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If Edith Beaulieu was going out, it was only going to happen after one hell of a fight.
She gripped the can tightly in one hand while she held up her cell phone with the other. The light illuminated the steps before her but could not penetrate the rest of the darkness of the basement. Her legs trembled slightly as she began the descent. Despite the heat of the July night, it was cold down there. The damp air instantly chilled her. Goose bumps rose along her usually smooth, dark skin. She had Mama to thank for her complexion; fortunately, that was all Edith had inherited from Merrilee MacKenzie Beaulieu.
Not the illness...
Unless she’d only imagined those eyes in the dark and had screamed for no reason. She shivered again, and it had nothing to do with the cold. As she reached the last step, she shone her light around the darkness, but it glinted off nothing now but boxes and crates and stacks of chairs and other furniture. She moved around the clutter toward a door off the hallway. As she pushed it open, the hinges screeched in protest. And above her the house creaked.
Since she’d unlocked the front door and stepped inside, she’d had a creepy sensation that she was not alone. First those eyes and now the noise against the floorboards—that sounded suspiciously like footsteps—confirmed it. Someone else was inside the house. But how had he or she gotten from the basement to the upstairs without passing her on the steps?
Unless there was another stairwell somewhere...
She’d heard the house had secret rooms. What about secret passageways?
She shivered again. But she wasn’t really cold—not with how quickly her blood was pumping through her veins. She was scared. Her hands trembled so much that she nearly dropped the pepper spray canister and the cell phone, making the light bounce around the room. It glanced off the furnace, a couple of water heaters and a metal box on the wall. She’d found the utility room.
She hurried over to the electrical panel and opened the door. Then she fumbled with the breakers, pushing them the opposite direction of where they’d been. They must have been off because a light from the dirty bulb swinging from the rafters in the ceiling came on.
She expelled a slight breath of relief. At least she had light now. But then her relief fled as she heard more creaks—of the basement door and then on each step leading down. She fumbled with her phone, shutting off the light. Then she reached for the chain hanging from that swinging bulb. She needed darkness so she could hide. But then she remembered she was the one with the right to be there. And she let the chain slip through her fingers while she tightened her grasp on the canister of pepper spray.
Whoever else was here was trespassing, which probably meant he was up to no good. Squatting? Stealing? Or using the abandoned house for other nefarious activities?
She wished now she had a gun. But the pepper spray would have to suffice. She clutched it tightly—pointing it out in front of herself. And she waited.
Within seconds the utility room door groaned as it was opened the rest of the way. A dark shadow filled the doorway. He was too far away for her to spray and hit him. So she lifted her cell phone light toward his face. The brim of a hat pulled low shadowed it, but still she saw the scars and the patch.
And she screamed again.
* * *
The pounding of hooves against the ground sent a cloud of dust rising up into the night sky and a chill of unease racing down Mac’s spine. He had returned only minutes ago from a date with Evelyn. She made him feel like a teenager instead of fifty-six. But the smile she always put on his face had slipped away when he’d found his house dark. No lights shone in the apartment above the stables, either.
Where was River? His truck was parked near the stables. But he realized why when the horse came into view, froth trailing from his mouth down his mane. The stallion looked mad. Or terrified, its eyes wild as it reared up on his back legs and stabbed at the air with his front hooves.
What had that damn stallion done? Had it thrown off River somewhere in the darkness? That unpredictable horse. Mac wouldn’t have had him but for Jade. She wanted to help the horse, but she couldn’t have him at Hill Country Farms. He wasn’t safe for kids to be around, and she had too many young visitors to her place. She worked with him here when she had the time. But she was busy rescuing other former racehorses.
And Jade was scared. Half the time her eyes looked as wild as the stallion’s. Maybe that was why she was so determined to help him.
But what if he’d hurt River?
The ex-Marine was still healing from whatever tragedy had happened on his last deployment. He refused to talk about it. Mac could understand River not wanting to answer the reporters’ intrusive questions about his scars, about his missing eye... But he hadn’t told his family anything, either.
Ever since he’d come back to Shadow Creek, he had seemed so lost.
“River?” Mac called out. Was he lost now? Where was he?
Careful to avoid the hooves, Mac grabbed the reins of the rearing stallion and tugged until the horse dropped to all fours again. With his other hand, he patted the horse’s sweaty neck. “Settle down,” he murmured soothingly. “Shh...”
He whinnied and tossed his head, pulling on the reins Mac tightly clasped. But eventually he calmed enough that Mac could lead him to the barn. He pulled open the door and led Shadow to his stall. There were other horses in the barn—ones River could have, should have, saddled up for his night ride.
Why had he taken the damn temperamental stallion? What had he been thinking?
Mac unfastened the saddle from the stallion and carried it to the tack room. He didn’t trust Shadow—either to be ridden or to lead him back to where he’d lost River. Where the hell was that? From the amount of sweat that had saturated Shadow’s coat, Mac could tell he had been running for a while. So Mac doubted River was anywhere on the ranch. He was farther away than that. But not so far that he would have needed to take the truck instead of a horse. Because of its proximity, the logical place was La Bonne Vie.
But why would River have wanted to return to a place he hadn’t been able to wait to leave ten years ago? What was his sudden interest in La Bonne Vie? And what had happened to him there that the horse had returned without him?
Chapter 2 (#uc4f71e6a-1e93-580d-849c-83f28c2e0100)
He should have ducked and run away. But River wasn’t the coward he’d once been. Apparently he wasn’t that smart, either. The last thing he needed was a shot of pepper spray in his good eye. But instead of running away, he rushed forward and clasped the screaming woman’s wrist. Careful not to hurt her, he raised her arm, so if she sprayed, it wouldn’t hit him directly in the face.
She struggled against him, bringing her body flush against his. While she was slender, her breasts were full and lush against his chest. And she smelled so damn good...
Like sunshine and some flower he couldn’t quite place.
“Let me go!” she demanded, her voice sharp despite its thick Southern drawl. She didn’t sound like she was from Texas. She didn’t smell like it, either.
“Let go of this damn can,” River said. With his other hand, he pulled the pepper spray free of her grasp. But he didn’t release his hold on her finely boned wrist, even as he lowered her arm. Her skin was so silky and her pulse pounded wildly beneath his fingertips.
She stopped struggling and stared up into his face. And he saw the recognition dawn in her brown eyes. It was better than the look of horror she’d had when she’d initially seen him. When would he get used to that—to that reaction when people first saw him?
No. They didn’t see him. They saw only the injuries. The damage.
He was damaged—and not just physically. He released her and stepped back into the shadows outside the circle of light cast from the dim bulb, and he pulled his hat down lower over his face.
“You’re a Colton,” she said. “River?”
He nodded, not surprised she recognized him. Every local news broadcast included some kind of report about the Coltons of Shadow Creek—either a history lesson on their illustrious family or a recent Livia-on-the-lam sighting. But this woman looked vaguely familiar to him, as well.
Where had he seen her?
He should remember. She was such a beauty with her flawless dark skin and long, thick, black hair that she would definitely be unforgettable had they ever officially met.
“You don’t own this place anymore,” she told him.
“I never owned it,” he said. And for the past ten years the FBI had had custody of it, having seized it and whatever other assets of Livia’s they’d been able to find. Of course they hadn’t found them all. She had too many hiding places—so many just inside this house. He glanced around the cement walls of the cellar, wondering what lurked behind the concrete.
“Do you own it now?” he asked. She looked young, though, so young that he wondered how she would have been able to afford it. Unless it hadn’t gone for much at auction.
Who would want a house with such a notorious past?
“I am here at the new owner’s behest,” she said. “You’re not. You’re trespassing.”
He shook his head. “No. I was just out for a ride when I heard you. Why were you screaming?”
She shivered. It was chilly and damp in the basement and she wore only a tank top and some long gauzy skirt. But he didn’t think she was shivering because she was cold. She was scared.
“I saw someone...something...” She narrowed her dark eyes and studied him with suspicion. “Was it you?”
He shook his head again. “I didn’t come inside until I heard your first scream.”
She continued to stare at him as if weighing his words for truth.
“It wasn’t me you saw,” he insisted. A frisson of uneasiness chased down his spine, but he resisted the urge to shiver, as well. He reached for his weapon—before he remembered he wasn’t wearing a holster. He wasn’t armed. He hadn’t thought he would need to be when he came home. But he should have known he’d never really been safe here—not with a mother as mercurial as his.
He probably didn’t need a gun, though. But then he remembered the scream—her first one, which had been full of terror. She had seen something.
“I’ll check it out,” he told her as he turned toward the door. Before he could step through it, she closed her fingers around his arm.
“Wait!”
“What?” he asked. Maybe she just wanted him to leave. Maybe she didn’t believe that he wasn’t the someone or something who’d made her scream the first time.
“Be careful,” she urged him with obvious concern for his safety.
He held up the can he’d taken from her. “I have this.” He took her hand from his arm and pressed the canister into it. “On second thought, you keep it.”
She glanced down at it. “But why?”
“In case we really aren’t alone down here,” he said. “If there is an intruder, you’re going to need it.” He would have told her to leave, but he didn’t want her walking alone through the house or getting so far away from him that he couldn’t protect her from any potential danger. If she stayed in the basement with him, he could get back to her quickly if someone else was in the house. And she had the pepper spray for protection, as well.
She shivered again. But she closed her fingers around the can and clasped it tightly. “What about you—what will you use for protection?”
Images flashed through his mind—images of when he’d had to improvise in order to protect himself and his unit during combat. He flinched at the memories before focusing on her.
“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. He closed his hand over hers on the canister. “Don’t hesitate. Next time someone comes through that door, you spray.”
“But what if it’s you?”
“Then aim for my right eye,” he told her.
Her gaze moved toward his right eye—to the patch—and her lips parted on a gasp.
He turned away again then and stepped through the door before he was tempted to do something stupid—like kiss her. It was safer for him to take on an armed intruder in the dark than make a move on a woman armed with pepper spray.
* * *
Intruder?
Their voices emanated clearly from the speakers inside the hiding space, summoning anger from the person listening to them.
They were the intruders. Neither the woman nor the man had any business being inside La Bonne Vie. The man hadn’t appreciated the house when he’d lived there. And the woman...the one who’d opened the basement door and screamed...
No matter who her boss was, she absolutely had no business being here.
What had she seen? Had the light on her phone illuminated enough for her to make an identification? She hadn’t told the man anything specific about what she’d seen. She’d been vague, but maybe that had been on purpose. She would be smart to not trust him.
Trusting anyone was a mistake—one the listener would not make again. Nobody and nothing could be trusted.
So what had the young woman seen?
Enough to get her killed?
Probably.
The risk was too great to let her live. Whoever she was, she would have to die—like so many others already had to keep the listener’s secrets.
* * *
His remark had shocked her so much that Edith took a few seconds before remembering what else she’d learned from all the horror movies she had watched: people never go off separately. Once that happened, they were picked off one at a time. She hurried out of the utility room into the hall.
But River was gone.
Heat rushed to her face at how she’d screamed when she’d first seen him. He’d probably thought it was because of the scars and the patch. But it was because he was so big and muscular and handsome despite the scars. Her pulse had continued to race, even after she’d recognized him. The news mentioned him often when reporting about his missing mother. He was the Marine who’d just recently returned—wounded—from his last deployment.
The media speculated that he must have been involved in an explosion of some kind. Nobody had confirmed that speculation, though. The government wasn’t talking and neither was River Colton. But it was clear he’d been hurt. The scars on his face were still healing. And his right eye...
It was gone.
So it couldn’t have been River whom she’d seen at the bottom of the steps when she’d first opened the door to the basement. Edith had seen a pair of eyes, both glinting in the darkness.
Hadn’t she?
Or had she imagined it all like Mama used to imagine things—like Papa, long after he’d died?
Edith didn’t believe in ghosts. Whatever her mother had seen hadn’t been real.
What about what she’d seen?
What the hell had it been?
Despite the couple of lightbulbs that burned now in the basement corridor, the shadows were thick yet and still too dark to determine what each was. Edith wasn’t going to try to figure it out at the moment. She’d found what she’d been looking for in the basement—the electrical panel.
Since she’d flipped the breakers, she had no reason to return to the utility room, where River had told her to wait for him. She had no reason to linger in the basement at all. She headed toward the stairs leading back up to the kitchen.
River Colton could find her when he was done searching the cellar. Edith was not going to try to find him. She shuddered as she remembered how a hapless female character always found her boyfriend in the horror movie—bludgeoned or chopped up or...
Not that River was her boyfriend.
Nobody was her boyfriend. She hadn’t had one for a while. She didn’t have any time for dating. She was too busy with her job. And from what she’d seen of the house in the dark, she knew she was going to be even busier getting this place ready for her boss.
As she headed up the steps, she noticed the door at the top was closed. River must have shut it behind himself when he’d come down to investigate after hearing her scream. She wished he had left it open; then she would be able to see if any lights had come on upstairs when she’d flipped all the breakers.
Nerves fluttered in her stomach at the thought of moving again through that mess of a mansion with only the faint light of her phone. She peered beneath the door but could see only darkness.
The lamp she’d plugged in must not have cast a glow wide enough to be seen in the kitchen. And none of the lights in the kitchen must have come on. She glanced down at her phone. Fortunately, the battery had enough charge left that she wouldn’t lose that light. But she probably should have waited until morning to come out to La Bonne Vie.
She would have—had her uncle been home when she’d stopped by his ranch. But when she’d seen his truck was gone, she had driven over here. It was just next door. So she’d thought she might as well check to see if the power had been turned on as she’d requested.
She should have waited until morning, though. Then she wouldn’t feel as though she’d stepped into one of those movies she had watched so often as a kid, trying to act tough in front of the others in her foster home. She hadn’t just been acting, though.
