Run Wild (4 page)

“I see.” The woman frowned and redid her math, ran Natasha’s credit card, and handed it back to her along with a receipt for her to sign. “I’m Matilda Patterson. Here is the key to your room,” she continued, handing Natasha an actual key on a small, nondescript key chain. “If you’ll follow me I’ll show you the way.”

*   *   *

“Coldhearted city girl,” Matilda muttered as she bustled down the stairs and returned to the kitchen. “Oh, Trent, there you are. Well, she’s here. Can’t say much about her, but she’s checked in.”

Trent Oakley helped himself to Matilda’s coffee, then blew on the hot brew. “You can’t say much about her?” He knew Matilda well enough to know the woman would have a lot to say about anyone, even if they’d just met.

Matilda pursed her lips, wiping her hands on her apron as her chin puckered into tiny dimples. “As cool as she could be. She prances in here, looking as pretty as a picture, but turns into a heartless big-city tramp within less than a minute. You know what the first thing is she says to me?”

“What’s that?” Trent leaned against the wooden countertop on the large island in the middle of Matilda’s large kitchen, getting comfortable. Matilda was just getting started.

“She informs me she isn’t here for a week. She tells me as smooth as can be she’s got an appointment tomorrow and will be leaving right after that. Heartless woman,” Matilda muttered, turning her back on Trent as she began clattering pots in her large lower kitchen drawer until she found one large enough to boil a bag of potatoes. Hefting it to her kitchen sink, she turned on the water. “I showed her to the Emerald Room, the nicest room we have, everyone knows that, and she doesn’t say a word. I even mentioned Trinity Ranch. She didn’t say a word, stared at me as if she’d never heard of the place.” Matilda huffed, her pudgy arms not even bulging when she lifted the heavy pot of water to her stove. “Don’t get me started on how bad blood breeds bad blood. You know I’m right about this.”

He wouldn’t get her started. Matilda would offer good insight on Natasha King once the woman was settled. All Matilda would need was time spent with her, possibly over dinner, and Trent would have all the details on her that he couldn’t find online. Matilda was a pro at getting people to talk, then forming strong opinions about them. With Matilda it was love or hate, no middle ground.

Trent didn’t know enough about Natasha, yet. He’d done a background check on her. Natasha King lived in Los Angeles, had attended a two-year community college, lived in an apartment that was priced way too high, and had worked for her uncle, the renowned bounty hunter Greg King, for seven years now. Trent guessed Natasha’s father was Greg’s brother, which would undoubtedly make things a bit trickier. It wouldn’t take Trent long, once he sat and visited with Natasha, to learn how well she, and possibly the rest of her family, upheld the law.

Trent knew a good-looking woman when he saw one, and Natasha blew any notions he had on beauty out of the water. From just her driver’s license picture it was obvious she was hot as hell. He’d found it interesting her eye color was listed as “tan.” He wasn’t sure such an eye color existed. There weren’t any other photographs of her online anywhere. Trent knew she was twenty-six years old, five feet, seven inches tall, and 150 pounds, although no one stated their true weight for their license. She had a sultry smile and smooth-looking tan skin that definitely wasn’t the same shade as her eyes. The woman was absolutely gorgeous, and that was from a chest-up snapshot.

Of course, Matilda wouldn’t see her with the same eyes Trent would, which was why he valued the older woman’s opinion and knew it would take little to get it out of her. Trent sipped his coffee, then took a bigger gulp and enjoyed its rich, smooth texture. It was already too cold in the mornings and not warming up much by afternoon, a sign of an early and hard winter around the corner. He put his cup on her counter as he watched Matilda move methodically in her kitchen.

“Good coffee,” he muttered.

“Thank you.” She started running a very sharp knife through potatoes.

Trent hadn’t been able to stop the gossip from flowing once the newspaper reported the murder at Trinity Ranch. He knew most everyone in Weaverville, having been born on his family’s ranch north of town, but reporters flew in, camped out, and didn’t give a rat’s ass about his investigation, other than to question why he hadn’t caught the murderer yet. Trent had his methods. This wasn’t his first case, and it wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with snooping reporters.

When his father had passed, no one had questioned Trent filling his shoes. Trent was elected as sheriff almost unanimously and learned, as his father had, to use gossip to his advantage instead of trying to keep a lid on it. There wasn’t any reason to add to speculation, though, when he’d told Matilda to reserve a room for Natasha King. Matilda made her own assumptions when she believed Natasha would know any details about what had transpired over the past month.

There was a crunch of gravel alongside the house, and Matilda left her task of peeling and slicing potatoes as she scuttled through the doorway leading into the dining room. Long, narrow windows lined the far wall and allowed her to see whoever might be driving to her back parking lot.

“Jerry Packard,” she mumbled, immediately fussing with her hair. “You fill your thermos with hot coffee before you leave, Sheriff,” she said, waving her hand over her shoulder as she hurried into her outer office.

Trent didn’t bother saying anything. Matilda and Jerry, the mailman, would stand out there at the counter and gossip a good thirty minutes. Natasha King couldn’t have timed her arrival better.

Trent topped off his coffee and walked through the large, old house. Matilda did a wonderful job of keeping the place authentic looking. The long, narrow windows in the dining and living room had thin, veneer curtains hanging, which allowed natural light to flood over shiny hardwood floors and antique furniture in both rooms.

An older couple, probably in their sixties, glanced up from the love seat where they sat glancing over brochures. Trent nodded, wondering how many guests Matilda had here at the moment. He made a note to find out as he turned into the formal entryway and headed for the stairs.

Pearl’s was a three-story house built in the late 1800s and on the National Register of Historic places, as were many houses in Weaverville. The community was proud of their history and did a good job of preserving it. They also relied heavily on revenue from tourists who came here to escape fast-paced city life and stressful jobs.

More than once Trent had considered kicking the dust from the place off his boots and heading out for some of that big-city life. He wasn’t sure what kept him here. He’d been sheriff for six years and as far as anyone in town was concerned would be until he retired, just like his father had been. Maybe it was Trent’s mother’s blood. She had always yearned for big-city lights and fast-moving cars. Trent’s father, Bill Oakley, did his best to oblige Sharon Oakley. When Trent was ten Sharon asked for a divorce. Bill never denied her anything, and he didn’t fight the divorce. The only thing Sharon didn’t get as she left town without turning back was custody of Trent.

He’d been out of high school and working part-time at the grocery store bagging groceries, as well as helping out on the ranch next door, when his mother sailed back into town. Suddenly she wanted to be a mother and a wife. Trent hadn’t been able to see her as anything but a big-city woman, who talked too fast and dressed flashy enough to be spotted a block away. His father saw a completely different woman.

There were times when Trent wondered how different his life would have been if he’d taken off when his father retired, after his third heart attack. Trent could have gone to college, seen the country, hit the road, and enjoyed his youth. But the town pressured him to fill the role of the new sheriff. Trent might have been able to ignore their persuasion, but it was hard as hell telling his father no when he pressured Trent as well. Three months after he was sworn in, his mother died of cancer. It had hit so hard and fast there was no saving her. His father passed away less than a year later.

After burying him on their property next to Trent’s mother, he thought he’d remain sheriff a year or so, then take off for those big-city lights his mother had always talked about. Six years later he was still here, the longing to see the world not quite as strong. It was the same thing that happened to his father. The land and mountains were part of Trent. It was more than just a job protecting them. When something like this went down, a murder on a ranch and a drifter disappearing at the same time, Trent had to set things back to right.

He climbed to the third floor where the Emerald Room was, breathing in the thick smell of flowers from bowls of dried petals Matilda had on practically every table in the house. Taking a drink of his coffee, he stared down the dust-free hallway. It was time to meet Miss Natasha King, niece and employee to Greg King. A lady in her position, with captivating good looks and experience with hunts and mystery solving, would probably be better trained to lie then most. He reminded himself of this as he moved down the hallway, passing the two other bedrooms on that floor and stopping in front of the large, thick, highly polished heavy wooden door with a small wooden plaque nailed to it that said:
EMERALD ROOM.
He also reminded himself that even law-enforcement people could turn bad, or be bad blood, as Matilda put it.

Did Natasha King agree to meet him because curiosity bested her? Was she concerned about her father? Or was it that she did know his whereabouts and felt a need to drive up here and do damage control?

She might be from L.A. and work for a prestigious bounty hunter, but she wasn’t any better than Trent was. He knew how to play the simple, small-town lawman, though. He didn’t have a problem with keeping it low-key until he knew this woman’s nature.

Trent knocked firmly on the door and waited, relaxing and holding his cup in one hand as he stared down the hallway. He listened for sounds on the other side of the door, and heard none. Not until the lock clicked. This house was sturdy enough to stand another hundred years. It shouldn’t surprise him he wasn’t able to hear anything behind the closed door. He glanced at the doorknob, watching it turn, then lifted his gaze as the door opened.

“Natasha King,” he said, and stared into eyes captivating with their unique color. He wasn’t sure who had decided to call them tan. But they were definitely wrong. Natasha’s eyes were possibly the way natural, raw gems might appear, straight from the ground. Not the shiny, flashy color of gold worn in jewelry but a more primitive, basic shade. They flashed at him, the compelling intensity of her stare as captivating as her eye color.

Her dark skin suggested a mixed background, although he wouldn’t begin to speculate on what nationalities. George King was Caucasian, so whatever mixed heritage was in her came from her mother. Long black hair tumbled over Natasha’s shoulders and matched the color of her thick lashes, which lowered as she hooded her gaze and took him in as well.

“I’m Sheriff Trent Oakley,” he offered. He noticed how she held on to the door knob. He wasn’t sure whether he’d compare her to a trapped animal, ready to run, or something more dangerous on the verge of attacking. “Call me Trent. Welcome to Weaverville.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t have a problem taking in every inch of him, as if putting him to memory from his boots to the top of his head.

One thing was very clear: Natasha was more than distractingly beautiful. He noticed she wasn’t wearing makeup, which in itself was refreshing to see. She didn’t have on any jewelry he could see. She wore blue jeans that hugged her incredible figure and a sweater that ended at her waist. She might be trying, but Natasha King would never be able to pull off nondescript.

“Do you have a minute to talk?”

“I thought our meeting was tomorrow.” Her voice was smooth, soft, and alluring. There was a strong sense of confidence about her that not enough women had. And although she didn’t open the door far enough for him to see beyond her into her room, there was no fear or wariness in her eyes.

“Just trying to be neighborly.” Trent offered her a grin he’d been told more than once added to his bad-boy good looks. Not that he’d bought into much of what ladies he’d gone to high school with suggested when he knew they either wanted to get laid or had ideas of becoming a sheriff’s wife. “You’re a stranger in our town and we do our best to make anyone welcome,” he added; that was until they did someone, or something, wrong.

The smile didn’t change Natasha’s expression. “I think you’re here to check me out.”

“You’re blunt.” He liked that.

“I’m honest.” Her expression didn’t change.

He’d be the judge of that, and the only way to learn a person’s nature was to spend time with them. “I take it you do have a minute to talk.”

“There’s a couple more things I need to get out of the truck,” she said after considering him a moment. “I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”

“Good enough.” Trent backed up and turned but glanced over his shoulder when the door slowly closed and the lock clicked into place. Typical big-city girl to lock up everything as if she had something to fear. Although maybe she did.

Folks in the area were incredibly spooked after what had happened over at Trinity Ranch. He needed to wrap up this murder investigation soon. Once snow started falling on a regular basis, it would be harder finding the clues needed to put the terrible crime behind all of them. Not that he hadn’t found his guy before during blizzards. But nothing like this had ever happened in Trent’s territory. However, it had happened. His people needed closure and so did he.