One Hundred Secrets (An Aspen Cove Romance Book 10)

by Kelly Collins

  “Did your family always raise bees?” He already knew the truth, but wondered if she did and if so, would she tell him?

  “No, they raised cattle.” She let out a visible shiver. “Thank goodness that’s not the case these days. Besides their gaseous habits ruining the air, they eat everything in sight. What would my bees pollinate if the land was filled with cows?”

  “Oh, so there were cattle? What stopped this from being a cattle ranch? Lack of water?” He lifted a brow. “On my way over I noticed most of the creeks are dry beds.”

  “You’re observant.” She tossed another log onto the pile and leaned against the deck railing. “Water doesn’t run naturally on this land. The landscape is too high and therefore runs on the acreage next door. Thankfully the creek on the acreage next to mine is alive and healthy, because you can’t have bees without water.”

  “Or flowers.” He continued to stack the wood.

  “You may be quiet, but you’re smart.”

  “Not smart enough to figure out how a family raises cattle on dry land.”

  “Why the interest?”

  He was winded from the constant unloading and stacking and leaned against the deck rail near her.

  “I’m a history buff and love to dig into the story of places. Aspen Cove has quite a lot of history with its founding fathers.”

  When she frowned, he thought maybe he’d dug too deep.

  “It’s definitely got some stories.” She moved to the door and opened it. “You want some sweet tea?”

  If he could fist-bump the air without looking like a total idiot, he would have. “I’d love some.”

  “Come inside.”

  He followed her into the single-story log cabin. The main living area was wide open, with the kitchen, dining room and living room one big, happy space. In the center of one wall sat a huge moss rock fireplace that went from floor to ceiling.

  “This is a great house.”

  When he’d first moved in with Ray, the walls were covered with animal trophies. He’d taken them down and built the bookcases. He’d trade a deer head for a collection of Hemingway any day.

  She opened the cupboard and grabbed two glasses. They were the kind that looked like jelly jars from the sixties. They were the same flowered glasses his grandmother once had.

  “You bought Ray’s place, right?”

  “No, he left it to me. Crazy man, but he didn’t have any family, and I love the place. It’s private. I like my space.”

  “Me too.” She grabbed a pitcher from the refrigerator and poured them both a glass.

  He drank half his down and she filled it again.

  “This is the same house that was here in eighteen forty-seven when Walton Carver homesteaded the place.”

  “Wow, lots of history then.”

  “You know history, there’s some good and some bad.” She sipped her tea and pulled out a chair at the table and pointed to the one next to her for him. “As for the cattle. It was a big operation. Supplied food to thousands until they all dropped dead.”

  His tea glass slipped from his hand, spilling over the table. “Sorry.” He jumped up and grabbed the towel sitting on the counter to clean up his mess.

  “No worries. It’s just tea. It’s not like you killed off my family’s cattle.”

  He held his breath for a second. “What happened?”

  “Tragic really. Some kind of water rights fight with a family called the Coolidges.”

  He stalled mid clean-up. “What do you know?”

  She shrugged. “Not much. Only that they were tired of the cattle running across the land to get water. The cows ate up the wheat and hops they grew for their moonshine.”

  “I read something about that.” He’d read in detail about all the hours it took for Treasure and her family to fence off the property, only to have sections downed the next week.

  “What you probably didn’t read about was how the Carvers diverted the water. It crossed their property in one spot, and they damned it off there. If you ask me, that’s where all the problems began.”

  It fascinated Tilden because diverting the water wasn’t listed in any of the historical documents he’d received. He could see the water paths had changed, but then they were restored not too far after, and he’d considered it a natural drought occurrence.

  “They diverted the creek?”

  “Oh, yes. Blocked the water from reentering the Coolidge land. I hear it was a real mess. They tried to trench out a path, but the water had its own mind, which was to disappear and bubble up into a natural pond a few acres away. My family thought it was a godsend, but weeks later, the cattle died off and so did Walt. Rumors spread that the Coolidges poisoned the pond with their leftover rotted mash. Some even said they turned the pond into a pool of moonshine and the cattle and Walter died from alcohol poisoning.”

  He processed this information. He was certain his ancestors didn’t waste enough moonshine to fill a pond, but he was interested in learning about where the water disappeared to.

  “Where is the lake now?”

  She shook her head. “No idea. The story was it dried up and the creek broke through its barriers to right the wrong.”

  “You think the Carvers were wrong?”

  She rose from the table and put both of their glasses in the big farmers sink. “I think they could have come up with a solution that didn’t require either to have exclusive access to the water. I can’t say if they poisoned the pond, but karma is a bitch that won’t go unanswered and diverting the water seemed to be the start of the problems.”

  They walked outside and went back to stacking wood. “What happened to the Coolidges?”

  “Not sure. The scuttlebutt is they were run out of town, but who knows? They could have been guilty and ran. We’ll never know.”

  Tilden finished stacking the last log. He’d made a promise to himself two years ago that he would find out the truth.

  “Who owns the property now?”

  “That’s a mystery too. Bea Bennett owned it. Always said the whole thing was a tragedy. She never did anything with the land. She died, but no one has come to claim it. Someone owns it, but the million-dollar question is who?”

  “What if it’s a cattle rancher?”

  She laughed. “Well, wouldn’t that be irony?” She walked him toward his truck. “I have to believe that even if it were a rancher, we could behave differently than our ancestors.”

  Tilden sighed. He knew he had no claim to the land. His family had been gone for over a hundred years and it had changed hands several times. There was no doubt in his mind someone would eventually claim it and he hoped for Abby’s sake whoever did wouldn’t start another feud over something silly.

  Chapter Five

  Goldie’s messenger account lit up like a Christmas tree for days after the “wedding.” They weren’t the messages she’d hoped to see, but scathing ones about false advertising and milking the system for what it was worth. Of course, she’d milk the system. The system created her. She was born into it and imagined she’d die collecting from it, but she didn’t expect that death to happen so soon.

  Despite her friends posting about her wedding, her reach continued to decline, and her presence became more of a joke than anything else.

  She thought about the many days her mother had locked herself inside her bedroom and cried. Back then, Goldie thought she was insane to worry about what people thought of her. Now with a pile of bills as tall as the Eiffel Tower, she understood it wasn’t about what people thought but how they responded.

  Like her mother, if people didn’t follow her career, they weren’t financially invested. Back then, that meant Liza Sutherland couldn’t pay her bills. Couldn’t feed her kid. No wonder she was willing to go under the knife for a chance to share the screen with several other has-beens. Aging sucked, but who would have thought Goldie Sutherland would be washed up at thirty-two?

  She tore open the dozen or so new bills sitting on her counter. She
hated mail of any kind. It took her hours to work through them. Hated emails for the same reason. Hated the letters. Hated the fonts.

  Past Due

  Delinquent

  Due Now

  They all meant the same thing. Someone wanted money she didn’t have.

  When her stomach grumbled, she pushed off the kitchen counter to open the refrigerator. Inside was a bottle of ketchup and a loaf of bread. How long could a person live off ketchup sandwiches?

  She still had one hundred dollars left. She’d tucked it into her wallet for an emergency. Starving counted as dire need in her book.

  She slid on her shoes and grabbed her purse. When she opened her apartment door, the yellow eviction notice floated down to land at her feet.

  It was the second one she’d gotten in the last week. She picked it up and crumpled it in her fist before she tossed it into her apartment.

  When the elevator arrived in the lobby, the doorman stood behind the desk eyeing her. He was newer and always seemed to wear a frown and have a chip on his shoulder.

  He nodded. “Ms. Sutherland.”

  She looked at his name badge, which read Derek Manly. He was a tall, spindly young man whose stature didn’t fit his name.

  “Mr. Manly.” A giggle bubbled up inside her that she forced back. It wouldn’t serve her any good to piss off the doorman.

  He lifted his phone and showed her what he’d been looking at. The leading gossip columnist headline read, “Goldie Sutherland turns from gold dust to dust.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read. Gold doesn’t turn into dust.” She gave him a practiced smile. “Gold turns into jewelry. I’m still as shiny and valuable as always.” She headed for the door.

  He chuckled. “If you value antiques.”

  She stopped dead. “I’m sorry, do you like your job here? The last time I looked, your job was supposed to be helpful to the residents.”

  He rolled his slate gray eyes. “Paying residents.”

  It took everything inside her not to swing her five-year-old Prada bag at his head. Housing would be a problem for her soon, but she wasn’t ready to trade her current situation for a jail cell.

  “I’m a little behind is all.”

  “You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to me. Your landlord called and said if I saw you to tell you to have your past due rent by the end of the week or he’d help move you out himself.”

  She stood tall. “If you talk to Mr. Page, tell him I said everything is under control.” She pushed through the glass door into the wintery chill of the afternoon.

  Tugging her jacket up to her chin, she walked down the street to the little store that carried everything from Cracker Jacks to Parma ham. She was relieved to see the Christmas decorations were already down. This year she’d spent the holiday eating a plate of cookies a neighbor made and streaming Netflix. There was no tree. No decorations. No gifts.

  “Hello, Goldie,” Cindy said from behind the counter. She’d taken over for her grandmother about a year ago when Mrs. Hutchins had a stroke.

  “How’s your grandmother?” She’d always loved the little old lady. Trudy Hutchins was like a grandmother to all.

  “She’s doing so well.” Cindy moved from around the counter to where Goldie stood. She pulled out her phone and brought up the latest pictures of Trudy. “We gave her a surprise birthday party last week.” Her eyes grew wide. “She’s eighty.”

  After pulling five packages of Ramen from the counter, Goldie said, “I feel like I’m eighty.”

  Cindy put her hand on Goldie’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Things will get better.”

  “They will have to because worse isn’t on my agenda.”

  “Grams always says God puts you where he wants you.”

  God must want me to live in a box behind the store.

  “Tell your Grams I said hello.” She set her purse on the counter and dug for the hundred-dollar bill she’d tucked inside the zipper pocket.

  “She loves to hear that.” She rung up the packages of ramen. “That will be three dollars and forty-eight cents.” After placing them into a bag she asked, “Are you sure you don’t want a package of chicken or some fresh veggies to go with that?”

  Cindy was probably in her mid-twenties. There was no doubt in Goldie’s mind that she made more money pimping groceries in her grandmother’s store than Goldie did pushing products like lipstick and wrinkle cream.

  “Things are bit tight right now, this money is going to have to last me for a while. I’ll stick with what I have.” She handed over the last of her money and waited for her change.

  Cindy held up her finger. “Hold on a second.” She raced around the counter toward the back room and returned with a filled bag. “Take this. It’s not much, but it’s still good. I’d normally donate it to the homeless shelter, but charity begins at home. The expiration dates are today, but if you freeze it, you can get more time from the products.” She opened the bag to show several packages of meat and a couple of frozen dinners.

  Tears pricked at Goldie’s eyes. Was she crying because she was touched or because her life had come to this? When would she have to stand on the corner with a cardboard sign that said, “anything helps”?

  “Thank you. That’s so kind.”

  Cindy made change for the ramen. “It’s nothing.” She looked down at Goldie’s bag. “I love that purse. They don’t make it anymore.”

  Goldie ran her hand over the soft calf’s leather. This had been a prized possession for years. “No, they retire products early.”

  “If things are terrible, you could sell it. Those things never go down in value and never go out of style.”

  Goldie smiled. Behind the ponytail and the sprinkling of freckles that dotted Cindy’s skin was a diva waiting to break free.

  “Do you have an extra bag?”

  “Sure.” Cindy reached beneath the counter and pulled a white plastic bag free.

  It only took Goldie a few moments to empty the purse of all her belongings. She took it over to the nearby trashcan and turned it upside down, shaking the bits of lint and garbage into the bin. When she returned, she zipped it up and set it on the counter like it was on display.

  “For you.”

  Cindy’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t take your purse. Why would you give this to me?”

  Goldie smiled as she picked up her plastic bags. “Because kindness has value and never goes out of style.” She turned and walked outside.

  Her life was a mess, but it was in small moments like this where she found the will to forge on.

  The brisk wind beat against her face until she made it back to her building. She pushed inside and stopped when she saw her landlord in the lobby talking to Derek.

  This would be the best time to not draw attention to herself. If she could sneak past them and scurry into the elevator, she’d be home free.

  Skirting the outside of the room, she drifted toward the corner. She pretended she didn’t see them and hoped somehow that would make them not see her. She reached for the up button and breathed a sigh of relief before she heard her name.

  Pretending to be hearing impaired, she ignored her landlord calling after her and hoped the doors would open and suck her inside.

  A glance at the display showed the car was on the third floor. “Come on,” she whispered. “Come on.” Her booted foot tapped on the granite floor.

  A shadow took up whatever light the windows cast on her.

  “Do you have the rent?”

  She turned to face Mr. Page. “Good afternoon, Mr. Page. I was going to call you.”

  “No need. I’m here. Do you have the rent?”

  She lifted her head to take in the big man. Always dressed in custom suits, he was quite the figure. She might call him handsome if she liked well-dressed ogres, but Mr. Page’s godfather persona was a turnoff. If John Gotti and Shrek had a baby it would look like the man in front of her.

  “I do not, but I will.”

>   “You have until Friday. If I don’t have it by then I’m changing the locks.”

  She pulled back her shoulders. “I understand.”

  The elevator opened and she rushed inside. When the doors closed, her calm façade fell to pieces. She had two days to come up with thousands of dollars.

  “Desperate times require desperate measures.” She punched the P for the penthouse. When she arrived back at her home, she tucked her groceries away and walked to her closet. She’d already sold everything else in the house. Even her mattress sat on the floor because the sale of the frame helped make her last car payment. And by last car payment, she meant final. The damn thing was the only thing she owned outright.

  She’d debated selling it, but a used car wouldn’t get her much and if everything went farther south at least she could sleep in the back seat.

  She threw open her closet. On shelves that lined one wall sat her equivalent of the Oscar. Limited edition accessories and clothes. Cindy was right about one thing. Couture items rarely lost their value.

  It was hard to say goodbye to so many beautiful things, but she needed money more than she did shoes and purses, so she selected one purse to keep and a few pairs of shoes, and the rest she listed online for sale.

  Donated food and a fire sale of her belongings. What had her life become?

  Chapter Six

  Tilden sat at the end of the bar oblivious to the comings and goings at Bishop’s Brewhouse. The din of the crowd acted as the backdrop to his thoughts. He’d spent the day in Copper Creek where they housed all the historical documents. Poring through dozens of files, he couldn't find the smoking gun or the answers to his questions, but he met a nice records keeper who said she’d pull the older land maps.

  “What’ll it be, Tilden?” Sage leaned forward to get his attention.

  “Amber draft, please.”

  She moved to the taps and pulled him a beer. “You need a job?”

  “What?” he yelled over the cacophony of the crowd and karaoke night singers. Each time Samantha came to the bar, the crowds grew. There was enough room to stand and turn but not much more. He lucked into the corner stool because from this seat there was nothing to see.