Dusk was quickly descending beyond the windows, filling the room with the bluish shadows of an early July evening. Though she’d been in central Oregon for a week and a half, Rainie was still amazed at how quickly it grew dark here after the sun dipped behind the Cascade Mountains. Reaching over her shoulder to flip on the overhead light, she resumed her task of job hunting, an endeavor that would have been much easier if she’d owned a computer. Yeah, right. Her shoestring budget hadn’t allowed for many convenience items. She had splurged on a secondhand television for fifty dollars, but only because it was important that she keep abreast of the latest developments in the ongoing investigation of her mysterious disappearance.
The thought made her smile. In her case, the old adage that every dog had its day was proving to be true. During her marriage, Rainie had sweated bullets whenever Peter was home, never knowing when some little thing might ignite his temper. Now he was the one on pins and needles. When wives vanished without a trace, it was usually the husbands who first came under suspicion. Too bad, so sad. Peter’s sterling reputation was taking some hard hits. Though members of law enforcement hadn’t yet said it aloud, they clearly didn’t believe that a healthy, reasonably fit young woman had fallen overboard without a helpful push.
Oh, yes, Peter was now on the hot seat, a turn of events Rainie hadn’t anticipated but couldn’t regret. Just deserts. No matter how much misery the man endured, it would be nothing compared to the horrors he’d inflicted on her and possibly others. Though it wasn’t very admirable of her, she found it gratifying to watch her handsome, treacherous husband squirm as he fielded questions from reporters. Some enterprising newsperson had dug up information on Peter’s first two marriages, and it was now gossip fodder for the tabloids as well as prime-time news anchors that Peter’s former wives had died mysterious deaths and left him huge sums of money. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Peter.
For Rainie, walking away from what remained of her father’s estate had been extremely difficult. Her dad had worked his entire life for that money, and Peter Danning didn’t deserve a single cent of it. But it had bothered her even more to turn her back on Peter’s first two wives. During one of his brutal fits of temper, Peter had once confessed to Rainie that he’d murdered her predecessors because they’d been planning to divorce him. At the time, Rainie had prayed he was lying in an attempt to intimidate her. I’ll never let you leave me. I’ll see you dead first. But old Internet news archives hinted that Peter’s incredible confession might be true. His first wife had died of a lingering illness that baffled her doctors. The result of some obscure, undetectable poison, possibly? The second wife had perished in a car wreck when her brakes had failed on a curvy mountain road during a rainstorm. Accident or design? Rainie had very good reason to suspect that her husband had killed both women and walked away with their inheritances. If so, he deserved to squirm. No misfortune that befell him was too severe a punishment if he had ended the lives of two healthy young women.
During those first news broadcasts, Rainie had huddled on the sofa, smiling through tears. Thanks to the help of Margaret Bresslar and Janet Teague, Rainie had actually pulled it off and given Peter the slip. What had she ever done to deserve such faithful and devoted friends? They’d risked so much for her, so very much. Oh, how she missed e-mailing them or talking with them on the phone. Margaret, the more serious one, had been Rainie’s rock during the final days of her marital imprisonment, and Janet, the funny, irreverent one, who’d often been mistaken for Rainie’s sister in college because they looked so much alike, had always managed to keep Rainie laughing. Don’t lace the bastard’s coffee with rat poison yet, she’d cautioned. We’re going to get you out of there.
In the end, Janet had kept that promise, putting her career and her freedom on the line. Wearing an Elvira wig, sunglasses, and punk-rocker clothing, she had boarded the ship as Anna Pritchard, flashed fake identification, deposited the luggage in a cabin where Rainie could later go to hide, and then changed into the stretchy-back sheath that Rainie would later don in the ladies’ lounge. For the intervening hours before dinner, Janet had called in sick to delay reporting in for work and browsed in the ship’s classy boutiques while wearing the disguise, thus establishing the existence of Anna Pritchard by passing in front of countless cameras. Then, at the beginning of the seven-course meal in the opulent dining room, Janet had excused herself from her table and gone to the lounge only minutes before Rainie had. Once inside, safely hidden from electronic surveillance, Rainie and Janet had switched clothing. Familiar with the ship’s surveillance system, Janet had gone to an area where there were no cameras, changed into her work uniform, stashed Rainie’s sequined gown, heels, jewelry, and evening bag in her oversize purse, and then resumed her duties as ship operations coordinator.
Just like that, Lorraina Hall Danning had vanished without a trace.
Sometimes Rainie actually picked up the phone and almost dialed Margaret’s or Janet’s number. But sanity always returned in the nick of time. If Peter suspected that she was still alive, he might sic a private investigator on her friends. Any contact, no matter how brief, might be traced. Rainie couldn’t take that chance. Peter would kill her if he found her. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind about that. Don’t call us; don’t write to us, Janet had warned. No news will be good news. We’ll know you’re out there somewhere, starting a new life. That’s all we need to know.
And so it had to be. If it ever came out that Janet had been aboard the Ocean Jewel the night Rainie vanished, someone might start connecting the dots.
With trembling fingertips, Rainie touched the small scar that angled over her cheekbone, a memento of one terrible night when Peter had flown into a rage. In time, the scar might fade, but it would never disappear entirely. Every time Rainie looked in a mirror for the rest of her life, she would be reminded of her past mistakes and all the reasons she’d vowed not to repeat them. She would never again jump into a relationship with blinders on. She would never again give a man control over her life. She would never again trust someone just because he seemed wonderful and kind.
With a mild start, Rainie realized that her mind had wandered from the task at hand, which was to find gainful employment. Bookkeeping. She circled the ranch job again, and then tapped the tip of her pen on the paper. It wouldn’t be a very challenging job, but it was better than waiting tables, filling fast-food orders, or working in a motel laundry room. And, hey, the advertisement said “benefits,” which led her to think the pay might be halfway decent as well. It was worth making a phone call.
As Rainie pushed up from her chair, a slight rattling sound came at the back door. Her heart skittered and missed a beat. Was someone trying to break in? The old lady next door had assured Rainie that this run-down neighborhood was safe, that she’d lived in the other half of this two-family dwelling for almost twenty years and never had a single problem. The door rattled again, making Rainie jump. Peter? The thought was never far from her mind that he might be only one step behind her.
Reacting instinctively, Rainie hit the light switch to plunge the kitchen back into shadow. Then, shivering with trepidation, she moved toward the battered door. The dingy curtain that covered the window prevented her from seeing out onto the porch. She lifted a lank ruffle, leaned cautiously forward to peer out into the semidarkness, and saw . . . a cat, pushing at the barricaded kitty door with a bewhiskered nose.
Over the last week, Rainie had often wondered about the oversize feline who’d needed a Fat Cat door. This furry tom was indeed large, but if he’d ever been rotund, lean times had trimmed him down to little more than skin stretched over bone. Pity tugged at Rainie’s heart. She quickly bent to remove the metal panel that prevented the poor animal from entering. With a disgruntled meow, the cat jumped through the opening and immediately began circling Rainie’s feet, his meows increasing in volume until she had no doubt that he was hungry and hoping to be fed.
Crouching down, Rainie ran her hand over t
he gray tabby’s arched back. “You poor baby. Did your family move away and leave you?”
The possibility was inconceivable to Rainie. On the other hand, she’d come to understand during her marriage that not everyone lived by her rules. Maybe the cat’s former owners had fallen on hard times. People in low-rent districts often led a hand-to-mouth existence, barely managing to care for themselves, let alone a pet. There was also the possibility that the cat had a strong homing instinct and had left his owners to return to familiar turf.
Rainie had always wanted a cat or dog. Unfortunately, her dad had been allergic, and Peter had objected to anything furry, fearing that Rainie might come to love an animal more than she did him. Peter and his insane jealousy no longer ruled her life, though, and she could have a pet now if she wanted. Surely one cat wouldn’t cost that much to feed. Lifting the tom into her arms, Rainie couldn’t help but notice how gaunt he was. She pushed her nose against his soft fur. He smelled of grass, fresh air, and male-feline musk.
“It’s apparent to me that you need a friend almost as much as I do,” she said. “And, lucky you, I’m open to having a roommate who can’t help pay the rent. I get lonely living by myself.”
She turned the cat to study his battle-scarred visage. He blinked his green eyes.
“What do you think about Thomas as a temporary handle? We can change it later if a better idea occurs to me, but for now, it’ll give me something to call you besides kitty.”
The cat blinked again. Rainie decided to take that as a yes. “Thomas it is, then. It has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? I’m Rainie, by the way, aka Anna, but I doubt my alias will matter much to you just so long as I can find something for you to eat.”
Thomas made no comment, just looked at her with those huge emerald eyes.
“How does a can of cheap tuna sound?” she asked. “Cats like fish, right?”
As if he understood, Thomas purred and rasped her cheek with a rough tongue, making Rainie laugh. “One can of water-packed tuna, coming up.”
She set the animal back on the floor, fetched some tuna from a cupboard, and went to work with a can opener that had cost her twenty-five cents at St. Vincent de Paul. The cat tucked into it as if he were starving. Rainie got him some water to accompany the meal, then stood back to watch him eat. It occurred to her that a lack of cat food was only one of her problems. She had no litter box—or any litter to go in one. Hopefully, the tom was housebroken and would exit via the cat door when he needed to go out.
Rainie’s gaze flicked to the opening, guarded now by only the flexible flap. The hole wasn’t large enough to accommodate a man, and it was more than an arm’s reach from the doorknob. It would be safe enough for her to leave the portal open so Thomas could go in and out. Good plan. She didn’t want to be accused of cat theft if the tom belonged to a neighbor up the street.
After eating, Thomas seemed in no rush to leave. Instead of going back outdoors, he curled up on the worn sofa in the living room, had a bath, and then drifted off to sleep. Rainie felt mildly disappointed. She’d been hoping for . . . what? An intellectual exchange? He was a cat—hello. Maybe he’d be more sociable once they got acquainted, but for now, it just felt nice not to be completely alone.
Rainie returned to the kitchen, grabbed the advertisement section of the newspaper, and dialed the telephone number listed for the bookkeeping position. As the phone rang, she rinsed out Thomas’s empty food dish, refusing to let herself feel nervous. If the job was still open, maybe she could get an interview. If it was already filled . . . oh, well. Keeping books at a ranch wasn’t exactly her dream job.
Parker Harrigan had a corn dog stuffed in his mouth when the phone rang. He plucked it back out without taking a bite and wiped his lips with the heel of his hand to remove the ketchup-and-mayonnaise concoction he used as a dip. His luck, it was his brother Quincy calling. If so, Quincy would be sure to ask what Parker was having for dinner. The conversation would go downhill from there, with Parker receiving a long and extremely boring lecture about his bad eating habits. Quincy, the health nut of the family, rarely missed an opportunity to share his dietary wisdom.
It never ceased to amaze Parker that he and Quincy were from the same gene pool. With their pitch-black hair, brown eyes, and compact builds, they looked enough alike to be twins, but the way they thought about things was totally different. Maybe that was why they talked only about food. It was a little hard to get pissed off at each other over the healthful properties of a carrot.
Only it wasn’t Quincy calling. Parker didn’t recognize the number that flashed. “Yo. This is Parker.”
Silence. For a second, Parker thought it might be a computer call. He often got them at this time of evening. He was about to hang up when a feminine voice came over the line.
“Um, hello. I’m responding to your ad in the paper for a bookkeeper?”
Parker had gotten only two responses so far, and neither applicant had been qualified. “You experienced?” He saw no point in wasting his time on another interview that went nowhere. “I’m not offering any on-the-job training.”
“Yes, I have some experience.”
She sounded halfway smart. A little on the young side, though. In Parker’s estimation, women under thirty tended to be flighty. He didn’t want to hire someone, go through the process of getting her acclimated, and then have her quit on him. “How old are you?”
“I’m sorry?”
He glanced at the four corn dogs, not wanting them to get cold. He desperately needed a bookkeeper, though. He repeated his question, adding, “No offense, but you sound awfully young. I want someone who’ll stay on.”
“Have you ever heard of age discrimination?” she asked.
Parker added sassy to the counts against her. Not that he had a problem with sassy women. He just wasn’t sure he wanted one in the stable office, flipping him shit five days a week. “It’s not against the law to ask someone’s age when they’re applying for a job. I need someone dependable.”
“And my being young means I won’t be?”
Parker grinned. Definitely sassy. “How young is young?”
“I’m twenty-five years old. I have an undergraduate degree in accounting. I interned for a year as a business analyst. I can keep books with my eyes closed, run any software program you throw at me, and I also make a mean cup of coffee. What else would you like to know?”
Beginning to enjoy himself, Parker leaned his hips against the kitchen counter. Maybe he wasn’t being entirely fair about the age thing. At twenty-five, he’d been running a ranch, after all. “With all that going for you, why are you interested in a dead-end bookkeeping job?”
“My circumstances changed unexpectedly, and I have bills to pay.”
“You’re a tad overqualified for the position. What if a better offer comes along? You gonna quit on me first thing out of the bag?”
“I’m willing to sign a contract, agreeing to stay for a specified period of time. Provided, of course, that the wage and benefit package is attractive and the work environment is adequate.”
He liked this lady more by the moment. “You got a name?”
“Anna Pritchard. Is Parker your last name, or your first?”
“First. Last name’s Harrigan. You like horses, Anna?”
“Is that a job requirement?”
“I raise quarter horses, so, yeah, it’d be a big plus.”
“I like all animals. I’ve never been around horses, so I may find them a bit intimidating at first, but I’m sure I would get used to them quickly enough.”
She was honest. He liked that, too. “Well, then.” He rubbed his jaw. “If you’re interested, I’m open to your comin’ out tomorrow to fill out an application.”
“What’s the address?”
“Out here, it’s easy to miss a house number. I’ll have to give you directions.”
As he did so, she kept halting him to ask questions. What did the hay barn look like? How many roads would she cr
oss after the stop sign? Was a cattle guard one of those grates in the ground, or was he referring to something else? What did he mean by a country mile?
“A country mile,” he explained, “is more or less the same as a regular mile, the keywords being ‘more or less.’”
“I see. Could you translate that into something more precise so I don’t overshoot your driveway and get lost in the middle of nowhere?”
“After you hang a right at the Y in the road, you’ll drive about five miles before you see the hay barn. It might be a hair less than five, maybe a hair more. Just watch for the barn.”
She said, “Sheesh,” her tone disgruntled.
He found himself smiling again. He could definitely tell that she’d lived in the city most of her life. “Just keep my number handy. If you get turned around, give me a call.”
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
That blew Parker’s mind. Everyone he knew had a cell phone now, even his dad, who complained ceaselessly about having to carry one. “You don’t?”
“I’m unemployed, remember. They cost money.”
It had been a lot of years since Parker’s family had been short on money, but he could still remember how it felt. “Well, if you end up working for me, a cell phone will be a must. I’ll have to give you an advance in pay so you can get one. It’s not smart to drive these back roads without any way to call for help.”
“Why? Are the roads bad or something?”
“Not bad, just remote. You never know when a herd of elk may run out in front of you—or when you might have car trouble. It’s just safer to carry a phone.”
“Elk?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, you know, those big, brown creatures that live in the forest?”
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