Hard Rustler
Hard Rustler
B.J. Daniels
A COWBOY MUST FACE HIS PASTSupermodel Annie Clementine is back in Whitehorse, Montana. And there’s nothing cowboy Dawson Rogers wants more than to see his ex-lover gone. He’ll even risk his heart again so Annie can leave, but nothing is quite that simple…
A cowboy must face his past
Before he loses his heart…again
Supermodel Annabelle “Annie” Clementine is back in Whitehorse, Montana. And there’s nothing cowboy Dawson Rogers wants more than to see his ex-lover’s backside…on the road out. He’ll even risk his heart again and help sell her late grandmother’s house so Annie can leave ASAP. Except along with the house, Annie inherited a mystery. And if they don’t solve it soon, someone’s willing to kill for the answer.
Whitehorse, Montana: The Clementine Sisters
B.J. DANIELS is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. She wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. She lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and three springer spaniels. When not writing, she quilts, boats and plays tennis. Contact her at bjdaniels.com (http://www.bjdaniels.com), on Facebook or on Twitter, @bjdanielsauthor (http://twitter.com/@bjdanielsauthor).
Also by B.J. Daniels (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Cowboy’s Redemption
Dark Horse
Dead Ringer
Rough Rider
Renegade’s Pride
Outlaw’s Honor
Hero’s Return
Rancher’s Dream
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Hard Rustler
B.J. Daniels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07924-2
HARD RUSTLER
© 2018 Barbara Heinlein
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is for Julie Simundson Nagy, a true fan,
who has been a bright spot in so many of my days.
Writing is such a solitary endeavor with lots of stress.
I will see Julie and she will remind me that I’m not
alone in this. Her smile and enthusiasm keep me
grounded. Thank you, Julie!
Contents
Cover (#uba7669b5-a3a5-5c92-a601-0487bf0a0f6d)
Back Cover Text (#u620ee168-01a1-54fa-b4a1-a3e0e805ea2c)
About the Author (#u85455746-64b7-5fd5-adfb-610c09464c8d)
Booklist (#u61896746-f404-5285-a284-cfa833325cc1)
Title Page (#u8b6ce4e1-8d29-55b1-9e74-b46dcdf93dda)
Copyright (#u742f6217-628e-5659-ba3c-1f9c955c2694)
Dedication (#u883d2128-2cf0-5bc7-9619-56261fd5989c)
Chapter One (#u3988b774-74b5-59df-916b-44d0a076dc9e)
Chapter Two (#ud279517c-dc9a-526b-ba16-dcc0ada600da)
Chapter Three (#u3a90145f-fa2f-5560-b251-b4f89b104fa8)
Chapter Four (#uface7696-6f2d-5c39-886a-f01c4fb56af5)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
As her sports car topped the rise, Annabelle Clementine looked out at the rugged country spread before her and felt her heart drop. She’d never thought she’d see so many miles of wild winter Montana landscape ever again. At least, she’d hoped not.
How could she have forgotten the remoteness? The vastness? The isolation? There wasn’t a town in sight. Or a ranch house. Or another living soul.
She glanced down at her gas gauge. It hovered at empty. She’d tried to get gas at the last station, but her credit card wouldn’t work and she’d gone through almost all of her cash. She’d put in what fuel she could with the change she was able scrape up, but it had barely moved the gauge. If she ran out of gas before she reached Whitehorse...well, it would just be her luck, wouldn’t it?
She let the expensive silver sports car coast down the mountain toward the deep gorge of the Missouri River, thankful that most of the snow was high in the mountains and not on the highway. She didn’t know what she would have done if the roads had been icy since she hadn’t seen a snow tire since she’d left Montana.
The motor coughed. She looked down at the gauge. The engine had to be running on fumes. What was she going to do? It was still miles to Whitehorse. Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to cry. Yes, things were bad. Really bad. But—
She was almost to the river bottom when she saw it. At a wide spot where the river wound on its way through Montana east to the Mississippi, a pickup and horse trailer were pulled off to the side of the highway. Her pulse jumped at just the thought of another human being—let alone the possibility of getting some fuel. If she could just get to Whitehorse...
But as she descended the mountain, she didn’t see anyone around the pickup or horse trailer. What if the rig had been left beside the road and the driver was nowhere to be found? Maybe there would be a gas can in the back of the pickup or—Have you stooped so low that now you would steal gas?
Fortunately, she wasn’t forced to answer that. She spotted a cowboy standing on the far side of the truck. Her instant of relief was quickly doused as she looked around and realized how alone the two of them were, out here in the middle of nowhere.
Don’t be silly. What are the chances the cowboy is a serial killer, rapist, kidnapper, ax murderer...? The motor sputtered as if taking its last gasp as she slowed. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. She hadn’t seen another car for over an hour. For miles she’d driven through open country dotted occasionally with cows but no people. And she knew there was nothing but rugged country the rest of the way north to Whitehorse.
If there had been any other way to get where she was headed, she would have taken it. But her options had been limited for some time now.
And today, it seemed, her options had come down to this cowboy and possible serial killer rapist kidnapper ax murderer.
She let the car glide into the spot next to where the cowboy had pulled off the highway. I’ll just bum a little fuel and be on my way. Nothing to worry about. Just the thought made her laugh. Her life was one big worry right now, she fretted, as she took in the rangy-looking cowboy standing by his truck.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” She groaned. Taking risks is what got you into this mess. Like she had to be reminded.
The engine let out a final cough and died. Committed now, she had no choice as she braked next to the horse trailer. Turning off the key in the ignition, she checked her makeup and hair in the mirror. You’re Annabelle Clementine. You can do this. The woman who stared back at her from the mirror looked skeptical at best.
Bucking up her courage, she stepped out of the car, careful not to let her last pair of expensive heels get muddy. “Excuse me?” she called, determined also not to get too far away from her open car door. “I’m afraid I have a small problem and really could use some help.”
She was ready to make a hasty retreat back into the car, if need be. Not that she would be going far if things went south. But at least she could lock herself in. She instantly regretted the fact that she’d bought a canvas-topped convertible, which had been perfect in Southern California.
The cowboy had his back to her and hadn’t looked up from where he’d been digging around in the back of his pickup bed.
“Excuse me?” she tried again. He had to have heard her. But so far, he hadn’t acknowledged her presence in any way.
Forced to move away from the car, she took in the cowboy as she approached and wasn’t impressed with what she saw. But then again, she’d grown up with cowboys so she’d never understood the fascination. Admittedly, this one was tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped, long legged and not bad from the backside.
Unfortunately, everything else about him looked worn and dirty, from his jeans, boots and canvas jacket to the Stetson on the too-long dark hair curling at the nape of his red neck.
At her approach, he gave her a quick glance over his shoulder. She could see little of his face. He wore mirrored sunglasses against the winter glare, his hat pulled low. Under the dark shadow of his Stetson, she glimpsed several week’s growth of beard, making him look even more craggy and unkempt. No designer stubble on this cowboy.
Either he’d been on the range for days or this was as good as it got with him.
You’re not marrying him. You’re just bumming fuel. “Hello?” she said louder and with more attitude as he went back to what he was doing.
“There a problem?” he drawled in a low, lazy tone as he finally finished and turned, seemingly reluctantly, to give her his attention. She saw that he’d been feeding his dog in the back of the pickup. The dog—little more than a puppy—was a furry mutt with one blue eye and one brown one circled by a patch of black. He didn’t look much better than his owner.
She shifted her gaze back to the cowboy who was looking at her car as if he’d never seen one like it before. Probably doesn’t get off the ranch much.
He slowly slid his gaze back to her with a nonchalance that made her grind her teeth.
“Yes, there is a problem.” She’d thought she’d already told him that.
He lifted the brim of his hat, dropped his sunglasses down to look over them for a moment. She caught a glimpse of brown eyes as he surveyed her, making her feel nearly naked under the black cashmere sweater and slacks she was wearing, before he lifted his sunglasses again.
“I’m afraid I forgot to buy gas at the last station,” she said, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible—even if it did make her look like a fool. She had worse problems. “I was wondering if you might have some gas that I could borrow? Just enough to get me into town?”
“Borrow?” He chuckled at that. “And town being?”
She hated to even admit where she was headed. “Whitehorse.”
“That’s another hour up the road.”
As if she didn’t know that. “My car used more gas than I thought it would.” She gave a nervous laugh, hating that she had to resort to acting as if she didn’t have a brain. Back when she was making money, fuel was never an issue. She hadn’t realized how much a lot of things cost—until she couldn’t pay for them anymore.
He nodded, glancing toward the river as if considering her request. “I suppose I could siphon some out of one of my tanks.” He didn’t sound thrilled about it. Nor had he moved.
“I would appreciate that so much.” She glanced at her watch.
“Got some place to be, do you?”
“I have an appointment.”
“In Whitehorse?” From under the brim of his hat and behind the mirrored sunglasses, he studied her a few moments more before he sighed. “Best pull up next to my pickup while I grab a hose.”
She feared the car wouldn’t start, let alone move. But there must have been just enough fumes left for her to pull up before it died again. She shut off the engine, staying in the car to pop the gas compartment open and watch him move slow as molasses. He acted as if he had all day. He probably did.
Patience had never been one of her strong suits. She tapped a toe as she heard him talking to his dog, mumbling so she couldn’t make out a word. As if she didn’t know he was giving the dog an earful about her.
The dog, still in the pickup bed, wagged its tail enthusiastically at whatever the cowboy said. Whatever he was saying, he certainly found it amusing from that hint of a grin under the beard. Annabelle consoled herself with the thought that the mutt was probably the closest thing the cowboy could get to a female companion.
After a good five to ten minutes, he finished. She hadn’t thought past getting enough gas to get to Whitehorse. Now her stomach clenched at a thought. Not only should she offer him money, but he also might demand it. And since she had no money and doubted he took credit cards—even ones that weren’t frozen for lack of payment...
She watched him walk to his pickup to put the hose away and knew what she had to do. It was the coward’s way out. But she told herself that she had no choice. She’d been telling herself that for months now. Not that it made her feel any better as she quickly started her car and threw it into reverse.
Whirring down the passenger side window, she called out, “Thank you so much. If you’re ever in Whitehorse...” With that she took off, torn between guilt and glee over seeing that he’d given her almost a full tank of gas.
When she dared look back, she saw him standing by his pickup shaking his head as he watched her leave. She thought of that glimpse of golden brown. Even shaded under the brim of his old Stetson, those eyes... They’d almost seemed...familiar.
Chapter Two (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Dawson Rogers swore as he pulled off his worn Stetson. Raking a hand through his hair, he watched the silver sports car take off like a bat out of hell.
“Annabelle Clementine.” He said the name like a curse. For years, he’d only seen her staring back at him from glossy women’s magazine ads. He’d been just fine knowing there was no chance that he’d ever lay eyes on her in the flesh again. She’d been real clear about never setting foot in this state again when she’d left all those years ago.
So what was she doing headed for Whitehorse?
That his heart was still pounding only made him more furious with himself. When he’d heard her voice behind him...he couldn’t believe it. He’d thought for sure that his worn-out, dog-weary body was playing tricks on him. He’d frozen in place, counting to ten and then ten again, afraid to turn around for fear he’d be wrong—or worse—right.
Now he swore, remembering his reaction to just the sound of her voice. Could he be a bigger fool?
And yet that voice had brought it all back. The ache in his belly, the stompin’ she’d done on his heart. Worse, the hope that set a fire inside him at just the sound of it. In that instant, he’d wanted it to be her more than he’d wanted his next breath. After everything she’d done to him, he’d actually felt a spike of joy at the thought of seeing her again.
And still he hadn’t turned around, because he’d known once he did, the disappointment would be as painful as the last time he’d seen her.
Turning, he’d seen her standing there and thought, Damn, the woman is even more beautiful than when she’d hightailed it out of here.
He’d been shocked—and still was. Annie. In the flesh. That she hadn’t changed except to become more gorgeous had left him shaken. A dust devil of emotions whirled inside him as he watched her drive away.
“What is she doing back here?” he demanded as the pup came over to the side of the pickup bed to lick his hand.
Sadie wagged her tail in response. “What am I doing asking you?” He ruffled the dog’s fur. Still, he found himself squinting after the sports car as it climbed the mountain on the other side of the river and disappeared around a curve. “What’s a woman who said she’d never set foot in Whitehorse doing back here? If I hadn’t seen her with my own eyes...”
For just a moment there, earlier, before she’d asked for gas, he’d thought...
Hell, he didn’t want to think about what he’d thought as he shoved his hat back on. “Let’s get on home,” he said to the pup as he reminded himself that Annabelle Clementine’s coming back had nothing to do with him.
He told himself that he shouldn’t have been surprised that she hadn’t changed. Still, it galled him. Her clothes might be more expensive and she drove a much fancier car, but she was still the same girl who’d looked down her nose at him—and Whitehorse—all those years ago.
It nagged at him. What could have brought her back? He shook his head, telling himself it was obviously none of his business. Best thing he could do was to forget about her—something he’d been working on for some time now.
After two weeks in hunting camp, he recalled that before he’d seen her, all he’d wanted was to get home, have a hot shower and climb into a warm, soft bed. If he hadn’t stopped beside the road to take a leak, let Sadie out and give the pup a snack...well, he might not have seen her at all.
The only thing that didn’t surprise him, he told himself as he lifted Sadie into the pickup’s front seat and climbed behind the wheel, was that the woman hadn’t given him the time of day. Hell, he couldn’t even be sure she remembered him. After all, it had been... How many years had it been? He wondered with a frown as he started the truck engine.
Thirteen. He let out a low whistle. Sadie’s ears perked up, but she lay back down and closed her eyes for the ride home.
And it wasn’t like Annie had ever given him a thought since she’d been gone, he reminded himself. She’d made it perfectly clear that they had no future before she’d left right after high school to find fame and fortune.
Dawson pointed the pickup toward Whitehorse, all the time trying to imagine what could have brought her back. Certainly not her grandmother’s funeral. Only her two sisters had made it back for that. Of course, they’d attended the funeral and left right away, but at least they’d shown up. He shook his head, thinking that he’d expected better of the girl he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Given how much her grandmother had doted on her...
But he reminded himself that he’d always been wrong about the woman. He could no more predict what Annabelle was going to do than predict the Montana weather. He thought of that young fool cowboy who’d saved every dime he made that year to promise her something that would make her stay. He growled under his breath at the memory.
Well, he wasn’t that young fool anymore. Which was why he was going to give her a wide berth as long as she was in town. Not that he suspected it would be for long. Knowing her, she would be hightailing it back to California as fast as she could. Back to her fancy life in the spotlight.
“Which is just fine with us, huh, Sadie,” he said to his pup. “Don’t need the likes of her around here messing with our minds.” Sadie barked in answer and curled closer to him, making him laugh. “This was before your time,” he said to the dog, “But that woman was once nothing but walking heartache for this cowboy. Fortunately, I’m not that man anymore.”
His words sounded hollow, even to him. He felt his face flush at how much gas he’d given her and mentally kicked himself. He should have left her beside the road to fend for herself. But then, he’d never been able to say no to her—even when he should have known that a girl like her wanted something better than a cowboy like him.
* * *
ANNABELLE PUT THE cowboy and his dog behind her as she drove north. She was determined that nothing would get in her way. Once she did what she’d come for, she was out of here. Another one of those limited options.
She took the back way into the small Western town. The first settlement of Whitehorse had been nearer the Missouri River. But when the railroad came through, the town migrated north, taking the name with it. Old Town Whitehorse, as it was now known, was little more than a ghost town to the south.
Not that Whitehorse proper was a thriving metropolis. The whole town was only ten blocks square. Nothing but a siding along the railroad tracks more than a hundred years ago, it had become a small rural town like a lot of small rural Montana towns.
Why her grandmother had settled here was still a mystery, but when Annabelle’s parents had been killed, Grandma Frannie had taken Annabelle and her two sisters in without hesitation. Annabelle had grown up here, dreaming of a life she envisioned far from this dusty old Western town.
As she drove down the tree-lined street with the large houses that backed onto the Milk River, images of her childhood flickered like the winter sun coming through the leafless cottonwood trees. From as far back as she could remember, she’d grown up with one thing in mind: getting out of this town and making something of her life.
That sick feeling she’d become acquainted with over the past few months now settled in her stomach. Right now, she couldn’t face even thinking about how she’d messed up. Sitting up a little straighter behind the wheel of the car, she assured herself that everything was going to be fine.
She would just take care of business and put all the unpleasantness behind her. As she tried to look for a silver lining in all this, she noticed that she still had plenty of gas. It should last her for what little time she would be here, thanks to that cowboy. She shoved away the guilt. If she ever saw him again...
Down the block, she spotted the house. Her foot came off the gas pedal, the car slowing as she felt a rush of déjà vu. The house hadn’t changed—just like she doubted the town had—and for a moment it was as if she’d never left. So much had happened to her, she’d expected this part of her past would have changed, somehow.
Instead, it looked so much the same, she almost expected Frannie to come out on the porch as Annabelle pulled up in front of the large, two-story house and shut off the engine. The key to the front door was in her pocket, but she wasn’t ready to go inside. Not yet. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she’d gotten here early. There was no sign of the Realtor. Taking a breath, she let it out and tried to relax as she studied the house.
The white siding could use an overall paint job and the emerald trim needed a touch-up. But if she closed her eyes, she could picture herself and her sisters, the three Clementine girls, on that wide porch drinking Grandma Frannie’s lemonade and giggling like the schoolgirls they’d been.
She hadn’t realized that she’d closed her eyes until she felt them burn with tears. Her guilt was like one of her grandmother’s knitting needles to her heart. Yes, she should have made it to Frannie’s funeral. She’d had her reasons, and they hadn’t all been out of embarrassment for the way her life had turned out.
Her grandmother would have understood because Annabelle had always been the favorite. At least, that’s what she told herself.
“You’re so much like me, Annabelle Clementine, that sometimes I swear you’ll be the death of me.” Then Grandma Frannie’s expression would soften and she’d press a cool palm to Annabelle’s cheek. “So much like me. It’s like seeing myself at your age.”
“That’s why I’m your favorite,” she’d say, and her grandmother would shake her head and laugh before telling her to run along outside.
But it had to have been true. Otherwise, why would Frannie have left her the only thing she had of any value—this house. And left it only to her instead of to all three sisters?
A tap on the passenger-side window startled her. Her eyes flew open, but it took a moment to chase away the bittersweet memories along with the guilt and the tears.
* * *
REALTOR MARY SUE Linton glanced at the silver sports car and shook her head. Leave it to Annabelle to show up in something like that. She shouldn’t have been surprised since this was the Annabelle Clementine she’d known since grade school.
She had been surprised, though, when her former classmate had called and asked Mary Sue to represent her in the sale. Not surprised. Shocked. The two of them had never been friends, traveling in a completely different circle of friends, even as small as the classes had been. The truth was that Annabelle hadn’t uttered two words to her throughout four years of high school. Did people still say stuck-up?
Blonde and blue-eyed, with a figure that Mary Sue would have killed for, Annabelle was The Girl Most Likely to Become Famous. At least, that’s what it had said in their senior class yearbook. Everyone knew Annabelle was going to be somebody. Annabelle had said it enough times.
But, then again, she’d also said that she would never come back to Whitehorse. And here she was.
Still, why come all this way to sell her grandmother’s house? Mary Sue had told her on the phone that she could deal with everything but the paperwork and save her the trip. She had expected Annabelle to jump at it. Instead, the woman had insisted on coming back to “handle” things.
“If you don’t trust me to get you the best price...” Mary Sue had started to say, “you can kiss my—”
But Annabelle had interrupted with, “It’s my grandmother’s house.”
Right. Just like it had been her grandmother’s funeral. Everyone in town had turned out. Annabelle’s two sisters had flown in and out. No Annabelle, though. So was Mary Sue supposed to believe the house had sentimental value to this woman? Not likely.
After tapping on the sports car window, she bent down and looked in. One glance and it was clear that her former classmate had aged well. She looked better than she had in high school. Mary Sue felt that old stab of jealousy.
She started to tap again, but to her surprise, Annabelle appeared to be furtively wiping away tears. Shocked at such a sign of emotion, Mary Sue was taken aback. Maybe she was wrong about Annabelle. Maybe she did have a heart. Maybe she did care about her grandmother. Maybe she even cared about this house and Whitehorse and the people she’d once snubbed.
The thought almost made her laugh though as her former classmate climbed out of the convertible sports car saying, “Okay, let’s get this over with so I can get out of this one-horse town.”
* * *
DAWSON UNLOADED THE horse trailer, parked it and went into the ranch house he’d built himself. He’d worked hard the past thirteen years and now had a place he was proud of on the family ranch. The oldest son of two, he’d had to take over helping his mother run the ranch after his father had died. He’d worked hard and was proud of what he’d been able to accomplish. Annabelle wasn’t the only one who’d done well over the years, he told himself with no small amount of defensiveness.
“Got a chip on your shoulder, do you?” he grumbled with a curse. He’d been thinking about her again. All the way to town he’d been trying to exorcize her from his thoughts with little luck. Before she’d left town, she’d made him feel as if he was never going to amount to anything. It still stuck in his craw.
He kept seeing her sitting in her car while he refueled it. She hadn’t even had the good grace to look at him—not to mention acknowledge that she’d once known him. Known him damned well, too.
Dawson gave that memory an angry shove away. When Annabelle Clementine had left town in a cloud of dust years ago, she’d said she was never looking back. Well, today proved that, didn’t it?
Worked up over his run-in with her, he told himself he just needed a hot shower and clean clothes. But as he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he came to a startled stop and had to laugh. He wouldn’t even recognize himself after two weeks in a hunting camp in the Missouri Breaks.
He stared at his grizzled face and filthy, camp-worn clothes, seeing what she’d seen today. Even if she had recognized him, seeing him like that would only have confirmed what she’d thought of him all those years ago. He looked like a man who wasn’t going anywhere.
Stripping down, he turned on the shower and stepped in. The warm water felt like heaven as he began to suds up in a fury. He just wanted that woman out of his hair—and his head. But his thoughts went straight as an arrow to that image of her standing beside the river. Her long blond hair gleaming in the sunlight and that black outfit hugging every unforgettable curve he’d once known so well. Growling, he turned the water to cold.
Out of the shower and toweling himself off, he looked at his reflection in the mirror again. Was it really possible that she hadn’t known him? He reached for his razor, telling himself it didn’t matter. With a curse, he acknowledged that he’d been lying to himself for years about his feelings for her—ever since that day he’d rescued her from his tree house when she was five.
And he’d rescued her again today, he thought with a curse. He just never learned.
* * *
ANNABELLE TOOK THE key from her pocket and opened her grandmother’s front door, Mary Sue Linton at her elbow. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside, bracing herself for more painful memories. Instead, shock stopped her cold just inside the door.
“You can’t sell the house like this,” Mary Sue said, stating the obvious next to her. “I thought you said your sisters cleaned everything out?”
“They said they took what they wanted.” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her grandmother hadn’t been a packrat, she’d been a hoarder. The house was crammed full of...stuff. She could barely see the floor. The rooms appeared to be filled with furniture, knickknacks, stacks of newspapers and magazines, bags of clothing and clutter. The house looked more like a crowded old antique shop than a home. Unfortunately it didn’t take a trained eye to see that all of this wasn’t even junkshop worthy.
“What am I supposed to do with all of this?” she demanded. “I can’t very well have a garage sale this time of year. If there was anything in all this mess worth selling.” It was late November. Christmas was only weeks away.
Mary Sue shrugged. “You could hire someone to help you pack it all up. Unfortunately, the local charity shop can’t take most of this. If there are things you want to save—”
“No.”
“I was going to say that you could put them into a storage shed.”
Annabelle was shaking her head, overwhelmed as they worked their way along the paths through the house.
“Otherwise, I could give you some names of people who might be able to help you at least haul it out to the dump.”
“Great. How long is that going to take? I need to get this house on the market right away.” She followed the narrow trails, going from room to room, Mary Sue on her heels, until she reached what had once been a bedroom but now looked more like a storage room where a bomb had gone off.
“This is no normal hoarding,” Mary Sue said. “It looks like someone ransacked this room.”
Annabelle agreed it did appear that someone had torn into all the boxes and dumped the contents on the floor. Her grandmother before she died? Her sisters when they’d come back for the funeral?
“Look at the window,” Mary Sue said in a hoarse whisper as she grabbed Annabelle’s arm, her fingernails digging into tender flesh.
“Ouch.” She jerked free and kicked aside some of the mess to move to the window, which was now half open, the screen torn. “The lock is broken.”
Behind her, Mary Sue let out a shudder. “Someone broke in.”
That was the way it appeared, although she couldn’t imagine in her wildest dreams why they would want to. She closed the window and turned to find Mary Sue hugging herself.
“Whoever broke in isn’t here anymore,” she tried to assure the Realtor. “Let’s look upstairs. Maybe it’s better.” Unfortunately, the upstairs wasn’t any better; both bedrooms were stacked full of clutter, including her grandmother’s old room.
Back downstairs, she took another look at the front downstairs bedroom. It wasn’t quite as full as the others. She checked the closet, found what must be her grandmother’s clothing and assumed that, as Frannie got older, she’d moved downstairs.
“Could this be anymore outdated?” Mary Sue called from the kitchen.
“I think I can clean out one of the downstairs bedrooms so at least I’ll have a place I can stay,” Annabelle said as she joined her in the kitchen. The front bedroom downstairs had been hers growing up.
Mary Sue didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, she was frowning at the clipboard she had in her hands.
“What?” Annabelle demanded. “Don’t tell me there is another problem.”
“No, not exactly. But it is strange. This is a layout of the house I got from the records department at the courthouse,” she said, indicating the sheet on her clipboard. “That wall shouldn’t be there.”
“What?”
“This shows an alcove.”
“An alcove? Maybe it’s back there behind all the junk and you just can’t see it.”
Mary Sue’s frown deepened. “Do you remember an alcove from when you were growing up here?”
She was supposed to remember an alcove? Seriously? “No. The plans for the house must be outdated.”
“Not according to the courthouse. Your grandmother bought this house when she was in her twenties so she had it for...”
“She was seventy-six when she died, so she had it for more than fifty years.” Annabelle hadn’t realized how long Frannie had lived in Whitehorse until she’d seen it in the obituary that one of her sisters had sent her. It hadn’t been out of kindness that Chloe had mailed it to her. Her older sister had never been that subtle. Both Chloe and Tessa Jane—TJ—had tried to make her feel guilty about their grandmother leaving her the house—let alone Annabelle missing the funeral.
“Frannie owned this house almost from the time it was built,” Mary Sue was saying. “So if anyone made the changes, it had to have been your grandmother. Why would she wall up an alcove? I wonder what’s behind it?”
“Okay, you’re giving me the creeps now,” Annabelle said. “Clearly, you have the plans for the wrong house. Aren’t there a bunch of houses along this street with similar floor plans?”
Mary Sue nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “I can check at the courthouse again I guess. But you have to admit, if the plans are right, then it is more than a little odd to wall up the alcove, let alone—”
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you. You knew my grandmother.”
With a lift of one eyebrow, Mary Sue said, “She said her husband died before she moved to Whitehorse, but what if—”
“Seriously? You think my grandfather’s body is stuffed in there?”
“Ever seen the play Arsenic and Old Lace?”
“Frannie Clementine was one of the most kind and generous people in town. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Standing just over five feet, Frannie had been a tiny, sweet-tempered woman who loved kids, garage sales and cooking. She attended church every Sunday, come rain or shine or snow.
Annabelle could tell that Mary Sue was enjoying trying to scare her. Was it any wonder that they hadn’t been friends in high school?
“Just sayin’,” the Realtor said, clearly trying to hide a grin. “Did you know that since her death right before Halloween last month, kids are saying that this house is haunted?”
“That’s ridiculous. Just because she died in this house...” Annabelle tried to hide the shudder that moved through her at the thought. If one of her neighbors, old Inez Gilbert, hadn’t come over to check on Frannie, she would have been lost in all this mess for weeks. That thought did nothing to improve the situation.
“On Halloween some kids saw what they said was a ghost moving around in the house. They said it looked like an old woman dressed in all white and—”
“Stop,” Annabelle snapped, having had enough. The house was creepy as it was with all the memories, not to mention being filled to overflowing with collected junk. She really didn’t need this. “It was probably Inez from next door. The woman is a horrible busybody and always has been.”
If Mary Sue thought she could scare her, then she didn’t know what scary was. Unfortunately, Annabelle did. It was losing a dream job and a fabulous lifestyle, and being forced to do things she’d told herself she would never do, like return to this town and all the memories that came with it.
“The house isn’t haunted. There never was an alcove—”
Mary Sue tapped her clipboard. “But the plans—”
“The alcove isn’t here now so that’s all I care about. I need to get packing and you need to get this house sold. Just get me the names of people who will help clean it out.”
Right now, though, she needed a breath of fresh air and Whitehorse had plenty of that. She stepped out onto the front porch, letting the door close behind her. She’d known this wouldn’t be easy, but it was turning out to be more difficult than she could have imagined. The memories, the stories, the stupid missing alcove, not to mention all that junk. She definitely had more pressing things to worry about than a bunch of local kids thinking the house was haunted.
The clock was ticking, she thought, looking at her car, the last vestige of her former life other than the clothes on her back. She had to get this house sold.
* * *
MARY SUE GRITTED her teeth. Annabelle annoyed her to no end. “Hasn’t changed a bit,” she muttered. “Get me this, do this for me.” She looked around the house, her gaze going to the kitchen and the missing alcove. “I hope there is a body walled up in there—and a vindictive ghost who hates blondes.” That would serve Annabelle right.
She felt guilty, but only a little, for trying to scare her former classmate. But she was still puzzling over the missing alcove as she stepped out onto the porch. Her mother had been a Realtor. Maybe she’d ask her if she knew anything about the old Clementine house, as it was known around town. It sat along with a half dozen others on a street locally and affectionately known as Millionaire’s Row. The houses were large, a lot of them the same basic floor plan.
Mary Sue moved to the end of the porch to look back at the rock wall that marked the property line. On the other side of the wall was the Milk River. Between the house and the river, though, were large trees and an expanse of grass broken only by some cracked sidewalk that ended at an old garage that had seen better days.
“That should come down,” she said of the dilapidated structure and marked it on her sheet on her clipboard. Through the trees, she could make out only a portion of the neighboring house’s eaves in the distance. These really were beautiful old houses along this street, so private because of the old-growth trees and the huge lots. Not exactly Millionaire’s Row now, but definitely prime real estate in this town.
“So where can I reach you?” Mary Sue asked, turning to Annabelle who appeared distracted. Not that she could blame her. The supermodel had quite a job before her.
“You have my cell number and you know where to find me. I’ll be staying here.”
“In the house?” Mary Sue couldn’t help her surprise.
Annabelle turned to look at her. “Why wouldn’t I stay here?”
“No reason, except...” She remembered all the clutter and the fact that Frannie had died here. Not that unusual for a woman her age, but still, add to that the walled-up alcove... Mary Sue shivered.
While she had been trying to scare Annabelle earlier, she had to admit that the house had an odd feel to it. Maybe it was just her, but there was something... Or maybe she had managed to scare herself more than she had Annabelle and all because of that discrepancy in the floor plan—and the fact that someone had broken into the house and might come back.
She mentioned this to Annabelle who only waved away the idea. “It was probably kids. You know how teenagers are, an empty house, ghost story dares...”
Mary Sue didn’t know, but she had a feeling that Annabelle was all too aware of how kids like that acted because she’d been one. “I just thought you’d want to stay at the hotel, since that’s where your sisters stayed when they came home for the funeral.”
Annabelle made an angry sound under her breath. “They didn’t stay here? No wonder they didn’t take much—let alone tell me how full this house was. I thought they were here going through things. From what I can see, they didn’t take anything. You were the one who let them into the house with the key I sent you, right?”
Mary Sue sighed, wondering if Annabelle was going to blame her. “Yes, but I didn’t come inside. The house was left to you. I was the one who was responsible for opening the door and making sure it was locked when they left. That was all. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable going in the house without you.”
“So did they take anything?”
“Not as far as I could tell.” She shrugged. “I let them in, they went into the house, but only for a short period of time, they sat on the porch steps for a little while and then they left and I locked up. From what I saw, they took a few framed photographs, but I think that was about all.”
Annabelle looked as if she was going to blow a gasket. “I should have known they wouldn’t be of any help. That’s just great. Well, they’re not getting anything now. Not that there is anything worth keeping in there. From what I’ve seen, most of the stuff is on the way to the dump just as soon as I can get it loaded up. I’ll need help right away. Did you make those calls yet?”
Mary Sue tried not to bristle. “You do realize that tomorrow is Thanksgiving, right?” she asked. “And the day after that is Black Friday, when a lot of people in town will be shopping, either locally or driving the three hours to Billings.” Billings was the largest city in Montana and two hundred miles to the south. Mary Sue was planning to go down to shop with a couple of friends, spending the night at a hotel and making a trip out of it.
“Your point?”
“It’s going to be hard to find anyone to help this time of year,” she said, and added quickly before Annabelle could argue. “But let me make a few quick calls.” She hurriedly stepped off the porch and walked down the cracked driveway toward her car, phone in hand. Even though it was now close to freezing outside, she didn’t want to go back into the house. Nor did she want Annabelle to hear her phone conversations. When she told people who they would be working for, she expected them to balk.
A few minutes later, she returned to the porch where Annabelle was pacing. The model looked cold, but no wonder, since she was inappropriately dressed for Montana weather. Mary Sue guessed that she wasn’t anxious to go back inside the house, either. “I found a couple of men who are willing to help for thirty dollars an hour.”
“Thirty dollars an hour? I’m not asking them to remodel the house.” Annabelle looked through the window with a shake of the head as if calculating how many hours work was in there. “Forget it,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll do the packing myself. Where can I find some boxes?”
“Behind the town recycling center. But you aren’t going to be able to get very many into that car of yours. Are you sure you don’t want—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, but once you get everything boxed up, you’re going to need a truck to take it either to the dump or a storage unit, if you decide to keep some of it.”
“Got it. I’ll deal with all that once it’s boxed up.”
“I have plans, otherwise...” Otherwise what? Did she really feel guilty about not offering to help? If Annabelle was too cheap to hire help, that was her problem.
With a wave of her hand, her former classmate dismissed her.
“All right, then let me know when the house is ready to go on the market,” Mary Sue said, not about to mention that the place would need to be cleaned. A nice coat of fresh paint in the rooms would also help. But she didn’t feel that Annabelle was up to hearing more bad news right now and Mary Sue wasn’t up to giving it.
Anyway, she was anxious to talk to her mother. As she walked to her car, her clipboard in hand, she tried to convince herself that she’d gotten the wrong floor plan from the courthouse.
Except she knew better. She prided herself on being thorough. Frannie had walled up the alcove. But why? And what was in the closed-up space?
* * *
“SHOULDN’T YOU BE ASLEEP?” the assisted-living nurse asked from his doorway.
Bernard “Bernie the Hawk” McDougal gave her the smile that had worked on women since he was a boy. Even at eighty-nine, the old mobster still could make a woman blush with no more than a wink and a grin. There might be snow on the roof, but it was still plenty hot down in the furnace.
“Just finishing up here,” he told her from his desk and waited until she moved on before he picked up the scissors again.
He pulled the newspaper clipping toward him, still shocked that he’d discovered it online while surfing for obits of women of a certain age. The moment he’d seen this one, he’d printed it out, but the resolution wasn’t good so he’d called the newspaper where it had run—the Milk River Courier—and had the paper overnighted to him.
It had arrived this afternoon while he was napping. When he’d awakened, he’d seen the envelope waiting for him on his desk and quickly torn into it. Inside he’d found the complete edition of that week’s Whitehorse, Montana, newspaper—all four pages of it.
Now he studied the face in the obituary mug shot. The photo didn’t do her justice. The one he’d seen on the internet had been much more flattering.
But no photo of his Baby Doll could hold a candle to the woman in the flesh—especially back when she was young. She’d been a blonde beauty. Tiny and gorgeous, she’d been exquisite. The kind of woman who stopped traffic and turned heads. She’d certainly turned his, he thought with a curse. And the things she’d put him through from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
That was something else about her that had attracted her to him. She wasn’t intimidated by him or any of his goons. Oh, that woman had a mouth on her. She could cut a man down to size as if her tongue was a switchblade.
He chuckled to himself. He’d wanted her and would have married her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She liked being mysterious. Hell, he’d never known her real name. That first night at the party, he’d seen right away that she and her friend had crashed his little get-together on the posh rooftop of his favorite New York City restaurant. He’d thought about booting the two of them, but there was something about her.
She’d flirted with him but refused to tell him who she was, as if she thought he’d call her daddy to have her picked up and taken home. A few minutes with her and that was the last thing he planned to do.
“Okay, you want to play it coy? You’ll just be my Baby Doll, then,” he’d said, knowing even then that he had to have her.
“Baby Doll? I like that,” she’d said, coming off older than she was. She hadn’t been more than seventeen. Jailbait. Like that had stopped him. He had a reputation for going after whatever he wanted—and getting it. But then, so did Baby Doll as it turned out.
Opening the scissors, he began to slice the paper around her mug shot. Bernie couldn’t stand sloppiness. He liked things done a certain way. It had saved his life more than once and kept him from being behind bars.
Now he found himself looking into her eyes, remembering. This was her. There was no doubt about it. He’d thought he found her before, but this time... He wished he had been able to find a photograph of her when she was younger but there was nothing on the internet. Francesca Marie Clementine had kept a low profile. Another reason he was convinced that this woman was his Baby Doll.
Oh, those blue eyes. The memories of her in his arms. Just being with her had felt like living on the edge, she’d been that kind of woman. She kept his blood revved up. He’d known he could never get enough of her. He’d asked her to marry him more times than he liked to remember. He shook his head. While he’d only known her a short while, he’d thought he could trust her with his life, his secrets—and his loot. His first mistake.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? he thought as he clipped the photo free from the newspaper. He’d trusted a woman who hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him her real name.
“Come on, Baby Doll, tell me your name,” he used to tease her. “We can’t get married until I know exactly who you are.”
“Oh, you know who I am.” She’d smiled that coy smile of hers and said, “I’m Bernie McDougal’s Baby Doll. That’s enough. For now.” Her look had been a promise of a lot more to come and he’d been a goner. Oh, the swanky parties they’d attended, the fur coats and fancy dresses he’d clothed her in, the expensive champagne they’d guzzled, the money they’d burned through. Nothing was too good for his Baby Doll.
His stomach roiled at the memory. She’d blindsided him from the beginning, he thought, able to admit it now, more than fifty years later. He’d thought she was young and naïve. He’d never seen it coming.
The obit was short, but it did provide some useful information, such as where she’d been all these years—and that she was survived by her three granddaughters, Annabelle Clementine, Tessa Jane Clementine (TJ St. Clair) and Chloe Clementine. No husband. That didn’t surprise him.
He’d had to look up the town on the internet. Whitehorse, Montana. It surprised him that she’d disappeared to some wide spot out West. He’d always thought of her living it up in Paris or London, or even New York City where it had all begun. It was why he’d looked for her in the faces of every woman he’d passed all these years.
But Baby Doll had always been full of surprises, hadn’t she? He still couldn’t believe that she’d evaded him. He’d had his men looking for her as well as his associates. He’d put a price on her pretty head. And still nothing. It was as if she’d stepped off the face of the earth.
But he’d finally found her. The problem was, it seemed too late. She was dead. Which meant that she’d probably taken their secret to the grave. It filled him with regret. He would have loved to look into her eyes one last time before he killed her.
He took her photo, stuck a pin between her eyes and put it up on the bulletin board next to his desk. As he started to throw the rest of the newspaper away, his gaze lit on the name Clementine again.
It appeared to be a real estate ad. Moving the paper where he could see the ad, he saw that it read Clementine Place. His breath came out on a laugh. Of course. She’d owned a house and now it was for sale. A house where she’d kept her secrets. He told himself not to get his hopes up, and yet he was reaching for his phone since it was still early out in Montana.
Francesca’s house was for sale? Why hadn’t he thought of that? There were some things she wouldn’t have been able to take with her. That is, if she’d still had them when she’d died. She could have gone through everything a long time ago. Probably had. But there was only one way to find out.
He dialed the number of the Realtor who was selling the house. The newspaper was a week old. The house could have sold by now.
A woman named Mary Sue Linton answered on the third ring.
“I’m calling about a house you have for sale,” he said. “I believe it’s called Clementine Place?”
“That’s right. It just went on the market. What can I tell you about it?”
He had the photo of the house in front of him. But he couldn’t imagine Baby Doll living somewhere like that. It was too common after the penthouse they’d shared. It all came down to that one question that had niggled at him all these years. Why? Why take off like she had—let alone end up where she had? Which led to his second big question. What had she done with what she’d stolen from him?
“I’d like to send someone to look at it in the next few days,” he said. “Is that possible?”
“It’s not quite ready to show.”
Really? “I don’t care what kind of shape it’s in.”
“One of the relatives is in the process of cleaning everything out. I’m afraid Frannie was a...collector.” Yes, she’d collected a few things from him before she’d left. “But the house will be pristine in a few weeks if you’d like to see it then.”
Frannie? “You say a relative is cleaning it out?”
“Her granddaughter, Annabelle.”
His old heart thumped hard against his ribs. What if she’d already thrown it out? She had to be stopped. “Then I’ll check back with you.”
“That would be ideal.”
He hung up and made a call. “I need to see you. Now.”
Oh, Baby Doll, he said to himself as he disconnected. The woman had thought she’d outfoxed him. Soon she would be turning over in her grave. As for her granddaughter, she could be joining Frannie very soon.
Chapter Three (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Dawson hadn’t driven by the old Clementine place in years. After he’d cleaned up, he’d driven into town since there was still some daylight left in the winter day and his brother had called wanting to hear about his hunting trip. He’d told himself he wasn’t going near Annabelle’s grandmother’s house, but it was as if his pickup had a mind of its own.
There was a time that this neighborhood had been his second home. That was back when his best friend lived two doors down from Frannie Clementine’s house. Back when he and his best friend had built a tree house only to find five-year-old Annabelle in it and unable to get down.
With a bark of a laugh, he reminded himself that she hadn’t been filled with gratitude that time he’d saved her, either.
He slowed his pickup, surprised how long it had been since he’d driven through this neighborhood. His best friend had moved away years ago and once Annabelle left...
The house, on so-called Millionaire’s Row on the west side of town, sat on a huge lot surrounded by massive trees. Behind it, the water of the Milk River curved slowly past. An old single-car garage stood off to the side, looking like it needed to be torn down.
He pulled up on the opposite side of the street. There was a For Sale sign in the yard, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Mystery solved. Of course that was what had brought Annabelle back. She was planning to get rid of the house—the only thing still tethering her to Whitehorse now that her grandmother was gone.
Pulling under the protective boughs of a huge evergreen, he left the engine running and took in the home. He was wondering what Annabelle could get for the place when he saw a woman in a bandanna, a gaudy sweatshirt and a pair of baggy jeans come out. She carried a large box out the front door to the side of the porch closest to the driveway. Even from a distance, he could tell that the woman was covered in dust and dirt. So Annabelle had hired help. That, too, shouldn’t have surprised him, although he didn’t recognize the woman.
As she set the box at the open end of the porch, she stood to stretch, as if her back bothered her. A lock of blond hair escaped from beneath the bandanna. With a shock, he realized what he was seeing. Annabelle?
The sight of the supermodel looking like a janitor made him laugh and shake his head in disbelief. He was tempted to take a photo with his cell phone. But he could just imagine how horrified she would be if he did. He had barely recognized her, and not just because he suspected Annabelle had never done a day’s manual labor in her life. Surely she wasn’t packing up the entire house by herself.
But as he looked around, he saw that the only vehicle near the place was the silver sports car. Nor did anyone else emerge from the house carrying boxes as he sat watching, truck engine running. Why hadn’t she hired help? It was so unlike her.
A thought struck him like a swift kick to the shin. She’d said she’d forgotten to get gas, but what if... The idea was so preposterous that he laughed out loud as he put his pickup into gear to drive away. Whatever Annabelle was up to, it had nothin’ to do with him. He didn’t even know why he’d driven by.
His cell phone rang, making him jump. He really wasn’t good at this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He hit the brakes and quickly answered as he watched Annabelle put down another box, stretch and go back inside. As she glanced in his direction, he slowly let out the clutch and eased the pickup down the street, making sure he kept his head turned. The last thing he wanted was for her to think that he had any interest in her.
“You on your way?” his brother asked without preamble.
He’d lost track of time. “I am. Be right there.” He disconnected, hoping his brother’s invitation was only about having a beer. The way news traveled around this county, by now everyone could know that Annabelle Clementine was back in town—his brother Luke included. And that was a subject he didn’t want to discuss.
Luke was already sitting on a bar stool at the Mint when he walked in. Seeing him coming, Luke ordered him a Moose Drool and patted the stool next to him. “Some pretty nice weather for November, huh?”
“Uh-huh,” Dawson said, groaning inside. Luke was grinning like a jackass and it had nothing to do with the weather.
“Annabelle Clementine is back in town,” his brother blurted, as if unable to hold it in a second longer.
“Who?” Dawson asked innocently and took a sip of the beer the bartender set in front of him. Luke was as subtle as a horseshoe to the head. At least he’d been smart enough to know that Dawson would need a beer.
“Who?” Luke echoed. “Annabelle Clementine, or as you used to call her...Annie. You aren’t going to tell me that you’ve forgotten about the woman who—” His brother stopped and gave him a you-had-me-there-for-a-minute grin. “So, you already heard?” He sounded disappointed.
“Actually, I saw her.”
“No kiddin’? She still gorgeous? She say why she’s back?”
Dawson ran his thumb around the top of his beer bottle for a moment. Something stopped him from telling his brother about siphoning gas out of his pickup to practically fill her fancy sports car. “Saw her packing up at her grandmother’s house. She’s got the place for sale.” He took a sip of his beer.
“You just happened to be in that neighborhood, did you?” Luke couldn’t seem to get that goofy grin off his face. “She say how long she’s staying?”
“I said I saw her. Didn’t say I made a point of talking to her. So I wouldn’t know, but I think it’s a pretty good assumption that she’ll be hightailing it out of town just as quickly as she can,” he said without looking at his brother.
“Why didn’t you talk to her?” Luke asked.
“Why would I?”
“After all these years, I would think you’d be curious. Maybe it isn’t just her grandmother’s house that brought her back. Maybe—”
“It’s just her grandmother’s house.”
“You can’t know that. Maybe—”
“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Dawson asked, hoping to change the subject. Thinking about Annabelle gave him a headache. Talking about her was even worse. It had been years since he’d called her Annie, let alone allowed himself to even say the word. Annie was the woman he fell in love with. Annabelle was...well, she was a supermodel he didn’t know, didn’t want to know.
“Tomorrow?” Luke asked, as if confused by the quick change of subject.
“Thanksgiving Day.”
“Don’t remind me.” Luke took a drink of his beer, clearly upset that this was all he was going to get. He sighed. “I haven’t gotten my deer yet. But you know Mom. Said not to be late. She’s invited some of the neighbors.”
Dawson nodded, smiling to himself at the thought of their mother. There was no one quite like Wilhelmina “Willie” Rogers. She’d managed to raise both of her sons on her own after their father died when they were boys—and run the ranch, as well. When it came to anyone who needed a hot meal, Willie was always ready to rustle something up. His mother equated love with food. She spent half her time making casseroles for anyone who’d fallen on hard times or families who’d had an illness. Anyone in town die? The family would have a dish on their doorstep within the hour.
“Mom said we both better be there,” Luke said. “She already read me the riot act about going deer hunting beforehand. Speaking of hunting, how’d you do down in the Breaks? Get anything worth bringing home and stringin’ up?”
Dawson shook his head. “I saw one big buck, but didn’t get a shot.” The truth was, he loved hiking around looking for deer and elk, but when he still had plenty of meat in the freezer, he wasn’t much for killing anything. He wasn’t a trophy hunter.
Two weeks in hunting camp with some buddies, though, was a tradition he wasn’t apt to miss. He liked sleeping out under the stars, working his way through rugged country during the day, eating food cooked over a camp stove and sitting around the fire later, listening to his friends’ outrageous stories before climbing into his bedroll. He always slept like the dead at hunting camp.
Not that he wasn’t glad to get home to a hot shower and his own bed.
“Any idea how much the old Clementine place might go for?” Luke asked.
“Haven’t given it any thought.”
“Still, you have to admit it’s strange that Annabelle wouldn’t let Mary Sue handle it so she didn’t have to come back here,” Luke said. His brother was dating Mary Sue’s younger sister, Sally. “Unless the house wasn’t the only reason she’s back,” he said, clearly baiting him. “Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“What makes me wonder is what your interest in all this is,” Dawson said and looked over at his brother.
“Actually, I find your apparent so-called lack of interest more fascinating. You don’t think I didn’t know how you felt about her? Now she’s back. You aren’t even going to stop by her place and talk to her?” Luke shook his head. “My big brother, as it turns out, is a coward.”
“It’s not going to work,” Dawson said and drained the rest of his beer.
“The brother I knew would have given his left arm for that woman,” Luke said. “He wouldn’t pass up a possible second chance to be with her. You telling me you don’t still feel somethin’?”
Dawson shook his head as he stood. “I’m not tellin’ you anything. I’ll let my walkin’ out of here speak for itself. Thanks for the beer.”
Luke sighed. “Fine, have it your way, you stubborn jackass. But you’re going to be sorry.”
“I’ve been sorry before. Tell Mom I’ll stop by early tomorrow to see if she needs any help.”
“You always have to be the good son, don’t you? I’m going deer huntin’. Save me a place at the table just in case I get something and run late.” The door closed on his last words.
Even as Dawson started his pickup, he knew he was going to do it. And it made him madder than hell. He turned down the street. It wasn’t late, but it was already dark this time of year. Deep shadows hunkered in the trees. The temperature had dropped.
As he drove by her house, he saw that the light was on. There were more boxes stacked up under the porch roof. He turned out his headlights as he stopped across the street again. Several large pines blocked most of the house, but he would get glimpses of her inside working.
There was still no sign of anyone helping her. “What’s going on, Annie?” he asked in the dark cab of his truck. If she didn’t get out of town before the next snowstorm, she probably wouldn’t be able to in that impractical car of hers. He doubted she had snow tires on it since she’d been living in California. Not that they would help much. A car like that would get high-centered on the first snowdrift across the highway. Hell, she’d be lucky if she could get out of her driveway.
Dawson reminded himself that it wasn’t his problem. And yet he couldn’t help thinking about what his brother had said back at the bar. Unfortunately, he’d already been a fool when it came to her. He liked to think he was too smart to do it again as he watched her pass in front of the large picture window. She looked exhausted. How many hours had she been packing up her grandmother’s things by herself?
But even from this distance, he could see the determination in her expression, in the way she moved. There had never been a more stubborn woman, he thought, as he turned on his headlights again and headed for the ranch.
* * *
ANNABELLE HURT ALL OVER. She closed another box on more of her grandmother’s chipped and cracked knickknacks, but realized she was too tired to take it out to the porch. For hours, she’d been boxing up her grandmother’s junk. Now she looked around the room with growing discouragement. She’d thought she was making progress, but she hadn’t even made a dent in all this...stuff.
Earlier she’d removed what she could from the front bedroom. Her grandmother had been using the one in the back of the house opposite the shared bathroom. Apparently, she’d turned the bedroom Annabelle had chosen into an extra wardrobe. An array of ugly, gaudy sweatshirts was hanging in the closet. Each was bedazzled with anything shiny you could tack onto it. Where did the woman find these horrific things? A lot of them were seasonal, with Santas, elves, Christmas lights, overdecorated wreaths, even an Easter egg one that was so bright it could put an eye out.
Not wanting to ruin the last of the good clothes that she hadn’t sold to pay for the trip north, she’d changed into one of the less garish ones, a sweatshirt with a bejeweled clown face, along with a pair of her grandmother’s pull-on jeans that she had to tie around her waist so they’d stay up, a pair of sneakers and socks with lacy tops. They’d do to work in.
After she’d decluttered the bedroom, she cleaned. She’d discovered some laundered sheets and made the bed so it would be ready for tonight. Then she’d gone down to the recycling building in town and loaded as many boxes as she could into her car by putting smaller ones into larger ones and holding some out the window as she drove.
Back at the house, she’d started dumping the worst of the junk into boxes and carrying them out to the porch.
Now she just wanted to sit down. You were so right, Mary Sue. I really could have used some help. But not at thirty dollars an hour. And no one was going to work for her with only the promise of getting paid after the house sold.
She wandered into the kitchen, one of the only rooms that had chairs that weren’t covered with junk. As full as the place was, she couldn’t help but be thankful to her grandmother. Frannie had never had a lot of money, but in the will she’d made sure that the taxes and utilities were paid six months in advance.
Clearly, she’d known what a job it was going to be to clean out this house and sell it.
Brushing an errant lock of hair back from her dirty face, Annabelle wondered if her grandmother had also somehow figured that she was going to need financial help. Six months was generous. Frannie had to have known that Annabelle wouldn’t be staying that long. But it definitely allowed her time to get the house sold.
She glanced around the kitchen, tempted to fill another box with the ceramic knickknacks that crowded the windowsill. Her grandmother had saved everything. Was it an old lady thing? Or had her grandmother lost her mind before the end? She couldn’t understand how the woman had been able to live here with junk piled waist high throughout the house. It seemed at odds with the woman who’d raised Annabelle most of her life.
But it was also odd that her grandmother had willed the house to her and not her sisters. It still bothered her. “Why, Grandma Frannie? Why leave the house to just me?” she asked the knickknacks. Several frogs looked back at her with big, dusty eyes. Maybe TJ was right. Frannie had left the house to the granddaughter she thought would need the most help.
At the time, Annabelle had been furious at such an insinuation. Now she wondered if her grandmother hadn’t been the only one who’d expected her to fail. Maybe everyone had seen it coming but Annabelle herself.
For whatever the reason, this house was now hers and unless she got it sold and soon... She shook her head, stood and reached for the ceramic bric-a-brac.
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t even thought about food—until this moment. For years she’d had to watch her weight. She still wasn’t used to being able to eat anything she wanted. Now she could give in to her hunger. It was a new feeling. One that signaled more than anything that she would never be modeling again. Too bad she couldn’t afford to eat.
She pushed that thought away. Looking down at the hideous clothes she was wearing, she told herself that she couldn’t go to the grocery store, even in Whitehorse, in this outfit—even if she had any cash. She stood for a moment, feeling lost and close to tears. As she put one of the ceramic creatures into the box she was loading, she spied a container that her grandmother had used for her grocery money.
She was reminded of the time Grandma Frannie had caught her red-handed with her fingers in it and felt a stab of remorse for even having thought about taking the money, let alone getting caught. But mostly what she felt was regret that she hadn’t come back to see the grandmother who’d loved her so much.
That day, her hand literally in the cookie jar, Annabelle had fished around for an excuse. Her grandmother had stopped her and said, “If you’re going to steal, then own it. Same with getting caught,” her grandmother had said. “Lying and sniveling makes you look weak.”
With a sigh, she now lifted the lid of the container, telling herself it would be empty. Reaching inside, her fingers brushed something. She pulled out a handful of crinkled-up twenties and began to cry.
“Grandma,” she said, her voice breaking. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wiped at her tears. Frannie had known she was going to need money. She was the one her grandmother had known would fail. As much as that hurt, her heart filled to bursting with love for her grandmother, who was still looking out for her after all these years. Because someone needed to, that was for sure.
There were enough bills to keep her from going hungry for a while. She said a whispered thank-you to her grandmother and glanced at her watch. Did she really have the energy to shower and change to go to the grocery store to get something to eat?
The answer was a resounding no. If she sneaked in and out of the only grocery store in town quickly, hopefully she wouldn’t see anyone she knew.
* * *
ROBERT “ROB” MCDOUGAL saw that it was his uncle calling and ignored the call. The old mobster probably just wanted to bitch about the way-too-expensive assisted-living facility where he’d been the past four years.
Since Rob was paying almost twenty grand a month to keep him in the resort-like place, he didn’t have much sympathy. It was a deal his old man had made with the “family.”
Rob wasn’t stupid enough to renege on the agreement, since that would get him killed. But he didn’t have to listen to the old man’s constant complaining. Nor was he in the mood to indulge his uncle.
But when his phone rang once again and he saw that it was Bernie calling yet another time, he finally listened to the original message his uncle had left.
“I have a job for you. A real one. Get your butt out here. This is urgent family business.”
Urgent family business? Rob groaned. What now? He didn’t bother to call his uncle back. He simply texted that he was on his way to Golden Years Retirement Living and Spa.
The moment he walked into his uncle’s room, the old codger patted the arm of his wheelchair and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
In his uncle’s generation that might have meant he was about to die. But he didn’t think Bernie had a gun on him or a garrote or even a butter knife from the kitchen. But you never knew.
“What’s this about?” Rob asked impatiently as he pushed the old man’s wheelchair out to the canal after getting a special pass at the main desk to do so. It was hot as hell, even though it was late at night, but it often was this far south. Florida. He hated it. He missed the change of seasons up north. But as long as Bernie was alive... And the old codger didn’t seem to be aging in the least.
“Isn’t this far enough?” Rob asked, swatting at a mosquito as he kept an eye out for alligators. Each year down here alligators attacked ten people on average. They snatched pets from the sides of pools, grabbed little kids and even ate a few adults, twenty-three since 1948, he’d read. Walking along the canal always made him nervous.
His uncle finally signaled they could stop. Looking around he checked to make sure they were alone. They were. Rob was losing patience. His shirt was soaked with sweat and sticking to his back. He swatted at another bug flying around his head and swore under his breath.
“The Marco Polo Heist,” Bernie said.
Rob felt his stomach twist. He’d grown up without a father because of that heist. Everything had gone perfectly until an off-duty guard had shown up. His father and one of the other thieves had been killed. Only one of the thieves had gotten away clean—Bernie. The cops had known Bernie was involved but they’d never been able to prove it.
Bernie had walked away with the loot—which was never recovered since, according to his uncle, it had been stolen right out from under his nose. It had been the only black stain on the mobster’s otherwise glowing criminal career—and something that remained stuck in the old man’s craw.
“I have a lead on the goods,” his uncle said.
After more than fifty years and a lot of blind alleys and wild-goose chases? Rob stared at him. “It just came to you?”
Bernie cuffed him in the back. “Don’t be a damned fool. I know you think I’m getting senile, but I’m as sharp as a shank.”
Right, Rob thought as he watched the old man dig a newspaper clipping out of his pocket.
“That’s her,” his uncle said, handing him the black-and-white photo. “Francesca Clementine.” When Rob had no reaction, he added impatiently, “Baby Doll.”
The notorious Baby Doll. Rob wanted to laugh. He’d had to hear about her all of his adult life. The moll who’d broken Bernie’s heart and stolen a king’s fortune from him.
“That’s her?” He couldn’t help being skeptical. They’d been here before.
His uncle nodded and handed him the obit. He read it, trying not to roll his eyes. “Whitehorse, Montana?” He couldn’t be serious.
Bernie smiled. “Her house is coming up for sale.”
“You want me to buy the house?”
“Hell, no. Too obvious. We don’t want to call attention to any of this. The Feds are still watching me.” Rob doubted this but said nothing. “There are too many people still looking for the loot, you know what I’m saying?”
Just like they were still looking for Jimmy Hoffa.
“You need to leave right away,” Bernie said, keeping his voice down, apparently afraid the Feds were listening from the mangroves beyond the canal. They’d had to come all the way out here by the canal with the wild alligators because his uncle was convinced that his room was bugged. “I think you can handle this alone. Better that way.”
Rob nodded, telling himself he wasn’t going to Montana on some wild-goose chase.
“I’m depending on you,” Bernie said and grabbed his hand to squeeze it hard. “I trust you, Robby.”
“Rob,” he corrected for the millionth time. Nor had he been chosen because his uncle trusted him. There was no one else who would do it. He had been appointed his uncle’s babysitter. Not that the family didn’t still fear Bernie. The old man had his connections. It was why Rob came when his uncle called, eventually. But Montana?
The doctor had said Bernie didn’t have more than a year to live. But that was four years ago. Tough as old pigskin and meaner than a junkyard dog, the old man had defied modern science with just stubborn determination alone, Rob thought.
“I’m honored that you would trust me to take care of this,” he said.
His uncle chuckled and met his eye. “Honored. And smart. You know what will happen to you if you don’t come back with my goods.”
His goods. Arrogant bastard. “Let’s say this dame is your...Baby Doll.”
“Don’t call her a dame, okay?”
“What if she still didn’t have any of it when she died?” Rob asked for the sake of argument. “What if she’s been selling it off? After all, it’s been over fifty years.”
Bernie shook his head. “I would have heard if any of it had turned up. She took all of it, the cash, the jewels, the gold. I’m betting she still had it when she died. Just to show me,” he said, admiration in his tone. “She willed the house to one of her granddaughters, someone named Annabelle Clementine. The Realtor made it sound like I should know who she was.”
Rob shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“Apparently she’s getting the house ready to sell. Take care of her and soon. She might throw out something not realizing what it is. Just don’t call attention to yourself or her. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.”
“No,” Rob said. But he hadn’t done any wet work in years. He didn’t want to start again. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving—”
His uncle shot him a look of disbelief and the rest of the words in Rob’s mouth dried up. “When you find my loot you’ll want to take off with the whole lot, but you won’t. You know why?”
He shook his head even though they’d had this discussion before, since his uncle never got tired of telling him.
“Because there’s a curse on the loot, but nothing like the curse that would be on you. Take me back to my room and then get on a plane. You can’t waste any time. If that house sells before you get there...or the granddaughter finds the goods...”
Rob nodded since there was nothing else he could do.
“There’s one more thing,” Bernie said. “I doubt I’m the only one to recognize Baby Doll. Nor am I the only one who’s been looking all these years.” Rob doubted that was the case but kept his trap shut. “Which means you won’t be alone even if the Feds aren’t wise to her. There’s the insurance company guy who had to pay out all those years ago, not to mention the museum curator who swore he’d get his priceless jewels back and see me in prison.”
Rob didn’t bother to mention that both of those guys were probably dead by now.
“So watch your back,” his uncle said. “If they recognized Baby Doll like I did... You know our photos were all over the society pages. Me and Baby Doll at the swankiest parties. She was some woman.”
* * *
DAWSON KICKED AROUND his house, unable to settle more than a few minutes in any one place. He’d cleaned the kitchen after making himself some dinner, washed his hunting clothing, unpacked all his gear and even put clean sheets on his bed.
He’d been looking forward to that bed all the way from the hunting camp, but even though he was bone-weary tired, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Sadie didn’t have that problem. She was curled up on her bed in front of the fireplace, snoring softly.
At a hard knock on his door, he started. His first thought was Annabelle. She’d come to thank him for the gas and apologize for not saying something earlier. His heart began to pound until he reminded himself how unlikely that was. He told himself it better not be Luke with more news about Annabelle. He thought about not answering the door, but the knock was so insistent...
He opened the door and blinked when he saw that it was his neighbor from the adjoining county. “Cull?”
“Sorry to bother you so late,” the cowboy and horse rancher said. “I was riding fence earlier and you’ve got some barbed wire down that I thought I better warn you about. I did what I could, but I’m worried you’re going to have cattle out on the county road if you can’t get it fixed soon.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” He liked Cull McGraw. He liked all the McGraws, actually, and was glad to have them as neighbors. Anyone else might not have bothered to tell him until his cattle were running wild. “You want to come in? I think there’s a couple of beers in the fridge.” Suddenly he didn’t want to be alone.
“Thanks, but I need to get on home,” Cull said, and he realized his neighbor was probably anxious to get home to his wife. “Maybe some other time.”
He closed the door and turned back to his empty house. Empty. Funny, but he’d never thought of it that way until... He swore. Until Annabelle’s return. Cursing himself, he began to turn out lights. After making sure the screen was on the fireplace, he headed for bed.
Behind him, he heard the soft patter of four feet as Sadie decided to join him. He told himself the pup was all he needed for company as he heard her lie down on the floor at the foot of his bed.
But the moment he was between the cool sheets, his thoughts spun back to Annabelle, his first love, his first lover. What was he going to have to do to get her out of his system?
Chapter Four (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Whitehorse, Montana. Rob swore as he sat for a moment in the dark in the parking lot of the expensive nursing home. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time Bernie had been convinced he’d found Baby Doll. Before, it had been some old woman in Maine. Then one in California. Another in Maryland. Oh, and that one in Tennessee.
Now Whitehorse, Montana? He’d gone on too many wild-goose chases, all of them dead ends. None of the women had been Baby Doll. None of them had had the loot. All they had in common was that they were six feet under now.
He pulled the photocopied snapshot and obit from his pocket and looked at them again. Francesca Clementine? At least he wouldn’t have to kill this one—she was already dead. But the granddaughter wasn’t, he reminded himself.
He debated not going and telling the old man that he had and that Francesca Clementine wasn’t his Baby Doll. It would break the old man’s heart, but it wasn’t the first time. After all, what were the chances that this Francesca Clementine had even been to New York City, let alone had a love affair with a mobster and stolen a king’s ransom in already stolen loot? Less than nil.
So why waste his time? Just give it a few days and then report back to Bernie... It was a gamble, though. He suspected the old man had Alzheimer’s or dementia and his brain was more pickled than his aunt’s canned beets.
But that didn’t mean Bernie wasn’t dangerous. He still could make Rob’s life a living hell. That’s if he didn’t just cut bait and have Rob killed.
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B.J. Daniels
A COWBOY MUST FACE HIS PASTSupermodel Annie Clementine is back in Whitehorse, Montana. And there’s nothing cowboy Dawson Rogers wants more than to see his ex-lover gone. He’ll even risk his heart again so Annie can leave, but nothing is quite that simple…
A cowboy must face his past
Before he loses his heart…again
Supermodel Annabelle “Annie” Clementine is back in Whitehorse, Montana. And there’s nothing cowboy Dawson Rogers wants more than to see his ex-lover’s backside…on the road out. He’ll even risk his heart again and help sell her late grandmother’s house so Annie can leave ASAP. Except along with the house, Annie inherited a mystery. And if they don’t solve it soon, someone’s willing to kill for the answer.
Whitehorse, Montana: The Clementine Sisters
B.J. DANIELS is a New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author. She wrote her first book after a career as an award-winning newspaper journalist and author of thirty-seven published short stories. She lives in Montana with her husband, Parker, and three springer spaniels. When not writing, she quilts, boats and plays tennis. Contact her at bjdaniels.com (http://www.bjdaniels.com), on Facebook or on Twitter, @bjdanielsauthor (http://twitter.com/@bjdanielsauthor).
Also by B.J. Daniels (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Cowboy’s Redemption
Dark Horse
Dead Ringer
Rough Rider
Renegade’s Pride
Outlaw’s Honor
Hero’s Return
Rancher’s Dream
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Hard Rustler
B.J. Daniels
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07924-2
HARD RUSTLER
© 2018 Barbara Heinlein
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.
® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This book is for Julie Simundson Nagy, a true fan,
who has been a bright spot in so many of my days.
Writing is such a solitary endeavor with lots of stress.
I will see Julie and she will remind me that I’m not
alone in this. Her smile and enthusiasm keep me
grounded. Thank you, Julie!
Contents
Cover (#uba7669b5-a3a5-5c92-a601-0487bf0a0f6d)
Back Cover Text (#u620ee168-01a1-54fa-b4a1-a3e0e805ea2c)
About the Author (#u85455746-64b7-5fd5-adfb-610c09464c8d)
Booklist (#u61896746-f404-5285-a284-cfa833325cc1)
Title Page (#u8b6ce4e1-8d29-55b1-9e74-b46dcdf93dda)
Copyright (#u742f6217-628e-5659-ba3c-1f9c955c2694)
Dedication (#u883d2128-2cf0-5bc7-9619-56261fd5989c)
Chapter One (#u3988b774-74b5-59df-916b-44d0a076dc9e)
Chapter Two (#ud279517c-dc9a-526b-ba16-dcc0ada600da)
Chapter Three (#u3a90145f-fa2f-5560-b251-b4f89b104fa8)
Chapter Four (#uface7696-6f2d-5c39-886a-f01c4fb56af5)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
As her sports car topped the rise, Annabelle Clementine looked out at the rugged country spread before her and felt her heart drop. She’d never thought she’d see so many miles of wild winter Montana landscape ever again. At least, she’d hoped not.
How could she have forgotten the remoteness? The vastness? The isolation? There wasn’t a town in sight. Or a ranch house. Or another living soul.
She glanced down at her gas gauge. It hovered at empty. She’d tried to get gas at the last station, but her credit card wouldn’t work and she’d gone through almost all of her cash. She’d put in what fuel she could with the change she was able scrape up, but it had barely moved the gauge. If she ran out of gas before she reached Whitehorse...well, it would just be her luck, wouldn’t it?
She let the expensive silver sports car coast down the mountain toward the deep gorge of the Missouri River, thankful that most of the snow was high in the mountains and not on the highway. She didn’t know what she would have done if the roads had been icy since she hadn’t seen a snow tire since she’d left Montana.
The motor coughed. She looked down at the gauge. The engine had to be running on fumes. What was she going to do? It was still miles to Whitehorse. Tears burned her eyes, but she refused to cry. Yes, things were bad. Really bad. But—
She was almost to the river bottom when she saw it. At a wide spot where the river wound on its way through Montana east to the Mississippi, a pickup and horse trailer were pulled off to the side of the highway. Her pulse jumped at just the thought of another human being—let alone the possibility of getting some fuel. If she could just get to Whitehorse...
But as she descended the mountain, she didn’t see anyone around the pickup or horse trailer. What if the rig had been left beside the road and the driver was nowhere to be found? Maybe there would be a gas can in the back of the pickup or—Have you stooped so low that now you would steal gas?
Fortunately, she wasn’t forced to answer that. She spotted a cowboy standing on the far side of the truck. Her instant of relief was quickly doused as she looked around and realized how alone the two of them were, out here in the middle of nowhere.
Don’t be silly. What are the chances the cowboy is a serial killer, rapist, kidnapper, ax murderer...? The motor sputtered as if taking its last gasp as she slowed. It wasn’t as if she had a choice. She hadn’t seen another car for over an hour. For miles she’d driven through open country dotted occasionally with cows but no people. And she knew there was nothing but rugged country the rest of the way north to Whitehorse.
If there had been any other way to get where she was headed, she would have taken it. But her options had been limited for some time now.
And today, it seemed, her options had come down to this cowboy and possible serial killer rapist kidnapper ax murderer.
She let the car glide into the spot next to where the cowboy had pulled off the highway. I’ll just bum a little fuel and be on my way. Nothing to worry about. Just the thought made her laugh. Her life was one big worry right now, she fretted, as she took in the rangy-looking cowboy standing by his truck.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” She groaned. Taking risks is what got you into this mess. Like she had to be reminded.
The engine let out a final cough and died. Committed now, she had no choice as she braked next to the horse trailer. Turning off the key in the ignition, she checked her makeup and hair in the mirror. You’re Annabelle Clementine. You can do this. The woman who stared back at her from the mirror looked skeptical at best.
Bucking up her courage, she stepped out of the car, careful not to let her last pair of expensive heels get muddy. “Excuse me?” she called, determined also not to get too far away from her open car door. “I’m afraid I have a small problem and really could use some help.”
She was ready to make a hasty retreat back into the car, if need be. Not that she would be going far if things went south. But at least she could lock herself in. She instantly regretted the fact that she’d bought a canvas-topped convertible, which had been perfect in Southern California.
The cowboy had his back to her and hadn’t looked up from where he’d been digging around in the back of his pickup bed.
“Excuse me?” she tried again. He had to have heard her. But so far, he hadn’t acknowledged her presence in any way.
Forced to move away from the car, she took in the cowboy as she approached and wasn’t impressed with what she saw. But then again, she’d grown up with cowboys so she’d never understood the fascination. Admittedly, this one was tall, broad shouldered, slim hipped, long legged and not bad from the backside.
Unfortunately, everything else about him looked worn and dirty, from his jeans, boots and canvas jacket to the Stetson on the too-long dark hair curling at the nape of his red neck.
At her approach, he gave her a quick glance over his shoulder. She could see little of his face. He wore mirrored sunglasses against the winter glare, his hat pulled low. Under the dark shadow of his Stetson, she glimpsed several week’s growth of beard, making him look even more craggy and unkempt. No designer stubble on this cowboy.
Either he’d been on the range for days or this was as good as it got with him.
You’re not marrying him. You’re just bumming fuel. “Hello?” she said louder and with more attitude as he went back to what he was doing.
“There a problem?” he drawled in a low, lazy tone as he finally finished and turned, seemingly reluctantly, to give her his attention. She saw that he’d been feeding his dog in the back of the pickup. The dog—little more than a puppy—was a furry mutt with one blue eye and one brown one circled by a patch of black. He didn’t look much better than his owner.
She shifted her gaze back to the cowboy who was looking at her car as if he’d never seen one like it before. Probably doesn’t get off the ranch much.
He slowly slid his gaze back to her with a nonchalance that made her grind her teeth.
“Yes, there is a problem.” She’d thought she’d already told him that.
He lifted the brim of his hat, dropped his sunglasses down to look over them for a moment. She caught a glimpse of brown eyes as he surveyed her, making her feel nearly naked under the black cashmere sweater and slacks she was wearing, before he lifted his sunglasses again.
“I’m afraid I forgot to buy gas at the last station,” she said, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible—even if it did make her look like a fool. She had worse problems. “I was wondering if you might have some gas that I could borrow? Just enough to get me into town?”
“Borrow?” He chuckled at that. “And town being?”
She hated to even admit where she was headed. “Whitehorse.”
“That’s another hour up the road.”
As if she didn’t know that. “My car used more gas than I thought it would.” She gave a nervous laugh, hating that she had to resort to acting as if she didn’t have a brain. Back when she was making money, fuel was never an issue. She hadn’t realized how much a lot of things cost—until she couldn’t pay for them anymore.
He nodded, glancing toward the river as if considering her request. “I suppose I could siphon some out of one of my tanks.” He didn’t sound thrilled about it. Nor had he moved.
“I would appreciate that so much.” She glanced at her watch.
“Got some place to be, do you?”
“I have an appointment.”
“In Whitehorse?” From under the brim of his hat and behind the mirrored sunglasses, he studied her a few moments more before he sighed. “Best pull up next to my pickup while I grab a hose.”
She feared the car wouldn’t start, let alone move. But there must have been just enough fumes left for her to pull up before it died again. She shut off the engine, staying in the car to pop the gas compartment open and watch him move slow as molasses. He acted as if he had all day. He probably did.
Patience had never been one of her strong suits. She tapped a toe as she heard him talking to his dog, mumbling so she couldn’t make out a word. As if she didn’t know he was giving the dog an earful about her.
The dog, still in the pickup bed, wagged its tail enthusiastically at whatever the cowboy said. Whatever he was saying, he certainly found it amusing from that hint of a grin under the beard. Annabelle consoled herself with the thought that the mutt was probably the closest thing the cowboy could get to a female companion.
After a good five to ten minutes, he finished. She hadn’t thought past getting enough gas to get to Whitehorse. Now her stomach clenched at a thought. Not only should she offer him money, but he also might demand it. And since she had no money and doubted he took credit cards—even ones that weren’t frozen for lack of payment...
She watched him walk to his pickup to put the hose away and knew what she had to do. It was the coward’s way out. But she told herself that she had no choice. She’d been telling herself that for months now. Not that it made her feel any better as she quickly started her car and threw it into reverse.
Whirring down the passenger side window, she called out, “Thank you so much. If you’re ever in Whitehorse...” With that she took off, torn between guilt and glee over seeing that he’d given her almost a full tank of gas.
When she dared look back, she saw him standing by his pickup shaking his head as he watched her leave. She thought of that glimpse of golden brown. Even shaded under the brim of his old Stetson, those eyes... They’d almost seemed...familiar.
Chapter Two (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Dawson Rogers swore as he pulled off his worn Stetson. Raking a hand through his hair, he watched the silver sports car take off like a bat out of hell.
“Annabelle Clementine.” He said the name like a curse. For years, he’d only seen her staring back at him from glossy women’s magazine ads. He’d been just fine knowing there was no chance that he’d ever lay eyes on her in the flesh again. She’d been real clear about never setting foot in this state again when she’d left all those years ago.
So what was she doing headed for Whitehorse?
That his heart was still pounding only made him more furious with himself. When he’d heard her voice behind him...he couldn’t believe it. He’d thought for sure that his worn-out, dog-weary body was playing tricks on him. He’d frozen in place, counting to ten and then ten again, afraid to turn around for fear he’d be wrong—or worse—right.
Now he swore, remembering his reaction to just the sound of her voice. Could he be a bigger fool?
And yet that voice had brought it all back. The ache in his belly, the stompin’ she’d done on his heart. Worse, the hope that set a fire inside him at just the sound of it. In that instant, he’d wanted it to be her more than he’d wanted his next breath. After everything she’d done to him, he’d actually felt a spike of joy at the thought of seeing her again.
And still he hadn’t turned around, because he’d known once he did, the disappointment would be as painful as the last time he’d seen her.
Turning, he’d seen her standing there and thought, Damn, the woman is even more beautiful than when she’d hightailed it out of here.
He’d been shocked—and still was. Annie. In the flesh. That she hadn’t changed except to become more gorgeous had left him shaken. A dust devil of emotions whirled inside him as he watched her drive away.
“What is she doing back here?” he demanded as the pup came over to the side of the pickup bed to lick his hand.
Sadie wagged her tail in response. “What am I doing asking you?” He ruffled the dog’s fur. Still, he found himself squinting after the sports car as it climbed the mountain on the other side of the river and disappeared around a curve. “What’s a woman who said she’d never set foot in Whitehorse doing back here? If I hadn’t seen her with my own eyes...”
For just a moment there, earlier, before she’d asked for gas, he’d thought...
Hell, he didn’t want to think about what he’d thought as he shoved his hat back on. “Let’s get on home,” he said to the pup as he reminded himself that Annabelle Clementine’s coming back had nothing to do with him.
He told himself that he shouldn’t have been surprised that she hadn’t changed. Still, it galled him. Her clothes might be more expensive and she drove a much fancier car, but she was still the same girl who’d looked down her nose at him—and Whitehorse—all those years ago.
It nagged at him. What could have brought her back? He shook his head, telling himself it was obviously none of his business. Best thing he could do was to forget about her—something he’d been working on for some time now.
After two weeks in hunting camp, he recalled that before he’d seen her, all he’d wanted was to get home, have a hot shower and climb into a warm, soft bed. If he hadn’t stopped beside the road to take a leak, let Sadie out and give the pup a snack...well, he might not have seen her at all.
The only thing that didn’t surprise him, he told himself as he lifted Sadie into the pickup’s front seat and climbed behind the wheel, was that the woman hadn’t given him the time of day. Hell, he couldn’t even be sure she remembered him. After all, it had been... How many years had it been? He wondered with a frown as he started the truck engine.
Thirteen. He let out a low whistle. Sadie’s ears perked up, but she lay back down and closed her eyes for the ride home.
And it wasn’t like Annie had ever given him a thought since she’d been gone, he reminded himself. She’d made it perfectly clear that they had no future before she’d left right after high school to find fame and fortune.
Dawson pointed the pickup toward Whitehorse, all the time trying to imagine what could have brought her back. Certainly not her grandmother’s funeral. Only her two sisters had made it back for that. Of course, they’d attended the funeral and left right away, but at least they’d shown up. He shook his head, thinking that he’d expected better of the girl he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Given how much her grandmother had doted on her...
But he reminded himself that he’d always been wrong about the woman. He could no more predict what Annabelle was going to do than predict the Montana weather. He thought of that young fool cowboy who’d saved every dime he made that year to promise her something that would make her stay. He growled under his breath at the memory.
Well, he wasn’t that young fool anymore. Which was why he was going to give her a wide berth as long as she was in town. Not that he suspected it would be for long. Knowing her, she would be hightailing it back to California as fast as she could. Back to her fancy life in the spotlight.
“Which is just fine with us, huh, Sadie,” he said to his pup. “Don’t need the likes of her around here messing with our minds.” Sadie barked in answer and curled closer to him, making him laugh. “This was before your time,” he said to the dog, “But that woman was once nothing but walking heartache for this cowboy. Fortunately, I’m not that man anymore.”
His words sounded hollow, even to him. He felt his face flush at how much gas he’d given her and mentally kicked himself. He should have left her beside the road to fend for herself. But then, he’d never been able to say no to her—even when he should have known that a girl like her wanted something better than a cowboy like him.
* * *
ANNABELLE PUT THE cowboy and his dog behind her as she drove north. She was determined that nothing would get in her way. Once she did what she’d come for, she was out of here. Another one of those limited options.
She took the back way into the small Western town. The first settlement of Whitehorse had been nearer the Missouri River. But when the railroad came through, the town migrated north, taking the name with it. Old Town Whitehorse, as it was now known, was little more than a ghost town to the south.
Not that Whitehorse proper was a thriving metropolis. The whole town was only ten blocks square. Nothing but a siding along the railroad tracks more than a hundred years ago, it had become a small rural town like a lot of small rural Montana towns.
Why her grandmother had settled here was still a mystery, but when Annabelle’s parents had been killed, Grandma Frannie had taken Annabelle and her two sisters in without hesitation. Annabelle had grown up here, dreaming of a life she envisioned far from this dusty old Western town.
As she drove down the tree-lined street with the large houses that backed onto the Milk River, images of her childhood flickered like the winter sun coming through the leafless cottonwood trees. From as far back as she could remember, she’d grown up with one thing in mind: getting out of this town and making something of her life.
That sick feeling she’d become acquainted with over the past few months now settled in her stomach. Right now, she couldn’t face even thinking about how she’d messed up. Sitting up a little straighter behind the wheel of the car, she assured herself that everything was going to be fine.
She would just take care of business and put all the unpleasantness behind her. As she tried to look for a silver lining in all this, she noticed that she still had plenty of gas. It should last her for what little time she would be here, thanks to that cowboy. She shoved away the guilt. If she ever saw him again...
Down the block, she spotted the house. Her foot came off the gas pedal, the car slowing as she felt a rush of déjà vu. The house hadn’t changed—just like she doubted the town had—and for a moment it was as if she’d never left. So much had happened to her, she’d expected this part of her past would have changed, somehow.
Instead, it looked so much the same, she almost expected Frannie to come out on the porch as Annabelle pulled up in front of the large, two-story house and shut off the engine. The key to the front door was in her pocket, but she wasn’t ready to go inside. Not yet. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she’d gotten here early. There was no sign of the Realtor. Taking a breath, she let it out and tried to relax as she studied the house.
The white siding could use an overall paint job and the emerald trim needed a touch-up. But if she closed her eyes, she could picture herself and her sisters, the three Clementine girls, on that wide porch drinking Grandma Frannie’s lemonade and giggling like the schoolgirls they’d been.
She hadn’t realized that she’d closed her eyes until she felt them burn with tears. Her guilt was like one of her grandmother’s knitting needles to her heart. Yes, she should have made it to Frannie’s funeral. She’d had her reasons, and they hadn’t all been out of embarrassment for the way her life had turned out.
Her grandmother would have understood because Annabelle had always been the favorite. At least, that’s what she told herself.
“You’re so much like me, Annabelle Clementine, that sometimes I swear you’ll be the death of me.” Then Grandma Frannie’s expression would soften and she’d press a cool palm to Annabelle’s cheek. “So much like me. It’s like seeing myself at your age.”
“That’s why I’m your favorite,” she’d say, and her grandmother would shake her head and laugh before telling her to run along outside.
But it had to have been true. Otherwise, why would Frannie have left her the only thing she had of any value—this house. And left it only to her instead of to all three sisters?
A tap on the passenger-side window startled her. Her eyes flew open, but it took a moment to chase away the bittersweet memories along with the guilt and the tears.
* * *
REALTOR MARY SUE Linton glanced at the silver sports car and shook her head. Leave it to Annabelle to show up in something like that. She shouldn’t have been surprised since this was the Annabelle Clementine she’d known since grade school.
She had been surprised, though, when her former classmate had called and asked Mary Sue to represent her in the sale. Not surprised. Shocked. The two of them had never been friends, traveling in a completely different circle of friends, even as small as the classes had been. The truth was that Annabelle hadn’t uttered two words to her throughout four years of high school. Did people still say stuck-up?
Blonde and blue-eyed, with a figure that Mary Sue would have killed for, Annabelle was The Girl Most Likely to Become Famous. At least, that’s what it had said in their senior class yearbook. Everyone knew Annabelle was going to be somebody. Annabelle had said it enough times.
But, then again, she’d also said that she would never come back to Whitehorse. And here she was.
Still, why come all this way to sell her grandmother’s house? Mary Sue had told her on the phone that she could deal with everything but the paperwork and save her the trip. She had expected Annabelle to jump at it. Instead, the woman had insisted on coming back to “handle” things.
“If you don’t trust me to get you the best price...” Mary Sue had started to say, “you can kiss my—”
But Annabelle had interrupted with, “It’s my grandmother’s house.”
Right. Just like it had been her grandmother’s funeral. Everyone in town had turned out. Annabelle’s two sisters had flown in and out. No Annabelle, though. So was Mary Sue supposed to believe the house had sentimental value to this woman? Not likely.
After tapping on the sports car window, she bent down and looked in. One glance and it was clear that her former classmate had aged well. She looked better than she had in high school. Mary Sue felt that old stab of jealousy.
She started to tap again, but to her surprise, Annabelle appeared to be furtively wiping away tears. Shocked at such a sign of emotion, Mary Sue was taken aback. Maybe she was wrong about Annabelle. Maybe she did have a heart. Maybe she did care about her grandmother. Maybe she even cared about this house and Whitehorse and the people she’d once snubbed.
The thought almost made her laugh though as her former classmate climbed out of the convertible sports car saying, “Okay, let’s get this over with so I can get out of this one-horse town.”
* * *
DAWSON UNLOADED THE horse trailer, parked it and went into the ranch house he’d built himself. He’d worked hard the past thirteen years and now had a place he was proud of on the family ranch. The oldest son of two, he’d had to take over helping his mother run the ranch after his father had died. He’d worked hard and was proud of what he’d been able to accomplish. Annabelle wasn’t the only one who’d done well over the years, he told himself with no small amount of defensiveness.
“Got a chip on your shoulder, do you?” he grumbled with a curse. He’d been thinking about her again. All the way to town he’d been trying to exorcize her from his thoughts with little luck. Before she’d left town, she’d made him feel as if he was never going to amount to anything. It still stuck in his craw.
He kept seeing her sitting in her car while he refueled it. She hadn’t even had the good grace to look at him—not to mention acknowledge that she’d once known him. Known him damned well, too.
Dawson gave that memory an angry shove away. When Annabelle Clementine had left town in a cloud of dust years ago, she’d said she was never looking back. Well, today proved that, didn’t it?
Worked up over his run-in with her, he told himself he just needed a hot shower and clean clothes. But as he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror, he came to a startled stop and had to laugh. He wouldn’t even recognize himself after two weeks in a hunting camp in the Missouri Breaks.
He stared at his grizzled face and filthy, camp-worn clothes, seeing what she’d seen today. Even if she had recognized him, seeing him like that would only have confirmed what she’d thought of him all those years ago. He looked like a man who wasn’t going anywhere.
Stripping down, he turned on the shower and stepped in. The warm water felt like heaven as he began to suds up in a fury. He just wanted that woman out of his hair—and his head. But his thoughts went straight as an arrow to that image of her standing beside the river. Her long blond hair gleaming in the sunlight and that black outfit hugging every unforgettable curve he’d once known so well. Growling, he turned the water to cold.
Out of the shower and toweling himself off, he looked at his reflection in the mirror again. Was it really possible that she hadn’t known him? He reached for his razor, telling himself it didn’t matter. With a curse, he acknowledged that he’d been lying to himself for years about his feelings for her—ever since that day he’d rescued her from his tree house when she was five.
And he’d rescued her again today, he thought with a curse. He just never learned.
* * *
ANNABELLE TOOK THE key from her pocket and opened her grandmother’s front door, Mary Sue Linton at her elbow. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside, bracing herself for more painful memories. Instead, shock stopped her cold just inside the door.
“You can’t sell the house like this,” Mary Sue said, stating the obvious next to her. “I thought you said your sisters cleaned everything out?”
“They said they took what they wanted.” She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her grandmother hadn’t been a packrat, she’d been a hoarder. The house was crammed full of...stuff. She could barely see the floor. The rooms appeared to be filled with furniture, knickknacks, stacks of newspapers and magazines, bags of clothing and clutter. The house looked more like a crowded old antique shop than a home. Unfortunately it didn’t take a trained eye to see that all of this wasn’t even junkshop worthy.
“What am I supposed to do with all of this?” she demanded. “I can’t very well have a garage sale this time of year. If there was anything in all this mess worth selling.” It was late November. Christmas was only weeks away.
Mary Sue shrugged. “You could hire someone to help you pack it all up. Unfortunately, the local charity shop can’t take most of this. If there are things you want to save—”
“No.”
“I was going to say that you could put them into a storage shed.”
Annabelle was shaking her head, overwhelmed as they worked their way along the paths through the house.
“Otherwise, I could give you some names of people who might be able to help you at least haul it out to the dump.”
“Great. How long is that going to take? I need to get this house on the market right away.” She followed the narrow trails, going from room to room, Mary Sue on her heels, until she reached what had once been a bedroom but now looked more like a storage room where a bomb had gone off.
“This is no normal hoarding,” Mary Sue said. “It looks like someone ransacked this room.”
Annabelle agreed it did appear that someone had torn into all the boxes and dumped the contents on the floor. Her grandmother before she died? Her sisters when they’d come back for the funeral?
“Look at the window,” Mary Sue said in a hoarse whisper as she grabbed Annabelle’s arm, her fingernails digging into tender flesh.
“Ouch.” She jerked free and kicked aside some of the mess to move to the window, which was now half open, the screen torn. “The lock is broken.”
Behind her, Mary Sue let out a shudder. “Someone broke in.”
That was the way it appeared, although she couldn’t imagine in her wildest dreams why they would want to. She closed the window and turned to find Mary Sue hugging herself.
“Whoever broke in isn’t here anymore,” she tried to assure the Realtor. “Let’s look upstairs. Maybe it’s better.” Unfortunately, the upstairs wasn’t any better; both bedrooms were stacked full of clutter, including her grandmother’s old room.
Back downstairs, she took another look at the front downstairs bedroom. It wasn’t quite as full as the others. She checked the closet, found what must be her grandmother’s clothing and assumed that, as Frannie got older, she’d moved downstairs.
“Could this be anymore outdated?” Mary Sue called from the kitchen.
“I think I can clean out one of the downstairs bedrooms so at least I’ll have a place I can stay,” Annabelle said as she joined her in the kitchen. The front bedroom downstairs had been hers growing up.
Mary Sue didn’t seem to hear her. Instead, she was frowning at the clipboard she had in her hands.
“What?” Annabelle demanded. “Don’t tell me there is another problem.”
“No, not exactly. But it is strange. This is a layout of the house I got from the records department at the courthouse,” she said, indicating the sheet on her clipboard. “That wall shouldn’t be there.”
“What?”
“This shows an alcove.”
“An alcove? Maybe it’s back there behind all the junk and you just can’t see it.”
Mary Sue’s frown deepened. “Do you remember an alcove from when you were growing up here?”
She was supposed to remember an alcove? Seriously? “No. The plans for the house must be outdated.”
“Not according to the courthouse. Your grandmother bought this house when she was in her twenties so she had it for...”
“She was seventy-six when she died, so she had it for more than fifty years.” Annabelle hadn’t realized how long Frannie had lived in Whitehorse until she’d seen it in the obituary that one of her sisters had sent her. It hadn’t been out of kindness that Chloe had mailed it to her. Her older sister had never been that subtle. Both Chloe and Tessa Jane—TJ—had tried to make her feel guilty about their grandmother leaving her the house—let alone Annabelle missing the funeral.
“Frannie owned this house almost from the time it was built,” Mary Sue was saying. “So if anyone made the changes, it had to have been your grandmother. Why would she wall up an alcove? I wonder what’s behind it?”
“Okay, you’re giving me the creeps now,” Annabelle said. “Clearly, you have the plans for the wrong house. Aren’t there a bunch of houses along this street with similar floor plans?”
Mary Sue nodded, but didn’t look convinced. “I can check at the courthouse again I guess. But you have to admit, if the plans are right, then it is more than a little odd to wall up the alcove, let alone—”
“You’re letting your imagination run away with you. You knew my grandmother.”
With a lift of one eyebrow, Mary Sue said, “She said her husband died before she moved to Whitehorse, but what if—”
“Seriously? You think my grandfather’s body is stuffed in there?”
“Ever seen the play Arsenic and Old Lace?”
“Frannie Clementine was one of the most kind and generous people in town. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Standing just over five feet, Frannie had been a tiny, sweet-tempered woman who loved kids, garage sales and cooking. She attended church every Sunday, come rain or shine or snow.
Annabelle could tell that Mary Sue was enjoying trying to scare her. Was it any wonder that they hadn’t been friends in high school?
“Just sayin’,” the Realtor said, clearly trying to hide a grin. “Did you know that since her death right before Halloween last month, kids are saying that this house is haunted?”
“That’s ridiculous. Just because she died in this house...” Annabelle tried to hide the shudder that moved through her at the thought. If one of her neighbors, old Inez Gilbert, hadn’t come over to check on Frannie, she would have been lost in all this mess for weeks. That thought did nothing to improve the situation.
“On Halloween some kids saw what they said was a ghost moving around in the house. They said it looked like an old woman dressed in all white and—”
“Stop,” Annabelle snapped, having had enough. The house was creepy as it was with all the memories, not to mention being filled to overflowing with collected junk. She really didn’t need this. “It was probably Inez from next door. The woman is a horrible busybody and always has been.”
If Mary Sue thought she could scare her, then she didn’t know what scary was. Unfortunately, Annabelle did. It was losing a dream job and a fabulous lifestyle, and being forced to do things she’d told herself she would never do, like return to this town and all the memories that came with it.
“The house isn’t haunted. There never was an alcove—”
Mary Sue tapped her clipboard. “But the plans—”
“The alcove isn’t here now so that’s all I care about. I need to get packing and you need to get this house sold. Just get me the names of people who will help clean it out.”
Right now, though, she needed a breath of fresh air and Whitehorse had plenty of that. She stepped out onto the front porch, letting the door close behind her. She’d known this wouldn’t be easy, but it was turning out to be more difficult than she could have imagined. The memories, the stories, the stupid missing alcove, not to mention all that junk. She definitely had more pressing things to worry about than a bunch of local kids thinking the house was haunted.
The clock was ticking, she thought, looking at her car, the last vestige of her former life other than the clothes on her back. She had to get this house sold.
* * *
MARY SUE GRITTED her teeth. Annabelle annoyed her to no end. “Hasn’t changed a bit,” she muttered. “Get me this, do this for me.” She looked around the house, her gaze going to the kitchen and the missing alcove. “I hope there is a body walled up in there—and a vindictive ghost who hates blondes.” That would serve Annabelle right.
She felt guilty, but only a little, for trying to scare her former classmate. But she was still puzzling over the missing alcove as she stepped out onto the porch. Her mother had been a Realtor. Maybe she’d ask her if she knew anything about the old Clementine house, as it was known around town. It sat along with a half dozen others on a street locally and affectionately known as Millionaire’s Row. The houses were large, a lot of them the same basic floor plan.
Mary Sue moved to the end of the porch to look back at the rock wall that marked the property line. On the other side of the wall was the Milk River. Between the house and the river, though, were large trees and an expanse of grass broken only by some cracked sidewalk that ended at an old garage that had seen better days.
“That should come down,” she said of the dilapidated structure and marked it on her sheet on her clipboard. Through the trees, she could make out only a portion of the neighboring house’s eaves in the distance. These really were beautiful old houses along this street, so private because of the old-growth trees and the huge lots. Not exactly Millionaire’s Row now, but definitely prime real estate in this town.
“So where can I reach you?” Mary Sue asked, turning to Annabelle who appeared distracted. Not that she could blame her. The supermodel had quite a job before her.
“You have my cell number and you know where to find me. I’ll be staying here.”
“In the house?” Mary Sue couldn’t help her surprise.
Annabelle turned to look at her. “Why wouldn’t I stay here?”
“No reason, except...” She remembered all the clutter and the fact that Frannie had died here. Not that unusual for a woman her age, but still, add to that the walled-up alcove... Mary Sue shivered.
While she had been trying to scare Annabelle earlier, she had to admit that the house had an odd feel to it. Maybe it was just her, but there was something... Or maybe she had managed to scare herself more than she had Annabelle and all because of that discrepancy in the floor plan—and the fact that someone had broken into the house and might come back.
She mentioned this to Annabelle who only waved away the idea. “It was probably kids. You know how teenagers are, an empty house, ghost story dares...”
Mary Sue didn’t know, but she had a feeling that Annabelle was all too aware of how kids like that acted because she’d been one. “I just thought you’d want to stay at the hotel, since that’s where your sisters stayed when they came home for the funeral.”
Annabelle made an angry sound under her breath. “They didn’t stay here? No wonder they didn’t take much—let alone tell me how full this house was. I thought they were here going through things. From what I can see, they didn’t take anything. You were the one who let them into the house with the key I sent you, right?”
Mary Sue sighed, wondering if Annabelle was going to blame her. “Yes, but I didn’t come inside. The house was left to you. I was the one who was responsible for opening the door and making sure it was locked when they left. That was all. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable going in the house without you.”
“So did they take anything?”
“Not as far as I could tell.” She shrugged. “I let them in, they went into the house, but only for a short period of time, they sat on the porch steps for a little while and then they left and I locked up. From what I saw, they took a few framed photographs, but I think that was about all.”
Annabelle looked as if she was going to blow a gasket. “I should have known they wouldn’t be of any help. That’s just great. Well, they’re not getting anything now. Not that there is anything worth keeping in there. From what I’ve seen, most of the stuff is on the way to the dump just as soon as I can get it loaded up. I’ll need help right away. Did you make those calls yet?”
Mary Sue tried not to bristle. “You do realize that tomorrow is Thanksgiving, right?” she asked. “And the day after that is Black Friday, when a lot of people in town will be shopping, either locally or driving the three hours to Billings.” Billings was the largest city in Montana and two hundred miles to the south. Mary Sue was planning to go down to shop with a couple of friends, spending the night at a hotel and making a trip out of it.
“Your point?”
“It’s going to be hard to find anyone to help this time of year,” she said, and added quickly before Annabelle could argue. “But let me make a few quick calls.” She hurriedly stepped off the porch and walked down the cracked driveway toward her car, phone in hand. Even though it was now close to freezing outside, she didn’t want to go back into the house. Nor did she want Annabelle to hear her phone conversations. When she told people who they would be working for, she expected them to balk.
A few minutes later, she returned to the porch where Annabelle was pacing. The model looked cold, but no wonder, since she was inappropriately dressed for Montana weather. Mary Sue guessed that she wasn’t anxious to go back inside the house, either. “I found a couple of men who are willing to help for thirty dollars an hour.”
“Thirty dollars an hour? I’m not asking them to remodel the house.” Annabelle looked through the window with a shake of the head as if calculating how many hours work was in there. “Forget it,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll do the packing myself. Where can I find some boxes?”
“Behind the town recycling center. But you aren’t going to be able to get very many into that car of yours. Are you sure you don’t want—”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“Okay, but once you get everything boxed up, you’re going to need a truck to take it either to the dump or a storage unit, if you decide to keep some of it.”
“Got it. I’ll deal with all that once it’s boxed up.”
“I have plans, otherwise...” Otherwise what? Did she really feel guilty about not offering to help? If Annabelle was too cheap to hire help, that was her problem.
With a wave of her hand, her former classmate dismissed her.
“All right, then let me know when the house is ready to go on the market,” Mary Sue said, not about to mention that the place would need to be cleaned. A nice coat of fresh paint in the rooms would also help. But she didn’t feel that Annabelle was up to hearing more bad news right now and Mary Sue wasn’t up to giving it.
Anyway, she was anxious to talk to her mother. As she walked to her car, her clipboard in hand, she tried to convince herself that she’d gotten the wrong floor plan from the courthouse.
Except she knew better. She prided herself on being thorough. Frannie had walled up the alcove. But why? And what was in the closed-up space?
* * *
“SHOULDN’T YOU BE ASLEEP?” the assisted-living nurse asked from his doorway.
Bernard “Bernie the Hawk” McDougal gave her the smile that had worked on women since he was a boy. Even at eighty-nine, the old mobster still could make a woman blush with no more than a wink and a grin. There might be snow on the roof, but it was still plenty hot down in the furnace.
“Just finishing up here,” he told her from his desk and waited until she moved on before he picked up the scissors again.
He pulled the newspaper clipping toward him, still shocked that he’d discovered it online while surfing for obits of women of a certain age. The moment he’d seen this one, he’d printed it out, but the resolution wasn’t good so he’d called the newspaper where it had run—the Milk River Courier—and had the paper overnighted to him.
It had arrived this afternoon while he was napping. When he’d awakened, he’d seen the envelope waiting for him on his desk and quickly torn into it. Inside he’d found the complete edition of that week’s Whitehorse, Montana, newspaper—all four pages of it.
Now he studied the face in the obituary mug shot. The photo didn’t do her justice. The one he’d seen on the internet had been much more flattering.
But no photo of his Baby Doll could hold a candle to the woman in the flesh—especially back when she was young. She’d been a blonde beauty. Tiny and gorgeous, she’d been exquisite. The kind of woman who stopped traffic and turned heads. She’d certainly turned his, he thought with a curse. And the things she’d put him through from the first time he’d laid eyes on her.
That was something else about her that had attracted her to him. She wasn’t intimidated by him or any of his goons. Oh, that woman had a mouth on her. She could cut a man down to size as if her tongue was a switchblade.
He chuckled to himself. He’d wanted her and would have married her, but she wasn’t having any of that. She liked being mysterious. Hell, he’d never known her real name. That first night at the party, he’d seen right away that she and her friend had crashed his little get-together on the posh rooftop of his favorite New York City restaurant. He’d thought about booting the two of them, but there was something about her.
She’d flirted with him but refused to tell him who she was, as if she thought he’d call her daddy to have her picked up and taken home. A few minutes with her and that was the last thing he planned to do.
“Okay, you want to play it coy? You’ll just be my Baby Doll, then,” he’d said, knowing even then that he had to have her.
“Baby Doll? I like that,” she’d said, coming off older than she was. She hadn’t been more than seventeen. Jailbait. Like that had stopped him. He had a reputation for going after whatever he wanted—and getting it. But then, so did Baby Doll as it turned out.
Opening the scissors, he began to slice the paper around her mug shot. Bernie couldn’t stand sloppiness. He liked things done a certain way. It had saved his life more than once and kept him from being behind bars.
Now he found himself looking into her eyes, remembering. This was her. There was no doubt about it. He’d thought he found her before, but this time... He wished he had been able to find a photograph of her when she was younger but there was nothing on the internet. Francesca Marie Clementine had kept a low profile. Another reason he was convinced that this woman was his Baby Doll.
Oh, those blue eyes. The memories of her in his arms. Just being with her had felt like living on the edge, she’d been that kind of woman. She kept his blood revved up. He’d known he could never get enough of her. He’d asked her to marry him more times than he liked to remember. He shook his head. While he’d only known her a short while, he’d thought he could trust her with his life, his secrets—and his loot. His first mistake.
That was the problem, wasn’t it? he thought as he clipped the photo free from the newspaper. He’d trusted a woman who hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him her real name.
“Come on, Baby Doll, tell me your name,” he used to tease her. “We can’t get married until I know exactly who you are.”
“Oh, you know who I am.” She’d smiled that coy smile of hers and said, “I’m Bernie McDougal’s Baby Doll. That’s enough. For now.” Her look had been a promise of a lot more to come and he’d been a goner. Oh, the swanky parties they’d attended, the fur coats and fancy dresses he’d clothed her in, the expensive champagne they’d guzzled, the money they’d burned through. Nothing was too good for his Baby Doll.
His stomach roiled at the memory. She’d blindsided him from the beginning, he thought, able to admit it now, more than fifty years later. He’d thought she was young and naïve. He’d never seen it coming.
The obit was short, but it did provide some useful information, such as where she’d been all these years—and that she was survived by her three granddaughters, Annabelle Clementine, Tessa Jane Clementine (TJ St. Clair) and Chloe Clementine. No husband. That didn’t surprise him.
He’d had to look up the town on the internet. Whitehorse, Montana. It surprised him that she’d disappeared to some wide spot out West. He’d always thought of her living it up in Paris or London, or even New York City where it had all begun. It was why he’d looked for her in the faces of every woman he’d passed all these years.
But Baby Doll had always been full of surprises, hadn’t she? He still couldn’t believe that she’d evaded him. He’d had his men looking for her as well as his associates. He’d put a price on her pretty head. And still nothing. It was as if she’d stepped off the face of the earth.
But he’d finally found her. The problem was, it seemed too late. She was dead. Which meant that she’d probably taken their secret to the grave. It filled him with regret. He would have loved to look into her eyes one last time before he killed her.
He took her photo, stuck a pin between her eyes and put it up on the bulletin board next to his desk. As he started to throw the rest of the newspaper away, his gaze lit on the name Clementine again.
It appeared to be a real estate ad. Moving the paper where he could see the ad, he saw that it read Clementine Place. His breath came out on a laugh. Of course. She’d owned a house and now it was for sale. A house where she’d kept her secrets. He told himself not to get his hopes up, and yet he was reaching for his phone since it was still early out in Montana.
Francesca’s house was for sale? Why hadn’t he thought of that? There were some things she wouldn’t have been able to take with her. That is, if she’d still had them when she’d died. She could have gone through everything a long time ago. Probably had. But there was only one way to find out.
He dialed the number of the Realtor who was selling the house. The newspaper was a week old. The house could have sold by now.
A woman named Mary Sue Linton answered on the third ring.
“I’m calling about a house you have for sale,” he said. “I believe it’s called Clementine Place?”
“That’s right. It just went on the market. What can I tell you about it?”
He had the photo of the house in front of him. But he couldn’t imagine Baby Doll living somewhere like that. It was too common after the penthouse they’d shared. It all came down to that one question that had niggled at him all these years. Why? Why take off like she had—let alone end up where she had? Which led to his second big question. What had she done with what she’d stolen from him?
“I’d like to send someone to look at it in the next few days,” he said. “Is that possible?”
“It’s not quite ready to show.”
Really? “I don’t care what kind of shape it’s in.”
“One of the relatives is in the process of cleaning everything out. I’m afraid Frannie was a...collector.” Yes, she’d collected a few things from him before she’d left. “But the house will be pristine in a few weeks if you’d like to see it then.”
Frannie? “You say a relative is cleaning it out?”
“Her granddaughter, Annabelle.”
His old heart thumped hard against his ribs. What if she’d already thrown it out? She had to be stopped. “Then I’ll check back with you.”
“That would be ideal.”
He hung up and made a call. “I need to see you. Now.”
Oh, Baby Doll, he said to himself as he disconnected. The woman had thought she’d outfoxed him. Soon she would be turning over in her grave. As for her granddaughter, she could be joining Frannie very soon.
Chapter Three (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Dawson hadn’t driven by the old Clementine place in years. After he’d cleaned up, he’d driven into town since there was still some daylight left in the winter day and his brother had called wanting to hear about his hunting trip. He’d told himself he wasn’t going near Annabelle’s grandmother’s house, but it was as if his pickup had a mind of its own.
There was a time that this neighborhood had been his second home. That was back when his best friend lived two doors down from Frannie Clementine’s house. Back when he and his best friend had built a tree house only to find five-year-old Annabelle in it and unable to get down.
With a bark of a laugh, he reminded himself that she hadn’t been filled with gratitude that time he’d saved her, either.
He slowed his pickup, surprised how long it had been since he’d driven through this neighborhood. His best friend had moved away years ago and once Annabelle left...
The house, on so-called Millionaire’s Row on the west side of town, sat on a huge lot surrounded by massive trees. Behind it, the water of the Milk River curved slowly past. An old single-car garage stood off to the side, looking like it needed to be torn down.
He pulled up on the opposite side of the street. There was a For Sale sign in the yard, which shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Mystery solved. Of course that was what had brought Annabelle back. She was planning to get rid of the house—the only thing still tethering her to Whitehorse now that her grandmother was gone.
Pulling under the protective boughs of a huge evergreen, he left the engine running and took in the home. He was wondering what Annabelle could get for the place when he saw a woman in a bandanna, a gaudy sweatshirt and a pair of baggy jeans come out. She carried a large box out the front door to the side of the porch closest to the driveway. Even from a distance, he could tell that the woman was covered in dust and dirt. So Annabelle had hired help. That, too, shouldn’t have surprised him, although he didn’t recognize the woman.
As she set the box at the open end of the porch, she stood to stretch, as if her back bothered her. A lock of blond hair escaped from beneath the bandanna. With a shock, he realized what he was seeing. Annabelle?
The sight of the supermodel looking like a janitor made him laugh and shake his head in disbelief. He was tempted to take a photo with his cell phone. But he could just imagine how horrified she would be if he did. He had barely recognized her, and not just because he suspected Annabelle had never done a day’s manual labor in her life. Surely she wasn’t packing up the entire house by herself.
But as he looked around, he saw that the only vehicle near the place was the silver sports car. Nor did anyone else emerge from the house carrying boxes as he sat watching, truck engine running. Why hadn’t she hired help? It was so unlike her.
A thought struck him like a swift kick to the shin. She’d said she’d forgotten to get gas, but what if... The idea was so preposterous that he laughed out loud as he put his pickup into gear to drive away. Whatever Annabelle was up to, it had nothin’ to do with him. He didn’t even know why he’d driven by.
His cell phone rang, making him jump. He really wasn’t good at this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He hit the brakes and quickly answered as he watched Annabelle put down another box, stretch and go back inside. As she glanced in his direction, he slowly let out the clutch and eased the pickup down the street, making sure he kept his head turned. The last thing he wanted was for her to think that he had any interest in her.
“You on your way?” his brother asked without preamble.
He’d lost track of time. “I am. Be right there.” He disconnected, hoping his brother’s invitation was only about having a beer. The way news traveled around this county, by now everyone could know that Annabelle Clementine was back in town—his brother Luke included. And that was a subject he didn’t want to discuss.
Luke was already sitting on a bar stool at the Mint when he walked in. Seeing him coming, Luke ordered him a Moose Drool and patted the stool next to him. “Some pretty nice weather for November, huh?”
“Uh-huh,” Dawson said, groaning inside. Luke was grinning like a jackass and it had nothing to do with the weather.
“Annabelle Clementine is back in town,” his brother blurted, as if unable to hold it in a second longer.
“Who?” Dawson asked innocently and took a sip of the beer the bartender set in front of him. Luke was as subtle as a horseshoe to the head. At least he’d been smart enough to know that Dawson would need a beer.
“Who?” Luke echoed. “Annabelle Clementine, or as you used to call her...Annie. You aren’t going to tell me that you’ve forgotten about the woman who—” His brother stopped and gave him a you-had-me-there-for-a-minute grin. “So, you already heard?” He sounded disappointed.
“Actually, I saw her.”
“No kiddin’? She still gorgeous? She say why she’s back?”
Dawson ran his thumb around the top of his beer bottle for a moment. Something stopped him from telling his brother about siphoning gas out of his pickup to practically fill her fancy sports car. “Saw her packing up at her grandmother’s house. She’s got the place for sale.” He took a sip of his beer.
“You just happened to be in that neighborhood, did you?” Luke couldn’t seem to get that goofy grin off his face. “She say how long she’s staying?”
“I said I saw her. Didn’t say I made a point of talking to her. So I wouldn’t know, but I think it’s a pretty good assumption that she’ll be hightailing it out of town just as quickly as she can,” he said without looking at his brother.
“Why didn’t you talk to her?” Luke asked.
“Why would I?”
“After all these years, I would think you’d be curious. Maybe it isn’t just her grandmother’s house that brought her back. Maybe—”
“It’s just her grandmother’s house.”
“You can’t know that. Maybe—”
“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Dawson asked, hoping to change the subject. Thinking about Annabelle gave him a headache. Talking about her was even worse. It had been years since he’d called her Annie, let alone allowed himself to even say the word. Annie was the woman he fell in love with. Annabelle was...well, she was a supermodel he didn’t know, didn’t want to know.
“Tomorrow?” Luke asked, as if confused by the quick change of subject.
“Thanksgiving Day.”
“Don’t remind me.” Luke took a drink of his beer, clearly upset that this was all he was going to get. He sighed. “I haven’t gotten my deer yet. But you know Mom. Said not to be late. She’s invited some of the neighbors.”
Dawson nodded, smiling to himself at the thought of their mother. There was no one quite like Wilhelmina “Willie” Rogers. She’d managed to raise both of her sons on her own after their father died when they were boys—and run the ranch, as well. When it came to anyone who needed a hot meal, Willie was always ready to rustle something up. His mother equated love with food. She spent half her time making casseroles for anyone who’d fallen on hard times or families who’d had an illness. Anyone in town die? The family would have a dish on their doorstep within the hour.
“Mom said we both better be there,” Luke said. “She already read me the riot act about going deer hunting beforehand. Speaking of hunting, how’d you do down in the Breaks? Get anything worth bringing home and stringin’ up?”
Dawson shook his head. “I saw one big buck, but didn’t get a shot.” The truth was, he loved hiking around looking for deer and elk, but when he still had plenty of meat in the freezer, he wasn’t much for killing anything. He wasn’t a trophy hunter.
Two weeks in hunting camp with some buddies, though, was a tradition he wasn’t apt to miss. He liked sleeping out under the stars, working his way through rugged country during the day, eating food cooked over a camp stove and sitting around the fire later, listening to his friends’ outrageous stories before climbing into his bedroll. He always slept like the dead at hunting camp.
Not that he wasn’t glad to get home to a hot shower and his own bed.
“Any idea how much the old Clementine place might go for?” Luke asked.
“Haven’t given it any thought.”
“Still, you have to admit it’s strange that Annabelle wouldn’t let Mary Sue handle it so she didn’t have to come back here,” Luke said. His brother was dating Mary Sue’s younger sister, Sally. “Unless the house wasn’t the only reason she’s back,” he said, clearly baiting him. “Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“What makes me wonder is what your interest in all this is,” Dawson said and looked over at his brother.
“Actually, I find your apparent so-called lack of interest more fascinating. You don’t think I didn’t know how you felt about her? Now she’s back. You aren’t even going to stop by her place and talk to her?” Luke shook his head. “My big brother, as it turns out, is a coward.”
“It’s not going to work,” Dawson said and drained the rest of his beer.
“The brother I knew would have given his left arm for that woman,” Luke said. “He wouldn’t pass up a possible second chance to be with her. You telling me you don’t still feel somethin’?”
Dawson shook his head as he stood. “I’m not tellin’ you anything. I’ll let my walkin’ out of here speak for itself. Thanks for the beer.”
Luke sighed. “Fine, have it your way, you stubborn jackass. But you’re going to be sorry.”
“I’ve been sorry before. Tell Mom I’ll stop by early tomorrow to see if she needs any help.”
“You always have to be the good son, don’t you? I’m going deer huntin’. Save me a place at the table just in case I get something and run late.” The door closed on his last words.
Even as Dawson started his pickup, he knew he was going to do it. And it made him madder than hell. He turned down the street. It wasn’t late, but it was already dark this time of year. Deep shadows hunkered in the trees. The temperature had dropped.
As he drove by her house, he saw that the light was on. There were more boxes stacked up under the porch roof. He turned out his headlights as he stopped across the street again. Several large pines blocked most of the house, but he would get glimpses of her inside working.
There was still no sign of anyone helping her. “What’s going on, Annie?” he asked in the dark cab of his truck. If she didn’t get out of town before the next snowstorm, she probably wouldn’t be able to in that impractical car of hers. He doubted she had snow tires on it since she’d been living in California. Not that they would help much. A car like that would get high-centered on the first snowdrift across the highway. Hell, she’d be lucky if she could get out of her driveway.
Dawson reminded himself that it wasn’t his problem. And yet he couldn’t help thinking about what his brother had said back at the bar. Unfortunately, he’d already been a fool when it came to her. He liked to think he was too smart to do it again as he watched her pass in front of the large picture window. She looked exhausted. How many hours had she been packing up her grandmother’s things by herself?
But even from this distance, he could see the determination in her expression, in the way she moved. There had never been a more stubborn woman, he thought, as he turned on his headlights again and headed for the ranch.
* * *
ANNABELLE HURT ALL OVER. She closed another box on more of her grandmother’s chipped and cracked knickknacks, but realized she was too tired to take it out to the porch. For hours, she’d been boxing up her grandmother’s junk. Now she looked around the room with growing discouragement. She’d thought she was making progress, but she hadn’t even made a dent in all this...stuff.
Earlier she’d removed what she could from the front bedroom. Her grandmother had been using the one in the back of the house opposite the shared bathroom. Apparently, she’d turned the bedroom Annabelle had chosen into an extra wardrobe. An array of ugly, gaudy sweatshirts was hanging in the closet. Each was bedazzled with anything shiny you could tack onto it. Where did the woman find these horrific things? A lot of them were seasonal, with Santas, elves, Christmas lights, overdecorated wreaths, even an Easter egg one that was so bright it could put an eye out.
Not wanting to ruin the last of the good clothes that she hadn’t sold to pay for the trip north, she’d changed into one of the less garish ones, a sweatshirt with a bejeweled clown face, along with a pair of her grandmother’s pull-on jeans that she had to tie around her waist so they’d stay up, a pair of sneakers and socks with lacy tops. They’d do to work in.
After she’d decluttered the bedroom, she cleaned. She’d discovered some laundered sheets and made the bed so it would be ready for tonight. Then she’d gone down to the recycling building in town and loaded as many boxes as she could into her car by putting smaller ones into larger ones and holding some out the window as she drove.
Back at the house, she’d started dumping the worst of the junk into boxes and carrying them out to the porch.
Now she just wanted to sit down. You were so right, Mary Sue. I really could have used some help. But not at thirty dollars an hour. And no one was going to work for her with only the promise of getting paid after the house sold.
She wandered into the kitchen, one of the only rooms that had chairs that weren’t covered with junk. As full as the place was, she couldn’t help but be thankful to her grandmother. Frannie had never had a lot of money, but in the will she’d made sure that the taxes and utilities were paid six months in advance.
Clearly, she’d known what a job it was going to be to clean out this house and sell it.
Brushing an errant lock of hair back from her dirty face, Annabelle wondered if her grandmother had also somehow figured that she was going to need financial help. Six months was generous. Frannie had to have known that Annabelle wouldn’t be staying that long. But it definitely allowed her time to get the house sold.
She glanced around the kitchen, tempted to fill another box with the ceramic knickknacks that crowded the windowsill. Her grandmother had saved everything. Was it an old lady thing? Or had her grandmother lost her mind before the end? She couldn’t understand how the woman had been able to live here with junk piled waist high throughout the house. It seemed at odds with the woman who’d raised Annabelle most of her life.
But it was also odd that her grandmother had willed the house to her and not her sisters. It still bothered her. “Why, Grandma Frannie? Why leave the house to just me?” she asked the knickknacks. Several frogs looked back at her with big, dusty eyes. Maybe TJ was right. Frannie had left the house to the granddaughter she thought would need the most help.
At the time, Annabelle had been furious at such an insinuation. Now she wondered if her grandmother hadn’t been the only one who’d expected her to fail. Maybe everyone had seen it coming but Annabelle herself.
For whatever the reason, this house was now hers and unless she got it sold and soon... She shook her head, stood and reached for the ceramic bric-a-brac.
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t even thought about food—until this moment. For years she’d had to watch her weight. She still wasn’t used to being able to eat anything she wanted. Now she could give in to her hunger. It was a new feeling. One that signaled more than anything that she would never be modeling again. Too bad she couldn’t afford to eat.
She pushed that thought away. Looking down at the hideous clothes she was wearing, she told herself that she couldn’t go to the grocery store, even in Whitehorse, in this outfit—even if she had any cash. She stood for a moment, feeling lost and close to tears. As she put one of the ceramic creatures into the box she was loading, she spied a container that her grandmother had used for her grocery money.
She was reminded of the time Grandma Frannie had caught her red-handed with her fingers in it and felt a stab of remorse for even having thought about taking the money, let alone getting caught. But mostly what she felt was regret that she hadn’t come back to see the grandmother who’d loved her so much.
That day, her hand literally in the cookie jar, Annabelle had fished around for an excuse. Her grandmother had stopped her and said, “If you’re going to steal, then own it. Same with getting caught,” her grandmother had said. “Lying and sniveling makes you look weak.”
With a sigh, she now lifted the lid of the container, telling herself it would be empty. Reaching inside, her fingers brushed something. She pulled out a handful of crinkled-up twenties and began to cry.
“Grandma,” she said, her voice breaking. She swallowed the lump in her throat and wiped at her tears. Frannie had known she was going to need money. She was the one her grandmother had known would fail. As much as that hurt, her heart filled to bursting with love for her grandmother, who was still looking out for her after all these years. Because someone needed to, that was for sure.
There were enough bills to keep her from going hungry for a while. She said a whispered thank-you to her grandmother and glanced at her watch. Did she really have the energy to shower and change to go to the grocery store to get something to eat?
The answer was a resounding no. If she sneaked in and out of the only grocery store in town quickly, hopefully she wouldn’t see anyone she knew.
* * *
ROBERT “ROB” MCDOUGAL saw that it was his uncle calling and ignored the call. The old mobster probably just wanted to bitch about the way-too-expensive assisted-living facility where he’d been the past four years.
Since Rob was paying almost twenty grand a month to keep him in the resort-like place, he didn’t have much sympathy. It was a deal his old man had made with the “family.”
Rob wasn’t stupid enough to renege on the agreement, since that would get him killed. But he didn’t have to listen to the old man’s constant complaining. Nor was he in the mood to indulge his uncle.
But when his phone rang once again and he saw that it was Bernie calling yet another time, he finally listened to the original message his uncle had left.
“I have a job for you. A real one. Get your butt out here. This is urgent family business.”
Urgent family business? Rob groaned. What now? He didn’t bother to call his uncle back. He simply texted that he was on his way to Golden Years Retirement Living and Spa.
The moment he walked into his uncle’s room, the old codger patted the arm of his wheelchair and said, “Let’s take a walk.”
In his uncle’s generation that might have meant he was about to die. But he didn’t think Bernie had a gun on him or a garrote or even a butter knife from the kitchen. But you never knew.
“What’s this about?” Rob asked impatiently as he pushed the old man’s wheelchair out to the canal after getting a special pass at the main desk to do so. It was hot as hell, even though it was late at night, but it often was this far south. Florida. He hated it. He missed the change of seasons up north. But as long as Bernie was alive... And the old codger didn’t seem to be aging in the least.
“Isn’t this far enough?” Rob asked, swatting at a mosquito as he kept an eye out for alligators. Each year down here alligators attacked ten people on average. They snatched pets from the sides of pools, grabbed little kids and even ate a few adults, twenty-three since 1948, he’d read. Walking along the canal always made him nervous.
His uncle finally signaled they could stop. Looking around he checked to make sure they were alone. They were. Rob was losing patience. His shirt was soaked with sweat and sticking to his back. He swatted at another bug flying around his head and swore under his breath.
“The Marco Polo Heist,” Bernie said.
Rob felt his stomach twist. He’d grown up without a father because of that heist. Everything had gone perfectly until an off-duty guard had shown up. His father and one of the other thieves had been killed. Only one of the thieves had gotten away clean—Bernie. The cops had known Bernie was involved but they’d never been able to prove it.
Bernie had walked away with the loot—which was never recovered since, according to his uncle, it had been stolen right out from under his nose. It had been the only black stain on the mobster’s otherwise glowing criminal career—and something that remained stuck in the old man’s craw.
“I have a lead on the goods,” his uncle said.
After more than fifty years and a lot of blind alleys and wild-goose chases? Rob stared at him. “It just came to you?”
Bernie cuffed him in the back. “Don’t be a damned fool. I know you think I’m getting senile, but I’m as sharp as a shank.”
Right, Rob thought as he watched the old man dig a newspaper clipping out of his pocket.
“That’s her,” his uncle said, handing him the black-and-white photo. “Francesca Clementine.” When Rob had no reaction, he added impatiently, “Baby Doll.”
The notorious Baby Doll. Rob wanted to laugh. He’d had to hear about her all of his adult life. The moll who’d broken Bernie’s heart and stolen a king’s fortune from him.
“That’s her?” He couldn’t help being skeptical. They’d been here before.
His uncle nodded and handed him the obit. He read it, trying not to roll his eyes. “Whitehorse, Montana?” He couldn’t be serious.
Bernie smiled. “Her house is coming up for sale.”
“You want me to buy the house?”
“Hell, no. Too obvious. We don’t want to call attention to any of this. The Feds are still watching me.” Rob doubted this but said nothing. “There are too many people still looking for the loot, you know what I’m saying?”
Just like they were still looking for Jimmy Hoffa.
“You need to leave right away,” Bernie said, keeping his voice down, apparently afraid the Feds were listening from the mangroves beyond the canal. They’d had to come all the way out here by the canal with the wild alligators because his uncle was convinced that his room was bugged. “I think you can handle this alone. Better that way.”
Rob nodded, telling himself he wasn’t going to Montana on some wild-goose chase.
“I’m depending on you,” Bernie said and grabbed his hand to squeeze it hard. “I trust you, Robby.”
“Rob,” he corrected for the millionth time. Nor had he been chosen because his uncle trusted him. There was no one else who would do it. He had been appointed his uncle’s babysitter. Not that the family didn’t still fear Bernie. The old man had his connections. It was why Rob came when his uncle called, eventually. But Montana?
The doctor had said Bernie didn’t have more than a year to live. But that was four years ago. Tough as old pigskin and meaner than a junkyard dog, the old man had defied modern science with just stubborn determination alone, Rob thought.
“I’m honored that you would trust me to take care of this,” he said.
His uncle chuckled and met his eye. “Honored. And smart. You know what will happen to you if you don’t come back with my goods.”
His goods. Arrogant bastard. “Let’s say this dame is your...Baby Doll.”
“Don’t call her a dame, okay?”
“What if she still didn’t have any of it when she died?” Rob asked for the sake of argument. “What if she’s been selling it off? After all, it’s been over fifty years.”
Bernie shook his head. “I would have heard if any of it had turned up. She took all of it, the cash, the jewels, the gold. I’m betting she still had it when she died. Just to show me,” he said, admiration in his tone. “She willed the house to one of her granddaughters, someone named Annabelle Clementine. The Realtor made it sound like I should know who she was.”
Rob shrugged. “Never heard of her.”
“Apparently she’s getting the house ready to sell. Take care of her and soon. She might throw out something not realizing what it is. Just don’t call attention to yourself or her. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.”
“No,” Rob said. But he hadn’t done any wet work in years. He didn’t want to start again. “Tomorrow is Thanksgiving—”
His uncle shot him a look of disbelief and the rest of the words in Rob’s mouth dried up. “When you find my loot you’ll want to take off with the whole lot, but you won’t. You know why?”
He shook his head even though they’d had this discussion before, since his uncle never got tired of telling him.
“Because there’s a curse on the loot, but nothing like the curse that would be on you. Take me back to my room and then get on a plane. You can’t waste any time. If that house sells before you get there...or the granddaughter finds the goods...”
Rob nodded since there was nothing else he could do.
“There’s one more thing,” Bernie said. “I doubt I’m the only one to recognize Baby Doll. Nor am I the only one who’s been looking all these years.” Rob doubted that was the case but kept his trap shut. “Which means you won’t be alone even if the Feds aren’t wise to her. There’s the insurance company guy who had to pay out all those years ago, not to mention the museum curator who swore he’d get his priceless jewels back and see me in prison.”
Rob didn’t bother to mention that both of those guys were probably dead by now.
“So watch your back,” his uncle said. “If they recognized Baby Doll like I did... You know our photos were all over the society pages. Me and Baby Doll at the swankiest parties. She was some woman.”
* * *
DAWSON KICKED AROUND his house, unable to settle more than a few minutes in any one place. He’d cleaned the kitchen after making himself some dinner, washed his hunting clothing, unpacked all his gear and even put clean sheets on his bed.
He’d been looking forward to that bed all the way from the hunting camp, but even though he was bone-weary tired, he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Sadie didn’t have that problem. She was curled up on her bed in front of the fireplace, snoring softly.
At a hard knock on his door, he started. His first thought was Annabelle. She’d come to thank him for the gas and apologize for not saying something earlier. His heart began to pound until he reminded himself how unlikely that was. He told himself it better not be Luke with more news about Annabelle. He thought about not answering the door, but the knock was so insistent...
He opened the door and blinked when he saw that it was his neighbor from the adjoining county. “Cull?”
“Sorry to bother you so late,” the cowboy and horse rancher said. “I was riding fence earlier and you’ve got some barbed wire down that I thought I better warn you about. I did what I could, but I’m worried you’re going to have cattle out on the county road if you can’t get it fixed soon.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” He liked Cull McGraw. He liked all the McGraws, actually, and was glad to have them as neighbors. Anyone else might not have bothered to tell him until his cattle were running wild. “You want to come in? I think there’s a couple of beers in the fridge.” Suddenly he didn’t want to be alone.
“Thanks, but I need to get on home,” Cull said, and he realized his neighbor was probably anxious to get home to his wife. “Maybe some other time.”
He closed the door and turned back to his empty house. Empty. Funny, but he’d never thought of it that way until... He swore. Until Annabelle’s return. Cursing himself, he began to turn out lights. After making sure the screen was on the fireplace, he headed for bed.
Behind him, he heard the soft patter of four feet as Sadie decided to join him. He told himself the pup was all he needed for company as he heard her lie down on the floor at the foot of his bed.
But the moment he was between the cool sheets, his thoughts spun back to Annabelle, his first love, his first lover. What was he going to have to do to get her out of his system?
Chapter Four (#u56479bed-8e18-5f6a-96ad-3f1cae72912a)
Whitehorse, Montana. Rob swore as he sat for a moment in the dark in the parking lot of the expensive nursing home. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time Bernie had been convinced he’d found Baby Doll. Before, it had been some old woman in Maine. Then one in California. Another in Maryland. Oh, and that one in Tennessee.
Now Whitehorse, Montana? He’d gone on too many wild-goose chases, all of them dead ends. None of the women had been Baby Doll. None of them had had the loot. All they had in common was that they were six feet under now.
He pulled the photocopied snapshot and obit from his pocket and looked at them again. Francesca Clementine? At least he wouldn’t have to kill this one—she was already dead. But the granddaughter wasn’t, he reminded himself.
He debated not going and telling the old man that he had and that Francesca Clementine wasn’t his Baby Doll. It would break the old man’s heart, but it wasn’t the first time. After all, what were the chances that this Francesca Clementine had even been to New York City, let alone had a love affair with a mobster and stolen a king’s ransom in already stolen loot? Less than nil.
So why waste his time? Just give it a few days and then report back to Bernie... It was a gamble, though. He suspected the old man had Alzheimer’s or dementia and his brain was more pickled than his aunt’s canned beets.
But that didn’t mean Bernie wasn’t dangerous. He still could make Rob’s life a living hell. That’s if he didn’t just cut bait and have Rob killed.
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B.J. Daniels
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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