Shafted (15 page)

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Coming February 15, 2012

A Stranger's Kiss
by
Roxy Boroughs

Chapter One

Renee's new playmate was strange.

The first time she saw him, her heart
skipped. A kid her age in the neighborhood? She couldn't remember
the last time she'd had a friend.

She would have preferred a girl. Like,
duh
. They could've drawn butterflies on their jeans, or
messed around with nail polish and painted flowers on their big
toes.

But a boy was better than nothing. And this
one made her laugh.

She'd met him in the old gardening shed,
which looked like a mini version of the house. In the olden days,
before people had cars, it stored a horse and buggy. Renee fancied
she could still smell hay. She'd climb on the rusted-out riding
lawn mower and imagine it was her carriage, picturing herself in a
long dress going for a ride, cracking her whip. She always made
sure to lock the door of the shed behind her, so she wouldn't get
caught. Because her mother had a thing about the place.

But a locked door didn't stop Tommy, and that
was weird. One day, while she was feeding her imaginary horse, he
just appeared. Told her his name when she asked. It was only later
she realized his lips never moved, that she'd somehow heard his
thoughts without ever having heard his voice.

That was the second strange thing.

The third came right after Renee's mother
called her in to help with the painting. Tommy pointed at his
chest, then in the direction of the house. He smiled, showing off
the coolest set of braces, and invited himself to join her. Then he
headed to the door. But he didn't bother to unlock it. Just walked
right through it.

That's when Renee realized her new playmate
was a ghost.

* * * * *

Amy Tesher applied the first brushstroke and
shrieked.

Yes, she'd purchased cheap paint but hadn't
expected it to be quite so ugly--a yellowy-brown that reminded her
of splotches left on the bathroom floor after one of her mother's
binges.

Maybe it would look better when it dried.

From the top of her ladder, she scrutinized
the large, front room of her late grandmother's bed and breakfast
with the eye of a realist. The idea of sprucing it up on a
shoestring budget for a quick sale didn't seem as easy as she'd
thought five days ago, when she'd inherited the home in Bandit
Creek.

Nowhere, Montana
, as her grandmother
used to joke. The closest neighbor was an abandoned trailer.

But the natural beauty of the land more than
made up for that eyesore. Cradled in the Bitterroot Mountains,
Bandit Creek boasted peaks that kissed the sky. And, after a few
days of renos, Amy felt as if she carried the weight of those
mountains on her back. Her shoulders ached too, and she'd never
shied away from hard labor. Still, she loved the place, her
childhood sanctuary. Even though it looked neglected and sad. Just
as she'd once been.

But that was in the past, now. And all
because of Renee.

She watched her daughter from across the
room, heart kicking against her breast, battling for more space.
The child, who'd entered the world unwanted, had turned into a
savior.

The eleven-year-old sat cross-legged on the
floor, giggling to herself, while meticulously applying a strip of
green painter's tape to the trim. Then she sang along with the
music wailing from their portable disc player. Beyoncé telling her
man to put a ring on it.

Advice like that could have saved Amy years
of heartache.

She sighed, releasing the bad thoughts as she
exhaled, and climbed down from her perch to inspect the paint on
the wall. She lowered the volume on the player.

"What do you think, hon?"

Her daughter turned, auburn pigtails doing a
half-pirouette around her head, grey eyes huge. Amy had a couple of
photos of herself as a girl. If she shuffled them in with the stack
of pictures she had of Renee, a trained observer wouldn't be able
to tell them apart. Only the dated clothes would give Amy away.

Nowadays, there were more clues. Amy was
taller, her hair shorter. And, of course, she looked older. Though
not by much. When pressed, she credited her youthful appearance to
good breeding.

One of her many white lies.

Renee tapped her pointed chin with her index
finger as she studied the color, looking more like a pixie than a
tweenie. "It's different," she announced with a grin.

Amy laughed. "Very diplomatic. You'll make a
fine politician one day." She checked her watch, clicking her
tongue. "If I hurry, I can get to the hardware store before they
close. I'll buy a lighter color to mix in with this. A couple of
cans of cream or white. If nothing else, it'll stretch the paint we
already have. Don’t open the--"

"--door while you're gone," her daughter
finished. "I know, I know."

Poor kid. Maybe she was
overprotective--escorting Renee almost everywhere and schooling her
at home--but Amy knew firsthand the dangers that awaited a little
girl out in the world.

As she opened the front door, a chill wrapped
around her, as if a blast of arctic wind had swooped in over the
mountains. There, right outside her house, stood a man, arms folded
across his chest as he leaned against a parked car.

Watching her.

Amy took a breath, willing her heart to pound
a steady beat. Finding anyone on her doorstep, would have been a
shock. She was a stranger here, hadn't been back to the secluded
house in years. She had no friends in these parts, and now, no
relatives. But this man was as out of place as any could be.
Starting with the vehicle on which he was perched.

If the car was his, it was much too expensive
for the neighborhood, and too posh for a mountain trek. Amy wasn't
an expert on makes and models but the jaguar on the hood of the
black sedan told her all she needed to know. And the flashy ride
didn't match the man's attire. A nice enough charcoal suit, but the
rumpled fabric shied away from his gaunt frame, as if he'd slept in
a larger man's clothes.

A tangle of brown hair shadowed his eyes,
dark stubble inked his jaw. He didn't look familiar, but over the
years she'd learned to be cautious. Her mother had cultivated
dangerous friends.

Amy locked the door behind her, keys in her
fist, the longest one poking out between her index and middle
fingers. Just how her aunt in Detroit had taught her.

Ready for anything.

She marched down the front walk, her runners
chomping at the fallen leaves in her path. As she approached, the
man straightened and used his fingers to comb the hair from his
eyes.

"Something I can do for you, sir?"

Now that she was closer, Amy took a good look
at her visitor, opening the mental filing cabinet of her memories
and pouring over the images she kept of her mother's
associates.

Jag Man was six feet or so, and on the older
side of thirty. Other than his cheekbones, made prominent by the
thinness of his face, his most noticeable feature was a pair of
hazel eyes--more green than brown--and highlighted by a pencil-thin
scar that sliced through his right brow. That and the five-o'clock
shadow gave him an outdoorsy ruggedness. In spite of the unkempt
packaging, he was a good-looking man. One she knew she hadn't met
before.

But good looks didn't mean a good soul. Amy
kept her keys ready in her fist.

"I need a place to stay." The voice came out
in a low baritone--clear, melodic, and with complete confidence.
The tone of a man used to getting his way.

Amy wondered who'd pointed him in her
direction. No one local. Her grandmother had retired from the bed
and breakfast business a few years before she died. Amy may not
have visited, but she'd exchanged emails almost daily with her Nan
to keep up with life at the old house--her grandmother's
socializing, gardening, even what she had for lunch. If only Nan
had mentioned she was ailing, Amy would have been on the next
plane. But her grandmother was feisty and independent to the end.
She died obliged to no one, in her own bed, and surrounded by her
collection of photographs and antiques, just the way she wanted
it.

"Mrs. Turnbull runs a nice B&B further
down the road--"

"Isn’t this a B&B?" Now he was smiling,
pouring on the charm like a salesman. Maybe he was one. At a car
lot. That would explain the Jag.

"It used to be." Amy turned to view the
wooden sign on the lawn, proclaiming as much, though the lettering
had seen better days. Something else to fix. "We're closed for
renovations."

The man drew a wallet from his back pocket.
"I can pay cash," he told her, opening it. "Three hundred a
night."

Amy shook her head, wondering what her
grandmother would say about turning down good money. She knew what
Nan had charged for a room, even one with a private bath, and it
sure as hell wasn’t that much.

The man thumbed through the bills. "Four
hundred."

Did he expect caviar on his morning bagel?
Strike the salesman angle. This guy definitely wasn't one. No
haggling.

"Look, I'll give you three grand, up front,
for the week. Whether I stay for the duration or not."

A giddy squeak welled up in Amy's throat.
That was more money than she'd ever seen at one time. Cash like
that could really help fix up the old house, pay off some bills she
still owed in Detroit, and buy new books and clothes for Renee.
Heck, even a few things for herself. With some left over for a
rainy day. But she wasn't about to shelter a man she didn't
know.

"Sorry."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled
out a gold case. "Here's my business card. Call my office. Check me
out."

She'd already checked him out. Though on the
thin side, she sensed a nice build. Maybe he'd been ill. Maybe his
tailor had gone on vacation. Maybe she needed to focus on her
problems and stop imagining what he looked like without that bulky
suit.

"Go ahead. Take it."

Amy snapped back to attention, warmth
creeping into her cheeks. The man was still offering his card.

She reached for it, her hand so close to his
she could feel the heat radiating from him, the pent-up energy.

Something wasn't right with this guy. She'd
lived by her wits long enough to trust her instincts and they were
chattering to her now like a flock of magpies in the presence of a
hungry hawk.

She took the card, anyway. Not that it meant
much. She could print up a bunch of her own, declaring herself to
be Michelle Obama, if she chose. And his office? The number could
belong to his great aunt Sophie, coached to say whatever he wanted.
Still, it was easier to agree. The sooner he was on his way, the
sooner she could get back to work. She glanced at her watch. The
hardware store, and the call, would have to wait until
tomorrow.

"I'll phone in the morning. Have a good
evening." She turned towards the house and made her way up the
walk, examining the card.

Sam Hutchinson. Barrister.

She read the address. So Jag Man was a
Calgary lawyer. At least now she knew how he got the car. But what
was the guy doing here this time of year? It wasn't exactly the
height of tourist season. Many of the family-run businesses were
shut down for the winter.

"Excuse me, Miss."

She stopped and looked over her shoulder.
"Yes, Mr. Hutchinson?"

The man's smile was designed to thaw the
coldest jury during a January ice storm. "I didn’t get your
name."

Because she hadn’t given it. But what would
it hurt? It wasn't her real one.

"Tesher. Amy Tesher."

"Thanks, Ms Tesher." The car lights flashed
as he made his way around to the driver's side. "See you
tomorrow."

* * * * *

Sam knew he'd outstayed his welcome.

When the woman turned back to him, she'd
stepped forward, looking like she might refuse another visit. So
he'd jumped in the car and sped off.

No
wasn't an option for him.

He parked down another dirt road under a dead
tree, hoping police didn't patrol the area. His presence would be
difficult to explain, impossible to justify.

He reached over to the passenger seat,
snapped opened the locks on his briefcase, and shuffled through the
newspaper clippings.

The first dated back fifteen years--articles
from the old
Cincinnati Post
, the
Atlanta
Constitution
, the
Toronto Star
, and Saskatoon's
StarPhoenix
.

All involved children. All of them dead.

Boys, mostly, but a few girls sprinkled in
here and there. Fresh faces looking out at him, sadness behind
their eyes, as if they'd known their fate before it happened.