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Indigo Lake. Jodi ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.

Indigo Lake - Jodi Thomas


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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

       CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

       CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

       CHAPTER NINETEEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY

       CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

       CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

       CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

       CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

       CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

       CHAPTER THIRTY

       CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

       CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

       CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

       CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

       CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

       CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

       CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

       CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

       CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

       CHAPTER FORTY

       Winter’s Camp

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       EPILOGUE

       Copyright

       Indigo Lake

      Jodi Thomas

       PROLOGUE

      The Ides of March, 2016

      DEEP IN THE BACKCOUNTRY, where no paved roads cross and legends whisper through the tall buffalo grass, lies a lake fed by cold underground springs.

      Indigo-colored water, dark and silent, moves over the pond where secrets hide just below the surface and an old curse lingers in silent ripples.

      Two ranches border the shores. Two families who haven’t spoken for a hundred years.

      A few of the old-timers claim the water is darker on Indigo Lake because of the blood washed away there.

      Only tonight, one man stands listening, debating, wondering if breaking tradition will save him or kill him.

       CHAPTER ONE

      Last day of February, 2016

      BLADE HAMILTON WALKED to the dark water’s edge and stared into Indigo Lake. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere. He’d wasted his time coming to this nothing of a place.

      By birth, the land was his. You’re the last of your branch of the Hamilton line, the judge in Crossroads had said an hour ago when he’d handed over the deed to Hamilton Acres. Only, Blade had never heard of this old homestead before a week ago. He’d known nothing about his father or a dilapidated ranch that carried his last name.

      He’d picked up the keys and a map from the sheriff in town and ridden out before dark on his vintage 1948 Harley-Davidson. He’d paid sixty thousand for the Harley, and Blade would bet it was worth more than his inherited land and house put together.

      The last quarter mile had been dirt road, ending in an old bridge that groaned as he crossed onto what the judge had called the old Hamilton place.

      A weathered two-story house stood a hundred yards off the road, like a sentinel blocking his entrance. Fifty or so years ago someone must have painted the homestead bright red, but the wood had weathered to a sangria color that almost matched the mud along the lake. Huge cottonwoods waded into the water with their bony-kneed roots and haunting skeleton forms still naked from winter.


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