Copper Lake Secrets (19 page)

She nodded.

Arthur Howard may have been a good man as far as his family, excluding Reece’s father, was concerned, but he’d definitely had a secret to keep. His destruction of the gardens, his fury at Reece for digging there, his messages from the grave for her to get out…

Could that secret be Glen’s body? Even though Mark said he’d never told his grandfather about Jones and Glen, that didn’t mean the old man hadn’t discovered Glen on his own. Hell, they’d seen him in the woods several times, striding about like a king surveying his kingdom. He’d felt so secure on his property that he’d never seemed the slightest bit aware that there were trespassers who watched him from the cover of low growth or sturdy tree branches.

And Glen had been worried about Reece. He’d intended to move his camp off Howard property, but he would have sneaked back close to the house to watch for her. If Arthur had caught him…

Had the old man really been violent enough to kill a trespasser rather than chase him away or call the sheriff? He’d deliberately, cruelly traumatized his own granddaughter. He’d had a cold, uncaring side, along with the strong sense of entitlement that came from being a Howard in a place where that meant everything. He’d been taught he could do what he wanted and that money, power and the family name would protect him.

What was it Russ Calloway’s grandmother had said about him? That she believed Arthur had kept leasing that land where Glen’s backpack was found because
he wanted as much land between him and the world as he could get.
Between his secrets and the world.

His head starting to throb, Jones shifted underneath Reece until they were both lying on the couch, face-to-face in the narrow space. “Why were you digging in the yard?”

“I don’t know.” She pushed back to give him an inch or two more of space, and he took it, moving until their bodies were snugly pressed together again. Her hand rested on his rib cage, her knee between his. “When I left here that summer, I dug a lot. I planted garden beds everywhere Valerie would let me. I also had nightmares, a new fear of deep water and counted.”

“Counted what?”

“Steps. You know, when I walk. One, two, three, but only up to thirty-eight. Not all the time, but when I’m anxious or my mind’s wandering or I’m thinking about that summer.” She flushed. “It used to drive Valerie crazy because I did it out loud, so I learned to keep quiet, and she thought I stopped. Now my best friends, Evie and Martine, are the only ones who know.”

“And me.” It touched him that she trusted him with the secret. Shouldn’t he trust her with his? At least he could explain the reason behind her fear of water, and maybe some prodding would help unleash other memories.

“Reece—”

She laid her fingers over his mouth. “No. That sounds like the start to more serious conversation, and I can’t do it anymore tonight. Make me laugh, Jones. Make me feel good. Make me forget everything else in the world but you and me.”

He pushed her fingers aside after pressing a kiss to them. “I don’t know—”

She did laugh, not wholeheartedly but a little chuckle of amusement. “Oh, you do know. Like you were doing—
we
were doing—in the truck before Mick interrupted. Make me forget, Jones. Just for tonight.”

He wanted to tell her no, this wasn’t the right time, certainly not the right reason, but she looked so vulnerable and her hand was under his shirt, spreading heat across his skin, and they’d already been headed this way before the latest interference. He’d already wanted her, and she’d already wanted him, and they could make it the right time and the right reason. They could laugh together, feel good together, forget together…

And, tomorrow or the next day or next week, they could remember together.

They could do damn near anything together.

Reece awakened sometime in the night with a sense of well-being she hadn’t experienced since the day she’d driven out of New Orleans. It wasn’t a nightmare that had roused her—a happy exception—but the simple need to change positions, to pull her covers a little tighter, then go back to sleep. Good rest came rarely. She would take advantage of it.

The instant she shifted her weight to roll over, something else in the room shifted, too. For just an instant there was complete silence, sound conspicuous due to its absence, then the noise she easily identified as Mick’s breathing started again, slow and easy.

For a moment she considered why Mick was in her room, but realized the opposite was true from the heat radiating behind her. Jones, his breathing as slow and easy as Mick’s. She turned carefully, trying not to disturb him, and settled onto the pillow again, watching him in the thin light. She couldn’t really make out anything—the suggestion of a nose, the darker slash of eyebrow, the rest too shadowy—but she didn’t need to see to picture him. Memories of him would stay with her forever. The way he’d run after her, the way he’d held her, the way he’d soothed her, the way he’d made love to her, the way he’d fallen asleep holding her, making her feel…

Good. She felt good. Because of him, she would survive this visit. She might return home without all the answers she’d been seeking, but she would be better for the things she’d learned.

Even if one of those things was that her grandfather was a murderer.

A chill passed through her, and at the foot of the bed, Mick lifted his head with a whine. He stood, stretched all over, then hopped off the bed and trotted to the door. There he looked back as if to make sure she was following, then went into the living room. A moment later, he nosed the front door.

Homesick for her own dogs, she slipped from the bed, located her clothes and set them on the night table, then pulled on Jones’s T-shirt and padded after Mick. She let him out into the cool night, hugging her arms to her chest, and watched as he sniffed around the truck, then lifted his leg at the corner of the porch.

The shed down the road drew her gaze. The light was off, the door closed. Jones had gone to lock it up after they’d made love the first time, and he’d returned looking puzzled. She’d known without asking that the shed had been shut up by the same whoever—whatever—had lit it up for them to find, and without the terrible screech of the overhead door.

Mist swirled, though the humidity was no higher tonight than usual, and she wondered if those ethereal shapes drifting about with purpose were spirits. A distant wail from the direction of the woods that sounded faintly like tears convinced her she didn’t want to know.

Mick’s nails clicked across the wooden porch, his fur brushing her legs as he eased inside. She was happy to close and lock the door behind him.

Dim light fell in a wedge from the kitchen into the living room. Reece paused midstep, certain she hadn’t turned on the bulb over the sink. She had assumed the cottage was haunt-free—she’d never heard of anything happening there. But Jones had told her—as Evie had, as Martine had—that ghosts attached to places
or
people. Was Grandfather’s ghost attaching to her, or was she mistaken in attributing all her otherworldly experiences to just one soul?

The light arrowed in on a small walnut table at the end of the sofa, just strong enough to give the gilt lettering of its title a bit of gleam.
Southern Aristocracy.

She was more than certain she hadn’t brought the book to the cottage.

Restlessly she picked up the book, her nose wrinkling at the musty smell, and flipped through the pages. The first time she found nothing. The second time, the pages of the middle third opened to reveal a piece of thick ivory linen writing paper.

He isn’t what he seems.

After reading the single line a half-dozen times, she shifted her gaze to the bedroom door. Was Jones the
he
Grandfather meant? As if she would trust his opinion on anything. He’d terrorized her for half her life. Even dead, he was still trying to frighten her away, not only from Fair Winds but now from the only person who’d made any effort to help her. The only person she’d felt something…
real
with in years.

But what do you really know about him?

She couldn’t tell whether the voice echoing in her head was her own or Grandfather’s or, hell, even someone else’s, and she flushed hot with guilt. She knew enough.

His own family wants nothing to do with him.

“Oh, please.” Slamming the book shut, she set it back on the table. “Like that makes him the bad guy? My father wanted nothing to do with you, and that was
your
fault.
I
wanted nothing to do with you, and that was your fault, too.”

Silence met her whisper, and after a moment of it, she was sure she was alone again. She went into the bedroom, where Mick was already snoozing again on a blanket folded under the window and Jones was sprawled across most of the bed, covers down to his waist.

He isn’t what he seems,
the note echoed.

She thought of him, of the way they’d connected, of the way he’d cared for her. Taken care of and with her. No one had done that in so very long.

Why shouldn’t she trust him? He had nothing to gain from a relationship with her, and she had nothing to risk besides her heart. Sometimes that was a risk worth taking.

Slipping out of the shirt, she climbed into bed. As she snuggled close, Jones wrapped his arm around her waist, left a sleepy kiss on her neck and settled her in with a soft, contented, “Umm.”

Definitely worth a risk.

She dozed a few more hours, and when she awakened again, the quality of the darkness had changed. It was dawn, everything quiet outside, everything mostly quiet in, but she wasn’t the only one awake. Opening her eyes, she found Jones lying on his side, watching her, his expression deep and intense.

“If you don’t want Miss Willa to know you spent the night here, you’d better go now.” His voice was a rumble in the shadows, husky, comforting.

“I don’t care if she knows, though it may be easier for you if I go now.”

“I don’t care if she knows, either.” After a moment, he raised one hand to stroke her hair back. “Are you okay?”

“You mean, have I adjusted to the fact that my grandfather was probably a murderer?” She tried to smile, but it came out more of a grimace. “Before I even understood what evil was, I sensed he was bad. Valerie said I let Daddy prejudice me against him. Well, yeah. My father loved everybody, but he could hardly bear to look at my grandfather. He only brought us here when the pressure from Valerie and Grandmother got too much for him, and he always kept our visits short.”

She paused, a detail becoming clear that she’d long forgotten. “He never left me alone when we were here. Whatever I did—fish, explore, read—he did it with me. Always. Do you think he
knew
that his father had killed someone and did nothing about it besides keep us far away?”

“No.” Jones didn’t hesitate. “You said he was a good guy. He probably just suspected there was something
off
about your grandfather. If he’d known the truth, he would have gone to the authorities, even if they were family, even if he wanted to protect his mother. That’s what good guys do.”

Nodding, she relaxed against the pillow again. Daddy
had
been good. He was the one everyone turned to for help, the one who couldn’t drive past a car broken down on the side of the road without offering assistance, the one who mentored troubled kids and mowed yards for neighbors who couldn’t do it themselves and volunteered at the soup kitchen. It wasn’t in him to sit back and do nothing.

“The man I was talking to at dinner last night, the one with the kid, he’s a detective in Copper Lake. I’d like to show him the tarp—see if there’s a chance of proving the stain is blood, maybe proving whose it is.”

She swallowed hard. She didn’t know whether they could legally turn it over to the authorities, but Grandfather was dead; he couldn’t be taken to trial. And if it was blood, if the victim could be identified, didn’t his family deserve to know?

“All right,” she murmured. “But maybe I should call your detective friend. Maybe you should stay out of it. It’s no big deal if Grandmother throws me out.”

His grin was faint. “It’s no big deal if she fires me, either. In fact, if she did, there are some damn fine gardens in New Orleans that I’ve been meaning to visit.”

The tightness in her chest eased a bit. He wanted to see her after they left here. She wasn’t just an on-site diversion.

“I’ll call Maricci,” he said.

“If he needs to come out here and you want me to keep Grandmother occupied, just let me know.” Pushing back the sheet, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and shimmied into her panties. Her shirt came next—had she not worn a bra or just hadn’t found it?—then her jeans. She was zipping up when tires crunched on the gravel outside. She glanced out the window though the driveway wasn’t visible. The faint “Goodbye” drifting on the still air identified the arrival as the housekeeper, calling to her driver before closing the door.

Reece reached the bedroom door before turning back. “You’d go all the way to New Orleans just to see some gardens?”

“Maybe. But I’d definitely go to see you.”

She grinned, waved and hustled across the living room, grabbing the book from the end table on her way. As she clenched it in one arm, she swore she could actually
feel
the warning note inside, drumming.
He isn’t what he seems, he isn’t what he seems.

He is,
she firmly argued. She believed that. She trusted him.
Trusted,
she who always had issues with trust.

She returned to the house, changed clothes and had breakfast—coffee, toast and an orange—on the front porch. Grandmother had stuck her head out when she finished her own meal for a stern hello, then retreated back inside to do whatever it was that filled her days.

When Reece’s cell phone rang, it startled her. She carried it with her from habit, but this was the first call she’d gotten since leaving New Orleans. Evie’s voice sounded cheery and energetic.