Desert Heart (The Wolves of Twin Moon Ranch Book 4) (5 page)

He drove up the long rise, glancing at the wall of purple mountains on the horizon. At the crest of the hill, the whole of Bitterroot Valley spread before him, miles wide. A broad, pocked valley with a ribbon of green at its heart. Most times of year, the creek was only a trickle, but that was enough to nurture a thin strip of life. He coasted down a dip then revved up again, following a bend up the snaking track toward the back of the mesa until he was there at the bluffs. Three miles as the crow flies, twelve by road.

What the hell had brought his father out to Dead Horse Bluff that day?

Rick slid out of the truck and kicked at the dirt. The breathtaking beauty of the Arizona desert had skipped over this dusty place. It was dull and listless. Lifeless. The wind blew stronger here. Meaner.

Over to the right, backed into a fold of the hill, stood the boarded-over entrance to the old Diablo Mine. A place his dad had warned him away from a hundred times—the only time he could remember his father’s kind features turning fierce.

Never go near there, you understand? It’s a bad, bad place.

For years, that had been enough—that, and the fear tingeing his father’s voice, plus the stories Dale Gordon’s boys scared him with. Ghost stories in which miners went in but never came out. Men going mad from whatever it was they’d seen or heard at the gateway to hell.

Rick had never gone near the mine. Never even been tempted to peek behind the boards closing up the shaft. The police report hadn’t made any mention of the mine, so he walked straight to the edge of the cliff, a hundred feet farther along.

He peered down, swallowing away the lump in his throat. His father had fallen down that?

It was a place where Mother Nature had gotten fed up and started over, like an artist crying in frustration and tearing up a half-finished work. That’s just what it looked like: a jagged tear in the landscape where one level petered out into open air while the other slid in, ten stories below. The end of the earth.

A raven cawed, and the sound carried on the wind.

He stood there a while, leaning over the edge, letting the hot desert air pull at his shirt and his hair. Wondering what it would feel like in the startling moments between a foothold up here and a crashing end down there.

Wondering why. How. How could his father have died here at the end of the earth?

“The end of the line,” a voice said, too loud and too close.

Rick jolted and barely jerked back from stumbling off the cliff. He spun to see Dale Gordon standing right beside him, wearing a satisfied grin.

Rick was that close to wiping the smile off Dale’s face when he caught himself.
Cool, stay cool.
Just like at bat. Don’t let his surprise show, no matter how jittery his insides were.

“Dale,” he muttered, keeping his voice flat. Why was Dale sneaking up on him here, of all places? He blinked, and something inside him sank.

It was his eye. That was it. The eye damaged in the accident. Dale hadn’t been sneaking up; it was only that Rick had no peripheral vision on that side.

“Howdy, hotshot,” Dale replied, sending a wave of whiskey-scented breath Rick’s way.

He held back the grimace—at the odor, at the nickname. Maybe even at the man. Dale Gordon used to be a man he could respect. A man the Seymours trusted. A man who did his job and mostly left everyone else alone. But somewhere along the line, he’d taken a sharp downhill turn.

Dale leaned out and gave the precipice an appraising look. “Real shame about your father,” he muttered. “Unlucky.”

The way he said it invited Rick to wonder if luck—good or bad—had anything to do with his father’s death. He narrowed his gaze to Dale’s bloodshot eyes and found innocence. Sweet, insistent innocence.

That his father’s death might not have been an accident had crossed his mind before, even though the police report insisted there’d been no sign of foul play. There was no reason to believe anyone would target Jorge Rivera, the amiable ranch cook everybody liked. A nobody.

The sweetest, kindest nobody who’d ever lived.

Rick gulped, refusing to blink as Dale stared back. The dark, darting eyes dared Rick to speculate. How would Dale stand to benefit from his father’s death?

He glanced over Dale’s shoulder and saw the man’s red truck parked right beside his.

See?
The front grill seemed to grin.
No sneaking up. Just parked here, very innocently.

He was probably just being touchy. Jumpy, because of his bad eye. Seeing Tina that morning had turned him upside down too, and coming here had given his heart an extra shake.

He stepped away from the cliff’s edge. Away from the last place his father drew a lungful of air before meeting a horrible end. Wondering why. His father hadn’t given any hint of being lonely or afraid, not the last time they’d met, a month before his death. Not ever, in fact, because his dad was a fountain of sunshine. The type to smile and celebrate every memory of a beloved wife rather than mourn his loss. The type to look a problem in the eye and smile or sing it away.

Not the type to wander too close to the edge of a cliff and slip, and certainly not the type to jump, as the police report suggested.

“What are you doing up here?” Rick asked, changing the subject. Keeping his hands balled into fists at his sides because there was no reason, no reason at all to swipe at the itch around his eyes.

“Been boarding the mine up,” Dale replied, striding along at Rick’s side. His blind side, damn him.

Rick glanced at the entrance without heading over. Boarding it up? It looked more like someone had been prying it open.

“Keeping it safe,” Dale said. The word sounded forced coming from his lips. “You know, from any wandering kids.”

“Right.” Like any kid would come wandering up here.

Rick didn’t nod as he said it. Didn’t put any conviction in his reply. He just stood and stared at Dale the way he’d stare down a pitcher. A pitcher with dirt in his pockets and tricks up his sleeve. A pitcher who’d stop at nothing to win.

Rick stared. Okay, maybe glared. Glared and wondered about cooks and cliffs and bitter old men until Dale coughed and turned away.

Rick climbed into the cab of his truck, slammed the door, and fired the engine up into an angry roar. He headed back to the ranch, clenching the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles showed white.

Keeping it safe
, Dale claimed.

Rick swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth. Right.

Three days passed. Three days Tina spent in a flurry of cleaning that included pulling down half the decorations wallpapering her refrigerator—the half that were newspaper and magazine clippings about Rick. Down with the newspaper article about the last batting record he’d set. Down with the one that chronicled his injury. Down with the season schedule for the San Diego Padres. Maybe if she pulled them all down, the ache would go away.

Those were the days. The nights, she’d spent alternating between nightmares of demon incursions and sweet, sultry dreams of Rick. With each passing day, though, the nightmares receded and the dreams dominated.

Dreams of touching him. Holding him. Kissing his ear. Feeling his breath on her cheek as his fingers intertwined with hers. Some of the images stemmed from memories, others pure fantasy. His lips would reach for hers and kiss her, soft and sweet. Then longer and harder as their bodies inched closer and her fists tightened on his shirt. He’d pull her into a hug and hold her like a man determined to never, ever let go—except maybe to let her step back and lead him to the bedroom of her little bungalow, where he’d undress her slowly, reverently, then lower her to the bed. Settle his weight over her body and murmur how beautiful she was. His eyes would flash as he ran a finger along her collarbone and—

“Nothing yet.”

Tina snapped out of her daydream and blinked at Ty, coming in the door of his office. She’d been so desperate for distraction, she’d been tidying his space, too. What she really needed to tidy was her mind before her brother caught her thoughts. One of the drawbacks of shifter telepathy.

“No sign?” she managed, hastily wiping the image of Rick out of her mind. Well, trying to.

“Not a thing,” Ty growled. His eyes burned with frustration. “We’ve been all over the valley—and into the next, and the next—and can’t find a trace of demon anywhere.”

Tina nodded. She’d put in her hours, too, trotting to the far reaches of the ranch in wolf form, searching for the peppery scent of demon. Finding nothing.

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” she ventured.

“Right,” Ty grumbled.

Lana loped in after him with an apologetic nod and started on a neck massage of her mate. “If it’s out there, we’ll find it,” she said. “But you need some rest, my love.”

Ty’s eyelids drooped as his mate’s touch worked its magic. Lana glanced at Tina with a wink.

Thank God for her brother’s mate. The growls of anger quickly subsided as Tina made her exit, knowing where that massage would end. As in, hot and heavy on the desk in their own form of deep tissue massage.

She sighed and walked to her own office, eyeing the silent, empty space from the doorway before sagging to her chair. She swiveled in a slow circle, staring at the walls. Good Old Tina, doing what she did best. Working. Wishing.

Alone.

“Heya, Tina.”

Cody sauntered through the door. Her younger brother plonked down on the couch and scraped his fingers through his hair.

“I guess you haven’t found anything, either.”

“Nothing.” Cody sighed, leaned back, and looked at the ceiling. “I’m starting to wonder if there really is a hellhound. I don’t know what’s worse, getting—”

He bolted upright a split second before the sound of a high-pitched wail came through the door.

“Daddy! Daddy!” the voice cried, and two figures appeared at the door. Cody’s mate Heather, with baby Sammie on her hip, and their older daughter Holly.

“Minor crisis,” Heather murmured as Holly threw herself into Cody’s arms.

“Daaaaaddy!” she wailed.

“What is it, Muffin?”

Tina couldn’t help smiling despite her niece’s tears. Watching Cody comfort Holly, hold her close while Heather checked the sleepy baby… Tina and her siblings might not have experienced that kind of unabashed love as kids, but it was good to see the next generation receive their due. Funny, though, that it just made the ache in her worse.

“Pinkie died!” Holly wailed on.

“Oh, sweetie, that’s so sad.” Cody lifted an eyebrow at Tina over his daughter’s shoulder.
We’re worried about hellhounds; she’s worried about her pet fish.
He sent the comment straight into her mind along with an exaggerated sigh.

Tina gave him a crooked smile.
Good. Let her tragedies be small ones.

Heather came closer to slide a hand over Cody’s back, and he lit up like a Christmas tree. He caught Heather’s hand without looking and squeezed, turning the light on in her, too. Tina blinked at the two of them. So sweet. So painfully sweet to see.

“But Muffin, I think Pinkie was old,” Cody said.

“That’s what Mommy says. Mommy says Pinkie is going to heaven. But Greenie will be alone.” Holly sniffed. “He’ll be so sad.”

Tina drew in a deep breath. She knew all about being alone.

“So let’s get Greenie a new friend, then,” Cody said.

Tina sighed. If only finding good company was that easy. Company she wanted. Company she loved. Her gaze wandered south, toward Seymour Ranch.

“But Mommy says she can’t go to town today. Greenie might die if we wait!”

“Pumpkin, I think Greenie can wait a day.”

“He can’t! He can’t!”

Tina watched Cody and Heather exchange tight looks, on the cusp of deciding. Giving in might be edging too close to spoiling their daughter, something Heather just wouldn’t stand for.

But Tina, as auntie, could spoil her niece all she wanted. She squatted down by Holly. “I can get Greenie a friend when I go to town.”

Holly’s head popped up, making blond locks cascade across her narrow shoulders. “Today?”

Tina hadn’t been planning on going until tomorrow, but… “Yes, I’m going right away.”

Two little arms caught her in a neck hug and hung on tight. Tina held on, too, rocking her niece. Sniffed her baby-shampoo-and-buttercup scent. Marveled at the miracle of life one more time and winced at the ache that came with it. That yearning to make a miracle of her own.

“What do you say?” Heather and Cody prompted in unison when Holly finally emerged from her hug.

“Thank you! Thank you!” Holly gushed.

“You don’t have to go, you know,” Heather said, peeling Holly away.

“No, it’s fine. I wanted to get some errands done before Carly arrives.”

“Auntie Carly is coming?” Holly clapped her hands. “From California? Soon?”

“Yes, soon.” Cody looked at Tina with a
Yeah, brace yourself
kind of look. Tina knew just what he meant. Their younger sister had a style and temperament all her own.

“Well, I better get going, then,” Tina said. “Does Greenie want a pink friend or a different color friend?”

“Any color,” Holly said. “Just a friend.”

The words played through her mind on the forty-five minute drive to town and all through the aisles of the feed and hardware store. A friend. Just a friend. Was that so much to ask?

She made her way back out to the parking lot with a silver-blue fish in a baggie of water in one hand, a package of tulip bulbs clutched under her elbow, and a forty-pound sack of horse feed hoisted over her shoulder. The balancing act would have worked, too, if her purse strap hadn’t slipped off. When it did, the jolt on her arm made her drop the keys to her old Corolla.

“Shit,” she muttered and kneeled, fishing for the keys. Leaning right to keep the feed sack balanced, bending left to get closer to the keys.

A deeply tanned hand came into her field of vision, and a voice sounded next to her ear.

“Let me get that for you.”

She froze halfway down to the ground as Rick popped into view, wearing a hopeful grin.