her! She’s feral that way!”

Fuckfuckfuck
.

Olivia stormed down the lawn, hand fisted around the newspaper and lure. Her single goal was to reach her cabin, fast, shut her door to the world—to the dark nightmares chasing her into the grove of alders. As she entered the trees, the paper-white bark with black streaks looked suddenly ominous. Leaves clattered and laughed at her in the mounting wind. They blew against her skin, edges dry and sharp.

She’d fought within inches of her life to bury the person she once was, to lock naïve, stupid, victimized Sarah Baker into the basement of her soul, throw away the key. She’d struggled into this new identity. This new life.

Now, some bizarre set of coincidences were cracking open the locks, forcing her to look down into that fathomless abyss of her past again.

Her eyes burned. Her muscles wound wire tight.
Fuck this.

That’s all it was—coincidences. Had to be. Because
he
was dead.

The Watt Lake Killer was ash.

The
Province
journalist was sensation-mongering by mining any similarities. The murder on the Birkenhead had
nothing
to do with Sebastian George. It was just not possible. And if there
were
any echoes in the signature display of the body, it was a copycat. Some sicko who’d gotten the idea from a serial murderer who’d gone before him and made national headlines.

Those boot prints paralleling her track this morning? Simply an angler or hunter or hiker setting out for the day. The Arizona scarf found atop her own tracks could have blown there after having been dropped by a woman on a dawn walk. That basket of wild blueberries outside her door? She still had to ask Nella about those. Probably Nella’s thank-you token for helping with her homework last week.

Her mind was just drawing stupid parallels. Wind gusted, clattering another rain of small dead leaves down onto her and Ace. She sucked in a deep, shaky breath as she negotiated the path that narrowed and twisted deeper into the trees. It was just this time of year. The strong scents of autumn, the coming snow, the sounds of the geese flying south, the echoes of gunshots, deer season, the sense of winter closing its fist around the wilderness—it was
always
a tricky time.

Scents, images could trigger flashbacks. The therapist had told her so.

It’s time
. . .
time for the hunt, Sarah
. . .

She fisted the paper tighter, trying to block out his voice.

The Predator
. . .
it’s a fine name
. . .

So why
had
someone left a duplicate of that very same fly tucked inside a story referencing the Watt Lake killings? In a newspaper with her name on it? Terror surged afresh in her chest. Her throat tightened. She moved faster.

Behind her she heard the thud of footfalls. Coming fast. Someone running—chasing her.

Panic was instant. The urge to flee overrode her brain. She was back in the forest, racing blindly, not along any path, but deep into the trees, weaving through branches, stumbling wildly over roots, breath rasping in her throat. In the distance of her mind she registered a dog barking furiously. Branches, twigs cracked. The footfalls came closer. Hard breathing behind her . . .

She had to hide, find the bear den. Sweat dampened her skin. The thudding behind grew louder, faster. He attacked, grabbing her arm, spinning her around. She jerked free, and in a heartbeat, she’d dropped the newspaper, and her hunting knife was unsheathed. She gripped the hilt, blade up, primed for an upward thrust into the liver, under ribs. She went into a crouch, swayed the knife slowly, menacing him back. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Her heart beat so loud she couldn’t hear anything else now but her blood against her eardrums.

Sebastian’s eyes lasered hers. He was smiling. His shining black curls ruffled in the wind. He came closer, closer . . .

. . .
It’s not a game until everyone knows they are playing, Sarah, my sweet
. . .
the prey must be aware of the hunter
. . .

“Don’t. Move,” she growled through her teeth. “Not another goddamn foot forward or I’ll rip your throat out.”

He stopped advancing. Slowly he put both hands up. Palms out. “Olivia?” he said quietly. “Focus. It’s me. Cole. Cole McDonough. Myron’s son. You’re safe, fine. It’s all fine. Olivia? Can you hear me?”

Olivia.

Her name.

New name
.

Not Sarah.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Come back to me.”

Her vision returned, slowly spiraling outward from tiny pinpricks, taking in reality, the bigger picture. Shock slammed through her as she stared at Cole. Ace growled at his heels, confused. Like she was. She started to shake violently, the kind of great big palsied shudders that come from being transported from one reality to another.

“Here,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give me that knife.”

Still uneasy, she swallowed and took a step backward, sheathed it herself. She took another step back, wiped her upper lip with the back of her hand, and bumped hard up against the trunk of a tree. Panic slammed. Her brain went black. She fought with all her might against the compulsion to flee again, fought to remain present. But a fresh kind of terror licked through her stomach—she was losing her mind again. Like before.

“Focus.” His voice was low, gravelly. His stormy gray eyes were intense, filled with concern.

He came closer. Her heart beat even faster, the drive to escape almost blinding. She couldn’t breathe.

He reached out, placed a hand firmly on each of her shoulders. Large, steadying hands. He held her still. Somewhere in the distance of her mind Olivia registered warmth. Solidity. Safety. A sense of being protected.

He slid his hands down her arms and took her fingers in his. Slowly he drew her toward him. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her shuddering body tightly against his. So tight she couldn’t move. So tight she couldn’t fight.

He stroked her hair. Her eyes burned with emotion. The scent of him filled her senses. The hardness, the heat of his body, his rough stubble against her stirred things inside her she thought long dead. She tried to resist this need, tried to go numb. But his care, his physical comforting, exploded a fierce desperation in her chest—a need to be held, cherished by another human. Loved. Just accepted.

She fought these new feelings because they brought a whole other set of fears. But she couldn’t. A coal had been ignited, and it burned down deep.

He held her until her breathing slowed and became regular. Until the rigidity in her muscles softened. Then he cupped her face and made her look up into his eyes. His mouth was so close. His pulse thrummed in his neck.

She stared up at him. This handsome man. This man of wild places. He was making her feel again, and she didn’t know which was more terrifying.

“You were having a flashback or something,” he said softly. “Tell me what’s going on, Olivia.”

Her gaze darted around, seeking a way to escape the questions. To escape everything. She swallowed.

“I know PTSD, Olivia.” He paused. “There’s no shame in it. That’s one thing they tell soldiers. No shame. No need to try and hide it.”

Shame
.

How could he ever know the tricky depths of the shame she felt because she’d been Sebastian’s rape victim? Because she’d attracted him. Because she’d fallen for his tricks. Because she’d thought he was handsome, charming. Nice.

Embarrassment washed through her. How could he know how sullied and dirtied and utterly humiliated she’d been made to feel by her own husband? Her own father and mother. Her community. She’d become the “other.” Tainted. Something that people hid in a closet or cast away rather than confront the darkness of humanity, their own weaknesses and fears.

He bent down, picked up the newspaper and lure she must have dropped when she pulled her knife.

He handed them back to her. She took the paper and packet from him, mouth dry.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?”

She glanced away again, then flashed back to meet his gaze. Barbed wire crawled around her as her resolve firmed. He’d cut too close to her bone. He knew and had seen too much. And she could not open further. She could
not
be Sarah Baker in his eyes, anyone’s eyes.

“I’ll tell you what’s going on.” She pointed in the direction of the lodge house. “Your father is throwing me into combat with you and your sister, and as much as I care for that old badger, as much as I want for him to die in peace, I don’t want
this. I
refuse to have
anything to do with his inheritance crap.”

“Olivia,” he said quietly, pinning her with his gaze, using her name to bring her down. And she hated it. Him. For making her want things again that she couldn’t have without exposing her truth. Without unveiling her scars, her past, her humiliation. Without having to be that victim again.

“I apologize for what I said. It was dumb-ass. You can’t stop Myron McDonough when he gets a burr under his saddle. You just need to ride it out. And believe me, I speak from a lifetime of experience. Trust me on this.”

Trust.

She didn’t even know
how
to trust. Not anymore.

“Besides, this isn’t about the will. Are you going to tell me what really happened? Was it that news story? That lure?”

She flattened her mouth, looked away, heart slamming so hard against her ribs she thought it would bust free. “It’s nothing.” The words were lame. But she had no energy to find better ones. She just needed to get out of this guy’s orbit, which was sucking her in. “I’m fine.”

She turned woodenly and picked her way through the trees and back up to the path, clutching the newspaper. Ace followed.

“Don’t treat me like a fool, Olivia!” he called after her. “You’re just confusing the issue here.”

She kept walking.

“Don’t you dare write me off like this. Who do you think I am? Some worthless piece of shit? Some asshole who couldn’t hold on to his own family? What did you call me—a narcissistic fool?”

She stalled, her back to him.

“That murder upset you.” He came up through the trees toward her. “It triggered some PTSD thing. What can we do to help? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“No,” she said, refusing to turn around. “I’m not in trouble.”

He’s dead. I’m going to be fine.

“Olivia.”

Wind rustled.

He waited.

She moistened her lips. She’d rather leave Broken Bar than expose her past. Before the media came storming again, on the back of rumblings of a new Watt Lake Killer. Before people started looking at her in that old way. Like some freak of survival. Before Ethan and her family could find her. She would not—
could not
—come clean about this. It would undermine everything she’d built. And if it meant shutting this man out, so be it.

“I’m fine.” She resumed her march down the narrow path, Ace following loyally behind her. “And don’t bother to come after me again,” she called out over her shoulder. “Because there’s nothing in it for you, understand? If your father goes through with this, my bags are as good as packed, and I’m outta here.”