On a dirt road marked by haunting secrets, three strangers caught at life’s crossroads must decide what to sacrifice to protect their own agendas…and what they’re each willing to risk for love.

If there’s any place that can convince Angela Harold to stop running, it’s Ransom Canyon. And if there’s any man who can reveal desires more deeply hidden than her every fear, it’s Wilkes Wagner. Beneath the rancher’s honorable exterior is something that just might keep her safe...or unwittingly put her in danger’s path.

With his dreams of leaving this small Texas town swallowed up by hard, dusty reality, all Wilkes has to show for his life is the Devil’s Fork Ranch. Though not one to let false hope seduce him, he can’t deny the quiet and cautious beauty who slips into his world and changes everything.

Lauren Brigman finally has freedom at her fingertips. All she needs is Lucas Reyes’s attention—a look, a touch, some sign that she’s more to him than a girl he rescued one dangerous night. But now it’s her turn to rescue someone, and the life-altering decision may cost her more than a chance with Lucas.

Praise for Jodi Thomas

“Jodi Thomas is a masterful storyteller. She grabs your attention on the first page, captures your heart, and then makes you sad when it’s time to bid her wonderful characters farewell. You can count on Jodi Thomas to give you a satisfying and memorable read.”

—Catherine Anderson, New York Times bestselling author

“Thomas sketches a slow, sweet surrender.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Compelling and beautifully written, it is exactly the kind of heart-wrenching, emotional story one has come to expect from Jodi Thomas.”

—Debbie Macomber, #1 New York Times bestselling author

“Tender, realistic, and insightful.”

—Library Journal

“Once I started [Ransom Canyon], I quickly found myself unable to put down this book.”

—Night Owl Reviews

“This book is like once again visiting old friends while making new ones and will leave readers eager for the next visit. A pure joy to read.”

—RT Book Reviews

“This is terrific reading from page one to the end. Jodi Thomas is a passionate writer who puts real feelings into her characters.”

—Fresh Fiction

Rustler’s Moon
Jodi Thomas

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Praise

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Extract

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Anna Marie Island, Florida

September

ANGELA HAROLD SAT in her father’s cluttered office, still wearing the black dress she’d worn to his funeral. She stared at the framed picture on his desk. The one she’d given him when she was seven. Their first fishing trip. He was smiling, the sun shining off his glasses. She stood by his side holding up a fish half her length.

A memory saved forever in the heart. For Angela, this one photo had come to signify the time before the fall. Before Florida. Before her mother’s illness. Before her father started withering inside. Before she’d felt trapped in her life.

Only now the bars that held her here were crumbling like columns of sugar in the rain. She should feel free, but all Angela felt was fear. A trapped bird staring at an open cage door. Afraid to fly. Afraid to stay.

The police had explained to her the night they’d found his body that he’d been mugged as he left his office. Neither the blows he’d suffered nor the gash on his head when he’d fallen had killed him. But his heart hadn’t been strong enough to survive the attack. Benjamin Harold’s heart may have stopped three days ago, but he’d stopped living years ago, one unfulfilled dream at a time.

“Who robs the bookkeeper on a Sunday night?” Angela whispered to the smiling man in the picture. The antiques store had been closed that day. Her father had said he was going in to straighten out the books. Whoever attacked him couldn’t have gotten more than a few hundred dollars from his wallet. They couldn’t have known about his weak heart.

Out of curiosity, she flipped open her father’s ledger book. He’d kept the books for his brother’s business since they first moved to Florida when she was seven. Her uncle Anthony owned the multimillion-dollar antiques business and he trusted no one with the books but her father. After all, Anthony might be the head of the company, but his brother had loaned him the money to get started. The last entry was a transfer from the store’s account to a numbered bank account.

She stared at the logbook and recalled the family story. Her father had loaned his younger brother, Anthony, fifty thousand dollars and the priceless necklace that was his inheritance for display once the store was built. The necklace was an heirloom and had been in the family for generations: an ancient Greek coin set in a cradle of gold and diamonds. Her grandparents’ will had stipulated the necklace go to the oldest son and never be sold off for profit.

In those early days, it was the one draw to an antiques store full of otherwise questionable treasures.

In exchange for the loan and letting the store display the necklace, Anthony agreed that her father would always be the bookkeeper. He’d have a job as long as he lived. Her father, who’d lost half a dozen jobs in his thirties and been injured at his last employment site, saw the offer as too good to turn down, even though he and Anthony had never been close.

Only, her father had grown tired of his brother’s questionable practices, even though the company flourished, opening stores all along the East Coast. Her father wanted no part of the profits and took only his salary as Uncle Anthony grew rich selling early colonial antiques that came on a boat from China.

Angela knew her father would have quit years ago if her mother hadn’t been ill. A slow-moving cancer had eaten away at her body. At first they fought with operations and treatments between short periods of remission, until she was finally too weak to fight any more. Angela stayed with her, missing proms and dating and sleepovers through her teen years.

For a few hours each day, the tiny office became her father’s refuge from the constant reality of his wife’s illness. Once out of college, Angela got a job at a local museum and moved in with her parents to help. By then, her mother needed constant care and Angela and her father managed the night shift.

When her mother passed peacefully in her sleep at home, Angela felt as if she lost her father, too. Within weeks, he was working six, sometimes seven, days a week in his office, usually late into the night. At first, she’d thought he was simply catching up, but finally she understood he was hiding away, living a little less each day.

“Something’s not right,” he’d sometimes mutter when he came home late. He mentioned more than once his concern over the company’s accounting.

She asked if he’d talked to Anthony about it and her father had simply smiled and told her not to worry, that his brother didn’t want to hear about problems.

Angela picked up the fishing picture as his worry over the accounts seemed to echo in her memory. She wished she could have helped him. “I love you, Dad,” she whispered to his picture.

Absently, she flipped over the frame to see if the note she had put in the back saying how she loved him to the moon and back was still there.

She opened the frame and a small piece of paper fell out. She recognized her writing and the hearts drawn all around the edges.

Smiling, she pulled it out and noticed, in deep pen marks, someone had scribbled something on the back of her note. The note was addressed “To my Angel” and dated three days ago. The day he died.

“You have to get away from here,” the note read. Three words were printed in all capitals. “RUN DISAPPEAR VANISH. Your life depends on it. Trust no...”

He hadn’t finished. Something must have stopped him. Maybe a noise in the alley that interrupted his thoughts. She imagined him hastily returning the unfinished note to the frame, then going to investigate.

For a while she looked from the picture to the note, to the ledger. Florida was her home. Why would he tell her to run?

He must have known he was in danger. The police said the phone line to his office had been cut, but the muggers couldn’t have known he’d left his cell at home that night, as usual. And even if he knew he was in danger, why would he tell her to run or disappear?

A chill slid along her spine. Her father had hidden the note. He’d been afraid someone would find it. Someone besides her.

Bits of conversation they’d had over the past few weeks circled in her mind. He’d suggested she apply for a curator job in Texas he’d seen online, even posted the job opening on the note board in the kitchen to remind her. He’d told her it would be good to get away. He’d brought home a little trailer he’d picked up at a yard sale and tucked it away in a garage full of other useless junk. He’d transferred all his stocks to her name, claiming he no longer had time to keep up with them.

Maybe he never guessed he would be mugged, but suspected his heart might give out. Or had he feared violence might be coming his direction? Now, looking back, she wondered if he had wanted her to leave Florida so he could do the same. But why? He had a job for life. Even if Uncle Anthony was shady in his dealings, Benjamin would never have turned in his own brother.

She’d thought all his changes were part of the grieving for her mother, but now she reconsidered. Her forever-organized father must have had a plan, but what?

Slowly, she saw the answer. Not in the picture, or the note he’d written, but in the ledger. The numbered account where he’d transferred the money was hers, and the amount was exactly what he’d loaned his brother years ago. He didn’t even calculate the interest he was entitled to.

Her father might not have ever been able to leave Florida, but he was telling her to and making sure she had the funds to do it.

No, not telling, demanding. Even from the grave.

Angela stood, put the note back behind the picture, stuffed the frame and the ledger into her purse, and walked out of her father’s office.

How could she disappear? Everyone she knew lived in Florida, which admittedly wasn’t too many. She’d had a few jobs in college, but she’d always worked alone in the back of a museum. She had no real friends she could call on, and all the family she had left belonged to her uncle Anthony. Even at the funeral they’d treated her as if they thought she might try to claim part of the Harold Antiques Company now that her father was dead.

She needed answers and couldn’t think of leaving before she had them. Tomorrow she’d begin. She might be a mouse of a warrior, but at dawn she’d begin her quest. Once she had answers to why her father had left such a strange note, she’d take his advice. She’d vanish. There was nothing left for her here. Her relatives wouldn’t miss her. Her job had dwindled to part-time. She hadn’t had the time to develop even one friendship since she’d returned from college.

As she crawled into bed in the tiny room that had been hers most of her life, she didn’t stop the tears. She could almost see her father standing in the doorway whispering to her. “Good night, dear one. May the angels watch over you this night.”

He may never have talked to her about anything more serious than what they planned to have for dinner, but she never doubted his love. Even the day he died, he’d been thinking of her.

“Good night,” she whispered as if his shadow were still lingering in the doorway.

* * *

A LITTLE AFTER SUNRISE, Angela emerged from her room. As she entered the kitchen of her parents’ beach house, she found her aunt sitting at the dining table as if waiting for her to join her. A half-empty cup of coffee was near her elbow. She’d opened three days’ worth of mail and scattered it across the table like trash.

Crystal Harold was Uncle Anthony’s third wife, so Angela thought of her as her aunt-trice-removed. Never helpful. Never friendly. Never caring. If Crystal was on Anna Marie Island, it was because Uncle Anthony had sent her.

Of course she had a key, even though she rarely visited. The house and the car her father drove were all part of Harold Antiques’ holdings. Just one more way Anthony kept her father tied to the business.

“Where have you been, dear?” her aunt said in her cold voice. “I thought you’d come straight home after the funeral yesterday. I waited here until after dark.”

“I just drove around,” Angela said carefully, remembering the note. Trust no one.

“Well, I came by to tell you that you can stay here as long as you like. The house belongs to the company, as does most of the furniture, but your uncle and I want you to know that no matter what you are still family. Of course, after a month you’ll need to start paying rent and your father’s car has already been picked up. I’m sure with your degree in museum studies you’ll find work somewhere. Maybe not at a museum like you planned...” She looked Angela up and down and added, “Although running a museum gift shop would suit you. Those kind of people wouldn’t care about how you dress or that you’re shy as a crab. Museum-goers probably expect the staff in those places to be a little quirky or odd.”

Crystal’s dragon fingernails tapped against her cup. “I never have seen the point of museums or art galleries for that matter. Who wants to look at something you can’t buy? Anthony must have told your father a dozen times to make you get a degree you could use, like accounting. Then you could step into your father’s role with us.” She made a sound as if half coughing to disguise a laugh. “Well, not today. Someone broke the windows to the accounting office early this morning. Wet papers scattered everywhere. If I believed in ghosts, I might think your father went back one more time.”

Angela shook her head. She didn’t believe in ghosts and even if she had, Angela guessed the last place her father would return to would be the office.

“You could get married, Angela.” Crystal’s mind bounced again. “You’re pretty enough in a plain kind of way.”

“Gee, thanks,” Angela managed, already knowing that she didn’t fit Crystal’s ideal look for marriage material—tall, tan and blonde. Her aunt had even mentioned once that she should consider cutting her strawberry-colored curly hair and wearing a wig. She’d bought Angela a year’s worth of spray tans saying that “any little bit might help.”

Crystal had always behaved as though she felt sorry for her. “It’s not your fault, Angela. Not everyone can be blessed with beauty. You’re smart, though. There’s bound to be one man in Florida into that kind of thing.” Crystal downed the rest of her coffee as if waiting to be thanked.

“I need to be alone if you don’t mind.” Angela wasn’t really up for a makeover right now. “My world seems to be spinning.”

“Of course, dear.” Her aunt breezed by without offering any comfort. “We’ll talk in a few days.” Angela noticed her parents’ cat rubbing against Crystal’s black pant leg.

Her aunt quickly stepped away and glared down at it. “Now that your parents are gone, you’ll be getting rid of that ugly cat, I assume. I told your father that the thing could damage the furniture, but he didn’t seem to care.”

“Of course,” Angela answered. “I’ll pack Doc Holliday off to the pound tomorrow.”

Her aunt nodded once as if having won the first of many arguments. “Dumb name for a cat, Angela, but then I’ve never understood your side of the Harold family. Your father and Anthony were ten years apart, but I swear it always seemed like the only thing they ever had in common was a last name.”

“It’s not a side of the family anymore. It’s me,” she said. “Just me.”

As soon as Crystal walked out, Angela closed the door on what had been her life.

It crossed her mind that Anthony and Crystal knew her father worked late at night. They’d known about his bad heart. They’d even known he never took his cell phone with him when he worked late after his wife died.

Angela shook her head. She was being ridiculous. Maybe her father had left the note simply to save her sanity, knowing Crystal and Anthony would drive her mad.

Only in hindsight, she knew she’d seen other signs of his preparing to leave. Empty boxes stacked in the pantry. A dozen hundred-dollar bills tucked in the bathroom cabinet behind her mother’s medicine bottles.

She began sorting through the mail scattered across the dining table when a map buried among the mess of papers caught her eye. A route heading west from Florida had been outlined with a red pen, and a town in West Texas circled. She understood then what her father had been planning. It was the same town that was looking to hire a curator for their local museum.

Closing her eyes, she could almost hear him talking to her. Might be just the place for you, Angie. You know how you’ve always loved Texas history. Looks like the perfect place to start over.

Clutching the map, she drove out to the cemetery. Her father’s grave still covered with flowers.

If she could talk to him one more time... If he would answer why to what he’d said and written on the note... If he’d just hold her once more so she could feel safe...

But the world was silent, making her feel more alone than she had been in her entire life. A shy girl, an only child, a solitary person who liked to work by herself. And now she was utterly and probably forever alone.

She looked down at her father’s grave. “Good night, dear one. May the angels watch over you. Goodbye, Dad.”

Walking away, she knew she’d never return to this garden of stone and dying flowers. Her father wasn’t here. He was with her mother now.

* * *

THE SUN WAS LOW when she finally drove back to her parents’ little house near the water. All the lights were on and for a second she thought her father was home.

Slowly, she walked to the front door. Maybe her aunt had come back?

Glass crunched beneath Angela’s shoes. The door’s small window had been shattered.

Her heart hammering in her chest, she pulled out her cell phone, dialed 911, then backed away to her car and locked the doors until the police arrived. Room by room they searched the small house. Drawers were open. Contents scattered on the floor. Cabinets were all swept clean, the floor a mess of broken dishes.

The search revealed nothing had been taken, not even the cash hidden in the bathroom cabinet or her laptop.

The police told her it was likely just kids, but Angela knew it was something more.

She locked the house up and tried to relax enough to sleep, but the words from the note and the events of recent days haunted her. Her father’s office vandalized...a break-in at her home, so soon after her father’s mugging...it couldn’t be a coincidence. Somehow, her father had been in danger. Angela knew then what she had to do. She had to run.

* * *

EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, she made a trip to the bank and cashed out her account, bought cat food and plastic boxes. By midnight, she was packed. Her mother’s quilts, her father’s fishing equipment, her grandmother’s pots and one very ugly cat named Doc Holliday.

Run. Vanish. Disappear. The words kept beating through her brain in a steady rhythm.

She still had far more questions than answers, but the break-in had convinced her that her father was right. Something was wrong. Maybe she was letting her imagination run away with her to think that her father’s death might not have been simply a heart attack brought on by a random mugging, but she believed in her core that she was in danger, and that she had to take action.

With a letter describing a job at a small museum in Texas tucked away in her black raincoat and fifty thousand dollars in cash, Angela Harold walked away from what she’d always thought of as her home.

It was time to take her father’s advice. She would disappear.

CHAPTER ONE

Crossroads, Texas

October

Angela

DRIED WEEDS SCRATCHED against Angela Harold’s bare legs as she walked the neglected grounds behind the Ransom Canyon Museum near Crossroads, Texas. Rumbling gray clouds spotted the sky above. Wind raged as though trying to push her back to the East Coast. She decided any rain might blow all the way to Oklahoma before it could land on Texas soil. But the weather didn’t matter. She had made it here. She’d done exactly what her father told her. She’d vanished.

Angela had meant to stop long enough to clean up before she took her first look at the museum, but she could not wait. So, in sandals, shorts and a tank top, she explored the land behind the boarded-up building on the edge of Ransom Canyon.

When she’d talked to the board president, Staten Kirkland, five days ago, he’d sounded excited. They’d had to close the museum when the last curator left and in six months she’d been the only one to call about the job opening. Before the phone call ended Kirkland offered her a three-month trial if she could answer one question.

Angela thought it would be about her experience or her education, but it was pure Texas folk history.

“What or who was the Yellow Rose of Texas?” the man on the phone asked in his pure Texas twang.

She laughed. “The woman who entertained Santa Anna before the Battle of San Jacinto. The battle that won Texas independence.” She’d always loved that story, which often got left out of history books.

“We’ll be waiting for you, Mrs. Jones.”

He hung up before she had time to tell him that her name wasn’t Jones. In a moment of paranoia, she’d used a false name when she’d bought a laptop and phone. Then again on the application, figuring she’d be just one of hundreds who applied. Now, if he checked her transcripts or references, she’d have to make up another lie. That would be easier than finding some guy named Jones, marrying him and dragging him along to Texas with her.

Angela had driven a hundred miles before she decided she would tell Kirkland that she used Jones because she had been engaged but he left her at the altar. Kirkland would feel sorry for her, but that was better than killing off her imaginary husband.

She’d straighten it all out Monday. She’d even practice just how she’d say it.

Monday, she’d dress in a suit and accept the position as curator for the three-month trial period, but today simply exploring the place would be enough. After days in the car she needed to stretch her legs and breathe in the clean air. She’d dreamed of being in Texas for years. A wild country—untamed, open, free. Something she’d never felt before, but she planned to now. For the first time, she was free to make her own future.

The grounds behind the museum had been left natural, just as it must have looked a hundred and fifty years ago when settlers came to this top square of Texas.

Since the day she’d read there was an opening here for a curator, Angela learned everything she could about this area. The history was interesting, but the people who founded this frontier town fascinated her. They were hearty. Stubborn. Independent. Honest. All things she’d never been. But the first settlers were also broken, desperate and lost. Somehow they’d managed to work together to build, not just ranches and a town, but a future.

Now she had to do the same with no family or friends to help her.

She didn’t know if she belonged here. She fainted at the sight of blood. Gave in at the first sign of disagreement.

That left honest. She didn’t want to even think about how dishonest she was. She’d lied to get the job as curator of this closed museum.

Standing near the edge of a canyon that dropped a hundred feet straight down, she let the sun’s dying rays warm her face. Everything about her had to change. She had to make it so. She had to start over.

Somewhere along the road between Florida and here, she’d come to the conclusion that her father’s death wasn’t an accident. Maybe he knew something about the company or his brother. Maybe he’d overheard trouble moving in. Why else would he have told her to run? If her life weren’t in danger, why would it be so important that she vanish?

Maybe he’d been planning to disappear with her, only time ran out for him. But he had left her prepared. He’d put money in her account. He’d even suggested that she tell no one about this job in Texas.

The old trailer he bought and hid in the garage fit into the plan. Last month, he’d had her car fit with the hitch. She’d told him she had no need to pull a trailer, but he’d said that if he ever needed the trailer, he didn’t want to use it on the company car he drove. Only, she’d been the one who needed the trailer. She’d done what he’d told her to do in the note and now she had to somehow blend in here in Texas.

Taking the curator job was the first step. This time her title didn’t have “assistant” attached to it. She would be the boss. This time she would have no aunt to criticize every move she made.

Angela smiled. Her aunt had probably dropped by the beach house to have that talk with her by now. After all, it had been a week. She’d find the key in the mailbox. No note. No forwarding address. No friends notified. Any mail concerning her life on Anna Marie Island would be trashed.

Angela had even cancelled her cell phone service and tossed the phone off the Bradenton Bridge when she crossed onto the mainland.

Disappear, her father’s note had said. She’d seen enough spy movies to know what that meant.

She touched the necklace she wore. A replica of the Greek coin on display at her uncle’s store. She’d thought of tossing it into the ocean with her phone, but decided it would always remind her of her father. The real one had caused many an argument between the brothers. Her father saw it as a family treasure. Uncle Anthony saw it as something to be sold to the highest bidder. They’d compromised and made copies to sell for a few hundred dollars each.

Glancing toward the sound of crunching gravel, she watched a white-and-blue sheriff’s car pull into the museum’s parking lot. Her heart stopped.

Trouble had found her halfway across the country. Somehow her uncle had tracked her. But how? She’d parked her old car in a twenty-four-hour Walmart lot in Orlando and walked across the street to rent a pickup with a hitch for her trailer. Then she’d turned the pickup in before she crossed the Florida state line. She’d bought a junker of a car with cash but it wasn’t powerful enough to pull the trailer, giving her nothing but trouble for two hundred miles. Two days later in Georgia she’d traded in the junker and her old two-wheel trailer to a mechanic for a van in a town too small to have a stop sign. The guy said he’d mail the title to the van, but she had given him a fake name and address.

What if the van had been stolen? The law could be about to arrest her, and she had no proof she bought the van.

Angela stared at the patrol car as it pulled in beside her van. Her freedom had lasted less then a week. Maybe her uncle had put out a missing person alert? That wouldn’t surprise her. Her aunt probably told everyone Angela was so lost in grief she wasn’t to be left alone.

A man in a uniform unfolded out of his car. She expected him to pull his gun as he walked toward her. After all, she’d run away from home at twenty-seven. Something all her relatives would swear quiet Angela would never do.

“Pardon me, miss,” the man said as he neared. “This place has been closed for months. We got a no-trespassing sign at the turnoff, but you must have missed it.”

In her shorts, no makeup and her strawberry-blond hair in a day-old ponytail, she must look more girl than woman. The echo of her mother’s familiar speech about how Angela was too chubby, too squat to wear shorts, circled through her tired mind.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t notice the sign.” She straightened, trying to look at least five foot five, though she knew she missed her goal by two inches.

She moved toward the lawman trying her best to look like a professional. “I’m Angela—”

Hesitating, she tried to remember the last name she’d used on the application. It slipped her mind completely. “Smith.” Angela mentally shook her tired brain awake. “Jones.” Of course. How hard could that be to remember?

There, she’d gotten it out. After not talking for three days, words didn’t want to form in her brain.

She stared at his name tag. Sheriff Brigman looked as if he easily read the lie that lay in her mind like oil slush. He pulled off his Stetson stalling for time, but she didn’t miss the way he looked her up and down from ponytail to sandals.

“Welcome to town, Mrs. Jones. Kirkland told me you were coming.”

A hint of a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He reminded her of a sheriff from the Wild West days. Well built, a touch of gray in his sideburns and stone-cold eyes that said he’d finish the job, no matter what it took, whether it was catching the outlaw or satisfying his woman.

She mentally slapped herself. No time to flirt or daydream. Angela had to think of what to say. Was it too early to ask for a lawyer? Should she start confessing? But to what? She wasn’t even sure what crimes she’d committed. Running away at her age didn’t seem to be illegal, and she’d read somewhere that you can go by an alias if you were not doing anything wrong.

When she didn’t offer any comment, the cop in the Stetson added, “My guess is you couldn’t wait to see the inside of this place. Did you just get to town?”

She nodded, thankful he didn’t add “Dressed like a fifteen-year-old.” With luck, he hadn’t noticed she couldn’t remember her own name. Maybe he thought she had early onset Alzheimer’s.

“Yes, sorry, I’ve been driving for twelve hours, so I’m a bit scattered. I wanted a quick look at the canyon before dark. It’s beautiful out here near the edge.”

Brigman nodded as he watched the last bit of sunlight running over the canyon walls turn the rocks gold. “I like to check on the museum this time of day. It kind of reminds me of a great painting. No matter what kind of day I’ve had, all is calm out here.”

“I can see that.” She’d feared she would miss the ocean and the beautiful sunsets at Anna Marie Island, but Ransom Canyon had its own kind of wonder. She had a feeling the canyon would grow on her.

“You know, Mrs. Jones, your office has a great view.” He pointed to a huge window on the second floor of the big barn of a building.

Angela smiled. “No one told me that, or I might have driven all night.”

They both started walking toward the parking lot.

“Your husband driving the moving van in?” Sheriff Brigman had an easy way of asking questions as if he were just being friendly.

“I’m not married,” she said, then remembered the application listing her new name as Jones.

“When I interviewed over the phone with Mr. Kirkland, I was two days away from being married.” She did her best to look brokenhearted, but it wasn’t easy, since she’d never once given her heart away. “The night before the wedding, we called it off.”

The sheriff studied her as if planning to wait for more information.

“We didn’t work out. My fiancé didn’t want to move.” She shrugged as if fighting back tears. “When we broke up, I thought a clean getaway would be best, so I went ahead and came to Texas.” Since fiancé Jones never existed, it wasn’t really very painful to walk out on him. “I’d already changed my email and accounts over to Jones.”

Brigman raised an eyebrow. “Are you planning to keep his name?”

Angela fought down a nervous giggle. “I’m sentimental about names. Turns out his name was the only thing I liked about the man. As soon as I settle, I’ll change everything back. Of course, my driver’s license is still in my maiden name.” This whole thing was getting mixed up in her brain. At this point any way she could climb out of this little lie was probably going to end up making her look like an idiot.

Thank goodness they had reached her van. A few more lies and the sheriff would probably figure out she was on the run and have her arrested or committed.

“Have you been by your new house yet?” he asked as he opened her car door.

“Do you know where it is?” Mr. Kirkland had mentioned that he’d email her some information, but she’d forgotten to look.

“Sure.” He grinned, looking younger. “This is a small town, Mrs. Jones, I mean...”

He waited for her to fill in the blank.

“Harold,” she answered.

The sheriff nodded once. “Kirkland said you wanted to rent a two-bedroom furnished place that allowed cats. Half the Chamber of Commerce started looking for something special. We don’t get many professional curators around here. I could show you the one we picked for you and the runner-up, Miss Harold. I’ve got keys to both.”

“Please call me Angela, Sheriff.”

He touched two fingers to the brim of his Stetson in a salute. “All right, Angela. Why don’t you call me Dan. Which do you want to see first, a nice little house between the two churches in town or a cabin house on the lake? The church house has more room, but the lake house backs into the shoreline.”

“I’ll take the lake house,” she said immediately. She almost hugged him. Water. She’d be near water.

“Follow me, then.”

“I don’t want to be any trouble,” she said. “If you’ll give me the key, I can probably find it.”

“No trouble. You have to pass my house at the lake to get to yours. Showing you the place isn’t out of my way home at all.”

As the sheriff’s car led her through the small town of Crossroads, Angela fought down another wave of panic that seemed to be coming over her as often as hiccups. This open country where anyone could see for miles in every direction didn’t seem like a very wise place to hide. Probably half the people in town would know where she lived. How could she have ever thought she’d be safe here?

What if Anthony came after her? If he found her? If he or one of his associates had killed her father and made it look like a robbery, maybe they’d kill her, too. They might think her father had told her more than just that the books didn’t balance. Maybe they thought she had something that belonged to Uncle Anthony. After all, someone had turned her parents’ home upside down looking for something.

Of course, if they came for her, she’d swear she didn’t know anything. But would they believe her if her father had already confronted them with some illegal activity he knew about? Whatever her father overheard or found in the books must have been bad. A secret worth murdering for?

She was letting her imagination run away with her again. The police said her father’s mugging was just one of a half dozen in the area that weekend. Probably drug related. The investigator hadn’t given her much hope that the killer would ever be found. Dark alley. No witnesses. He even said it looked as if her father had been struck with something or pushed, then fell backward hitting his head.

Angela knew the police report didn’t tell the whole story. Her father knew trouble was coming. Whoever killed him must have known his habits. Whoever mugged him might have known it might trigger a heart attack. Something had kept him from going to the police with his information and that something or someone had to be the reason he wanted her away and safe.

Only, she had no proof. No facts.

Her only choice was to make a new start and never look back. She trusted her father. If he said run, she would.

The sheriff, in the car in front of her, would be her first friend. This place would become her only home. In three months she’d be so much a part of this wild country she’d almost believe she was born to the land.

CHAPTER TWO

Wilkes

Devil’s Fork Ranch

WILKES WAGNER STARED at his aging uncle, wondering which of them had completely lost their mind. Common sense rarely ran in the Wagner family, but Great-Uncle Vern’s suggestion was ridiculous.

“I’ve given it some thought, and this is the only answer, boy,” the crippled-up old cowboy repeated as if Wilkes were ten and not thirty-two. “Look at it this way, we breed cattle, don’t we? Why not just pick out a woman with all the right traits and mate with her? It shouldn’t take but a few tries before we got at least one offspring to claim the next generation. And there’s a fifty-fifty chance we’ll get a boy on the first try.”

“You mean marry some woman, don’t you?” Wilkes was never sure when his uncle was kidding.

“Of course! There’s an order to these kinds of things. You’d need to marry her first, get her pregnant and wait for a son.” The old man lit a pipe that looked as if it might have survived the Battle of the Alamo. “Look on the bright side, half your life is about over anyway. If you’re miserable at marriage, the last thirty or forty years will seem to move slower with a mean woman around the place and we’ll all work harder so we don’t come home early.”

Wilkes rolled his eyes. He needed another drink. Or better yet give Great-Uncle Vern a few more and with luck he’d pass out.

To humor the cowboy, Wilkes asked, “And what would those traits be that I’m looking for in this breeding-bride?”

Vern smiled as if he’d won the argument. “Stout. You don’t want one of those skinny girls who only eats out of the garden. She’ll need to have a little meat on her bones. Ain’t nothing worse than trying to cuddle up to a skinny gal on a cold night. I did that once in Amarillo, and about midnight I decided driving home in a snowstorm would be warmer.”

Wilkes grabbed a pen off the poker table and started writing on the back of his Western Horseman magazine. Not skinny.

His uncle leaned back in an old rocker that had come to the Devil’s Fork Ranch in a covered wagon. “She’ll need to know how to cook and clean and sew, too, otherwise she’d be wearing out the road to town buying takeout, hiring housekeepers and replacing clothes she’s lost a button on.”

“All that might be hard to find these days.” The only thing the four or five women Wilkes had stepped out with in the past six years could make for dinner was reservations. He considered them cooks if they knew how to use the microwave for popcorn.

His aging uncle wasn’t paying attention. He was busy thinking. “And she needs to be rich. Not just have money coming to her, mind, but already have it in the bank. You don’t want to count on her father liking you, ’cause if he don’t he might cut her out of the will. Then you’ll be stuck with a poor wife with rich habits.”

Rich. Wilkes scribbled.

“And dumb.” Uncle Vern lit his pipe. “Ain’t no smart girl ever going to marry you, even if you are good-looking. If she’s got much schooling, she’ll want to work at something or sit around and read all day.”

Wilkes had humored his old uncle long enough. Vern was the dumbest and the youngest of four children, and all his brothers and sisters claimed he’d been dropped on his head one time too many when he was a baby. He had lived on the Wagner family ranch all of his seventy-seven years. The rule was whoever ran the Devil’s Fork also had to keep an eye on Vern. Wilkes’s father and grandfather had done it, and now it was Wilkes’s turn. The few other relatives, who’d been smart enough to move to the city, never wanted to come back and take over the job.

This crazy idea Vern had tonight was the worst one yet.

Wilkes leaned forward until Vern’s whiskey-blurred eyes focused on him. “I’m real busy with the calving right now, uncle. Do you think you could keep a lookout for a possible wife? She shouldn’t be too hard to find. She’s chubby, eats beef and is rich and dumb. She’ll be wearing a homemade dress and probably have freshly made jam dripping down her chins. Oh, I forgot, she needs to be easy to impregnate, ’cause I won’t be visiting her often.” Wilkes fought down a laugh. “Only, that trait might be hard to prove on sight.”

Vern didn’t get the joke. He rocked back so far that the forward swing, a moment later, shoved him out of the chair and onto his wobbly legs. “I’ll do my best for you! I promise. Might go into Crossroads tomorrow and put up a few signs. I don’t think I’ve been to town since spring and the Franklin sisters always say they miss seeing me.”

Wilkes laughed. “You do that, Uncle Vern.”

The broken-down cowboy headed toward the massive double doors of the ranch house muttering, “I hated to have this talk with you, son, but you ain’t getting nowhere in the breeding department and ’fore you know it you’ll be past your prime or dead. Who’ll run the ranch? You had a gal once and let her go, so we got to act fast before you get any older and end up sleeping alone the rest of your life.”

Wilkes saw it then. The reason his uncle had insisted on drinking tonight and talking. He was afraid he’d outlive Wilkes and no one would take over Devil’s Fork. Vern had spent his life living on the ranch, never worrying about money or where his next meal was coming from. He’d hated school so much his mother had let him quit after the seventh grade. He loved working with horses, living alone and driving his pickup until the odometer circled twice. He was afraid of being left out here on his own.

Following his uncle to the porch, Wilkes watched Vern limp toward his cabin a hundred yards away. Light from the second-floor windows of the main house illuminated the old man’s path. The massive home had been built fifty years ago to hold a dozen kids. It now held one. Wilkes.

Vern had watched his brother, Wilkes’s grandfather, take over the ranch. When he died, Wilkes’s father became the manager. Vern said all he wanted to do was cowboy. The job of boss wouldn’t suit him.

Uncle Vern had been around all of Wilkes’s life, working cattle with the ranch hands, training horses with his father and eating supper every night at the family table in the big house. This life was all he knew. All he wanted to know.

Wilkes shook his head as his heart ached for Vern Wagner, who’d lived long enough to go from being Wilkes’s hero and teacher, to friend, to responsibility. His uncle had taught him to ride, cussed him out when he left the pasture gate open and bought him fireworks every year, even when Wilkes’s mother said she wouldn’t allow them on the ranch. The old guy may have danced with a few girls in his day, but he had never married. He was loyal to the family, loyal to the Devil’s Fork brand.

Wilkes watched the lights flick on in Vern’s cabin. “I better start looking for a fat, rich wife so I can start breeding Vern’s next guardian angel,” he mumbled as he downed the last of his whiskey, knowing he was only half kidding. Then he climbed the stairs and slept in the second room off the upstairs landing. The first bedroom was bigger, the master, but when Wilkes had returned home to take over the ranch, he hadn’t felt as if he deserved the master suite. He still didn’t.

The next morning as he drove into town to pick up fencing supplies and eat breakfast with a friend, Wilkes thought about the conversation the night before. Vern was right about one thing. Wilkes had had a lady once. The perfect one. He’d loved Lexie Davis the minute he first saw her, chased her through high school and college; but she’d never really been his. When he’d left for the army a month after they both graduated, she promised she’d wait, and she had... Only, she’d counted her time in hours. Sixty-three days into his deployment, she’d written him one letter. It said simply she’d met someone else. She’d added five words below Love, Lexi: don’t bother to write back.

Wilkes told himself a hundred times that he was over her. Maybe not everyone was meant to find that forever love. Vern hadn’t. But something broke inside Wilkes the day Lexie walked out of his life and he feared he would never mend.

Hell. Vern was right. Maybe he should start thinking about finding a wife, but it wasn’t exactly a scavenger hunt. He should make a real list. It’d be pretty much the opposite of Vern’s. He liked long-legged women with midnight hair that dropped down to their waist and laughter dancing in their eyes. Women like Lexie.

Lexie, the woman he was over, Wilkes reminded himself.

While he waited for the supplies to be loaded, Wilkes walked along the wide main street. The business district of Crossroads looked as if the stores must have been bought from a clearance rack. All different sizes, ages, styles. Nothing matched. Crossroads was a town more likely to be called quirky than quaint.

He noticed a few new stores since he’d last been in town. Businesses that had filled in where empty gaps had stood. Shiny as new teeth in an old mouth, he thought. The change made the little town look a bit more prosperous.

One empty hull had become the Forever Keepsake Shop. In his opinion, the only folks who bought knickknacks to sit around gathering dust must be orphans, because every time one of his relatives died, he inherited another crate of “treasured” family keepsakes. Sometimes he wondered if his great-great-grandparents had hauled their junk from the old country to Texas in a wagon train and not just one wagon. All the old trunks and lanterns and dusty quilts came back to Devil’s Fork like ugly buzzards coming home to roost.

Wilkes walked into the new shop hoping he might offer to supply the place. Old tools, butter churns, wall telephones, he had them all in supply.

Two women in their forties giggled when he stepped inside and closed the door. He knew them by last name. The Franklin sisters. They probably had first names, but years ago when his mother would point them out to him, she always said simply, “There’s the Franklin sisters. Poor things. Bless their hearts.”

He’d been twenty before he found out why they were poor things. Apparently, in the late seventies or early eighties, they’d both fallen for the same boy—a good-looking Gypsy kid with bedroom eyes and the last name of Stanley. He ran off with a girl from another Gypsy family in town, and both the Franklin sisters were brokenhearted. They swore over an ocean of tears that he was the only man either would ever love and they would never marry.

Some thought that sad; others just thought it was their escape, because the two weren’t likely to marry anyway. By eighteen, they both tipped the scales at over two hundred pounds, and at twenty-five, they’d gained another fifty or sixty. By thirty, they both sported faint mustaches.

Even on a dark night no one would mistake them as pretty. But they were sweet as warm toffee. Every few years they took up a new business in town. As far as he could remember, they’d had the Sweet Shop, the Quilting Bee and a used bookstore called the Book Hideout.

Wilkes smiled at the two sisters. “Morning, Miss Franklin and Miss Franklin.” Even round and hairy, there was something about the ladies that was adorable.

Both giggled. “How can we help you, Wilkes?” they said at once.

Wilkes didn’t want to seem the village idiot, so he said, “I’m looking for a keepsake to give a friend who is visiting.”

“Do you know him well?” the shorter Miss Franklin asked.

Wilkes lied again. “No. He’s just someone stopping by for a cup of coffee. He’s thinking about going into ranching.” Dumb lie, Wilkes thought, but he was too far in now to back out.

“We know just the thing.” Each woman grabbed a box from the stacks behind the counter.

Wilkes didn’t care what was in the boxes. He picked the smallest and thanked them. Handing them a twenty, he wasn’t surprised to get only coins back. They managed small talk about Uncle Vern’s health while one sister bagged his purchase.

When they passed it to him, one Miss Franklin started mentioning every relative she had who was still unmarried. “Fran’s newly divorced, you know, but she’s a treasure.”

The other sister chimed in. “Avis is a little older than you, but she’s real pretty, and then you know Molly and Doris. I think you went to school with them. Both were engaged last year, but it didn’t work out.”

Wilkes never knew what to say. He’d been tricked into a dozen meet-the-single-relative dates, and they’d all turned out bad.

The taller Miss Franklin must have gotten the message, but she wasn’t ready to toss in her matchmaking wand. “I guess you heard Lexie Davis is moving back.”

He hadn’t heard. He didn’t care, but that didn’t stop the conversation.

“Her second marriage didn’t work out, you know, and her aunt is poorly. Lexie is hoping to get on at the high school. She can teach both drama and English, she claims, though she’s never had to work. Married well both times, you know.”

Wilkes had to get out of the store. He didn’t want to hear more about Lexie. Not in this lifetime. Besides, how “well” are marriages that don’t last two years?

“I wish I could visit, but I’ve got my hands full this morning.” Wilkes had a death grip on his box as he backed toward the door.

They both looked sad.

Wilkes couldn’t talk about Lexie. One goodbye letter while he’d been away in the army had been enough to kill any hope of love.

She hadn’t waited. He wasn’t interested. End of story. Wilkes didn’t want to reread that chapter in his life. He’d been home six years and hadn’t run into her. She was just a memory now.

He stormed out the door not even remembering if he said goodbye.

With no thought but to escape, Wilkes darted into the next business. The welcome sign clanged like a gong. The smell of hair spray and bleach almost knocked him back outside.

A beauty shop. Wilkes swore. Why couldn’t it have been a bookstore, or a Laundromat or better yet a bar?

He looked around at women with aluminum foil in their hair and took a step backward. Alien invasion came to mind.

The gum-chewing girl with green-striped hair darted around the counter and caught up to him. “May we help you, mister?”

“No, thanks,” Wilkes managed. “I was, uh, just looking for my aunt.”

One of the aliens in the back yelled, “Your last aunt died five years ago, Wilkes Wagner.”

Wilkes pulled his hat down and answered, “Then I guess she’s not here.”

He ignored the laughter and walked out, head high, keepsake box in hand. Thank goodness the next place down the road was a café he knew. Dorothy’s Café had been around for as long as he could remember, and the food served was exactly the same. Fried grease with a side of starch. He might be a half hour early to meet his friend, but the café seemed a safe place. He knew it would take a little time to wash Lexie out of his mind.

As he sat down at the first booth, he saw a sign across the street that said Puppy Paradise, Dog Grooming and Training.

No doubt about it, Crossroads, Texas, was growing. Wilkes couldn’t wait to show Uncle Vern the new place. Maybe he’d suggest grooming the cattle.

He ordered coffee, then opened the box he’d bought. To his shock, he’d paid twenty dollars for a mug that looked to be about the same as the one the waitress delivered with his coffee.

Only, the mug in the box was obviously worth far more because it read, “You are at the Crossroads of your life.”

Wilkes laughed. Nothing had changed in his life in six years. It was hard to see a crossroads when he knew he was born with only one way to travel. He had played four years of college football without managing to pick up much education and served three years in the army without collecting any bullet holes, but by twenty-six, after drifting across the United States and back, he’d come back home to do what he always knew he’d do. Run the ranch. It wasn’t as if he’d given up on his dreams; he’d never really had any to begin with.

His folks weren’t dead. They were simply absentee landlords. Never around to help or fix things, but calling in now and then to check on what he was doing. They must have started packing the day they’d called Wilkes and found out he hadn’t even bothered to look for a job after he got out of the army. He was drifting and they had the solution to his no goal, no direction life.

His mother’s folks were aging and needed help downsizing and selling several small businesses. So Wilkes’s parents moved to Denver claiming Wilkes would run the ranch while they were gone, since he seemed to have nothing else to do.

He’d agreed, thinking they’d be gone a few months. Six years later his dad looked like an aging hippie and his mother was taking meditation classes so she could teleport. They took cruises with Wilkes’s eighty-year-old grandparents and showed no sign of coming back to the work of ranching.

Wilkes told himself he didn’t care. After all, he had no plans after the army and he loved ranching.

“Morning, Wilkes,” a low voice greeted him.

Wilkes turned to see Yancy Grey coming through the door. He was a few years younger than Wilkes, but they’d become friends working on a park project together last year. Yancy had an awkward way about him at first meeting. He’d talk too fast sometimes or be unable to find the right words, but Wilkes didn’t mind. When Yancy settled down into a conversation, he could tell a story with the best of them and Wilkes had the time to listen when Yancy needed to talk.

“I’m glad you had time to meet me.” Yancy slid his thin frame into the other side of the booth. “I need to ask a favor.”

The café was empty, so they weren’t likely to be bothered. Yancy worked across the street as the handyman at the retirement community. The senior citizens seemed to have adopted him when he was homeless and he looked after them like a hen with a nest full of chicks.

Since Wilkes was only talking to himself lately, a favor might pull him out of his slump. Maybe he’d even tell his friend about Uncle Vern’s plan to marry him off to the first chubby, rich, dumb girl they could find.

“How can I help?” Wilkes had no idea what Yancy needed, but if it was in his power, he was up for the job.

“I got a history question for you.”

Wilkes thought maybe he should warn his friend that just because a man had a history degree didn’t make him an expert on any time period. He’d majored in history because it had sounded easier than English. “I’ll do what I can.”

Yancy straightened, took a gulp of hot coffee the waitress slid in front of him and started. “You think a house can...you know...draw you to it? Kind of like it’s calling you?”

Nope was the first answer that came to mind, but Wilkes leaned back deciding this conversation might just be interesting. “Tell me about it, Yancy.” His friend seemed suddenly far younger than twenty-seven.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.” Yancy leaned back as if pulling away. He’d spent his late teens and early twenties in prison. Sometimes that lack of trust showed through.

Wilkes didn’t judge him for his lack of skills or scars. He had his own scars.

“I can’t help if I don’t know the facts, Yancy. Just start from the beginning without leaving out anything. I’ll wait until I know the details before I call you crazy.”

The handyman nodded, took another gulp of coffee and said, “Last night, like I do a lot of nights, I took a walk down the north road. The moon seemed to be whispering secrets in the midnight air, like it does on cloudy nights, you know?”

“I know.” Wilkes’s brain cells woke up. He didn’t know any such thing, but he’d follow along where this went. He doubted he would be any help to Yancy Grey, but he wanted to hear more.

“I went down the road toward the old Gypsy House. You know the place covered by weeds and long dead trees.”

Wilkes nodded.

Yancy continued, “I’ve heard there are folks who swear they saw strangers as foggy as ghosts going into the house after dark and never coming out. According to the retired folks across the street the place is haunted by dead Gypsies or hippies. No one knows which. Some say the crumbling old place almost took four teenagers’ lives a few years ago, but I was too much into my own problems back then and don’t remember the details. When I ask about the house, folks claim evil lived there. One even said he thought he heard a scream once when he passed the place.”

“I’ve heard the stories, too. Did you feel the evil?” Wilkes interrupted.

Yancy shook his head. “The house had been drawing me since I arrived in Crossroads, even before I’d heard it was haunted. I guess you probably heard I came to town broke, alone and fresh out of prison.”

“I heard. Also know you helped the sheriff catch a gang of rustlers who almost killed Staten Kirkland.”

Yancy smiled. “Yeah, after that folks accepted me. I’m doing all right now. Got a good job. Hell, I even saved enough to buy a car outright, no payments, but still I walk at night out to that old place. I feel like it’s mocking me. Daring me to step inside. Sounds crazy, don’t it?”

Wilkes shrugged. “I’m tracking you. Keep talking.” He didn’t want to admit that stressing over a woman who left him years ago might fall into the crazy folder, as well.

Yancy continued, “As I got close to the house last night, it seemed to grow. Maybe it was in my head, but with every step closer the place looked bigger. I’ve seen some bad things in my life, but last night I swear I felt a shiver run down my back like someone walked over my grave.”

Wilkes smiled realizing, truth or not, the guy could tell a story better than Uncle Vern.

“When I felt it calling last night, I gripped the flashlight in my pocket like a weapon and stepped off the road, determined to get to the bottom of this nightmare. I headed through the high weeds that circle the place like a moat around a monster’s castle. I had to do something.” Yancy’s hands balled into fists.

“I yelled that I was going in, but I sounded like a frightened boy. I’m tired of having bad dreams, Wilkes, and last night I figured to put an end to it.

“The warped frame of what had once been a screen door tapped against the side of the house as if knocking on a crypt’s door in a forgotten cemetery. I planted my boot on the porch and stepped up, relieved that the wood took my weight.” Yancy took a few seconds to breathe.

Wilkes waited.

“I yelled like I wasn’t afraid. ‘You don’t frighten me.’ I took one step toward the door. The boards creaked as if crying out for me to stay back, but I didn’t stop. I widened my stance and pulled the hammer I’d brought from the loop on my pants. With as much force as I could manage, I pulled the nails from the two-by-fours blocking the door.

“As the boards rattled across the porch, I took a long breath. What I was doing was probably a crime. The place has do-not-enter signs posted at every corner of the house. But I didn’t care. I’d made up my mind.”

Wilkes shoved his coffee cup aside. He felt as if he was at the old house with Yancy. His senses hadn’t felt so alive since the army.

“Once the boards were off, I shoved the door open and flashed my light inside. Three rotted steps led down onto what looked like a dirt floor. If there was wood beneath the dirt, I couldn’t tell. When part of the roof must have tumbled in on the high school kids, no one thought to clean anything up.

“I avoided the steps and jumped down into the lower level of the house. The remains of a staircase leading up to the second floor lined one wall. They reminded me of rotting, broken teeth hanging lopsided in an open mouth. When I passed my light over the floor, I noticed a few old broken chairs and a bed frame.

“All the noise of loose boards rattling and wind whistling through cracks seemed muted inside. I just stood there, too afraid to go farther. If something fell on me, I’d be nothing but bones before anyone thought to look for me in that old place. Then, in the stillness, I swear I felt a hand on my shoulder, a slight tug pulling me deeper into the blackness.”

Wilkes could barely breathe waiting for what came next.

“Whatever drew me to the house seemed to want to keep me there.

“Fear stampeded through my blood, I raced out and hammered the boards back across the door knowing even as I did it that I’d have to come back.”

Yancy took a drink. “The house calls me, Wilkes, I swear, and it won’t stop until I figure out why.”

Wilkes exhaled deeply. “That’s some story. What’s your question?”

Yancy grinned. “Can you help me figure out what it wants with me? I need to know the history of the place and who I have to get permission from to go in without worrying about being caught. I’ve thought about it all night. You’re the only person I know who might go back with me. I remember that night on the Kirkland Ranch when we were waiting for the rustlers in the dark. You said, after the army, you gave up being afraid of anything. Well, now is your chance to prove it. Go back to the house with me.”

Their waitress must have been tired of waiting for them to motion her over. She appeared, notepad in hand, ready to take their order. “If you two don’t order breakfast soon, you’ll have to switch to the lunch menu.”

Both men apologized to her and ordered the special. She refilled their coffee and mentioned something about how Dorothy should charge for squatters.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Wilkes smiled. “I’m in. I’ll see what history I can find on the house and we’ll recon the site one night soon.”

CHAPTER THREE

Lauren

Texas Tech University

THE STRONG WEST TEXAS wind blasted dirt against her bare legs as Lauren Brigman ran across campus. No girl at Texas Tech wore a dress on days like this, but she’d thought maybe she would see Lucas, her almost boyfriend, today. He had gone home to work every weekend since she’d arrived on campus. Then last week he said he might not be driving home to Crossroads until early Saturday morning, which meant they might see each other tonight.

It meant they could have a date. A real date, she thought as she stormed the dorm door and took the two flights of stairs at a run.

She had spent her last two years of high school waiting for Lucas to come home from college so they could start dating. Only, when he did come home, he was always working on weekends and their times together consisted of no more than a few moonlit walks along the lake or early-morning coffee at the café before he headed back. He’d promised that when she joined him at Tech it would be different. They would be together, a real couple. Studying wrapped up in one another. Sharing kisses in the dark corners of the library. Late-night phone calls.

Until last month, she’d lived on thirty-minute breakfasts with him before he left Crossroads to go back to Lubbock, and late-night ice-cream runs where they talked in the Dairy Queen parking lot after he got finished working on one of the ranches around town. She’d lived on hope that he’d soon be her real boyfriend. They’d finally both be in college. They’d be a couple. No one could say he was too old for her. A few years difference wouldn’t seem so much.

She’d been at Texas Tech over a month and none of her dreams were coming true. Her entire love life had been Photoshopping her and Lucas Reyes’s faces onto couples in all the old movies she’d seen. If possible she saw less of him here than she had when she’d lived in Crossroads and he’d dropped in on weekends to work. College wasn’t turning out to be what she planned.

As Lauren opened her dorm room door, she wasn’t surprised to see her roommate still in bed. After all, it wasn’t dark yet.

Polly Pierce rolled over, her black-and-red hair streaking across her face. “You’re back already?”

“It’s after five, Polly. You missed lunch.” Lauren used to say that she missed class, but Polly was on the one-semester plan. She never studied and hadn’t bothered to unpack most of her stuff. There was little doubt that she’d be moving back home by Christmas break.

“I know. I’m starving.” She rolled over and pulled an empty cracker box from under her back. “I ate all your peanut butter and crackers.”

“Where’s the peanut butter jar?” Lauren wondered why she even talked to Polly. As an only child raised by her pop, the county sheriff of Ransom Canyon, Lauren had always had her own neat, organized space. Sharing quarters with Polly was like some kind of experiment to see if two different life forms could survive in the same environment.

Polly rummaged around in her mass of covers and found the empty jar. “Don’t give me that look,” she said, cuddling back under her blankets. “I think I’m descended from bears. It’s not my fault the fall semester parallels with hibernation.”

Lauren didn’t comment on how Polly managed to stay awake all weekend. “Don’t you have a date tonight?”

Polly’s words were muffled. “Jack texted me and said he had to work, and my backup date has the flu.” She sighed. “I could go out looking for a backup for my backup, but it’s such a bother to train a new one.”

When Lauren didn’t comment, Polly rolled over to face the wall. End of conversation.

Lauren pulled out her cell phone, punched in her favorite number and dropped atop her neatly made bed.

As soon as Lucas answered, she squealed. “I made an A on my first big chem test.”

“Who is this?” Lucas Reyes answered in a low voice flavored just a touch with his Hispanic heritage.

She could almost see the smile in his question. “It’s me.”

“Oh, yeah, the only freshman I know,” he teased. “Congrats.”

Lauren held the phone tight in hope. “Let’s celebrate, Lucas. I’ll buy the pizza.”

The moment of silence told her all she needed to know.

“Can’t tonight. I’m headed home as soon as I get cleaned up from mucking out stalls at the agriculture barn. Mr. Kirkland needs me to work at his place all weekend. Probably won’t be back on campus until late Sunday.”

Lauren fought down tears. He lived half a mile away on campus, and they were still miles apart. The only guy she’d ever really liked didn’t like her enough to stay around one evening.

“I’ll call you Sunday night and we can talk as I drive in.”

“No, don’t call. I’ve got a seven-thirty class Monday.” When he didn’t try to convince her, she tried another possibility. “I could drive home tomorrow. It would surprise Pop. I told him I wouldn’t be back until Thanksgiving. Maybe we could get together after you finish on Saturday night? We could cook out by the lake, then drive over and watch the stars on Kirkland land.”

“Doubt I’ll have time. Mom says she’s going to forget my name if I don’t spend a few hours with the family while I’m home this time.” His answer made sense, but he was breaking her heart.

Trying to sound as if she didn’t care, Lauren added, “No problem. I need to study this weekend anyway.” Lucas was her best friend, her first boyfriend, her only love even if she’d never told him. She knew how busy he was. He carried a full load, worked part-time at the campus AG farm on weeknights and left every weekend to work either with his father or on the Kirkland ranch next door. He was working his way through school, no scholarship, no loans.

“I’m proud of you about the A.” His warm voice broke the silence between them.

“Thanks.” Somehow it didn’t seem so important anymore. She’d spent two years dreaming of being at college with him and now, if possible, she was more lonely than she’d been back in Crossroads.

She hung up. All the happiness had drained out of Lauren. In the weeks she’d been at college they hadn’t had a real date. Study lunches and Lucas walking her to class a few times didn’t count.

She curled into a ball and let silent tears fall. Maybe Polly had the right idea. Sleep your years of higher education away.

The phone sounded. One, two, three rings before she found it in the covers.

“Lauren!” Tim O’Grady’s voice reminded her of home. Maybe because he’d been her neighbor in Ransom Canyon for most of her life. “Want to go get something to eat? It’s Friday night and, as usual, I don’t have a date. You can pick the restaurant. Anything but dorm food.”

She wiped a tear off her cheek as she pushed her heartache deeper inside. “Sure.” This was Tim’s second year at Tech, and it seemed during his freshman year he’d done an extensive study of the coffeehouses, bars and cheap restaurants in town. “I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Food,” the body under the blankets on the other side of the room mumbled. “Food.”

Lauren frowned. “Can my roommate come, too?”

Tim was silent for a moment, then added, “If she combs her hair. Last time she tagged along I kept thinking a bush was following us.”

“Fair enough. Give us ten minutes. I have to get out of this dress.”

Laughter traveled through the phone. “I’ve been waiting to hear you say that for years, Lauren.”

She smiled knowing he was kidding. “In your dreams, O’Grady.”

The phone went dead. Lauren stood and began changing clothes. “Ten minutes, Polly,” she shouted toward the other side of the room, “or we’re leaving without you.”

Fifteen minutes later, with Polly buttoning her blouse as she walked, Lauren and her never-friendly roommate headed downstairs.

Tim’s dorm and hers were joined by a long lobby and cafeteria. When Lauren watched him coming toward her, she could tell immediately he was tired by his slight limp, something she knew he’d correct the minute he spotted her.

The limp was a lingering reminder from a night almost three years ago when they’d both been hurt.

Polly must have noticed the limp, too. She leaned toward Lauren and asked, “What happened to your friend’s leg?”

Lauren closed her eyes knowing that, thanks to the echo in the foyer, Tim probably heard Polly. She thought if she ignored the question, Polly would forget about it.

No such luck. She asked again.

Only, Tim answered first. “It was a dark and stormy night, dear Polly Anna.” He drew close and sliced his body between them, giving all his attention to Polly. “Four high school kids decided to break into an old house we thought might be haunted.” He waved his hands. “‘Be afraid,’ the old Gypsy House warned them, but they dropped in anyway. Dust filled their lungs and rotting boards creaked beneath their footsteps, but they were explorers looking for thrills. Four went in but only three came out. One was left trapped inside with the ghosts. Me.”

Polly looked interested. “What happened?”

“I died.” Tim shrugged.

Lauren laughed seeing Polly’s horror as if she believed Tim for a second.

“He broke several bones in his leg,” Lauren corrected. “Thanks to Lucas, I climbed out with only scratches. Reid Collins was with us, too. He didn’t have a scratch, just a sprained ankle.”

Polly’s eyes widened with true interest. “You two know Reid Collins? I met him at a party a few weeks ago. What a hunk.”

Polly didn’t seem to notice both Tim and her shaking their heads. Reid had been attracting girls for years. In high school everyone thought he was the hero from that night in the haunted house. He’d let everyone believe he’d saved Lauren, but it had been Lucas who saved her from falling through the collapsed floor. They’d all three let Reid take the glory that night, but they all knew the truth even if they never talked about it.

Sometimes she thought four kids dropped through a broken window that night and four different people came out. The accident had changed all of them.

“How’d you do on the chem test?” Tim asked as he turned away from Polly.

“An A.”

He took her hand and pulled her closer for a quick hug. “Great! I know just the place to celebrate. Chicken fried steak and all the trimmings. Two for one on Fridays.”

She managed a smile as they walked with Polly following behind. “Do you always celebrate after an A?”

“Hell.” He slowed and leaned near her ear. “I party after a C. My folks don’t care about grades. They just told me if I flunk out, I’ll be working at the new Walmart going in Crossroads. So, I sign up for whatever looks easy and pray for the best. I plan to waste as much time at college as possible, then go home and write a great novel about my wild college days. It might take me a year or two, but I’ll be rich and famous by the time I’m twenty-five.”

“Can I be in your book?” Polly asked as she circled around them like an out-of-control top.

“I have an opening for one character. She’s a nude girl dancing on a table. Of course, you’ll have to audition. I need to make sure you can dance.”

Lauren laughed and glanced at Polly as the girl asked, “You would use both my names, wouldn’t you? Otherwise it could be anyone named Polly.”

Lauren changed the subject. “Any idea what degree you’re heading toward, Tim? I’m not so sure you’d make it as a writer. They don’t usually audition their characters.”

“True, but I’m willing to sacrifice for my art.” He looked back at Polly. “You got any moles or scars I could put in, Polly Anna? Their detailed description might increase the word count, you know.”

Lauren shoved him off the sidewalk. “Focus, O’Grady. What is your major?”

He caught up to her and put his arm lightly on her shoulder. “It doesn’t matter. I’m majoring in life.” He kissed her forehead. “You want to call this a date? If we do this right, you might make it in my book, too.”

“No.” She tugged her hood up as fog surrounded them.

“Good. We split the cost of the meal as friends.”

Lauren never thought of dating Tim, though he asked from time to time. However, it would be nice if once in a while he acted disappointed when she said no.

The memories of the abandoned house seemed thick in her brain. Tim and Reid had been best friends back then and almost every conversation they had was about football. When Reid Collins suggested breaking into the place, Tim joked about ghosts and went along with the idea. He still bore the scars, physical ones on his leg and arm, and mental ones inside after his best friend left him behind.

“What do you hear from Reid?” she asked, knowing the night at the Gypsy House must be on Tim’s mind, also.

“I haven’t seen him since we came back to school in August. He’s living at the frat house this year.” Tim took her hand and they jogged to his Jeep. Polly followed, but didn’t try to keep up.

Tim leaned in close to Lauren. “Last time I saw Reid, he was drunk. Cussed me out for caring.”

Lauren was glad she couldn’t see Tim’s face. Whenever he talked of Reid, he always looked hurt.

Before Polly caught up, Lauren said, “Reid called me last week and asked me to go out. Some kind of big party before the homecoming game next weekend.”

Tim froze for a moment before asking, low, “You going?”

“I might.” She shrugged. “He’s from home. Our dads are friends.” She’d never told Tim how close she and Lucas Reyes were or that they dated some. Somehow what was between Lucas and her was private, too special to share. Or at least she’d thought it was. Lately she wasn’t sure Lucas felt the same.

If he was working every weekend, Lauren didn’t want to miss the whole college experience waiting for him. Reid was simply looking for a date, or worse, his old man told him to take her out. Her pop, who’d spent her high school years worrying that she’d date too early, was now probably worrying about her lack of dates. He’d asked her twice if she needed money for clothes. A question Lauren was sure had come straight from her mother. Her mom might have run from raising a kid after divorcing her dad, but that didn’t stop Margaret from calling in her motherly advice from Dallas.

Tim pulled into the parking lot of a tiny little restaurant a few blocks away from campus. All the letters on the neon sign were lit except for the R in Restaurant and the O in Open. Huge dead elms leaned over the building giving the illusion that the place was caught in a huge spiderweb.

“What’s the name of this place?” Lauren didn’t make a move to open her door.

Tim stared at it a moment and answered. “Estaurant pen.”

“Oh.” She wasn’t sure she’d want to go in even if it were free chicken fried steak.

Polly leaned forward. “No, guys, can’t you see the two letters are out. I can’t believe you two missed that.”

Tim and Lauren looked at each other silently debating which one should kill the roommate.

“Come on, Lauren, live a little.” Tim cut his lights. Before Polly climbed out the back, he whispered, “Only, don’t go out with Reid.”

“Why? You keep telling me that.” She wasn’t surprised when Tim didn’t answer.

Like always, he changed the subject. They had great fun trying to read the menu in the dark estaurant and then laughing at how small the steaks were when the plates arrived. Tim tried to convince Polly the tough pieces of meat were cows’ ears. When she believed him, he offered to eat her steak.

Polly flirted with the waiter long enough to talk him into giving her a hamburger. When she got up to go wash her hands, the guy offered her a tour of the place. By the time the burger was served she and Roger, the waiter, were dating.

Polly waved them goodbye as she ate with Roger, who’d said he’d be off in an hour.

Lauren hesitated, then she remembered the dates Polly had come in after, all upset because she couldn’t remember the guy’s name, even though she’d had her tongue in his mouth for hours.

She’d said, “I always make sure I know the guy’s name before I sleep with him. After all, I don’t want to wake up married after a night of drinking, like my mother did, and find out I have some stupid last name.”

Lauren had only known Polly a week then, but she asked, “Do you sleep with all the guys you go out with?”

Polly had laughed and said, “Of course not. Sometimes I don’t go out with them at all.”

Lauren wasn’t sure if Polly was trying to shock her or being honest, but after that she tried not to get too close to her. Only, leaving her here at the estaurant with some guy named Roger seemed cruel.

She touched Polly’s arm. “Call if you need a ride back to campus.”

For a second Polly seemed surprised, maybe even touched by the offer. Then her face hardened. “I never need help,” she answered. “Don’t worry about me.”

Lauren nodded once and followed Tim out.

He pulled her into the night air saying they shouldn’t interfere with true love.

“True love?” she whispered.

“Yeah, I have a feeling it hits Polly about every other weekend.”

They drove back without talking. Lauren couldn’t help wondering if Tim was bothered by Polly’s quick hookup more than he admitted.

Lauren didn’t know whether to be worried about her or angry that Polly seemed to think so little of herself.

At the dorm doors, Tim kissed her cheek, and Lauren felt as if she’d almost had a date. “Promise we’ll always be friends.”

He grinned. “Promise.”

They usually stood around talking whenever they got together but tonight something seemed to be on Tim’s mind and hers was heavy with lost dreams. He tipped his imaginary hat and walked away as she turned and headed up the stairs.

By the time she got back to her room she still hadn’t received a message from Lucas. She’d hoped he would have texted just to let her know he’d made it home to Crossroads, but he hadn’t.

She did have a text from Reid asking if she’d made up her mind about the party next Friday night. Say yes, he’d texted, everyone wears black or red to the dinner.

Angry and frustrated and feeling very much alone, she texted back. Yes. I can go.

A moment later Reid answered, Pick you up at six. Bring a coat we’ll go directly to the game after the party.

Her first official date at college, she thought. But it wasn’t with Lucas. It wasn’t even with a guy she liked. All the daydreams she’d had of college and being with Lucas were falling around her like snowflakes vanishing as they touched the rug.

From this night on, she’d build new—real—experiences. Maybe not with a guy she was crazy about. Maybe not forever dreams she’d cherish. But someday when her friends talked of their college days she’d at least have a few memories to compare.

Glancing out her window, she noticed a break in the clouds where tiny stars were shining through. The night of her sixteenth birthday, Lucas had taken her far away from town lights to watch the stars over the lake.

Lauren smiled remembering earlier that same evening when Reid had shown up drunk to her party and tried to kiss her. One swift knee between his legs had sent him to the ground. He’d been a perfect gentleman after that. Tech’s stadium was at the far north end of the campus. If he stepped out of line next Friday night, she could always walk back to her dorm.

Leaning back on her bed, she thought of Lucas and how she loved kissing him, but she was his someday love. He wanted them to finish school before they got serious. He hadn’t believed a sixteen-year-old would know about real love, and in many ways he still treated her as if she was that sixteen-year-old.

Lucas raced through life. He’d graduated early from high school. He would make it through to his bachelor’s degree in three years and planned to start law school in the spring. He hinted that he wanted her to be part of his future, but Lauren wanted to be part of his now.

A plan simmered in the back of her thoughts. Maybe if he saw how other guys wanted to go out with her, he’d pay more attention.

She shook her head. It was a dumb plan. Stupid. But then, being available and waiting every time he called didn’t seem to be working.

If she went out with Reid, Tim would tell Lucas. If he reacted, she might just get that real date with Lucas Reyes that she’d been waiting for since she was fifteen years old.

CHAPTER FOUR

Angela

ANGELA PULLED ON an old jogging suit and decided to walk around the edge of the lake. She’d spent all week cleaning and moving into her little cabin and had grown to love the lake and the small town a mile away. Tomorrow morning she’d start a new job, a new life. Her years of taking care of her mother, of worrying about her father, were in her past, washed away by a river of tears. Now she had to face her future.

Glancing at the cat trying to spread his fat body across the windowsill, Angela whispered, “This is our new home, Doc. You’re going to love it here.”

Doc Holliday just stared at her, but Angela couldn’t stop smiling.

No one in town cared about her family, and, for the first time since her birth, no family was watching over her. Her mother had smothered her for eighteen years, then she’d passed her off to two old aunts so Angela could attend a small college outside Washington, DC. Her parents said they’d save money if she lived with the aunts, but she’d missed most of campus life. As soon as she graduated, there was never any question that she’d find a job back in Florida and move in with her parents for a while. A part-time job in a small marina museum was all she found and her duties included ordering and cleaning the gift shop as well as giving the grade-school tours.

Then her mom’s cancer returned and any possibility of having her own place was forgotten. Her father needed help.

Though her uncle Anthony had offered her a job, Angela had studied to be a museum curator, and even at half the pay, she was glad to be working in a museum. At least she had the title of assistant curator.

Every day she’d come home and tell her parents all about her work at the tiny marina museum as if what she did was fun and important.

Her father rarely talked about his job. She knew he hated it, but somehow he was tied to what he did.

When her mother died, she stayed at home helping him in grief, thinking that they’d move along pretty much as they had before.

One note from her father, written on the day he died, changed all that.

She guessed her aunt and uncle would be glad not to have her around. Surely whatever, or whoever, had frightened her father would not follow her here. She knew no secrets. She owned nothing of value.

As she clicked on her flashlight and began to navigate the uneven shoreline of the lake, Angela felt light-headed with possibilities. Her plan just might work in this quiet little community where cows outnumbered people. She’d fill her new home with her mother’s quilts, and the furniture she’d picked up at secondhand stores. She’d fish on the lake with her father’s gear. She’d have their memories with her—the photo of her and her dad, his ledger with the leather worn thin and her replica Greek coin necklace. All that would have to be enough.

She decided her father had been right to tell her to leave. She felt newborn here, as if anything were possible, as if life could be somehow fuller, richer here.

She breathed in the night air, the smell of evergreens and lake water. She was stepping into a new world. Walking on a different planet. All her life she’d been a meek homebody and now she was an explorer.

The few dozen houses that stood along the shore didn’t seem to have drapes, or even blinds. She felt a little like a voyeur staring into the homes as she walked. Couples reading, playing cards, watching TV. “Yes,” she whispered. “There will be a peace here for me.”

A fisherman docking his boat stopped to watch her, but didn’t wave. A couple cuddled in a blanket at the far end of one of the private docks didn’t notice her pass. As the evening aged, she blended in with the shadows.

For the first time in her life, she almost believed she was invisible.

When she passed Dan Brigman’s house, she was surprised to see the sheriff with a woman in a flowing dress and heels standing in the room that faced the lake. Dan had mentioned a daughter when he’d shown her the cabin, but not a wife. She’d gotten the impression he wasn’t married, yet the woman looked far too old to be his daughter.

The woman was waving her arms as if arguing with the sheriff, then raised her hands in the air and let them drop to her sides as though giving up.

Angela stood frozen as the woman stormed from the room. The sound of the front door slamming and a car starting reached her ears, then the engine roared up the road behind the sheriff’s lake house.

She was still staring when Dan Brigman walked out on his deck and looked up at the stars.

She thought maybe, just maybe, if she remained perfectly still he wouldn’t see her. But of course, if he looked in her direction, she’d be silhouetted against the moonlit lake. Wild-haired, five-three Peeping Toms were hard to miss.

Angela lowered her head, clicked off the flashlight and walked slowly past his place, hoping the shadow of his dock might hide her from view.

She almost made it to the bend before he called out, “Angela, is that you?”

She turned and watched him jogging toward her in jeans and a sweatshirt. “I thought I’d walk around part of the lake,” she managed to say.

He fell into step with her. “Mind if I tag along? I could use a walk.” The sheriff looked thinner without his vest and forty-pound duty belt around his waist. He also looked somehow sadder than he’d been last week, even in the shadows.

“Not at all.” She clicked back on her flashlight even though the lights from the houses cast a warm glow over a broken path that wandered along between docks and lawn furniture. “You can tell me about the lake.”

“Well, legend says this stop was an old Comanche winter camp. After the Second World War some of the men returning home decided to build here. I always thought they were looking for peace. I know how they feel—no matter how hectic the job of county sheriff gets, when I come home and stare out at the lake, the world seems right.”

As he spoke, his words slowed a bit and his shoulders seemed to relax. When she asked about his daughter, he laughed and told her that she had a date for homecoming. “I’m finding out just how important that is,” he admitted.

“You and your wife must be happy she’s adjusting well to college.” Angela didn’t add that she had no idea how important homecoming dates might be. That wasn’t something she’d participated in at college. She’d had few dates, with friends mostly.

“We are proud of Lauren.” He cleared his throat. “But my wife and I divorced years ago.” He shrugged. “I might as well tell you. You’ll hear all about everyone who lives around town as soon as you start work tomorrow. Margaret left me a few months after I took this job. She wanted to finish school, then do an internship at a big company in Dallas. After that she got a job there and couldn’t leave the big city and all it had to offer. It took me three years to figure out she wasn’t coming back home. It seemed leaving me wasn’t a problem.”

He fell silent. They just walked. She listened to the water lapping against the shoreline and fish slapping the calm lake as they jumped to catch their supper.

She thought of asking who the woman was that she’d seen in the sheriff’s house, but maybe he had a right to his secrets, too. Finally, she broke the silence. “I’d better turn in. Tomorrow will be a big day for me.”

At the spot where she turned off toward her cabin, they stopped and he turned to face her. “Angela, don’t worry about tomorrow. You’ll be fine. We’re all glad you’re here. When I hand over the museum keys, a few representatives from some of the original families will be there.”

He could probably hear her breathing stop, so he rushed to continue. “You’ve already talked to Staten Kirkland. He’s the one who hired you on the phone. You’ll meet the O’Gradys and Collinses as well as the Wagners. All from old families who settled here a hundred years ago. They’re just showing up to wish you the best.”

“Is there anyone I should be worried about?”

Dan laughed. “They are all good people. You might watch out for Wagner, though. Vern’s been known to ask any single girl around to marry him.”

“How many wives has he had?”

“None. Talk is, after he forgot to show up at the church a few times, every woman in town stopped believing anything Vern said.” Dan shook his head. “I don’t know if that story is true. Wagner told it to me himself.”

“I’ll watch out for him.”

Dan laughed. “I promise, he’s someone not easy to miss.”

Angela said good-night and walked down the path to her cabin trying to remember all the names she’d heard. Kirkland, Collins, O’Grady and Wagner. Once she got settled in her new job, she’d look up all their family histories. Though she’d like to forget hers, most people wanted to talk about their roots.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING she was so early to the parking lot of the museum she waited half an hour before the sheriff showed up. While he was unlocking the huge double doors of the museum, cars and pickup trucks began pulling into the lot.

The sheriff stood beside her as the families piled out and greeted each other. Dan leaned close to her and quietly gave her the lowdown. “The couple in the Cadillac are the Collinses, they own the Bar W Ranch. Both their sons are away at school. That van with all the kids are one branch of the O’Gradys. Lots of them around town.” He nodded to an attractive couple with a young son. “The tall couple with the toddler are the Kirklands. Staten owns the Double K. Biggest spread within a hundred miles. Word is his wife, Quinn, is pregnant again. The two men climbing out of that old rusty red pickup are Wagners. They own the Devil’s Fork Ranch.”

Angela fought the urge to bolt. So many people, all coming to see her. Kirkland was tall, big like his voice had been on the phone. The man called Collins looked bored and his wife seemed overdressed.

She suddenly had a dozen questions to ask the sheriff, but it was too late.

People were too near the museum for him to fill her in on any more details, but she felt as if she had at least put a few names with faces.

When the sheriff finally opened the doors, she was surprised to see a banner welcoming her. A long lace-covered table was set up with red velvet cupcakes, lemon squares and juice in tall champagne glasses. All made it seem more a party than her first day at work. Three round little grandmother-types stood behind the refreshments table beaming with pride.

Fifty people crowded into the big two-story open foyer. Angela and the sheriff stood next to the mayor, Davis Collins, and his perfect, much younger wife named Cherry.

Angela fought down a giggle every time the mayor called his wife “Cherry Baby.” Everyone in the room, except Davis Collins, could see his wife glare at him. She obviously hated the name and he obviously didn’t care.

Everyone except two-year-old James Kirkland stood silently as the mayor said what a grand day it was to have a new curator over the museum they all loved.

With keys in her hand, Angela moved among the people trying to remember names. Everyone wanted to show her their favorite exhibit. After two hours, Angela felt as if she’d had a private tour of every foot of the museum from archives with journals of the first settlers, to the gun collections, to a mock-up of the first wagons. All her years of studying Texas history came alive as she touched artifacts that had survived since the time of the first Austin colony, including weapons that were around during the fight at the Alamo, and Native American clothing now treasured as works of art.

She loved it all. This was where she belonged. She’d grown up with her father and uncle always talking antiques. Every family member’s house had tables no one touched and chairs no one sat in. Yet, all these treasures of this Western past came alive as the descendants told stories of how life had been here on this very land a hundred and fifty years ago.

When the last guest finally left, and the three volunteers vanished into a small kitchen in the back to clean up the refreshments, Angela almost danced up the stairs. She wanted to pull the pins from her tight bun and run like a carefree child through her new life.

But of course she wouldn’t. She giggled. She’d do what was expected, at least until everyone was gone. Being here was both terrifying and Christmas morning at the same time.

After stopping at her office to pick up a pencil and pad, she began at the top of the stairs jotting things down that needed to be done and ideas for new displays. It would take weeks to examine all the artifacts, but what fun she would have.

She was so lost in her ideas, she didn’t notice a man moving up behind her until she felt his breath on the back of her neck.

“I have a question.”

She jumped, almost tumbling into the diorama of the canyon. Her notepad and pencil flew into the air. The pad slapped against the floor, but the pencil jabbed her attacker’s forehead drawing a drop of blood.

His right hand shot out, catching her shoulder as his tall frame leaned forward. His grip was strong, digging into her arm as he fought to pull her toward him and away from the display glass.

Opening her mouth to scream, she whirled. Her elbow plowed into his ribs as she found her footing. He folded over and his jaw slammed against her forehead, sending his hat flying into the display.

Both let out a cry. Hers sounded more like a squeal, and his seemed more like swearing, but when they met one another’s eyes, both were in pain.

She recovered first. “Mr. Wagner!” At over six-four, he was hard to forget. Especially when he’d added boots and a hat to his height. He had towered above her when he shook her hand at the reception, and he towered over her now.

“Mrs. Jones.” He gasped as he straightened, rubbing his ribs.

She had no idea what kind of man he was, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “My colleagues are in the back. If you are thinking of assaulting me, all I have to do is scream, and they’ll come running.”

Wagner made an effort to smile. “I doubt your three volunteers have run in thirty years. A cattle prod wouldn’t budge them into more than a stroll. As for assaulting you, I’m the one with a hole in my chest from your elbow and several teeth loose from the blow to my jaw.” He brushed two fingers across his forehead. “It appears I’m also bleeding. All I planned to do was ask you a question, lady.”

She saw his point. Surprisingly enough, she seemed to have won the short battle. “Well, Mr. Wagner, if you’re thinking of asking me to marry you, you can forget it. I’m wise to your tricks. I was warned by the sheriff.”

The tall cowboy gave up looking injured and stared at her as if she’d gone crazy. Anger flared. “Look, much as I’m turned on by your plain, gray suit and those practical shoes, I’m not in the habit of proposing to complete strangers on first contact.”

“I’ve heard different, Vern Wagner.”

Now he looked shocked. Then, to her surprise, he smiled and winked at her. “You do fit the list, Mrs. Jones, except I’m thinking you’re too smart. Dumb was a definite on the criteria. That suit looks like it’s homemade, and I’m betting you cook. Now that I think about it, we might as well get married, assuming your bank account is hefty and your husband is missing.”

She could only stare at the insane man. Maybe there was too much inbreeding in this county. He looked all right, close to perfect, actually. Tall, handsome with his sandy-blond hair and blue eyes. From boots to Stetson he was dressed as if he’d walked off the cover of a romance novel. Too bad he was brain-dead.

“Maybe we should get on with the mating. After all, your being pregnant at the wedding would be a plus.” He leaned down to her level as he moved closer.

Angela froze in total shock as his lips touched hers. The few times in her life she’d been kissed, really kissed, were nothing like this. His lips were soft against hers, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

Her entire body warmed. This man was a lightning strike on a clear day.

He hesitated as though just as surprised as she was, then leaned closer letting his body brush against her. One hand moved along her waist. She wasn’t sure if he was steadying her, or himself, as the kiss deepened.

She accepted his gift, hungry for a passion she’d never tasted. She had no idea how to kiss him back like this, but for one wild moment in her life, she wanted to learn.

Just as she wondered if crazy was contagious, someone hollered, “Wilkes!” so loud it echoed through the walls.

Wagner straightened and pulled his hat down over his still-bleeding forehead. He was pulling away, straightening to the stranger he’d been moments before, but for one second, she felt his fingers press into her side as if letting go didn’t come easy.

She stumbled as she stepped around him and felt his hand rest against her back once more, steadying her after his gentle assault.

An old man limped into the room. “How long do you expect me to wait for you, boy? I got things to do back at the ranch.”

She glanced at the man beside her. He definitely wasn’t a boy and hadn’t been for years, but he didn’t seem offended by the old man’s tone.

“Angie Jones,” Wagner said as if, now that they’d kissed, they were old friends, “I’d like you to meet my uncle, Vern Wagner.”

The older man took off his hat and smoothed his palm over the few hairs left on his head. “Nice to meet you, miss.”

The man beside her leaned close to her ear. “I’m Wilkes Wagner, Angie. My uncle has been proposing to women for years and none have taken him up on it yet. I’m not sure, but I think he made up the part about leaving a few brides at the altar that everyone believes.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry for frightening you. I thought you were in on a joke my uncle was playing on me.”

She thought over the odd encounter. She might not know how to fight off a man who wanted to kiss her, but she knew how to be professional. “And what was your question, Mr. Wagner?”

Wilkes glanced at his uncle. “I’ll have to come back another time. I’d like you to help me with some research on an old house.”

“I will be happy to,” she managed. “Only, please call before you come. I’m going to be very busy learning the museum.”

“I’ll try.” He smiled, and she knew he was laughing at her. “Good day, Angie.”

She straightened, trying to hold her ground. “My name’s not Angie, Mr. Wagner.” Only her father called her Angie.

To her surprise Wilkes Wagner grinned. “It’s not Jones, either, Miss Harold, and there’s no ring on your finger. If you didn’t keep the man, don’t keep his name.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Angela

Ransom Canyon Museum

ANGELA PLOPPED DOWN in her office chair and swiveled around to face her huge window. The beautiful canyon welcomed her, calmed her. She felt the freedom of this place pounding through her blood.

She’d been at work less than three hours and already she’d survived a party in her honor, injured a man she thought was attacking her and had a marriage proposal. Well, the proposal part was a joke, but still he had asked. Maybe living in this little town wasn’t going to be as boring as she’d hoped. Maybe she’d be different here. Braver.

“Miss Harold?” Dan Brigman’s voice sounded from the hallway. “May I come in?”

She turned toward the office door. Since the sheriff’s head was already in her office, she figured the rest of his body might as well be. “Of course.” She motioned to the chair in front of her desk, but he walked around to stand at the floor-to-ceiling window.

Brigman looked exactly like what she imagined a county sheriff would look like. They should cast him in a series. He was tall, but not too tall. Brown hair in need of a cut. Boots well-worn and polished, and a weapon strapped to his leg as if it were simply a part of him and nothing more. She’d known the moment she saw him that he was a man she could trust.

“If I had this great a view in my office, I’d never leave.” Leaning against the edge of the glass, Dan added, “The town gave you a nice welcome, I thought.”

“It was wonderful! The president of the museum board—Staten Kirkland?—said if there is anything I want around the place to just tell one of the volunteers and it will get back to his grandmother, who’ll pester him until he gets it done. Strange chain of command, but maybe it works.”

Dan smiled. “That sounds about right. Staten can move mountains it seems. The Kirklands are about as close to royalty in these parts as it comes. Legend is Staten’s great-great-grandfather bought his wife at kind of a swap meet the outlaws used to have down in this very canyon. The Kirklands come from rough stock, but they’re solid.”

“Rough stock?”

“Sorry, I forget you’re not from around here. Rough stock is mostly a rodeo term these days. Bulls and horses that have never been tamed or broke to ride.”

“What about the Wagners? Are they rough stock, too?” She could still feel the tingle of Wilkes Wagner’s lips on hers. No man had ever kissed her like that—all out and wild.

“No. The Wagners come from a German family who were carpenters. Very civilized. The first Mrs. Wagner was a midwife who delivered half the babies born in the county back in the late 1800s. Somewhere along the way, a few of the sons or grandsons started farming. The Wagner you met owns the Devil’s Fork Ranch. Farms mostly to raise crops for winter as feed. Supplies several of the ranches around.

“Wilkes runs a few head of cattle along with farming over eight hundred acres, but nothing like the Collins and Kirkland spreads. I’ve never seen a Wagner who couldn’t fix anything that broke. They’re good with their hands.”

Angela blushed. She could still feel the imprint of Wilkes’s hand at her side.

The sheriff pushed away from the window. He seemed to have stretched his skills at conversation to the max. “Well, I’d better get back to work. Call me if you need anything.”

He was halfway to the door when she asked, “Where’s my staff?”

“Staff?” Dan asked.

“You know, the people who work here?” She’d hoped to meet them first, not last.

“Oh, I thought you understood. You’re it. That’s why we had to close the place when the old curator left.”

“You’re kidding.” She could not run the entire place by herself.

Brigman must have seen her panic. “Of course. You got help. Nigel Walls comes in twice a week to clean the floors and bathrooms. He also works at the courthouse, so if you need him, I can send him over early.

“The ladies auxiliary holds a brunch here the first of every month and their president assigns two members to the front desk every hour you’re open. I think they work in two-hour shifts, but sometimes the ladies get to talking and there will be four to six women at the desk. The county keeps up with donations and bills. We don’t charge for our time, but the volunteers keep a count of attendance and give tours. The building is open from nine to five, six days a week. If you take a day off, all you have to do is call one of the board members to step in.”

“That’s it? That’s all the staff?” Angela listed in her mind all the duties that didn’t include greeting or cleaning. Kirkland had probably explained it to her during the phone interview but she’d been so excited and tired she must have missed the details.

“Of course we have others. Anyone doing community service is sent here to do yard work. The judge tends to make the hours longer around mid-November to help put up Christmas lights. But don’t worry about the Christmas party, it’s still two months away and the school tours don’t get packed back-to-back until spring.”

Angela was glad she was sitting down. She did her best to understand what the sheriff was saying, but invisible boulders kept falling on her head. She was the only employee.

“Anything else I should know about?”

Dan looked out the window. “There is Carter Mayes. You’ll see his little RV parked out here on the museum lot now and then. He comes every spring and stays till late fall, has for years. Folks say he’s looking for something he lost in the canyon when he was a kid, but I think he just loves walking the back trails. Don’t worry about him. He’s a good guy.”

She saw a lean figure far down in the canyon moving slowly toward the bottom. Carter Mayes.

“Anything else?” the sheriff asked with his hand on the door.

“Yes,” she said. “I think I’ll go back to my maiden name.” It seemed like a good idea, since she’d never really been engaged to the man named Jones, who never really existed. “When I talked to Mr. Kirkland, I thought I’d be married, but it didn’t happen.”

Dan grinned. “Who knows, Miss Harold, that might have been for the best. I’ve been trying to recover from a wedding for fifteen years. But no regrets. I got my Lauren away at college. If I brag about her too much, stop me.”

“I will.” She smiled, wondering if her father had ever talked so proudly about her. Maybe he had.

“Makes sense to clear up the name. Folks would get confused.” Dan nodded. “A few started calling you Harold the minute they heard the bastard didn’t move to Texas with you.”

She stared at the sheriff. “What makes you think he was a bastard?”

Dan smiled and stepped through the threshold. “He’d have to be, Angie, if he left a find like you.”

As his footsteps echoed down the stairs, Angela fought back a giggle. That was the nicest thing she could remember anyone ever saying to her.

But her head was spinning. Maybe she had made a mistake changing back to her real last name, but despite her father’s warning, why would anyone come after her? The people in Crossroads already knew her real name. She hadn’t said anything when she’d signed Harold on the lease for the cabin made out to Angela Jones. Now the fake name on the lease would keep her safe. If she was careful, she could leave little record of her real name.

But then, what did it matter if the people called her Harold now that she was here? They weren’t likely to run into any of her relatives half a continent away.

Time to stop worrying about her family and dive into work. This was her new life, her new beginning. She had been so unimportant in her father’s family they’d probably forgotten her by now anyway.

Angela grinned, remembering how last Thanksgiving Uncle Anthony’s latest wife had moved the family’s big dinner and forgotten to mention it to her or her father. Now, if any of them dropped by the beach house on Anna Marie Island, they probably wouldn’t be worried enough to ask where she’d gone.

She picked up her notepad and went downstairs. One of the volunteers was giving a tour this afternoon, and she planned to learn as much as possible.

* * *

OVER THE REST of the week, the museum drew her in like a magic time machine to a period in history that she’d loved since she’d discovered Little House on the Prairie as a girl. Yet somehow, she felt she belonged in this place. To her knowledge no one in her family had ever come west. She was the first pioneer, even if she was over a hundred years late.

Friday morning, Angela was deep in paperwork when she glanced up from her records to find Wilkes Wagner standing at her office door. He seemed to be blocking the entire entrance with his tall frame and wide shoulders. She had no idea how long he’d been lurking there.

“If you’ve come to assault me or ask for my hand, Mr. Wagner, I’m sorry, I’m busy. You’ll have to come back later.”

The cowboy had the nerve to smile and walk in as if he’d been invited. “I haven’t recovered from the last beating you gave me, Angie. I’ve still got a bruise on my rib.” He towered over her. “You want to see?” He tugged at his shirt.

“No.” She decided the sheriff must have left out dumb when he mentioned the Wagner family traits. Only, he wasn’t dumb. Arrogant. Rude. Sexy as hell, but not dumb.

“Well, if stripping is out—” he winked, telling her he’d been teasing “—then I’m here to do some research. You store county records under this roof. I’m looking for details about an old house that may have been one of the first in Crossroads. A friend of mine, Yancy Grey, claims it haunts him.”

She stood, trying to look her most professional, but it was hard to pull it off in the baggy trousers and bulky sweater she’d worn for a workday behind the dusty display cases. Any hope that he wouldn’t notice vanished when she saw him studying her from the knot of wild hair on the top of her head to her tennis shoes.

“Please follow me,” she ordered, her chin high.

He did just that, though she guessed he knew exactly where the museum records were kept. It was a beautiful room in the heart of the building. Although windowless, the walls between file cabinets and bookshelves had been painted sunset yellow. The tall room’s lighting had been expertly crafted with low-hanging wrought-iron chandeliers. Local cattle brands were laser cut into the dark iron giving the room a warm, Western glow. The Double K for the Kirklands, The Bar W for the Collins’ ranch and many others including the Devil’s Fork. Wilkes’s family brand looked like the branches of a winter tree that nature had shaped into the lines of a three-tine fork.

She started when Wilkes overtook her a moment before she reached for the doorknob. He held it open for her and then followed her in. For the first time, she noticed a leather backpack slung over one of his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t show you around. I haven’t had a chance yet to explore all the wonderful records in this room.”

He dropped his pack on the nearest chair and sat on the end of the long oak table that sliced down the middle of the room. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve explored these stacks. My mother used to volunteer here on Saturdays, and I always tagged along. I think this place is why I majored in American history in college.”

“You went to college?” The words were out before she could stop them. Somehow with his worn boots and old jeans she’d formed the idea that he’d never left the ranch for more than a few hours.

He grinned, that wicked grin she’d seen her first day. “Much as I tried to goof off, I ended up with a degree in history and a minor in math.” Sitting on the table, he was eye level with her, which made him impossible to ignore. Men shouldn’t be that rugged and that good-looking at the same time.

The memory of their kiss warmed her and she licked her lips. His smile faded, but his eyes darkened slightly, telling her he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Wilkes folded his arms and looked away. One kiss might have been an accident, a part of a game he assumed was being played, but another would be an advance. He was silently telling her it wouldn’t happen again.

He was right, of course. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place. The best kiss of her life had been a mistake. Nothing more.

She tried to be polite. Change the subject before her cheeks matched the color of her hair. “There’s not a great deal you can do with a history degree unless you want to teach, I’ve heard.”

He crossed his legs at the ankle, almost touching her shoes as he did.

She moved a foot away.

“I’ve no interest in teaching. I want to ranch, Angie. Tried to find something else but waking up to clean air and sounds of the country won out. Maybe I didn’t love ranching so much as I simply had no great ambition to do anything else,” he said. “Today, I’m just helping a friend who wants to learn about one of the houses at the edge of town. I’m not working on some great research project.”

She took another step toward the door. “I’ll come back and check in on you later. We have painters down in the foyer and a high school group coming in to look at the wagons.”

“Who is the we?” he asked.

“Well...me,” she admitted, realizing just how alone she was most of the time. Normally, she loved it, but somehow, with him here, she wanted to feel as if there was a crowd around. In an odd way, this rough-around-the-edges cowboy tempted her. He wasn’t relationship material, but maybe for that one-night stand all her friends talked about but Angela had never tried. If he made love as well as he kissed, he might be more than she could handle.

Who was she kidding? His old uncle Vern was probably more than she could handle.

Still, she could dream about it, even if she knew nothing would ever happen. Wilkes Wagner seemed perfect to fall in love with for the night and then walk away. He’d never work for long-term but she had a feeling he’d start a fire that would fill her dreams for years.

He stood so smoothly, so silently, she was halfway to the door when he said, “Angie, I’m not going to attack you. I didn’t the day we met. You just jumped when I must have startled you.” He moved around the table and pulled a chair out as if proving that he’d come to work. “And just for the record, I won’t ever ask for your hand. If I come a-asking, it’ll be for a lot more than just your hand I’d want, darlin’. I have no doubt there’s a woman beneath all those baggy clothes.”

Now several feet away, she felt more comfortable. “I wasn’t startled,” she lied, not wanting to think about the hand comment.

“You’re the most skittish woman I’ve ever met. Hell, I’ve seen horseflies calmer than you.”

Angela smiled, feeling safe so near the door. “You meet a lot of skittish women, do you?”

“Not many,” he admitted as the corner of his lip lifted slightly. “Not any that taste like warm honey.”

She walked away, her cheeks burning.

He called out before she closed the door. “Let me know when it’s closing time. I don’t own a watch and I forgot my cell.”

Glancing back, she noticed there was no clock in the room. Wilkes was already busy opening the file drawers, and, to her surprise, he did look as if he knew his way around the stacks of records.

She promised herself she would not go check on him until five o’clock, but a little after four she couldn’t resist any longer.

As silently as possible, she opened the library door to find the long oak table covered in books and papers. Wilkes Wagner was sound asleep, his chin on his chest and his boots propped on the chair across from him.

She moved closer and noticed the stubble along his jaw and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He seemed to be a man who laughed often even if he was a puzzle. Why would someone get a college degree and not use it? Why would a handsome man flirt with the likes of her? Why did he let his uncle talk to him as if he were a kid?

As she studied him, she spied a few scars on his chin and one just above his eye. For a man who couldn’t be much into his thirties, she was surprised to see so many deep scars on his hands.

A photograph of a house lay next to his left elbow. It was a small two-story, built low into the ground. She’d read early homes often were dug into the plains’ sod to save on lumber and to keep the small dwellings warmer in winter and cooler in summer.

Above the photograph someone had written Stanley House. Angela began to put facts together like puzzle pieces in her mind. A family named Stanley was listed among the first settlement in the area. They worked as blacksmiths and farriers on the Kirkland spread. She couldn’t remember seeing any Stanleys on the current membership list, so they must have died out or moved away.

She left the room quietly and ran to the wagon exhibit she’d just shown on the high school tour. There, at the back, was an old, faded vardo wagon that looked like a tiny house on wheels. A Gypsy wagon made of wood. The name on the plaque read “Stanley Wagon. One of two traveling with James Kirkland in 1872.”

She smiled and headed back to tell Wilkes that she’d found something that might help, but a dozen people suddenly filled the foyer. They seemed to be having a small reunion and asked Angela to see their great-aunt’s collection of quilts that had been donated to the museum forty years ago. It took Angela and both volunteers, Miss Bees and Miss Abernathy, to find them in the archives. By the time the quilts were carefully folded and put away, it was long past closing time.

As she said goodbye to the older ladies and locked up, she remembered the sleeping cowboy in the library. Maybe she could simply let him sleep the night. No, that wouldn’t work. The last thing she wanted was Wilkes Wagner wandering around here after dark.

He’d already spent far too much time wandering around in her dreams.

When she found Wilkes still sound asleep, her next problem was how to wake him. If she frightened him awake, he might jump or attack. Miss Bees told her Wilkes had served three years in the army after college.

Angela had heard of soldiers fighting if surprised.

Maybe if she just tapped him on the shoulder and jumped out of range. With her arm outstretched, she moved slowly toward him, but when she could have touched his shoulder, she corrected slightly and brushed his light brown hair with the tips of her fingers.

It was far softer than she would have thought. Thick, with just a bit of curl circling over her fingers. She could never remember wanting to touch any man’s hair before. Most of her encounters with the opposite sex were awkward and none she ever wanted to repeat. But almost of its own will, her hand brushed lightly over his hair once more.

When she finally looked down to his face, his blue eyes were staring up at her, waiting to see what she’d do next.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” She leaped back. “I wasn’t sure how to wake you.”

“Saying wake up would have worked,” he said, unfolding from the chair. “But I didn’t mind you brushing my hair back. My mother used to wake me like that when I was a kid.”

“I, um, just needed to let you know that it’s long past closing time.” She picked up a few of the books, trying not to look at him, then remembered the wagon. “Oh, wait, I wanted to show you something.”

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