by Lisa Jackson
Lucas could feel the electricity, the sizzle of a disturbance in the night air.
Lying on his messy bed in the bunkhouse, he was alone, the windows open, the sounds of the night creeping through. Crickets chirping, frogs croaking, and a mosquito buzzing around his head and something else, something he couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, but sensed. Heat from the warm day seeped through his window, and he thought about the difference in the summer weather, about how the night before a storm had passed through, the wind howling, the rain lashing.
The night Elle had disappeared.
Guilt tore a hole in his gut as he stared through the window over his bed and heard, far off, over the distant rush of the sea, the sound of a semi, engine rumbling, brakes growling and echoing off the hillside as the trucker slowed and descended from the high point on the ridge near the cape, driving closer.
As was the case these nights, he thought of Bernadette and he felt his cock twitch, start to harden. He was always horny this summer, always, sex forever heating his blood. Just the sight of one of the counselor’s butts in their tight shorts, or a glimpse of a breast held in place by the flimsy straps of a swimsuit caused his blood to heat and drove him to distraction.
He fought his urges and tried to avoid temptation by working doubly hard around the camp, cleaning the stalls, fixing the fences, chopping and hauling firewood, repairing the roof or porch or stacking hay, grooming the horses, swinging a hammer, anything physical to keep his mind off sex. He swam, rowed, ran for miles, pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, and was in the best physical shape of his life.
Throwing off the top part of his sleeping bag, he rolled out of bed and stretched his muscles, thought about Bernadette less than a quarter of a mile away. He was focused on her now, wondering if this is what love felt like, then reined in his thoughts, wouldn’t let them wander too far down that dangerous path.
But he’d love to go to her cabin, tap on her door, and pull her out into the night. They could come back here and explore each other’s bodies—make love—all night long. He was getting hard again just thinking of the possibilities. Her lips, her mouth, her wet, warm tongue, and her breasts, and the curve of her rump, the hollow of her back, the way her hair curled and fell around her face . . .
And . . . yep, he was rock hard, his boner stiff to the point of almost being painful.
Just like that.
He should go for a run, swim in the lake, jump into the ocean, or take a damned cold shower—anything! His mind was whirling, but the need for sex, for release, was still there, front and center, a damned ache teasing him, reminding him that Bernadette with her perfect, warm, willing body was just five minutes away . . . .
Angry, still feeling that something wasn’t right tonight, he pulled on his jeans, dealt with his cock, stuffing the damned thing under his fly, then reached for the T-shirt he’d flung on the floor. When he caught a whiff of rank BO on the grubby cotton, he tossed it into a corner and grabbed a cleaner shirt from a shelf mounted on the bare cedar walls.
Telling himself he wasn’t going to see Bernadette, that he was just going to walk off the heat in his blood and the guilt in his heart, he slipped on tennis shoes and headed out. With a look over his shoulder, he glanced toward the stable and the patch of light glowing from a high window—Dusty’s room. So the ranch hand wasn’t sleeping either.
He took a path that skirted the cluster of buildings near the parking area, which was lit by a few security lights, their bluish illumination casting the structures and the surrounding trees in an unearthly light.
He swung his gaze toward the rec center and office. The second story was dark, his father’s little family tucked in for the night, except that Naomi wasn’t sleeping with her husband. Not tonight. Temporarily at least, she was bunking in the cabin that had been assigned to Elle, to try to comfort the worried campers who had been assigned to the missing counselor and assure the girls that they were safe, that “Sister Elle” had just taken sick for a few days. Elle’s charges, and the rest of campers, weren’t buying the story. It was just a stopgap measure at best, but, for now, Naomi was bunking down with the girls.
Not that he cared where his stepmother claimed a bed.
Not anymore.
As for Elle? God, please, that she’ll show up. And soon. That she was safe.
She was, and always had been, a little weird. Beautiful, but offbeat, a devout girl, Elle was a member of his father’s congregation, and Jeremiah had wholeheartedly approved of his son’s involvement with the girl.
“She’s a good one,” Jeremiah had told him on more than one occasion. “I couldn’t have picked a better woman for you.”
The last time had been here, at the camp, when his father had come into the stable where Lucas had been brushing Blondie, the palomino mare that both Leah and Naomi favored.
Jeremiah had leaned over the rail of the stall, watching his son with a practiced eye.
“I take it you’re not talking about the horse,” Lucas had said, guessing where the conversation was going.
Jeremiah chuckled, but it had sounded phoney, false to Lucas’s ears. “No, son, I was remarking about your interest in Eleanor. She’s the good one I was talking about.”
Lucas hadn’t responded.
“You know,” his father had said, his voice lowered for reasons Lucas couldn’t fathom. “Her father is a deacon in the church, her mother teaches Sunday school and Bible study. I really couldn’t have picked a better woman for you if I’d tried.”
“We’re just dating,” Lucas had pointed out.
“So far, son, but y’know, when it comes to picking out a wife and a life partner—”
Lucas whipped around, startling the horse that had shied and backed farther into the small stall. “I don’t think you’re the best one to suggest who I should pick. First of all, I’m not lookin’ for a wife, not yet, and secondly, you don’t exactly have a great track record in that department.”
His father’s congenial expression had changed, his lips tightening, his eyes narrowing, his face reddening. “You’re an insolent pup.”
“Probably.”
“You need to learn to respect your elders.”
“Then maybe my ‘elders’ should handle themselves in a manner where they earn my respect.”
“You little . . .”
Lucas’s eyebrows raised as he’d silently encouraged his father. “What?”
“God will be your judgment.”
“As He will be yours.”
Lucas had braced himself, ready to vault the gate to the box and tear into the old man, but nothing had happened and he’d relaxed a bit, turning back to the mare. “It’s all right, girl,” he said, taking up the currycomb again and sliding it gently along the palomino’s back. As he listened he heard his old man take his leave.
He liked Elle. A lot. But the fact that his old man approved of the relationship, had almost insinuated that he’d handpicked “Eleanor” for his wayward son, had made Lucas second-guess his choice. And no way was he thinking of marriage. Funny how his father had talked about Elle being a good choice for a wife about the same time Elle had started pressuring him to commit, had told him she wanted to get engaged or get married. She’d even suggested eloping a couple of weeks before he’d met Bernadette. What the hell had that been about? Neither one of them was old enough or mature enough to think of marriage.
Now, as he made his way along the path, Lucas hoped to hell she would show up soon. With each passing hour that Elle wasn’t found, he grew more anxious, more worried, more guilt-riddled.
What had happened to her?
Had he been the last one to see her?
He thought about the rumor of a prisoner at large, a murderer no less, news he barely believed. Really? A killer just happened to escape a transport a few days ago and ended up here at Camp Horseshoe to what? Kidnap Elle? Or . . . worse? It seemed unlikely. Really unlikely.
And yet he couldn’t discount it. Not completely.
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He broke into a jog once he was past the kitchen and on the familiar path that eventually led to the girls’ cabins. The light was dimmer here, no glow from the lights at the hub of the camp, and he squinted to make out the twists and turns in the trail.
The howl of a coyote rent the night air and he felt his muscles bunch. A primal reaction. That was all. He was on still on edge and . . .
A twig snapped.
Nearby.
He stopped. Listened. Ears straining.
Nothing out of the ordinary, just the hiss of the wind sighing through the fir-needled boughs.
Just his nerves.
And the feeling that the universe was a little off-kilter tonight.
One more step and he heard a rush of air. Whoosh! And frantic footsteps above a primal growl.
What the hell?
BAM!
He was knocked off his feet. An assailant, all muscle, sinew, and anger, knocked him onto a carpet of needles and pinecones.
“You cocksucker!” his attacker hissed. David. His stepbrother. Furious. Out of control. “You fuckin’ cocksucker!”
Bam! A fist landed against his jaw.
Crack! Pain exploded through Lucas’s face.
In a blinding instant his own fingers clenched into fists. Pummeling upward, he tried to land his own series of blows to the angry swinging blur that was now attached to him. Striking him. So incensed that there was murder in David’s eyes.
“You stay away from her!” David snarled, managing to straddle Lucas and pin his arms to his side, making further attempts to hit the bastard futile.
Lucas squirmed and rocked, trying to dislodge him. Though David’s strong legs were holding him down, Lucas still was able to move and kept kicking, trying to pull his arms free, to no avail. David was tough, worked out, rode horses, had thighs of steel, and they were banded around Lucas’s chest.
“You hear me? She’s fuckin’ off-limits!” Incensed, David hauled back and swung again, but Lucas shifted and the blow slid down his face.
David drew back to hit him again and in the shadowy moonlight Lucas caught a glimpse of the hatred, pure and bitter, seething in his stepbrother’s eyes.
With a ferocious growl, David threw the punch just as Lucas flexed every muscle in his body, arching his back like a bucking bronco. Too late! David smashed his fist into Lucas’s face. The blow glanced off his nose. Something popped beneath his skin and a sickening warmth gushed out his nostrils.
But the force of the blow coupled with Lucas’s gyration caused David to lose his balance. His legs slackened their grip a bit as he tried to right himself.
Again Lucas arched, his back muscles screaming in pain as he flipped over and David toppled. In one quick motion, Lucas rolled to his feet and swung around, ready to tear his stepbrother limb from limb. He leapt as David was staggering to his feet and they went down again, this time rolling and landing blows, Lucas giving far better than he got.
He felt his chin split with one of David’s jabs, but he cocked his fist and swung back and struck hard, pain bursting in his hand as his knuckles smashed into his stepbrother’s cheek with a sickening, splitting crack.
David howled and tried to scoot away. Hand to his face, blood streaming from his chin, he yelled, “You just stay away from her, you hear. Leave my mother alone!”
Naomi?
This is about Naomi?
They hadn’t been together in a long while. Lucas had stopped seeing her when he and Elle . . .
“I saw you humping her. Fucking her! You stay the hell away from her!” He was on his feet now, walking quickly backward. “Or next time . . . next time I’ll . . . I’ll fuckin’ kill you!” He backed up, pointing an arm and accusing finger at Lucas. “You hear me, Dalton, you try it again and you’re a fuckin’ dead man!” Turning, he took off running and was swallowed into the dark forests while Lucas caught his breath and wiped his nose, deciding whether or not give chase.
To what end?
To teach the little prick a lesson?
Yeah! He deserved it, Lucas thought, spitting, the coppery smell of blood in his nostrils. His brief but hot affair with his stepmother was months over, but apparently not in David’s small mind.
Jaw set, Lucas broke into a run, but after less than ten strides he slowed to a stop. What would he do if he caught up with David? Really wail on him? Maybe involve Ryan as well? His jaw worked and his fists curled, a fight still burning in his gut. He’d love to punch both their smug lights out.
But you did screw with their mother.
“Shit.” He kicked at a clod of dirt. It didn’t matter to them that Naomi had been the seductress and really, did he blame them? If one of them had hooked up with his mother, how would he have felt? Would his reaction be any less volatile? He closed his eyes as he thought about Isabelle. She was gone. Dead. His stepbrothers would never . . . “Oh, fuck!” he growled under his breath, and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead at the thought. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Though his blood was still boiling, and if he were honest he would have loved to beat David to a pulp, he restrained himself, tried to cool his blood. He ran both hands through his hair and stared up at the moon. What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he leave women alone? Especially those he knew to be trouble, those with red flags plastered all over their tempting bodies. He glanced down at his once-white T-shirt and even in the dim starlight noticed the blood and dirt smeared all over it.
As the shirt was ruined, he tore off a strip around the hem and used it as a bandage, holding it under his dripping nose as he took a deep breath and decided to call it a night, even though he was still on edge, still randy, still itching for a fight. If anything, David’s attack had only heightened his restlessness, his need to do something.
And the night still seemed uneasy, a raw, malevolent energy in the air.
It’s just because your blood is up. Because of the fight.
But, no, he’d sensed it before and knew the girls had been planning something.
Should he try to find Bernadette? Rubbing the back of his neck, the urge to see her strong, he glanced down the fork in the trail, now dark, but one branch leading to the girls’ campgrounds. Maybe . . .
He heard a footfall.
Shit! David is back.
Good!
Involuntarily, he flexed, turned on his heel, cracked his neck. Bloody fists curling so hard they hurt, his teeth clenched, he was ready. Bring it on, you dumb fuck. Bring it on!
Another footstep.
But not from the path where David had disappeared, from the other direction, where the trail split and angled into the web of pathways leading to the cliffs above the sea.
So the dickwad had doubled back. Good. Lucas spun, ready to leap, every nerve ending humming.
A dark figure appeared, the shape of a man emerging from the shadows. Moving oddly, nearly staggering, it stumbled forward.
What the hell?
“Lucas . . .” The voice was raspy, almost guttural. “Lucas . . . help . . . God, help me.”
Tyler? This is Tyler? Not David, returning to the fight?
What the fuck?
Groaning, shuddering, falling to his knees, Tyler Quade looked up at Lucas, his face pale and bloodless, his mouth gaping. “I-I’m fucked,” he spat out, blood on his lips as he fell forward, dropping facedown into the dirt, the hilt of a knife visible in his back, the blade buried deep.
CHAPTER 20
Portland, Oregon
Now
Jayla
“Excuse me, who are you again?” Jayla asked the small woman standing on her front porch. The wind was picking up, pushing the wet leaves around the yard, and she noticed a small black car—maybe a Chevy—parked in her drive. “Kylie who?”
“Kinley. Kinley Marsh,” she replied. “I was a camper when you were a counselor at Camp Horseshoe.”
A camper? Oh. Lord. Jayla’s heart skipped a beat and her throat was suddenly dry. She hadn’t thought about
that damned camp for years. And with good reason. Well, until a female detective named Dobbs had called just yesterday, asking questions, snooping around, suggesting Jayla return to Averille to make a statement. After twenty damned years. Now this. An ex-camper on her doorstep, asking Jayla if she remembered her. “I guess.”
“I was kind of a pain in the butt back then,” Kinley said with a grin. “Now, I’m with NewzZone, out of Astoria?”
“Okay.” Where was this going?
“I guess you haven’t heard of it.” A gust of wind swept over the yard, making the leaves dance and playing with the hem of Kinley’s long coat. “NewzZone is a small, independent, online newspaper.”
“In Astoria you said?”
“Yes, but we have an online audience that’s worldwide.”
Jayla doubted it. She waited, wondering what this reporter wanted. She did remember Kinley now. The red hair was the giveaway. No longer in long pigtails, but highlighted and cut to her shoulders, her freckles diminished with age and makeup, her teeth now straight, Kinley was dressed in designer jeans, boots, and a sweater and the overcoat. She’d sophisticated herself up, but, Jayla suspected, she was probably the same nosy person she had been all those years ago.
A reporter.
Wouldn’t you know? But not exactly the big time.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there have been some bones found near the camp, a skull.”
Jayla felt her heart clutch, her palms turning suddenly sweaty.
“It’s been ID’ed, but the sheriff’s department hasn’t released the identity pending notification of next of kin. However, the conjecture is that it will be Eleanor Brady or Monica O’Neal—I do know that it’s a female. That’s been confirmed.”
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Jayla tried to keep her expression blank. She didn’t need this.
“I’m doing a story about the camp and since you were there when those two women went missing, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Me?”
“Everyone who was there, of course,” she said. “But I was in Portland, had your address, so I thought I’d look you up, see what you remember.”