Trip, on the other hand, already looked so antsy that Dylan suggested—none too politely—that he ought to go upstairs as well, and see what he could do to help Amanda. Most likely, he’d duck out on the “help” option and simply go whine to his mother and sister about being forced to miss his precious football game instead. But better that than keeping him here, irritating Dylan every time he opened his mouth.
Later, though, he’d track down Lowden, or better yet, suggest to the police chief that he question Trip more closely about what had happened.
Mrs. Black was sitting up now, holding her hand to the back of her head as she told the doctor, “Don’t touch it again, and keep that damnable light out of my eyes.”
Dylan couldn’t help but smile, relieved to hear that a clout on the head hadn’t cost her the special brand of “charm” she was so famous for.
“Can you tell me your full name?” Levi asked her, followed by questions about the time of day and her location.
Glaring with her mismatched eyes, Mrs. Black snapped out the answers, right about all except the time, which she guessed to be just after lunch.
Levi asked her to follow his light with her good eye, stretch out her arms and then touch her nose with each index finger, but she finally lost patience when he asked her to smile.
“You tell me what I have to smile about and I’ll be glad to!” she barked.
Dylan interrupted the examination to ask her, “Do you remember anything about what happened or who hit you?”
The laundress struggled to answer before admitting, “I don’t know. I can’t remember anything past bringing a roast-beef sandwich and an apple downstairs for my lunch.”
“After a head injury,” Levi explained, “retrograde amnesia’s very common.”
“Retro-what?” she asked, gingerly touching the sore spot.
“It means you have no memory of what happened just before the blow to your head. The memories might be gone forever, or they could return.”
“For Mrs. Black’s safety,” Dylan suggested, “maybe we should all stick to saying she doesn’t remember. Otherwise, whoever did this might try to—”
“To shut me up forever?” Mrs. Black’s eyes widened and her already-pale skin went paler with the thought.
“If you remember anything,” Dylan said, “you could tell one of us or police chief Peters. No one else, Mrs. Black, not even your husband. Because if it gets mentioned to the wrong person...”
Levi nodded, his expression more serious than ever. “That’s a good idea, and let’s get you away from the ranch for a while, too. I’ll want you to go to Cheyenne Memorial for a CT scan. I don’t have privileges there, but I’ll make a few calls and see that you’re admitted for overnight observation, at least.”
She protested emphatically, complaining about the long drive and waste of money even after Levi assured her the cost would be completely covered since she was injured on the job.
“And they’re sure to stick me with a dozen needles.” She shuddered visibly. “That’s what all your kind do. When they’re not prescribing enemas.”
“There’ll be no enema, I promise.”
How Levi managed to keep a straight face, Dylan would never know.
The argument ended when Mr. Black returned, a mug of coffee in hand, and heard the doctor explaining that an undetected brain bleed might cost Mrs. Black her life. Taking charge, the maintenance man insisted she was going and helped Levi get her upstairs and into the Blacks’ pickup for the forty-minute drive.
Dylan, meanwhile, stopped the two hands and the pair of housemaids Amanda had sent to help him search the basement.
“Now that Mrs. Black’s been found,” he told them, “it’s better we all stay upstairs. The police won’t want us disturbing any evidence that might have been left down there—or leaving any extra fingerprints they’ll need to sort through.”
Misty Mayhew shook her head, her blue eyes wide. “But won’t some of us already have our fingerprints down there? We can’t be blamed for the places our duties take us!”
“Surely, they’ll take that into account,” said Hilda Zimmerman, an older maid who spent her nights at home in town with her husband. “Won’t they, Dylan?”
He hurried to reassure the kindly woman, whose sweet demeanor reminded him so much of his mother’s. “Of course they will,” he told her. “You’ve got nothing to be concerned about.”
Unless your prints are on that deadman panel, the broomstick or that iron—the way I’m guessing Trip’s will be.
Chapter 6
From the moment Amanda caught her eye, Hope knew Dylan must have said something about her father’s death. The sympathy in her friend’s gaze was nearly her undoing.
As she came inside with the others, Amanda spoke quietly in her ear. “Go wait in my solarium, and I’ll come as soon as I can. Do you remember where it is?”
Her emotions too close to the surface to dare speaking, Hope nodded, recalling the quiet little sunroom off Amanda’s suite. With its beautiful white wicker furnishings and its potted tropical plants, it reminded her of the cozy little childhood nook where she’d hidden away to read sometimes or simply bask in the weak sunlight of a winter day. There was even a gorgeous, long-haired orange cat, a purring, tailless cutie Amanda called Reyna, a reminder of happier times when Hope had had pets of her own.
But the best things about Amanda’s solarium were the powered louvers that could be closed to cover up the windows. No one would see or hear them speaking—a conversation Hope felt certain would end with Amanda asking her to leave.
About twenty minutes later, Amanda came in carrying her daughter, Cheyenne, who lay sound asleep with her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“She’s adorable,” Hope managed, though she couldn’t trust herself to look into the baby’s face without losing it completely. If I hadn’t wanted a child of my own so badly, hadn’t let it blind me...
Fortunately, little Cheyenne didn’t stir when Amanda put her down in a portable playpen off to one side and covered her with a light blanket. Crossing the room, Amanda hugged Hope tightly. “I’m so sorry about your dad.”
“It was a fire,” Hope said, fresh guilt knifing through her. “And a fire here today, too. He knows, Amanda. Renzo’s found me again.”
Amanda gestured toward a love seat. “You don’t know that. You can’t.”
Tired of her own pacing, Hope forced herself to sit. “While I was walking over here, I overheard your sister Gabby telling Mathilda that the power was sabotaged. That’s what caused the fire, she said.”
Amanda perched on the edge of a chair, her mouth pressed in a grim line. “That’s true, but we’ve had a lot of other issues on the ranch lately. So there’s no way to know if this has anything to do with—”
“I don’t believe in coincidences this big. I can’t afford to.” Crossing her arms tightly, Hope wished for the comforting warmth of Dylan’s jacket. To avoid more unwanted attention, she’d hung it on the rack outside the employee dining area, despite the mansion’s growing chill. “My father’s gone, Amanda. Horrible as it is, I can’t do anything about that. But it’s not too late to leave here before anyone else ends up dead because of me. It’s bad enough that Mrs. Black—”
“So you heard that she was found?”
“Found hurt, I understand. Will she be all right? Do you know yet?”
“Most likely, she’ll be just fine. She’s awake and talking. Levi only sent her to the hospital as a precaution.”
“Thank God. I couldn’t stand it if— I know she doesn’t like me much, but—”
“Probably as much as she likes anybody, if it’s any consolation.”
Hope tried to smile at Amanda’s wry face, but she couldn’t pull it off. Not tonight. “Does she know who hurt her? Did she see anything?”
When Amanda shook her head, Hope sighed in relief. “I hate to ask you this, but if I could get a ride to Cheyenne and borrow enough to cover bus fare...I wouldn’t ask, but I us
ed almost everything I had on me after the bombing to hide out and then get here, and there’s no way I can risk accessing my own money.”
She had a trust fund from her mother and money she’d saved from a string of commercials she’d done for local businesses following her pageant days, including a car dealership owned by the friend of Renzo’s who had introduced them. Though she’d transferred every penny of it in the hours before she’d left home, she couldn’t touch it until she testified, nor could she risk pawning the diamond ring she’d so carefully sewn into her bra. In a town as small as Dead, one of Joey’s men could have easily bribed the local pawnshop owner to be on the lookout for her.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Amanda straightened her spine, a fierce determination lighting her golden eyes.
A feeling of déjà vu shivered through Hope. Where was it she’d seen that same look so recently? Shoving aside the odd thought, she argued, “But I can’t stay. I can’t possibly put you and your family and everyone in danger—”
“You aren’t getting on a bus. That’s crazy. If your ex’s people tracked you this far, the Cheyenne terminal would be the very next place they’ll look. And they’ll find you, Hope. They will. Because you might be wearing those big glasses and that shapeless gray dress, but your walk, your speech, even the way you stand— You can take the girl out of the pageant, but you can’t take the pageant out of the girl. Or maybe it’s the socialite. I’m not sure. In either case, you’re noticeable. Memorable, especially to men.”
Hope frowned. “I could always strap down my bazoombas.”
Amanda snorted. “Yeah, right. Just how much duct tape do you think we keep around this ranch?”
Hope couldn’t help herself. She laughed, a desperate sound closer to hysteria than humor, then burst out weeping moments later, her emotions tumbling quick as thought from grief to guilt. How could anything be funny right now, with her father lying dead? With all the lives lost to her string of bad decisions.
Amanda, to her credit, didn’t try to stop her. Instead, she brought a box of tissues and waited with infinite patience for the storm to pass. As she did, her cat rubbed past her legs purring like a coffee grinder and the baby slept, oblivious to the turmoil around her.
Hope dabbed at her eyes, though she suspected her mascara was already a lost cause. “Sorry. I know you always hated it when I acted like such a girl.”
“Believe me,” Amanda said, “I’ve shed some tears of my own since the two of us were roommates.”
Hope knew there’d been an attempt to kidnap baby Cheyenne, just as she knew Amanda’s little daughter was the love of her life. The thought set off a pang of pain and longing, and the wish that they could really talk about the events of this past year.
But there were some secrets Hope couldn’t bear to divulge to anyone, and besides, she knew how fiercely private Amanda had always been, to the point where she hadn’t even mentioned the child’s father. So Hope let her change the subject, let herself be talked into staying.
“At least until we know for sure,” Hope reluctantly conceded.
Amanda refused to let it go at that. “Even if we find out you’re right, there’s no way in this world I’m going to let that sick SOB hunt you down like an animal and kill you. I’ve got your back, Aurora, no matter how hard things get.”
It was only afterward, when walking back toward the servants’ wing, using an armload of soiled towels as cover, that Hope realized why it was that Amanda’s stubborn loyalty, her fierce determination to do the right thing by an old friend, had seemed so strangely familiar. Earlier this evening, she’d seen the same look already, the same posture, the same mannerisms in another person.
In Dylan Frick.
Could it be because the two of them had practically grown up together, then worked so closely as adults? Or was the similarity genetic?
Were they really half brother and sister, after all?
* * *
Early the following morning, Dylan took a deep breath and braced himself before knocking. In years past, Jethro Colton had summoned him any number of times: to talk about this horse or that heifer, to get his take on a new breeding or vaccination program.
But never before had he been invited to see Jethro in his private suite. And never before had he been forced to report to the man who might just, heaven help him, turn out to be his father.
“Come on in,” called the familiar voice. Brusque, impatient, no different than Dylan had heard it a thousand times before.
He stepped inside a sitting room that served as an entryway, softly lit with a pair of oil lanterns. The greens and golds and dark, espresso-colored wood looked comfortable and masculine...and nothing like the jeweled and gilded throne room he and his friends had imagined growing up here as employees’ brats.
One of the room’s framed photos caught his eye, this one of a beautiful young woman—Jethro’s first wife, the late Brittany Beal Colton—holding a tiny baby swaddled in a blanket embroidered with the name Cole. Dylan stared at both, feeling a trace of sadness to think of two young lives wasted, for the more he thought about it, the more firmly he believed that the missing child must be dead. Tragic, yes, to imagine Desiree or perhaps some coconspirator murdering an innocent, but it had happened years ago, and he felt nothing to indicate the woman was anything more than a stranger to him, just as he felt no particular connection to the infant in her arms.
Not me, he thought, relief cascading through him, for in his line of work, Dylan had learned to rely upon his instincts. To trust them with his life or pay the consequences.
“All the way in. Don’t just stand out there,” Jethro ordered from the adjoining bedroom.
“Yes, sir.” Dylan walked in to where Colton sat in one of two wingback chairs in front of a blazing fireplace.
The massive, four-poster bed behind those chairs looked freshly made, though Jethro still wore his thick, black robe over fleece pajamas, along with a permanent scowl.
“You’re looking well, sir,” Dylan told him, though his employer—his boss and not his father—was thinner than before and clearly frailer, his tanned skin faded to a bruised translucence.
Could the leukemia’s ravages be stopped, even reversed, with a transplant of bone marrow from a matching donor, or was it already too late? Even if a perfect match were found, Dylan knew there was no guarantee that Jethro, who had fought treatment at every step of the way, would change his mind and consider a transplant, no matter how his daughters pleaded.
“Looking well, my ass.” Judging from the scowl on Jethro’s face, the possibility of a miracle cure was the furthest thing from his mind. “You don’t get paid enough to stand here lying to me, so sit down, boy.”
Dylan felt his body go stiff at Jethro’s gruffness, a painful reminder of his recent refusal to pay the ransom of a mere employee’s infant girl, even though the baby was only taken after being mistaken for Jethro’s granddaughter, Cheyenne Colton. And even though Dylan’s own mother had died defending her, Colton had never once acknowledged the loss. “I’d just as soon stand if it’s all the same to you. Sir.”
“It’s not. Makes my neck ache looking up at you.”
Dylan conceded the point, lowering himself into the chair and waiting for Jethro to get around to the reason he’d been asked here. He knew very well that the old man had already demanded—and been given—reports on the basement fire and power outage by Amanda and the police chief, neither of whom had shared the details of the investigation with Dylan.
“So tell me,” Jethro said, “what the hell is really going on around the ranch these days?”
“We’ve finished separating out the weanlings from their mamas,” he said, speaking of the beef cattle he knew so well, since he’d been acting as the ranch’s temporary foreman, “and we’ve put the young stock on the feeding program you approved last summer. Weights are looking good so far, and we’ve had zero mortality this year, down from—”
“That’s not what I meant and you know
it. Tell me about what happened in the basement. I heard you were down there before anybody except Horace Black and my stepson.”
Dylan shook his head, unwilling to discuss his suspicions about Trip and Tawny without hard evidence. And there was no way in hell he was sharing details about Hope’s situation—or her ex-husband’s apparent penchant for settling scores with arson. “I honestly couldn’t say.”
Ailing or not, Jethro fixed him with a look that contained every bit of his old shrewdness. “Couldn’t? Or won’t?”
“If you’re looking for a spy to share the latest half-baked speculation, you’ve got the wrong man,” Dylan answered. “If I were you, I’d be more inclined to listen to what the cops have to say once they process whatever evidence they collected.”
Jethro chuckled, and if Dylan didn’t know any better, he’d almost swear he saw a glint of fondness in Colton’s flinty eyes. But then, Jethro had been the one to take note of and capitalize on Dylan’s talents, back when he was still a half-grown kid. From time to time, Dylan had overheard him boasting of his “large-animal whisperer” to other ranchers as well, though the old man had never praised him to his face.
“I figured that’s what you’d say,” Jethro admitted.
“Then why call me in here?” Dylan asked.
“Because there’s something I needed to say to you. Something I’ve neglected far too long.”
Dylan’s mouth went chalk-dry, and his palms grew clammy. Had Jethro found out about the DNA test he had taken? Had he somehow intercepted the results—or bribed some lab technician into giving him inside information? Unable to speak, Dylan simply waited, the sound of his own heartbeat crashing in his ears.
“I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry. About how your mother died.”
Dylan stared back in confusion, his thoughts jumping from the sweet woman who had raised him to the photo in the sitting room. Could his instincts have been wrong about Brittany Beal Colton? Could he actually be...?
Jethro stared into the fire, waiting, and Dylan sensed that he was being tested. Being played, perhaps, by a man eager to find out just how interested a mere employee was in claiming a portion of the Colton empire. An empire spun from thin air, as far as anyone had figured. Oh, everyone agreed that after his initial purchase of the ranch, Jethro’s shrewdness, his business sense and the fortunate discovery of a natural-gas reserve beneath the ranch’s rockier northwestern portion had amplified his fortune, but not even that could entirely account for his billionaire status. And where on earth had he gotten close to a million dollars to buy the ranch in cash in the first place?
The Colton Heir Page 7