The Colton Heir

by Colleen Thompson

  Not when she was so very close to achieving everything she had worked for, everything she wanted and deserved. So she crept along, following the two men—neither of whom seemed to know the first thing about stealth—until her blond “friend” popped out of a room and asked his partner, “Ya wanna show me her picture one more time?”

  “You mean you haven’t memorized it by now?” asked the big man, whose harsh accent sounded as if he might be from New York, or somewhere right around there. “It’s not like you didn’t spend enough time staring at her last night in the motel room.”

  “What? You really think I was spendin’ all that time in the bathroom lookin’ at her face?”

  The two men laughed at the crude joke, which only made her lip curl.

  “That one we spotted on the family wing, the brunette. Could the bitch have dyed her hair?”

  “Not unless she also found a way to make herself look taller and do some serious— Whatcha call it? That’s right. Breast reduction.”

  “Cuttin’ down a pair like that’s a crime against man and nature....” quipped her former partner. A partner she had learned the hard way could never be trusted, when he had beaten and threatened to betray her unless she let him take the valuable coins.

  “A capital offense,” agreed the big man, in a voice that made her shiver. But she knew now whom the two of them were hunting. Had to be the clearly nervous new girl, the one who took such pains to dress in a way that hid her generous cleavage.

  Certainly, it wasn’t the red-haired Gabby Colton, or anyone well-known here. Anyone who would be missed.

  But as long as the new maid, the one calling herself Hope Woods, remained at Dead River Ranch, the mastermind would never be safe. Not unless she found a way to permanently rid herself of the problem before the bimbo drew more trouble.

  * * *

  “See there, Chica?” Dylan told the young chestnut mare that he was riding around the corral in a smooth jog. “You were never really mean or crazy. Only scared and confused, that’s all—”

  The chestnut dropped her head and bucked, kicking out with both rear legs.

  “And maybe just a little ornery,” he admitted as he struggled to regain control. It took him a few minutes to prove to the horse she wasn’t going to pitch him, but finally, he had her loping around the enclosure, completely under his control.

  “Thought you’d given up bronc busting,” called Amanda, who was watching from the rails.

  “So did I.” Dylan smiled at the reminder of his younger years, when he’d taken a couple of years off to ride the rodeo circuit. As much fun as he’d found the cheering and the beer and the buckle bunnies—as the cowboys called their more aggressive female fans—he’d been a disaster as a bronc and bull rider, so in tune with the animals that they almost instantly calmed down and cost him points. “But Chica here had other ideas.”

  Finished for the moment, he pulled her up and dismounted, then patted the sweaty, red-brown neck.

  “So what can I do for you?” he asked Amanda, studying her for any signs of tension. When he noticed the tightness in her shoulders and the grim line of her mouth, he added, “Listen, I’m sorry about upsetting your dad before. That was never my intention.”

  “You went to see my dad this morning?” She sounded genuinely surprised.

  As he opened the gate to lead the mare out, he admitted, “I did. Got a call first thing saying he wanted to see me. Wanted to question me, it turned out, on what I thought was going on.” If asked about it in detail, Dylan wouldn’t lie, but he decided not to volunteer the information that her father had somehow heard about the DNA test.

  “So he’s playing the detective now?” She shook her head. “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. But I didn’t come about him or about work, either. I wanted to check on Hope, to see how she’s doing since her father... Have you seen her anywhere around this morning?”

  He shook his head, worry snaking up his backbone. He’d looked for her this morning, but she hadn’t been at breakfast. When he’d discreetly asked Mathilda, she had informed him Hope hadn’t been among those who had camped out in the great room. “I haven’t caught a glimpse of her all day, but Mrs. Perkins told me she’d gone straight to her duties.”

  “I called the rooms back on the wing where she’s assigned,” Amanda told him, “but Trip says he hasn’t seen her, either.”

  “Trip...” Dylan’s gaze drifted with the thin clouds as he remembered what Hope had told him about someone sneaking up behind her and letting down her hair while she worked. Of course that had to be Trip. “Damn it all. Sorry for the language, but I think Trip—uh, Mr. Lowden—could be lying. Hope didn’t come right out and say it, but I think he could be harassing her. Sexually, I mean.”

  Amanda blew out a breath. “Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

  “You’ve both had a lot on your mind. And maybe she figured she could handle things.” He didn’t add that Trip’s position in the household would make such an accusation awkward, and dependent as she was on Amanda for her cover, Hope might not feel she could afford to take the risk.

  “Would you mind having someone see to Chica here? Then I’ll go check on Hope. Even if I have to go through Trip to find her.”

  Amanda shook her head. “You just can’t go barging into the back wing. Maybe I should—”

  “Do you really think Trip will give you a warm welcome after he’s already told you that Hope’s not there?”

  Amanda’s cheeks flamed. “But it’s my house. My family’s, I mean.”

  “But that particular part of it’s your father’s ex-wife’s and her two children’s. Have you ever so much as set foot there since they’ve been living there?”

  “No, and I’d love to know why on earth my father would allow that situation to continue,” she said as she took the mare’s reins from his hands. “You’re right, Dylan. You need to go and find her. Make whatever excuses you have to and get her out of there. And whatever Trip says, whatever he does, don’t you be the one to take the first swing.”

  Dylan snorted. “If he takes a swing at me, it’ll be his last one.”

  “Seriously, Dylan,” she warned, “you know how my father is about employees and the family. He has to know you’re worth at least a hundred Trip Lowdens, but Dad’ll still feel compelled to make an example of you. For one thing, he has no idea that you might be—”

  “I’ll make sure you’re informed as soon as I find her.”

  When she stiffened slightly, he realized he was doing it again: being short with Amanda because of his own issues with the DNA test. Before he could think how to apologize, she had recovered from the interruption.

  “If anyone gives you static,” she suggested, “you can tell them that I sent you. Say I answered a phone call for her, from a family member with an urgent message.”

  “I hope to hell she’s really in the back wing cleaning. Because considering what happened to her father and the fire here last night—”

  Amanda shook her head. “It can’t be her ex-husband’s people. We’ve been so careful.”

  “I imagine the Witness Protection people thought they were being careful, too.”

  The color drained from Amanda’s face. “Find her, Dylan. Find her quickly, will you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he answered, and as he hurried toward the mansion, he wondered if he’d ever again be able to return to the easy, natural relationship he’d once had with her. Maybe it was time for him to reconsider one of the two jobs he’d been offered during the past few months, standing offers he’d refused to think about until the person responsible for his mother’s death was behind bars.

  By the time he made it inside, those worries had been crowded out, displaced by memories of the way Hope had filled his arms last night, the compassion in her voice when he’d told her a story he couldn’t imagine sharing with any other woman, much less a near stranger....

  And he thought, too, of his vow to keep her safe no matter what.

 
* * *

  Hope cracked open her burning eyes to find that everything was spinning: tile, glass brick, bathroom cabinets, all whirling around so swiftly, she might have been sucked into a storm’s vortex.

  Must have banged her head when she fell, for it was pounding, throbbing sickly, and her fingers came away gummy with half-dried blood when she tried to touch the sore spot on her forehead.

  Fumes, she realized, as she registered the high-pitched rasp of her own wheezing. Pain shot through her lungs with every inhalation.

  Still only semiconscious, she knew she couldn’t stay here. If she did, she’d die on this floor, poisoned by... Had something unexpected been inside that white bottle with the torn label? Something meant to harm her?

  But right now, the how of it made no difference whatsoever. The only thing that mattered was getting out of this room. Because no one would come looking for her, at least until tonight, when she failed to turn up for...

  Would anyone even miss her then? Afraid her nervousness—and last night’s weeping—would lead someone to suspect her, she’d given the other employees a wide berth. Except for Dylan...

  Her mind flooded with a memory of his voice in the darkness. And the physical sensation of his arms as they’d held her.

  Except she couldn’t afford to wait for him. And wouldn’t ever again fall into the trap of counting on a man. Eyes streaming from the stinging fumes, she crawled across the tiled floor. Fresh pain shot through her chest with the exertion, but she forced herself to go on, to haul her weakened body to the foot of Tawny’s bed.

  There, she tried to pull herself to her feet, but agony detonated more of the white dots in her vision. Afraid she would pass out again, she continued crawling toward the hall door, thinking that if only she could reach it, someone was bound to find her.

  She prayed that someone wouldn’t prove to be one of the “electricians” who had come to kill her.

  But as she crawled closer to the door, she realized it was Trip, arguing with someone. Trip, who for all she knew might try to grope her if he found her unconscious on the floor.

  Surely, she thought, he wasn’t arrogant enough to molest a woman in front of a witness. She should be safe enough—unless he was out there haranguing Joey Santorini and his partner about the continuing lack of power.

  Deciding she had no choice but to risk it, she tried to call for help.

  Barely a hiss escaped from her mouth, a strangled sound so painful that tears poured down her face and the room spun all around her.

  The voices in the hall were receding, taking with them her last hope of rescue. Refusing to let it happen, she fought through waves of pain to pull off one of the low-heeled black pumps she’d been wearing.

  To hurl it at the door with every bit of strength that she possessed.

  * * *

  The loud thump down the hall surprised both men—and served as the last straw for Dylan.

  “Someone’s in there. Out of my way,” he ordered Trip, who had been arguing that his mother and sister were both gone and there was no one else on the floor since the electricians had left an hour earlier.

  “What the hell?” Trip asked, looking startled as he turned to the noise.

  Dylan shouldered his way past him and threw open the unlocked door.

  His heart jerked in his chest at the sight of Hope lying prone on the floor. The moment he stepped inside, a caustic, chemical odor made his eyes water.

  “Is she breathing?” Trip asked, still standing in the doorway, his hand covering his mouth and nose.

  “Hope, wake up,” Dylan said as he grabbed her arm. She didn’t respond, but her skin was warm to the touch and he could hear her wheezing.

  “She’s alive.” He fought the urge to cough to tell Trip, “Go get Dr. Colton—fast.”

  For once, Trip didn’t argue, disappearing in an instant.

  His eyes burning, Dylan took hold of Hope’s shoulders and dragged her from the room. Dangerous as it was to move a potentially injured person, he had no doubt whatsoever that continuing to breathe the bad air inside the frilly, pink suite was the greater risk.

  Hope groaned when he moved her into the hall and tried to swat at him. After kicking shut the door behind them, he caught one of her hands and squeezed it and then noticed the bloody, bruised spot on her forehead.

  Remembering Mrs. Black, he asked, “Hope, it’s Dylan. Did someone hit you?”

  The strangled sound she made when she spoke might have been a no. “Cleaning chemicals,” she rasped. “Got dizzy.”

  “Doctor’s on his way. He’ll have medicine to help you,” he assured her, trying not to panic at how very weak her voice was, how shallow her breathing. Her half-closed eyes were red, too, burned by the fumes, he realized.

  Would Levi have the right tools here to save her?

  “Stay with me,” Dylan told her, brushing a stray, chocolate-colored lock from her face. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost the horn-rimmed glasses, but with her lips and eyelids swollen, she scarcely looked like herself. “Stay awake, Hope.”

  Her lashes fluttered and she reached up toward her face. “Eyes. My eyes are burning. Contacts hurting so bad.”

  “Don’t touch,” he tried to tell her, but she was fumbling with her left eyelid, then popping out a contact...

  And revealing a vibrant blue eye, a shade made far more startling against the redness of her corneas.

  Another layer of disguise gone, he thought as she removed the second brown contact. “Close your eyes,” he told her as he heard the thumping of footsteps coming up the staircase. Though Levi would have to see her new eye color, there was no need to allow Trip to get a look.

  “If I d-don’t— You have to tell my— Tell him that I love him, Dylan... Tell him I’ll always...” Her head tipped back, her spine arching as tremors racked her body.

  “Dr. Colton, over here!” called Dylan, trying to catch at her flailing limbs.

  “Step back, please,” Levi said as he knelt on the floor beside Hope.

  The movements stilled in seconds—the longest seconds of Dylan’s life—and the doctor rolled her onto her side and quickly checked her pulse and breathing.

  “She’s moving air,” he said, “but not much. What the hell is happening?”

  Dylan quickly gave him a rundown on her symptoms and what she’d said about the cleaning chemicals. “I think she might’ve banged her head when she fell,” he added. “When I asked, she told me no one hit her.”

  Levi called her name, but she must have passed out once more, for she was unresponsive. He lifted her hand and peered down. “She’s seriously constricted. Cyanotic, too. See right here. The nail beds are bluish, like her lips.”

  He was right, Dylan thought, stunned to realize that instead of improving with the fresher air, Hope was still deteriorating. “Is it from the chemicals?” he asked. “The whole suite reeks like—”

  “Like strong bleach,” Levi agreed as he peeled back Hope’s eyelids and shone a flashlight in each pupil. “I can smell it from here. Could be she mixed bleach with some kind of acid. It’s a relatively common accident.”

  “Can you save her?” Though he thought he’d given up on praying, he found himself silently sending up a plea. Don’t let her die, too, not after everything she’s been through.

  Rather than answering, Levi told him, “We’ll need to get her down to the infirmary, stat. I’ve got a nebulizer down there to deliver the breathing medication she’ll need, and I can administer oxygen, as well. Let me call downstairs to get a—”

  Before he could finish, Dylan lifted her in his arms, unwilling to waste a single second to get her what she so clearly needed.

  “I was going to say ‘a couple of strong hands and a backboard,’” Levi finished, “but I can see you’ve got it covered. Let’s go.”

  “Need some help?” Trip asked, belatedly appearing at the top of the stairs. He looked more anxious than last night, to be certain. Was it because this “accident” had hit too cl
ose to home?

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Dylan told him, not trusting Lowden not to drop her. And not wanting Hope to catch his attention if she chanced to open her eyes again. “Just let Mrs. Perkins know, if you would.”

  “Sure thing,” Trip said, going for a hall extension.

  Certain that Mathilda would alert Amanda to her friend’s condition, Dylan carried Hope down two flights of stairs, not even slowing his pace when Misty Mayhew stopped to ask him what had happened.

  Trailing him, Levi opened the door to the infirmary and flipped on the lights, and Dylan thanked God that the doctor had asked him to find another generator to get the ranch’s small clinic back up and running earlier.

  “Let’s put her over here,” Levi said, motioning to the hospital bed he kept rolled off to one side, rather than the exam table. “That way, if she has another seizure, we won’t have to worry about her falling.”

  As Dylan laid her down, however, Hope didn’t move a muscle, which somehow scared him even more. “What can I do?” he asked. “There has to be something.”

  “You can step out of the way,” Levi ordered. “Maybe go ask Agnes to whip up a fresh pot of coffee for us.”

  Dylan didn’t give a damn if Levi was both a doctor and a Colton. “You’re not going to run me off. I’m staying.”

  “Then sit down and be quiet, will you?” said Levi, and he pulled a wrapped unit containing a plastic mask and tubing from a cabinet drawer. “Or better yet, go look on my desk and see if you can find the number of the MedFlight helicopter service in case we need her airlifted. In case this is beyond what I can do for her here.”

  He unlocked another cabinet and opened a box containing plastic ampuls of some clear medication. Breaking open one, he poured it into a small chamber underneath the mask, which he strapped over Hope’s face.

  As he turned on the nebulizer, Dylan dug through a small stack of papers until he found a card whose logo boasted: For All Your Critical Care Needs.