by Laurie Paige
Pierce thought of the coming baby. He’d be an uncle, which he found sort of fascinating. His gaze went to Chelsea, and he pictured her carrying a baby in her arms. The scene was so real he would almost swear he’d actually seen it.
“Pierce, you’re staring,” Kelly said, breaking into his intense introspection. She gave him a sisterly grin, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking.
“Sorry.” He took the platter from her and held it while Jim dished up the trout and potatoes. Kelly brought the rolls, and they all adjourned to the patio table.
“This is a lovely place,” Chelsea commented. “Up here on the bench, you can see the whole town. Over there, where the lights are, that must be Whitehorn.”
“It is,” Jim told her.
“Beyond that, the mountains seem to go on forever, one peak after the other. I’ve always loved that sense of eternity. A city seems very here and now, but the mountains are timeless.”
Pierce watched the setting sun backlight the peaks to the northwest of them. The Crazy Jane Mountains, they were once called, after a woman, supposedly insane, who had lived there long ago. Now they were referred to as the Crazies.
His gaze went to Chelsea. He sensed a longing in her and wondered what she wanted that she didn’t have.
The answer came to him instantly. Chelsea really wanted a family. She’d been an outsider in her parents’ new families, now she wanted a child of her own.
An odd sensation grabbed at his chest. He hadn’t done a lot of thinking about a wife and kids, but he’d had assumptions about them. They went with the package that life handed out. A man met a certain woman, they married, the kids came along. Presto, a family.
At thirty-six, he wasn’t sure things were going to fall into place quite so easily. Maybe a person had to work at it. If that’s what one wanted from life.
For the rest of the evening, he considered this question. Kelly and Jim set a fine example of a happily married couple, but they’d had their tense moments. Life was an on-going process….
He realized Kelly was looking at him. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’d installed a burglar alarm at Chelsea’s cabin,” she repeated.
“No. But it’s okay,” he said at her worried frown. I’m going to stay over there at night.”
An instant silence enclosed them.
“On the sofa,” he added.
Jim grinned skeptically. Kelly laughed aloud. Chelsea shot a glare his way, looking stubborn. Okay, so he’d blown that one. He shrugged. “I am,” he told her.
She stuck her nose in the air. “That’s not necessary.”
“Maybe not, but Kelly’ll feel better. We don’t want to upset her, do we?” He gave Chelsea an innocent smile.
“Ha,” she said.
Oddly, he relaxed and enjoyed the rest of the evening. Later, arriving at the cabin, she didn’t invite him in. He followed her, anyway. “I meant it about staying the night.”
She rounded on him, but not in anger. “I’d rather you didn’t.” She folded her arms across her chest in a defensive posture.
Embers burst into flames inside him. She was as tempted by their mutual desire as he was. The need was in her eyes. Mixed with it was despair as she fought the temptation.
He wanted to take her into his arms and smother the worry with hot kisses and hotter caresses. He took one step forward, then his sense of fair play intervened. She had to come to him of her own free will, because it felt right to her, not because he overcame her scruples.
“I’ll stay on the couch,” he promised. “There’s passion between us, but I won’t take advantage of it. When you come to me, I want it to be done openly and free of doubt.”
“Is that the way you feel?”
“I have some doubts. Like you I question the point of starting something with no future.”
Her eyes moved over his face as she considered. Finally she nodded and, murmuring a good-night, went into the bathroom and closed the door. He caught the news on the television while she prepared for bed.
When the bathroom was free, he did the same. Coming out, he spotted sheets, blankets and a pillow on one of the easy chairs. With a wry smile at the closed bedroom door, he made up his bed on the sofa.
Surprisingly, he fell asleep easily and spent a peaceful night on the makeshift bed.
Chelsea woke early Monday morning. She listened but couldn’t decide what had awakened her. Seeing the closed door, she wondered if Pierce was still on the sofa.
After slipping into her bathing suit and coming into the living room, she saw he was. He slept with one arm over his head, the other tucked under the blanket, which was pulled up to his chin. He looked vulnerable lying there, his face as innocent as a boy’s.
Her heart warmed, sending a rush of blood through her body. She’d missed him. All these long years there had been a void inside that nothing else could fill.
Or maybe she hadn’t tried hard enough to fill it, she chided, going outside. She crossed the deck and climbed over the railing in order to jump down into the shallow water along the cove, then waded into a deeper part of the lake.
She began her morning routine, stroking strongly in a line parallel to the shore, swimming between the tree she used as a landmark and the deck. Only she and a lone fisherman out on the lake in a boat interrupted the solitude of the morning.
For some reason she felt peaceful and secure in this little corner of paradise—
“Get out of the water,” a shout broke into her musing. “Chelsea, get out of the water.”
She stood and looked back. Pierce pounded down the shoreline at a dead run. He whizzed past her and dashed into the water. Her mouth agape, she watched him grab the fisherman, who had rowed to within a few feet of her, and drag the man out of the dory.
The man struggled as Pierce dunked him under the surface of the lake and held him there until the struggles stopped.
“Pierce! What are you doing?” she yelled, coming out of her shocked trance. “Let that poor man go. You’re drowning him.” She tugged at his arm.
“I’ll let him go when he tells me what he was doing.”
“He can’t talk with his face underwater,” she felt bound to mention.
Pierce cautiously let the man up, but maintained a grip on his arm, which he twisted behind the man’s back.
“Call him off, lady,” the fisherman pleaded, shaking the water from his face. “I didn’t do anything.”
“What were your intentions toward Chelsea?” Pierce demanded, giving the man an additional shake that sent the water flying in all directions.
“None. I swear.”
“Pierce, please, what are you doing? Can’t you see you’ve scared him senseless? Let him go.”
“Only if he answers my questions.”
“I will,” the man promised.
Pierce loosened his hold but kept up his threatening glare. “Start with your name. You got any ID on you?”
“In my pocket. Can I get my wallet?”
Pierce nodded.
Chelsea kept an eye on them while the fisherman very slowly retrieved his wallet and handed it over. Pierce snapped the soggy leather open and checked the driver’s license. “Wallace Ledbetter,” he read off the name, then checked the photo. “Yeah, that looks like you.”
“It is.” The man sounded more sure of himself. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the owner of this land,” Pierce told him. You’d better have a good excuse for being on it.”
The man drew himself up, looking as indignant as a wet hen. “I’m a paying guest. The penthouse suite at the lodge,” he added. “I’m thinking of suing.”
“Go ahead. I’m still thinking of drowning you. What were you doing stalking another guest of the resort?”
“I was trying to catch a huge rainbow trout I spotted the other day. He stays in a hole just on the other side of those rocks.” The fisherman pointed over his shoulder. “I’ve spent three days scouting out this place. Now
I’ll have to start over. After all that thrashing about, the rainbow has moved to the next county by now.”
Chelsea felt as irritated as the resort guest obviously did. “Pierce is very sorry he interrupted your fishing,” she said, acting on an impulse to bedevil him as he was doing to her. “Aren’t you, darling?” she asked sweetly. “He was worried about me,” she explained to the man.
“Because of that murder you had here?” the man asked, looking interested.
“Yes. There’s a lunatic in the area. You probably should pack up and leave,” Pierce suggested, eyeing the man with cold disdain.
“Don’t be silly, darling,” she scolded. “Why should he cut his vacation short? With you to protect the guests, I see no reason to worry. You should give the poor man an extra week at no cost. After all, you did nearly drown him.”
The man smiled broadly. “Well, thanks. Can I have a rain check for next year? My vacation is over this week.”
Pierce narrowed his eyes at Chelsea. She widened hers in a totally innocent expression. “Sure,” he said without glancing at the resort guest. “I’ll see that you get a gift certificate before you leave.”
“All right!” the man said enthusiastically. He waded to his boat and climbed in, water dripping from his clothing and sloshing in his shoes, which he pulled off. Nodding, he rowed off toward the buildings on the other side of the lake.
Chelsea heaved a relieved breath. “All’s well that ends well,” she told Pierce. “Let’s go in. I’m starved.”
He waited until they were inside the cabin. “Darling?” he questioned softly. “Darling?”
“Well,” she hedged, “the man obviously saw us come out of the same cabin. He must have thought we were, uh… Anyway, I thought it best to pretend we were…” She couldn’t think of an appropriate word.
Pierce took one step closer. “When you play with the devil, you have to pay his dues.” With that warning he reached for her. “You owe me, darling.”
Alarmed, her heart beating like sixty, she stepped back, but was unable to break his grip on her arm. For what?”
“For all the worry you put me through. For saving you from an unknown fate. For a night of dreams that has stirred my appetite to ravish you to unbearable heights.”
“Don’t…don’t you dare,” she warned, seeing the intent in his eyes.
“Or what?” he challenged. “Tell me the consequences.”
She tried to think of something that would deter him. All she could think of was how good his arms would feel, of how solid he would be against her, how warm…
“I need to take a shower,” she said in a hoarse whisper.
“An excellent idea.” He swept her into his arms.
“An excellent idea, indeed.”
To her indignation, her arms closed around his neck and refused to let go. “Pierce, we can’t. We shouldn’t,” she managed to say.
“We can and we should,” he said with great certainty. “A hot shower will fix us right up.”
He dumped her into the tub, flicked the cold water on full force, then walked out of the cabin. Shivering, she raced to the window in time to see him leap the stepping stones over the creek, then jog to his house.
Her spirits topsy-turvy like a raft in a stormy sea, she returned to the bath. With warm water sluicing over her, she shook off the disappointment and, oddly, the tears that collected behind her eyes.
It really was better to maintain a distance, but there for a minute—okay, she admitted it—she’d given in to madness. She wanted him. She wanted his kisses, his exciting touch. Most of all, she wanted forever.
“And forever is something he isn’t offering,” she murmured, lathering her hair.
If she could just remember that, she’d be all right. As long as her heart wasn’t involved, she could handle the attraction. Simple. Now that she had it all figured out, she would relax and enjoy her vacation.
Chelsea was reading again when the cell phone rang. It was Holt Tanner, the chief investigator on the case.
“I need your help,” he said. “Can you come to the Martel cottage, like now?”
“Sure. I’ll be right there,” she promised. “Is this official or unofficial? I’m in shorts and a T-shirt.”
He hesitated. “Unofficial. I’ll see you there.”
She mulled over the call while she grabbed her purse and car keys, then slipped on sandals to replace the flip-flops and headed out. The deputy had sounded a bit odd, his words clipped and tense. Hmm.
At the victim’s house, she parked behind two vehicles, one the deputy’s cruiser, the other belonging to the sheriff. A news van was parked behind a pickup on the street in front of the cottage.
Inside, she heard an altercation. A woman’s voice was among the deeper male tones, each apparently trying to shout the other down.
“Dammit,” Holt was saying as Chelsea walked in the door. “I’m going to arrest the whole bunch of you.”
“I have a right to be here,” Colby Holmes, the deceased woman’s nephew, declared. “I have a copy of Aunt Harriet’s will. I’m the executor of the estate. I’m taking an inventory to see that nothing has been removed.”
“No one has a right to cross a crime-scene tape. That includes you.” Holt glared at an attractive woman and a man with a video camera, who was filming the whole thing.
The woman ignored Holt. “Sheriff, is it true that Harriet Martel was four months pregnant when she was murdered? Do you think this had anything to do with her death?” She held a microphone under the sheriff’s nose.
Dave Reingard pushed the microphone aside. Where the hell did you get that information? It’s classified.”
A gleam appeared in the reporter’s eyes. “So she was pregnant. Who was the father?”
Holt took the woman’s arm and stuck his nose in her face. “Who was your informant? I’ll get an injunction from the judge if I have to,” he told her.
For a second she looked defiant, then she shrugged. I got an anonymous tip. A phone call. I checked it out,” she quickly added. “The caller was at a pay phone in Whitehorn. I’ll give you the number, but I doubt if he left prints.”
“He?” Holt questioned.
“I think so. The voice was disguised as a whisper, but I think it was a man.”
Holt studied her for a minute, each of them holding his or her ground, then he pushed the reporter past Chelsea and out the door. He beckoned for the cameraman to follow.
“Are you the state investigator on the case?” the dauntless reporter asked, holding the microphone out to Chelsea. “Are you the forensic pathologist the mayor asked the state to send down?”
Holt, disgust plain on his face, gently but firmly shoved the nosy woman off the porch, then turned to the man.
“I’m leaving,” the cameraman declared, hurrying out the door but continuing with his filming.
“I’ll have to confiscate that.” Holt took the camera and removed the film.
“I’ll sue,” the woman warned, furious now.
“And I’ll arrest you if I even see you in the neighborhood again,” Holt shot right back. “Dammit, Liz, you know better than this.”
She looked momentarily ashamed, then the fury returned. “Well, he was here.” She nodded toward Colby.
Chelsea realized the woman was Liz Barlow, the reporter who had copied phrases from the official report almost word for word. She seemed to be good at ferreting out the facts…with a little help from a secret pal.
After the news crew left, the cottage seemed strangely quiet. Holt glared at Colby. Colby glared at Holt. Chelsea glanced at the sheriff, who had remained mostly silent during the scuffle. The sheriff was looking at the room.
“I told you to stay out of it,” Holt finally said to the nephew.
“Yeah? When are you going to make an arrest?” Colby demanded. “Have you looked for the killer?”
“Let the law handle this, son,” the sheriff said, his manner sympathetic and soothing. “The wheels of justice gri
nd slowly but steadily. Dr. Kearns here is helping Holt research the case.”
Colby turned on her. “Have you found any clues?”
She gave him a noncommittal perusal. “We’re checking every possible avenue. With all the traffic on the scene, though, any remaining clues have probably been lost.”
The young man had the grace to look abashed at her mild accusation. “I want to help. My mother is upset that nothing seems to be happening.”
When Holt opened his mouth, the sheriff held up a hand. “Let him stay,” he said. “What can it hurt?”
Chelsea noted the glances exchanged between the chief investigator and his boss.
“Can you show me exactly what you think happened?” the sheriff requested of her.
She nodded after glancing at Holt, who shrugged as if giving up on police protocol. “She was slapped first, hard enough to send her to her knees…about here, probably.” Chelsea indicated a spot at the archway into the alcove. “There’s a bruise on her hip to indicate she hit the chair railing before falling.”
The sheriff checked out the chair railing. “She was alone when the intruder broke in. She must have been pretty frightened,” he said, looking sad.
“Not then, I don’t think,” Chelsea said. “There’s no sign of forced entry or a scuffle before the blow. She knew the man. She let him in. I think they had a serious quarrel and that he wanted her to get rid of the baby. He slapped her. That’s when she became frightened. She turned, maybe to run from him, but he hit her on the back of the head, hard enough to stun her and cause a concussion.”
“How do you know that?” Colby interrupted.
“Contusions in the skin, fracture lines at the base of the skull,” she told him, “dealt after the slap.”
“Then he shot her?” the sheriff asked.
“He put her in the chair.” Chelsea pointed toward the easy chair next to the reading table in the living room.
Colby crossed the room and stood by the chair, his gaze fixed on it as if he were watching the scene. “He shot her here. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“She probably said something,” Chelsea suggested. “It triggered his rage even more. Maybe she again refused to get rid of the baby, or perhaps she threatened to expose him as the father of her child—”