As Darkness Gathers (Dark Betrayals Book 2) (31 page)

L’auberge des Trois Ours
 

My knowledge of French was limited, but I thought it said
The Three Bears Inn
.

I turned off the highway and bounced down the rutted gravel road for several miles until I worried my car would get marooned in the deepening muddy snow. Instead of driving any further, I pulled to the edge of the lane and parked. After retrieving my heavy winter coat from my bag and locking the car, I pocketed my keys and started out on foot.

The hem of my jeans was soon soaked as I slogged through the snow. The icy slush crunched underfoot, and the wind was brisk in my face, but the sun was bright overhead. After ten minutes or so of traipsing down the winding, increasingly narrow road, the smooth ribbon of snow turned sharply and came to a dead end before a large, rustic log cabin.

The craftsmanship was beautiful, all rough-hewn wood and glass. The roof was steep, the porch deep. There was a pickup truck with a snowplow attached to the front bumper parked beside the cabin, and above the front door hung a sign with the inn’s name in carved lettering. A trail on the other side of the cabin led into the woods and through the winter-thin trees I could see the roofs of ten cabins, built with the same wilderness durability and charm as the inn but on a smaller scale. Beyond the cabins lay the gleam of the reservoir. A waft of smoke curled over the chimney of the inn and smelled of wood fire.
 

I stomped the slush from my boots on the steps and then crossed the porch to knock. No one answered, but when I tried the door, it swung open. “Hello?” I peered inside, standing in the threshold.

A massive stone fireplace split the room in half and drew my gaze upward to the vaulted ceiling. The left side of the room was a reception area with a long, high counter. Beside it, stairs led to a shadowed second floor. To the right was a den, dominated by oversized leather and wood furniture and warmly lit by multiple lamps. The far wall was glass, and another was lined with shelves of books. It was cozy and inviting, but I retreated outside and pulled the door closed behind me.

I was starting down the porch steps when someone tall stepped around the corner of the cabin carrying an armload of firewood and wearing an orange knit cap. I wasn’t certain if it was a man or a woman until the voice called out in French. While low and husky, it was decidedly feminine. A great animal lumbered along behind her, and the breath seized in my throat as I thought it was a bear.
 

The woman turned back to the massive beast and said, “Honoré!
Allons-y!
”
 

It was a dog, a Newfoundland, and he lifted his head from where he was sniffing in the snow and bounded after her.
 

She addressed me again in French.

I hesitated. “I’m sorry, I—”

“You are lost?” the woman asked in English, stacking the wood in a pile by the steps.
 

“Not really, no,” I said, studying her.

She was tall and slim and moved with the agility of a young woman, though up close I could see her face was lined and weathered by age.

She straightened. “Surely you are not here for a cabin. They are all boarded up.”

“Boarded up? Oh, but I . . .” I hadn’t come to stay. Then again, I wasn’t certain why I was there.
 

The dog trotted over to me, and I held out my hand. He sniffed it and then rubbed his muzzle on my palm, coating my hand with icy slobber, and I found myself smiling. The expression was almost startling, since it felt like it had been a long, long time. I wiped my hand on my jeans and then stroked the dog’s head. “I didn’t realize you’d be closed for the winter,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

She eyed me with a keen, intelligent gaze and pulled off her orange cap, exposing short, dark hair liberally laced with silver. She stuffed her cap in her coat pocket. “You are American, eh?”

“I am.”

“You have come a long way.” She glanced at the soaked hem of my jeans. “Where is your vehicle?”

“I parked less than a mile back. I didn’t want to get stuck.”

She smiled, and it reminded me of my mother. “A wise move. I am Simone Bardot.”

“Finch Rhodes.”

“That big beast is Honoré. Come inside then,” she said, leading the way. “I find the older I become, the harsher the winter seems. I will make coffee for us.”

“I would love a cup, thank you.”

She stoked the fire in the hearth and gestured to the L-shaped couch. “Please, make yourself comfortable. The coffee will be a moment.” She disappeared into another room off the den.
 

I shed my coat and draped it over the arm of the couch before taking a seat on the side closest to the fire. Feeling someone’s gaze on me, I turned from staring at the low flames and met the dog’s brown eyes.
 

He sat watching me, his head cocked to the side.

“Honoré is a very distinguished name,” I said.

He must have heard an invitation in my voice, for he lumbered over and heaved his muscular bulk onto the couch, sprawled out beside me, and planted his head across my lap. The denim of my jeans was almost immediately dampened with drool.

I settled back into the leather upholstery and tunneled my fingers into his dense black fur. As I dropped my head against the cushions, my gaze was snared by the painting that hung over the mantle. It was at least five feet wide and four feet tall, and at first I thought it was a photograph, the detail was so clear, the colors so vibrant.

It showed the cabin in the initial phases of construction, the foundation and framework laid, the fireplace a stalwart sentinel, the porch finished but for the roof and steps. The forest beyond and the meadow surrounding were riotous with the lush, fecund colors of spring. The focal point of the scene, though, was the trio of black bears. Two cubs were exploring the unfinished porch—one climbing a post, the other with three paws on the porch and one rear paw still on the ground as he tried to boost himself up. Their mother stood off to the side, her gaze toward the artist. The expression in her golden eyes wasn’t threatening, merely watchful.
 

“My husband, Jean, halted construction for almost a month so the bears wouldn’t be frightened away.” Simone set the tray she carried on the low table before the fireplace and then collected my coat and hung it on a rack beside the door.

“It’s a beautiful painting. I keep expecting to see the bears move.”
 

She sat in the overstuffed chair across from me, and her smile was one of pride. “My Jean was a man of many talents.” She poured two mugs of coffee from a carafe. The liquid was dark and steaming, and when she held up a small pitcher and asked, “Cream and sugar?”
 

I nodded.
 

“He painted that over thirty years ago, and I never tire of looking at it.” She stirred both cups and then handed me one.

I leaned forward to accept it, and the dog grumbled and readjusted his head on my knees.

Simone clucked her tongue. “You must forgive Honoré. He thinks himself a lap dog.”

“He’s fine,” I assured her then blew ripples across my drink. I started to take a sip and then hesitated, peering into the liquid, wondering.
 

At Sydney’s, I’d thought I’d only been drinking wine—there’d been no taste or smell to give away the Rohypnol.
 

I glanced at Simone but her gaze was on the painting as she drank her coffee. Feeling both wary and ridiculous, I took a tentative swallow, and my eyes slid closed. It was strong and aromatic and seemed to warm my bones as much as it did my stomach.

“Good, is it not? My son brings it to me from France when he comes to help me run the place in the summer.”

“It’s delicious,” I said. “Your place here is gorgeous. You’ve had it for over thirty years?”

“This next summer will be thirty-five years.” She glanced at the painting again. “My Jean, he was French. I am from Québec. We met in Montréal, and when I brought him home here to meet my family, we never left. We married, started a family, and built this place.” She chuckled. “He loved this land. I always said it was the true reason he married me.” Her gaze fell from the painting and landed on me. “My dog has claimed your lap for a pillow, and now I am boring you with an old lady’s ramblings.”

“Not at all. This is as good a place to reminisce as I’ve ever seen.”

There was approval in her eyes when she smiled at me. “Tell me, Finch. That is a lovely, unusual name. How did you come to the
Trois Ours
?”

I took a moment to drain the last of my coffee and then placed the mug on the tray. “I happened upon you.”

“And this area? Aside from a father and son who come every year, I do not think it is so popular with you Americans.”

I tucked a curl of hair behind my ear.

“Ah,” she said, her voice quiet. “Things are rarely so simple, eh?” I had no response, but she didn’t give me time for one. “I am afraid I cannot offer you a cabin. As I said, they have been long boarded up for the winter and are not suitable for guests. But I have a room upstairs you are welcome to, if you will help me put fresh linens on the bed.”

I had no plans. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to accomplish, but I said, “Do you accept credit cards?”

She waved a hand with dismissive grace. “It was a busy summer, and you are obviously searching for something. Stay until you have found it. Honoré and I do not mind the company.”

She showed me to a room that was large and masculine. “My son’s,” she said as we made up the bed with hunter-green sheets and a navy comforter that matched the curtains on the bay windows.
 

Honoré sank onto the wooden floor like a big, breathing rug and watched us.

Later, Simone cleared a path up the road, and the three of us piled into the cab of the pickup and drove the half mile to my car, which I then parked in front of the inn.

The sun had long since set and exhaustion weighed heavily on me. My room was dark, but I sat upright in the middle of the bed, dug my phone out of the bottom of my purse, and turned it on. I had only one bar of signal, but it was enough for messages to come through. The glare from the screen hurt my eyes.

There was a text from my mother.
 

I understand. Just be safe and know we love you. Your father says to call and check in when you can.

There was a short one from my brother that simply said,
luv u squirt
.
 

I had missed three calls from Clay, one for each night I’d been gone, around eight in the evening. Just like our old phone dates. I touched his name on the screen, resisting the urge to dial his number. He hadn’t left any messages.

Julia had called twice, and today she’d left a voicemail. With a trembling hand, I hit the button to listen.

“Hey, Finch, it’s me,” she said. Her voice shook, and she took a deep breath. “Sydney was taken off life support this morning. She . . . she didn’t last long. Mr. Beecher . . . he’s devastated. He doesn’t want a ceremony or anything.” She was silent for a long moment. “I understand you couldn’t be here, but I knew you’d want to know. And I wanted to be the one to tell you.” Her voice sounded hoarse, and she coughed. “Come home when you can.”

There was a click, and then an automated voice droned, “To delete this message, press one. To save it, press two. To listen to this message again, press three.”

I slumped to my side in the middle of the bed, curled my knees to my chest, and pressed my fist to my lips. I hit three on the keypad and tucked the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Finch,” Julia said, “it’s me . . .”

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning I woke early, despite having slept little and poorly.
 

When I arrived downstairs, the scent of Simone’s coffee was pungent in the air and mixed with the smell of the wood-burning fire. I started toward the kitchen but paused at the reception desk.
 

It was a high wooden counter reminiscent of a saloon’s bar and, spread across the top, covered with a thin sheet of glass, was a topographical map of the area.

I bent over it, hanging on to the counter with a white-knuckled grip. I was so absorbed, I jumped when something brushed my thigh.
 

Honoré sat down at my side, and I rubbed his head absently, poring over the map, until a mug of coffee was placed in my line of vision.

I turned to Simone. “Is there a bluff overlooking the river around this area?” I tapped a spot on the map. “With a faint trail leading to the top?” My voice sounded raspy to my own ears.
 

I tried to remember what Timothy had said. “There are cabins nearby. And a mine.”

Simone looked at the map. “I am familiar with that area. It is about seven, eight miles from here.”
 

She fixed her gaze on me, and I knew she didn’t miss what I had seen in the mirror this morning: swollen eyes and a wan complexion.
 

“I can take you. After you have eaten.”

My stomach felt knotted, but I managed to swallow several bites of eggs and toast past the tightness in my throat. The coffee helped. I went upstairs to my borrowed room and changed into the warmer, weatherproof clothes Simone had provided. She was taller than I, so I had to roll up the sleeves and pant legs.