The High Country Rancher. Jan HambrightЧитать онлайн книгу.
you believe I had something to do with it? Once a suspect, always a suspect?” A glimmer of amusement flashed in his eyes and played out of sync with the seriousness of the implication.
“He tried to put you behind bars, Mr. McCullough. That’s motive.”
“For the record, Detective, he has tried to put hundreds behind bars. Many more badass than me.”
She knew it was true, but she planned to push him. Interesting things bubbled out of people when you stressed them beyond their capacity to withhold the truth.
“I’ll give you that one, but we’re not talking about those badasses. We’re talking about you. You’ve got to have some resentment built up. You’ve had almost a year to plan your revenge.”
His face went placid, hiding the emotions she knew rippled just under the surface and beyond her reach for the moment.
“I’ve had time to figure things out. Time to make sense of what happened to Amy. A patch of hell, Detective, not a minute of it spent on revenge.”
He stood at the foot of the bed looking like a warrior poised for battle. Hard, prepared, invincible.
Mariah suppressed an insurmountable wave of sympathy. “Will you consent to a polygraph?”
Clutching the footboard rail, he stared at her for a moment before she saw his shoulders relax. Whatever grudge existed between the two men was still there. She had the facts of the case, but not from his point of view.
“No.” His arms dropped to his sides. “Get some rest.” He strode out of the room, leaving her alone with a crackling fire and more questions than answers.
Gingerly she picked up the steaming mug he’d carried in, and smelled the vapors. Earl Grey, her favorite. Its rich aroma of bergamot wafted up her nose and calmed her nerves. She clutched the mug in both hands, letting the blessed warmth infuse her fingers.
She was lucky to be alive. She owed Baylor McCullough her life. Could she cut him some slack?
The question burned a path in her brain between her professional obligation as an officer of the law, and her happiness at being alive instead of a human popsicle.
She sipped the tea, letting it heat her throat, until she was warm and relaxed and barely able to keep her eyelids open. Setting the empty mug on the nightstand, she snuggled into the covers, listening to the wind batter the sturdy ranch house, much like her gratitude toward Baylor McCullough battered her resolve about his guilt.
Amy McCullough had been her friend years ago, but she’d lost touch with her after high school. How had she and Baylor met? What had their relationship been like?
She closed her eyes, letting the questions compile in her brain. She’d read every last word of the accident report, every interview…so why had James Endicott been so determined to prosecute Baylor in a case that read like a tragic accident out of a horror flick?
Wham…wham…wham.
Mariah bolted awake and sat up, trying to place the loud banging coming from somewhere in the unfamiliar house.
A fire still blazed in the fireplace. Fresh wood had recently been added, judging by the still uncharred ends of the logs.
“Hello,” she called out. No response.
Where was Baylor?
A measure of caution edged down her spine. She threw back the covers and crept out of bed.
“Hello,” she called as she crossed to the doorway and stared out into the living room.
The fire in the living-room hearth was little more than a heap of glowing embers now, but Baylor’s woodsy scent hung in the air, surrounding her, and she sensed he hadn’t been gone long.
Wham!
Mariah jumped.
A cut of icy wind sliced into her, raising goose bumps on her body. The noise was coming from somewhere in the area of the kitchen.
Easing forward, she searched the darkness, heading toward the sound.
Wham!
Through the mudroom adjacent to the kitchen, she spotted the source of the racket and stalked toward it.
The back door stood wide-open before another gust of wind caught it and slammed it against the jamb.
A shudder coursed through her as she stepped out onto the porch and grabbed the knob. She paused in place, staring out into the darkness.
The storm had passed while she’d slept. A full moon gleamed against the platinum snow and bathed the landscape in brilliant white light. Somewhere in the surrounding woods a series of howls built to a mournful crescendo and echoed against the mountains. She half expected to see a wolf silhouette itself against the moon, and the stark beauty of the place, along with its mystery, appealed to her artist’s eye.
But where was Baylor McCullough?
Stepping back, she pulled the door shut, but it wouldn’t latch. She jiggled the knob back and forth. The bolt released. She pulled it shut again, and heard the cylinder pop into the kick plate.
Taking one last glance through the small panel of windows in the door, she saw a trail of movement. In the timberline a hundred yards from the house, someone waded through the snow, before vanishing out of sight in the dense line of trees.
Was it McCullough? What was he doing out there? She turned the dead bolt and heard it lock in place.
“Detective?”
She jerked around, instinct taking over. Every muscle in her body coiled for maximum self-preservation. She lashed out at the man standing too close to her, catching him in the jaw with an uppercut from her elbow before she realized she’d just hit Baylor in the face.
“Oh, shoot, I’m sorry. I thought you were outside.” She glanced back to the spot where she’d seen someone only an instant ago.
“I’ve been in the barn, checking on the calves.” Baylor rubbed the spot on his jaw where she’d popped him. “I use the front door. I keep this one locked until I can get a locksmith up here to fix it. It doesn’t always latch.”
“I saw someone, up there, just at the timberline.” She pointed to the spot. “Were you up there?”
“No. You probably saw deer feeding by the moonlight.” He moved in next to her and stared out the window.
“Do deer walk upright?” she asked, half joking, but Baylor’s features in the lunar glow were dead serious.
“Some strange things have been going on around here the past few months.”
His cautious tone fired her curiosity. “What sort of things?”
Baylor reached for her hand and turned her toward the living room. He could feel the cold in the air through his heavy coat, and he knew she had to be freezing in the little black robe.
“It’s not important.” He felt her shiver, the vibration rippling through his hand. He coaxed her a little faster toward the bedroom and the heat from the fireplace.
“It’s almost dawn. You have to stay warm.” He ushered her through the doorway into the bedroom and released her, not content until she climbed back into bed, and pulled the covers up around her neck.
He took off his coat, picked up the poker, opened the fireplace screen and jostled the logs. A spray of sparks jumped, and the fire hissed as it intensified.
There was that feeling again, but this time there was something solid to back it up.
The hair on the back of his neck bristled as firelight danced across the hardwood floor of the