Читать книгу Mr Taken - Danica Winters - Страница 11

Chapter One

No matter how hard Whitney Barstow tried, there was one memory that never seemed to fade or be twisted by time—it was the moment she had nearly died. The smoke had filled her lungs, stealing her oxygen and making her head ache. The acrid smoke was like hands covering her mouth and nose, and however hard she tried to breathe, they only clenched harder. She had torn at the invisible hands, leaving faint scars on her face—a personal reminder of her desperation to survive.

Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the barn. The door was closed, and when the spark had hit the hay, it was like a bomb that had gone off. She could still hear the whoomp as the dry tinder erupted into flames. And the heat. Oh, the heat. Some nights she would wake up in a cold sweat, her body’s reflexes kicking in at the mere thought of being trapped in the inferno once again.

A tear slipped down her cheek as she stared out at the barn that sat at the heart of Dunrovin Ranch, and her thoughts turned to the lives she’d lost. There would be no replacing Runs Like the Wind, her black Thoroughbred. She could still smell the scent of hay on the horse’s breath and feel her smooth gait from high in the saddle. Nothing would ever be the same. There was no going back and stopping evil from entering her life. There was no undoing what had been done.

There was only one thing she could do to keep the memories at bay—she could never ride again.

Even now, almost ten years later, she could barely step foot in a barn. If she was forced, it was only if the door was kept open and the breeze drifted through like a promise of freedom. She couldn’t be trapped again. Not by a person, and never by fire. Never.

“Whit, are you okay, sweetheart?” Mrs. Eloise Fitzgerald called out from the main office.

Whitney angrily wiped away the tear that had escaped. She didn’t have room in her life for weakness—or vulnerability. It was emotional weakness that always got her into trouble. If she just stayed tough and shut the world out—even Mrs. Fitzgerald, the kindly matriarch of the Fitzgerald family—she would never have to worry about getting hurt again.

“I’m fine,” she called back to her boss. “Just wanted a bit of fresh air before the guests started arriving for the weekend.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald walked out onto the porch and wrapped her arms around her body, shielding herself from the bitter December air. “Brr... You are going to catch your death of cold out here if you don’t get your skinny buns inside, little thing.”

Whitney snorted a laugh. It would be ironic, dying by hypothermia after nearly dying by fire. “I don’t mind the cold,” she said with a smile she hoped would calm Eloise’s nerves.

Eloise waved her inside, not letting her get away with such disregard for her well-being. “You know what I always say... You don’t have anything if you don’t have your health.”

Her health was just fine, thank you very much... It was the rest of Whitney that could really have used some work. She hadn’t been on a date in two years, and her best friend was the ranch dog, Milo, that no one else seemed to notice. Some days, when the phones were not ringing and she found herself looking for work to do, it was almost as if she and the dog were really nothing more than apparitions.

She walked over to the fence and ran her finger over one of the red Christmas lights that were looped between the posts. Maybe she was just like the Ghost of Christmas Past, an enigma sent to warn others that if they were like her, and continued living set in their ways, only bad things were bound to happen.

Or maybe she was just spending entirely too much time alone, wrapped up in her head and the things that needed to be done around the place. Ever since the murders, everything had slowed down—guests weren’t filing in and out as they once did, and even their annual Yule Night celebration was barely getting off the ground. It was almost as if the deaths of the women in and around the ranch were only a precursor of what was to come—like some dire warning that nothing could be warm and fuzzy, not even during the holidays.

Maybe she really needed to talk, to lay bare her feelings. Maybe she wasn’t alone in her fears. And as much as she dreaded opening up, if she was going to communicate with anyone, Eloise would have been a good choice. The woman had seen it all and experienced even more. She’d raised handfuls of kids from all kinds of backgrounds, been through famine and hardship, and yet always seemed to have a smile on her face and soup on the stove. She was the epitome of perfection—always put together and selfless when it came to those she cared for. And of late, all her energies had been focused on looking after the ranch and handling the uproar it had been facing. Yet, even with all this, she had been making time to come and see Whitney and ensure that she was settling into her new role on the ranch.

“You need to come on in,” Eloise called again, her teeth chattering slightly as she spoke.

For the woman’s benefit, she made her way over to the door and stepped into her cramped office, and Eloise followed. The place was overflowing with books, and papers littered the desk in no discernible order. She grimaced as she looked over at Eloise, who was staring at the mess as though it was the first time she had taken notice.

“Sweetheart,” Eloise started, “do you think it’s possible that we could get a few of these things filed away?”

“Not a problem, ma’am.” She set about shuffling the papers that sat on the farthest corner of the desk and shoving them in the already burgeoning bottom drawer of the desk. She tried to push it closed, but the drawer burped the extra copies of the ranch’s tri-fold brochures and a notepad filled with scrawled notes.

She laughed as she turned around and tried to hide the mess behind her.

Eloise smiled, ever elegant and kind even in the face of inadequacy. “Do you want me to show you how I would organize all this?”

Whitney loved how the woman didn’t try to force her through guilt, but rather the gentle and practiced hand of patience; yet she wasn’t the kind to accept acts of pity. “I think I can—”

Thankfully, there was the harsh ding of the bell at the front desk and it saved Whitney from having to ask for help. She could handle the responsibilities of the front office. In truth, the mess had diminished in size since last week, but she was sure Eloise wasn’t ready to hear that though her office was a disaster, it was cleaner than it had been in nearly a month.

As she walked out the door toward the parlor where they received guests, she was stopped when she ran into a man. Well, not any man, but Colter. The well-muscled, ridiculously handsome Fitzgerald brother who was nearly as reclusive as she. “Oh, hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to—” She took a step back from him as she realized she was so close to him that she could smell the traces of smoke on his skin even though it was masked by the heady aroma of his cologne.

It struck her that no matter how many showers a person could take or how much perfume he used to cover up the smell of a fire, it wasn’t something that could be fully erased—just like her memory, it had a way of nearly permeating into a person all the way to the soul. Or maybe it was just the fact that she knew what he did for a living, the risks he took and the panic he had to face each and every day, which brought the scent back to the front of her mind. It was almost like one of Pavlov’s dogs except firefighter equaled smoke, and smoke equaled...fear.

She took another step back. Though he was one sexy hunk of man, with his dark black cowboy hat and whiskey-colored eyes, he was the living embodiment of danger.

“You’re fine,” he said, a giant, almost comically large grin on his face. “But you know if you wanted to touch my body, all you had to do was ask.”

“Ugh. You really are full of yourself. Aren’t you, Colter?” She couldn’t help the heat that rose in her cheeks as he teased her. It wasn’t that she hadn’t imagined running her fingers over the lines of the muscles that adorned his chest. Every staff member at the ranch had a fantasy about at least one of the Fitzgerald brothers—who, of late, had been getting scooped up by women prettier and far more accomplished than her.

“I’ve been called full of something, but it ain’t usually myself,” he said, his Montana drawl kicking into an even higher gear than his smile.

“Well, if no one has had the guts to call you on it, then I’m more than happy to step up to the plate. You, Mr. Colter Fitzgerald, aren’t God’s gift to women. In fact, in case you didn’t know, you are the last man I would ever think about dating. I’d rather date...” She paused as she tried to come up with a man in place of him, but none came to mind. As the seconds ticked by, her heart rate climbed. He couldn’t see her like this. She had to be cool, calm, collected and, above all, witty—and she had nothing.

“You’d rather date whom?” he asked, with that all-too-cute grin and a wiggle of the eyebrow.

“Dang it, you know what I mean... I would rather date anyone than you.”

“As long as it’s no one else in particular, I think I like my odds.” He laughed, the sound as rich and full of depth as his eyes.

She groaned, but the sound didn’t take on the edge of real annoyance like she had wanted it to; in fact, to her ears it almost sounded like the awful noise a woman made when she was trying not to fall for a man. And she was definitely, absolutely, categorically never going to fall for the infamous jokester Colter Fitzgerald. Nope. Not gonna happen. She would never let him win her over as long as she stayed in her right mind. Not that she had a left mind, but...well... She sighed.

No.

The bell tinged to life again from the parlor, reminding her of the guests who were undoubtedly growing more impatient by the second with her absence.

“Excuse me—I have work to do. Unlike some of us,” she said under her breath as she pushed past him, careful not to touch him again.

His laughter followed her into the parlor until she shut the door to drown him out. The last thing she needed to do was spend a moment thinking about that man.

Standing at the front desk was a man and a woman. They looked to be in their midthirties, and based on the woman’s coiffed hair, to-the-sky black stilettos, and brown Louis Vuitton purse, they were definitely among their elite clientele. They had probably come here to spend their trust-fund money on some idealistic and romantic getaway that involved a horse-drawn sleigh and a bearskin rug in front of the crackling fireplace.

The woman was carrying what looked to be a slightly oversize fur ball, or maybe it was just one of those New York rats everyone talked about. Yet, as Whitney drew closer walking to the desk, the rat-looking creature picked up its ears and growled. Dog. Definitely a dog. It probably had one of those stupid names like Fifi or Fredrico. It was funny, but most of their elite guests had a dog just like that one, an accessory to their outfit—but most were cuter than the one this particular woman held.

“How may I help you folks?” Whitney said, using her practiced service-industry charm.

“It took you long enough,” the woman said, nearly spitting the words.

“Dear, I’m sure she was busy,” the man said, patting the woman lightly on the hand and drawing Whitney’s attention to the massive diamond that adorned the woman’s ring finger.

For a moment she wondered if they had drawn her attention to it on purpose, some well-practiced motion that drew even more attention to their status and wealth. Whitney forced herself to smile just a little bit brighter, but the truth in Montana was simple—no one really cared about how much money anyone had or the number of things a person owned. Respect and honor were only given to those whose character merited such accolades. It was one of the reasons she had picked this state as her home instead of staying in Kentucky.

“I don’t care if she was busy or not. We have flown halfway around the country to be here. The least she could do is be present when we arrive,” the woman said, continuing her rampage.

Whitney bit her tongue instead of telling the woman that Dunrovin Ranch was a beautiful and majestic place, but it was a long way from the Four Seasons. If the woman had wanted to be catered to hand and foot, she should have picked a resort that would have done that—and not come to a guest ranch.

“If you like,” Whitney said, forcing herself to behave, “and are interested in relaxing, there is a spa about ten miles back down the road. I can set up an appointment for you.”

“Ten miles? Where are we, on the back side of Hell?” The woman glared at her husband, who must have been the one to book their trip.

The man smiled at Whitney, clearly embarrassed by his wife’s atrocious behavior. “Is there any way we could have the masseuse come here?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Whitney said, though she was fully aware the local masseuse, Jess Lewis, would throw a holy hissy fit at the request. Yet if they gave her a few extra bucks she would quiet down in no time.

She took down the couple’s names and got them the keys to their room—the nicest private cabin at the ranch, a two-story, nearly three-thousand-square-foot log home with marble and leather everywhere. “Let me know if there’s anything further I can assist you with,” Whitney said, the forced niceties like sand on her tongue.

“Actually,” the woman said, handing over the rat creature, “I don’t want Francesca to be a bother to me this weekend. I need you to handle her.”

Whitney balked at the woman as she stuffed the dog into her hands.

Handle her? The last thing on her long list of duties was dog handler or kennel master. Whitney had work to do. She slowly lowered the dog to the floor behind the desk. “I... Uh...” she stammered.

“That’s great. Perfect,” the woman continued, clearly not used to her requests being denied no matter how asinine they might have been.

The man opened the door and waited as his wife pranced out, her stilettos clicking on the floor like the shrill impatient cadence of fingers. Whitney just stared at the computer screen for a moment as she reminded herself these kinds of people played a big part in why she had left her home state, and she took some level of comfort in the fact that they were outsiders and going to leave just as quickly as they came.

A cold wind kicked up and spilled through the door, whipping dry fragile snowflakes onto the guest book that sat at the side of the desk. She walked over and touched the door. As she looked outside, running toward the entrance of the roundabout driveway was the little rat creature. Its dark fur sat stark against the snow as it sprinted toward freedom. She stood still for a moment, letting it get away. With an owner like hers, the dog deserved to have one go at escaping.

On the other hand, Whitney would have to answer to said owners, and she could only imagine their response if the dog was actually lost. No matter how softhearted Eloise was, Whitney would probably lose her job, and therefore her room at the ranch. She would have to start all over.

This dog’s freedom wasn’t worth it.

What was the dog’s name again? “Fifi!” she called, but the dog didn’t slow down. “Fredrico!” Again, the dog simply kept running. She ran out the door, her cowboy boots thumping on the wooden porch as she made her way to the driveway. “Lassie, come home!” she cried again.

There was the boom of laughter from behind her. She turned to see Colter watching her. “Did Timmy fall in the well again?”

“Really?” she scoffed. “If you’re not going to go after the dog, at least you can be quiet.”

His laughter lightened, but he didn’t stop chuckling. “All right, all right. I’ll come to little Lassie’s rescue. Where did she go?”

She turned back and looked out at the driveway. A ’90s blue Dodge truck was rumbling down the road toward them.

“No. Stop!” she screamed at the truck, almost as though the driver could hear her through the closed windows and the crunch of gravel under the tires. The man driving didn’t even seem to see her.

He barreled down the road. Just as he was about to cross over the steel cattle guard, the little rat creature ran out. It wove in front of the truck, stopping as it stared up at the blue beast careening toward it.

“No!” Whitney yelled.

The dog took off running toward the truck. Just as they were about to collide, the dog slipped between the bars of the cattle guard that stretched across the end of the driveway, and disappeared. It wasn’t Timmy or the well, but it looked like they would have to pull off their own version of a rescue.