Читать книгу Wrangled - B.J. Daniels - Страница 8

Dakota Lansing got the call at 3:20 a.m. She jerked awake, surprised by the sound of the ringing phone. She hadn’t had a landline in years. Glancing around in confusion, for a moment she forgot where she was.

Home at the ranch. It all came back in a rush, including her father’s death. She turned on the light as the phone rang yet again and grabbed the receiver.

As she did, she glanced at the clock, her mind spinning with fear. Calls in the wee hours of the morning were always bad news.

“Hello?” Her voice broke as she remembered the last call that had come too early in the morning.

This is Dr. Sheridan at Memorial Hospital in Great Falls. I’m sorry to inform you that your father has had a heart attack. I’m afraid there was nothing we could do. Your sister is here if you would like to speak with her.

My sister? You must have the wrong number, I don’t have a sister.

“Hello?” she said again now.

At first all she heard was crying. “Hello?”

“Dakota, I need your help.”

Her sister, half sister, the one she hadn’t known existed until two weeks ago, let out a choked sob.

“Courtney? What’s wrong?”

More sobbing. “I’m in trouble.”

This, at least, didn’t come as a surprise. Dakota had expected her half sister was in trouble when she’d asked after their father’s funeral if she could stay at the ranch for a while.

“I want to get to know you,” Courtney had said. But it had become obvious fairly quickly that her half sister wanted a lot more than that.

“Speak up. I can barely hear you,” Dakota said now.

“I can’t. He’s in the next room.”

Dakota rolled her eyes. A man. Not surprising, since Courtney had been out every night in the two weeks since their father’s funeral.

“I think he might be dead.”

Dakota came wide awake. Dead? “Where are you?” There was a loud crash in the background as something fell and broke. “Tell me where you are,” Dakota cried as she stumbled out of bed. “Courtney?”

Her father’s secret love child, a woman only two years younger than herself, whispered two words before the line went dead.

“Zane Chisholm’s.”

ZANE WOKE TO POUNDING. He tried to sit up. His head swam. He hadn’t really drunk champagne last night, had he?

Numbly he realized the pounding wasn’t just in his head. Someone was at the door and it was still dark outside. He turned on a light, blinded for a moment. As he glanced over at the other side of his queen-size bed, he was a little surprised to find it empty. Courtney had come home with him last night, hadn’t she?

As he got up he saw that he was stark naked. Whoever was at the door was pounding harder now. He quickly pulled on a pair of obviously hastily discarded jeans and padded barefoot into the living room to answer the door.

“What the hell happened to you?” his brother Marshall asked in surprise when Zane opened the door.

“I’m a little hungover.” A major understatement. He couldn’t remember feeling this badly—even during his college days when he’d done his share of partying.

“Your face,” Marshall said. “It’s all scratched up.”

Zane frowned and went into the bathroom. He turned on the light and stared in shock into the mirror. His pulse jumped. He had what looked like claw marks down the side of his left cheek. As he looked down at his arm, he saw another scratch on his forearm.

What the hell had happened last night?

“Are you okay?” Marshall asked from the bathroom doorway. He sounded worried, but nothing like Zane felt.

“I don’t know. I’m having trouble remembering last night.”

“Well, it must have been a wild one,” Marshall said. “I hope it was consensual with whatever mountain lion you hooked up with.”

“Not funny.” His head throbbed and his memory was a black hole that he was a little afraid to look into too deeply.

“You do remember that you and I are picking up horses in Wolf Point today, right?” Marshall said. “I’ll give you a few minutes to get cleaned up, but don’t even think about trying to get out of this. I need your help and we’re already running late. I told you to be ready at four forty-five.”

Zane nodded, although it hurt his head. What time was it, anyway? The clock on the wall read 5:10 a.m. “Could you make me some coffee while I get ready?”

His brother sighed. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for partying like this?” he grumbled on his way to the kitchen.

Zane stepped into the bathroom, closed the door and stared into the mirror again. He looked like hell. Worse, he couldn’t remember drinking more than a glass or two of champagne, certainly not enough to cause this kind of damage.

He thought about Courtney. She had to have done this to him. He touched his cheek. What scared him was, what had he done to get that kind of reaction from her?

EMMA CHISHOLM HAD been an early riser all her life. She liked getting up before the rest of the world when everything was still and dark. Since marrying Hoyt Chisholm a year ago, she especially liked seeing the sun come up here on the ranch.

As she stepped into the big ranch kitchen, she heard a sound and froze.

“I hope I didn’t scare you.”

Emma shuddered as a chill raced down the length of her spine. She tried to hide it but knew she’d failed when she turned to see amusement in their new live-in housekeeper’s one good eye. Up before sunrise and often the last one to bed, the woman moved around the house with ghostlike stealth.

“There really is no need for you to work such long hours,” she said as Mrs. Crowley stepped out of the dark shadows of the kitchen. The fifty-eight-year-old woman moved with a strange gait—no doubt caused by her disfiguring injury. It was hard to look into Mrs. Crowley’s face. The right side appeared to have been horribly burned, that eye white and sightless. Behind her thick glasses, her other eye shone darkly.

“I’m not interested in sleeping anymore,” Mrs. Crowley said. Her first name was Cynthia, but she’d asked them to refer to her by her married name.

The moment she’d come to the house, she had taken over. But Emma couldn’t complain. Mrs. Crowley, a woman about her own age, was a hard worker and asked for little in return. She lived in a separate wing of the house and was Emma’s new babysitter.

Not that Emma’s husband, Hoyt, would ever admit that was the case. But last year his past had come back to haunt them. It had to do with the deaths of Hoyt’s last three wives. An insurance investigator by the name of Aggie Wells had been convinced that he’d killed them.

When Aggie had heard about Hoyt’s fourth marriage—this one a Vegas elopement to Emma—she’d come to Montana to warn Emma that she was next.

Aggie was dead now. While the police hadn’t found her killer, Emma was fairly certain that the perpetrator was the same one who’d murdered at least one of Hoyt’s wives.

Aggie Wells had originally been convinced that the killer was Hoyt, but as time went on she’d thought Hoyt’s first wife might still be alive. Laura had allegedly drowned in Fort Peck Reservoir more than thirty years before. Aggie had even found a woman named Sharon Jones, whom she believed was Laura. Unfortunately, Sharon Jones had disappeared before the police could question her.

For months now Hoyt had been afraid to leave Emma alone. Either he or one of his six sons hung around the house to make sure no harm came to her.

She’d been going crazy, feeling as if she was under house arrest. Hoyt and his sons had to be going crazy as well. They were ranchers and much more at home on the back of a horse than hanging around the kitchen with her.

Finally Hoyt had come up with the idea of a live-in housekeeper. Emma was sure that Mrs. Crowley wasn’t what he’d had in mind. But after all the rumors and suspicions that were flying around, it was next to impossible to get anyone to work at the ranch.

Fortunately, Mrs. Crowley had been glad to come. She said she liked that Chisholm Cattle Company was so isolated.

“People stare,” she’d said simply when Emma had asked her if she thought she could be happy living this far away from civilization.

She was an abrupt woman who had little to say. Emma knew she should be thankful, but sometimes it would be nice to have someone who would just sit and visit with her. That definitely wasn’t Mrs. Crowley, but Emma kept trying.

“I see you’ve made coffee,” Emma said now. “May I pour you a cup? We could sit at the table for a few minutes before Hoyt comes down.”

“No, thank you. I’m cleaning the guest rooms today.”

Emma could have argued that the guest rooms could wait. Actually, they probably didn’t need cleaning. It had been a while since they’d had a guest. But Mrs. Crowley didn’t give her a chance. The woman was already off down the hallway to that wing of the house.

As Emma watched her go, she noticed how the woman dragged her right leg. That’s what gave her that peculiar gait, she thought distractedly. Then she heard Hoyt coming downstairs and poured them both a cup of coffee.

It wasn’t until she took the mugs over to the table that she realized Mrs. Crowley always made herself scarce when Hoyt was around. Maybe she just wanted to give them privacy, Emma told herself. “Strange woman,” she said under her breath.

A moment later Hoyt came into the kitchen, checked to make sure they were alone and put his arms around her. “Good morning. Want to sneak out to the barn with me, Mrs. Chisholm? Zane and Marshall have gone to Wolf Point. Dawson, Tanner and Logan are all mending fences and Colton has gone into town for feed.”

She laughed, leaning into his hug. It had been a while since they’d made love in the hayloft.

CYNTHIA CROWLEY WATCHED Emma and Hoyt from one of the guest room windows. They had their arms around each other’s waists. Emma had her face turned up to Hoyt, idolization in her eyes. She was laughing at something he’d said.

Cynthia could only imagine.

She let the curtain fall back into place as Hoyt pushed open the barn door and they disappeared inside. As she turned to look around the guest room, she mumbled a curse under her breath. The decor was Western, from the oak bed frame to the cowboy-print comforter. Emma’s doing, the housekeeper thought as she moved to look at an old photograph on the wall.

It was of the original house before Hoyt had added onto it. The first Chisholm main house was a two-story shotgun. It was barely recognizable as the house in which Cynthia now stood. Hoyt had done well for himself, buying up more land as his cattle business had improved.

On another wall was a photograph of his six adopted sons, three towheaded with bright blue eyes, three dark-eyed with straight black hair and Native American features. In the photo, all six sat along the top rail of the corral. The triplets must have been about eight when the picture was taken, which made the other three from seven to ten or so.

They looked all boy. There was a shadow on the ground in the bottom part of the photograph. Hoyt must have been the photographer, since she was sure the shadow was his.

Now the boys were all raised—not that Emma didn’t get them back here every evening she could. All but Zane were engaged or getting married so the house was also full of their fiancées. Emma apparently loved it and always insisted on helping with the cooking.

Not that Cynthia Crowley minded the help—or the time spent with the new Mrs. Hoyt Chisholm. Emma fascinated her in the most macabre of ways.

The new Mrs. Chisholm had definitely been a surprise. A man as powerful and wealthy as Hoyt Chisholm could have had a trophy wife. Instead he’d chosen a plump fifty-something redhead.

“There is no accounting for tastes,” the housekeeper said to the empty room as she went to work dusting. Before she’d been hired on, she’d been told about Hoyt’s other three wives—and their fates.

“Do you think he killed them?” she’d asked the director of the employment agency where she’d gone to get the job.

“Oh, good heavens, no,” the woman had cried, then dropped her voice. “I certainly wouldn’t send a housekeeper up there if I thought for a moment …”

Cynthia had smiled. “I’m not afraid of Hoyt Chisholm. Or his wife. I’m sorry, what did you say her name was?”

“Emma. And I’ve heard she is delightful.”

“Yes, delightful,” Cynthia grumbled to herself now. At the sound of laughter, she went to the window. Through the sheer curtains she saw Emma and Hoyt coming out of the barn. They were both smiling—and holding hands.

Cynthia Crowley made a rude noise under her breath. “The two of them act like teenagers.”

A loud snap filled the air, startling her. It wasn’t until she felt the pain that she looked down. She hadn’t been aware that she’d been holding anything in her hands until she saw the broken bud vase, and the blood oozing from her hand from where she’d broken the vase’s fragile, slim neck.

ONCE THEY HAD THE HORSES loaded at a ranch north of Wolf Point, Marshall suggested they grab lunch. Zane wasn’t hungry, wasn’t sure he ever would be again. He was anxious to call Courtney and find out what had happened last night.

Stepping outside the café to call her, he realized that he didn’t have her number. Nor was she listed under Courtney Baxter. He tried the couple of Baxters in the Whitehorse area, but neither knew a Courtney.

With no choice left, he called Arlene Evans Monroe at the woman’s rural internet dating service that had allegedly put them together in the first place.

“Did you set me up with a woman named Courtney Baxter?” he asked Arlene, trying not to sound accusing. Arlene used to be known as the county gossip. In the old days he wouldn’t have put anything past her. But he’d heard she’d changed since meeting her husband Hank Monroe.

“Yes,” she said, sounding wary. “Is there a problem?”

“Only that Courtney showed up at my door last night saying I had a date with her through your agency and I didn’t have a clue who she was.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t make a date with this woman?”

“I never even signed up for your dating service. I thought maybe someone had done it as a joke.”

“Zane, I have your check right here.”

How was that possible? He knew he was still feeling the effects of the hangover; his aching head was finding it hard to understand any of this. But all morning he’d been worried about what had happened last night. He had a very bad feeling and needed to talk to Courtney.

“When does it show that I signed up?” he asked Arlene.

“Two weeks ago.”

Two weeks ago? A thought struck him. About two weeks ago he’d come home to find someone had been in his house. Like most people who lived in and around Whitehorse he never locked his doors, so the intruder hadn’t had to break in. Nor had the person taken anything that he could see—not even his laptop computer. But enough things had been moved that he’d known someone had been there.

He swore now, realizing that must have been when the person had gone online and signed him up for the dating service—and taken at least one of his checks. He hadn’t even noticed any were missing.

“What is the number on that check?” he asked Arlene. She read it off and he wrote it down, seeing that it was a much higher number than the checks now in his checkbook. He wouldn’t have missed it for months.

Who went around signing someone up for a dating service? This made no sense. It had to have been one of his brothers. Or his stepmother, Emma? She had made it clear she thought it was time her six rowdy stepsons settled down. Maybe she was behind this.

But neither Emma nor his brothers would have come to his house when he wasn’t home, gotten on his computer and then taken one of his checks to pay for the rural dating service. Who then? And why? This was getting stranger by the moment.

“I need Courtney Baxter’s telephone number,” he told Arlene.

“According to the service policy you agreed to—”

“I didn’t agree because I never signed up,” he said, trying not to lose his temper. He caught his reflection in the café window and saw the four scratches down his cheek where someone had definitely clawed him.

“Zane, what if I call her and make sure it’s all right first? Do you want to hold?”

He groaned, but agreed to wait.

She came back on the line moments later. “She’s not answering her cell phone. I left her a message to call me immediately. I’m sorry, Zane, but that’s the best I can do. It’s policy.”

He swore under his breath. The old Arlene would have handed it over. She would also have asked why he was so anxious to talk to his “date” and the news would have gone on the Whitehorse grapevine two seconds later.

“The moment you hear from her …”

“I’ll let you know,” she said.

Zane didn’t hear anything from Arlene on the long drive back to Whitehorse. He hoped that once he got home there might be a note or something from Courtney.

Not wanting to drag the loaded horse trailer down the narrow lane to the house, Marshall dropped him off by the mailbox on the county road.

“You sure you’re going to be all right?” Marshall asked.

He’d been sick all day and still had a killer headache.

“You really did tie one on last night,” his brother said, looking concerned. “What were you drinking anyway?”

“I remember having some champagne.”

Marshall shook his head. “That all?”

Zane couldn’t recall if it had been his idea, but he doubted it. Courtney must have suggested it. “And I only had a couple of glasses, I’m sure.”

His brother lifted a brow. “You sure about that?”

He wasn’t sure of anything. “Don’t worry about me. I’m fine,” he lied as he climbed out of the Chisholm Cattle Company truck and headed down the narrow dirt road to his house.

The early summer sun was still up on the western horizon. It warmed his back as he walked. Grass grew bright green around him, the air rich with the sweet scents of new growth. Grasshoppers buzzed and butterflies flitted past. In the distance he could see that there was still snow on the tops of the Little Rocky Mountains.

As he came over a rise, he slowed. A pickup he didn’t recognize was parked in front of his house. Courtney? Or maybe one of her older brothers here to kick his butt. He quickened his step, anxious to find out exactly what had happened last night—one way or the other.

Zane was still a good distance from the truck when he saw the woman and realized that it wasn’t Courtney. This woman was dressed in jeans, boots and a yellow-checked Western shirt. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She stood leaning against the truck as if she’d been waiting awhile and wasn’t happy about it.

When she spotted him, she pushed off the side of the pickup and headed toward him. As she came closer, his gaze settled on her face. He felt the air rush out of him. She was beautiful, but that was only part of what had taken his breath away.

He’d seen Dakota Lansing only once since she was a kid hanging around the rodeo grounds. She’d been cute as a bug’s ear back then and it had been no secret that she’d had a crush on him. But, five years his junior, she’d been too young and innocent so he’d kept her at arm’s length, treating her like the kid she was.

The last time he’d seen her he’d happened to run into her at the spring rodeo in Whitehorse. He’d been so surprised to see her—let alone that she’d turned into this beautiful woman—he’d been tongue-tied. She must have thought him a complete fool.

The whole meeting had been embarrassing, but since she’d moved to New Mexico, he’d thought he would never see her again. And yet here she was standing in his yard.

“Dakota?” he said, surprised at how pleased he was to see her.

Smiling, he started toward her, but slowed as he caught her body language. Hands on hips, big brown eyes narrowed, an angry tilt to her head. His brain had been working at a snail’s pace all day. It finally kicked into gear to question what Dakota Lansing was doing here—let alone why she appeared to be upset.

She closed the distance between them. “Where is my sister?” Those big brown eyes widened, and he knew she’d seen the scratches on his face just seconds before she balled up her fist and slugged him.

The punch had some power behind it, but it still had less effect on him than her words.

“Your sister?” he asked, taking a step back as he rubbed his jaw and frowned at her. He’d known Dakota Lansing all his life. She didn’t have a sister.