But the girl shivering on Maebeth’s worn braided rug had not come here for fly-fishing.
People in these parts didn’t tend to mind their neighbors’ business, and Maebeth was no exception, but the mountain didn’t take kindly to city folk. The girl would have to spend the night in someone’s woodpile if Maebeth didn’t let her a room. And that little scrap of a dog with the blue bow on its head couldn’t hold its own with Maebeth’s aging retrievers, never mind a marmot or bear.
Maebeth made a quick decision. “Okay. If he makes a mess you clean it.”
A weak smile formed beneath the girl’s too-large sunglasses. “Thank you.”
She signed in as Alice Stevens from Joplin, Missouri.
Not likely, judging by the back East accent. Maebeth accepted the registration card and passed her an old-fashioned key, asking a question she already knew the answer to. “Do you need help with your bags?”
The girl shook her head.
“Okay then,” Maebeth glanced down at the card. “Alice. Dinner will be served in the dining room. You’ve got the place to yourself tonight, ’cept for my husband and me. It’s included in the room rate. Breakfast, too.”
The girl’s face brightened. “Thanks.”
“Your dog might as well eat with my boys out back. Jasper and Wyoming. They’re old and wouldn’t hurt a fly. He’s a cute little fella. What’s his name?”
Alice Stevens hesitated. “Poppit.”
“It suits him.” Maebeth chuckled. “Not sure mine will know what to make of him but they’ll behave.”
“Thanks. He’s my best friend.”
And her only friend, by the looks of it. On impulse, Maebeth reached into a cabinet below the counter and pulled out a sweatshirt still in its plastic wrapper. On the front was a rendering of Ute Peak with the name Storm Pass stamped below it. Maebeth kept a supply in large and extra large to sell to hunters whose luggage hadn’t made the transfer at Denver. She slid the sweatshirt across the worn oak counter. “We’ve got a weekly special on these. It comes with the room. Which, by the way, is upstairs and down the hall to your right.”
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“Roast chicken tonight. You take your time, Alice, I’ll keep it warm till you come down.”
Clutching the sweatshirt like a security blanket, Alice Stevens shouldered her tote and flicked Poppie’s dainty leash.
Maebeth was certain the address and phone number were phony. No matter. Their sole guest appeared no more capable of doing harm than that scrap of a dog. And cash was cash. Later, Maebeth would remember this moment.
Caroline unpacked the tote bag, setting out Pippin’s bowls and food, before donning the sweatshirt to join Maebeth and her husband, Ted, for dinner in a dining room that was papered with Victorian-era cabbage roses. A gas-inset fire flickered, throwing off welcome heat.
The food was as good as Gus Kincaid had promised. Caroline was ravenous. If the Burkles noticed how quickly she shoveled bites of roast chicken into her mouth, or the second and third helpings she took, they made no mention of it.
Nor did they ask questions about where she was from or why she was vacationing alone, a fact she was grateful for. They chatted mostly to each other about the garden and chores around the inn.
Caroline slept a deep, dreamless sleep in the narrow, wood-paneled room. She sank into the trough at the center of the aging mattress that carried the memory of countless hunters who had slept there, tired after a day spent in the cold mountain air in the company of their comrades, and felt safe.
The wind gathered sound as it passed across the branches of trees that stretched from infinity right up against the tiny window.
She had read about the sounds a forest made at night, but had never experienced it firsthand. Neither had Porter. She had chosen Colorado for precisely this reason.
CHAPTER 7
Sleep was the first element to disappear from Porter’s “new normal.”“New normal” was a catchall phrase he had used often during his treatment of patients who had suffered sudden loss.
Now Porter understood just how hateful the phrase was.
He gave up quickly on any attempt to sleep through the night. Insomnia, as Dr. Porter Moross well knew, was a symptom of post-traumatic stress syndrome. He knew that it compounded grief and contributed to a sense of social isolation, knew that it would pass in time. He had counseled many patients on this.
But it was different when it happened to him.
Porter stared at their wedding portrait on the nightstand next to their bed. “Why?” he asked. Caroline mocked him from the sterling frame in her silly white confection of a dress. It was a little girl’s fantasy, that dress, with its puffy sleeves and yards of billowing tulle. “You think you can walk away from what we had,” he whispered. “But it isn’t over between us, Caroline. I won’t allow that.”
And so he fought back on the third night, ordering up a girl from the escort service he had used in his bachelor days. She let herself in after midnight, entering through the street door that Porter had left unlocked, and came directly upstairs to where Porter waited with his props.
She was rail-thin like Caroline, with streaky blond hair and undertaker eyes. She glanced at his wedding photo as she shrugged off her cheap overcoat. “Wife outta town?”
Porter’s hands twitched. He could knock her clear across the room before she knew what hit her. But he knew the rules. S&M was okay, but an outright beating would get him banned. Wiping his palms on his thighs, he licked his lips and eyed the place at the top of the escort’s legs near the garter belt. Her flesh was starting to hang in loose folds. In five years she’d be too old to whore herself. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely.
He locked eyes with Caroline’s in the photograph when he came, straddling the prostitute from behind.
He wished he could make Caroline hurt the way he hurt.
Except he knew she was not capable of empathy.
He’d hoped for it when they met. She was young and innocent and sweet, and he’d seen she had the potential for love that was pure and loyal and true, bigger than anything Porter had experienced in his entire crappy life. At least since his mother walked out when he was six and his fledgling ego was just taking shape. He’d learned in his psych studies that he’d have been okay if she’d abandoned him one year earlier or, better yet, two years later. But that had not been the case.
The day he met Caroline Hughes, the hard black box that was Porter’s heart sprang open, allowing light to shine on what was inside.
For the first time in his adult life, he felt hope that he might find redemption in the love of the girl with dark, soulful eyes and intellect to match.
But there was a problem, he surmised over time. Namely, Caroline’s psyche was marbled with veins of corruption. Hiding things came naturally to her. It was Porter’s studied professional opinion that he could cleanse her ego, given time, clearing the way to a true union of hearts and minds. She seemed open to it, at first, and the prognosis was good.
Just so long as she stayed the course.
But Caroline, like so many of his patients, was conflicted about her recovery. As time passed, she grew increasingly resistant to change. This tore at Porter’s heart. Breaking up would only deepen both their childhood wounds, he knew, and so he redoubled his efforts to help her see.
They stayed at the world-famous Martin’s Hotel in London on their honeymoon. He remembered the pleasure he took in her childlike excitement at the stock of body wash, shampoo, creams, and lotions that lined the marble counters in the giant bathroom. She tucked them away in her suitcase each night, marveling that the staff replaced them each day. She refused to let him take the wrappers off for a long time after they returned home. The hotel lobby had been crowded with foreigners, filthy businessmen who couldn’t take their eyes off Porter’s new wife.
Caroline reveled in their attention, swinging her hips as she walked through the lobby, giggling when she posed for a photo in front of the gian
t floral display.
The memory of his honeymoon brought a stab of jealousy to Porter’s gut, hot and sharp as a poker. Caroline had closed her mind to him for the first time, closing him out. The memory of it even now made him wince with pain. If he’d known then that it would come to this, he would have walked away and counted himself lucky. But, as Porter knew from the patients he treated, hindsight only came on the heels of bitter experience.
That night on their honeymoon, Porter had seen for the first time just how stubborn his beautiful young bride could be. It would be their ruination, a fact he tried to explain to her over dinner in Martin’s famous chophouse restaurant and later, after they made love, in the king-sized bed.
She didn’t believe him. Her eyes, veiled and resentful, belied this fact despite her apology.
Porter’s fist tightened now, remembering his frustration. Her lie that night caught him off guard and filled him with despair. So he taught her a lesson and put her out. Wearing only a silk negligee, she whimpered through the suite door, begging to be allowed back inside.
But Porter wanted her to see the error of her ways. He asked her a series of questions about why she craved attention from other men, and she responded like a small child, with tears and denial. She was in the hall perhaps ten minutes or fifteen at most, when a maid saw her and used her passkey to unlock the door.
“My husband is a very sound sleeper,” Caroline had mumbled. “Thank you so much.”
She begged Porter’s forgiveness and he did forgive her, allowing her to sleep in the bed. But he didn’t forget.
The phone rang early the next morning. Porter was greeted by the brisk tones of the hotel’s manager.
“I do hope you’ve enjoyed your stay with us, Mr. Moross. We have you checking out early today and I wondered if you need assistance with your bags.”
Porter scowled and looked at his watch. Barely eight o’clock. “We’re not checking out. We’re here five more days. And it’s doctor, not mister.”
“I do beg your pardon. Doctor.”
There was a detectable pause between “pardon” and “doctor,” as though the hotel manager had placed imaginary brackets around the word.
Porter heard laughter in the background.
“I’m terribly sorry, Doctor, for any misunderstanding. But we’ve got you checking out this morning. The bellman is on his way up.”
There was a sharp rap on the door.
Caroline stirred in bed beside him, her eyes swollen and puffy from crying.
The rapping continued, louder now.
Porter swore.
“Please accept my apologies on behalf of the entire staff at Martin’s Hotel for the confusion, but we do have you down as checking out this morning. If you’ll open the door, sir, two of my hall porters are waiting to assist with your bags. I shall see you in the lobby shortly, Dr. Moross.”
The phone clicked off, leaving dead silence in Porter’s ear. This time there was no mistaking the note of sarcasm in the general manager’s voice.
Porter scrambled to find another place to stay, settling on a filthy tourist-class hotel in Whitehall.
That day, he slapped Caroline for the first time. His hand stung but she had it coming.
She had ruined their honeymoon with her stubborn need for attention, and now she had destroyed their marriage as well.
CHAPTER 8
STORM PASS, COLORADO
Caroline woke at dawn’s first light, cocooned inside the lumpy double bed with Pippin nestled at her feet.
A collection of paperback novels, worn and yellow, was neatly arranged on the nightstand next to an untouched Gideon’s Bible and a hurricane-style lamp that had been in fashion long ago. High up in the corner, where the paneling met the ceiling, was a network of tiny spiderwebs that most people wouldn’t notice. Porter would have noticed. Caroline squeezed her eyes shut against the image and rolled over, rousing Pippin.
She rubbed the little dog’s chest and kissed him on top of his head. “We’re okay, Pippin,” she whispered. “So far, so good.” But her throat closed around the lie, and tears leaked out, hot and salty, one after another until they soaked a spot on the scratchy pillowcase.
Pippin pushed his cold nose against her, and this made her want to cry even more. But she did not. Caroline Hughes hated to cry. She was afraid that once she started, she would never stop.
She went to the bathroom and blew her nose into a wad of toilet paper, showering afterward in the vinyl stall, letting the hot spray wash away her tears. She lathered using the pink sliver of motel soap and put her Capris back on, still grimy from three days’ hard travel, and her T-shirt, now stiff from air drying. She had washed it in the tiny sink last night with the bottle of traveling shampoo she had bought in CVS drug store.
The smell of coffee and frying bacon wafted through the house. Pippin raced ahead of her through the hall, where sunlight dappled the faded carpet runner and a brilliant sky showed through the windows.
“Breakfast is served,” Maebeth said by way of greeting.
Caroline hesitated, her stomach rumbling so loud she was certain it would wake the retrievers, who were dozing in a corner.
“It’s included in the room rate,” Maebeth added.
Caroline smiled. “Good.”
She ate by herself in the dining room, and when she was finished, carried her dirty dishes to the kitchen, where Maebeth was elbow deep in suds at the sink.
Maebeth looked up, surprised. “Goodness, you don’t have to do that.”
“I worked in a restaurant for a while, summers in college,” Caroline offered.
Maebeth continued scrubbing her fry pan. “One thing about this place, we have a tough time getting help. Our kitchen man just quit. They come, they stay awhile, then leave if they get an offer at one of the big resorts.”
“I could help out,” Caroline said slowly. A flutter of hope, the first she’d felt in a long time, rose inside her. “I could clean rooms or do washing up.”
Maebeth took her time rinsing the pan, considering things. Alice Stevens was well-spoken and had nice manners. But college kids didn’t often pitch up in Storm Pass, even in summer. There was no nightlife to speak of, no fancy hotel school nearby to grant credit for changing beds at the Burkle’s Inn. Besides, summer was finished. Maebeth glanced at Alice, taking in her tense eyes and hollow cheeks, and got an idea. “Season’s about done so I can’t use you. But I know someone who might.”
Old Gus Kincaid’s words came back to Maebeth. He had ambled in early this morning just as Maebeth set the coffee on.
“Sent a customer your way last night,” he said, handing out treats to the dogs before helping himself to a muffin. “She make it here okay?”
Maebeth nodded. “I appreciate the business, Gus.” As if there was someplace else within thirty miles, other than his son’s hunting cabin.
Gus took another bite of muffin. “Nan Birmingham needs some help out at her place, I expect.”
“Is that right?”
He nodded. “Filled her tank yesterday. First winter at the ranch since the Colonel died, you know. Her niece is after her to move to Florida for the winter, but you know Nan.”
“Yup,” said Maebeth. “Everyone knows Nan.”
Gus thanked her for the muffin and left.
That had been the extent of their conversation, but it occurred to Maebeth that Gus had never dropped in for breakfast before. She made a quick decision now, one of which her husband would disapprove. “Turns out I’ve got a friend, an older woman, who could use a live-in housekeeper for the winter.”
Alice Stevens’s face lit up and she all but danced on her toes. “That sounds great.”
She was pretty when she smiled, Maebeth thought. “Are you planning to stay around for a while?”
Alice Stevens’s cheeks reddened and she dropped her head to stare at the checked linoleum floor. “Um, yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll give her a call.”
Nan Birmingham stopped in l
ater that day. Caroline liked her on sight. The woman was tiny and birdlike, energetic, with eyes the color of Colorado sky. She lived on a ranch a few miles outside of town with a feisty Jack Russell terrier named Scout.
“We don’t get many visitors out where I live,” Nan warned.
Caroline breathed a sigh of relief. She would be able to avoid showing her face even to the sparse population of Storm Pass. As further insurance, she kept her sunglasses in place as much as possible, along with a red St. Louis Cardinals baseball cap she had acquired and wore low over her face.
These things, she hoped, would keep her safe.
Nan Birmingham arrived at the inn bright and early the next day in an aging Buick station wagon to bring Caroline and Pippin up to the ranch.
Caroline was taken aback when Nan handed her the keys.
“You drive.” Nan climbed in on the passenger side door and tossed her cane in the back with Caroline’s possessions, which had grown to include a brown paper grocery bag to hold the few additional items of clothing she’d purchased at the local dry goods store.
Caroline hadn’t driven a car in years. Porter didn’t allow her to touch the Saab. But she was anxious to get away from the town and its tiny Main Street, so she walked around to the driver’s side, climbed in, and turned the key.
Nothing happened.
A Dark Love Page 6