Haunting Ellie (15 page)

“Do you always help females in distress?”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

They were back to their banter, but Jon had the feeling it would be a long time before they returned to that stage where he was on the verge of giving her a kiss.

Elizabeth went back to work polishing the silver, and Jon tinkered with the plumbing. They must have been silent for nearly half an hour when Elizabeth spoke to him again.

“Libby told me your grandfather passed away recently. I’m sorry.”

“He was ninety-nine years old,” Jon said, fitting the faucet with new washers. “He’d been ill for quite some time.”

“She told me he’d raised you.”

“Since I was four.” He wiped his hands on a towel, twisted a chair around, and straddled the seat. “My folks left me with my grandfather while they took a vacation. They went to Africa on some sort of wildlife safari. My dad inherited his love of
nature from my grandfather; I guess I followed in their footsteps, too.”

He picked up a piece of cloth from the table and dipped it into the silver polish Elizabeth was using, then slowly rubbed it across a tarnished oval tray. “The bus they were in had a blowout and rolled into a ravine. My mom was dead when help arrived. My dad had a broken back and they managed to get him to a hospital, but there wasn’t much they could do. I remember my grandfather telling me what happened, but I didn’t really understand.”

“Do you remember them?” she asked, leaning forward as she polished, listening closely to each word.

“Not much, but I remember everything about my grandfather.”

“Was he a good parent?”

Jon smiled. “He gave me every minute he had. He taught me to fish and whittle, he did homework with me, and he went to the principal’s office every time I got in trouble. He told me his dad hadn’t given him the time of day, and no son or grandson of his was going to be treated the same way.”

“What about his mother?”

“Are you sure you want to hear about all this? It’s history.”

“I told you my story. Seems only fair I know something more about you.”

“I’m an open book.”

She shook her head. “I know how you stand on a few issues, especially those that differ from mine. I know where you live. But I don’t know anything about you.”

“Libby hasn’t filled you in?”

“Not about you. She says you like your privacy and everyone in town—with the exception of Matt, she pointed out-—respects it. Since I couldn’t get anything out of her, would you mind continuing the story?”

“You’ll have to remind me where we left off.”

Elizabeth laughed and pushed an errant strand of hair away from her face. “Your grandfather’s mother. Did she care for him?”

“She died when he was fairly young, but you’d have thought she walked on water, the way he talked about her. She sang and read him stories when he was little. She played the piano, even sat on the floor doing battle with him and a bunch of toy soldiers.”

“She sounds wonderful.”

“She loved her son, but I guess she didn’t care all that much for her husband. He was the river-boat gambler, the one who built the house Matt lives in. According to the stories, he had a fondness for women. Probably not the most sterling character ever to live in Sapphire.”

“Then why’d she marry him?”

“That’s the best story my grandfather ever told—and he told a lot. Seems the man she’d been engaged to had left her standing at the altar. Let’s see
 ... what was his name?” Jon had to think a moment, trying to remember some of the tales his grandfather had related. “Alexander Stewart. That was it.”

Jon felt a gush of warm air blow past his ear. He thought for sure someone stood right beside him,
listening over his shoulder. But it was all in his mind; it had to be.

“I like the name,’ Elizabeth said.

“I doubt you would have liked him. While everyone was at the church, he robbed the bank and killed the teller. They never found him or the money, and my great-grandmother ended up marrying Luke Winchester just a few weeks later.”

“She wasn’t brokenhearted?”

Jon laughed. “The man who dumped her was a thief and a murderer. Would you be brokenhearted?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d have to know the circumstances.”

“Well, if you find anything out, make sure you let me know. He stole every town record, too, and, even today we still have property disputes that could be solved if only the paperwork showed up.”

“I don’t think I can solve some hundred-year-old crime, but I like the story. It might be fun telling my guests about it late at night. When I get a chance, maybe I’ll do some research. What did you say the fiancé’s name was?”

“Alexander Stewart.”

“And your great-grandmother’s?”

Jon smiled and shook his head. Elizabeth was going to be just like his grandfather—telling tall tales to anyone who would listen.

“Her name was Amanda,” he told her. “Amanda Dalton.”

Amanda.

Alex whispered his lover’s name once again. Oh, how he missed her. And Oh, how she must have suffered at the hands of the man he hated, a man who would kill for money and ignore his own son.

But she must have hated Alex, too—for profes
sing his love, then leaving her; for being hoodwinked by a man who'd been branded with horrible names.

Thief!

Murderer!

Anger swept through him as he swooped out of the kitchen and up the stairs to his attic room
, sending dirt and dust motes flying helter-skelter through the air. Jonathan Winchester’s words had angered him as no other words had.
Alexander Stewart, a thief and murderer? Never!
He wouldn’t stand for such language, such balderdash, not in his house.

Jonathan Winchester would pay for his words and pay handsomely.

oOo

For one long week Jon tinkered with plumbing and electrical wiring. He patched holes in walls,
stripped wallpaper, sanded oak windowsills and banisters, hauled trash to the snow-filled dump, and ran errands for Elizabeth. There was still a good month’s worth of work to do just to make the place habitable, but the kitchen glistened after hours of scrubbing, they’d laid tile on the counter-tops, and clean, fresh water flowed through the pipes and down the drains.

Things might have been perfect, except he’d also spent the entire week suffering the pranks of a mysterious unseen entity. One day his hammer disappeared and he found it embedded in the chocolate soufflé Elizabeth had made. The hell of that was, he had to pretend to an outraged woman that he’d gotten hungry and dug into the thing while she was at the cafe trading baking secrets with Libby. A bucket of nails had been dumped in Elizabeth’s lingerie drawer, and once again he’d been caught in the act of retrieving his things. Explaining why he was fingering a lacy red bra hadn’t been easy. He’d gotten tongue-tied and felt like he was having hot flashes as he’d told her he’d been looking for rags to wipe down the woodwork in her room. She hadn’t believed a word, and he didn’t blame her a bit.

Whoever was haunting the hotel was making Jon’s life a virtual hell.

The other hell he was living through was his relationship with Elizabeth. They hadn’t shared a close moment since they’d talked of his grandfather. Of course, there wasn’t much time for conversation. He’d never known a woman to dream up so many chores, or a woman to work from sunup till sundown without growing tired.

She had a fresh pot of coffee brewing each morning when he arrived. Sometimes there’d be muffins or cookies, and always a big bowl of fresh fruit. Every afternoon she’d go across the street for coffee and lunch with Libby, and she always insisted he leave by three because she was sure that as mayor he had other, more pressing matters to deal with.

Just when he thought she didn’t like his company, didn’t want him around, he’d see her standing in a doorway, watching him. He’d smile, and she’d smile back and usually walk away.

Jon wondered if this was the way it was between married people, spending too many hours together and rarely talking.

On the eighth day he had business of his own to attend to and she actually seemed disappointed when he told her he’d be in Denver the next two days.

“What’s in Denver?” she asked.

“An art show.”

She looked surprised at his words.

“It’s what I do when I’m not playing mayor or attempting to be a handyman.”

“You’re an artist?” she asked.

He wanted to tell her. He wanted to share, but still he held back. That employee-employer relationship had settled between them, and they weren’t the best of friends. He wished he had faith in her, and he wanted to get close; unfortunately, he’d seen her with Matt Winchester one too many times to trust her completely with his secrets.

“I’m a dealer,” he finally answered. It wasn’t a total lie.

“I never would have guessed,” she said. “Of
course, we haven’t talked about what you do when you’re not here or being mayor. I figured you must be independently wealthy—or a crook.”

Jon laughed. “Some people might think I’m a crook, considering the prices I charge for artwork. But I’m not.”

“Do you enjoy what you do?”

“Most of the time.”

She smiled. “I haven’t been to an art show in ages. I used to go whenever I had a chance.”

“You could go with me,” Jon said, and wondered why. It didn’t seem right to encourage a relationship that had no chance of going anywhere. But for some reason, none of that mattered. He liked being with her, whether he trusted her or not, whether they talked or yelled or spent a day together saying absolutely nothing.

“Thanks for the invitation,” she said, “but I’d better pass. This time, anyway.”

He was suddenly disappointed, and his days in Denver were more than lonely. He missed her smiles, her frowns, her laugh. He missed her amber eyes and her ebony braid, and he couldn’t wait to get back home.

When he returned, he drove into town and saw Elizabeth standing on the porch, talking to Matt. Floyd Jones was with him, too.

He gunned the engine of his pickup and headed for home without bothering to stop. He slammed the truck door behind him when he got out of the vehicle, slammed through the kitchen door, stomped up the back stairs, slammed through his studio door, and spent that night pounding his fist into clay. The next day he spent at Schoolmarm
Gulch, sketching anything and everything that crossed his path.

Why had she been with Matt? She didn’t like him, or so she’d said. She said she wasn’t involved in his business, either. He’d tried to convince himself of those two things; unfortunately,
the moment he was out of sight, she was fraternizing with Matt—again.

oOo

Elizabeth stood at the front window, watching the snowfall. That’s what she convinced herself she was watching when in reality she was waiting for Jon, wondering if he’d ever come again.

It was nearly seven
P
.
M
. He should have been there at eight that morning, but after seeing him race down the street yesterday afternoon when Matt had stopped by to ask her a few questions about her plans for the hotel, she sensed Jon might not return. When the snow fell harder and the wind picked up, she turned away from the window and walked toward the parlor, stopping when she heard boot-steps on the porch. She listened closely. They didn’t sound familiar. They didn’t sound like Jon’s.

But she hoped
she'd soon see his smile.

She opened the door and disappointment ripped through her body at the sight of Matt.

“ ‘Evenin’, Liz. I had some advertising copy drawn up. Thought you might like to see what I’ve put together.”

“Why don’t I drop by your office tomorrow and take a look?” She didn’t want him around, not when there was a possibility Jon might come by.
Actually, she didn’t want Matt around at all—at any time.

“There’s a chance I won’t be in town for a few days,” Matt said. “I need you to look at this tonight.” He brushed past her and hesitantly looked about the room as he unbuttoned his black wool coat. “You need wallpaper in here. I hope you realize that.”