She absorbed every detail of the San Marcos Pass as they climbed into the Santa Ynez Mountains. They made the drive early enough to enjoy the landscape dressed in pale grasses and clumpy scrub oak that wasn’t much different than lower elevations of Colorado. “I thought it would be tropical, like the palm trees along the shore.”
“Those are imports for the hotels. What you see here is indigenous. The central coast is pretty ideal, moderate temp all year, and it’s . . . real. Around the other side of these hills are vineyards and horse breeders.”
“What kind?”
“Andalusians, Friesians, Blue Roan Percherons. Livie will be riding before I know it.”
As long as she didn’t have to do the same. “How did you end up here?”
He sped smoothly into a curve. “One of my first consultations—a little company with a big idea it didn’t know what to do with. They gave me stock to show them the ropes. That stock put me on the financial map and is still the best investment I’ve made. More than that, it planted me in Santa Barbara.”
“I can see why you love it. No snow-peaked Rockies, but everything else.”
“Once this place gets into you, others are great, but they’re not home.”
“I get the impression Rick feels that way about the ranch.”
“Sure. We vacationed in Colorado growing up, and it got inside him.”
“Do you think everyone has a place that fits?”
He glanced over. “I hope this one fits you.”
She stared out. “I don’t know what fits. I’ve been so busy making whatever place I’m in work for the time I’m in it.”
“Maybe it’s time to settle.”
She frowned. “There’s the little issue of a sociopath with a grudge.”
“We’re not discussing Markham tonight.”
“You know, I’m good with that.”
He turned onto a narrow road that tucked up into the forest. Shady trees and airy shrubs crowded the curving pavement.
“What are these trees? They smell good.” She’d opened her window to fully experience it.
“Sycamore and bay laurel. Very native.”
As they crept to a stop in a dirt lot, she stared at the wood-plank, and stone-chimneyed shacks that looked like a Western hideaway. “What is this place?”
“An old stage stop. It was built as a way station in the 1860s.”
“You mean it’s real?”
He gave her a hand out and supported her past the first building with a porch framed and upheld by forked and knotted saplings. An iron street lantern illuminated a rickety, raised wooden walkway between the first and second structures. The ivy-covered building with red-and-white-checkered café curtains bore an old-style hanging sign that read Ye Cold Spring Tavern in complete incongruity with the scattered Harleys and leather-clad bikers gathered around a roaring fire pit one building over. From that one came sounds—she thought—of a live rock band.
She slanted him a look. “You didn’t tell me to wear leathers.”
Morgan’s eyes crinkled. “Wish I’d thought of it.”
He pulled open the door beneath the sign, and she limped into a space lit by kerosene lamps and a blazing fireplace. The rooms were filled by a small number of white-vinyl-draped tables and wooden chairs. A deer head that hung over the fireplace looked as though it could have been lopped from the first meal served in 1860. The coyote over the long wooden bar appeared to have needed that meal as much as whoever got it. The mangy bobcat head just made her shudder.
She could not for the life of her believe this was Morgan’s kind of place. Where were the tuxedoed waiters, the chilling champagne? The chairs were hard, the walls planks. She could smell kerosene, though where they sat it was only a whiff. Still, she had to wonder if he was playing a practical joke.
“Morgan.” The approaching waitress beamed, warm brown eyes under thick black brows, and broad toothy smile all his. “I hadn’t heard you were back.”
“Only just.” He glanced across the table. “Tam, this is my wife, Erin.”
Surprise and disappointment moved through her face.
Erin smiled. “Hi.”
Planting her hands behind her hips, in a pose that presented her assets, Tam asked what they’d like to drink. Morgan deferred.
Erin said, “Just water, thanks.”
“Two.” He smiled. “And start us with the tiger prawns.”
“Sure.” Tam cast her one more glance and went into the kitchen.
Erin tipped her head. “It’s a little unnerving being sized up by everyone you know, especially when you know everyone.”
“I hide out here a lot.”
Either he was serious or he’d win an Oscar.
He jutted his chin. “Look out the window.”
She took in the cool forested slopes in the last of the light. “Imagine we’ve just arrived by coach. It’s a relay point where we’ll take on extra horses to make it over the newly completed pass. Word is they serve the most delicious meals in all the West.”
“I can’t help thinking one of them is hanging on the walls.”
“Forget the trophies. They’re just character.”
“Okay.” If she limited her view to his face, nothing furry and long dead interfered.
“One of the buildings out there was the bunkhouse for the Chinese road crew that built the pass. Another’s the Ojai jail. The four little shacks out back are all that’s left of the ghost town of Gopherville, California.”
“I didn’t know you were a history buff.”
“As a rule, I like new and shiny.”
“You bought the old asylum medicine cabinet.”
“An experiment to see what you were made of.” The corners of his mouth twitched.
“I knew that sale was fishy, just didn’t guess it illegal. Shoot, what if they add that to the other charges?”
He sent a glance out the window. “Your accommodations will be better than Ojai’s.”
“All I ask is no mangy critters.”
He pulled a slow smile. “Better keep you out of jail, then.”
Someone brought their water, and shortly thereafter the waitress came with broiled tiger shrimp on skewers. One taste and Erin realized if she and Morgan did nothing but eat out the rest of their lives she’d die happy. She only hoped it wasn’t soon.
CHAPTER
26
With Livie clutching her finger, Erin limped behind Consuela from the parking lot to the squatty stone fountain that stood in the plaza of the Old Mission Santa Barbara. On tippy-toe, Livie peered through the lily pads, looking for fish, as Consuela continued the lesson she’d begun on the drive over.
“The mission was established on the feast day of Saint Barbara, who got beheaded by her father for becoming a believer.”
That put things in perspective.
“It was built to serve the Chumash Indians but became the center of life for the whole town.”
Erin looked up at the flat Romanesque façade with twin bell towers, imagining a simpler time, and then realized there was no such time. Political squabbles, power struggles, and human and natural forces arrayed against it from the start. Yet the mission had served more than two hundred years in spite of two terrible earthquakes and a fire, a testament to charity and resilience.
Bearing a crate of “extra” food she’d prepared the last couple days, Consuela started across the plaza.
While the Chumash were no longer a distinguishable group, having intermarried in the course of things, the affluent city still had its homeless, its hungry. Erin had seen them on the streets, in the parks, on the beach—castoffs people passed like ghosts while scrutinizing the fine offerings in shop windows. She had chided Morgan for Consuela’s wasteful cooking, when really it was a collusion of generous souls. How many other things had she judged without comprehending?
“In May,” Consuela said, “they make chalk paintings on all the piazza. It is called I Madonnari festival. Italian street painting. Magnific
ent. You’ll see.” She nodded. “We will come and watch the artists.”
Consuela had no reason to suspect, come May, things might not be as they were. Erin’s stomach formed a hard ball of worry. She wanted so much to be part of this life, but what if she couldn’t? What if it all got taken away? Livie hugged her neck, showing an uncanny awareness that both comforted and increased the angst.
As Consuela delivered the food to be distributed, Erin stepped into the ornate historical church and smelled wood oil and candle wax. Beautiful as the surroundings were, it wasn’t the building that mattered. It was the heart, the purpose behind the beauty. A celebration of love? The yearning in her heart said yes.
Believing God loved and cared for her wasn’t weakness. It was grace. Cradling Livie, she dropped to her knees and formed a prayer that was neither praise nor thanks, but bald supplication. Please help me make it right.
Back outside, she took the call that had begun vibrating in the church. “Noelle, what’s wrong? Is it Hannah?” Bracing for bad news, she sat quickly on the steps, settling Livie beside her.
“No. I haven’t seen her since Rick took her to Rudy’s store. Presumably, she rejoined Markham.”
“Are they gone?”
“I don’t know. I’m not getting out much right now, so I haven’t even heard.”
Erin stared across the courtyard to the vast rose garden, as verdantly blooming in December as any other month, and suddenly felt desolate. “How did Hannah seem?”
“Well, to be honest, she seems bitter and troubled. And forgive me, but is she learning impaired?”
“I’m not sure. She passed her classes in school, but it was the church-affiliated school and our father the minister. It would have looked bad to hold her back.” For an instant she wondered what someone like Jill might have accomplished with her.
“We tried to get through, but Markham has her thoroughly snowed.”
Erin groaned. “She’s happy to stand in that blizzard.” Hannah had dreamed of life with Markham and believed so completely in his miracle. If anyone had corrected her earlier, smaller mistakes, she might not have been so susceptible to gigantic ones. “Thank you for trying. I hope . . . I pray she’ll be all right.”
Noelle’s voice softened. “Rick and I join you in that. He regrets turning anyone away, but Erin . . . the hatred.”
A lump formed in her throat. “I know. It’s always been that way. When I was little, she’d break my things and tell my parents I shouldn’t have toys if I couldn’t take care of them.” She often wondered if that was why she never got a pet, even though she begged so often.
Livie examined a fallen leaf, unfurling the brittle skeleton that resisted her determined fingers until its spine snapped.
“That explains the spitefulness I saw when she talked about you.”
“She’s not that way with anyone else. Usually she’s kind and sweet.”
“That makes it harder, doesn’t it.”
“Yes.”
“But,” Noelle’s tone brightened. “I was calling to see how you and Morgan are.”
Erin shook her head. Any answer would be so inadequate. “We’re good.” She could barely get her mind around it all, from the moment they’d met to now. “Morgan changes lives.”
“You don’t have to tell me. Without Morgan, Rick would have sent me packing.”
“What?” She found that impossible to believe.
“Rick had a strict policy against lodging single women in the house. I don’t know what I’d have done if Morgan hadn’t changed his mind. He’s a people whisperer.”
“He’s exactly that.” Erin pressed a hand to her heart.
“And trust me, with Rick that’s a feat. Of course, his rigidity formed in reaction to Morgan’s . . . oh. Forgive me.”
Erin laughed. “Morgan’s incorrigibility?”
“Well . . . yes.” Noelle laughed too.
“What does it say that I love even that?” Silence fell between them as she realized what she’d admitted.
“It says you’re exactly who I hoped you were.”
Markham smiled when the overperfumed Lydia Patterson led him to her desk. He’d met her at the grocery mart and, seeing the Ask Me About Real Estate button on her lapel had done just that.
Motioning him to sit, she said, “I’ll brew us some fresh coffee and warm some scones for a little snack while you peruse the MLS.”
“You’re an angel,” he said.
“You should know . . . Pastor.” Her lashes fluttered. “Just holler if you need anything else.”
Besides the use of her national database, he couldn’t think of a thing. This was how he’d found Quinn since she couldn’t resist telling her mother she’d bought a house, even if she wouldn’t say where. He had nearly blown a gasket, until Hannah explained Quinn had bought the cabin with her own precious savings—a bargain basement deal at a bankruptcy auction, perfect for a junk dealer.
His fingers moved on the keyboard. He’d destroyed pretty much everything she owned when he trashed the property, although the house was still livable. Maybe he’d burn it when they were done—symbolically.
His focus now was not Quinn but Morgan Spencer. Unfortunately, this search did not yield immediate results. Santa Barbara County showed no property titles for Morgan Spencer, not even a transfer of title, since he might have sold a home after losing his wife. He searched the county records for titles in the name of his corporation, and under the Kelsey Foundation.
He’d read more than he wanted to know about both of those entities in the exhaustive Internet search he’d conducted for days. All the articles and images he could stomach, but no real estate. Just as he considered heaving the monitor into the wall, Lydia returned with their snack, all glowing smiles. “See anything you like, Pastor?”
He ran his eyes over her. “Why yes, Lydia.” With a touch of his finger, he closed that search, returning to the multiple listing service.
She flushed and fanned her hand, suddenly acquiring a southern accent. “Doesn’t flirting break one of your ten commandments?”
“Merely appreciating God’s creation.”
They shared a wholesome laugh with a naughty undercurrent. He’d played her perfectly, and his confidence swelled. “Do you know the Spencers?”
The change of topic took her by surprise. “Rick and Noelle?”
“And isn’t there a brother?”
“Oh, Morgan. He’s the big fish.”
“Really.”
She exploded with excitement, telling all she knew about the man, none of which was new. “I could not believe he bought Vera’s old place, even if it is right next to Rick’s ranch. What would he want with that place built on an old, haunted cellar?”
“You’re confusing me, Lydia.”
“Oh you.” She laughed. “I’m saying Morgan Spencer bought a dumpy little house, when he could have had any listing on there.” She motioned to her computer. “Of course, he didn’t consult me.”
“Then how could he buy something?”
“Oh.” Her voice sailed up at the end. “I’m not the only way. He went straight to Vera’s daughter. I don’t think the sale’s recorded yet.” For an instant her face looked hawkish. “I do wonder what he paid.”
Realizing he was in her chair, Markham jumped up. “Where are my manners?”
“Oh, don’t worry. I sit there all day.”
“No, please. I hope you made yourself something.” He indicated the food.
“Well, I did.” She smiled. “Probably don’t need it.”
“Everyone deserves a treat.” He pulled the plastic chair from the corner and sat down across from her like old friends or . . . How did she see him? Client? Love interest? Both? “You were saying Morgan lives in a house by his brother’s ranch?”
She frowned. “I don’t know that he lives there yet. I think he had some furniture delivered, but he must be somewhere else for the holidays. Frankly, I can’t envision him living there at all.” She shook her
head. “Maybe he bought it for someone else.”
Markham went completely still. Of course. Spencer saw the wreckage at Quinn’s and bought her a new house. “Would he do that?”
“Oh, he’s that way.” She took a loud sip of her coffee. “The more I think about it, the more sense it makes. He stays at Rick’s when he’s up here. He wouldn’t need Vera’s.”
“Who would he buy it for?”
Lydia shrugged, thought a moment, then set her cup down deliberately. “Well, I heard one thing. I hesitate to tell a minister, since it could be gossip.”
He waited past her hesitation with a genial if not overly encouraging expression. Let her conscience decide.
“There’s a gal, Quinn Reilly. Bought a cute little place six months ago, on a steal from the bank, but I guess she had some trouble there. Rudy from the general store said someone broke in and messed the place up.”
That store might burn too. He sat back. “I hadn’t imagined crime up here.”
“Oh, no. People don’t even lock their doors.”
“Was it personal?”
She took a bite of her scone, catching crumbs with her fingers. “Deputy took a look, but who can say?”
He knew all about the deputy. “What relation is she to Morgan Spencer?”
“Oh, no relation. Friend, maybe.”
“He buys houses for his friends?”
“I’m only speculating. But if he knew she needed a place and Vera’s came available . . .”
“Quite a guy.” Markham sipped his coffee.
“Real estate’s a great investment. The house might not be much, but it has good property. It’s on the same road as Rick’s ranch.” She raised and dropped her shoulders, making her bosom quake. “Maybe Morgan’s renting it to her.”
“Would your records show that?”
“As I said, it’s probably too soon.”
“But she . . . lives there now?”
Lydia sipped her coffee. “To be honest, I haven’t seen her since she closed our deal.”
He pursed his lips, coming full circle to his reason for being there. “Tell me, Lydia, how would someone hide property?”
The Breath of Dawn Page 31