TROUBLE IN PARADISE
ROBIN LEE HATCHER
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Robin Lee Hatcher
It is pleasant to see dreams come true, but fools will not turn from evil to attain them.
—Proverbs 13:19
Take delight in the Lord, and he will give you your heart’s desires.
—Psalms 37:4
To the CdA gals—great friends, great writers, great prayer warriors—who know plenty about trouble on this earth but who look forward, like me, to eternity in Paradise.
CHAPTER 1
1999
N at O'Connell knew almost everyone in Rainbow Valley, having lived there all his life, but he hadn’t yet been introduced to his new neighbor. And as he watched the petite young woman pacing back and forth across the dilapidated deck of the old Erickson cabin, muttering to herself and stabbing the air with a huge butcher knife, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know her.
Was she rehearsing a murder? That’s what it looked like to him.
Common sense demanded that he turn Blue around and ride back to the ranch house. Curiosity made him stay. Besides, how dangerous could she be? She might be as mad as a March hare, but she couldn’t outrun his horse.
She paused, shouted some words he couldn’t quite make out, then switched the knife to her left hand and thrust it through the air again.
Nat had known some screwball people in his life, but this gal beat anything he ever laid eyes on.
Suddenly she turned the blade’s point toward herself, holding the hilt with both hands. Then she yanked it into her chest. With a painful cry, she fell backward onto the porch where she lay perfectly still.
Shocked into action, Nat dug his heels into the gelding’s sides and rode forward at a gallop. He vaulted to the ground even as Blue slid to a halt in front of the cabin.
The woman sat straight up before Nat’s boots hit the first step. Her eyes widened as she squealed in alarm, “Who are you?” As she jumped to her feet, the butcher knife clattered to the deck. “What do you want?” Her gaze darted to the knife, then back to him.
Her fearful questions brought Nat to an abrupt halt. He could tell she was weighing the risk of grabbing for the dropped weapon. There was no doubt in his mind that, frightened or not, she would use it if she had to.
“It’s okay.” He raised his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. “I thought you were hurt. I just wanted to help.”
She didn’t look quite as crazy now as she had a few moments before. Odd, maybe, in her oversized, bright purple-and-yellow tie-dyed T-shirt, her cutoff jeans with the frayed hems and her curly brown hair pulled into a bushy ponytail. Odd, but not crazy.
“Are you Miss Vincent? Shayla Vincent?”
Wariness remained in her dark blue eyes as she replied, “Yes. Why do you ask?”
“I saw your notice over at the Rainbow Laundromat. For secretarial or housekeeping work? That’s why I came to see you.”
“You’re looking for an experienced secretary?” She seemed to relax a little.
“No, a housekeeper.” Cautiously he stepped onto the deck and offered his hand. “I’m Nat O’Connell. I own Paradise Ranch.”
She shook his proffered hand. Her grip was firm for such a tiny gal.
“I guess that makes us neighbors,” she said.
He nodded. “That it does.”
She observed him in silence a moment longer, then released his hand. “I must be honest with you, Mr. O’Connell. The only reason I’m looking for work is so I can afford to make repairs to my cabin. Once they’re done, I’ll give my notice. I came from Portland to write a novel, not to clean other people’s houses.”
“You’re a writer?”
She nodded, then smiled wryly. “Well, I hope to be. I’ve just started my first book. It’s a murder mystery.”
Understanding dawned, and Nat chuckled.
“It isn’t that preposterous, Mr. O’Connell.” Her smile turned to a scowl. “I can write, I assure you.”
“I’m sorry.” He tried to look serious. “I wasn’t laughing because I thought you couldn’t be a writer. It was … well … when I saw you stab yourself, I thought you might be…” He tried to think of a polite word for insane—loco, crazy, nuts. Nothing came to him that seemed any better, so he let it drop. “Anyway, now I understand what you were doing with that knife.”
She smiled again, presumably seeing the humor in the scene he described. “It must have looked kind of weird at that. I was trying to figure out the angle of the entry wound. It all depends on how tall my murderer is and how short the victim.” She picked up her weapon. “It’s a trick knife. It’s got a retractable plastic blade. See? It’s harmless.”
Definitely odd, he thought as he watched her demonstrate how the knife worked. But cute, too.
Shayla pointed with the blade toward a wooden bench. “Would you like to sit down while we talk about your job offer?”
“Happy to oblige.” He took a step forward, then stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her. “I had a thought. Would you be interested in trading services? At least for part of your wages? I’m a good carpenter and plumber, and I guarantee I can get to it quicker than the guys in town. They’re always running behind.”
It would sure help his cash flow if she agreed to this plan. He needed a housekeeper, but ready cash didn’t keep regular company with a rancher.
“In fact,” he continued as he settled onto the bench, “I built those cabinets in the kitchen, and I was going to patch the roof. But then Miss Lauretta moved away. The place has been empty ever since. I didn’t know it was up for sale.”
“It wasn’t for sale. I’m Lauretta Erickson’s niece.”
That explained a lot. Miss Lauretta was also a strange one.
“Her great-niece, actually. Aunt Lauretta was my grandmother’s younger sister.”
“Was?”
“She passed away this spring.”
“I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard. She was a nice old lady. I liked her a lot.”
“She was the best.” Shayla looked toward the cedar shake roof of the cabin. “She left me this place in her will. Only, I remembered it as being in a whole lot better shape than it is now. Of course, it’s been twenty-some years since I was here for a visit. I was about seven or eight, so maybe I didn’t notice the things that were wrong.” She shook her head. “I wish I’d come again before she was forced to move away. She loved it here. I wish I’d …” She let her words drift into silence as her eyes filled with tears.
Nat didn’t say anything. He knew firsthand about losing someone you love. The hurt didn’t go away overnight. It took time.
Sometimes it took years.
Shayla turned her back toward Nat O’Connell, not wanting a stranger to see her tears. She didn’t want him feeling sorry for her or thinking she was weak.
But it was hard not to cry when she thought about Aunt Lauretta being gone for good. Even though they’d never lived in the same state—or seen each other often through the years—she and her great-aunt had shared a special bond, a unique understanding of each other. Aunt Lauretta was the only family member who hadn’t told her she needed to be practica
l and responsible. Her aunt had encouraged Shayla to follow her dreams, to take chances in life.
Until this spring, she hadn’t tried to follow that advice. It had seemed too impossible, something out of her reach. Moving away from her family. Writing a novel. Crazy ideas that were doomed to fail. But because of Aunt Lauretta, she’d been given a chance. She wasn’t going to waste it. If only to honor her aunt’s memory, she wasn’t going to waste it.
Her neighbor cleared his throat. “Maybe I should come back later.”
“No.” She pushed away her sadness. “No, Mr. O’Connell, I’d like to get this settled now if we can. I really do need a job. I’ve got to make repairs to this place before winter rolls around, but my funds are limited.” She waved a hand toward the cabin. “You probably have a good idea why I need the extra cash if you did work for my aunt in the past.”
He smiled. “Yeah, there’s plenty that needs done around here.”
For a moment, Shayla forgot the leaky places in the roof, the plumbing that failed with wretched regularity, the faulty lock on the back door and the wood stove that didn’t draw right. She couldn’t think of anything except Nat’s smile. It was charming, complete with dimples and one slightly crooked tooth.
And the rest of the Nat O’Connell package wasn’t bad, either. He was tall and lean, tanned and muscular. His thick black hair was disheveled from the cowboy hat he’d removed earlier. His brown eyes were the color of strong coffee, almost black, and the outer corners crinkled when he smiled, which he seemed to do often.
“Maybe I should tell you what I need from a housekeeper, Miss Vincent. It won’t be easy work.”
She suddenly remembered her own appearance. Most of her clothes were in the hamper, awaiting a trip to the Rainbow Laundromat. When she’d dressed that morning, she’d laughed about the awful T-shirt she wore, then thought, Who cares? Who will see me? The memory made her want to groan.
Here she was with Mr. Charming Smile himself, and she was dressed like a bag lady, wearing no makeup, her kinky-curly mop of mousy brown hair caught in a clip atop her head, no doubt sticking out in all directions, as usual.
She felt a flush of embarrassment rushing into her cheeks. No wonder he’d thought her crazy.
Nat seemed unaware of her private agony. “I’d need you to come in for a few hours every day at first. I haven’t had a housekeeper in more than a year, and the place is in sad shape.” He paused, grinning sheepishly. “I guess that’s an understatement.” He shrugged. “I’m a cattle rancher, and there’s always plenty going on that needs my attention, always other things to spend my time and money on, if you know what I mean. I never give much thought to the house, living alone like I do.”
He lived alone. That was hard to believe. There must be something wrong with the women in this valley—or something wrong with him. She wondered which it was.
“My mother’s been talking about coming for a visit later this summer,” he continued. “If she sees the house like it is right now, she’ll skin me alive. She's always taken great pride in a tidy, well-run home.”
Shayla nodded. She’d seen the enormous O’Connell ranch house from the highway. It looked more like a log castle. She knew a place like that had to be spectacular on the inside and, sight unseen, could understand a woman taking pride in it.
“Once the deep-down cleaning’s done and things are organized again, I imagine you could keep things up without much effort. Maybe come over once or twice a week, a few hours each time.”
“You said you live alone. What about the men who work for you?” The last thing she wanted was to be cleaning up after a bunch of cowboys. She’d had enough of housekeeping for a large brood when she lived with her parents and six younger siblings.
“Nope. My ranch hands don’t bunk there. They’ve got their own homes and families to go to. Like I said, it’s just me.”
“No cooking.”
“No cooking.” That charming grin returned. “No windows, either.”
“And this trade in services would mean you’d do what around here?”
He put the Stetson on his head as he stood. “Well, we both know the roof needs patching. Why don’t you show me around so we can figure out what else needs to be done and what needs attention first?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
Half an hour later, Shayla watched from her deck as Nat mounted his dappled-gray horse. He made it look easy, sliding the toe of his boot into the stirrup, then stepping up and swinging his other leg over the saddle in one fluid movement.
Hmm, she thought, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. Cowboys were popular. Maybe the protagonist in her book should be a rancher. With a bit of tweaking, it might work. A cowboy sleuth. Had that been done in a mystery novel before? It would make sense.
All the how-to-write books said to write what you know. She was already using this valley and her cabin as the setting for her book. Instead of a small town sheriff solving the murder, she could have her lead character be a cattle rancher with a charming smile and dark hair and kind brown eyes—
“See you this afternoon,” Nat said as he bent the brim of his hat between index finger and thumb in what must be true cowboy fashion.
Oh, yes. Male readers would like the rough, tough qualities of a cowboy protagonist. And female readers would be drawn to that smile and his lean, rugged look.
Absentmindedly, she replied, “I’ll be there around two.”
She turned and hurried inside, making a beeline for the computer. If she could get down a few of these ideas before they disappeared. It wouldn’t take long at all. After that, she could change her clothes and go over to the O’Connell ranch.
Nat checked the anniversary clock on the mantel. It was almost three o’clock, and still no sign of Miss Vincent. She couldn’t be lost. Her property bordered Paradise Ranch. All she had to do was take the dirt road to the highway, head south, then turn into the well-marked driveway. True, the driveway was two miles long, but it wasn’t as if she couldn’t see the big house from the road, set as it was on the hillside.
He frowned. Maybe she’d had a flat tire. Or maybe she’d had an accident. There were some bad boards in that deck of hers. If she’d broken through one of them, she could be lying there, helpless. If she had no telephone, as he suspected, she couldn’t call for help if something was wrong.
He’d almost convinced himself to go look for her when he heard the whine of a compact car’s engine as it raced into the yard. A moment later, a cloud of dust whirled past his living room window. Then he heard the slam of a car door.
He stepped onto the porch in time to see Shayla checking her reflection in the side-view mirror. And an attractive reflection it was, too. Unconventional, perhaps, but appealing.
She’d applied some makeup before coming over—shadow and mascara to her eyes, pink lipstick to her mouth—and her wild curls had been tamed a little, though not much. She’d also changed from her extra large T-shirt and frayed cutoffs into a silvery gray blouse and a pair of jeans. Very appealing indeed.
Get a grip, O ’Connell. She’s not your type.
She straightened, and that’s when she noticed him watching her. Twin patches of pink dotted her cheeks. “Sorry I’m late.”
“Car trouble?”
“No.” She grew more flushed. “I lost track of the time. That happens to me when I’m writing. I get so involved in the story that I forget to look at the clock.”
At least she hadn’t tried to make up an excuse or sound as if it wasn’t her own fault. He appreciated honesty.
“I would’ve called once I saw the time, but my phone isn’t working yet.” She walked toward him. “The telephone company told me it wouldn’t be until week after next. Why it takes so long I’ll never understand. Aunt Lauretta had a phone. The place doesn’t have to be wired or anything.”
“Things move a bit slow around here.”
“Me included.” She revealed an apologetic grin. “I am sorry for making you wait.”
> “No problem.” He was the one not being honest. It was a problem. He had a dozen unfinished chores that had to be done yet today. “Come inside and see what you’re getting yourself into.” He held open the door and waited while she passed by him.
She paused in the parquet entry. “Wow!”
He didn’t know if her one-word exclamation referred to the design of the house or the clutter and disorder she saw everywhere. He preferred to think it was the former.
“How long have you lived here?” she asked.
“All my life. I was born in one of the bedrooms upstairs. Doctor got here about ten minutes after I did. Or so my mother likes to tell folks every chance she gets.”
“Really? How interesting. Hmm …”
Nat couldn’t help noticing the way her eyes seemed to glaze over. He had the distinct feeling she was no longer with him. “Miss Vincent?”
“Chet’s mother …” She pursed her lips and nodded as she looked up the staircase. Then she whispered, “Of course. How perfect.”
Oh, brother. Now she was talking to herself. “Miss Vincent?” he said again, louder this time.
She blinked, shook her head, looked at him. “Yes?”
“Let me show you around. Maybe, after you see what a disaster it is, you’ll decide you don’t want the job.” At this point, he didn’t know if that’s what he hoped for or not. He needed someone he could depend on. He wasn’t convinced that someone was her.
“Good idea. I’m dying to see it.” She looked toward the room to their right.
A good idea? Maybe. Maybe not. But he had little choice except to follow through with it now. “My mother called this the great room.” He motioned for her to enter ahead of him.
A stone fireplace was the focal point of the large room. An oil painting of Rainbow Valley as it looked in the early 1900s hung above the mantel, and like many others before her, Shayla was drawn toward it.
“O’Connell,” she said, reading the signature in the bottom right comer. She glanced over her shoulder. “Did you do this? It’s magnificent.”
Trouble in Paradise: A Novel Page 1