by Anne Stuart
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Night of the Phantom
About Anne Stuart
First Published January 1987
Electronic Edition Copyright 2016 by Anne Stuart
http://anne-stuart.com
E-book and Cover Formatted by Jessica Lewis
http://authorslifesaver.com
All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.
All Rights reserved.
To Walkin’ Jim Stoltz,
whose songs and whose life
were an inspiration
Author’s note: Tanner smokes cigarettes. A lot. This takes place in a different time and place, and his smoking is important in the plot. I don’t think anyone thinks smoking is a good idea, and neither does Tanner. Mostly he does it to be ornery, and the love of a good woman does a lot to take the ornery out of a man.
* * *
Chapter One
* * *
He didn’t have to go searching for the volume of fifteen-year-old newspapers and the issues covering that Fourth of July. It was always out, always available for those who wanted to read about it once more, just in case anyone had forgotten the details. Even in the carefully bound edition the newsprint was showing signs of wear. Too many hands had touched it, smoothing the old print. The pictures were faded and grainy, the aging black-and-white print draining the horror from the blood-splattered tableau. He stared at the open page, inwardly reciting the words he’d committed to memory years before.
Vet Goes Berserk —Kills Sixteen in Montana
Morey’s Falls, Montana. July 5, 1972. Charles Tanner, Sr., a forty-two-year-old unemployed Congressional Medal of Honor winner, killed sixteen people and wounded one before turning the gun on himself during Fourth of July celebrations in the tiny town northwest of Billings. The lone survivor is a sixteen-year-old girl, listed in satisfactory condition.
That was all there was. Later editions of the papers had more information, longer articles, details about the victims, and all of those articles were kept, neatly and carefully, a testimony to the past. But he still liked this one the best. Short, simple, direct. With a quiet sigh of satisfaction he closed the heavy volume and turned to face the new day.
* * * * *
Tanner Reached The Edge of the high mountain meadow with a feeling in his gut that was part relief, part dread. He was almost there. Within a few hours he’d be down in the flat, dusty little town of Morey’s Falls, back amid humanity in all its twisted glory. He’d been walking since someone had dropped him off in the middle of Wyoming. It had been ten days since he’d seen another human, and he’d gladly go a hundred days more before he did. He wasn’t ready to face what he’d find down in that depressed Montana town.
But if he wasn’t ready now, when would he be? He’d come here for a reason. He’d put it off for most of his adult life, ever since his father had taken an M-l rifle and blown away a good part of the town’s population. Now, almost fifteen years later, it was time for him to face up to it.
Returning hadn’t been his decision, Tanner thought, slipping the pack from his back and propping it against the tree. If it had been up to him he’d have kept walking, keeping as far away from Morey’s Falls, Montana as he could. Not that he was safe anywhere else. The news of Charles Tanner’s crime had spread over the western half of the country. Almost anyone over thirty remembered that day, remembered the unprovoked bloodbath that had left no family untouched in that small village. And his son bore the same name.
But it wasn’t up to him. Alfred was dying. Alfred, the indestructible, as old as time, as strong as the land, as wise as eternity wasn’t going to be around much longer. That last stroke had almost finished him, but he was holding on until he could settle the ranch. And that ranch in the mountains of New Mexico, the ranch they had run together since Tanner was a half-wild eighteen-year old, would go to someone else if he didn’t stop walking. Not that there was anything wrong with walking, Alfred used to say in that gravelly voice that had once been pure Cockney. Whiskey and wind and dust had stripped the Britishness from his voice, stripped the softness from his face, leaving him the texture and substance of rawhide. Hell, he used to say, Tanner could walk from the East Coast to the West, up the Continental Divide, the length of the Grand Canyon, or any one of the thousands of miles of trails he’d walked, if he chose. But that was the problem. He walked because he had to, not because he wanted to. And there was no way Alfred could leave the neat, prosperous ranch and thirty of the best quarter horses west of the Mississippi to someone who might get itchy feet again when the going got rough.
So Tanner was walking once more. Leaving Alfred back there with tubes and machines keeping him going, helping him steal a few more months from a greedy eternity, determined to give Tanner the time to come to terms with his past.
And that’s what he was going to do. Morey’s Falls lay just over the next rise. The shack and twenty scrubby acres that had once belonged to his father were still there, waiting for him, the son and heir. The townspeople were there too. Fifteen years after losing a goodly portion of their population to his father’s madness, the townspeople were waiting. Somehow he doubted he was going to get a hero’s welcome.
He flexed his taut shoulder muscles, stretching his long arms over his head. The pack weighed a good forty-nine pounds, and every one of those pounds seemed tattooed into his back. The thought of a real bed had been obsessing him for the last few nights. One with pillows and clean white sheets. A hot meal came second on the list, and with luck he’d wind up with both that night—comfort and something other than that dehydrated trail grub that took up more than its share of space in the heavy pack.
Whiskey and a cigarette wouldn’t be bad either. Now that he was closing in on civilization he could feel the old familiar craving. When he was out on the trail he never wanted to smoke. Somehow it would have been a crime against nature. But all he had to do was get within a couple of miles of flush toilets and he started longing for tobacco. Alfred always used to lecture him on how dangerous smoking was as he went through three packs a day himself. But it hadn’t been cigarettes that had gotten Alfred.
Tanner could give them up, live a clean, healthy life, and still die in a car accident in his early fifties, just like his mother had. There were no guarantees in this life—you might as well take your pleasure where you could find it.
He dropped down beside the metal-frame backpack leaning against the tree and stared out over the high, flat meadow. There were wildflowers dotting the fields, columbine and Indian paintbrush and field daisies. And there on the soft wind he could smell the thick scent of sage, not the purple stuff that grew down around Texas, but a lavender-blue color, enriching the air, teasing his nostrils with promises made to be broken.
He
sighed, rolling up his sleeves in the hot noonday sun. Maybe he should spend the night in that flowered meadow, to give himself one more day of peace before he faced his past. The silence and serenity flowed around him, broken only by the distant call of a golden eagle wheeling and soaring overhead, by the rustle of the wind in the aspens, of the sound of horses’ hooves on the thick green grass.
He held himself very still. His instincts had failed him. Usually he knew when someone else was around, whether it was four-legged or human. He was so attuned to being alone that he could almost smell another living creature. But he hadn’t heard her coming.
It was most definitely a woman. She didn’t see him, and wouldn’t unless she was looking. She was out in the middle of the field, riding bareback on a big, stodgy-looking bay. And it wasn’t just the horse’s back that was bare.
Her faded flannel shirt was spread out over the horse’s rump, she wore no hat, and her thick chestnut hair was hanging in a braid down her narrow back. She was wearing nothing but a pair of old jeans—even her feet were bare— and her face was turned up to the hot sun, basking in it, as the horse picked its dainty way across the field.
Tanner held himself motionless. He could do that—he’d had to more than once when he’d stumbled across a mother grizzly with her young cub, or when he’d run smack into a cougar that was bigger than it had any right to be. He knew how to stop, to blend with the landscape as well as any chameleon. He sat there, watching the girl and barely breathing.
She wasn’t a girl, he decided, for all her innocent enjoyment of the hot summer sun. Even as he sat there watching her he could tell that her body, lean and spare though it was, held the grace of maturity. Her breasts were small and well-shaped, her arms were rounded with muscle, not softness, and her back was straight, strong, determined. Her legs hugged the barrel of the horse, and a sudden wave of sheer, healthy lust swept over him. He wanted those legs hugging him.
He let it go, noting it with acceptance and amusement. He wasn’t surprised. It had been months since he’d had a woman, and being presented with the sight he was seeing would be bound to have a normal effect on his body. He would have worried if he hadn’t wanted her.
The horse ambled on, in tune with its mistress, picking its way carefully across the high meadow. At one point she lay back on the broad rump, letting the sun bake into her flesh, and it was all Tanner could do not to protest. He didn’t want all that skin burned and blistered by the sun. She should put her shirt back on, he thought critically, not moving. But he hoped to hell she wouldn’t.
The sun was bright, glaring into his eyes in the midday, midsummer heat, and he squinted after her retreating figure. Black flies were buzzing around his neck, and he swatted at one lazily, secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t see him. The bay flicked his tail, arching his neck slightly. The horse knew he was there, but his rider was still sweetly oblivious. He’d better not swat any more flies, not unless he wanted her to take off like a bat out of hell. As long as she was willing to ride around like that, he was willing to look. It would probably be his last moment of peace and pleasure for a long time.
He’d been up since dawn, which was somewhere around five a.m. at the end of June in that part of the country. He’d washed in an icy mountain stream and set out on the final leg of his journey. He’d probably walked a good ten miles over mountain trails until he reached the meadow, and the hot sun was making him unaccountably sleepy. He didn’t want to nap, he wanted to watch the woman on the stocky bay. He’d close his eyes just for a moment, just to rest them from the sun’s merciless glare, and then...
He felt the shadow cover him. He didn’t move, his eyelids didn’t flicker, he didn’t signal his sudden alertness by anything more than an imperceptible tightening of his muscles. It wasn’t an angry grizzly staring him down, and it wasn’t a crowd of vengeful townspeople. He heard the soft whirrup of the horse, sensed the gentle equine nibbling at his heavy walking boots, and slowly he opened his eyes.
She’d put her shirt on, damn it. He would have liked to have seen her up close, with all that sun-kissed flesh. He blinked his eyes sleepily, yawned and plastered his most innocent smile on his face before meeting her gaze.
She wasn’t a beauty, that much was clear. Her warm brown gaze was a little too direct, her mouth a little too generous, her jaw slightly too determined. And she was older than he’d thought. There were lines fanning out from those soft eyes, lines bracketing her mouth. Lines of unhappiness? Lines of pain?
She was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity, friendliness and a very noticeable unease. He knew just what she was thinking. She was wondering how long he’d been there, how long he’d been asleep. The shirt was buttoned up tight, the sleeves rolled down, but he could see the freckles across her nose and the light peachy blush across her cheekbones.
“Howdy,” he said, giving her the full effect of his lazy smile. He knew perfectly well what that smile did to susceptible ladies, and he used it to its maximum effect. The woman on the horse blinked in surprise, and her grip on the reins tightened.
“Where’d you come from?” Her voice was a rich, warm contralto with a faintly husky note. Like whiskey and honey, he thought. For a moment he toyed with the fantasy of pulling her off the horse, into his arms, of unfastening that tightly buttoned shirt and freeing her warm skin to the sun and to his hands.
“Over the mountain,” he said, dismissing the brief, erotic thought with a moment’s regret.
She frowned, and the lines deepened around her eyes. “There’s nothing over there,” she said.
“Sure there is. There’s Wyoming and Colorado and New Mexico,” he said. “I started walking just outside of Casper.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Walking,” he said patiently. “You know, shank’s mare.” He slapped his long legs.
“How long have you been sitting there?”
Here it was, he thought. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. He was tempted to grin up at her, but he knew better. He gave her his most guileless look. “I don’t know. I must have fallen asleep,” he said.
He could see the tightness of her shoulders relax, and her smile lost its faint hint of frost. “I saw you when I rode into the clearing,” she said, testing the lie on her tongue like someone savoring a strange fruit. “I thought for a moment you might be dead. You gave me quite a turn.”
I’ll just bet I did. “Not me,” he said aloud. “Just taking a well-deserved rest.”
“Where are you headed?”
“A little town called Morey’s Falls. Ever heard of it?” He knew perfectly well she had to have come from there. He remembered his mother’s disparaging comments well enough to know it was the only thing resembling civilization within a hundred miles. He might have walked out of nowhere but she could have only come a few miles.
“That’s where I’m from. It’s a couple of miles down the mountain.” Signs of curiosity were showing on her face. “What in the world would you want with Morey’s Falls? No one ever goes there. People are too busy leaving.”
“I inherited some land a while back,” he said easily. “I figured it was time to check it out.”
Her wide brow creased slightly, as if she was trying to place him. “Were you thinking of settling there?”
“I doubt it. I might sell the place.”
“I don’t think you’ll find much of a market for your land. Morey’s Falls is pretty remote and there aren’t many ways to make a living.”
So what else is new, he thought to himself. His mother had told him it was the darkest, deadest hole in the universe. Up here in this wild mountain meadow it was hard to believe it was so desolate just a few miles down. But he couldn’t see Charles Tanner in a peaceful setting like this one.
He shrugged. “That’s okay. I just want to see what it’s like. What the town’s like.” He rose, slowly, stretching his full length. He could feel her eyes run over him, and while her expression remained unchanged, he knew her bra
in was clicking along. He would have given ten years to read her mind.
She grimaced. “You’re curious about the massacre,” she said flatly.
He didn’t deny it. “Is that what you call it?”
“Among other things,” she said. “I wish to God people could just forget about it.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“Fifteen years,” she said. “Maybe once the monument is unveiled...”
“Monument?”
“A big granite monolith in the town square. They’re dedicating it on the Fourth of July.” She didn’t sound pleased with the idea.
“Then I got here just in time,” Tanner said softly.
“If you like that sort of thing.”
“It’ll be interesting,” he said. “Very interesting.”
She sat there on her placid bay, looking at him. “I’d better get going,” she said finally. “I’ve got bread rising.”
Belatedly he checked out the hands holding the reins. Strong, brown hands, with long fingers and short, sensible nails. And a thin gold band on her left hand. Only a married woman would be able to spend a Tuesday morning riding up in the hills. He wondered if her husband knew she took off her shirt when she thought no one was looking. He wondered if her husband knew he was going to have to be very careful with Tanner around.
“Nice meeting you, ma’am,” he said.
“Ellie,” she said. “Eleanor Lundquist, but everyone calls me Ellie.” She held out her strong right hand, the one without the ring, and he took it, holding it not for a second longer than was proper, giving it only the acceptable amount of pressure. He was in no hurry. He hadn’t even made up his mind whether she’d be worth the trouble. He’d learned to avoid angry husbands whenever he could. He didn’t need to rush into things.
He took a step back, looking up into her clear brown eyes. “My name’s Tanner,” he said.