Storming Whitehorn

by Christine Scott

  Surprising them both, she made her offer, “I’m going to help you, Storm. We’re going to uncover the identity of your brother’s murderer together.”

  “Do you have any idea what you’re proposing?” Storm asked, his voice sharper than he’d intended.

  “I’m proposing an alliance,” she said. The calmness with which she spoke clashed against turbulent emotions churning inside him. “I think if we tried, we could work together as a team.”

  “A team?” He stared at her, unable to believe his ears.

  Despite the obvious reason why an alliance between them would not work—namely, the unwanted attraction that sprung up whenever they were near—there was an even more compelling reason to refuse. She was a Kincaid, offering to help him find out the truth behind his brother’s murder. There was obviously a conflict of interest.

  He didn’t know whether to trust her or to suspect her motives, as he’d learned to suspect all white men’s motives.

  But then again, this was Jasmine. A woman who, as he was quickly finding out, was nothing if not painfully honest. From their few encounters, she didn’t appear able to lie, even if she’d wanted to.

  “The whole idea is ridiculous,” he said in a dismissive tone. Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he turned on his heel and spun away from her, eager to leave and put a much-needed distance between himself and temptation.

  “Please hear me out, Storm,” she said, reaching a hand to stop him.

  Her palm felt warm, soft, as she wrapped her fingers around his wrist. Arrows of heat and awareness darted up his forearm. He flinched at the unexpected contact. Slowly his gaze traveled from her hand up to her face. There, in the depths of her green eyes, he saw an innocence that nearly took his breath away.

  It wasn’t an act. Her proposition, as impossible as it might be, was for real. She really wanted to help him.

  “What’s wrong with my wanting to help you?” she asked, echoing his own thoughts.

  He tightened his jaw against his weakening resolve. “I don’t need your help, Jasmine. I don’t need anyone’s help. Whatever I’ve achieved in my life, I’ve done it on my own terms. The last thing I want is someone else poking their nose into my business out of a sense of pity.”

  “That’s what you think I’m feeling? Pity? How dare you presume to know my own thoughts!” Anger flashed in her eyes. She released his hand, growling her frustration. “At this moment I don’t know who to be more angry with—the legal system for refusing to treat you fairly, or you for being so stubborn.”

  He felt winded, stung by her unfair reprimand. He was the wounded party, not her. Yet, standing awkwardly by the car, he wondered how she’d accomplished the feat. Somehow, once again, she’d made him feel guilty, as though he were the one in the wrong.

  “I don’t want to argue with you, Jasmine. Arguing is pointless. We both know who killed my brother.”

  “You mean, Jeremiah Kincaid…my uncle.”

  “Your deceased uncle,” he corrected, surprised by her admission. “Jeremiah has been long buried, and his secrets along with him.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” she countered. “There’s only one way to find out for sure. Listen to me, Storm. My cousin, David, is the FBI agent helping with the investigation. We’ve always been close. If there’s any information that the police aren’t telling, I’m sure I could find a way for him to confide in me.”

  Reluctantly, Storm acknowledged what she had to say was the truth. His previous encounters with David Hannon had been strained at best. Frustrated by the investigation’s lack of progress, he’d allowed his temper to get the better of him. He’d argued with the man, almost coming to blows over the disagreement.

  Oblivious to his wavering thoughts, Jasmine continued, her voice gentle, her tone a plea for reason. “Your brother was last seen alive at the Kincaid ranch. A ranch that now belongs to my cousin, Garrett Kincaid. Alone, you can’t get anywhere near that ranch. But as a member of the Kincaids, who would think it odd if I wished to visit the family home stead and bring along a guest?”

  Storm released a growl of impatience. “Jasmine—”

  “No, wait, there’s more. I have an intimate connection to the only surviving person known to be in the house on the night of your brother’s murder—my mother.” She hesitated, a flush of color stealing across her face. Then, with an honesty to which he’d grown accustomed, she said, “My mother doesn’t want me anywhere near you. Just how far do you think you’ll get if you try to question her on your own?”

  Nowhere fast, he admitted to himself. Since his return to Whitehorn, he’d been stone walled by the police department. No one seemed to care about him, or his brother’s death. Why should they? He was just another annoying Indian. Storm fought the rising tide of bitterness. Jasmine was right. The investigation into Raven’s murder was at a virtual stand still.

  For years he had lived without knowing what had happened to Raven. His life had been put in limbo. Not knowing whether to be angry and hurt by his brother’s abandonment, or to grieve over Raven’s death.

  Now that he knew what had happened to his brother, he couldn’t allow the questions to go unanswered. He could not rest until he uncovered the truth. He had to know why Raven had died, and who was responsible.

  “What about last night?” he asked abruptly. “What happened in my hotel room…do you think you could trust me enough to work with me?”

  She shrugged, giving an unconvincing attempt at nonchalance. “Like you said, last night was a mistake. We both allowed our emotions to overrule our judgment. It won’t happen again.”

  He raised a brow. “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive, because I won’t allow it.” She raised her chin in a show of feminine pride. “Trust me, Storm. I’m not a glutton for punishment. I’m simply not interested in a man who isn’t interested in me.”

  Not interested was hardly the way he felt. He studied her for a long moment, debating the wisdom of telling her just how wrong her assumption really was. Deciding that somethings were best kept to himself, he gave a resigned sigh and said, “If I were to agree—”

  A smile blossomed on her beautiful face. Storm’s heart pounded a warning beat in his chest.

  “I said if I were to agree,” he repeated firmly. “You would have to promise me that you wouldn’t risk putting yourself into any danger.”

  “Danger?” The sculpted line of her brow furrowed. “What danger could there be after all these years? Those who were involved are long gone. They can’t hurt us now.”

  It had been his experience that people would go to great lengths to cover up a family scandal, especially those that had been long buried. “I just want you to be careful.”

  She gave a dismissive shake of the head. “I will.”

  Storm frowned, agitated by her apparent lack of concern. “When do you want to start?”

  Her face brightened. “How about tomorrow?”

  He nodded. “Tomorrow, it is.”

  “I feel like we should celebrate. We’ve finally agreed on something.” Jasmine laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She glanced at her wristwatch and sighed. Her tone shifted from playful to business-like. “Unfortunately I don’t have the time. I took an early lunch to meet with you. My mother’s waiting for me. I’ve got to get back to the B and B. I have to make breakfast tomorrow morning for our guests. After that, I should be able to get the rest of the day off. There’s no use in both of us driving tomorrow. Why don’t I pick you up at your hotel, say around eleven o’clock?”

  Second thoughts worked their way into his mind, setting his nerves on edge. Instead of giving in to his doubts, he nodded. “I’ll be ready.”

  With a smile that set fire racing through his veins, she bid him goodbye and strode to her Jeep. Today her long legs were hidden beneath a pair of blue jeans. But that didn’t spoil the view. The faded denim clung to her legs and backside like a second skin. His body ached with awareness as he studied the gentle sway of her h
ips.

  Swinging herself up into the driver’s seat, she fastened her seatbelt and gunned the motor to life. With one last wave goodbye, she threw the gear into reverse and backed out of the parking space. Spewing dust and rocks, she shifted forward and peeled out, leaving him to stand alone in the middle of the empty lot. He felt her absence like a hollow place in his heart.

  At that moment Storm knew, with this new alliance of theirs, he was courting trouble.

  He had never met a more beautiful woman. The longer he was with her, the greater his desire for her grew. But even more disturbing than desire, what he felt for her was respect.

  As everyone else in town, including the members of her own family, Jasmine could have gone out of her way to avoid him. After all, Raven’s death was his problem, not hers. She was under no obligation to help him.

  But instead of running away, she’d taken on the responsibility of seeking the truth. She was risking the wrath of her own family to help him. He had never known a woman quite like her.

  Desire and respect, Storm mused. In his opinion, the two were a dangerous combination.

  Chapter Six

  Jasmine tugged at the bed covers, feeling restless and out of sorts. It was late, after two o’clock in the morning, and she hadn’t yet been able to relax enough to sleep. Knowing that she’d be up in less than four hours to start breakfast for the B and B’s guests made the late hour seem even more daunting.

  Each wrinkle in the bed, imagined or otherwise, irritated her. Despite the open windows, there was no cooling breeze filtering inside. The room felt hot and stuffy. Her skin was damp with perspiration. Her head ached with fatigue. She wanted to blame her insomnia on the unusually warm night. But the truth was a guilty conscience had kept her awake.

  Sighing, Jasmine sat up in bed. She snapped on the lamp at her bedside table. A soft light washed over her, bringing into focus the room that had been hers since childhood. The dusky green-and-cream striped paper she’d picked out when she was ten years old still hung on the walls. Her grandmother’s handmade patch work quilt covered the dark mission-style bed. Chintz curtains framed the large windows. Matching pillows and a collection of stuffed animals were arranged on the window seat beneath.

  The room was as familiar as the back of her hand, as soothing as a hug from an old friend. Yet tonight she could find no comfort in its embrace. Tonight, she felt as though she were a stranger in its midst, as though she didn’t belong. Since agreeing to help Storm with his search for the truth behind his brother’s death, she felt oddly detached from her home as well as from her own family.

  Her eyes burned from lack of sleep. Rubbing them, she leaned back against the pillows and considered the consequences of her decision. In her heart, she knew helping Storm was the right thing to do. No one should have to endure the pain he was suffering. For almost thirty years he’d lived without knowing what had happened to his brother. If she’d lost Cleo or Summer in that way, she’d didn’t know if she could survive.

  Storm had survived the ordeal.

  But not without a price.

  This morning she’d heard the bitterness in his voice when he’d told her that he didn’t need her help, that he didn’t need anyone’s help. She had seen the suspicious look in his eyes when she’d pledged her support. Through the years of struggle Storm had learned not to trust anyone. She had to prove her sincerity. No matter how hard he tried to push her way, she couldn’t abandon him.

  She had to help him.

  Even if it meant doing so behind her family’s back.

  Giving up on sleep, Jasmine pushed aside the sheets and climbed out of bed. Crossing the room to the window seat, she picked up a favorite stuffed animal from her past, Mr. Truckles, a well-loved bunny with lopsided ears, patchy fur and a nose that was almost completely worn off. She hugged the stuffed rabbit to her chest and sat on the cushioned seat. Tucking her long legs beneath her, she peered outside into the dark night.

  Clouds blocked the moon’s shimmering light, casting the lake into a murky darkness. The night seemed too black, too for bidding, putting her nerves even further on edge. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the next few days, helping Storm without telling her mother the truth. Now that Cleo and Summer were married, her mother had come to rely upon her even more. Jasmine felt a keen sense of responsibility for her mother’s well-being. It wasn’t any wonder that telling lies didn’t sit well with her conscience.

  An ear-piercing scream shattered the silence, jolting her out of her troubled thoughts.

  In her haste to stand, Jasmine nearly tumbled from her seat at the window. Catching herself, she scrambled to her feet and stood frozen in the middle of the room, with her heart pounding and her ears straining to listen to the sudden quiet that surrounded her. For a moment she thought she must have heard the screech of an owl, or had even imagined the cry.

  Then it sounded again.

  This time she knew it was from inside the house. The scream had come from her mother’s bedroom.

  She dropped Mr. Truckles back onto the window seat and in two quick steps was at the door. Fumbling with the knob, she tore it open and ran blindly down the night-darkened hall. Her mother’s bedroom door was closed, but, thankfully, not locked. The bedside lamp was still on, guiding her. An opened book, with her mother’s reading glasses beside it, had been placed on the bedside table. A white candle was lit, softly shimmering in the dim light beside her. Her mother was propped up in bed against a cushion of pillows, looking as though she’d fallen asleep while reading.

  But her expression was anything but restful.

  Agony twisted the beautiful, care-worn features of her face. Her complexion was ashen, her russet hair tousled. With her eyes still tightly closed, she thrashed her head from side to side, as though trying to rid herself of a night mare.

  Celeste was dreaming, Jasmine realized.

  Her step faltering, she hesitated, not sure whether to wake her mother. Afraid that she’d scare her more if she did. But another cry of alarm settled her in decision. Jasmine hurried to her mother’s side. She placed a hand on Celeste’s shoulder and shook her gently.

  Celeste woke with a start. Her eyes wild and frightened, she stared at Jasmine, as though she were looking through her, not at her. Her body trembled with fear. Her chest rose sharply, as she sucked in a shuddering breath.

  “Mother, are you all right?” Jasmine asked, unable to keep the tremor of fear from her own voice.

  Celeste opened and closed her mouth, but no sound was emitted. Looking as though she were seeing a ghost, she stared at her daughter. Finally, her voice sounding as hoarse and dry as the wind on the plains, she whispered, “Blanche?”

  Jasmine’s heart stuttered. “No, Mother. It’s me—”

  “Blanche, it’s been so long.” Celeste reached out a shaky hand and touched Jasmine’s cheek. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her breath catching on a sob, she said, “Oh, Blanche…don’t be angry. I’m so sorry, so very sorry. I never meant for it to happen. Please…please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” Jasmine frowned, her concern growing. “For what, Mother?”

  Celeste closed her eyes and shook her head. “No, I—I can’t talk about it. I won’t. Do you hear me? I won’t.”

  Jasmine’s heart slammed against her chest. A lump of dread lodged in her throat. Desperate, she gathered her mother’s hands in hers and said, “Mother, look at me. Open your eyes and look at me.”

  Celeste’s eyes slowly opened, though the wild, frightened look still remained.

  “Can you see me, Mother? It’s Jasmine, not Blanche. Jasmine, your daughter.”

  Celeste’s expression shifted. The terror burning in her eyes dimmed. She blinked, quick rapid blinks, as though trying to bring the room into focus. “Jasmine?”

  Relief surged through her body. “Yes, it’s Jasmine.”

  “W-what happened? What’s wrong?” Celeste struggled to sit up.

  Jasmine placed a hand on her mother’s
shoulder, quieting her. “Just lie back and relax for a moment. You were having a night mare.”

  “A night mare,” Celeste repeated, frowning in confusion. “I don’t remember. I—I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to read.” Her frown deepened, the pitch of her voice rising anxiously. She pushed the hair from her eyes and searched Jasmine’s face. “I must have dozed off, but I just don’t remember.”

  “It’s okay, Mother. Everything’s all right now. You just scared me for a moment.”

  Tears slid down Celeste’s cheeks. “I’m so sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

  “Don’t be silly. There’s no need to be sorry. You’ve been under such a strain lately. I just wish I could help you.”

  Celeste didn’t answer. Instead, lifting a hand, she wiped the telltale moisture from her face and struggled to compose herself.

  “Do you want to talk about your dream?” Jasmine persisted, unwilling to let her mother avoid what had happened. “It might help.”

  Celeste shook her head. “No, I—I can’t.”

  “Mother, you called me Blanche.”

  “Blanche?” Her red-rimmed eyes widened in alarm.

  Choosing her words carefully, Jasmine explained, “When I woke you, you looked at me so strangely, like you weren’t really seeing me. Then you called me Blanche.”

  Celeste sat up abruptly. She brushed the covers aside and swung her shapely legs off the bed. Rising stiffly to her feet, she waved off Jasmine’s offer to help. “I’ll be all right, Jasmine. I just need to get up and stretch my legs.”

  “Mother, you’re not all right,” Jasmine said, giving an exasperated breath. “You just had a terrible nightmare. Why won’t you talk to me about it?”

  “It won’t do any good to talk about it now. It’s over…done with. I just want to forget about it.” Celeste crossed the room to the fire place. There, with a trembling hand, she lit a match and began to light the numerous candles scattered about on the nightstand and mantel.