Every Breath She Takes (2 page)

No, she decided. As much as she’d like to talk to someone, she wouldn’t bother Hal with this. There was nothing he could do about a crime that hadn’t happened yet, in a jurisdiction thousands of miles away. It would only add to the burden that seemed to weigh heavier on his shoulders with the passing years.

And it went without saying that she couldn’t call her sister, Danielle. Six years older than Lauren, Danny had been
permanently scarred by the mortification Lauren had brought down on her family so long ago. Lauren had been just five years old when she’d innocently tugged on the cuff of a police officer’s uniform to get his attention so she could tell him that Arianna DiGiacinto had been strangled by her own mother, not the shaggy-haired, bearded stranger on those wanted posters. That bombshell had drawn a hysterical backlash that Lauren’s parents had spent a long while living down. But there had been a silver lining—her mother’s wailing and her father’s grim, silent disappointment had actually banished the visions. Well, for almost two decades, anyway.

Yes, it was just over nineteen years between the DiGiacinto vision and the next one. And the return of the visions had been triggered by Detective Harold Parks.

Detective Parks had been sent to molder away his last two years before pension in the cold case section and had picked up the DiGiacinto file. Mrs. DiGiacinto had answered the door when he’d called to do a routine interview. He’d hardly gotten the words out that he wanted to talk to her about her daughter’s cold case when the cancer-stricken Ginevra DiGiacinto confessed right there on her doorstep. Lauren had read about it in the papers two days later, and everything she’d managed so successfully to forget had come flooding back. As had the visions.

She’d tried a couple of times to reach out to other “psychics.” In her desperation, she’d hoped they could somehow illuminate or amplify her visions, or be able to see them from a different perspective that might then help her find and save her victims. The first time she’d tried to connect with another psychic was shortly after the visions had resumed. She’d been so young then, still at college. She’d phoned and made an appointment, but when she’d gone around to the woman’s shop, she’d chickened out. The next time, she tried it by telephone, choosing a psychic whose ad she found online. She’d made the appointment and prepaid for it (perhaps she wasn’t the only person to have lost courage before an
appointment). The lady had seemed nice enough, but as Lauren had fumbled and stumbled to say what was on her mind, she’d launched into a “reading.” She told Lauren that she could see her spirit guides—there were three of them and they manifested as giant butterflies—and proceeded to start giving her advice based on what these butterflies communicated to her. Needless to say, Lauren had wrapped that conversation up without broaching her problem.

No, she was in this alone.

As though sensing the gloomy cast of her thoughts, Gabe plunked his head in her lap. She smiled and rubbed his ear as she studied the webpage on her screen.

The ranch looked gorgeous, she had to admit. From what she gleaned, it was a real ranch with a real cow-calf operation to which this guest ranch sideline had been added within the last year. It looked, in fact, like a pretty good spot to spend a vacation. All those happy, smiling people on horseback, sharing their love of riding and the outdoors. God, how long had it been since she’d ridden a horse?

For that matter, how long had it been since she’d had a vacation?

Too long. She’d been saving her money for a wedding and saving her vacation time for a honeymoon. But neither had come to pass, so she’d thrown herself into her work instead.

You could take a vacation now
. The idea drifted through her mind and snagged there.

Yes, dammit, she
could
. She could register at the Foothills Guest Ranch for a nice, long vacation. And with a little luck and a lot of digging, maybe she could figure out who that beautiful woman was in time to save her.

Before she let herself get too carried away with the idea, she picked up the phone and called Peter Markham.

“Hey, Lauren, what’s up?”

“How would you like more hours at the clinic?”

A pause. “How many more?”

“Full time, for two, maybe three weeks? Possibly a little longer. Starting midweek next week or thereabouts. I’m not exactly sure yet. I don’t have my tickets.”

“Full time? I’d love to! I’m on call evenings for Crowley and McFarlane, but that’s just the first four days. Piece of cake.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it, Peter.”

“Not as much as I’ll appreciate the hours,” he replied. “But I hope there’s nothing wrong?”

“No, nothing wrong. Just taking a long-overdue vacation.” She smiled, hoping he’d hear it in her voice and be reassured. “Thanks for having my back. We can talk about it more on Monday,” she said and hung up.

There. The biggest obstacle was handled.

Another call to her neighbor Mrs. Greenfield—a conversation that took considerably longer than the last one—and mail pickup and plant watering was handled. That just left the dogs, and she could board them at work. Such were the perks of being the owner.

Quickly, before doubt could set in, she went back to her computer and registered at the Foothills Guest Ranch for a three-week stay and booked her flight. If she had to extend her stay, so be it.

The moment she finished the task and leaned back in her chair, the details of the vision played in her mind again. Her psyche—and her stomach—rebelled again, but this time she didn’t feel quite so helpless.

“You won’t get her,” she vowed, then shivered as a faint echo of evil reverberated in her mind.

“Smile, Boss. Here comes another busload of wranglers.”

Cal Taggart scowled at his foreman, Jim Mallory. “Would-be wranglers, you mean. Cripes, I wish there was another way outta this mess. I’m not cut out for this, Jim.”

“It’s not such a bad bargain, I don’t reckon, long as you can hang on to the ranch. Whatever it takes, right?”

Cal grimaced as Jim threw his own words back at him. “Right.”
Whatever it takes
. That was his credo, sure enough. Whatever it took to amass thousands of acres of prime ranch land. Whatever it took to secure the best breeding stock. And now, whatever it took to keep the whole damned shooting match from falling into the clutches of the bank.

“Whatever it took” these days meant throwing his back into making this guest ranch a success. He’d been open to the public for four months now, and bookings were getting better each week. If he could just get it to take off, the profits would help his cattle ranch through this downturn.

Downturn, hell. His eyebrows drew together in a fierce frown. He’d had the worst run of misfortune of his life this summer. A grassfire in June claimed three head, although in truth he counted himself lucky. It might have destroyed his entire herd if it hadn’t been caught in time. Then what must have been lightning strikes claimed a few more cattle.

But in the scheme of things, those were just aggravations. The real problem was that farm incomes had hit their lowest point since the Depression. Foreign subsidies, low commodity prices, you name it. Which is why he was stuck playing to the tourists.

As the two men pondered the price of survival, the first of the passengers clambered off the bus.

“I’ll handle this, Boss.” With a grunt, Jim pushed his arthritic frame off the fence.

“Stay put, Jimbo. I’ll see to it.” Cal tugged the brim of his hat down and strode across the drought-scorched grass toward the bus. Jim was the best wrangler he’d ever ridden with. Asking him
to babysit tenderfooted adventure-seekers on tame trail rides was bad enough. He’d not see his friend reduced to smiling greeter.

No, that distinction he reserved for himself.

Dust rose up from her sandals as Lauren stepped off the bus into the punishing August sun. The black sundress she’d thought so perfect for traveling sucked up the sun’s heat. Her hands came up to shade her eyes despite the sunglasses she wore. She was definitely going to need headwear. Back home in Nova Scotia, she’d have worn a sun hat to protect her fair skin, but nothing short of a Stetson was likely to cut it here.

She glanced at the man making his way down the line, greeting guests. Now, there was a working hat. Battered and dusty, it looked custom-molded for its tall, lean owner.

Except he didn’t really look much like a cowboy, she realized. Shave off a few years, lose the hat, and she could picture him in a leather jacket, cigarette dangling James Dean–like from his lips. Or maybe astride a motorcycle.

She focused on his face. All planes and angles, it looked like it might have been carved from the rock that rose in the distance.
What would it feel like under her palm?
The thought came out of nowhere, as did the answer.
Hard, warm, mobile.

She reined in those thoughts as soon as they registered, reminding herself that for all she knew, this man might be the killer. As he moved closer, she found herself analyzing his gait and trying to put herself inside his head looking out. No, she decided. He didn’t have enough swaggering roll to his walk. His movements were more economical. Graceful, almost.

Suddenly he was there, offering his hand. “Welcome to Foothills, ma’am. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you.” As his big hand enfolded hers, she noticed his eyes. Sensual, hooded, they gleamed a silvery gray, like her beloved Atlantic Ocean under overcast skies.

They also gleamed with something else, she realized with another small jolt. Masculine interest.

Suddenly she wished for her lab coat and trousers. The professional uniform usually precluded this kind of thing. Not that she minded male appreciation. But from this cowboy, it made her unaccountably nervous. Maybe because she felt an answering twinge, a twinge she couldn’t afford to indulge. She hadn’t crossed a continent to flirt with a cowboy. She had one purpose here, and one only.

Turning toward the growing mountain of luggage, she dragged her duffel bag and suitcase from the pile. A hand closed over hers on the duffel bag’s handle.

“Let me help you with that.”

Damn. The gravel-voiced cowboy. “I can manage, thank you.”

“Allow me. You’re really not dressed for it.”

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

At her tone, he released his grasp. “Ma’am.” He tipped his hat, the barest suggestion of amusement flickering in those gray eyes. Then he was gone, helping a family of five drag their luggage from the pile.

Checkin, handled by a capable middle-aged woman, went smoothly. Another employee, a quite dazzlingly handsome young man of maybe nineteen or twenty who introduced himself as Seth, showed her to her cabin. It was a fair distance from the lodge, and he insisted on carrying both the duffel bag and suitcase. Not wanting to puncture his youthful machismo, she allowed it. It also gave her the opportunity to study his gait. Burdened as he was, it was hard to judge, but he definitely had some swagger to him. Particularly after he noticed her checking him out.
As if!
He was just a kid.

But even kids could kill.

En route, they encountered the cowboy, who looked pointedly from Lauren’s empty hands to the overburdened young Seth. Oh, man! After she’d turned down his help only to accept it from this pretty youth, he no doubt concluded she preyed on teenage boys. Well, that was his problem. He could think what he liked. Refusing to blush, she smiled and offered him a what-can-you-do shrug.

A moment later, her young escort left her at her cabin. Putting the disturbing cowboy out of her mind, she explored her new living space. It was tiny, nothing more than a small kitchenette, a single bedroom, and a tiny bathroom. The bath, she noted with relief, was modern. Equally pleasing was the sunny bedroom, its double bed draped with a hand-sewn quilt. On a scarred dresser, a bouquet of wildflowers trembled in the breeze from the open window. She fingered the blooms, inhaling their sweet scent. Prairie mallow and some fragrant purple thing.

Lauren crossed to the bed and stretched out on it, testing the firmness of the mattress. Exhaustion tugged at her. She’d love to pull the colorful coverlet over her shoulders, but she couldn’t. If she succumbed to sleep now, she’d be dead to the world until tomorrow, and that was unacceptable. She had a job to do.