Burn on the Western Slope (Crimson Romance) (15 page)

“Water, please,” she said to Chayton.

“You’re not going to get up there and sing?” Naomi asked Chayton.

“Are you kidding? I can’t sing to save my life.”

“You and Garret are brothers. You didn’t inherit the singing gene?”

“Half-brothers. He took after his mother. I took after mine.” His eyes grew shuttered, his voice harsh and remote, as if to say no more questions. He turned away to tend bar. Reagan met Naomi’s gaze and shrugged.

“That’s obviously out of the conversation piece,” Naomi said.

Reagan hadn’t seen Garret since she left the stage and she looked around, eager to find him. A man and woman dressed in red hearts performed a skit. Cupid came along and had the crowd roaring with laughter.

Reagan couldn’t pay attention. Where was Garret?

“How’s everything over here?” Chayton asked as he returned. “More water?”

“Where’s Garret?” Reagan flicked a piece of make-believe lint from her sweater. She didn’t want to appear too interested, but the words gushed out more suddenly than she intended.

“He had to leave,” Chayton said. “He does that sometimes.”

• • •

“He does that sometimes?”

“Reagan, don’t make a big issue out of it.” Naomi tore her sweater over her head, folded it into a neat heap, and replaced it with a nightgown.

“How can I not make a big issue out of it?” Reagan lounged on Naomi’s bed, drinking a cup of her minty orange juice. She wasn’t buzzing anymore. She wasn’t full of the good kind of heat that made her long to shed her clothes and dress herself in Garret’s arms. This heat burning inside was the furious, jealous kind.

Garret had left, just like that. They’d stayed at the bar another hour, waiting for him to return. She stopped drinking. She stopped enjoying the entertainment. She stopped flirting with every freak who approached.

She stopped waiting on Garret.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Reagan said. “I guess he had to see his girlfriend or something.”

“If you want to know whether he has a girlfriend, ask him.”

“Well, you’d think he’d tell me.”

“Why?” Naomi asked. “You’re just friends. He doesn’t owe you anything.”

“After that kiss? I think he does.”

“Kiss? What are you keeping from me?”

“He kissed me then stated we’re friends. Must not have affected him too much.”

“Oh, it affected him. You just have to make the next move.”

Naomi was right. She should make a move. Instead, she’d chosen not to ask questions for fear she’d hate the answers. Reagan held her cup over her head so it wouldn’t slosh, and scooted off the mattress.

“What are you doing?” Naomi asked.

Reagan squared her shoulders and parked her cup on the dresser. “I’m going to knock on Garret’s door and demand … demand … demand him to tell me what’s going on.”

“No.” Naomi grabbed her arm. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because. It’s late. You’re a little tipsy.”

“I’m not tipsy. I wish I was.”

“Right now, you’ll only appear desperate.”

“Oh.” Reagan fell onto the bed. “You’re right.” She didn’t want to appear desperate. She wanted to appear in control. No longer a doormat. “This sucks.”

“The chemistry between you two is obvious.”

“Yeah, the chemistry I’m feeling. And the chemistry he obviously isn’t.”

“It hovers around him when you’re near. Give him time. He’s probably just scared.”

“Yeah, he looks real scared. I’ve seen the muscles on that man. He’s not scared of anything.”

Naomi bounced to the bed. “You’ve seen his muscles? What else are you keeping from me?”

Giggling, Reagan inched off the bed and stood. “I just happened to knock on his door one evening to ask him a question, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. It was all very innocent. He didn’t even invite me inside, which is more than enough proof he isn’t interested.” She grabbed her juice, downed it, and slammed the cup on the dresser. “So now I’m headed to bed. With nobody but Dr. Till.”

“After leaving me with an image of Garret shirtless?” Naomi threw a pillow at Reagan’s back. “How dare you.”

Reagan turned, smiled, and cooed, “Good night, Naomi. Sweet dreams.”

“Take your damn cup with you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She’d wash it in the morning. Bypassing the kitchen and heading straight to her room, she set the cup on the dresser. That should make Naomi happy.

She wasn’t sleepy. She showered, hoping the warmth would relax her, but it didn’t help. She sifted through the suitcase in search of her nightgown and found it lying on the closet floor. Naomi would have a fit.

Restless, she skated across the floor in her socks. Maybe she should unpack. That’d give her something to do. It’d simplify her search for what clothes to wear. It might also convince her to finally splurge on new clothes.

And just because she was unpacking didn’t mean she was settling.

Before she unpacked, she needed to clear out a drawer and make room. That task would be easier. She wouldn’t be storing her clothes in a confined space, confining her. She’d be focusing on Ray’s clothes. Opening up space for her.

She wound the music box and settled on the floor. “Ave Maria,” a beautiful but haunting melody she wouldn’t recognize if it hadn’t been for elementary school ballet, filled the silence.

Opening the drawers, her mood slumped. She couldn’t get rid of his things. So she’d stuff his socks in a drawer with his t-shirts and leave one free drawer for her clothes. Plus, she’d have extra closet space if she ever made it that far.

Lifting one of his shirts, she sniffed it and wondered if all the men of this town smelled like musk and wood. No, this shirt was more musty than musky, but still held a romantic appeal.

She pulled out a sock. A basic white sock. Something shimmery caught her eye. More sparkly socks? The ones she’d received in the mail nested in their container inside the closet. Curious, she pulled the item loose.

A necklace clumped to the floor.

No. Not a necklace. More like a … museum artifact. Reagan stared, her heart filling the cavity between her ears.

The music box clicked. Stopped. Silence lingered, more haunting than the song.

The chain shimmered with hundreds of blue diamonds, leading to a stone paved with more diamonds. They shimmered under the light with colors more intense than she worked with in her graphic design.

She picked up the necklace and found it heavier than expected. She sniffed, thinking for a moment she would smell the ocean after a warm rain. The main center stone was purple, like the deepest part of the ocean, like storm clouds churning up the surf while the sun set.

Losing her grip, the necklace clonked to the floor, the sound a signal of warning when a storm was about to hit shore.

She jumped up and tiptoed away. Her doubts were like a storm churning the waves, turning the necklace to seaweed. She tried to walk away, but tentacles of fear reached out to her, cinching her ankles and lugging her to unknown depths. Stumbling to the bed, she anchored against her raft as the thorny, soggy branches of dread cloaked her windpipe.

It was only an ornament. A fake. A replica. Costume jewelry. Not genuine.

It had to be. No one would own something like this.

She pulled herself up on the bed and anchored her feet under her to discourage any lurking monsters. Urging her breathing to slow, she considered this find.

Her knowledge of jewelry was basic, but this looked nothing like a fake. Why was it hidden in the dresser, surrounded by old, discolored clothes?

Why would Ray own such a piece?

She’d like to blame it on Kyle. She already knew he was a scumbag. He might have bought this for someone he was trying to impress or even Reagan if he’d wanted to beg her forgiveness. But there was no way he’d put this in her bag and it had jumped from her bag to the dresser.

Chayton had said Ray collected sparkly things. Maybe he bought this for a woman and hadn’t had the chance to give it to her. But no woman in her right mind would wear a necklace like this. Forget red carpet attire. This was more likely to be found inside a museum. Only, it wasn’t in a museum, it was packed between Ray’s old socks. She didn’t think he meant to give it to a woman.

A client could have given it to him. Chayton mentioned he received gifts all the time. But a necklace of this caliber? She didn’t think so.

She could count a million maybes, but she didn’t know enough about him to suppose. Garret knew him. Chayton knew him. Many of the townspeople knew and loved him. This was the one thing she had of him that no one else did, and she wasn’t ready to share.

She wasn’t even sure if she should share.

• • •

Garret wanted to kick somebody’s ass, starting with Buchanan’s. Why the hell did they consider midnight a good time for a conference call? Especially when he was horny and Reagan was getting drunk at Air Dog. He’d seen the way she looked at him. Bedroom eyes. He wasn’t going to keep her at arm’s length if she didn’t want to stay there.

So Kyle intended to run, probably out of the country. What did they want him to do? And what could he do if he wasn’t watching Reagan? Every minute he was gone could be the minute she ran, too.

He really doubted she planned to run. He doubted she had anything to do with Kyle anymore but how could he know? He’d asked, but never got a straight answer. They hadn’t exchanged pillow talk. Hell, they hadn’t even shared pillows.

He gripped the phone to his ear and tapped his foot against the floor, waiting for the SOB to stop talking long enough for him to cut in a word. “Good,” Garret finally interrupted. “So IA is after him? I can stop this stupid investigation on my end.”

“Not so fast,” Buchanan said. “He never showed up for the meeting with the agent.”

“Why didn’t they follow him?”

“We think he might be coming to Montana for Reagan,” Buchanan said, ignoring Garret’s question. “Maybe he has plans to pick her up from there and get to Canada. After all, she’s the one with the money now.”

“Canada has extradition laws,” Garret said. He couldn’t believe Reagan needed anything but to be protected from Kyle. She didn’t act scared, like she was running from something, hiding from something. But maybe he wasn’t a good judge of character where she was concerned.

“Yes, if he can be found, but he has to be indicted first. There are nearby countries where we don’t have extradition treaties. You need to keep a close eye out. If he comes for her, we have to nab him.”

“Tell me something,” Garret said. “Is he running from the mob or is he running from the cops?”

“Both. The mob wants to kill him. The cops want to put him away. Would you rather be locked up where you’ll likely be killed, or die by the hands of mobsters?”

“I’d rather run.”

Chapter Eleven

Reagan was tired and crotchety when her mother called the next morning.

“I just got your message last night,” Sharon said. “You sounded angry.”

Reagan shook the grog from her mind as she filled the coffee canister with water and scooped grounds into the brew basket. She’d stayed awake until dawn, mulling over the necklace. And now her mother decided to return her call?

“I was angry. I am angry,” Reagan asserted.

“That’s an easy emotion to come by when Ray’s in the picture.”

“He’s not in the picture, mom. He’s dead.”

“Even still — ”

“Even still, you don’t want me to know him. Never wanted me to know him.” She grabbed the creamer from the cabinet and banged it to the counter. Opening another cabinet, she pilfered a cup. The coffee brewed, emitting a rich aroma. It didn’t make her feel any better. Didn’t make her feel like she could handle her mother’s bullshit.

“He wasn’t that good of a person to know,” her mom said, her voice cracking. “Believe me, I tried. I had to give up, lest I lose my mind.”

“Is that why you sent me that letter?”

“What letter?”

“Let’s see if I can remember verbatim what it said. It’s been awhile since I left you the message.”

“I’ve been busy,” her mom defended.

“Of course you have. Oh yes, I remember now. Death is near. Leave now. You’re not safe here. Something like that. Had a nice rhyme to it.” Reagan punctuated her words with sarcasm, hoping her mom would feel the same sickened ire as when she read the letter. The coffee pot dripped and burbled as she paced the length of the counter. Reagan’s anger only escalated, especially because her mom hadn’t returned her call until now and because she hadn’t had a decent night’s rest. “Is this some kind of joke, Mom? Why don’t you want me here? Why are you sending threatening letters?”

“I’m not sending letters, Reagan. But if you’re getting letters, you need to come home immediately.”

“I’m not coming home. Why are you so adamant that it’s dangerous for me here?”

“There are people who wanted to kill Ray.”

“Who? Why?” Not because of the necklace. No, not the necklace, safely hidden in a drawer full of socks.

“I don’t know.”

“How would you know? You turned your back on him. Wouldn’t even accept Christmas cards from him. Why?”

“Your Uncle Ray was a fraud.”

“Nobody here thinks so.”

“I won’t talk to you anymore if you don’t settle down, Reagan,” Sharon said.

“Well, then I guess you won’t talk to me. Because you’re obviously going to deny knowing anything about the letter. The Christmas card. Ray.”

“Goodbye, Reagan.”

Reagan’s cell phone bleeped, indicating the call had ended. She glared at the phone. How dare her mother! She grabbed a cup and poured coffee into it, taking a sip before adding sugar and cream. The phone chortled.

“What?”

“Reagan.” She recognized Kyle’s voice immediately. Anger dissolved into contempt. “Your mom tells me you’re getting threatening letters.”

“Does she think getting you to call me will make me come home?”

“No. I don’t think you should come home. I just think you need to be careful.”

Reagan paced, her feet shuffling and slipping against the wood floor as her blood pressure soared. “My mom has no business calling you and you have no business calling me. So don’t do it again.” She hung up.