A Dark Lure

by Loreth Anne White

  Cole’s hand stilled, glass in midair as he regarded his father.

  “Jason Chan tends it now,” Olivia cut in, trying to break the tension.

  Kim cleared the starter plates and brought in the main course. Zack came from the bar and set two more bottles of wine on the table, one white, one red. Music was good. Conversation at other tables grew louder, and there was more laughter. The wind rattled insistently at the shutters and keened plaintively down the flue.

  Olivia glanced up, saw that Tori’s gaze was fixed on her. Their eyes met for a moment.

  “You doing okay there, Tori?” Olivia said. “Did you like the trout?”

  “Yeah,” she said, glancing at her father before she returned her attention to pushing food around her plate. Olivia met Cole’s gaze. Something surged between them. Unspoken.

  She swallowed.

  “Gage,” Cole said suddenly, reaching for the wine bottle and topping up the man’s glass, “Olivia mentioned that you recently retired.”

  Gage braced slightly. “Yes.”

  “What did you do?” he said, offering Olivia more wine. She shook her head, casting him a hot, questioning glare.

  “Consulting,” said Gage.

  Tori’s knife clattered to the floor. Everyone jumped. She stared up at her father, mouth agape.

  “Pick it up, Tori,” Gage said curtly.

  “No, no, it’s okay,” Olivia said quickly. “Leave it, please. Kim?” She called Kim over from the bar. “Could you bring us another knife?”

  Kim bustled off into the kitchen.

  “Consulting?” Cole cut into his food, delivered a forkful of venison to his mouth. Olivia scowled at him. He ignored her.

  “Security systems.”

  Tori shoved her chair back abruptly and came sharply to her feet.

  “What are you doing?” her father said.

  “I’m going back to the cabin to sleep. I’m tired.” She started for the hallway.

  “Tori,” he growled. “Get back here. Mind your manners.”

  “Why! Why should I pretend? Why should you? I don’t want to be here.”

  Olivia surged to her feet. “Tori, come here. Why don’t you come sit by the fire. Kim can bring your dessert there.”

  Her gaze shot daggers at Olivia. “And why should I listen to you? You’re not my mother. How did you get that ugly scar around your neck anyways? The one you try to hide?”

  Everyone around the table fell dead silent. The fire crackled, popped. Even the chatter at the other table fell quiet. Wind battered the house.

  Cole got to his feet, about to interrupt, when Olivia said quietly, “It was a crab-fishing accident. I worked a season up at Dutch Harbor. I got a cable from one of the crab traps around me when they were about to drop it overboard.” She forced a smile. “I was lucky to live.”

  Tori stared, something warring through her features, as if she wanted to think Olivia was cool but she needed to honor her mother. Mouth flattening, hands tight at her sides, she turned and marched over the wood floor into the hall. She grabbed her jacket and yanked open the big door, slipping out into the night. The door banged shut behind her.

  Gage hesitated, then got up, slapped his napkin on the table. “I apologize. She’s having a rough time after losing her mother.”

  Olivia said, “If there’s anything we can do—”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I’m sure you’re both having a rough time,” Cole said.

  Gage met Cole’s eyes, hostility flashing through his own. Choosing silence, he strode for the door, his boots loud on the wood.

  “What in the hell did you have to go and do that for?” Olivia snapped.

  “You know why. His lavishing attention on you is hurting his daughter. It’s as obvious as day.”

  “And you’re the ranch shrink now? The arbiter on how one should experience grief?” She stormed off and slapped through the kitchen door with both hands.

  Plates of blueberry crumble were lined in rows on the kitchen counter, ready to serve, dark purple berry juice bleeding into ice cream as white as snow. It was as if Olivia had smacked straight into a wall. Berries. Blood. Thanksgiving. Storm coming.

  He leaned closer, and my mouth turned dry. And he told me about the wild blueberries. Down by the bend in the river.

  I took the lure.

  I went in search of the berries.

  I never came home.

  She tried to swallow, to catalogue her surroundings in order to stay present.

  Nella was busily unpacking the dishwasher. It was warm in the kitchen. Jason had a glass of wine on the windowsill. Kim came in behind Olivia, snagged four dessert plates, balancing them on her arms as she backed open the door.

  Music played softly on the radio.

  She tore her eyes from the “bloodied” ice cream, cleared her throat. “Jason, you outdid yourself tonight.”

  “Wait until the big meal tomorrow,” he replied with a grin.

  She glanced at the window. There was a green glow in the dark sky, which meant it was still clear. “If that storm does hit tomorrow, we might have to cancel.”

  “We’ll play it by ear.” He reached for his glass of wine, took a sip. “Whatever I prepare can always go into the freezer if we call it off. You could be having turkey pot pie well into the winter.”

  “Can I help clear up?”

  “All under control.”

  “You guys must be getting excited,” she said to Nella. “You all packed?” Her mother was taking her away for a week to Mexico. And Jason would be leaving after the weekend for his summer job cooking for a tour group in New Zealand. It was doubtful he’d return. Olivia wondered if there’d even be a ranch next year this time.

  “Just about,” Nella said. “Still need to buy sunscreen.”

  “We’ll miss Broken Bar.” Jason’s eyes held hers, reading her mind. There was a shift in the warm kitchen atmosphere.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “Me too. Well, I’ll call it a night then, once the last guests have left.” She paused on her way out. “Oh, Nella, thank you for the berry basket.”

  “What basket?”

  “You know . . . the one left outside my door.”

  “I didn’t leave any berries.” She grinned. “Now I wish I had. We picked tons for the dessert and had plenty to spare. They were growing all over the forest. Ripe in perfect time for Thanksgiving blueberry crumble.”

  “Oh. Okay . . . thanks.” Olivia backed up a few steps, turned, and woodenly pushed through the door.

  There had to be a simple explanation, but her mind was suddenly messing with her again. Cole’s words curled through her mind.

  Be careful, Liv . . . I don’t believe in coincidences . . .

  The warning suddenly felt sinister. She wanted to ask him what he meant. He never did get a chance to explain.

  Shadows darkened the porch. Eugene reached for the door handle, surprise washing through him as he found it unlocked. His quarry was still too bold. Disquiet trickled through him—had she not received his lure? The newspaper? Why was she not more fearful? She would be after tonight.

  Trees bent and groaned in the mounting wind as he stepped inside, eyes adjusting to the dark interior. Concern sliced afresh through him as he thought of her with the kid and father in the boat. Things were not quite what they seemed there. The kid brought unsettling thoughts about his mother. And while he didn’t personally recognize the father as a cop from Watt Lake, it gave him pause for thought.

  Who was the game and who the hunter?

  Urgency prickled through his blood.

  He found her bedroom, entered with his mouth slightly open as he breathed in her scent. Tasting her. Refamiliarizing himself. He moved to her bed. Wind rattled branches outside. He froze, listening for the approach of footfalls. None came
.

  He reached for her bed cover.

  Kim placed a plate of blueberry crumble in front of Cole and one in front of his dad.

  “What’s gotten up your ass?” Myron grunted at Cole as Kim left.

  “I don’t trust Burton.” Cole picked up his spoon, poked at the ice cream.

  “It’s not like he’s going to abscond with the silverware.”

  “Something’s off.” He glanced up. “About the way he is with Olivia.”

  He had his father’s attention now—his bushy brows hunkered in a low frown over his eyes.

  “Off, like how?”

  “Burton was the one who left that newspaper in the office with her name on it, and the lure inside that freaked her. It’s a big-ass steelhead lure. Got nothing to do with local trout.”

  “So?” But a glimmer of interest peered through the inebriated haze.

  “The coincidences are weird, that’s all. Burton arrives on Broken Bar right as the news breaks about a woman found hanging by her neck from a tree. This freaks Olivia, who also has scars around her neck. Then he leaves that newspaper with her name right over the story.” He couldn’t say more, not without revealing Olivia’s past as the Watt Lake Killer’s last victim. That was hers to tell.

  “Doesn’t sound terribly nefarious to me.”

  “You saw how his kid reacted when he said he worked in security. She dropped both her jaw and her knife. Then she spoke about pretending. I think he’s lying.”

  “Probably means nothing,” Myron muttered into his beard. “Just coincidence.”

  “That’s the thing,” Cole said. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “So what do you think he wants? What are your hyperaware journalistic observation skills and conspiracy theories telling you?”

  Cole raised a brow. “I don’t know,” he said quietly.

  His father swirled his drink with his gnarled hand, spilling a few drops like blood onto the white linen. “You found something out about her past, didn’t you,” he said, words a little more slurred. “Something you’re not telling me.”

  Cole didn’t reply. He reached for his own glass, took a sip.

  His father held his eyes a long time. “Something’s changed—what is it? You going to tell me or not?”

  “I’m not.”

  His father took a deep swig, and drew in an even deeper breath.

  “It has to come from her,” Cole said. “It’s not mine to tell.”

  “But you’ve got her back, right? You’re going to see her straight. You’re going to see that she’s okay running this ranch on her own.”

  Emotion—something close to affection—sideswiped Cole as he looked into his father’s rheumy eyes and saw a raw earnestness in the old man’s craggy features. Guilt snaked through it all as he thought about Forbes, Jane, the document he’d signed. His mind turned to the big fight he and his father had had thirteen years ago, when Myron had yet again thrown at Cole the fact he’d killed his mother and brother and destroyed this family and the ranch because of it.

  It suddenly all seemed distant. Trivial. He should have been man enough to realize that his father had become mentally trapped inside his own grief. That he’d been incapable of forgiving Cole his sins, incapable of trying to move his family forward. In retrospect, Cole could have approached it all differently.

  And right on the spot he made a new goal. Downed phone lines be damned, he was going to drive into town tomorrow morning, find Clayton Forbes in person, and draw his battle line in the sand. He was going to fight for what was left of this farm and family.

  “The ranch will be safe,” he said quietly. “I’ll do my best by her.”

  His father stared at him long and hard. He reached abruptly for his wheels, spun his chair around, and wheeled off toward the hall. “Going to bed,” he called over his shoulder.

  Cole surged to his feet. “Here, let me take you up.”

  “Over my dead body. Zack!” the old man barked, “Zack—get me the hell out of here.”

  Cole stared as Zack wheeled his father out into the hallway and toward the elevator, a mix of hurt, compassion, love, an unfamiliar cocktail of sensations ebbing and pulling like a tide inside him.

  “What was that about?”

  He spun around. Olivia. She’d caught him unguarded again. He pulled his features back in line.

  “He’s just being a jerk.”

  “You should go easy on him. It’s the medication.”

  “You need to stop making apologies for him.”

  Eyes like flint met his.

  “Pour me a drink?” she said. “I could use one, and I need to ask you something.”

  Tori marched faster into the darkness and wind, outdistancing her dad, her heart banging in her chest. Her skin was hot. She wanted her mother.

  A sharp cracking of twigs sounded in the brush next to her. Something big moved. Scared, she froze on the spot. Ghostly aurora played over the sky. Wind swished leaves. Then her dad came running over the lawn.

  The noise sounded again, like a large animal crashing away through the dry brush and leaves. Bear, or deer.

  Her father placed a hand on her shoulder. “Who’s there?” he demanded, peering into the shadows as his other hand went for his holster.

  Wind gusted. Leaves curled and swirled. Nothing more moved in the bush.

  “Come,” he whispered, his gaze still probing the dark shadows in the scrub.

  “Why?” she said as they moved toward the cabin. “Why did you lie? You said you were in security. You lied about being a cop.”

  They reached the porch, and he crouched down, took her shoulders in his hands, his attention still flicking into the darkness behind her, watching for whatever had made the noise.

  “Sometimes it’s just easier not to say you’re a cop. When you tell people you’re in law enforcement, everything changes. I didn’t want to talk about my job. I didn’t want to talk about your mom. About . . . things that hurt.” He inhaled a deep, shuddering, shaky breath. His eyes glimmered with wetness in the dark. “Sometimes it’s easier not to have to tell strangers over and over again. Just to be private.”

  She stared at him, her own eyes burning. Lip quivering. “Why are you so nice to her? To Olivia. What about Mom?”

  Water slapped against the dock below the gazebo.

  “Oh, Tori . . . it’s nothing like that. Not at all.” He smoothed hair back from her brow. “Someday you’ll understand. Someday soon. I promise.”

  “You didn’t tell me why I might have to go and live with Aunt Lou if they can operate and fix you.”

  “I know. And I was going to. I never wanted to hold anything back from you or make you worried. I thought it would be good to get away for Thanksgiving before explaining it all. Because I first wanted some time to put things right between us. And about Aunt Lou . . .” He hesitated. “After the operation there could be a couple of months of recovery getting my brain and motor functions back to full speed. There could be physiotherapy . . . There are variable outcomes for this kind of surgery. So, during that recuperation period, it would make sense for you to go east and stay with Lou and the family, go to school there for a while.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Do you really want to go back to your old school in Vancouver? I’m not so sure it will be easy after that fire incident. Or the fight with Julia Borsos. You certain you want that?”

  She glanced at her boots. “Maybe not.”

  He cleared his throat. “And then, when I’m back to full speed again, I can come out east, and stay there too. Lou and Ben have that big, big house on the lake. A cabin where you and I could live. You could finish school out there.”

  “You’d move, too?”

  He smiled, his teeth glinting in the dark. “Yes. There’s little I wouldn’t do for you, Tori. One
day you’ll see that.”

  A fresh start. Like the damselflies—a second chance. It held a faint and distant promise. She really didn’t want to return to her old school. Or the old house, even. It hurt.

  He put his arm around her shoulders. Warm. Comforting. Her safe, invincible dad again. “Look. Look up there.” He pointed.

  The stars in the dark vault of sky were endless. Soft green and blue light with tinges of peach at the edges waved across it in silent curtains. The curtains of gods.

  “I think she’s watching us from up there.”

  Tears leaked silently down her face. And in that instant she was certain that from up there, everything must look like it had a plan. A reason. A pattern. She just couldn’t see it from down here.

  Olivia rubbed her knee—a nervous tic—as she sat by the fire waiting for Cole to bring her drink.

  He set a bottle of scotch and two glasses with ice on the low table in front of the fire, poured two drinks and handed her one.

  She took the glass, and their fingers brushed. Heat crackled up her arm, and she felt a clench of desire that was at odds with her nerves. This man did things to her.

  “I’m pleased to see that you’re still talking to me.” He seated himself on the sofa beside her. Close. He smiled but his eyes were tired. He looked rough again, the firelight casting hard planes over his face. He seemed edgy, a little drunk perhaps. Yet there was something solid and safe about him.

  “I need to wait for the last guests to leave,” she said. “And I have some questions.”

  He watched the fire, cradling his glass in his big hands. “Shoot.”

  She’d been going to press him over his concerns about Gage Burton, but she also didn’t want to tell him why that newspaper and fishing lure were such a trigger.

  “What happened with Myron?” she said instead, chickening out. “You goad him again?”

  A wry smile curved his gorgeous lips, and he was silent for a while, as if weighing something. He sucked back his whole drink, reached forward, and poured another.

  “I told him that I had concerns about Burton and his interest in you.”

  She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Her pulse quickened. “That’s what upset him?”