A Dark Lure (33 page)

Tori shivered as she read, but it was more than the cold. A dark sensation was building in her chest. Sarah Baker was real. She’d been mentioned in the newspaper, and she was also in her mom’s manuscript. A journalist from Watt Lake had taken down Sarah’s story. A staff sergeant who was being transferred to Fort Tapley believed the police had caught the wrong man. Fort Tapley was where Tori had been born . . .

The journalist dished scrambled egg from the pan onto two plates that already held toast and bacon. She carried the plates to the table where her husband was reading a newspaper.

She placed one plate in front of him. He smiled up at her. He was in his uniform, and handsome. His smile always seemed to light up her life. She loved him.

Taking a seat beside him, she set her own plate in front of her and reached for the teapot. She poured tea for them both. The window was open wide to a summer morning breeze, fat green leaves clattering in the tree outside.

“How’re the sessions going? She still talking?”

“Her therapist agreed with her that it’s cathartic.” She sat silent, looking at the food on her plate.

“Not hungry?”

“She’s giving the baby up for adoption.”

He delivered a forkful of food to his mouth, chewed. “I know. It’s best under these circumstances.”

“We could take it.”

He stopped chewing, stared at her.

She leaned forward. “We’ve spoken about adoption. We agreed . . . since the tests. We’ll never have a child any other way. Why not this baby?”

“This is—”

“We can give her the life she deserves. We know her story, the whole background. When she’s old enough to understand, when she’s had the best start we could possibly give her, we’ll be in the best position to help her through it.”

“You’re serious,” he said quietly.

“Never more.

“The optics . . . the case—”

She placed her hand over his. “You’re not technically on the case. And you have this transfer coming up. We could use it for a fresh start. All three of us. We can go through an agent, a private, closed adoption. No one really needs to know at all.”

He opened his mouth, but she saw in his eyes he was listening, receptive, and it excited her.

“I can leave right away with the baby,” she said quickly. “I can set up home in Fort Tapley, and you could join us there. We can tell everyone she was born there.”

He stared into her eyes, conflict in his own. He shook his head and cupped the side of her face. “I don’t think—”

“Please,” she whispered. “That child is going to need all the love she can get. Sarah needs this, too. There’s no one else. We’ve been trying for a child—”

“You’ve already spoken to Sarah, haven’t you?”

She swallowed.

The journalist had her heart set on that little baby now, those tiny fingers that had clutched hers, that soft, black hair, the little rosebud mouth, her scent . . . She ached for that baby. She ached with all her soul to give that little infant the life and love that Sarah Baker couldn’t.

“I think her eyes are going to stay green,” she said. “Like Sarah’s. She’s going to be beautiful. Like her mother.”

The staff sergeant glanced away.

“I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no reason she should turn out like him.”

The staff sergeant had been unable to say no. And when he did finally make it up to Fort Tapley, and his wife placed their newly adopted baby girl into his big, solid arms, he was overwhelmed with emotion. The world was suddenly different, big and vast, and it struck him that this smidgen of humanity cradled in his arms was the definition of innocence and vulnerability. She cut to the very core of all the reasons he’d joined the force, wanted to become a cop. A Mountie.

Defend and protect. Stop the innocent from being hurt. To put away the bad guys.

And on that day the sergeant made his baby girl a pledge. He vowed to the tiny, innocent, vulnerable being in his arms: “I’m going to get him,” he whispered. “I’m going to find that man from the river no matter how long it takes me. And I’m going to kill him . . .”

Tori threw back her covers and rushed to the bathroom. She gagged but couldn’t throw up, just dry heaved, which hurt her stomach and burned her throat. Trembling, she washed her face with cold water, flushed the toilet.

She stood in the bathroom, bare feet on cold floor, looking into the mirror. In her eyes she saw fear. The dedication in her mother’s book swirled into her mind.

For my dear Tori, a story for the day you are ready . . .

She began to shake. Fear, confusion smothering her brain as she felt another punch of nausea.

Rushing back to her room, she yanked on her clothes and a jacket and hat. She took her e-reader and hurried quietly through the living area. She turned the door handle, waited until she heard her father snore again, then she stepped out in a land that was cold and shrouded in shades upon shades of gray. Snow swirled softly. She raced down the steps and along the grass, and just started running faster and faster until her breath burned her chest.

CHAPTER 21

Gage put the kettle on and crouched down to open the stove. He added wood to the embers and poked the flames to life before securing the small door with a window of smoke-stained glass.

“Tori?” he called out as he got up to make tea.

Silence.

He stilled, suddenly sensing the emptiness of the cabin. A small kick of panic went through him.

“Tori, where are you?” He pushed open her bedroom door. The room was empty. Her jacket and boots were gone.

“Tori!”
She wasn’t in the bathroom.

Panic tightened.

She was gone. It was cold out, snowing. Why would she leave? Where would she go? He told himself to focus. Before he started hearing voices in his head again. It was probably fine. He’d overslept—in fact he’d slept as if drugged. His health was worsening. He knew it. It was creeping up on him now. She might have gone up to the lodge house in search of breakfast or company.

Then he saw the newspaper spread out across the table. It was open on the page with the editorial speculating about the similarities between the Birkenhead and Watt Lake murders. He was convinced he’d tucked that paper onto the bookshelf. He flung open the cabin door, his gaze darting across the grassy bank, down to the water, the dock. Snowflakes swirled in frosty air. Cloud was low, the sky dark. Mist sifted through trees.

“Tori!”

The campsite.
That man she’d been talking to—she could have gone there! He checked his weapons, laced on his boots, grabbed his jacket, and rushed out into the cold.

Voices called after him, swirling and laughing in the snow.

What have you done? What were you thinking, bringing her here? He’s got her! He took her! You brought her right to his feet
. . .
it was he who lured you
. . .

He spun around, hands going to his ears. “Tori! Where are you?”

He began to run, tripped, stumbling forward as he fought to regain his balance. He had to hold it together. He had to reach his truck, get around to the campsite.

Cole drove down the main street of Clinton, searching for the Forbes Development Corp building. He’d managed to call Forbes on his cell once he neared town. Forbes said he’d be at his office even though it was Sunday, the day before Thanksgiving—a day many families chose to cook a big celebratory meal together. Snow was just starting to fall in town, which was at a far lower elevation than the ranch. The street was blazoned with orange and blue banners declaring
Forbes for Mayor—vote jobs, industry, growth, tourism.

He found the building on the corner of Poplar and Main and pulled into an off-street parking space next door, beside the old museum, which was filled with gold rush memorabilia. Displayed in the window of the Forbes Development Corp offices were slick artist’s renderings of a major development. Cole left his father’s Dodge parked on the side of the street, and, shrugging deeper into his jacket against the cold, he walked up to the windows. Another jolt of surprise ran through him when he made sense of the images and renderings. They depicted a high-end boutique hotel and a private plastic surgery clinic right on the shores of Broken Bar Lake where the campsite now lay. Clustered around the main clinic building were patient “cottages.” There was another building marked as a spa, another as a fine dining restaurant, another as a gym. He whistled through his teeth. This was massive.

Literature beneath the renderings detailed a private clinic that would attract “guests” from around the world who could fly in, or drive, to seek discreet “treatment” in the “clean Cariboo country air” where they could thereafter recuperate in the privacy of their cottages. “Medical tourism” was the catchphrase. There would be horseback trail rides, swimming, birding, guided hikes, and in winter there would be sleigh rides, snowshoeing, and cross-country skiing for those who desired. A shard of irritation sliced through him.

He moved to the next window, which displayed the rest of his family’s ranch carved into long estates of several acres each, some with lakefront, some with lake views. Prices for the smallest parcels of acreage started in excess of one million.

What the fuck had Jane gotten him to sign on the dotted line for?
This?
His father would have a heart attack if he saw this shit. Was Forbes already securing deposits for land that was not his to sell?

He pushed open the glass door to Forbes Development Corp. The interior was plush in comfortable tones of blue. His next shock was recognition of the woman at the reception desk.

“Amelia?”
he said.

She looked up, smiled, then her eyes went wide, and she lurched to her feet.

“Cole? My God, I . . . How
are
you? What are you doing back here?” Her cheeks pinked. “Heavens, I can’t believe it. I’ve read all your books. Seen your movies.”

As she was talking, Forbes came out of a door behind her desk. He stalled dead in his tracks. “Good Lord. It’s McDonough. In the flesh.” A flicker of something sharp chased through his eyes, but it was followed by an easy smile with a row of whitened teeth as he came around the reception desk.

“How are you, man?” He reached out and clasped Cole’s hand with his right, placing his left on Cole’s forearm. “Good to see you.”

“Clayton,” Cole said as he glanced at Amelia—the woman he and Clayton Forbes had once tussled over in the barn. The first woman Cole had ever kissed. And the body language that passed between Amelia and Forbes did not escape his notice. Old-history dynamics were still at play. And it told Cole these two still had something going on. His gaze went to Forbes’s wedding band. He noted Amelia did not wear a ring. He wondered why she was here, working alone with Forbes on a Sunday.

“You better come into my office,” Forbes said, holding his arm out, leading the way. His suit was slick, a slate gray with faint pinstripes, ice-blue dress shirt, red tie. Pointed designer shoes.

A large flat-panel television was recessed into a shelving unit along the left wall of his office. The television was on mute and tuned to the news channel. It showed satellite images of the storm closing in. A ticker tape of text across the bottom informed of an official storm warning. Behind the desk was expensive-looking art showing a ranch scene with rolling gold hills.

Forbes indicated one of the leather chairs in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat.” He closed the door, went around to his side of the massive, gleaming wood desk.

Cole remained standing. His gaze went to a framed photo on the desk of a blonde woman and two young kids. “Married?”

Forbes moistened his lips, and his gaze wavered, almost imperceptibly, toward the closed door behind which Amelia sat. It confirmed Cole’s thoughts—Amelia had not become the bride. Just the mistress. He wondered which was the closer confidante to Forbes. He wondered why Amelia had settled for this.

“Indeed,” Forbes said. “And loving it. How about you?”

“Never married.”

“Look, about your call last night—” Forbes started to say,

“I’m not going to waste time on a preamble. I came in person to tell you there’s no deal.”

Forbes’s smile remained unchanged, but his complexion paled slightly and his eyes flattened. Cole understood why—judging from the display in his storefront windows, and from the election banners blaring down the main street, Forbes had a helluva lot riding on a Broken Bar Ranch sale. Cole even felt a small twinge of guilt. He had, after all, signed papers helping pave the way. Then he thought of Olivia. And his father. And the land itself. He thought of the McDonough legacy, his ancestors who’d homesteaded the place.

“Look, I have a legal document signed by both you and Jane—an official letter of intent to enter into good-faith negotiations with me on the sale of Broken Bar Ranch if and when it comes into your hands. It’s as good as a legal option on the property. Something I have taken to the bank.”

“I’m sorry. I’m retracting my end of the bargain.”

He laughed, then his smile died. “You can’t do that.”

“You can’t do what you’re doing—preselling a development on land that is not even yours?”

“Yet.”

“Even if we did sell to you, Broken Bar Ranch falls into the Agricultural Land Reserve. By law it must be used for farming. It cannot be zoned for commercial development. The back half of the property is also environmentally sensitive wetland. I don’t see how you can even begin—”

“I have assurances from the minister of the environment that the rezoning process for the property will be smooth. Approval to remove Broken Bar from the ALR will be forthcoming, as will impact assessment approvals from all the necessary departments for rezoning.”

Cole stared at him, a darkness growing in his gut. “And how can any minister give that kind of assurance without the proposal first going through the assessment studies, appeals, public hearings, due process?”

Forbes leaned his knuckles on his desk, barely masking the fact that his patience was wearing thin. “This is in
your
interests, McDonough. Don’t push it. You stand to reap a bonanza, and the way Jane tells it, you wanted nothing to do with that run-down hovel of a ranch to begin with.”

Cole inhaled deeply. “You’d best start damage control,” he said quietly. “Because that development is not going to happen on my watch.”

“I’ll fight you in court over it. I’ll break you. Mark my words.”

Cole gave a dry smile. “You might have to wait a long while to get your day in court, because as things stand right now, the ranch will go in trust to my father’s manager.”

“Not if she leaves. If she leaves, it reverts to you and Jane.”

“So you
do
know about the changes to the will?”

Forbes’s eyes narrowed.

“Who told you?”

“That’s immaterial. If—”

“Was it Adele Carrick? Or Tucker?”

Forbes’s brows lowered farther, and his eyes turned to flint. A muscle pulsed in his neck.

Cole leaned forward, palms pressing flat on Forbes’s desk. “Because that’s the other thing I came to say. If you’re trying to scare Olivia off the ranch with those stunts, if you or your people set one foot on McDonough land, or you go anywhere near Olivia, you’re dead, mate. I’m going to see that you’re buried by the full brunt of the law on this one.”

Forbes raised his chin, looked blank. “What stunts?”

Something shifted in Cole. “Stalking. Leaving . . . things.”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” He truly looked ignorant.

On the wall to Cole’s left, the television news segued to the Birkenhead murder. A banner across the top said the broadcast was coming live from a police press briefing. A female cop took a podium in front of a bank of microphones. A photo of a middle-aged woman came up in a window to the left of the screen. They’d identified the victim. The name underneath the photo said
Mary J. S
orenson.
Cole’s attention was momentarily distracted from Forbes. There was something familiar about the woman. The ticker tape underneath was saying that the photo had been shot in Arizona by her husband and sent to her children via cell phone. It was the last picture taken of her alive.

Cole frowned, something faint ticking against his memory. Mary Sorenson looked average enough. Squarish face. Nice eyes. Healthy and tanned. Brown hair flecked with gray framed her face. She was dressed in a black tank top, with a soft scarf in tones of gold and yellow and bronze around her—

“I don’t know what the fuck game you think you’re playing, but hear this—if your father leaves his ranch, even in trust, to Olivia West, Jane and I will drag her backward through the courts. And I
will
see to it that you are held to your end of the deal.”

Cole was filled with a sudden sense of urgency as his attention flared back to Forbes.
If Clayton Forbes was not messing with Liv’s head, someone else was. And she was out there alone on that ranch with the storm coming.

“I’ve said my piece. And I’m telling you, back out now of your own volition and start damage control before I talk to the press about my intentions
not
to sell the ranch. That’ll give your investors serious cold feet. And journalists will have a field day when I tell them about the prime acreages you’ve promised in government kickbacks for rezoning approvals of environmentally sensitive land.”

Forbes paled. “Who told you?”

He snorted. “That, my friend, was a good guess. Thank you for confirming it. Quit while you can still avoid prison.” He turned and made for the door.

“That a threat, McDonough?”

“A promise.” He reached for the door handle.

“This is some stupid-ass vendetta—is that what this is about?” Forbes called after him. “You’re trying to take me down because of that day in the barn. It’s about that truck. You couldn’t let that go, could you? You’ve gone and addled your brain like some wasted old fool in Cuba, and this is all you’ve got left?”

Cole stilled, hand on doorknob. He swung around.

Forbes’s face had turned thunderous, his skin stretched tight across his cheekbones, his shoulders rigid. He had the look of a coiled serpent. Lethal, as his gaze pinned Cole’s.