He was a good man. His quiet sense of humor and his strength touched her heart. But the thought of staying at his home gave her a shiver of apprehension.
She had no doubt about his intentions. No doubt that he would be honorable in this situation, too, and not take advantage of the isolation and her vulnerability. What she doubted was herself.
Dusky, quiet evenings.
Long, dark nights.
Staying with someone who stirred her emotions and desires more than Patrick ever had, even in the earliest days of their marriage. What on earth had she been thinking, agreeing to follow Joel to his secluded home?
The western sky was a brilliant palette of violets, indigo and deep rose when his taillights finally glowed red and his blinker signaled a left-hand turn onto a narrow gravel road.
Rolling down her window, she breathed in a faint hint of cattle and horses. She cautiously followed him down a rutted lane that wound through low rolling hills dotted with mesquite and prickly pear. The lane dropped into a thick stand of trees, and now the air bore the fresh, moist scent of a nearby creek. Ahead, she could make out a long, single-story house set deep in the shadows.
She parked next to his truck and took Sophie out of her car seat, resting the sleeping child against her shoulder. Joel pulled the dog carrier out of the back, opened it and snapped a leash on Viper’s collar.
“This is lovely,” she murmured. “How on earth did you ever find this place?”
“By chance.” He led the way up the flagstone walk to the front door. “It was an Internet listing. It said ‘isolated’ and that appealed to me, after living in the city for so long.” He flipped on the lights, then ushered her through the front door. “I may have gone a bit overboard on the isolation part, but the place suits me. Cattle, a few horses and a dog are more than enough company on most days.”
Knowing that he’d been a near recluse for months after moving to Texas and that he still lived alone, she’d expected to find a bare-bones house devoid of warmth and personality, but with bachelor clutter and dust.
It was anything but.
The entry opened into a spacious great room paneled in oak, with a massive fieldstone fireplace filling most of one wall. To the left, a wide archway opened into a long hall that probably led to the bedrooms, while to the right, another led into a large kitchen with terra-cotta flooring.
The oversize leather furniture in the living area looked marshmallow soft and inviting, while the wildlife prints on the walls completed the masculine, yet warmly inviting atmosphere.
And not one thing was out of place.
Even the massive bloodhound mix, curled up in front of the fireplace, appeared to be perfectly arranged. He raised his head, his attention fixed on Viper. “A-roo-ooo,” he warbled in apparent greeting.
He sounded like a yodeler with laryngitis, and Viper was not impressed. She rushed to the end of her leash and stiffened to full attention, issuing a make-my-day growl that promised she wouldn’t be taking any prisoners.
The bloodhound’s chin dropped to the floor and his eyes closed.
“Oh, dear,” Beth murmured.
“He thinks she’s a nightmare. When he wakes up, they’ll be fine.” The old dog started snoring. “Though that probably won’t be anytime soon. Earl needs his naps.”
Beth laughed. “I’m sure he’s a great watchdog for you. This is a lovely place!”
Joel shrugged. “It was once a working ranch, but then this part was divided off, and developed as a hunting lease operation. After the owner died, his kids fought over it for a while, then put it up for sale. They left it as is—furnishings, linens and even the kitchen equipment. There’s a cabin that bunks six hunters.”
“Wow.” It was such a cliché, and yet, the only word she could find. “What do people hunt around here?”
“Deer. Turkey. Quail. The owner had it in a game management program.” He headed down the hallway to the left, leading the way past a bedroom that was probably his, past several more doors, and then through a doorway that opened into another short hallway to the right. “This part was for hunters,” he said. “Three bedrooms and a private bath, and the hall door locks from the inside.”
He showed her into the first bedroom. It was spartan, with taupe walls and mission oak furnishings, but the hobnail lamp cast a soft glow and made the art print of deer on the wall seem to come alive.
Beth settled Sophie in the middle of the queen-sized bed. “This is really so kind of you,” she whispered.
He tipped his head in acknowledgment. “No problem. I’m afraid this part of the house hasn’t been dusted in weeks, though. I have a local cleaning lady come out once a month, but that’s about it. I’ll call her tomorrow and see if she can fit in another trip.”
“Please don’t,” Beth said quickly, touched by his thoughtfulness. “I’d be more than happy to do it—and the rest of the place, too. I owe you. In fact—this place was set up for paying guests, and I really should be paying you. Just tell me—”
“No. It’s no big deal—just a short-term favor for a friend.” He turned and headed out into the hallway. “I’ll bring in your things, so you can stay here. Sophie might be frightened if she awakens in a strange place.”
Beth sank into a rocker in the corner of the room, watching the gentle rise and fall of the soft old quilt with Sophie’s breathing, as Joel’s footsteps faded away. Feeling as safe and warm and protected as her child, for the first time since the car accident. She’d found good friends and thoughtful people here. A decent place to stay.
But still, someone had come to Texas.
Someone who was after a nonexistent key and documents she could not find.
Someone who wanted to frighten her, and might not stop at that.
And now, the all-too familiar litany of her sleepless nights began to pulse through her thoughts. Oh, Patrick…what did you do?
CHAPTER TWELVE
BETH ADJUSTED Sophie’s covers, then stepped out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar and the hall light on. She found Joel in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee.
“Decaf?” he asked. “Otherwise, there’s tea.”
“Sweet or northerner?”
“After fifteen years in Detroit?”
“Tea.” She managed a weary smile. “I’m not up to speed on Texas sweet tea yet, either.” She guessed at the cupboard to the right of the sink. “Glasses?”
Leaning a hip against the kitchen counter, he nodded. “Is Sophie all right?”
“Exhausted. She usually doesn’t go to sleep this early.” Beth filled her glass with ice from the dispenser in the refrigerator door, then poured herself a glass of tea from the gallon jug inside. “I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality.”
“Not a problem.”
She suddenly felt more than a little exhausted herself. Late in the afternoon, the sheriff had stopped at Anna’s house, took her statement, and then he’d come over to the café. Without a license plate, make of car, or physical description of the man, there’d been little to go on.
Still, he’d promised that a deputy would swing past the café every night during the coming week, barring call-outs to other parts of the county.
She looked around, suddenly aware of the unusual silence without the constant clickety-click of Viper’s toenails. The dog never, ever seemed to sit still. “Did Earl eat my dog?”
Joel laughed. “Earl is in love.” He nodded toward the sliding glass doors opening out onto a patio illuminated by several old-fashioned gas lamps. “Viper’s patrolling the perimeter of the yard like a miniature marine, and he’s watching her with total adoration. Most exercise he’s had in a week.”
Beth peered outside. Sure enough, she could see a little black form marching along the fence. Earl had parked himself on the patio, and was swiveling his head as he watched her go back and forth.
“Those are Earl’s aerobics,” Joel added solemnly. “He does them so fast that you can barely see him move.”
She’d felt uncertain and a little awkward, coming out to this isolated place with a man she hadn’t known long, but now she felt some of that tension ease. Any man with a dog like Earl just had to be a decent guy.
“So, how’re you doing?”
“This was quite a day. From the excitement of opening the café, to taking refuge because…” She shuddered. “It’s so creepy, thinking that someone was in my house, going through my things. What if Sophie and I had been home?”
“I’d guess your intruder was careful to make sure that didn’t happen. He’s probably been watching for some time, trying to make sure you wouldn’t be around.”
“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better.” Beth took a long, slow swallow of tea, thankful for the cool, smooth slide of it down her parched throat. “And the sheriff wasn’t very reassuring, either. At least he’s going to be asking some questions around town, though. One possibility was that vagrant—Hubie Post.”
“From what I hear, Hubie has a checkered past.”
“Which opens up a whole new realm of possibilities, and even more worries.” She shuddered. “His name came up after my place was trashed, though Talbot said he hasn’t seen Hubie in the area for months.”
She paused, considering. Talbot had said Hubie was a loner, an ongoing casualty of Vietnam who’d never held a long-term job and who spent his Social Security checks at the local taverns. He’d racked up considerable time in the county lockup over the years—mostly for bar fights and public intoxication. But he’d never been charged with vandalism or a violent crime, and he wasn’t on the sex offender list, either. Yet.
“There’s no proof that he was the man watching Sophie,” Joel said.
“Proof or not, you can bet he isn’t coming within a hundred feet of my daughter. Ever.” Beth held out her hands, palms up. “But if he was the guy who was watching her, is he also the one who went through my things?” She managed a dry laugh. “On CSI, there’d be a big interrogation and they’d dust my entire place for prints. We’d have answers in an hour—including commercials.”
“They always get their lab results right away, too.” A corner of Joel’s mouth lifted. “At least Talbot and his deputies will be keeping a closer eye on things.” He refilled her glass of tea, then poured himself a cup of coffee. “If they see him, they’ll pick him up for questioning.”
“I have my doubts about him, though. Why would a total stranger target me? It makes no sense.”
“Which leaves the only other real suspect—the guy in Chicago. Your husband left you quite a legacy.”
“I still can’t believe he was capable of theft.” Beth stared at the inky darkness beyond the windows. “Can you imagine living with someone, and then wondering if you ever really knew him? Patrick had a good job. He supported us well. Why risk everything for a single windfall?”
“True. But if he didn’t, why would anyone be so persistent now?”
She snorted. “And I cannot imagine who would’ve chosen Patrick for a partner in crime. You have no idea just how quiet and unassuming he was.”
“Try to think back—anything unusual about his connections to friends? Neighbors? Anyone he might’ve mentioned during his last few months?”
The aroma of the coffee made her stomach growl, and she folded her arms around her stomach. “Believe me, I want answers, too, but nothing really adds up.”
“Why?”
“We barely knew our new neighbors. It was difficult to socialize with old friends because Pat worked such long hours. And he wasn’t the kind of guy who met buddies for a beer after work, either.”
“What about his boss?”
“Roger Bennings is the owner of the company. That man was livid about the loss of all that money.” She suppressed a shudder. “After the police finished investigating, he called me two or three times. He sure wasn’t polite.”
A muscle ticked along Joel’s lean jaw. “I’d say that was harassment.”
“Desperation, was more like it.” Even now, she could hear the note of simmering anger in Roger’s voice, edged with a hint of fear. The losses had been large enough to endanger the future of his company. “But what could I say?”
Joel frowned. “Do you think he could’ve been desperate enough to take things a step further?”
“He wasn’t my crank caller, if that’s what you mean. I’d recognize Roger’s gravelly voice anywhere.” Beth paused. Thought back. “And he isn’t the type, anyway. He has to be seventy by now. He would hire a P.I. or an attorney, not some lowlife. Patrick once said that Roger didn’t hesitate to file lawsuits over business deals.”
“Was he your husband’s direct boss?”
“Nope. Ewen Farley, who’s a strict, no-nonsense guy. We had him and his wife over for dinner a couple of times, but we were never close. Ewen was mortified about the disappearance of all that money, right from under his nose. Probably afraid he’d lose his job.”
“Was he questioned?”
Beth nodded. “At length. Everyone at the company was, or so I heard. Ewen and his wife stopped over with their condolences after Pat died and they came to the funeral, but they were both really distant. I could tell they still thought Pat was responsible and probably figured I was involved, too.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Not in so many words.” She closed her eyes briefly against the memory of those awkward encounters. When they’d come by her house, they’d murmured sympathetic words, but they’d both surreptitiously glanced around her entryway and living room, as if somehow expecting to see new, state-of-the-art electronics or priceless artwork crowded into every corner.
“What about secretaries or bookkeepers—did Patrick ever mention someone in particular?”
Beth sorted through her memories and came up dry. “He was never the schmoozing type.” She twisted the simple wedding band she’d moved to her right hand. “He always kept his sights on leaving that job and opening his own accounting firm someday.”
“Any number of other employees could’ve taken the money, over time.”
“That’s what I’ve always thought.”
“And when Patrick died, they would’ve had a perfect place to lay the blame.”
“A man who could hardly defend himself.”
“But then the question is, what would this person be after now? Since he got off scot-free so far, why risk raising suspicions—or the chance of being caught?”
“My caller mentioned a key and some documents, but I went through all of Patrick’s home office files before moving here. Everything. If there was anything incriminating, I sure didn’t see it…and I certainly never found a suspicious-looking key.” Beth hesitated, knowing that telling Joel any more would just sow more seeds of doubt about her past. “There was a break-in and fire at my house in Chicago just weeks after the funeral. We weren’t home, but the neighbors smelled smoke and called 911.”
“Arson?” Joel shoved a hand through his hair.
“Definitely. And the cops, fire marshal and insurance investigator all suspected me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “They thought it convenient that Sophie and I had just left town to visit relatives. And, they were rather curious about a widow in financial straits coming so close to losing her house and gaining a tidy insurance settlement.”
“Was it obvious that someone else had been in the house?”
She met and held his gaze, but saw only compassion in his eyes. “A few things were disarrayed in Pat’s home office. There were minor screwdriver marks on an unlocked window, where someone had managed to pry it open. The rest of the house was perfect. I think the cops thought I’d done it, but they couldn’t prove anything. I was never charged.”
“Which is why there was nothing in the newspaper archives.”
“There was more smoke than fire damage, so it wasn’t headline news by any means. Minor incidents are listed in the fire-and-police log section of the paper by street address, so a search of the archives wouldn’t have turned up anyt
hing under our name.”
“So…moving here wasn’t just about your aunt’s property.”
She felt her shoulders sag. “I couldn’t afford the huge mortgage payments on my old house, so I listed it as soon as the fire damage was repaired. But it sold for far less than it was worth, and most of the money went to settle bills.”
He nodded. “A tough situation to be in.”
“Now part of me loves this place so much that I want to stay. But if I did, I’d have to buy out my sister’s share.” She drew in a slow breath. “And—with everything that’s happened here, I feel like I should grab Sophie and run.”
“You’re safe now,” Joel said quietly.
“Because we’re taking advantage of your hospitality by hiding like frightened rabbits. How long can we do that?”
“You’ve been here just a couple hours, and you certainly haven’t worn out your welcome,” he said mildly. When her stomach growled again, he added, “Hungry? I’m not much of a cook, but I can throw an omelet together, or make some sandwiches.”
When she hesitated, he lifted a cast-iron skillet from the cupboard. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
It did funny things to her insides, watching him capably sort through the herbs in his spice cabinet and start pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator.
A green pepper. A basket of fresh mushrooms, eggs and sharp cheddar. From a wire basket on the counter he gathered an onion and fresh garlic.
Patrick had never shown any interest in the kitchen, preferring to leave all of that up to her, but there was something innately sexy in this man’s easy confidence, whether he was wielding a hammer or cracking fresh eggs one-handed over a crockery bowl.
“Not much of a cook, you said,” she murmured, watching the flash of his knife as he expertly diced and sautéed the veggies. “I’d say you know your way around a kitchen pretty well.”
“My parents owned a restaurant, so I put in plenty of hours during high school.” He rolled his eyes. “Believe me, working under an authoritarian father and a chef with a Napoleon complex pretty much cured me of any desire to stay in the family business.”
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