Chance of a Lifetime (13 page)

The old lady looked relieved. “I’ll bring in some tea,” she said, as if that were her assignment in the campaign.

Rick straightened and walked into the parlor obviously decorated when a craft store exploded. He could see a shadow leaning against one of the long parlor windows, but the sun obscured his view. “May I help you?” he said, sliding into his new role.

“I’d like to see my aunt.” The long form moved away from the window. She was tall, almost six feet and slim built with the movements of an athlete. “I’m Trace Adams.”

When she offered her hand, Rick was surprised by the
grip. As she moved away from the sun against her back, her full beauty hit him. Her midnight hair was parted in the middle and woven into a braid that hung past her waist. Intelligent green eyes studied him with caution from a face that was flawless and without makeup as near as he could tell.

“I’m the interim innkeeper, Rick Matheson,” he managed as he took her in like a man seeing his first true work of art. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever met. There was something strong and controlled about her reminding him of a warrior. She wasn’t a woman any man would call “little lady” or “sweetie.” “I’m sorry, but your aunt isn’t here. She should be back in a few weeks.”

Trace Adams raised a doubting eyebrow as if she was considering the possibility that he’d bumped off old Martha Q and buried her in the basement. “She told me that if I was ever in the area, I’d have a place to hide out for a while. Does the offer stand?”

She was direct. He liked that. Most of the time he listened to females he was wondering what they meant or when they’d get around to the point.

“It does,” he answered. “Provided you’re not running from the law.”

She smiled. “I don’t run from anything, mister, never have, but there’s a storm coming off the Rockies and headed this way. I thought I’d stop by here and ride it out.”

She pointed with her head and he saw the Harley-Davidson parked in the drive. He finally looked away from her eyes and down her body. Leather. She was dressed totally in black leather, molded to her body like a second skin. She could have stepped straight out of a James Bond movie. How could she possibly be standing in Harmony, Texas?

He walked to the window as if interested in her bike. Like her, it was beautiful and probably cost more than most of the new cars in town. “Are you close to your aunt?”

“No. A few phone calls a year.” She slapped her gloves
against her palm. “Look, Mr. Matheson, I’m looking more for a quiet place to stay than a long visit. We weren’t that close even when she was married to my uncle, husband number four for her, I think. I didn’t much care for him so when they divorced, I took Martha Q in the settlement. We’ve claimed each other ever since, but if there is a problem with me staying here, tell me now so I can make Dallas by dark, because I don’t intend to stand around taking a test until you make up your mind.”

That directness again, he thought. Surprising, shocking, intriguing. “I’m sorry. I’ll get you a key.” He had a feeling if he asked one more question she’d be out the door.

“I’ll take the attic room.” She walked around the desk tucked in the corner of the parlor and took a key from the center drawer as if she already knew where everything was. “Any problem with my putting my bike in the garage?”

“No, please, help yourself.” She obviously knew her way around. “My car burned a few days ago so I’ve no use for the garage.”

She looked up at him as if he were drooling again. Information she didn’t need, but Rick couldn’t seem to stop himself. “I guess you should know, Miss Adams, the sheriff seems to think someone is trying to kill me.”

She picked up a bag and walked toward the stairs. “Not my problem, Mr. Matheson, unless your screaming wakes me.”

He watched her disappear up the stairs and wasn’t surprised when Mrs. Biggs poked her head around the corner to watch also. “Friendly, isn’t she?” Mrs. Biggs laughed. “I can see why Martha Q loves her so.”

“How come you don’t know her, but she seems to know her way around?”

“Martha Q had the place open for a while before I got here. She could have visited then, but I’ve never seen so much as a Christmas card from family. Then, with family like that, cards might not be a priority.”

“You think she’s really Martha Q’s niece?”

“She’s strange enough to be. Martha Q told me once that one of her husbands was so wild his wolf pack of a family wouldn’t even claim him. She said he ran full throttle all day and most of the night. Once, he caught her napping and gave her such a hard time about it, she left him. She claimed he was great in bed, but if she’d been married to him another six months she would have been dead from exhaustion.” Mrs. Biggs glanced up the stairs. “This one looks like she could be from that branch of the family.”

Mrs. Biggs looked him up and down. “If I were you I’d stay away from her. A woman like her would kill you.”

Rick was getting tired of everyone thinking he couldn’t take care of himself, but in this case the old lady was probably right. A night with Trace Adams might be his last.

Rick laughed. “She’s sure going to make it interesting around here. You know, I think I feel better than I have all week.”

He spent the rest of the day watching for the lady in leather. Now and then he’d hear a door close or footsteps above, but she did not appear. A half hour before dusk he saw her running down the drive wearing a black jogging suit with a hood. Her movements were long and fast like a seasoned runner.

Strange, he hadn’t heard her coming down the stairs.

When she returned it was full dark. She stopped on the porch to stretch. Rick couldn’t resist grabbing his jacket and stepping outside. “You have a good run?” he asked.

She glared at him for a moment, then turned away.

He fought to keep from rattling off his entire life’s résumé. He wanted to tell her that he had been a football star in high school and played all four years in college. She might like that. He was a lawyer. Women always thought he was handsome. He could never remember being turned down for a date.

Rick forced his mind to stop listing things that probably wouldn’t impress her anyway. He suspected that even if he smiled big enough to show his dimple, she’d just walk
around him. So he settled for the basics. “What time would you like breakfast?”

“I don’t…”

“We are a bed-and-breakfast,” he reminded her.

“All right. How about seven?”

He’d thought more like nine or ten. “It
is
Sunday tomorrow, you know.”

“I know. That’s why I thought I’d sleep in and wait until seven.”

Was she teasing him? Somehow he doubted it. “Seven it is. I’ll tell Mrs. Biggs.”

She walked past him.

“Good night,” he said when she was halfway up the stairs.

He went into the sitting room on the second floor where he’d set up his office. He needed to get his mind off the woman upstairs and work on finding the man who had it in for him.

Whoever he was, he’d taken the time to saw the steps. He’d rounded up trash, mostly packing material and dead wood, and stuffed it into his car. He’d mailed a note:
Leave.

Rick wrote down
premeditated
on a legal pad. This wasn’t a crime of anger or rage. Whoever did this must have been watching him for a while. The guy knew where Rick parked his car, what time he left the office, and that he was the only one who used the back stairs after dark.

Rick added
logical
to his list.

The law office was in the center of town. Whoever set the fire had to be able to move around during the daylight without anyone noticing him. Even if he’d filled the car at night, he’d lit the fire during daylight hours when it would draw the most attention. When Rick would see it.

He wrote down George Hatcher’s name on the paper, then scratched it out. He was certainly close enough to have sparked the fire and saw the steps, but the bookstore owner had no motive.

At ten o’clock, Rick stood and stretched. It was time to call it a night. In his stocking feet, he passed the stairs on
the way to his room and decided to climb. After all, he was paid to watch over the house. He might as well make sure everything was locked up. With great care, he slowly moved up each step testing his muscles.

The attic widened at the top of the stairs. The top floor was big enough for two small rooms with a bath in between. One door was closed. Trace Adams had picked that one, he guessed. The bathroom door was open and so was the other bedroom.

Without a sound, he moved into the darkened bedroom and walked to where the windows opened out with a grand view of Harmony sleeping.

For a few minutes he looked out and took it all in, thinking about how much he loved this town. No one was going to run him out. He planned to live his life and be buried with generations of his family here. Until the staircase accident it had never seemed so important. Someday, if he ever got where he could afford it, he’d travel the world on vacation, but he’d always return home to Harmony.

The light from the other window drew him. For a moment, he didn’t see her sitting just outside the glow from her room. She was on the roof with just enough moonlight to outline her form. She was sitting as still as stone with her knees pulled up to her chin. Her black hair was free of its braid. The ends were dancing in the wind, but she didn’t seem to notice.

He thought of opening the window and yelling for her to get inside. The fall would kill her if she slipped. As he watched her, he realized she was in no danger. She’d done exactly this on rooftops before. The beautiful, strong young woman was in her element.

Suddenly, he didn’t want to tell her about himself; he wanted to know about her. Most women tell you everything about themselves by the time the main course arrives at dinner, but not this one. Rick sensed she didn’t believe in sharing. She couldn’t be out of her twenties, but he suspected that she’d spent her life alone.

As he watched, she stood and lowered herself back into
the window of her bedroom with the ease of one who’d done so dozens of times. A moment later, her light blinked out and he heard a door close. A few moments later, the shower came on.

Rick moved out of the room and headed back down to his room.

A
S HE PLAYED TO A
S
ATURDAY NIGHT CROWD
, B
EAU
Y
ATES
found himself watching people more than usual. If his mystery blond girl showed up once at Buffalo’s, she might again. Over the week since he’d seen her, she’d become more dream than memory.

About midnight, it began to rain. The tapping on the tin roof made the music take on a blend of old western songs, so he played some of the tunes he’d listened to at his grandfather’s place in the summers. The old man would play one record after another letting the music spread out off his front porch and move through the trees. He lived along the breaks where flat land turned rocky. He’d said once that he built his house at the end of the world and when Beau was little he believed his father’s father.

Beau loved his summers with his grandfather best when it rained and he could hear the music splashing against the water as rain poured in sheets off the roof. The old man lived alone, but he claimed he never felt alone when he listened to his records because they held all the good
memories of his life. Once in a while he’d say his wife used to rock babies to this one or he’d heard that song when he came home from the war and all the protests were going on.

With his father and stepmother doing mission trips in the summer, Beau learned to breathe in music until it stayed in his lungs all winter long. The last summer, the old man gave him his guitar. Beau played the Gibson so much that his father threatened to break it. After that, he only played when his father was gone. His stepmom never said she liked his music, but she never complained to his dad.

Tonight, he played for his grandpa, hoping he could hear it all the way from heaven. Border would play bass on the songs he knew, but he didn’t seem to mind when Beau played alone. For Border, this was the life. For Beau, it was just the beginning.

During the break, Border’s big brother came in and told them he was moving in with his girlfriend and they could have the duplex. The place was owned by Martha Q Patterson, their grandmother’s boss, and no one thought she’d mind as long as the rent was paid.

Beau and Border couldn’t wait to get home and redecorate their new place. For the first time in over a year, Beau would have a bedroom to sleep in and not just a blanket on a broken-down couch. Big had said he was leaving the furniture but taking the rest of his stuff.

“We can drive over to Bailey to the all-night Walmart and get us sheets. You don’t have any and mine are so ripped up I feel like a mummy when I wake up after rolling around in them,” Border said as they packed up after closing time.

“Any of the towels yours?” Beau asked.

“No. I’m guessing Big will take all three so we might want to buy us some. And soap. I’m tired of washing with them little bars we steal every time we stay at the crummy motels.”