Dangerous Inheritance

by Barbara Warren

  The smile stayed in place, but there was something watchful about his eyes. “I thought you might need some help moving in.”

  “I don’t have all that much and I can manage just fine.” He had to have a reason for showing up at just the right time to help. No, not just showing up. He was waiting for her. Which made her a little uneasy, considering the way she’d already been treated that day.

  He shrugged, still looking pleasant. “I thought you might feel more comfortable if you had someone with you when you went inside. I won’t get in your way, just be along to keep you company in case you need anything.”

  And she was supposed to believe this? “Does Sam know you’re here?”

  The grin faded, but if she’d struck a nerve it didn’t show. He shook his head. “No, this is something I’m doing on my own. I just thought it might help if you didn’t have to do this alone.”

  Okay, she hated to admit it, and wasn’t going to admit it to him, but she had been dreading going inside again. Afraid of what she might find or how she would feel. It would be easier to have someone with her, and it was nice of him to think of it—if he was telling the truth. And if he wasn’t, she’d deal with it later.

  Right now she felt better just to have him standing beside her, strong and dependable. Macy shook her head. Dependable? What was she thinking? She didn’t know him well enough to be sure of that. She held up the key ring, steeling herself to face the inevitable. “All right, let’s go.”

  The storm had left a scattering of budding leaves and broken twigs covering the walk. They crunched underfoot as she strode toward the house, hearing him stepping along behind her. Seen in daylight, the house was still imposing. Two stories high plus an attic, cream-colored with light blue and beige trim, a wide porch and a corner turret, classic Queen Anne. Beautiful, but not exactly cozy. Scary might be a better word. She swallowed the lump in her throat and fumbled with the key ring the lawyer had given her.

  Nick reached over and took it from her. “I’d guess this is the one you need.” He inserted it in the lock.

  Macy motioned for him to go first, not sure she was ready. She followed, nerves prickling. The entry hall had a hardwood floor and a long mahogany table against one wall, with a wide gold-framed mirror hanging behind it, elegant, but cold. Macy walked slowly through to enter the living room. It looked different in the daylight.

  Gold brocade armchairs with high backs flanked the fireplace. A crystal chandelier with a cluster of white candle-like lights hung overhead. An alcove held a matching gold sofa with a scattering of ivory and darker gold pillows. The air smelled musty, as if the house hadn’t been aired for some time. Judging from the muted rumble of the furnace, the heat was still on.

  The furniture wasn’t new, so she assumed it had been here when her parents were alive. At least she hoped it had. Maybe it would jog her memory in some way. She moved farther into the room, nerves keyed to the max, almost forgetting to breathe while waiting for something to spark a recollection.

  Nothing.

  Macy swallowed her disappointment. What had she expected? That everything would immediately fall into place? When had her life ever been that easy? She walked over to stand in front of the white fireplace with a marble mantel holding several pictures of people she probably should know.

  She waited for a hint of recognition. Nothing happened. She turned to Nick. “Is one of these my mother? Would you know?”

  He gave her a curious look, and pointed to a photograph of a woman laughing at the camera. She had the same red hair as Macy and now that she really looked, there was a resemblance in the planes of her face, the curve of her lips. Not an exact replica, but there could be no denying the similarities.

  “You don’t know what she looked like?” Nick asked.

  She wasn’t sure how he would take it or if he would even believe her, but it was time to tell the truth. “I don’t remember her. I don’t remember my father, either, or even remember living in this house. The first seven years of my life are a total blank.”

  Macy watched him trying to take this in. It probably sounded like something she’d made up, but let him try living with it, try realizing that a part of him was missing. That he didn’t know what exactly, just the gap in his life. See how he felt then.

  “You don’t remember anything?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

  She hadn’t expected him to understand, so why was she disappointed by his reaction? Why would she care if he believed her or not? His belief or disbelief had nothing to do with the truth.

  “I have dissociative amnesia. According to my doctor it happens when a person blocks out certain information usually caused by stress from something a person has witnessed. My memory begins when I woke up in the hospital with Grandma Mattie sitting by my bedside. I have no recollection of ever being in this house. I’m hoping living here will help restore what I’ve lost.”

  If not, at least she would know she’d tried. But if she could recall the events of the night her mother died, perhaps she could remember the face of the killer, and it would not be her father. It would take strong, irrevocable proof to make her believe otherwise.

  Nick still looked uncertain, as if not sure what to think about everything she’d just said. “Let me get this straight. You don’t remember anything about living in this house. You don’t even remember your parents? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She gave the collection of photos on the mantel a second look before answering. “That’s right. I don’t remember anything about them. And I don’t remember the grandmother who lived here. She was never a part of my life after I moved to Oklahoma. I didn’t know anything about her until I got a call from her lawyer.”

  He nodded, as if in some way he understood, but he couldn’t. Not really. No one could unless they had lived it. She barely even understood it herself. But according to what she’d learned, she’d been born here, had lived here with her parents the first seven years of her life. Been attacked and left for dead the night her mother was murdered. Add that to the fact that all memories of her parents were gone, as if they had never existed. Then tell her she had no right to dig around in the past. She had every right, whether Sam Halston and Raleigh Benson liked it or not.

  Or Nick Baldwin, either, for that matter.

  Macy reached for the picture of her mother, and something rustled at the back of her mind. Laughter, soft arms holding her close. Almost as soon as the image came, it vanished, leaving her aching for more.

  Her mother.

  She wanted her mother.

  The house had waited for her, large, empty and filled with secrets. Macy suddenly had an overwhelming desire to leave—get out of this place.

  Resolutely, she gripped the mantel with both hands, fighting down the billowing wave of fear threatening to submerge her.

  God, where are you? Help me. I can’t do this on my own.

  Gradually the feelings subsided, leaving her in some semblance of control. She took a couple of shaky steps toward the next room. Nick followed, not saying anything, but she was aware of the way he watched her, as if expecting her to fall apart. Well, she almost had, and she was sure there were other shocks waiting for her in this house. She had to expect that. Would she be strong enough to do this?

  Only with Your help, God.

  Next was the dining room. A long walnut table surrounded by high-backed wooden chairs caught her eye. A matching sideboard sat along one wall with mounted pictures depicting the four seasons arranged above it. Beautiful furnishings, but nothing here spoke to her. Macy moved on, walking through the downstairs.

  She ended up in the entry hall again and turned toward the staircase. Nick stopped her. “From what you’ve said, you probably don’t remember, but you were found here at the foot of the stairs. You’d been knocked unconscious. At first the police thought you were dead, but when they discovered you were breathing they rushed you to the hospital in an ambulance.”

  Macy grasped the newel post with both hands.
She’d been found here? Why couldn’t she remember?

  “Where was my mother?”

  “She was lying in front of the living-room fireplace.”

  “How did she die?” She forced the words out through lips gone numb with shock.

  Nick placed his hand over hers, his expression compassionate. She fought an urge to lean against him, draw courage from him.

  “Are you sure you want to know?” he asked.

  She drew a harsh breath that was almost a sob. “I have to know. After all these years, I can’t just pretend it didn’t happen. I need to know everything.”

  He drew her away from the stairs. “Let’s sit down for a minute. This is going to be hard for you.”

  She let him lead her into the living room and sank into the chair he indicated. He sat across from her, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. His gaze locked with hers, and she caught her breath at the concern reflected there.

  After a minute he started speaking. “She’d been hit repeatedly with the fireplace poker. They found it beside you, and believe you were struck with it, too.”

  Macy bowed her head, hands tightly clasped in her lap. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she furiously wiped them away. Beaten to death? Her mother? In this room? And she couldn’t remember. Even now, after what he’d said, she had a picture in her mind of what it could have been like, but she knew it wasn’t real, just a manufactured image. Not a memory.

  Nick caught her hands, holding them in his. “Macy, look at me. It was a long time ago. You were just a child. It has nothing to do with you now.”

  She raised her head to stare at him, tears blurring her vision. “It has everything to do with me. She was my mother. My mother was killed here, and I can’t even remember her. It’s like I’ve betrayed her in some way. Betrayed them both. My father died in prison and I can’t give the police the name of the person who destroyed my parents.”

  * * *

  Nick knelt beside Macy, aching to help her, and knowing he couldn’t. No one could. All he could do was kneel here and watch her suffer. He couldn’t share her grief and feelings of guilt, but he could understand her need. Whatever it took, he was going to do everything possible to help her learn the truth—if it was available after all these years. He wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he was a stranger and he was afraid that would upset her even more. Better to wait and just be here if she needed him.

  After a long time she raised her head. “I need to go through the rest of the house. Will you go with me?”

  “I’ll be glad to.” He helped her to her feet and continued holding her hand. To reassure her.

  They mounted the stairs together, her hand warm in his, and he slanted a sideways glance at her. She’d almost fallen apart in the living room. There might be even more personal reminders up here. He’d need to stay close. Be ready to help.

  It must be horrible for her not to remember her parents. He had good memories of growing up, of times spent with his mother, fishing trips with his dad. He was a cop today because he was following in his father’s footsteps. He couldn’t imagine not remembering them.

  He hadn’t been completely honest with Macy. Sure he figured she might be nervous about entering the house, but he also intended to do everything he could to prove the police, particularly his father, were innocent of any wrongdoing.

  But if she didn’t remember the night her mother died, that had to be part of the reason she was here. What if her memories returned? Would she remember the face of who had killed Megan Douglas? The person who had brutally beaten Macy and left her for dead?

  If she did remember, would it be Steve Douglas or someone different? Someone who lived in Walnut Grove and didn’t want Steve and Megan’s daughter staying here, trying to find out what actually happened that night? Someone who would do everything he could to prevent her from remembering? Macy just might be in more danger than he’d realized.

  And what was going on with Sam, behaving the way he had? Almost as if he had a reason for not wanting Macy Douglas to stay here, a strong personal reason. That brought him up short. Sam had lived here all his life. He claimed to have had no interest in the murder, but what if he wasn’t telling the truth?

  But then again, if Sam had a hand in the cover-up, why would he mention that the police might be involved? Or was he trying to throw suspicion on them to save his own neck? Nick felt ashamed at the thought. Sam was his boss, his friend. He needed to slow down, not jump to conclusions.

  The rooms were in order, and apparently nothing caught Macy’s attention. He’d worried that she might remember her parents’ room, but she didn’t seem to see anything familiar. They turned toward the round turret room at the front, across the hall and down from what he took to be the master bedroom.

  Macy stopped in the bedroom doorway, stiff and silent, as if she had received a sudden blow. What had she seen? She released his hand and took one step inside the room, looking around, mouth sagging open and eyes wide. He reached for her, knowing something had happened, but she moved away.

  It was a child’s room, decorated in pink, pale green and white. Nothing looked new, but there was a floral bedspread with matching curtains, a small white wicker rocking chair and a bookcase full of children’s books.

  Macy crossed to stand in front of them, fingering one after the other. “I know these. I’ve read every one. They used to be mine.”

  She strode across the room to a white corner cabinet. The top shelves held an array of figurines, ceramic animals, things that would appeal to a seven-year-old girl. She ignored them, pulling open the door covering the bottom shelves.

  Nick watched as she lifted out a large stuffed brown bear with a pink ribbon tied around its neck.

  “Toby.” Macy snuggled the soft animal against her, cuddling it close. Behind her, Nick stirred restlessly. She turned to face him. “I remember this room. It was mine and I loved it here, and I loved this bear. It was a gift from my father. Oh, Nick, my memory is coming back!”

  That’s what he was afraid of. Yes, he wanted to help her, but something about all of this was making him uneasy. What if Steve Douglas really was innocent of killing his wife? What if someone here in Walnut Grove knew the truth? That person wouldn’t want Macy to remember what had really happened that night. She walked downstairs, carrying the bear, and he followed, wishing he knew what to do.

  First he’d like to get her out of this house. After all, there was someone trying to break in regularly. What if the person succeeded and found Macy here—alone?

  “Look, Macy, you can’t stay here by yourself. Why don’t you spend a few nights at the motel for a while until you get better acquainted with this house and everything?”

  “Everything?” She gave him a long, searching glance. “You mean you think I would be safer at the motel? That I’m in danger because I’m the Douglases’ daughter, and I’m here. Isn’t that right?”

  He puffed out a frustrated breath of air. Yeah, that was what he thought, he just didn’t want to put it into words, but she wasn’t giving him a choice. He didn’t have anything to base it on, just a growing feeling of something off center. Maybe it was based on Sam’s belief that her coming here could stir up trouble.

  “I guess so. I’m just not comfortable with you staying here by yourself.”

  She nodded, looking serious. “I’m not comfortable with it, either. It’s like I’m walking a dark road and I don’t know what waits around the next curve. But I feel like this is something I have to do and I truly believe God is with me.”

  Nick could understand that, but he wanted to be here, too. And where did that need to keep her safe come from? He barely knew Macy Douglas, so why was he going all protective over her? He didn’t understand it, but he knew it would take everything he had to walk away and leave her alone.

  “All right, but I want you to keep my card handy, and you call me the minute anything bothers you. I mean it, Macy. Don’t wait to be sure something is wrong. Call.”
>
  “I’ll be all right. After all, it’s just a house. My grandmother Lassiter lived here. I can, too.”

  The smile she gave him looked like a brave attempt to appear confident, but it didn’t fool him a bit. Macy was afraid.

  FOUR

  Nick left and Macy closed the door and leaned against it. The house felt cold and empty now that he was gone. How long had it been since anyone except her grandmother had worried about her, or shown any concern for her? She wasn’t used to this. She wanted to run after him, beg him to stay, but then she drew a deep breath and wandered into the living room, stopping to examine the pictures.

  There were no pictures of her father. Maybe not all that unusual, considering that Grandma Mattie Douglas hadn’t appeared to have any pictures of her mother. She moved to stand by the window, looking out. Two women, both mothers, each damaged forever by something beyond their control.

  The pictures, or rather the ones that were missing, told the story. Her grandmother Lassiter had refused to display the pictures of the man she believed had killed her daughter. Her grandmother Douglas kept only the ones of the son she believed had been wrongly convicted.

  Had the two women’s grief and anger extended to Macy? Was that why she knew nothing about her mother’s family? Never even knew she had a grandmother named Opal Lassiter? She was just beginning to understand how many lives had been damaged by what happened here.

  Now it was up to her to bring it to a close. Would she be up to the job? Did she have a choice? She’d pretty well burned all her bridges.

  The doorbell rang, startling Macy. A tall, husky, pleasant-faced woman stood there, smiling. “Macy? I’m Neva Miller. I have a housecleaning business and I cleaned for your mother and for your grandmother. And I remember you from back then. I’d like to speak with you.”

  Company was the last thing Macy wanted right now, but she didn’t like to be rude, either. She smiled, trying to appear welcoming, but how did this woman know she would be here?

  “Come on in. The living room is right through here, but I suppose you know that.”