Watching Whitney
Jerri Drennen
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2012 by Jerri Drennen
ISBN 10: 1-4405-5739-X
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5739-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-5740-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-5740-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com
I want to dedicate this book to a friend and critique partner, Betty Womack, who seriously helped me get this book written. She kept me focused on the prize — writing the end.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Also Available
Chapter One
Steve Morgan heaved a deep, frustrated sigh and cast his line back into the water. His goal for the day had been to relax and enjoy an afternoon of fishing at Beaver Lake, even if the vacation had been mandated by his commanding officer.
He glanced around, his eyes narrowing in disgust. Fir trees and tranquil wilderness as far as the eye could see. Off in the distance were majestic, rocky bluffs that stood out in contrast to the backdrop of greenery. But why anyone would prefer this to the stark, hard lines of steel and concrete was beyond him.
The only sound for miles was the lapping of the lake to the shore and the occasional birdcall. Steve hated it. He needed background noise. Lots of it. Horns honking. Sirens blaring. People shouting at each other, all in a rush to get to where they had to go. That kind of life he understood. This peaceful one had him off kilter. He literally felt like a fish out of water. He had to get back to work before all this sereneness drove him to the brink of insanity and had him drowning himself in this damnable lake.
He backed up and settled onto a deteriorating fallen log stretched across the bank and watched the red and white bobber move listlessly through the water. It reminded him of his emotions — up and down since the shooting — an event that not only left him injured and hospitalized for close to a month, but had him questioning if he’d done everything he could to save the woman who died that same day.
Regret clogged his throat as he reeled the line in a few feet.
He hadn’t caught one damned trout since he’d been there. Not even a nibble. Maybe he’d bought the wrong bait. No. That wasn’t it. His heart wasn’t in this particular leisurely activity. But what else did one do in a podunk town, population a little over a hundred — at a resort touted the best for rest and relaxation with its scenic hiking trails and cabins featuring all the amenities, including a full functioning kitchen?
Nope. This didn’t set well with him. He was like Eva Gabor on Green Acres. He loved city life — preferably the frenzied hustle and bustle of Denver.
Steve cranked the spindle on the reel again. As his line neared the bank, it snagged on something in the water.
Just great. If he broke the nylon line, he’d probably have to pay yet another fee for the rented equipment.
He rose and waded into the water.
A few feet into the murky backwash, Steve’s boot bumped into something on the bottom. He squinted to get a better look.
What the hell was it?
He worked his foot along the object and felt it give under his probing. Steve leaned over and cranked the line taut and what he saw had him sucking in a strangled breath. Under the water, caught on his twelve-pound test line, a distorted hand bobbed up and down, his hook having punctured the skin between the thumb and forefinger.
“Jesus Christ.” He shot back to the bank and dug through his backpack for the cell phone he’d brought. He punched in 9-1-1. That’d get him to the area police, if they had any. Steve had learned long ago not to step on another agency’s toes, but he was almost positive they wouldn’t have a team that dealt with something like this.
“Carbondale Emergency Services,” a man said, throwing Steve off guard. The town was some thirty minutes from where he stood.
“Yeah, I’m Detective Steve Morgan. Calling out at Beaver Lake. I found a body in the water.”
“Did you say a body?” The man’s voice cracked.
Clearly, the area’s biggest concerns were a stolen bike here or there. Maybe a missing cat or dog. Nothing like Denver where you saw death on a daily basis. The night of his shooting, he’d been working thirty-six hours straight on a case they were fast getting nowhere on when he’d stopped at a local convenience store to grab a cup of coffee and happened upon a robbery in progress. All he could remember was a loud bang. Pain so intense, slicing through him. Then everything went black.
If only he hadn’t been so tired, maybe his reflexes would’ve been quicker. He might have noticed something seemed off as he walked inside, and the outcome could have been different.
“Yes, a body,” Steve repeated, shaking off the scene that had played over and over in his head. Would the memory ever go away or was he doomed to relive it every single day for the rest of his life?
“Can you give me your location, sir?”
“I’m about a quarter of a mile south of Crane Lodge. On the east side of the lake.”
“Okay. We’ll have a car there as soon as possible.”
Steve closed the phone and tucked it into his bag, and then waded back to his fishing pole floating on the water.
The size of the hand indicated the victim was either a woman or a young man. Someone’s son or daughter. Possibly a mother with children. The thought had acid working its way up Steve’s throat. He’d seen a number of dead bodies in his nine-plus years on the force, but to actually stumble upon one left him feeling uneasy, as if it were the first all over again — an event that had left him spewing in a darkened alleyway while a handful of officers looked on. Frankly, one embarrassing event like that was enough for him.
• • •
Whitney McAllister trudged down the trail, bucket and cleaning supplies in hand, exhausted from lack of sleep. She’d been so lucky that Kylie’s temperature had broken late last night or she would have had to call in sick again, and she couldn’t afford to lose another job. Not with a three-year-old to feed and clothe on her own in a town the size of Marble. Employers could only be so understanding when it interfered with their business, and she didn’t want to have to move away from where she’d grown up. Marble had been her only home and she wanted to raise her daughter there, even if there weren’t many opportunities for growth. The people, the place itself spoke of values Whitney intended to instill in Kylie. That’s why she’d stayed when most of the young people headed
for the big city.
Someday Whitney hoped to open her own bed and breakfast, which seemed more a pipe dream than reality lately as she struggled from paycheck to paycheck. But the picture in her head of the idyllic place with a handful of happy guests kept her getting up on those days when things appeared almost bleak.
She picked up her pace. The sooner she finished her work, the quicker she could get back to her daughter.
Whitney sighed with longing when the cabins came into view. It was a sight to behold. All six bungalows sat nestled in an alcove of fir, aspen, and cottonwood trees about five hundred feet from the lodge’s central building and small café.
She took the planked steps up to the recently painted green cabin and inserted her key. It’d take half the day to get five of the six ready for check-in. Just a bit of cleaning, dusting, and freshening up the bedding because the cabins were cleaned thoroughly when guests left the lodge. One of the cabins currently housed an occupant, and she wasn’t supposed to clean his unless he asked for the service.
A siren wailed in the distance, and she whirled around to see where it came from. Red lights moved swiftly up the gravel road leading to the lake.
What could be going on? This was considered the slow season at the lodge — heck for Marble altogether, though business had started to pick up. The town didn’t even have its own police or ambulance service, so the emergency vehicle had to have come from Carbondale or Glenwood.
Whitney watched as the lights continued up the road, a dust trail rising above the treetops.
She turned back to the cabin just as the siren stopped. Whatever the emergency, it was at the water.
Maybe their only guest had been hurt.
Whitney hesitated, contemplating what to do. She should mind her own business, yet her head told her to go see what happened.
To heck with it. She dropped the bucket, raced down the stairs, and took off toward the lake. Her boss would probably yell at her. But as long as she got the cabins cleaned by noon, what was the harm in finding out why the vehicle had been dispatched? Maybe she could help in some way.
As Whitney rounded the bend to the shoreline, she screeched to a halt mere inches from the water, almost losing her balance as she did. A few feet in the lake, standing and holding a fishing pole had to be the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen. He had short, sandy blond hair that curled, a slight breeze stirring up the ends, the sun’s reflection giving his head a strange, almost halo-like effect.
His eyes were a blue-gray and hooded by long, dark blond lashes. His nose was his most prominent feature — large but not enough to overpower his face. Light beard stubble covered his chin and jawline, an effect that gave him a rugged appeal, perfect for the surroundings.
Then her gaze landed on his mouth. The grimace made it hard to tell how full his lips were, but the color reminded her of ripe apricot. Whitney had always loved the taste of the fruit. Sweet and juicy and …
Inwardly she scolded her wayward thoughts.
Her eyes slid past his neck to the broad shoulders and firm chest covered in blue-checkered flannel, and then quickly dipped to his narrow, denim-clad hips. The leg waders he wore emphasized strong yet lean thighs. The whole package reminded her of the men in those outdoor life magazines she’d seen a time or two.
Her jaw slacked and her pulse thrummed at the base of her throat.
Shut your mouth, Whitney, before drool dribbles out, and remember, you’ve sworn off men forever after that huge debacle with Kylie’s father. This one is no exception.
A uniformed officer waded out to the man and looked down, his complexion losing all color.
What were he and the other man looking at?
When the blond turned toward her, the air literally whooshed from her lungs, his gaze so powerful, the ground seemed to give way beneath her. The officer also looked at her and frowned. “What are you doing out here?” he asked in a shaky voice.
“I work at the lodge. I heard your siren and came to see what was going on.” Amazing. She’d actually retained her power of speech, even with the hunky guy in the lake studying her.
“What do you do there?” the blond asked, his eyes boring into hers.
“I’m in housekeeping.”
“Anyone staying at the lodge right now?”
“One guest in cabin four. Five will be checking in throughout the weekend.”
He nodded. “I think you’d better head back to the lodge.”
“But what’s going on?” Something in the water had clearly caused a stir and she wanted to know what it was.
Neither man said a word, just glanced at each other, and then quickly looked away.
Whitney moved closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of what had them both transfixed, but was stopped by the blond’s command to stay back. His tone told her she didn’t want to defy him. The officer, on the other hand, seemed dazed, as if he didn’t know what to say. The man was apparently used to giving orders and people complying. Like Kylie’s father.
That alone made him less intriguing.
Whitney shifted her stance. “Is this going to affect the lodge?”
“It could,” he responded frankly.
His answer surprised her. What could be in the lake that would impact her job? Dead fish? Something environmental?
The man peered at the officer, who stared back blankly.
“Tell your boss I’ll be up to talk with him later,” he said. “You’ll know soon enough what’s happening. Oh, and if you would, could you clean cabin four.”
Whitney frowned.
“I was told to ask if I wanted my cabin cleaned.”
“You’re a guest of ours?” she asked it more out of shock than to him.
As his gaze held hers, Whitney’s chest tightened.
Chapter Two
The ambulance backed in next to the lake and Steve waded out of the water. Their best bet would be to use a backboard to remove the body and hope there wouldn’t be extensive decomposition. He didn’t think the emergency workers on the scene would be able to stomach that. He’d only seen a victim with water deterioration once and he’d lost it. Not a pretty sight.
Two male EMTs came around to meet him at the rear of the truck. Neither looked sure of what to do next.
“Get your backboard and we’ll see if we can’t lift the body out.”
The heavier set of the two paramedics opened the rear door, jumped inside, and returned with the long board.
Steve looked the man straight in the eye. “Have you dealt with a drowning before?”
He shook his head.
Steve turned to the thinner man. “How about you?”
“I’m new.”
Steve blew out a breath. If the person in the water has been dead long, he needed to be prepared for a puke-fest. He’d seen it all too often and couldn’t say a thing since he’d reacted similarly his first go around.
“Do you have an extra pair of gloves I can use?” If he had to do this recovery, at least he’d do his best not to contaminate the scene.
The thinner man jumped in the back and came out with a pair of latex gloves.
Steve quickly snapped them on and took hold of one end of the board and started toward the water. “Just follow my lead. We’ll need to take it slow and try to work the board under the body. Once it’s on top, we’ll just lift it up and carry the victim to shore. All right?”
The men nodded, but both had lost some color in their cheeks.
They reached the area where the body lay and Steve placed his end of the board on the surface of the water. “Ready?”
The two nodded and followed suit.
“The body is positioned where we should be able to go straight down and scoop it up.”
“Now.” All three shifted the board sideways and submerged
it, then turned their heads to keep from getting their mouths filled with lake water.
Steve worked the board under the form and when he was sure it was on top, he hollered, “Lift.”
Mentally he prepared himself for what he was about to see. It was never easy to deal with the horrors of death, but as a pro, he hoped the crap he’d been dealing with wouldn’t affect his performance. The body started to surface and Steve knew right away it was a woman, semi-clothed, that hadn’t been dead very long, maybe forty-eight hours at the most.
Steve glanced at the paramedics on the other end of the board. Their eyes grew huge and any color that had been in their faces completely washed away when they saw the woman. “Let’s get her to the bank.” Steve inwardly prayed they’d be able to pull themselves together long enough to accomplish the task. All he needed was for one or both to go down. Then he’d have a dead woman and possibly two drowning EMT’S to deal with alone. The cop on site wouldn’t be much help. Immediately upon Steve flashing his badge, the man had insisted he deal with everything, especially after ralphing in the lake when the pretty brunette from the lodge left.
While they waited for the bus to get there, he’d talked to Police Chief Gable on the radio and they agreed for Steve to take the lead until he arrived on the scene.
Once they reached the bank, Steve blew out a relieved breath. “Put her down behind the ambulance.”
When she was on the ground, the paramedics backed away, their pallor now a sickish gray hue.
Steve knelt to examine the body. Right away, he noticed a strange belt wrapped around her waist and then a purplish red discoloration circling her neck. This didn’t look like a simple drowning. Forensic work would need to be done.
Steve rubbed his chin. Harmon wouldn’t let him work the case if he learned about it.
“How close is the nearest coroner?” he asked the three men.
“That’d be Doc Leland. He lives between here and Carbondale. He came to us ten years ago to retire. The chief talked him out of it. He was a renowned pathologist and forensics expert from Atlanta,” the officer told him.
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