Trace Evidence
Carla Cassidy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Chapter 1

“Got a job for you, Clay.”

Clay James looked up from the microscope where he’d been studying a piece of fiber found on the latest murder victim of the killer who the local newspapers had dubbed the Shameless Slasher.

He frowned irritably at Glen Cleberg, the chief of police in the small Oklahoma city of Cherokee Corners. “I’m in the middle of something here. Whatever it is, can’t you get somebody else to take care of it? I’m trying to identify a fiber found on Sam McClane’s body.”

He was certain that would make Glen leave the small police lab and him alone. The chief had been chewing on his butt to find something, anything that might clue them into the killer’s identity before a third murder took place.

“As important as what you’re doing is, I still need you on this other case.”

Clay shut off the high-powered microscope, fighting against the foul mood that seemed to grip him tighter and stronger minute by minute, day by day. “What other case?”

“A break-in at the high school.”

“Since when do we process something like that?” Clay interrupted impatiently. He had a hell of a lot more important things to deal with, like unsolved murders and a missing mother.

A stab of pain ripped through him as he thought of his mother, missing now for just over a month with few clues to follow to discover her whereabouts or if she were still alive or dead.

“Since the classroom that was broken into belongs to Tamara Greystone,” Glen replied.

Tamara Greystone, local artist, teacher and Cherokee Corners’ claim to fame. The fact that she was Native American, like Clay himself, and a close friend of the mayor’s family was about all Clay knew about the woman.

“Clay, it’s already after seven, past time for you to knock off for the day. If you’d just go by the school and check things out, you’ll keep the mayor off my ass. He’ll be happy to know I have my top man on the job.”

Fighting a weary sigh, Clay nodded and stored away the specimen he’d been studying. Maybe some time away from the lab would give him a new perspective.

For the past two weeks he’d been putting in fourteen-hour days, studying, analyzing and cataloging trace evidence from the two murder scenes. That didn’t count the time he was putting in on his mother’s case. A little break away from the lab and intense work might be good for him.

“I’m on my way,” he told his boss, who grunted and disappeared from the lab door.

Within fifteen minutes Clay was in his van and headed toward the high school on the outskirts of town. The July sun was still hot and he could almost taste the dust in the air, stirred up by a faint evening breeze.

He flipped the air conditioner in the van on high and tried to empty his head of thought. But that process had been next to impossible since the night almost six weeks ago when somebody had come into his parents’ house and nearly killed his father, Thomas, with a blow to the back of his head.

Clay’s mother, Rita Birdsong James, had been nowhere to be found. A suitcase had been missing along with some of her clothes and personal toiletries. The official speculation had been that Thomas and Rita had had one of their legendary fights and this time things had spiraled way out of control. The authorities believed Rita had hit her husband, then panicked and ran.

The James siblings had known that was impossible. As much as their mother, a beautiful, petite Cherokee woman, and their father, a big, brawny Irishman had fussed and yelled, screamed and cursed each other, it was merely part of their chemistry.

Rita and Thomas James had loved each other as passionately as they’d fought with one another. There was no way one could harm the other.

If that wasn’t enough to fill his mind, there were the two murders to stew about. Greg Maxwell and Sam McClane had both been stabbed to death and left naked. Greg’s body had been found in front of the public library and Sam had been left behind the post office.

They had been vicious killings, filled with rage and there had been little left on and around the bodies to aid Clay and the other crime-scene investigators in finding clues to the killer.

He felt as if in both cases he was fighting the ticking hand of a time bomb. If they didn’t find his mother in time, she would probably eventually be found dead. And if he didn’t find who the serial killer was, there was going to be more bodies.

Ticking time bombs, that’s what he had on his hands and nothing was falling into place as it should. He tightened his hands on the steering wheel in frustration.

As the high school came into view, all thoughts of his mother and the serial killer fled from his mind. Two patrol cars were already in the parking lot and Clay shook his head as he pulled up and parked next to one of them.

Apparently it paid to be friends with the mayor. He could never remember a break-in anywhere that had warranted two cop cars and a crime-scene investigator…not in this small town.

Tamara Greystone must have pulled a handful of strings to get this kind of response. She was a big fish in a little pond here and he had a feeling she was probably one of those self-important divas in the art world.

He got out of his van and grabbed the metal suitcase that sometimes felt like an extension of his body. His irritation level had just ratcheted up to a dangerous degree.

The Cherokee Corners High School was a two-story brick building, with wide front steps that led up to the front door.

Clay had gone to high school here seventeen years ago. His high school days hadn’t been awful, but they hadn’t been terrific, either.

At the top of the stairs, Burt Creighton stood next to the door, looking bored and out of place in his khaki police uniform. He greeted Clay with a wry grin. “I joined the police department looking for danger and excitement. What do I get? An assignment to stand on the high school steps in the dying heat of the day.”

“Why are you stationed here? Summer school has been over for several hours.”

Burt shrugged. “Apparently Ms. Greystone teaches an adult education class at seven on Tuesday and Thursday nights. The class members have been arriving and I’ve been getting each person’s name and address before sending them back home.”

Clay shifted his kit from one hand to the other. “Seems like a lot of trouble for a classroom break-in. Who’s inside?”

“Ed Rogers. He’s guarding the classroom door, making sure nobody goes in until after you’re finished in there.”

“Anyone else there?”

“Ms. Greystone and that’s it. It’s room 230.”

Clay nodded and entered the building. He was instantly assailed by scents of the distant past…the smell of chalk and teenage sweat, of industrial floor polish and bathroom deodorizer.

He took the stairs to the second floor two at a time, a new irritation growing inside with each step he took. This was ridiculous, to be called here to process what was probably a simple case of classroom vandalism by some disgruntled student.

He had so many more important things to be doing…like trying to find his mother…like trying to find a serial killer. He didn’t give a damn who Tamara Greystone thought she was, this was a waste of his time.

Ed Rogers greeted him at the top of the stairs. He motioned down the hallway. “Room 230 is on the left. Ms. Greystone is in room 231 across the hall. I wrote up a report, but I doubt we’ll ever find out who did this unless some tough guy decides to brag.”

Clay nodded. He’d already come to that conclusion. Still, he had a job to do. He headed down the hall, his heels silent against the polished tile floor.

Although he would have preferred to go directly to work, he turned into classroom 231 first. She stood, facing the doorway as if she’d heard his silent approach.

His first impression of her was one of grace and delicate beauty. She wore a traditional calico Cherokee tear dress. The dress had three quarter length sleeves and fell to her calves. It was sky blue with red-diamond-shaped accents around the yoke.

Her long hair was coiled in a careless knot at the nape of her neck, but it was her eyes that captured his attention more than anything. Large and more gray than black, they radiated kindness and peace. She certainly didn’t look like an arrogant, artist diva.

“You must be Officer James.” She took a step toward him and help out her hand. “I’m Tamara Greystone.”

“Nice to meet you,” he said as he gave her slender hand a quick shake, then released it. “I understand there’s been a break-in into your classroom. What can you tell me about it?”

Clay liked to get as much information as he could before he actually processed a scene. He never knew what tidbit of information a victim might tell him that would reveal a clue to what he saw and discerned from the crime scene itself. He gestured her to a nearby student chair.

Once she was seated, he took the chair next to hers and withdrew a pad and pen from his pocket. Even with the distance between them, he could smell her. The scent was earthy and mysterious. It surprised him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d noticed the scent of a woman.

“There really isn’t much I can tell you,” she said. “I left the school this afternoon just after four and went home. The classroom was fine at that time. I returned this evening just after six and found the room had been destroyed.”

“Was anyone here when you left at four?” He kept his gaze focused on his pad.

“I think I was the last one out. I usually am. We have three periods of classes for summer school. Math is at ten, English is at noon and my class is at two.” She offered him a smile that curved the corners of her full lips.

“What about the cleaning crew?” He looked back down at his pad, finding her smile far too appealing. What was wrong with him? First her smell, then her smile. For some reason he was finding her very distracting.

“The cleaning crew consists of Vernon Colby. He doesn’t come in until about nine and works through the night. I’m not sure what his schedule is during the summer months.”

“Vernon Colby? I didn’t know he was still alive.” He’d been cleaning the high school when Clay had gone to classes here, and Clay had thought him ancient then.

“Have you had a fight with any of the students? Flunked anyone who might have a temper?” he continued with the questions.

“No. Nothing like that.” She shook her head, making tendrils of her dark hair come loose. “Well, technically most of the summer school students are in the class because they’ve flunked a class or need an additional credit to graduate.”

He wondered if those tendrils would feel like silk between his fingers. Clay put his pad and pen away, recognizing that whatever other information he needed would probably be in the official report Ed had written up.

Besides, he needed to get out of here and away from her.

“I’ll just get to work now.” He picked up his kit and headed out of the room and across the hall.

Maybe he was having some sort of a mini-breakdown, he thought. He’d never found a woman who could hold his attention like an intriguing crime scene.

He’d expected overturned desks, torn books, perhaps a smashed window or two, but when he looked into room 230, shock held him momentarily motionless.

He’d seen vandalism before, but nothing to the extent of what lay before him. Desks were not only overturned, but also smashed and broken into pieces. Torn books and papers littered the floor like confetti after a parade.

The blackboard was cracked in half, but it was none of these things that sent a shock of adrenaline racing through him. What captured and held his attention were the marks that slashed high across the walls. Deep, gouging marks that were red with what appeared to be fresh blood.

Any irritation he’d felt about being sent here vanished as he stepped into the classroom and pulled a camera from his kit, the woman across the hall already forgotten.

This was where he came alive—in the middle of the chaos of a crime scene. Work was his life, and when he worked was the only time the anger inside him subsided, the only time the guilt silenced, the only time he was at peace within himself.

She watched him from the doorway as he walked around the room, taking pictures of the damage from every point of view. Tamara Greystone knew far more about Clay James than he thought he knew about her.

She’d worked with his mother at the Cherokee Cultural Center and Rita had often confided in Tamara her worry about her eldest child.

He was a sinfully handsome man, with rich black hair and sculptured features that were traditionally Native American—high cheekbones and a proud, strong nose, dark straight brows over intense black eyes. He had thin lips that appeared to have never curved upward in a smile.

Tall and lean, he had shoulders just broad enough to hint at wiry strength. As he moved around the room he displayed a natural, sleek grace that belied the fact that she knew he spent most of his days cooped up in a laboratory.

“Quite a mess, isn’t it?” she said.

He started, as if he’d forgotten her presence, and it was obvious from his look of irritation that he’d like to continue to forget her presence. “Yeah, it’s a mess.”

He put the camera down on the metal suitcase he’d carried in and looked at her once again. “There’s really nothing more you can do here. You’re free to go on home.”

“Thank you, but I’ll stay until you’re finished.”

His frown turned from irritated to positively daunting. “Look, Ms. Greystone. It really would be best if you’d just leave me to do my job.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” She smiled. “Surely you understand my need to be here. I’m sure if somebody had come into your lab and done something like this, no matter who was processing the scene, you’d want to be there. This is more than just the place where I work, Officer James. This classroom is a part of my heart.”

“Then just stay out of my way,” he said curtly.

“I’ll do that.” She remained standing in the doorway as he got back to work.

The initial horror of what had been done to the room had worn off, but the senseless, extensive damage still sent a small wave of disquiet through her.

Who could have done this? And why? She’d always tried so hard to maintain good relationships with her fellow teachers and students.

She focused her gaze at Clay, watching as he studied the marks on the walls. He seemed completely and totally absorbed in his work. That’s part of what had bothered Rita about her son. According to Rita, her only son had no life beyond work, had turned his back on his Native heritage and had become a bitter, angry man with a chip on his shoulder.

The chip wasn’t visible at the moment, but his total concentration on his work was apparent. She knew he’d forgotten about her as he scraped bits of the material that looked like blood into a vial.

She supposed his total absorption in his work was what made him so good at what he did. Rita had always overworried about all her children, not only Clay, but also his sisters, Breanna and Savannah.

Rita. Thoughts of the missing woman filled her with grief. She missed seeing Rita’s beautiful face at the Cherokee Cultural Center, missed her exuberance and enthusiasm for the work and education that the cultural center afforded their community.

“These look like some sort of animal claws,” he said as he studied the marks that rode high on the walls.

“How would an animal have gotten in here?” she asked.

“No animal has been in this room,” he said in direct counter to his previous statement. “If an animal had been loose in here there’d be additional signs, such as odors and waste material.”

“Then how did the claw marks get there?”

He frowned. “That’s what I need to figure out.”

“If animal claws made the marks, can you tell what kind of animal it might be?”

“Not just by looking at them. I’ll have to take plaster casts and get them back to the lab to do some comparison study. There are bits of fur embedded in the marks, so that will make identification easier.”

Apparently he’d talked himself out, because for the next hour he didn’t say another word. That was fine with Tamara. Silence never bothered her. Her parents had taught her as a child that silence was to be respected and revered. It was a time to observe and learn from what was inside you and what surrounded you.

Clay James was far more interesting to watch than listening to her inner thoughts. He radiated a fierce intensity, a focus that was assuring. She had no doubt that his expertise and tenacity would eventually identify the culprit.

“That’s all I can do here,” he finally said as he packed up his samples and tools. “Have you spoken to Will Nichols and let him know what’s going on?”

Will Nichols was the principal of the high school. “Yes, I called him. He stopped by earlier, saw the damage and told me to keep him posted.”

“You won’t be teaching in this room any time soon. I want it left locked for the next couple of days in case I need to come back and take some more samples.”

“I noticed you didn’t try to get any fingerprints.”

His jaw muscle tightened, as if he thought she was questioning his expertise. “It’s pointless to print a room where so many people pass through on a regular basis. If this had been a murder scene, or the scene of an assault, then I might have considered it. But this room could potentially hold the prints of students that had passed through over the years. It would take us months to find out who they belong to.” His gaze was cold as it met hers. “Is there anything else you think I’ve forgotten?”

Prickly, she thought. Definitely prickly. “Officer James, I wouldn’t begin to tell you how to do your job. Just as I wouldn’t expect you to come into my classroom and take over my job.” She offered him a smile. “I just watch a lot of television and it seems on the crime shows everyone is always taking fingerprints.”

He grabbed his kit and walked toward where she stood in the doorway. “You shouldn’t believe everything you see on TV.”

He turned off the light in the room and watched as she locked the door. “I have a spare key.” She fumbled with her key chain until she worked a key off the ring. She held it out to him. “This way if you need to get back inside, day or night, you have access as long as somebody can unlock the front school door for you.”

He took the key from her and slid it into the back pocket of his tight jeans. Together they walked down the silent hallway toward the stairs. Ed and Burt had both stuck their heads in the classroom earlier to tell Clay they’d questioned Vernon and they were leaving.

Vernon Colby was waiting for them by the front door. “Damn fool kids…nothing but meanness in them nowadays,” he muttered as he unlocked the door for Clay and Tamara to exit.

Night had fallen outside and overhead the bright, sparkly stars were companions to a three-quarter moon. Parked in the lot were two vehicles, the van that Clay had driven and the rusted-out pickup that belonged to Vernon.

“Where’s your car?” he asked.

“I don’t drive to school,” she replied. “I always walk to and from work. It’s just a little over a mile walk.”

He raked a hand through his thick hair and stared out into the darkness of the night. “I’ll drive you home.” It was obvious it wasn’t something he particularly looked forward to doing.

“That isn’t necessary,” she demurred. “I’m used to walking home and the darkness doesn’t frighten me.”

“It should,” he snapped. “You should be afraid of what the darkness holds. People can be perfectly safe in their own homes one minute, then dead or missing in the next.”

She knew that he was talking about what happened to his parents and her heart went out to him. But she had a feeling that Clay James was a man who didn’t appreciate empty platitudes.

“Thank you, I’ll accept the offer of a ride home,” she said.

He opened the passenger door for her and she slid inside. The interior of the van smelled like him, a combination of clean-scented cologne and breath mints.

He got in and started the van. “Which way?”

She pointed to the left. “Go down the road about a half a mile. There’s a dirt road. Turn right there and I’m at the end of the road.”

He didn’t speak again until they turned on the dirt road where thick trees crowded in from either side. “I didn’t even know this was here,” he said.

“Most people don’t. I found it two years ago when I returned to Cherokee Corners from New York. I like the woods and the solitude.”

He slowed as they came to the end of the road, and his headlights shone on the little cabin she called home. A faint light shone from behind the living room curtains.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” she said. “But it’s a perfect artist retreat, an adequate home and holds a sense of spiritual peace that is comforting.”

“You don’t have to apologize to me for your living conditions,” he said as he pulled to a halt before the place.

“On the contrary, Officer James, I wasn’t apologizing. I was merely trying to make pleasant conversation.”

She hesitated a moment, then continued. “I’m sure you’ve put in a long day. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” She wasn’t sure what had prompted the invitation. He certainly hadn’t been overly sociable and there was no reason for any further contact with him.

He stared at the cabin for a long moment, then, to her surprise shut off his van engine and turned to look at her. “A cup of coffee sounds good.”

Chapter 2

He had no idea why he’d agreed to go inside her home and drink a cup of coffee. Maybe because he didn’t want to go back to the lab just yet. Maybe because he didn’t want to go to his own home, which would be far too silent and allow him far too many thoughts and recriminations.

“It’s pretty isolated out here,” he observed as they walked up the three steps that led to a long front porch. The small cabin was in the center of a copse of thick trees and brush.

She laughed, the sound echoing like birdsong in the air.

“That’s the difference between a cop and an artist. A cop sees isolated, an artist sees secluded.”

Despite the irritation that had filled him earlier, he felt himself relax a bit, as if the pleasant sound of her laughter had worked like a balm on a sore wound. “A cop sees lots of hiding places. I suppose you see lots of things to paint, Ms. Greystone.”

“Exactly, and please call me Tamara.” She unlocked her door and pushed it open. “Welcome to my secluded little cabin in the woods.”

He stepped into the door and felt as if he’d been swept into a different world, a different universe. The room was a visual wonderland filled with shapes and colors.

The beige sofa held an array of throw pillows in a variety of colors. Paintings covered the walls and a half-finished one rested on an easel in front of a side window that would catch the morning light.

Roughhewn shelves held pottery and woven baskets in all shapes and sizes and a collection of hummingbirds set on top of the fireplace mantle. Fresh wildflowers were in vases everywhere and the room was scented with their sweet fragrance.

The total effect should have been chaotic and cluttered, but instead the room radiated a sense of balance and serenity.

As he looked around, taking it all in, he felt some of the day’s pressures easing. His shoulder muscles seemed to unkink a little and the burn that had smoldered in the pit of his stomach for the last month dissipated somewhat.

“Please, come on into the kitchen and I’ll put the coffee on.”

He followed her into a cozy kitchen as colorful and unique as the living room. She gestured him to a small wooden table, then busied herself with the coffeemaker.

He noticed a shelf above the kitchen sink filled with healthy plants of various types. “You must have quite a green thumb,” he said.

“I like growing things.”

He leaned back in the surprisingly comfortable wooden chair and viewed her from top to bottom, taking in the length of her slender back and the curve of shapely hips beneath the dress. “I’m surprised we haven’t run into each other before now.”

She turned from the coffeepot and flashed him a grin. “I try not to run into the police, Officer James.”

“Call me Clay,” he said. “Whenever you say Mr. or Officer James, I think you’re talking to my father.”

“All right, then Clay it is. And I don’t go into town very often, just when I need groceries or art supplies and occasionally to visit with Alyssa at the Redbud.”

He looked at her in surprise. “You know my cousin Alyssa?”

“She and I have become good friends recently, since I moved back from New York. I try to have her to dinner out here at least once every couple of weeks.”

“That’s nice. Alyssa could use more friends. So, you didn’t like the Big Apple?”

She hesitated a moment before replying. “No…it wasn’t my cup of tea.” There was something in her tone that forbid him to ask any more questions on that particular topic.

“But you’re originally from Cherokee Corners?” He was aware that he was talking more to her than he’d talked to anyone in the last several weeks, but she was easy to talk to. Something about her soft, seemingly accepting demeanor invited conversation.

“Born and raised here. You were several years older than me, so we didn’t run in the same crowd.”

“What’s with the hummingbirds?” he asked, noting that several glass figurines hung at the window over the sink.

“The hummingbird is one of my totem animals.”

He was grateful when she didn’t elaborate. He didn’t want to hear about totems and spirituality, about old Cherokee ways and the voice of the elders. It was these kinds of things that he’d fought about with his mother just before she’d disappeared.

He was suddenly sorry he’d followed his impulse to come inside, but now that the coffee was finished brewing, he wasn’t sure how to leave gracefully. Just one fast cup, then I’m out of here, he thought.

As she reached up high in a cabinet to pull down two stoneware mugs, he couldn’t help but notice the slender curve of her calves beneath the length of her dress.

Although he’d tried his best to immerse himself in his work as he’d taken samples and photographed her classroom, he’d been acutely conscious of her presence the entire time. Not only had her exotic fragrance gone directly to his head, but he’d been impressed by her quiet and calm in the face of such devastation.

“I appreciate you not being one of those hysterical women,” he said as she sat a mug of steaming coffee before him.

“Cream or sugar?” He shook his head negatively and she joined him at the table. “What’s to be hysterical about? What’s done is done. My screaming and yelling wouldn’t have put the classroom back in order. I’m just sorry so many of the books appeared to have been torn up. It will be months before we can get more books and then only if extra money can be squeezed out of the budget.”

He took a sip of the coffee. It was good—hot and strong the way he liked it. “You said you watched a lot of television, but I noticed there wasn’t a TV in the living room.”

She smiled and the beauty of that smile hit him square in the pit of his stomach. “Ah, you’ve discovered my guilty pleasure. I have a little ten-inch set in my bedroom and am notorious for watching it for a couple of hours before I fall asleep.” Her dark eyes gazed at him for a long moment. “But I’m sure you’ve been far too busy lately to even think about television programming.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long six weeks.”

“Any breaks in your mother’s disappearance?”

“Not really, although my sister Savannah found two cases in Oklahoma that are so similar it’s eerie.”

“Really?” She leaned forward and he caught another whiff of her scent.

“In fact, one of those cases is what brought Savannah and her fiancé, Riley, together.” He took another sip of his coffee, wishing she’d lean back in her chair so he couldn’t smell her, so he couldn’t see the dark length of her eyelashes, the dewy moisture of her lips.

What on earth was wrong with him? Why was Tamara Greystone making him think of things he hadn’t thought of in a very long time…like hot, eager kisses and silky hair tangled around his fingers, and warm, slender curves pressed against his body? Why was he talking so much when normally he had nothing much to say to anyone?

For just a moment, as he’d looked into her large, dark gray eyes, the pain, the anger, the uncertainty that had ruled his life for so long had momentarily ebbed. He reached for it now, the pain chasing away any inexplicable desire he might feel for Tamara.

“Two years ago Riley Frazier’s mother disappeared under the same kind of circumstances as my mother. Riley’s father had been hit over the head. Unfortunately, he was killed. Riley’s mother was nowhere to be found. Some of her clothing was missing and the police assumed she was responsible for Riley’s father’s death.”

“Sounds exactly like what happened to your parents, although thankfully your father wasn’t killed.”

Clay nodded, and swallowed hard against the knot of emotion that twisted in him at thoughts of his mother. He remembered that night almost six weeks ago when he’d been called to his parents’ ranch. His father had been taken away in an ambulance and his mother hadn’t been anywhere to be found. He’d known then that something terrible had happened not only to his father, but to his mother as well.

“True, although he’s still recuperating. Unfortunately, he doesn’t remember anything about that night. Anyway, Riley’s mother’s body was found a week ago in Sycamore Ridge on some property he was excavating for building a home.”

“How tragic,” Tamara replied. “Did anyone find out what had happened to her?”

“According to the medical examiner, she’d been dead for about four months.”

“Four months…but didn’t you say she went missing two years ago?”

Clay nodded. “We don’t know what happened to her between the time of her disappearance and the time of her murder.”

“Murder?” Tamara’s voice was a soft whisper.

“Yeah, her skull was smashed in, just like her husband’s had been two years before.”

Tamara wrapped her fingers around her mug. He noticed that her fingers were long and slender, and her nails just long enough to be completely feminine. “You said three cases. What’s the third?”

“Two years before Riley Frazier’s mother went missing a woman in Sequoia Falls also disappeared under the same exact circumstances. The husband was hit over the head and killed, and she was gone, along with some of her personal belongings. She still hasn’t been found.”

“So, maybe she’s still alive. Just like it’s possible your mother is still alive.” Her voice rang with hope that he desperately wanted to grab on to.

“That’s the only thought that keeps me getting up in the morning.” He took another drink of the coffee, then continued, “I feel like I’m working against a bomb with a ticking clock, but the problem is I don’t know who set the timer, or how much time is left. I just feel so damned helpless.” Again, he felt a ball of emotion pressing tight against his chest.

She reached across the table and lightly touched one of his hands. “You’ll find her, Clay.”

He pulled his hand from her touch, finding it not only distracting, but disturbing as well. The touch had been too warm, too soft.

He took a drink of his coffee, his thoughts returning to his mother. Yes, eventually he’d find her, but would he find her in time? Would he find her dead or alive?

And what in the hell was he doing here sipping coffee and baring his soul to a woman he didn’t know at all?

Tamara could tell the exact moment he turned off. His black eyes went blank and his jaw muscles tightened and she knew their conversation had come to a halt. Sure enough, he downed the last drop of coffee from his mug and stood.

“Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “I’ve got to get going.”

She followed him to the front door. Even his walk looked uptight despite the fact that she couldn’t help but notice that his jeans fit quite nicely on his long legs and rear end.

“One of the other officers will be in touch with you when they have anything on the vandalism.”

“Thank you, Clay, for all your help.”

“Just doing my job,” he replied as he stepped out of the door. “Good night, Tamara.”

“Good night, Clay.”

She stood on her front porch long after his van had disappeared from sight.

It had been a long time since she’d felt a spark of physical attraction toward a man. But the moment Clay had stepped into the classroom and introduced himself, she’d felt a definite spark of warmth deep in the pit of her stomach.

The last time she’d found herself physically attracted to a man she’d allowed herself to be swept into a relationship that had not only ended in heartache, but had also left her questioning her values and the very essence of who she was.

She looked up at the moon peeping through the branches of the ancient trees. Good old Maxwell Bishop. He’d been her agent for six months before they had become lovers. He’d done amazing things for her career as an artist, but in the four months they had been a couple, he’d nearly destroyed her self-identity.

According to everything she’d heard about Clay, he’d be a danger to her in much the same way. This was one particular spark she intended to ignore.

Not that it mattered. Clay had made it quite clear that others would handle her case from here on out. Cherokee Corners wasn’t that small a town. The odds of her and Clay running into each other again were minimal.

Reluctantly, she left the night air and went back inside the cabin. She had just finished washing the coffee mugs to put back in the cabinet when the phone rang.

She hurried from the kitchen to the sofa and picked up the cordless from the end table. “Hello?”

“Are you all right?” Alyssa Whitefeather’s voice filled the line.

“Bad news travels fast in this town,” Tamara replied. “How did you hear about it?”

“I heard between a hot fudge sundae and a banana split.” Alyssa owned the Redbud Bed and Breakfast. The top two floors of her establishment were guest rooms and the bottom floor was Alyssa’s living quarters and an ice cream parlor. “Burt Creighton stopped in for a cup of coffee and was talking about the mess in your classroom.”

“It was a mess,” Tamara agreed.

“You must have been terrified when you saw it.”

Tamara thought of that moment when she’d first viewed the vandalized room. “Actually, it didn’t scare me at all,” she said. “Mostly I just felt sad for whomever had done such a terrible thing.”

“Well, it frightened me when I heard about it,” Alyssa replied.

There was something in her friend’s voice that sent a flutter of disquiet through Tamara. “Why? Have you seen something, Alyssa?”

Alyssa laughed, the laughter sounding forced. “Oh, you know me. I’m the local nutcase in town. I’m always seeing things that aren’t there, having visions that don’t make sense. I should probably be on medication.”

“Having a pity party, are we?”

This time Alyssa’s laugh was genuine. “Maybe a little one,” she admitted. “It’s just been a bad week,” she added.

Tamara heard the weariness in her friend’s voice. Over the course of their friendship Alyssa had confided in Tamara that she’d always suffered visions. Since Rita James’s disappearance the visions had increased in frequency and intensity.

“I’ll tell you what I think you need,” Tamara said. “You need dinner tomorrow night with a friend.”

“I can’t do that,” Alyssa protested. “Friday nights are the busiest of the week in the ice cream parlor.”

Tamara frowned thoughtfully. She knew there was no way she could talk Alyssa into closing up shop on a Friday night. “Okay, then how about we meet at the café about four. You can get back to work by five or five-thirty when your Friday night rush usually begins.”

“That sounds good,” Alyssa replied after a moment of hesitation. “I could use a little break. So, I’ll see you tomorrow about four. And Tamara, do me a favor and be extra careful.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I’m fine.”

With a murmur of goodbyes, the two hung up. It was getting late enough Tamara knew she should go to bed, but her head was too filled with thoughts to allow sleep.

She got up from the sofa and went into the small bedroom. She took off the traditional tear dress and hung it in the closet next to half a dozen others. She usually only wore the dresses on Tuesday and Thursday evenings when she taught her adult Native American cultural classes, or for special occasions and ceremonies.

She pulled on her nightie, a short yellow silk sheath with spaghetti straps, then returned to the kitchen for a glass of ice water.

While she sat at the table, a nice light breeze breathed through the window to caress her. The cabin had no air-conditioning except a window unit in the bedroom. She rarely ran it, preferring her windows opened and the sweet, forest-scented night air coming inside.

But tonight, with Alyssa’s pressure for her to take care, she finished her ice water, then closed the window and locked it. She did the same with the other windows in the cabin, then went into her bedroom and turned the window unit air conditioner on low.

She got into bed, although thoughts still tumbled topsy-turvy through her head. She had no idea what to anticipate when she returned to school the next day. The only thing she knew for sure was that she would not be teaching classes in her own classroom.

She remembered Clay’s question about students she might have that might nurse a grudge against her. Nobody specific came to mind, but her class was filled with wise guys and underachievers.

There were also some gems in the class, students who were taking the summer classes in order to graduate early or to fill the long summer days.

It was the long summer nights that far too often lately filled Tamara with longing. She was thirty years old and more and more felt the desire for a family. But in order to have a family, she’d have to first find a good man and that had been a problem.

She’d become wary since her experience with Max. And in the two years since Max, she had mentally formed a picture of the kind of man she wanted in her life. Alyssa always told her no such man existed, that she was too picky and her expectations were too high.

She rolled over on her back and stared up at the ceiling, a vision of Clay James filling her mind. Physically, he was everything she’d ever hope to find in a man.

As she thought of the way his shoulders had filled out his shirt, the lean hips in those tight blue jeans, she could swear the temperature of the room rose by several degrees.

But she knew better than to get her hormones racing where Clay James was concerned. According to Alyssa the only thing that interested her cousin came in test tubes and evidence sample bags.

According to Clay’s own mother he was an angry man who had turned his back on his Native American heritage. Tamara had attempted to do the same thing for four months to please the man she’d thought she’d loved, but she’d been unable to sustain the rejection of her Cherokee blood. She would never attempt it again.

No, Clay James wasn’t her dream man, either. Her dream man was still out there somewhere, waiting for the winds of fate to bring them together. Tamara was a patient woman and she’d learned long ago not to try to hurry fate, but to accept each day as a gift.

Rita James had lost track of how many days she’d been held captive. She hadn’t known how long she’d been unconscious, but when she’d finally come to and realized she was being held prisoner, she’d begun to keep track of the days by the meals that appeared through a slot in the steel door. Breakfast…sometimes lunch…and dinner…a day had passed.

But tonight she couldn’t remember whether it had been twenty-two days or thirty-two days and the fact that she couldn’t remember for sure frightened her as much as anything that had happened so far.

She feared she was losing her mind, and that was all she had left. Her beloved husband, Thomas, had been taken from her…murdered. She remembered seeing him lying motionless on their living room floor, blood everywhere. She knew he was dead, then she’d been grabbed from behind and that was the last thing she remembered until she’d awakened in this room.

This mockery of a room, she thought as she sat in the middle of the bed. When she’d first awakened from her drugged sleep, she’d thought she was at home in her own bed. The bedspread was the same, the bed was the same, even the nightstand and Tiffany-style lamp were the same as what she had in her own room.

However, this wasn’t her room. Her bedroom had a window where sweet morning light crept in and moonlight whispered good-night. Her bedroom had no steel door with a lock. This was a stage setting…a facade, a fake built by a madman who held her hostage, a madman who had yet to tell her why she was here or what he wanted from her.

Initially she’d had hope. Her daughter Breanna was a vice cop, her other daughter, Savannah, a homicide detective and her son, Clay, was a crime-scene investigator. She’d hoped they would find her. She’d hoped there would be enough clues to lead them to her, but with each day that passed, her hope grew dimmer and dimmer.

Twenty-two days or thirty-two? How had she managed to lose track? Thomas…Thomas…her heart cried out for her husband and the life they’d shared together, the future they had anticipated spending together.

Even if she managed to get out of this windowless, locked room, even if eventually she was found, there would be no Thomas waiting for her.

Tears burned at her eyes as she realized no matter what happened, her life would never be the same again. Her tears were also for her children, who she knew must be suffering all kinds of agony trying to find out what had happened to her.

The sound of her sob was welcomed in this silent tomb. The utter silence of her days and nights had the potential to drive her utterly mad. She’d always been a woman who had valued a certain amount of silence, but this complete isolation was soul-damaging.

The only time she had any human contact at all was when the slot in the steel door would open and two black-gloved hands would slide in a tray of food.

Over and over again she’d begged him to say something to her, anything, her hunger for interaction so great. But no word was ever spoken. The tray slid in, the door slammed shut and she was once again left alone in the killing silence.

Help me to remain strong, she prayed. Eventually she would learn why she was being held here, what was wanted from her. The terror of the unknown was with her every minute of every day.

Please, please keep me strong. She knew sooner or later the madman with the black-gloved hands would show his face, would make demands and she prayed she would be strong enough to survive.

Chapter 3

Decorative rocks. Clay spent most of his morning chasing down names on lists of customers who had ordered the kind of decorative rocks he’d found around his father’s chair in his parents’ living room and in Riley Frazier’s parents’ living room.

It was the only real evidence he had from the two crime scenes that had left one man dead, one man severely wounded and two women missing. One of those women, Riley Frazier’s mother, had since been found dead and Clay felt the pressure of trying to make sense of what little had been left behind at each crime scene.

He was still waiting for test results on trace evidence that had to be sent to a lab in Oklahoma City. But he knew the lab was backed up and it might be weeks before he got definitive test results.

“Clay?”

He looked up from the list of quarry customers he’d obtained to see his sister Savannah standing in the doorway of the lab.

“You have any more for me on the McClane fiber?”

He nodded as his sister approached where he sat at his desk. “Unfortunately the only thing I can tell you is that it’s one hundred percent cotton.”

“That’s it?” she asked, a frown creasing her brow.

“Afraid so.” He sighed in frustration and raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a single fiber for you on a serial murder case and a handful of pebbles to try to find out what happened to Mom.”

“You can only work with what you have, Clay,” Savannah said softly. “That’s all any of us can do.”

“But it’s not enough.” Anger rose up inside him, the anger of utter impotence. Somehow, someway, he couldn’t help but think somebody had missed something…a vital piece of evidence that might lead them to their mother.

“Glen should have let me process the scene initially,” he said, his anger evident in his voice.

“You know that wasn’t a good idea,” Savannah said. “And you know your team is good. If there had been anything there to find, they would have found it.”

“At least we have the rocks from Mom and Dad’s house and from Riley’s parents’ home,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s not much in the form of a smoking gun. We don’t even know if the perpetrator of whatever has been going on with the missing women is from here, from Sycamore Ridge where the Frazier’s lived, or from Sequoia Falls where the first incident occurred. Dammit, we don’t have any idea at all what’s going on.”

Savannah laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re hurting, Clay. We’re all hurting and we’re all doing the best we can to find her.”

Clay nodded, but he knew his pain was different from his sisters’ pain. They hadn’t fought with Rita the very last time they’d seen her alive.

They hadn’t said things that needed to be left unsaid, that now might never get the chance to be unsaid. Savannah and Breanna missed her, were frightened for her, but they didn’t live with the regrets that were slowly eating him alive.

“Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“Haven’t had time.”

“It’s going to be dinnertime soon, why don’t you give yourself a break and go get something to eat. Your brain doesn’t function as well when your stomach is empty.”

Clay stood from his desk, knowing she was right. His stomach had been growling for the past hour and the gnarl had become more and more difficult to ignore as time had passed.

He put away the reports he’d been reading from the quarries that had provided client lists, then left the small building that was an appendage to the back of the police station.

It had been six years ago, when Clay’s father, Thomas, had been chief of police that Thomas had decided the small town needed its own crime-scene investigators and crime lab.

Thomas had been not only a great chief of police, but also a fine politician, who’d convinced the town of the need and had actively gone after private donations to get what he wanted.

One of the biggest donations had come from Jacob Kincaid, owner of American Bank, the only bank in Cherokee Corners, and a good friend of Clay’s parents.

In fact, Jacob was like an uncle to Clay and as he stepped onto the hot concrete of the sidewalk, he realized it had been too long since he and Jacob had talked.

Clay walked toward the café in the Center Square. It was a favorite eating establishment in town. Huge portions, reasonable prices and run by a woman named Ruby who claimed to be a descendent of the woman who’d run the first, most successful brothel in the state.

Lots of the cops ate there, but Clay definitely wasn’t in the mood for company. The brief conversation with Savannah had stirred his guilt and the hundreds of regrets he’d lived with since the night of his mother’s disappearance.

He just wanted to eat, then get back to the lab where work was piled up awaiting his attention. He already knew it was going to take hours to go over those lists from the quarries to find out who had ordered loads of that particular decorative rock.

The sun was hot on his shoulders, and the air smelled of city heat—smoked tires, hot oil and a faint overlay of spoiling garbage.

Clay hated summer, when tempers flared more quickly and crime rose drastically. He hated the dry hot wind that scorched the earth, then blew the ashes of dust everywhere.

He’d never felt a real connection to Cherokee Corners, except for that of his family. Even with them he felt a distance.

They were all into their own lives, with families and loved ones and they all worked at the Cherokee Cultural Center in their spare time, a place Clay hadn’t been to since he was thirteen.

It had been that fact that he and his mother had fought about the day before she’d disappeared. At the end of the summer, the cultural center always held a huge celebration where the entire town was invited. Rita had told him she wanted him to be a part of the ceremonies, that it was past time he took his place as a member of the Cherokee nation.

He had responded angrily with words that now he wished desperately he could take back.

By the time he reached the café his mood had turned darker than usual. It was just after four and he knew there wouldn’t be much of a crowd in the café. It was too late for the lunch bunch and too early for the dinner crowd.

That was fine with him. All he wanted was a booth to himself, a good hot meal and a moment of peace to enjoy it.

“Ah, if it isn’t my favorite CSI hunk,” Ruby greeted him as he walked through the door. Ruby Majors was a big woman with a bleached blond bouffant that spoke of a different era.

“Hey, Ruby. What’s good today?” he asked as he stopped by the register where she was seated.

“Randy’s having a creative day. I’d stay away from the chicken surprise and the meat loaf medley. Anything else on the menu is great.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’m just going to grab a booth in the back.”

“Your cousin Alyssa is back there with that painter woman,” Ruby said.

Tamara Greystone. He hesitated, unsure whether to go forward or just take a seat at the counter where he knew he would eat in solitude.

The decision was taken out of his hand. Alyssa spied him and stood up and waved. He loved his cousin, who he believed was the only person in town who had a soul more tortured than his own.

Even though he wasn’t in the mood to socialize, he drew a deep breath and ambled toward the booth where Alyssa and Tamara were having lunch.

“Clay.” Alyssa rose and gave him a hug. “Please, join us.” She sat back down and scooted over to give him room next to her.

“I was just going to grab something quick, then get back to work.” He turned his attention to Tamara. “Hello, Tamara. Have you spoken with Officer Rogers today?” He slid into the booth next to Alyssa.

“No, should I have?”

She looked as pretty today as she had the night before. Today she was clad in a sleeveless yellow dress that set off the bronze tones of her skin and made her hair look like a black curtain of silk.

He’d had trouble sleeping last night because he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He didn’t like it and he didn’t have time for it. “This morning I tested the blood from those claw marks that were in your classroom. Ed…I mean, Officer Rogers was supposed to get in touch with you and let you know it wasn’t human blood. It was animal blood, probably deer.”

“Well, that’s a relief, I guess. I mean, I’m grateful it wasn’t human, but I would have much preferred it to be ketchup.”

“I haven’t had a chance to check on the fur I found. Hopefully I can get to it in the next day or two,” he said. He’d thought her eyes had looked pretty last night, but today they appeared even more gray, a startling but attractive foil to her dark hair and cinnamon skin. He started to stand. “And now I’ll just let you two ladies finish your lunches.”

Alyssa caught his arm and kept him from rising. “Don’t run off. You might as well sit here and eat your meal with us instead of sitting all alone.”

He could smell Tamara’s perfume wafting in the air, the same subtle mysterious scent he’d found disturbing the night before. He didn’t want to sit with them, but before he could think up any kind of an excuse, the waitress arrived to take his order.

“How’s the case going?” Alyssa asked once the waitress had left the table.

“Which one? I’m working the serial case and, of course Mom’s case and the usual other cases that come in. And now, the vandalism evidence from Tamara’s classroom,” he replied.

“I hope you aren’t taking away time from the other two cases to worry about mine,” Tamara said.

He didn’t want to look at her because he liked looking at her. He couldn’t remember ever being so aware of a woman as he was her. “I try to work every case as if it’s top priority,” he replied and gazed at a picture on the wall just over the top of her head.

“Anything new on your mom?” Alyssa asked.

He turned his focus on her. “Not really.” He had told nobody but the chief of police that he’d discovered the same type of decorative pebbles around where his father had been hit and around where Riley Frazier’s father had been killed. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any helpful thoughts,” he asked pointedly.

Alyssa smiled. “Tamara knows about my visions, and unfortunately no, I haven’t had any more about Aunt Rita other than the one I’ve told you about.”

“You mean the one where you see Mom in her own bedroom.”

Alyssa nodded and her smile no longer lifted the corners of her mouth. “That’s all I’m seeing of Aunt Rita, but I’m having a lot of other disturbing visions.”

“Want to talk about it?” Tamara asked gently.

Alyssa shook her head. “No.” She forced a smile to her face. “We’re here to enjoy lunch, and it isn’t every day that I get to have lunch with one of my cousins and one of my newest friends.”

Their meals arrived at the same time. Clay had ordered a burger and fries, Alyssa had ordered a tuna salad plate and Tamara had ordered a chef salad.

For most of the meal Clay remained silent, listening to the two women visit with each other. He’d grown up with two baby sisters, so having girl talk swirling around him was nothing new.

What was new was the fact that he found Tamara Greystone and everything that fell out of her mouth fascinating.

He knew as a teacher she would be smart, but he hadn’t thought about her having a sense of humor. More than once she brought a smile to his face with something witty she said.

Brains, beauty and humor, she was a total package. A total package of trouble, he reminded himself. She was obviously a Native American woman in tune with the spiritual ties to her heritage.

He was a Native American man who wanted nothing to do with his heritage. Besides, he didn’t have time for any relationship, had always found relationships difficult in the past.

He’d come to the realization a long time ago that he was a man who would in all probability spend his life alone. And he’d made peace with that probability.

He finished eating first. Explaining that he needed to get right back to work, he left the two of them seated at the table. He paid the tab for the three meals, then was almost out the door when he heard Alyssa calling his name.

He turned to see her hurrying toward him, her brow furrowed with worry. “Can I talk to you alone for just a minute?” she asked.

“Sure.” He pulled her over by a coatrack where they would be out of the way of incoming and outgoing diners. “What’s up?”

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of Tamara, but last night I had an awful vision concerning her.”

Clay was ambivalent in his feelings concerning Alyssa’s visions. On the one hand, he knew of more than one instance when her visions had helped solve a crime by finding a missing person and saving a life or two. On the other hand, he also knew she sometimes had visions that never came true, never connected to anything and eventually went away.

“What was it about?” he asked.

“Tamara.” Alyssa’s eyes were troubled. “I saw her being chased by a monster and when the monster finally caught her, he…he ripped her heart out.”

Clay put a hand on Alyssa’s shoulder. “Alyssa, did you hear about the vandalism in Tamara’s classroom before you had the vision?”

She nodded. “Ed Rogers came into the Redbud and had a cup of coffee last night. He told me all about it.”

“Including the claw marks and the blood?” Again she nodded and he squeezed her shoulder gently. “Then, isn’t it possible hearing about that provoked that particular vision?”

“I suppose,” Alyssa admitted after a moment of hesitation. “I just wanted to tell you. I was worried.”

“Try not to worry, Alyssa. The vandalism in Tamara’s classroom might not have even been directed at her specifically. Hers was one of the few unlocked classrooms in the school. It was probably simply a matter of convenience for the perps that her classroom got hit.”

“You think?”

He offered her a tight smile. “Go back and finish enjoying your lunch. No monster is going to get to Tamara. I’ve got to get back to work.”

“Thanks, Clay,” Alyssa said.

He watched as she hurried back to the booth, then turned on his heel and headed out of the café, intent on putting Tamara Greystone out of his head.

“Your cousin is quite a handsome man,” Tamara said when Alyssa returned to the table.

“Yeah, he is.”

“How old is he?”

“Thirty-five,” Alyssa said. She gazed at Tamara with narrowed eyes. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What?” Tamara looked at her innocently.

“Tamara, I know both of us are in the same place when it comes to wanting to connect with some man who will mean something in our lives. But trust me, Clay is not the man for you.”

Tamara laughed. “I just asked a simple question,” she protested.

“Well, I’m just warning you, simple question or not, Clay is the worst bet for a relationship in the entire United States. He’s moody and downright surly at times. He’s a loner who is married to his work.”

“Stop! Stop!” Tamara held up her hands and laughed once again. “All I asked was his age.”

“You also said he was handsome.”

“Well, I’d have to be dead not to notice that,” she replied. “Trust me, Alyssa, I’ve heard enough about Clay from his mother to know he’s not the man for me.”

What she didn’t tell her friend was that even knowing Clay wasn’t what she was looking for in a spirit mate, he intrigued her.

There was a dark intensity in his eyes that spoke of pain, a taut energy that whispered of a restless soul, and coupled with his passion for his work, she couldn’t help but find him interesting.

He’d be fascinating to paint with his chiseled, strong, slightly arrogant features, although she usually didn’t paint portraits.

“Hello?”

Alyssa’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said what are your plans for the weekend?”

“Painting,” Tamara replied. “The art gallery in Oklahoma City is giving me a show in September and I want to have at least five more paintings done by then. I’d ask you what you’re going to do for the weekend, but I know your answer already. Work…work…work.”

“I like keeping busy,” Alyssa said defensively.

“You going to tell me about the visions that have been bothering you lately?”

“I just have a few minutes before I need to get back to the Redbud, I hate to end our visit with talking about them.”

Tamara reached across the table and took her friend’s hand in hers. “You can’t carry it alone, Alyssa. Don’t you realize that’s what friends are for, to share not only joys, but burdens as well.”

Alyssa squeezed her hand, then released it and leaned back in the booth. “I’ve had one vision that has become more and more frequent in the last two weeks and it’s driving me crazy because I don’t know where it’s coming from.”

Tamara smiled at her. “Might I remind you that you never know where they come from.”

Alyssa flashed a quick grin. “Okay, that might be true, but this one feels different…more vivid…more intense…more powerful.” She leaned forward once again, her gaze troubled. “I see a man, one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen…dark hair, eyes like blue ice and a smile that could melt a glacier on a winter day.”

“Have you ever seen him before? I mean, outside of your visions?”

Alyssa shook her head. “Trust me, if I’d seen him outside a vision, I’d remember him. Anyway, in the vision, he’s making love to me and then he’s being stabbed and he’s dying in my arms.” She shuddered and took a sip of her iced tea. “Anyway, this is one of the worst I’ve had in a long time and it always bothers me when they’re recurring.”

“But you’ve had recurring visions that never came to anything before, right?” Tamara asked.

“Right,” Alyssa said after a moment of hesitation. “Enough about this. Walk me home and I’ll give you a double-dip cone on the house. I got in some of that caramel toffee ice cream that you love.”

“You’ve got a deal.” Together the two women got up from the booth.

It was almost an hour later when Tamara got into her car and headed home. Her heart was warmed by the time she had spent with Alyssa. She’d love to have a special man in her life, but special friends were important, too.

As she drove down Main Street at a leisurely pace, her senses took in the sights and sounds that were so familiar to her.

When she’d been growing up her family had lived twenty miles outside of Cherokee Corners. Every Saturday her parents and she would get into the car and drive to town for grocery shopping, art supplies and whatever else the family might need.

She’d loved coming into town. Even though through the week she rode a bus to and from the Cherokee Corners schools, those Saturday trips of leisure time in Cherokee Corners had been magical.

It had only been since her return to Cherokee Corners from New York that she’d begun some volunteer work at the Cherokee Cultural Center. There she had met Alyssa and her Aunt Rita, Clay’s mother.

Clay. There was absolutely no reason for him to be in her thoughts as much as he had been throughout the day. She had no explanation for it.

Since she’d returned from New York she had immersed herself in Cherokee ways and traditions, reclaiming the soul she’d nearly lost to Max and New York.

Eventually when she chose the man she would marry, he’d be a warrior, proud of his heritage, strong in tradition and with the Cherokee loving heart.

Everything she had heard about Clay James indicated he was not the warrior her heart sought. She resolutely shoved thoughts of him out of her mind and focused on the fact that she had two lovely weekend days ahead of her to indulge in her first love…painting.

Thanks to Max, she no longer had to beg art galleries to showcase her work, rather she had galleries requesting showings.

She tucked away every penny she made, knowing that Native American paintings were hot now, but there may come a day when she wouldn’t be able to give her work away.

Her parents had encouraged her talent and creativity from a very early age, but they had also instilled a level of practicality, which is why she had gotten her teaching degree despite the fact that painting was her first love.

She pulled down the dirt lane that would take her to her cottage, a sense of homecoming filling her up inside. The moment she’d seen the place, she’d thought of it as her own little enchanted cottage in the woods.

She’d known instinctively that it was a place where her creativity would thrive. The woods held a primal serenity that seemed to wrap her in its arms.

As she approached the cottage, she frowned. There was something on her porch…something that didn’t belong there. She shut off her engine and sat for a long moment, trying to identify the dark bulk that was right in front of her front door.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t moving. She got out of the car, feeling a bit unsteady on her feet as she approached the porch.

A deer. A doe, actually. Lifeless, with soft brown eyes staring toward the heavens, it looked pitifully small.

Tamara sent up a prayer for the soul of the doe, at the same time wondering how it had gotten on her front porch. Had it been hit by a car and somehow stumbled here, broken and bleeding?

She bent down to get a better look, to try to discern what injuries the poor thing had sustained. Her blood chilled as she saw the claw marks that marred the tan hide of the doe’s side. The claw marks looked like the ones that had marked her classroom walls. What was going on?

Fear walked up her backbone with icy fingers as she looked around. The surrounding woods was beginning to take on the shadows of twilight, creating dark pockets of shadows that she recognized would make perfect hiding places.

With trembling fingers, she unlocked her front door and stepped over the dead deer. She stood in the threshold of her home, listening for a sound that didn’t belong, smelling the air for an alien scent, needing to be sure the sanctity of her home hadn’t been breached before she entered farther.

She heard nothing, smelled nothing, but was spooked beyond belief. She hurried across the living room, grabbed her cordless phone and punched in 911.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.