Nelson snorted. “Actually I never doubted for a second that I would leave.”
“Really?” Rylan covertly studied the man’s profile. During high school Nelson had been a little weird, but Rylan didn’t remember him being treated badly by the other kids. “You were unhappy here?”
Nelson sent him a confused glance. “It wasn’t a matter of being happy or unhappy. I was stifled,” he explained. “The only way to pursue my goals was to leave. Just like you did.”
“True,” Rylan agreed, willing to promote a sense of brotherhood. “Although I can’t claim your fame.”
A sly expression settled on Nelson’s pale face. “Don’t be so modest. I’ve seen the magazine articles. Aren’t you engaged to some starlet?”
Rylan’s jaw clenched. Christ. Had his father gone around town shoving that stupid magazine in people’s faces? Why not print it in the church bulletin?
“No starlet,” he said, not adding the fact that his taste ran more to a pretty girl next door. Or woman next door.
Jaci was definitely no longer a girl.
Nelson turned away from the photo, his gaze once again searing over Rylan with a piercing intensity.
“Engaged or not, I can’t imagine you intend to linger in town,” he said. “Not when you could be in sunny California.”
Hmm. Was the man making casual conversation? Or probing for a time line when Rylan would be leaving the area?
Rylan held his gaze. “Actually I intend to stick around for a while.”
“Really?” A meaningless smile touched Nelson’s lips. “That will please your dad.”
“So he says.” Rylan turned the conversation back in the direction he wanted. “I’m surprised you decided to return. With your reputation you could have opened a gallery in New York or LA.”
He shrugged. “Most of my business is done over the Internet. And when my mother became ill I needed to be closer to home.”
“I didn’t know your mother was sick,” Rylan said, racking his brain for a memory of Patricia Bradley. All he could remember was a thin woman with fading red hair and an anxious air.
“She died of cancer last year,” Nelson said.
Rylan grimaced. It’d been years since his own mother had died, but he still felt the ache of her loss.
“I’m sorry,” he said with sincere regret.
“Thank you. We were very close.”
“Do you intend to stay in Heron?” he pressed.
“I have to travel to take my pictures, but this will always be home.” The sound of a ringing phone came from the reception desk, quickly followed by Lilly’s low voice. Nelson’s expression hardened, as if suddenly reminded that Rylan was interrupting his work. “If you’re not here to buy, then what do you want?”
“Just catching up,” Rylan said smoothly.
“Catching up on what?”
Before Rylan could come up with a legitimate excuse, the young receptionist was standing at Nelson’s side.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but Barry Wallace is on the line,” she said.
Nelson nodded, sending Rylan a dismissive glance. “That’s my West Coast agent. I have to take his call.”
“Go ahead,” Rylan urged, casually glancing toward the door. “I need to get back to help Dad with the evening chores.”
Nelson offered a mocking smile. “If you change your mind about a print—”
“You’ll be the first to know,” Rylan drawled.
With a short nod, Nelson pivoted to walk across the room, rounding the reception desk and disappearing up a narrow flight of stairs that led to the upper floor. An office? Or maybe he’d converted the space into an apartment.
Either way, Rylan wasn’t about to waste the unexpected opportunity.
Turning toward the photos on the wall, he aimlessly drifted toward the back of the gallery, well aware the young receptionist was following him.
He halted at a black-and-gray picture of a foggy London street when Lilly at last made her move.
“See anything you like?” she said in suggestive tones.
Rylan bit back his instinctive urge to tell her that she should be flirting with boys her own age. When did he become the grouchy old dude who worried more about a young woman’s lack of common sense than seeing her naked?
“They’re all very original,” he said.
“Nelson is a genius,” she breathed, hero-worship in her tone.
Were the two lovers? Rylan gave a small shake of his head. No. She wouldn’t be blatantly flirting with him if she was involved with Nelson. Not when her job depended on his goodwill.
“How long have you worked for him?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Almost a year. I started right after I graduated from high school.”
“A year.” He acted impressed. “He must be a good boss.”
“He’s gone a lot, and when he’s here he’s usually working in his studio out back.” Lilly’s gaze flickered toward the opening at the back of the gallery. “As long as I don’t intrude into his private studio he’s pretty easy to get along with.”
The fact that the artist didn’t want anyone in his work space only intensified Rylan’s determination to get a peek inside.
“Does his wife help with the gallery?” he asked.
“Oh, he’s not married,” Lilly said, leaning toward him, as if sharing some big secret. “I think every woman in town has tried to get him to the nearest church, but he’s not interested.”
“I’m assuming he prefers to play the field.”
“Yeah.” Lilly heaved a wistful sigh. “But no one local. He likes women from the city who are more sophisticated.”
Realizing that Nelson was smart enough to keep his private life secreted from the local gossips, Rylan gave an absent nod. He needed to get to the back before Nelson returned to the gallery.
“I should be taking off,” he said, acting as if he’d been struck with a sudden thought. “But before I go, is there a restroom I could use?”
With a tiny pout of disappointment, Lilly stepped away.
“Down the hall.” She waved a hand in an absent gesture. “First door on the left.”
Keeping his pace to a casual stroll, Rylan followed her direction, finding himself in a dark hallway. On the left was the public bathroom, and to the right was a closed, unmarked door.
With a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure Lilly hadn’t followed him, Rylan reached to grab the handle. Unlocked. Pushing open the door, he stepped into a large room that had been transformed into an art studio.
Edging forward, Rylan took in the large prints that were placed on easels, and the stack of frames in the corner. There was a long table across the cement floor that groaned beneath the weight of the expensive computer equipment.
There was no sign of a darkroom, although Nelson might have one at another location. Perhaps photographers no longer used them? Rylan shrugged, making a quick circle of the room.
Nothing looked out of place. He checked through the shelves and opened the two cabinets at the back. Then he moved to the computer, touching the mouse to get rid of the screen saver so he could see whatever it was Nelson had been working on before Rylan had interrupted.
A screen of tiny images popped up.
Ah, Nelson’s latest pictures.
He leaned forward, not really interested when he caught sight of the floodwaters that were the primary focus of the photos.
The massive destruction was a perfect theme for the photographer’s love of all things dark and grim.
Then Rylan’s brows drew together as he realized that it wasn’t the deluge of muddy water that the man had been capturing, but what was floating in it.
Shit. Rylan shuddered. It was misty enough to make it difficult to make out more than the long tangle of dark hair and shadowed form. But there was no mistaking it was the unknown woman from Johnson’s field.
His gaze moved to the next photo. It was the skull that was stuck in the mud, the empty eye sockets staring t
oward the gray sky as if pleading for peace.
A chill inched down his spine, even as he said a curse and straightened.
The pictures might be gruesome, but they proved nothing more than Nelson was willing to profit from the darker side of human nature.
Time to leave.
With quick steps he retraced his way to the outer room, suddenly anxious to be out of the gallery.
Hovering near the reception desk, Lilly rushed to intercept him, pushing a sticky note into his hand.
“Here.”
Rylan glanced down in confusion. “What’s this?”
She brushed her fingers down his arm. “My number, in case you want a private showing.”
Rylan stepped out of the gallery with a small shake of his head. He felt a sudden need to see Jaci. There was something fresh, and clean, and down-to-earth about her.
Exactly what he needed.
Crossing the street, he balled up the sticky note, intending to throw it away. Instead, he shoved it in his pocket.
There was a chance he might have more questions for Lilly.
He glanced up at the murky sky that shrouded the area in darkness as he circled the cabin, ensuring there were no tracks in the soggy yard.
The incessant rain might be a pain to most of his neighbors, but it proved to be a bonus for him. Not only did the gloom and shadows mean he could move around the countryside unnoticed, but he could easily see if anyone had been near his cabin.
And, if things had been normal, the soft ground would have been a blessing. Burying a body was far more difficult than most people could imagine.
In the movies they showed a man with a shovel who could dig a grave in less than five minutes. Idiots. It could take hours to get a body deep enough to keep it from being found by animals.
Doing two more sweeps, he at last approached the cabin from the side. His footprints wouldn’t be noticed by anyone using the narrow path that wound through the thick cluster of trees. Plus, it took him directly toward the root cellar that had been built by the previous owner.
Pulling the key from his pocket, he knelt beside the wooden door that was built into the ground next to the foundation. Then, using the key in the heavy padlock, he gave a last look around before he was tugging it up far enough so that he could slip inside.
Making sure that the door was firmly closed behind him, he pocketed the key and made his way down the narrow stairs. Only when his feet were firmly planted on the packed earth, and he was wrapped in the cool, musky air, did he pull a flashlight from the backpack he was carrying and switch it on.
A bright beam of light sliced through the darkness, revealing that he was standing in something that looked remarkably like a hobbit house. The roof was slightly domed, with wooden shelves that lined the walls with dusty mason jars filled with beets and turnips and something he assumed were potatoes. Maybe parsnips.
He hadn’t really taken much notice of them. Most of the time he kept the cramped space covered in sheets of plastic. Even when he wasn’t planning to have a guest, he’d kept everything primed.
Organization. Preparation. Attention to detail.
The keys to success.
And all of them had served him well over the past hours.
He turned the flashlight to the center of the cramped space, revealing the woman lying in the middle of the floor.
At a distance, she looked as if she’d stretched out for a nap.
Her dark hair, which was streaked with silver, was pulled into a sensible bun. Her large-boned body was dressed in a velour jogging suit. And her round face had an expression of sweet contentment.
There was no sign of violence. Not unless you pulled aside the zipped top to reveal the bruises that marred the skin of her throat.
A rare pang of regret sliced through his heart.
Anne Dixon hadn’t been like the others. She didn’t use her sexuality as a weapon. She didn’t enjoy teasing and tormenting men as if it was a game.
No. Anne had been like a mother. All warm and kind and smelling like oatmeal cookies.
But a sacrifice had been demanded.
Kneeling at the woman’s side, he reached out to lightly touch her cold face, but he wasn’t seeing Anne Dixon. No. He was remembering the pleasure that had surged through him like a tidal wave as he’d watched Jaci receive his gift.
Briefly he considered his next move.
A part of him wanted to end the game. Why not dispose of Anne and bring Jaci home where she belonged?
That was the goal, after all.
But another part of him wasn’t ready to bring it all to an end.
There was still fun to be had.
And scores to be settled . . .
Chapter Fourteen
Jaci was removing the loaves of bread from the oven when her cell phone began to make a shrill, obnoxious sound.
Scowling at the horrible noise, she set down the bread and tossed aside the oven mitts. Then grabbing the phone she’d left on the counter, she stared down at the flashing screen.
It took a full minute for her tired brain to realize what was happening.
Then her heart slammed against her ribs. The alarms. Her glance instantly shifted to the two dogs who were curled on the floor by the stove, soaking up the heat.
Clearly they didn’t sense an intruder.
Grabbing a knife off the kitchen table, she cautiously made her way through the house to the living room. She felt ridiculous, but it was the only weapon she had. At least until she could get ahold of the shotgun in her closet.
Her mouth was dry as she moved across the shadowed room. She’d been in the kitchen for hours. She hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights anywhere else.
She crept past the window, her gaze naturally glancing through the open curtains. The breath she was holding was released on a hiss as she easily recognized the large tractor parked next to her garage.
How did she miss the sound of Andrew pulling out of the back field?
Obviously the short nap she’d taken didn’t do a thing to clear the fog from her brain.
Returning to the kitchen, she set the knife on the table and grabbed her phone to switch off the alarm. Keeping it in her hand, she moved into the mudroom to pull on her boots and coat.
Then, whistling for her dogs, she headed out into the rain. There was no way she was leaving the two miscreants alone with the four loaves of bread and three pies she’d just baked for the local bank’s staff appreciation dinner. The branch manager was coming by to pick them up later that evening.
Rounding the house, she headed straight toward the shop. The dogs charged ahead of her, dancing around Andrew as he turned to face her.
“Sorry,” he said, giving Riff and Raff a pat on the head before straightening. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
She smiled. “No problem. I should have warned you that I had locks installed.”
“I’m glad you did.” He sent her a chiding glance. “About time you decided to take your safety serious.”
Her lips twitched. Andrew had been nagging her forever to get some sort of alarm. She wondered what he would think if he knew the full extent of her new security system.
“Did you need something?”
“I have a few pieces of wood I thought you might want.” He nodded his head toward the pile of thick sticks he’d stacked near the door of the shop.
“They’re wonderful,” she said, pulling the keys from her pocket to unlock the door. Reaching around the edge of the jamb, she flicked on the light. “I’ll put them in the corner to dry.”
Together they carried the branches into the shop, spreading them over a tarp she pulled from a shelf.
Once they were done, Andrew tugged off his heavy gloves while Jaci reached for a rag to wipe her muddy hands.
“I thought you might want some driftwood to make those garden signs,” he said, referring to the small posts with the names of various vegetables painted on them. Andrew had taken them to several small stores when
he’d traveled to Kansas City during Christmas. “Those sold like crazy.”
Jaci wrinkled her nose. She’d made a fortune on the signs. After all, they were nothing more than reclaimed wood and a little paint, and they’d sold for twenty bucks apiece. But she didn’t have the time to travel and peddle them around Kansas City.
“I don’t know when I’ll get over there,” she said in regretful tones.
Andrew shrugged. “I’m going next week.”
“To Kansas City?”
“Yep.”
“Visiting Irene again?” Jaci asked.
Andrew’s aunt had married a man with a farm near the suburbs of the large town. Andrew had stayed with them when he’d attended UMKC to get his degree in agriculture. He still spent time with them each year. The couple had never had any children and Andrew went over to take care of the tasks that his uncle could no longer do on his own.
“Yeah,” he said. “Uncle Josh needs help patching up his roof.”
She smiled. “You’re a good man.”
He blushed, shifting from foot to foot. “It’s not completely unselfish.”
Jaci arched her brows. “Why do you say that?”
His blush deepened. “I have a college friend I’ve been chatting with online,” he admitted. “She recently moved back to Kansas City. We’re hoping for a chance to get together.”
“Why, Andrew Porter,” she teased, before reaching out to lightly touch his arm. “I’m glad. I hope the two of you have a great time.”
He studied her with a small smile. “And speaking of old friends, I spoke with Rylan this morning.”
It was Jaci’s turn to blush. Like she was still that fifteen-year-old girl with an unrequited love for her gorgeous neighbor.
She cleared her throat. “Did you?”
“Yep.”
Jaci tried to act casual. “Anything interesting?”
He reached up to grab his seed hat, pulling it off to shake away the clinging raindrops.
“He told me you were being pestered,” he said.
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