A Dark Love (10 page)

“No problem.”

Porter waited until he heard the click that indicated she was transferring the call. Then he hung up.

He turned his attention back to the computer screen, pointed the mouse back to Caroline’s inbox, and stared.

He fingered the mouse, reviewing his options. What he was about to do was risky, he knew, and yet it was his best option. And most likely the only one that remained.

Taking a deep breath, he clicked on the button marked reply.

Porter hit send and waited.

He’d bet anything that prick in Modesto would keep his wife and twins waiting until he’d replied to Caroline.

S
TORM
P
ASS
, C
OLORADO

C
aroline awoke to a room bathed in soft amber light. Mornings came suddenly here, more than eight thousand feet above sea level. Stretching luxuriously, she pushed the patchwork quilt aside and slid out of bed.

With a whine of protest, Pippin jumped off and followed her down the hall, his toenails clicking on the polished wood floor. Caroline surveyed herself in the bathroom mirror while she brushed her teeth. She was no longer startled by the face that looked back. She had grown used to her short blond hair. But the biggest change was her eyes. They no longer looked haunted.

There were scrabbling noises on the floor behind her. Nan’s dog, Scout, had come to greet them in his usual way. He rubbed himself, catlike, against Caroline’s legs and then tackled Pippin. Pippin was the smaller and more docile of the two, and no match for Scout.

“Morning, boys,” Caroline said. “Break it up or take it outside.” She nudged the wiry Jack Russell terrier off Pippin with her foot, and reached for a plush bath towel from its hook on the back of the bathroom door. She
shook the towel at them to break it up and they scurried ahead of her down the back staircase.

The sun was just rising next to the massive peak to the southeast, sending rays of warm pinkish light into the large kitchen. The pasture behind the house was becoming visible through the wall of windows, and the pine forest beyond the split-rail fence. A fieldstone fireplace, big enough to stand in, lined the interior wall. A long oak table and an assortment of antique chairs took up the center of the room. Large stone tiles lined the floor, giving the place the feel of a genuine frontier homestead.

But it was an illusion. The ranch house had been maintained in top condition and fully renovated, right down to the professional-grade appliances. Nan’s late husband, Colonel Charles Birmingham, had been a gourmet cook, among other things.

Caroline busied herself with the imported espresso machine now, measuring out French roasted beans and grinding them with the flip of a button before setting the dial to brew.

The dogs raced around her feet, excited the day had begun. They tripped over themselves on the way to the door. Caroline collected a fleece parka, shoved her bare feet into moccasins, and opened the back door. The dogs raced past, out onto the grass that was rimed with frost.

The air was sweet and sharp, carrying the first hint of autumn. Caroline saw steam when she exhaled, following the dogs along the path across the pasture and into the woods. The aspens had already dropped most of their leaves. Austrian pines stood shoulder to shoulder with mature cedars. Birds chattered above, including the family of blue jays that lived at the back of the pasture.

The dogs raced along ahead of her, barking at birds and everything else, until the path opened out onto a small clearing. The unmistakable scent of sulfur gained strength as Caroline approached a small, rocky pool. Heavy mist rose from the surface, which bubbled like stew underneath.

She climbed onto a large, flat boulder at the water’s edge, took off her clothes, and slipped in.

The dogs darted around the rocks at the edge of the pool as Caroline swam a few strokes through water that was warm like a bath in some places, roiling like a hot tub in others. When she reached the middle, she flipped onto her back and did a survival float, watching steam rise from her stomach.

The entire experience was incredible.

Caroline had never imagined a place such as this. She knew she had less to fear in the wilderness than she’d had in the life she’d left behind. Big animals, she learned, took great care to keep themselves hidden. Nan reassured Caroline she could spend years on the mountain without seeing one in daylight.

Nan had inherited the ranch from her husband, whose family had settled here four generations ago, making them the oldest Anglo family in Storm Pass, Colorado. None of which amounted to a hill of beans in these parts, Nan pointed out. The site had been selected for its proximity to this hot sulfur pool, considered by the indigenous Ute people to have mystical properties. Miners and ranchers settled the area next, followed decades later by a smattering of tourists who soon discovered the healing properties of the bubbling springs.

Nan’s swimming days were behind her, but she told Caroline she still made the short hike in summer. The
Utes believed breathing the mineral-laden air could push evil spirits away. Caroline drifted now, taking in deep lungs full of air and holding them. She exhaled each as fully as she could, imagining she was pushing out all remnants of her marriage to Porter.

When she was too breathless to continue, she paddled to the edge and toweled off, showering the dogs with droplets from her hair.

She dressed quickly and headed back, her skin tingling and alive with energy. The forest had come to life around her, bright with the light of morning, the air so still she could almost hear the beating of her heart. The breezes that were a constant at this altitude would not pick up until later in the day.

Emerging into the pasture where the last of the tall summer grasses still stood, yellowed and dry now, she spotted Nan in her teak rocker on the porch, nestled under a wool blanket. Her long hair, the color of brushed steel, flowed down her shoulders, not yet coiled into her usual braid.

Nan smiled as Caroline approached. “Mornin’, Alice.”

Caroline smiled back, pausing at the bottom of the steps. “Good morning. Looks like another beautiful day.”

The older woman nodded in agreement. “This is my favorite time of year. Things will start to change in another week or two. October is a tricky month. That’s when storms start to brew up in the mountains.”

Caroline followed Nan’s gaze to the jagged peaks visible above the tree line.

“Cold air comes down from the north and collects here below the pass. This time of year it collides with the warm air from farther south. Most every afternoon in fall, the gods put on quite a show,” Nan explained.

Caroline contemplated the peaks. She had never experienced anything like the constant breezes that were a part of everyday life this high up. She shivered now to imagine what the coming weeks might bring.

Nan chuckled. “We’ll make a mountain girl out of you yet. If you make it through a winter here, you’ll be a native.”

It was the most obvious reference yet to Caroline’s sudden appearance in Storm Pass, and she chose to ignore it. She climbed the steps and rested at the top, winded. The locals were right, she decided. Altitude sickness was a small price to pay for living here.

Nan seemed to read her mind. “This high up, we’re close to God, as the Colonel used to say.”

Caroline considered this. “He must have been a special person.”

Nan’s smile deepened. “He was. I was lucky to have him.”

“You were lucky to have each other. A lot of people don’t have that.” It was more than Caroline meant to say, and she looked back out over the pasture to avoid Nan’s gaze.

Nan made no comment.

Caroline was growing to appreciate the Western custom of talking less, listening more.

“We both loved this place the best in all the world,” Nan said reflectively. “I have no intention of leaving. My niece wants me to spend the winter with her in Florida.” Nan grimaced. “She sent me a round-trip airline ticket, even one for Scout. But I told her I can manage just fine.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Caroline said with a smile.

“I might go for a short visit. You could stay here and look after things.” Nan caught the round-eyed look on
her employee’s face as she surveyed the big house and surrounding land. “It’d be good for you to have some time on your own.”

The young woman nodded, thoughtful. “I guess.”

There was no mistaking the lightening of her expression. “You’ll have it easy,” Nan said with a smile. “I’ll bring Scout with me.”

At the mention of his name, Scout trotted over with Pippin close behind.

Pulling liver treats from her pocket, Caroline began their morning ritual. She directed Pippin to sit, lie down, and shake, rewarding him with a treat. Scout was not as easy, but Caroline worked patiently with the stubborn Jack Russell, repeating the commands until the little white dog gave in at last.

Nan watched her new employee work with the dogs, her face relaxed and animated for the first time since they’d met. Alice was young, beautiful, and in a heap of trouble. Nan had seen her share of trouble in seventy-seven years of life, enough to know this girl had plenty. Which was why Nan had offered her a job on the spot at Maebeth’s. Nan had taken an instant liking to Alice, and it was good to have company. The ranch was too quiet since the Colonel died last spring.

Caroline cupped a treat near Scout’s mouth and tapped his paw with her free hand. “Shake,” she ordered.

They had been practicing with little result.

“Scout, shake,” Caroline repeated the command.

The little dog finally lifted his paw the barest centimeter off the ground before snatching his treat greedily.

“He’s learning.” Caroline beamed.

Nan laughed. “Are you training him or is he training you?”

A smile lit Caroline’s face. “It takes time. You just have to keep at it every day. An animal can be trained to do just about anything.”

“Relax, Caroline, relax.”

She would never forget the heat of his breath on the back of her neck as he repeated the words that would become for her a dark mantra. Soft and beseeching at first, increasingly strident as his own sense of urgency grew. Each time pushed her farther down a path that turned and twisted on its way into a realm she dared remember only with pain and fear. But something else lived there, something too dark to acknowledge.

Caroline gave away more of herself each time, despair seeping inside her like drops of ice-cold rain.

“Relax.”

She learned to tell Porter the words he wanted to hear, all the time focusing on her mantra from long ago, burned in the brain of that little girl who got used up and left alone.

“Relax.”

Adult Caroline closed her eyes and opened herself to Porter so he wouldn’t tear open the old wounds. But on the inside she bled.

Porter’s breathing turned ragged, his voice hoarse with excitement. “Say it.”

She lay facedown, screwed her eyes closed, and whispered in the dark. “I want this.”

Looking back, Caroline wondered when her life with Porter had spiraled so far out of control. It hadn’t started out that way. She’d met him on a crisp fall afternoon that was full of possibilities. She had walked
the short distance from her dorm across Foggy Bottom along E Street past the historic Octagon House to the Corcoran Gallery of Art. She preferred this area, rich in history and relatively quiet, to the Mall that was always jammed with tourists.

There were few people about in mid-afternoon, with the semester young enough that Caroline could afford a couple of hours off to admire the Corcoran’s private art collection instead of locking herself away to study it in the school library.

The Corcoran was the first stop on a worldwide tour of select works by J. M. William Turner, the English painter of romantic landscapes.

With a thrill of anticipation, Caroline crossed Constitution Avenue, entered, and waited in a short line to check her coat, noting with satisfaction the place wasn’t completely jammed yet. She passed up the audio tour kit. She had already researched the featured works.

Caroline Hughes was twenty years old, midway through her senior year studying art history at the Columbian College of Arts and Sciences at the George Washington University.

The exhibit was overwhelming. She stopped to rest in front of a particular favorite,
Arundel Castle.

She pondered the mural, her printed guide forgotten, until the lights and colors danced before her eyes, and the room receded from her consciousness in the presence of such exquisite beauty.

So she was shocked to hear her private thoughts spoken by a soft male voice. “He uses light to draw us closer, always closer to the center. Pure genius.”

Caroline found herself nodding in agreement even before she turned to look. The man sitting beside her
was older than she by a number of years, she estimated. Well dressed in what looked to be a black Armani suit jacket over black sweater over black designer jeans, and black ankle boots of fine leather. The overall effect was distinguished, she decided. His hair was long and wavy, prematurely white, as was his close-cropped beard. His skin was white as porcelain.

His eyes were fixed on the canvas, oblivious to Caroline’s gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed, his tone refined. Reverent. “He uses light and shadow to invite us in, steering us always to the center. The mark of a master.”

Intrigued, Caroline turned back to the painting. Indeed, the colors were deeper in the center of the canvas. “The artist wants us to find our own way,” she offered, feeling a little like she had just been called on during a school lecture.

The man nodded. “He draws us in and presents us with his truth.” He turned, revealing the palest blue eyes she had ever seen, beneath lashes that were startling and pure white, as were his brows. He wore round steel glasses like John Lennon. All of which had the effect of intensifying his gaze.

“Few people appreciate the subtle power of Turner,” he said.

Caroline might have pointed out that plenty of people appreciated Turner, enough to have an entire wing named after him at London’s Tate Gallery, but already she sensed the man beside her was too sincere, too sensitive, to tolerate undergrad sarcasm. She searched instead for something intelligent to say, something to convince him she shared his appreciation for life’s subtleties. “Turner wasn’t very popular in England during
his lifetime,” she said finally. “Critics didn’t take him seriously.”

The man smiled and nodded again, taking in the printed guide and backpack on her lap. “They underestimated him.”