Rachel Lee (7 page)

It would. It would fit perfectly. Especially with the Main Street improvement project that had resulted in Victorian streetlights and brick sidewalks.

He walked slowly around the table, looking at the model, which was painted in the candy colors so popular on Victorians. "It's cheerful,"

he said finally.

"It's beautiful," said Hannah, then clapped a hand to her mouth as if she were talking out of turn.

"That's why I brought you along," Witt said. "Talk to me, Hannah."

"The others are ordinary, Witt. This would be a landmark."

Surprisingly, Jim nodded. "Might even get you some coverage in the major papers and some magazines. And look at this." Bending over the table, he swung back part of the model, opening one of the wings for inspection. Inside were the rooms, a few of them even decorated with fancy doll furniture, rugs and fixtures.

"Wow," said Hannah, a smile curving her mouth. "Can I take this home and play with it?"

Jim laughed, and Witt had to grin. "Some dollhouse, huh? Well, if I decide to go with this guy, you get to keep the model."

Hannah colored faintly. "I don't have anyplace to put it, Witt. I was just being enthusiastic."

"You'll have a place to put it," he said with a firmness that had her looking strangely at him.

"Okay," Witt said, looking at the model again, trying to wrap his preconceived ideas around this unexpected model of his future. Hannah liked it, and that was a big plus as far as he was concerned. "It's got the owner's apartments and everything?"

"It does," Jim confirmed. "And you're sure this guy is okay?"

"I checked him out. He's only been in the business solo for five years, but he hasn't had any problems. His clients seem to be happy.

He has a reputation for keeping on schedule and on budget."

"Sounds good. And the overall price?"

"Smack between the log cabin and the Tudor style."

"Hmm." He couldn't reject it on those grounds, then.

"Witt?" Hannah spoke. "What's wrong? Don't you like it?"

"It's just not what I had in mind. I'm going to have to think about it."

"What don't you like?"

"Nothing. Really. It's just I wasn't planning on Victorian." A silly thing to be resistant about, especially when Hannah seemed to like the design.

"Well," she said, "it has to be your decision."

Jim spoke. "If you don't like any of them, Witt, we can put out requests for more bids. Acceptance is contingent on you liking the designs, as well as on the financial side of it."

"It's not that I don't like it," Witt said again, feeling a little beleaguered. "Maybe it's the colors. Wouldn't all white with black shutters look better?"

"More traditional, certainly," Jim agreed.

"Let's take a look at the bids, okay?"

Jim nodded and led them back to his office. He'd pulled out the salient parts of all the bid packages and had them ready for Witt to look at without the boilerplate in the way.

Witt read through the first two slowly, making mental notes about the time lines, about the lists of materials, thinking about all the little details these guys had considered, things he might never have thought about if he'd spent a year working on something like this.

The he turned to the final bid, the one for the Victorian. And he saw the name at the top of it. "Hardy Wingate?" he said, his voice muffled. Beside him, he could feel Hannah stiffen.

Jim looked at him, his brow furrowing. "Is something wrong?"

"" Yeah," said Witt, tossing the papers down on Jim's desk. " I wouldn't do business with that jerk if he was the last architect on the planet. I'll think about the other two, Jim. I'll call you in a day or two. "

He and Hannah were in the car climbing back into the mountains before he spoke again. "I'm sorry, I forgot I was going to buy you lunch."

"Don't worry about it."

He nodded once, briefly, then pounded the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "Goddamn it! How the hell did Hardy get hold of that bid package?"

Hannah spoke uncertainly. "You heard what Jim said. One of the other firms must have passed it along to him."

"Yeah. Yeah." But his gut was burning, and he didn't want to think it was all as simple as that. "Imagine him having the gall to bid!"

Hannah folded her hands in her lap. "He put an awful lot of work into it."

"And why the hell did he do that? He must've known I was going to turn him down."

"Maybe."

"There's no maybe about it." He glared at her, as if she were somehow at fault, then slapped his hand against the steering wheel once more.

"Witt..."

He hated it when she did that, starting to speak, then checking herself, leaving him wondering what the hell she had decided to say.

But he knew from long experience that pressing her wasn't going to get her to spit it out.

"Damn it," he said again, and turned off the highway. "I'm getting lunch. Son of a bitch thinks I'm going to hire him to build my lodge after he killed my daughter?"

"Maybe not," Hannah said quietly.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe he doesn't expect anything at all from you. Maybe he just has dreams, too, Witt."

"Well, fuck him."

Neither of them said another word until they stopped at a fast-food place and ordered chicken. Hannah had her usual thigh with coleslaw.

Witt, who burned calories faster in the mine than he could sometimes eat them, ordered two breasts, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits and baked beans.

They took a table in a quiet corner. The place wasn't busy, probably because it was the middle of the afternoon. Halfway through his first chicken breast, Witt looked up. "He did it just to tweak my nose."

Hannah, who was nibbling at her coleslaw, merely looked at him.

"Well, what the hell else could he be up to?"

"Maybe," she said carefully, "he just wants the job. Or maybe it's an olive branch."

"Olive branch! Hah! He should never have taken Karen out behind my back."

"Maybe not. But you need to remember that she was your daughter, and she chose to go with him even when you forbade it."

"She wouldn't have done it if he hadn't been urging her."

"Mmm." Hannah said no more. Instead, she filled her mouth with a spoonful of slaw.

God, Witt thought, he hated it when she went inscrutable on him. That

"Mmm" said volumes. She didn't agree with him but wasn't going to say so. Ordinarily he could ignore that kind of stuff from her, but today he was itching for a fight so badly he could hardly stand it. And Hardy Wingate was nowhere around to fight with. Which left Hannah.

And what did that say about him?

"Sorry," he grumbled, and attacked his second piece of chicken. The food, which he ordinarily enjoyed, tasted like sawdust today. For a bit, he stared out the window beside him, noticing that dark clouds were gathering over the mountains to the west. Apparently the clear sunny day was about to give way to some more snow. Well, that was fine by him. The way he was feeling, getting snowed in would suit him just fine.

He tried to tell himself he shouldn't feel so bent, but he felt bent anyway. It wasn't as if Hardy Wingate had done anything new to him.

All the guy had done was set himself up for a major disappointment.

Asking to get kicked, really.

So what maggot was gnawing Hardy's brain, anyway? For all the nasty things Witt had thought about Hardy over the years, he'd never thought the guy was stupid. And this was stupid. Had he thought he was going to slip one by, that maybe Witt wouldn't notice who the bidder was?

He would have liked to think Hardy was that underhanded, but in his mind's eye he could still see the pages of the bid, every one clearly marked Hardy Wingate, Architect.

No, he hadn't been trying to pull a fast one.

"Olive branch?" he said, returning his gaze to Hannah.

She was holding her foam coffee cup in both hands, her lunch barely touched. "Yes," she said.

He sometimes hated her calm and her monosyllabic answers. Sometimes he wished she would get all ruffled. Angry, even. He'd only seen her that way once, but afterward it had been as if all the doors had shut.

Probably better that way, for both of them, but a guy could wish.

"Well," he said, "it's a hell of a way to do it. And I don't give a damn, anyhow. My daughter's dead, and I'm not likely to forget that fact."

"Of course you're not."

He barely heard her agreement, because he could almost, but not quite, hear the three or four sentences she hadn't spoken. "What are you thinking?"

Hannah shook her head and sipped her coffee. "It's a pretty hotel."

"Too fuckin' bad."

"Witt, please."

"Sorry." He knew Hannah didn't like that word, but he was that mad.

Mad because he had a feeling someone was trying an end run around him, and he didn't like that feeling. Mad because he had a gut deep suspicion that Hardy hadn't come up with this harebrained idea on his own. Hardy was definitely not that stupid.

But then, his opinion of Hardy Wingate had never been that low. Even back when he'd objected to Karen dating him, he hadn't thought Hardy was all that bad. A little wild, like most boys his age, but not as wild as some. It was just that at the time, given Hardy's background, Witt had feared the boy wasn't going anywhere, and he hadn't wanted Karen to tie herself down to some miner. He'd wanted better things for her.

And he'd feared that Hardy's character hadn't been fully set yet, and that he might turn out to be a twig off his father's tree. A useless alcoholic. Hadn't turned out that way, obviously, but Witt didn't have a crystal ball. He'd just wanted what was best for Karen.

But Karen was dead, and he held Wingate directly responsible, and he wasn't going to make any excuses for that. None at all.

And he sure as hell wasn't going to give the guy a million-dollar job.

Jesus, no. Every time he saw Hardy, all he could think of was Karen.

Hannah stirred, and Witt looked at her, asking, "Aren't you going to eat?"

"Somehow I don't have much appetite when you get mad."

"I'm not mad."

She shook her head.

"Okay, so I'm mad. Except that ... that's not exactly the word I would use, Hannah."

She sipped her coffee and nodded encouragingly, but he didn't have any more to say. Finally she said, "Maybe you're not as angry as you are hurt."

He shied away from that. It sounded weak, somehow. "The hurt was a long time ago."

"That isn't what I meant." But, as usual, she wouldn't tell him what she had meant. That was Hannah. Like talking to a goddamn riddle.

He sighed in irritation and shoved his lunch aside, his appetite long since gone. Reaching for the coffee he still hadn't touched, he popped a hole in the plastic lid, then swore when it burned his tongue. Some days he felt cursed, and this was turning into one of them.

It didn't help when he realized Hannah was looking amused. "What's so funny?" he demanded.

"Not a thing."

"Quit lying to me."

Her amusement faded, but she didn't answer directly. "Sometimes," she said, "folks start acting like flies caught in a spiderweb. Twisting this way and that and just getting more stuck."

Witt didn't like that image one bit, especially since he had the niggling suspicion she might be right about him. "What are you saying?" The question was truculent, and he expected that in her usual way she would avoid answering. She surprised him.

"Look into your heart, Witt. Do what you know is right."

And the way she said "right" let him know that she didn't mean he should do what he felt like doing. Funny how doing the right think was often the wrong thing in terms of how you felt about it.

"I am doing the right thing. I ain't letting any murderer build my hotel."

For once her face wasn't inscrutable. It was downright disapproving.

Right now he didn't give a damn. Right now he wasn't prepared to nitpick the fine line between murder and killing, or the one between deliberate and accidental. Because the result was always the same, regardless: Karen was still dead.

Joni beat her mother home by about twenty minutes, so she started making lasagne. As a rule, she hated cooking, but there were times, like now, when the routine and rhythm of it could soothe her. She desperately needed soothing.

All day she'd been acutely aware that Witt and Hannah had gone to Denver to review the bids. She had no idea if Hardy had bid and couldn't even guess what Witt's response would be if he had. Would Witt suspect her involvement? Part of her hoped not, while another part of her scolded herself for being spineless. She ought to just fess up and have it out with Witt.

But now that she'd taken the drastic action of trying to mend fences with Hardy, all she could think about was how much she loved Witt.

She browned some hamburger, then dumped store bought spaghetti sauce into the pot with it to simmer. She put the water on to boil for the pasta and stirred the ricotta mixture in a blue bowl.

Then, for a bit, she had nothing to do but wait, and waiting gave her time to think. For a week now she'd been trying to avoid that, but life wasn't cooperating.

She loved Witt. She loved him at least as much as she'd loved her father. He'd been a good uncle before her father's death, and she'd adored him, but from the day she and Hannah had moved up here, after Lewis was killed, Witt had stood in for her dad.

He'd been there every time she had needed him. He'd treated her with every bit as much affection and warmth as he'd treated Karen, and she and Karen had often pretended they were sisters, not just cousins.

Since Karen's death . well, since Karen's death, Joni had often felt she needed to fill that hole in Witt's life, and Witt had seemed to take her even more into his heart. It wasn't that she had replaced Karen for him, but that, lacking Karen, he had lavished even more love on Joni.

She would have done just about anything for him. So why had she done this? What had compelled her, after all this time, to rock what was a very dangerous emotional boat?