Buried Secrets (New Adult Dark Suspense Romance) (18 page)

“You think it’s over?”

“Sure. Buck just wanted me out here one last night as a precaution,” Matt told her. “The Millsberg guys have all gone home.”

“So no more watch? No more curfew?” Dusty shivered.

“Maybe we can get back to normal then huh?” He gave her a half-smile but she didn’t quite believe him. She had a feeling nothing in Larkspur was going to be normal again.

She encouraged him anyway. “I hope so, Matt.”

He tipped her a wave, going back to his car. She waited until he’d turned off his flashers and pulled away, making a U-turn and heading back toward town, before putting the Jeep in gear.

“I hope so,” she whispered again, but she didn’t believe it any more than he did.

“C-c-come on uh-in.” Sam opened the front door. She’d found it—the only house on Wanda, a dead-end road and difficult to find with no street lights. The house was huge and in serious disrepair. There were sections where the windows were completely boarded up.

“It's getting cold out there.” Dusty unzipped her coat as he closed the door behind her. “I think winter's finally here.”

“Truh-try riding a b-bike in this.” Sam made a face as he took her coat. He opened the closet and hung it on the handle of a vacuum cleaner and shut the door. Dusty smiled to herself when she saw the mess—sneakers, boots, coats.

“Smells good.” Dusty looked around the foyer. The ceiling was high above them. She glimpsed a curving staircase as she looked through the archway. A chandelier that hadn’t been dusted in twenty years hung from the ceiling. The house had a musty undersmell.

“It's spuh-spuh-spaghuh-hetti. It's the only thing uh-I know huh-how to c-c-cook that isn't uh-out of a c-c-can.” He gave a little laugh.

“You live in this big house all by yourself?” Dusty looked around, incredulous. “How do you keep it clean?”

“I duh-don't.” He shrugged. “C-come on. I'll shuh-show you where I luh-live.”

Dusty followed him past the archway. It must have belonged to someone rich once, she thought, looking around. It was dingy now, in need of a serious cleaning, but a taste of what it had once been remained. Dusty looked up the staircase and there on the wall hung a huge portrait.

“Who is that?” Dusty tugged at his sleeve.

Sam followed the direction of her gaze. “Muh-my fuh-father.”

Dusty looked at it a minute longer, taking in the fierceness of the old man. It must have been taken later in life, because his hair was completely white and hung to his shoulders. There was something familiar about him, but Larkspur was a small town. Maybe she’d seen him somewhere.

“C-c-coming?”

“Yeah.” Dusty took her eyes off the picture and followed him down the long hallway, past at least five closed doors. The house was strangely built. At the very end of the hall was a light-washed room.

“Muh-mine,” Sam said proudly.

It was a small one-room apartment of sorts. There was a bed, a table, a make-shift kitchen equipped with a stove, sink, refrigerator, one counter and a few cupboards. A door at the other end she assumed was a bathroom. It was sad to see this little place, so cramped and small, surrounded by a once-great exterior.

“It's nice,” she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“Thuh-thanks.” He smiled. “Duh-do you want something to druh-drink?”

“Soda?” She looked at the strange configuration of things hanging over his bed. As she drew closer, she realized they were masks. He had ten of them, all different.

“They were muh-my father’s.” Sam handed her a Coke. She took it, looking at each mask in turn, wondering what they were made of. “Nuh-Native Uh-American masks.”

“Interesting,” Dusty commented. “Was he Native?”

“My muh-mother was part Native. Suh-sit.” Sam offered her a chair at the kitchen table. “It's ready.”

Dusty sat down, looking around. It was a pretty big room, but there was no window. It seemed dreary—lonely. She looked at Sam, busying himself with dinner, humming. He seemed content, even happy, but how could he be, living alone with no family or friends?

“Have you always stayed in this room?” Dusty asked as he set the food on the table. It smelled delicious.

“Yes.” He served her spaghetti and then served himself. “My fuh-father lived in the buh-basement and this was muh-my place. Better than duh-down thuh-there.”

Dusty tried to imagine this scenario. “What was your father like?”

Sam looked at his plate for a moment, using his fork to wind strands of spaghetti around and around.

“I nuh-never huh-had friends,” Sam started. “Huh-he was my onluh-ly real friend. I tuh-take care of huh-him.”

“You must miss him,” Dusty said, taking a bite of a meatball. “I miss my brother, too.”

Sam lowered his head, eyes glued to his plate, and said, “Uh-I'm sorry. About him.”

“It's not your fault.” Dusty smiled. “So I saw a picture of your father. Do you have any of your mother?”

Sam got up from his chair and opened his night table drawer, pulling out a small book. He came back and set it next to Dusty.

She gave him a little smile when she picked it up, beginning to flip through the pages. There was a woman smiling at the camera, the beach at her back. There were pictures of her dancing, cooking, laughing.

“She’s beautiful,” Dusty murmured, turning the page. She had forgotten all about her dinner, engrossed in the album.

The next page was the woman and a darker-skinned man, his head nearly shaved but obviously dark. It was a wedding photo—her white dress, his tux.

She gasped when she turned the next page. This was the house, beautiful, opulent, like a shiny new penny. And here was Sam’s mother, gardening, cooking.

“What happened to the house?” Dusty shook her head in disbelief.

“My muh-mother… she was the wuh-one who loved it, kept it up. When she duh-died. My father… ” Sam shrugged, glancing around.

“She was pregnant with you here?” Dusty showed him a photo of the woman in what must have been their backyard, standing near a red rose bush. Sam nodded again.

“Oh, and this is you… Sam, this is you!” Dusty exclaimed, smiling and looking at the little baby bundled in the woman’s arms. There was another one, with the father, Roy. He looked so proud. There were a few more—a first birthday, a chubby dark haired baby with blank eyes and no expression. But there was no second birthday party. No more photos.

“She died then?” Dusty frowned, putting the album back on the table. “Lee told me.”

Sam smiled, but it was a grim thing. “She kuh-killed herself.”

“Oh, Sam.” She sighed, picking up her fork again.

“Uh-I was bruh-broken. She thought it was huh-her fuh-fault,” he told her, looking down at his plate. “Muh-my father didn’t want a bruh-broken son.”

“Don’t say that.” Dusty reached out and put her hand over his. He looked down at it and then at her. “You are
not broken.
”

“Huh-he was angry.” Sam turned his hand over in hers, taking it, squeezing. “Huh-he didn’t want me thuh-this way. That’s why he luh-left.”

“No,” she breathed, feeling his pain. “I’m sure that’s not true!”

“Nuh-no one has ever really wuh-wanted me.” His eyes were on their hands, twined together.

“I do.” Dusty squeezed his hand. He lifted his face to hers, hopeful. “I mean… I want to be your friend.”

“Yuh-you do?” He looked so disbelieving it made her heart hurt.

“I
am
your friend, Sam.”

“Yuh-you're muh-my friend?” he asked hesitantly.

She squeezed her fingers over his. “Yes,” she assured him.

“Thank you,” he said softly, raising her hand and rubbing it against his cheek.

She was a little frightened by the intense look in his eyes.

It had stayed closed for two months. Dusty put her hand on the doorknob, trying to remember exactly how it looked. It had been too long. Her palms were sweating and her heart thudded heavily in her chest. The poster of
Murphy's Law
...

Dusty felt like she was going to be sick.

Her dream and his sightless eyes, the blood, the—

SNIP

She turned the doorknob and shoved the door quickly open. It was dark and she felt for the light switch. It was there on the wall, like it always had been, and no hand came out to cover hers in the darkness as she flicked it on.

Light flooded the room and Dusty took a step back.

Oh Nick...

It was in suspended animation. Everything waited for Nick to come back. All the things she had dreamed about, and more—the models, his posters, his skateboard, his skis—all there. The picture of Shane and Nick stood still on the night table. A hairdryer and jar of gel sat on the dresser. Dusty closed her eyes for a moment, fighting tears.

She made her way toward his dresser and knelt in front of it, running her hand along the wood. Tears blurred her vision. She opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and stared dully at his sweaters.
Won't be needing them this winter
, she thought and shivered.

She lifted them carefully out of the drawer and found what she was looking for. She pulled it up and looked at it—Nick's gun, a baby Glock. It was the first real gun, aside from a rifle, she’d ever fired.

Dusty picked up the box of ammunition he kept with it and put it in her pocket. She really only needed one bullet and the thought startled her. She hefted the gun in her hand, feeling something flutter in her belly. The heavy way it sat there made her stomach tighten.

For Nick,
she thought, looking at the smiling face in the picture frame.

But she knew, most of all, she was doing this for herself.

When she left, the door stayed open.

✝
Chapter Fiftee
n
✝

“So what do you think?” Shane opened his arms wide. “It's not much, but I like to call it home.”

She had expected a Michigan hunting cabin and everything that went along with it—dust, mice, huge spiders, a port-a-potty out back. This was nothing like she’d expected. Shane’s cabin was paradise in the middle of the woods. The first thing he did that shocked her was flip a switch—and there was light!

She gasped out loud.

The place was beautiful, a log cabin, two stories with a loft above and a big fireplace along one wall. It was fully furnished—no sleeping bags or blow up mattresses on the floor. In fact, Shane showed her proudly, there was a king-sized bed in the loft—it filled most of the available space—with a skylight overhead.

“This isn’t a hunting cabin, it’s a… spa!” Dusty exclaimed, going to the window to see the view behind. They were right on Lake Huron, the cleared stretch of private beach surrounded by woods. The sun was setting, a ball of fire floating on the water at the edge of the world.

“So you like it?” He came up behind her, putting his arms around her waist. “It’s completely sustainable. Off the grid. It’s got a solar panel roof, plus I’ve got a ground based solar array on the beach that follows the sun. It’s got a top of the line battery so I can power all of this. I’ve also got solar generator back-up with an integrated micro-hydro system.”

“That was all Greek to me.” She laughed. “But it sounds like it’s a good thing they’re paying you a thousand a pop to do your ‘tours’ on Native land!”

“It’s taken me a while to get it to this point.” He grinned, nodding behind them. “That’s a central masonry heater over there by the kitchen—the fireplace is just for show.”

“And snuggling.” She turned, putting her arms around his neck.

“Yes, that.” He smiled. “The masonry heater has an oven and a stovetop. Perfect for cooking.”

“I’m cooking?” She wrinkled her nose.

“No.” He laughed. “I’m cooking. See that side building over there?”

Shane pointed out the window. “That holds the solar fridge and freezer and leads down to the root cellar. The garden way out back is mostly for deer—but I’ve got the freezer fully stocked. Venison’s on the menu tonight—unless you’d prefer salmon? I made an amazing compote out of this year’s blueberries.”

She blinked at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Shane Curtis?”

He laughed, pointing out the window again. “The orchards are down there. Berries are that way, and my morels are down there. And way down there? That’s my smokehouse and smoker. And slaughterhouse. You don’t have to go down there.”

“Oh no. Is that an outhouse?” She had spotted a wooden building with a half-moon in the door. It had been so perfect up until that point.

“Yes—but you don’t have to use it. It’s top of the line, but I installed a composting toilet in the cabin.” He led her down the hall, opening a door, and she gasped out loud for the second time that day. “Right next to the Japanese teakwood bath and hot tub. Around the corner from the two-person shower.”

“Two person?” She gaped at him, opening the shower curtain and seeing the double showerheads. She turned one on and laughed. “Running water!”

“It’s a sweet, deep water well,” he told her, turning the shower off. “It’s got a solar powered pump and that’s backed up by the micro hydrosystem. And a hand pump out back, so I don’t get too lazy. But I plumbed it into the kitchen and bathroom myself. Don’t have to go outside if you don’t want to.”

“The floor…” She looked down at the tile, which should have been cold under her bare feet. “Is warm?”

“Well, I figured while I was running the copper pipe for the solar hot water, if I was going to run it through the hearth anyway, thought I might as well put it under the floor. It’s radiant floor heat,” he told her as they went back out into the living area.

Dusty went to the closest window, looking out across the water. “How much land do you have?”

“About fourteen hundred acres.” He put his arms around her again from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder.

“Holy hell,” she whispered.

“And it’s easy to get lost,” he warned. “The path we came in on, that’s the only one cleared.”

She met him at the cemetery, leaving her Jeep parked there, and they rode through the woods on an ATV—all-terrain vehicle. He insisted she wear a helmet and she hung onto him for dear life the whole way. The “path” was more like a very wooded trail. A car couldn’t have made it through.

“I keep all the vehicles out in the pole barn,” he told her, pointing. “Snowmobiles for the winter, ATVs the rest of the year.”

“Fourteen
hundred
acres,” she murmured. “It’s been in your family how long?”

“Generations,” he said. “I honestly don’t know for sure. My dad told me about it when I was a kid.”

“Why doesn’t anyone live out here?”

“No roads. Only access is the trail or by boat off the lake. Hard to get to a job every day living out here.”

She laughed. “Who needs a job if you’re living out here?”

“That’s the idea.” His arms tightened around her waist. “Listen, just in case—if you’re out there and you get lost, every white birch tree on the property has an arrow pointing back to the direction of the cabin. You’ll see it on the west side—about twelve feet off the ground.”

“Good to know.” She turned in his arms, looking at him with new eyes. Nick had told her Shane wasn’t the person she thought he was—and she’d scoffed at the idea. She had no idea how right her brother had been. “This is amazing.”

“You really like it?” he asked, reminding her of Sam in that moment, looking at her with a shy sort of pride.

“I love it,” she said honestly.

He lowered his forehead to hers. “Enough to stay?”

She’d told him about Julia’s ultimatum—although she still hadn’t spoken to her father, and she didn’t know if she wanted to, not anymore. She knew her father would say she didn’t have to find another place to live, even if he did disapprove of her choice of jobs, but she wasn’t so sure she wanted to live at home. Not anymore.

“I’m here now,” she whispered in his ear, the stubble on his cheek reddening hers as she nuzzled him.

“Yes you are,” he breathed, meeting her eyes, looking at her like he wasn’t sure his statement was accurate—she might be a vision he had dreamed.

Then he kissed her, soft, slow, teasing her lips open with his tongue, hands pressed to the small of her back, gathering her close. She lost herself for a moment, forgetting everything except this man’s body, mouth, hands, what it would mean to go through with this, to give herself to him completely.

You promised. You crossed your heart.

Dusty thought about the gun in her purse sitting by the door like a dark secret.

“Are you hungry?” he whispered, kissing his way down the side of her throat, leaving a dizzying trail of heat. “I can cook dinner.”

“Later.” She shook her head, looking up at the loft above. “Take me upstairs?”

His eyes lit up. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

Shane bent and slid an arm under her knees, swinging her into his arms. Dusty squealed and laughed, putting her arms around his neck as he took the loft stairs two at a time, climbing them like a lumberjack. The bed was topped with a red plaid comforter with bears dancing along the edge and there were matching curtains, but that’s all the detail she took in before her eyes closed as Shane kissed her down to the mattress.

She had never imagined herself in bed with Shane—well no, that wasn’t quite true. Every time something like it crossed her mind—every time his hand brushed hers when they were bent over an engine or every time he gave her some off-hand compliment about an outfit she was wearing out on a date with Tom as they passed on the porch—she cut the thought off as violently as she could. Her mind scissors had been sharpened and honed from years of denying her feelings for this man. She knew it now, because her body had always responded to him like this, from that very first, tender, innocent kiss on the tree platform.

She had hidden those feelings, pushed them away, pushed
him
away, and now that she had opened her arms to him, everything came pouring in like a flood. He’d broken through the Hoover Dam of her heart and the outpouring was so overwhelming it threatened to drown them both. But Shane managed to contain her. She didn’t know how he managed, but he took it all in stride—her desperate kisses, nails scratching his neck, raking his back through his t-shirt, the way she reached for and found him through his jeans, groping him roughly in the dusky light—and even managed to guide her, as if he was a riverbank where she could finally let go and just flow, the rush and gush and steady stream of her finally, perfectly contained.

Their jackets and shoes were already on the floor when she yanked up the edge of his t-shirt, impatient. He knelt between her thighs, peeling it off, his eyes meeting hers before her gaze dropped to the broad stretch of his shoulders, the sparse dark hair on his chest, his arms nicely defined—probably from chopping and hauling all the wood she’d seen out back—his belly so tight and ridged she had to touch it, feeling how hard it was under her hand.

And there was that delicious line of dark hair disappearing into the waist band of his jeans. She let her finger trace it down from his navel, breath caught in her throat, tickling him with her nail. He was transfixed, watching her, face relaxed, eyes bright, and still that look, like he was dreaming, as if she could disappear at any moment. He looked like he was living right now, right here, and nothing else mattered, because maybe the next moment wouldn’t be there, and this was all they would ever have.

Her mother’s death had taught her the impermanence of life, and Nick’s death had driven the point home like an arrow through her heart. Her own life, too, hung in the balance. Her encounter with the wolf had proven that. Being born onto this planet was no guarantee of anything, even a life. The only guarantee they had was death, and every breath in between meant more than they could ever know. She was tired of wasting her breath, wasting her life, denying her feelings, denying herself. She understood now that Shane looked at her that way—like he thought this might be their last moment together—because it was true.

If that was true, then Dusty wanted him, and she wanted him
now.
Her body insisted. After years of holding back, she couldn’t contain herself anymore. Thank God he was there, grabbing her hands when she ripped the button on his jeans open, pinning them over her head and kissing her, his tongue exploring, mouth soft and open and working on hers, making her writhe beneath his weight. He knew where they were going and he guided her there as smoothly as a riverbank turning the tide of a raging current.

The more she tried to rush, the more he slowed down, trapping her, both wrists locked in one of his hands over her head as he made maddening circles with his tongue, under her ear, down her neck, pausing at the hollow of her throat to lick in time with the drumming beat of her pulse. Then he was letting her go so he could unbutton her shirt—nothing fancy, just a blue denim chambray, but when Shane opened her blouse he looked at her as if he’d just discovered buried treasure. Giving a little groan, he worked the hooks on the front of her bra, her breasts falling heavily into his waiting hands.

Dusty watched his face, expression almost pained, as he cupped and kneaded them, like he was trying to determine for certain that she was, indeed, flesh. She couldn’t help the moan that escaped her lips when his thumbs brushed the dark points of her nipples. They were so hard they ached. And it wasn’t just her nipples, so hard they hurt, or her breasts, which felt so full, like ripe fruit that might burst at his touch—she wanted him with her whole body, her whole being. There was no holding back anymore and it showed in the flush of her skin, the pursing of the flesh around her nipples, the tremble of her belly—and the swell of her sex, as yet untouched by him, the seam of her jeans rubbing there, reminding her of her own lust.

As if he’d read her mind, he found the snap of her jeans, pulling them off, her panties coming with them, and she found herself naked in his bed, shivering, but not from cold. She wanted him, her body quivering with it, and when she reached for him, he obliged, kissing her deeply, slowly, softly, letting her take his weight, feeling the bite of his belt buckle—although his holster was gone, his gun safely sitting on the night table—and the burn of his erection, even through the denim, she could feel the hard heat of him.

“Please,” she begged him, mouth against his ear, fingers working his zipper down, aching to feel him—in her hand, in her mouth, inside of her, everywhere at once.

But Shane wasn’t done teasing her. He made his way down those familiar trails again with his mouth and tongue, over the mounds of her breasts, through the valley of her cleavage, dipping into the pool of her navel for a brief, wet delicious swim before heading for deeper water down south. He explored her body with the breathless attention of a man who notices everything. He paused at the fuzz on her lower belly, her own barely-there treasure trail, licking it like the skin of a dark peach. He caressed the jagged scar on her knee, from a wipeout on her bike, flesh meeting sharp gravel and rock. He found the dark, slightly raised mole on her inner thigh with his thumb, smiling before he dipped his head down to lick it, making her cry out in both surprise and anticipation.