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Cord briefly eyed the cash. Two stacks. Made up of hundreds. Temptation pulled at his gut. “Why?”
“For half the reward money, and publicity for my agency.”
“So why the sudden interest?” he asked, waiting for her to squirm. This was a bunch of crap. They both knew it.
She didn’t even blink. “Because the Deadwood house has been sold. The new owner is tearing part of it down and having some extensive renovation done to the rest of the building in order to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. This may be the last chance to uncover any clues.”
He still didn’t buy her motive. “The Winslows sold the house when it’s their last link to their daughters? That doesn’t make sense.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” The corners of Leslie’s mouth quirked. “But I heard that the almighty Malcolm Baxter convinced them that the place was a dead end. Probably got a kickback from the Realtor for convincing them.”
Cord knew she’d never liked Baxter, either. Whatever her reasons, he wasn’t sure. Probably had more to do with professional rivalry since the guy was a shameless publicity whore and managed to snag the best clients. Cord’s dislike went deeper, and Leslie, the conniving little witch, was using Baxter to play Cord. “What makes you think I can do what no one else could?” Grudgingly, because the man did have an uncanny knack for closing a case, he added, “Including the almighty Baxter.”
“You’re good at tracking.”
Cord smiled in spite of himself. Coming from anyone else he would have found the remark a snide commentary on his being half-Navajo. Hell, too bad it hadn’t come from Baxter. It would’ve been Cord’s perfect excuse to pop the guy. Show everyone just how good his shoulder had healed, at the same time send the smug bastard halfway to hell. But someone like Baxter was far too slick and cunning to be an open bigot. Especially not here in good old liberal Hollywood.
Unlike some of the townspeople who lived near the reservation. When the economy was down, there were folks who accused the “dirty, rotten Indians” of taking their jobs, taking food out of the mouths of their children. Cord had been a blameless child himself when he’d crossed into their world. But they’d dragged him through the mud, spat in his face, shaved off his long black hair.
Had circumstances been different when they’d first met, Baxter could’ve been any one of those men. Cord knew the truth of that deep in his gut. He saw it in Baxter’s eyes. They reminded Cord of a past he wanted to forget, pure and simple.
But he wouldn’t let that distract him now. Leslie was right, he was damn good at tracking, but the idea that he could make headway on the high-profile case was ridiculous. He knew exactly what this was about. The sparkling eyes, the phony excitement in her voice, all a nice touch. But of course she’d been a decent enough actress at one time.
“If I’m so good at tracking, why can’t I go after Mad Dog,” he reminded her. “That could net us each a nice payoff.”
Leslie sighed with disgust. “Let it go, Braddock. I’m not helping you cripple yourself for life.” She flipped through the first stack of hundred-dollar bills, as if mentally counting, but he had a feeling she had something else on her mind. “You still seeing Brenda Carlisle?”
“Occasionally. Why?”
Leslie’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “This town isn’t good for you anymore, Cord. Some friendly advice? Get the hell out while you still can.”
He knew she meant well. Brenda was just like the rest of the women in his circle, a circle getting smaller by the day. She was a taker. And lately he had less to give. He shouldn’t resent Leslie’s concern. She was the closest person he had to a friend. He did, anyway.
Clutching the back of the leather guest chair, he watched her lay the two stacks of bills on her desk and then slowly push them toward him.
Hesitating, he tightened his grip. The late afternoon sun filtered through the tinted window and caught his watch. The gold gleamed under the beam of sunlight. Damn, he didn’t want to have to pawn it again.
Cord clenched his jaw, and reached for the money. Only a year ago he’d been sitting on top of the world, his phone ringing off the hook with job offers and A-list party invitations. Then one wrecked shoulder and it had all come to this. His pride was as fragile as the colored beads his grandmother had strung to keep food on their table. And here he was, accepting charity.
2
SHE WAS A SLY ONE, that Leslie. Cord shook his head as he sank to the edge of his bed, irrationally annoyed at the plushness of the burgundy comforter his interior decorator had insisted upon, and pulled off his boots. Not only had Leslie slipped him enough money to pay next month’s rent, but she’d also effectively stopped him from chasing down Mad Dog.
The guy was big and mean but dumb as they came. Wearily, his gaze went to the leather duffel bag sitting on the floor near his walk-in closet. He still hadn’t checked on flights to Deadwood. Going there would appease Leslie, but be a huge waste of his time. He laughed humorlessly. Time was about the only thing he had lately. No money. No prospects. Just a hoity-toity apartment he could no longer afford.
He could downsize, get a cheaper one bedroom in Culver City. Unload some of the furniture through one of those fancy consignment shops. Getting rid of some of this stuff wouldn’t kill him. But the Porsche…
Man, he loved that car.
Even after two years he got a kick out of how valet parkers rushed to the curb when he pulled up. Nah, the car was a deal breaker. He had to do whatever it took to keep her.
He kicked his boots in the direction of the armoire, and then lay back and closed his eyes. The air conditioner kicked on with a low hum and he knew he should get up and close the window. Better yet, turn off the air. Eighteen years he’d been away from the reservation and he still hadn’t acquired a taste for the indoors. He liked an actual breeze skimming his face.
Summers on the reservation had been hotter than hell itself. Burning wood to cook hadn’t helped. Come winter, the mountain of wood Cord kept chopped and the scratchy handmade wool blankets were the only things that kept them warm. His grandmother never complained. Not even when, at seven, Cord had been dropped at her doorstep because his mother had died in a car accident and his father didn’t want to be saddled with a kid.
Cord never thought about his old man, but his grandmother, Masi, he still missed. Diabetes stole her from him two days after he’d turned fifteen. The image of his grandmother’s cold limp body came unbidden and he ruthlessly dismissed it. He’d been clutching her hand for over an hour before his friend Bobby Blackhawk had found him huddled next to her corpse.
The next day Cord had left the reservation. Hadn’t even waited for her burial. Even now, years later, he couldn’t figure out why and the thought still got to him. There was nothing in his useless life he’d regretted more than missing her funeral. Not even the fact that he hadn’t finished high school and hadn’t gotten his GED until he was twenty-two. And only then because he’d been badgered into it by Madeleine Sweeney. But he’d owed the woman. Big-time. Owed her his life, probably.
After three harsh years in L.A., she’d been the first person to really give a damn about him. Sure, he’d tackled the guy who tried ripping off her purse at the sidewalk bistro where she’d been lunching and Cord had been busing tables. But she’d had megabucks and an important producer husband, and she could’ve just as easily given Cord her thanks instead of the introduction that led to his lucrative job as a stuntman.
Sadly, he had attended her funeral last year. The emotional ceremony and church full of mourners had brought up a whole mess of shit he didn’t want to think about. He rolled over onto his stomach, a sudden image of his grandmother’s brown face wreathed in a smile so vivid his breath caught.
He opened his eyes, blinked and then squeezed them shut again, burying his face deeper into the soft comforter.
That had been happening a lot lately. Fleeting memories of her that unsettled him. Last month he’d even foolishly thought he’d caught a glimpse of her standing near a street vendor’s cart on Olvera Street. Madeleine’s untimely death had obviously kicked up a lot of guilt no matter how much he reasoned with himself that he hadn’t actually abandoned Masi. She’d been dead. Gone. Before he’d ever set foot off the reservation.
If anything, she’d abandoned him.
The crazy thought came out of nowhere. She hadn’t chosen to leave him. If she’d had it in her power to stay, she would’ve protected him from the hate and bigotry he encountered after he’d left the Dine. If she hadn’t died, he may never have left at all.
Funny, as a rebellious teen he’d ridiculed the language and customs of the Dine, but even today he thought of them in terms of the Navajo word they called themselves. Dine. The People. It came as naturally to him as breathing. Without resentment. Without judgment.
Besides, he’d never had any quarrel with the Dine. He had some fond memories of days spent swimming in the river and fishing with Bobby Blackhawk, sleeping outside under the stars and sitting around a campfire repeating old Navajo legends they’d heard from the elders.
But he didn’t kid himself that he would’ve been content to stay on the reservation even if his grandmother had lived longer. At fourteen, he’d started getting restless, curious about life outside of his sheltered existence. But at fifteen, he’d been ill-prepared to face adult realities.
On cold lonely nights, his only comfort had been the secret fantasy that he’d once again meet Masi. That maybe she’d traveled to California ahead of him and had been busy setting up a home for them.
He smiled at the memory, reached for one of the pillows propped up against the headboard. By her own belief, the Navajo belief, a spirit never truly died but went on to another life in another place. Naturally he thought that was a bunch of crap—when your time was up, everything went black. No more second chances. Dirt to dirt pretty much summed it up.
He flopped onto his back again and slipped the pillow under his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the duffel bag. Damn it, he had to make up his mind about the Winslow business. Deadwood was a hell of a long way to go for nothing.
CORD OPENED HIS EYES and jackknifed off the bed, his heart hammering his chest. The room was almost black, except for the light from the pool’s reflection intermittently swirling in through the slanted blinds. He stared at the window, still open several inches, and listened. There was only silence now. And his own ragged breathing.
It was a dream. Just a crazy dream.
His pulse slowed as his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness. How long had he slept? His gaze went to the alarm clock on the nightstand. The glowing red numbers told him it was just after midnight. He swung his feet to the floor, feeling shaky from the events of the dream. Not that he remembered much, only fractured bits of recollection filtered past the fog of sleep. No mistake, the dream had been about Masi.
Normally when he dreamt of his grandmother, he felt comforted. Not tonight. The edginess that crawled over his nerve endings wouldn’t cease. He closed his eyes again, trying desperately to recall more of the dream. He stretched his neck from side to side, trying to ease the tension, as if he could shake loose a memory.
They’d been sitting at their cook fire on the reservation, that much he remembered. Except they were outside and the sun was beginning to set. His age was fuzzy, and Masi looked like she always had—slightly stooped, leathery skin, old before her time. An eagle soared overhead and she’d pointed skyward…and then…
Cord exhaled sharply, and opened his eyes. That’s all he could remember. Frustrated, he pushed up from the bed. The wavering light from the pool caught on the outline of a dark lump sitting between the armoire and the closet. He strained to make out what it was. The black leather duffel.
That’s all it took. Memories of the dream washed over him. The eagle turning into a plane, golden sunlight gilding by the distant hills, the Black Hills, just like in the travel agency brochures. He knew suddenly, deep down in his gut. Masi had plainly told him to go to Deadwood.
TOO BAD, CORD THOUGHT as he stopped the car in front of the Deadwood property. The house was huge, two and a half, maybe three stories, with a big porch facing the west where you could sit and watch the sun go down. The main door was off center, a peculiarity he kind of liked. He wondered which part of the house they were tearing down.
The new owner, who was a developer, had had it with both freelance detectives and reporters, according to his secretary. She’d stopped short of giving Cord a key but she made sure he understood the place was currently deserted and, with a flashing dimple, subtly let him know that the kitchen door was likely to be unlocked. He’d promised the cute little blonde a quiet dinner.
Why not? How much time would it take to find out this case was a dead end? After waiting in crowded airports and then enduring two choppy flights, the whimsy of last night’s dream had worn thin. So had his patience. The blonde would prove a nice distraction tonight. What was her name…? Sue—slightly younger and shorter than he liked them, but she was eager.
He probed his aching shoulder and took a deep breath against the cramping pain. Flying coach was a bitch for someone as tall and broad as he was, but he had to make the cash Leslie had given him last as long as possible. He had every intention of paying her back the amount he’d siphoned off for rent, and whatever he spent on dinner tonight, but the rest was gonna be on her nickel for sending him on this fool’s errand.
After following the side of the house, he spied the kitchen through a bare bay window. With the toe of his black snakeskin boots, he carefully picked his way through some debris to the stoop.
Just like Sue had said, the door was unlocked. Good, they couldn’t get him on breaking, only entering. He smiled wryly, and unnecessarily touched the butt of his gun through his sport jacket. He didn’t need the piece. Transporting it had been more trouble than it was worth. But who knew? Maybe he could finish his business here and still pick up Mad Dog’s trail. General consensus was that the guy had left L.A. and headed east. Cord only needed to swing south to cross his path.
As soon as Cord stepped over the threshold, a cloud of particle-board dust assailed his nostrils. Coughing, he waved a hand to clear the air. The kitchen had been torn apart, the appliances ripped from the wall, half of it already gone, allowing him to see into what must have been a dining room. Only the chandelier and ripped wallpaper remained.
Shaking his head, he walked through the room into another and faced much of the same. No furniture, just big empty spaces, barely contained by walls left with gaping holes and framed by dull peeling paint. The scuffed wood floors didn’t look too bad, there were a few warped floorboards, but that was pretty much it. He shouldn’t be wasting his time here.
Then he noticed the stairs guided by a carved dark cherry banister that ended in two ornate scrolls, and wondered why the workmen hadn’t protected the wood. Surely they would try to salvage this piece. Although his tastes veered to the contemporary end of the spectrum, even he could appreciate the fine craftsmanship.
Without thinking, he ran his palm over the smooth wood and an odd sensation of familiarity washed over him. It called to mind the many times as a kid that he’d watched the elders carve figures of animals to be sold at souvenir shops. Samuel Wauneka had offered to teach him the dying art, and Cord had balked. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time, either.
Cord started up toward the landing, briefly considering if it was worth the risk of checking the second floor.
Not in the hope of finding a lead, but out of simple curiosity. Before he’d consciously made a decision, he tested the stability of the first step. Seemed solid enough for his weight. The workers had to get up there somehow, so he wasn’t too concerned.
The stairs turned out to be surprisingly solid, but not so the internal walls upstairs. On the left side of the house, half of them had already been demolished and lay in crumbled heaps of wood and plaster. Cord poked his head into each room, but there was nothing to see. When he came to another set of narrow stairs, he decided to leave.
He stiffened at the sudden feel of pressure against his lower back, as if someone were pushing him. He jerked around, but no one was there. Feeling foolish, he made a complete circle, anyway. He muttered a curse, and then eyed the stairway. Hell, he’d come this far.
The planks of wood creaked under his weight, although he felt confident that they’d hold him. When he got to the top, the door was stuck, but a firm shove with his good shoulder forced it open. Like the stairs, the entryway was narrow and he had to angle his body sideways to gain access. Ducking his head, he stepped into the small attic.
Enough light filtered in through a cloudy windowpane that he was able to find a string hanging from a bare bulb, which quickly lit the room. Unlike the rest of the house, the contents appeared to have been untouched. In the corner was a dress form next to a bolt of lacy fabric leaning against the wall. Across the room stood a full-length mirror, and behind it an old oak dresser with two missing knobs.
Dust coated everything as if untouched by human hands for some time, which didn’t make sense since the rest of the house had been cleared of furniture. He thought about opening the small window but there was no use staying in the stuffy room. Nothing of interest here…
He saw the chest.
Sitting by itself on the far side of the room, it appeared free of dust. Frowning, he moved closer, and saw that it was old but in good shape. He crouched down, hoping he wouldn’t have to break the lock, and discovered it unlatched. He lifted the lid and found a pair of vintage toys, hand-carved from the looks of the train pieces. There was a book, too, which he set aside, and a photo album, which he balanced on his knee and flipped open. He was curious because the album didn’t seem as worn as the other things in the attic, though the photos encased in brittle plastic sheets were old and faded, mostly featuring landscapes. When he came to the one of the blonde, he angled the photo toward the light, peering closer.
Had to be a Winslow. The woman was a dead ringer for one of the missing sisters, except she wore an old-fashioned dress and her hair was longer and pinned up. His gaze skimmed the next picture and his heart thudded. The same blond woman stood with her arm linked with another woman.
Who looked exactly like the other missing sister.
He dropped the album as if it had scorched him. The photos fell free of the plastic sleeve. He picked them up. On the back was written 1877. Was this some kind of joke? Puzzled, he tucked the photos into his breast pocket just as a flash of light came from the chest. He blinked and ducked his head to find the source. All he saw was an antique camera. He picked up the big, bulky contraption, which couldn’t possibly work….
Beneath his feet the floor shook violently. Shit. Nothing terrified him like an earthquake. He’d been through two of them in L.A. Hot white light flashed in his face, blinding him. With an unholy force, the earth shook again, and he flung the camera, panic clogging his throat. Trying to focus, he dropped to his knees. He had to get out. Find the door. He flailed blindly as the floor rumbled and threatened to swallow him whole.
The violence stopped as suddenly as it had begun. He stayed frozen, waiting for the aftershock. Nothing happened as his vision slowly cleared. He should have felt relief. Except he was no longer in the attic.
3
CORD SQUINTED UP at the clear blue sky. A pair of hawks circled overhead. Clouds hovered close to hills blanketed with fallen yellow and orange leaves.
He blinked blearily. Nothing changed.
He spun around. The Winslow house. It was gone. There were no buildings, only an endless dirt road and skeletal trees, their limbs forking the sky.
How was this possible? He’d been in the attic only a moment ago….
Sniffing the air, he knew he wasn’t imagining the aroma of smoked meat mingled with charred hickory. That meant he was still alive, right? He looked down at his jeans and the tops of his cowboy boots, and then touched his gun through his cashmere sport jacket. The .38 caliber sat snugly in his shoulder holster.
He suddenly remembered the earthquake. The flash. The blinding white light. A gunshot? He opened his jacket and checked his blue striped cotton shirt. No blood. Only nervous sweat coated his skin. Hell. That didn’t mean he wasn’t dead. What other reason was there for him unexpectedly standing in the middle of nowhere?
Shading his eyes, he strained to see down both sides of the dirt road. He saw nothing, though the scent of the roasting meat seemed to have grown stronger so he had to be close to some sort of civilization. Like icy fingers squeezing the lifeblood from him, a chill gripped him, and he turned up his blazer collar as he started in the direction of the tantalizing aroma. That was another thing—if he were dead, the smell wouldn’t be so appealing.
He swallowed hard, but had to work at gathering enough saliva in his parched mouth. The dust he kicked up as he trudged on didn’t help, so he crooked his arm over his mouth and nose. After about a quarter of a mile, he stopped and listened. He thought he heard voices. Children laughing? At least he was going in the right direction.
The thought had barely flitted through his mind when he saw the eagle. As if beckoning him, the majestic bird dipped lower in the sky before soaring back up and glided just ahead of Cord. A sure sign that he was going in the right direction.
MAGGIE DAWSON pressed a hand to her nervous belly and then gathered her long skirt in one hand and carefully climbed down off the wagon. She prayed with all her heart that today was the day she’d hear from her sister. Mary had never been the fastest letter writer but once she learned of Maggie’s predicament, surely she’d responded hastily.
“Afternoon, Maggie, fine fall day we’re having.”
Maggie forced a polite smile on her face as she turned toward Mrs. Weaver’s voice. “Yes, nice and cool. Good baking weather. I have a mind to bake a couple of apple pies for Pa. You know how he does so love his sweets.”
Mrs. Weaver stopped in the middle of the boardwalk and tilted her narrow face to the side. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him in a good long while. How’s he coming along?”
Gritting her teeth, Maggie turned back to tethering her horse so Mrs. Weaver wouldn’t see the bright red spots that heated Maggie’s cheeks. When was she going to learn? Mrs. Weaver would have kept on walking if Maggie hadn’t opened her big mouth and rambled, and then she wouldn’t have to tell a big fat lie. Which plainly she was very bad at doing, partly in thanks to her cursed fair skin and disgusting red hair.
“He’s still feeling poorly. That’s why I’ve been the one coming to town lately.” Maggie cinched the reins and forced herself to face Mrs. Weaver.
“Well, honey, I wouldn’t be making him apple pie if I were you. He needs a good brothy soup. Just this morning I told Harold we need to slaughter one of the chickens. I could bring some—”
“Oh, thank you, anyway, Mrs. Weaver. But I just made a pot myself this morning. Pa’s probably eating some of it right now. He—” Shut up, Maggie, she told herself sternly and stepped up onto the boardwalk. She’d been lying and evading so much lately she should be better at it by now. “Say hello to Mr. Weaver for me,” Maggie said as she rudely backed away from the older woman’s disapproving face.
Her stomach in a twisted knot, Maggie entered Arnold’s general store and went straight to the threads. She would have much rather run straight to the corner where Mr. Carlson sat at a wobbly scarred oak table and sorted and dispensed the mail, but she never wanted to appear too eager and always first bought a few yards of fabric or a new color thread that she didn’t need.
After making her selection and quickly paying for her purchase, she approached Mr. Carlson with a bright smile on her face.
He looked up and smiled back. “Lordy, Miss Maggie, I do believe you have an extra sense about when the mailbag arrives. You’re pert’ near my first customer each week.”
Her smile faltered, and she shrugged a shoulder. “Being as I’m in town, anyway…”
Over his wire-rimmed spectacles, he eyed her speculatively for a moment, and then bent his balding head to sift through a pile of letters. “Nope. Nothin’ this week. You got somethin’ goin’ out?”
She pressed her lips together to hide her disappointment, and shook her head. “Not this time, Mr. Carlson. Thank you.”
What was the use? She’d already sent Mary three letters just in case she hadn’t received the first two. Maggie just had to be patient was all. Not one of her finer qualities, as Pa had reminded her often enough. Not unkindly, but just as it was a father’s duty. At least he hadn’t blamed that particular defect of character on the fact that at twenty-five she was a hopeless spinster. No, there were plenty of other reasons for her lack of suitors.
“Maggie?”
She’d made it to the display of mason jars next to the iron skillets, and turned back to Mr. Carlson.
