Wolf river, p.4
Wolf River, page 4
He was every sexy inch a cowboy, there was no doubt about that. From the wide shoulders filling out his pale gray shirt, to the well-worn jeans that slithered down long, powerful legs, ending at the leathered gloss of polished cowboy boots, he looked like he’d be perfectly at home riding hell-for-leather across a prairie, or shooting train robbers from behind a rock. Thick dark blond hair spilled out beneath his black Stetson as he gazed grimly down at her, and for a moment she couldn’t catch her breath.
His eyes were an even darker blue than the brilliant Montana sky she’d marveled at during her drive down U.S. Highway 310, south of Billings Logan International Airport.
She ordered herself to stop staring into them.
“Sorry about the dunking, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.” He glanced at the older woman, one eyebrow lifted. “Ginny, she could likely use some more ice.”
“Right.” Ginny jerked a thumb at the young waitress who wore too much eyeliner and low-rise jeans. “Mandy, quick, bring more towels and an ice pack.” Then she cocked her head at Erinn.
“You want me to take you to the hospital, honey, get you checked out for burns?”
“That’s all right. I doubt my pants will ever be the same but I think I’m fine.”
The tall cowboy strode toward the door, and she bit her lip. “I guess I should thank you for your quick action,” she muttered.
“No problem, ma’am.” He spoke over his shoulder, dismissively, with only a flickering glance from those searing blue eyes, then the door slammed with a thud behind him.
Erinn suddenly became aware of several other diners glancing curiously over at her. A small woman with auburn hair and a pointed chin whispered something to the lean, black-haired man she was sitting with and he snorted with laughter. As the pair got up to leave, the young waitress reappeared and offered Erinn several flowered kitchen towels and an ice pack, then hurried off to bring menus to another table.
“I’m Ginny Duncan, I own this place.” The older woman had returned with a mop. She swiped it expertly across the wet floor, even as Erinn dabbed at her ruined pants.
“Got a fresh burger for you coming right up—and it’s on the house. Mandy’s a good little waitress, but she hurries too much like most kids and gets clumsy,” she added. “Last week she tripped and dumped a mess of ribs on poor Stitch Nolan’s head. The boys at the Fortune Ranch will be joshing him for a month on that one.”
“It’s okay. Don’t bother with the burger.” Erinn slid from the booth, setting the towels and the ice pack on the table. “I think I’d better get back to my motel and change. I have an important meeting this afternoon.” And there’s no use putting it off any longer, she thought.
In some ways she couldn’t wait to follow the directions Wayne Cordovan had given her out to the Wheeler brothers’ cabin on Whistle Road. On the other hand, part of her dreaded actually seeing Devon—seeing what had become of her little sister with her own eyes, facing her for the first time.
Hi, Mouse, it’s me, your big sister. The one who let you down big time. You remember me, I promised I’d come back for your birthday. Yeah, that big sister. She shook herself from her thoughts, realizing that Ginny Duncan was speaking to her.
“Well, then, you come back here anytime and your meal’s on me,” the woman told her. “Hold on, let me get you some of my chocolate-chip cookies for the road. You staying at the Watering Hole?”
“I hear that’s the only motel within fifty miles.” Erinn looked at her hopefully. “Unless my source was mistaken. Do you know of another one?”
“Nope. The next closest one is in Crystalville, fifty-two miles east.” Ginny regarded her sympathetically and set the mop aside, returning a moment later with a bag filled with three large chocolate-chip cookies. “Maybe these will help. I know the Watering Hole is pretty much a dump. Old Lester Harp’s owned the place for a million years and doesn’t much care about anything since his wife passed on seven years ago. The thing is, we don’t get many visitors in Wolf River—most folks just pass through on their way to the parks. So anyone who does want to stay ends up having to take the Watering Hole—or leave it. Unless they want to camp out.”
“I guess I’m stuck then. Seems I’ve left my pup tent at home.”
That earned her a chuckle from the woman. “You going to be in town long?”
“I don’t think so.” Erinn slung her purse over her shoulder. She had to get out of here, change her clothes, then quit stalling and face Devon. But her stomach was doing backflips.
Would there be tears, shouting, accusations? Or would her sister fall thankfully into her arms?
She prayed for the latter, but a sense of foreboding told her it might not be that easy.
“Thanks for the cookies—and the ice.”
“Hey, come again—on the house!” Ginny called out with a wave. Erinn glanced back as the screen door thumped softly behind her, and saw the woman striding back to the counter, pausing to stack dirty plates along one arm, and scooping up a basket of rolls in the other.
Her stomach growled as she drove her rental car away from the curb and headed north of town to the Watering Hole motel off of Highway 310. She’d stopped there only long enough to check in and dump her suitcase and laptop in the dingy room before heading to town for sustenance.
And look how well that turned out. She reached into the bag of chocolate-chip cookies on the seat beside her, and munched as she drove, trying to quiet her restless stomach and to alleviate the nerves that felt like they were poking right through her skin.
The countryside was gorgeous here—rolling hills dotted with black cattle, gullies strewn with rocks and wildflowers, mountains looming like giants in the distance. Overhead, the sapphire sky was almost brilliant enough to make her forget about her damp, stained pants and the fact that Devon was only thirty miles away—living in a shack with two men.
When she reached the Watering Hole she dashed into her tiny room with its worn beige comforter, thin pillows, and peeling pea-soup-green walls. Trying not to think about the horrid surroundings, she stripped off her pants and threw them into the chipped bathtub to soak in a swirl of shampoo and cold water, then tugged on a pair of jeans.
In under two minutes she was on the road again, Cordovan’s directions on the seat beside her as she nibbled the last of Ginny Duncan’s cookies.
Her former editor, Nancy, had subscribed to the theory of positive imaging—visualizing what you wanted to happen, sending out only positive vibes and helping to make that image come true.
It’s worth a try, Erinn thought as she drove. Gamely she tried to convince herself that this reunion would be happy—and pictured herself driving out of Wolf River with Devon smiling beside her, heading toward the airport and civilization.
She saw herself and Devon in her mind’s eye—boarding a flight to LaGuardia, stopping by her apartment to get Devon settled, then taking a taxi together to dinner at Georgio’s tomorrow night.
They’d order minestrone soup and gnocchi, chicken Vesuvio, garlic bread. They’d get to know each other all over again. Devon would take to New York as quickly as she had herself and would have a fresh new start. They’d share everything—the apartment, meals, their lives, their pasts…it was all going to work out.
And George Clooney’s going to invite me to be his date for next year’s Academy Awards, she thought wryly.
The road began to climb as she turned onto Buckhorn Point, twenty miles west of town. Thick towering pines flanked the dirt road and clusters of delicate pink crocus peeked up here and there as it sloped upward. A red fox darted across and vanished into the dark shade of the trees. Her rented Jeep took the turns evenly, and at last the road forked left onto an even narrower dirt track—Whistle Road.
The Jeep jolted downward now, two miles farther, across a desolate stretch of scrub and rock.
And then she saw it—the cabin from Cordovan’s photos.
It sat squat and ugly as a bug in a weed-strewn clearing backed by a belt of pine trees.
A dented old blue pickup was parked in front of the cabin, but there was no sign of life in the dusty yard, not even a rabbit or squirrel. No birds sang in the trees, nothing moved.
Only silence greeted Erinn as she parked the Jeep and climbed out, her feet thudding against hard-packed earth.
A sense of utter desolation filled the clearing, heightened by the loneliness of the rising hills beyond, by the encroachment of the tall weeds, by the cracked and faded shutters at the cabin windows.
The cabin looked even smaller and grittier in person than it did in the photos—a stark contrast to the huge blue expanse of Montana sky.
As she walked toward the door, Erinn was fully aware that her own footfalls were the only sound that reached her ears. She lifted her hand, hesitated, then knocked. The sound seemed to boom across the clearing and her heart rushed into her throat as she waited for the door to open.
It didn’t move. She knocked again. There’s a car here, Erinn thought. Someone must be inside…
Suddenly the door swung inward with a creak that seemed to echo through the clearing. Erinn startled—and stared into the pinched, pale face of her sister.
Chapter Three
For a moment Erinn couldn’t speak.
She could only stare into the dull blue eyes of the stranger before her, watching the shifting emotions of surprise and wariness flitting across the girl’s face.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “What do you want?”
“Devon, it’s me. Your…sister.” Erinn forced a smile, but her lips felt as if they were cracking like plaster.
Devon stood rigid in her ripped Levi’s and tight red tee with a tear in the shoulder seam. She wore no makeup, and her fair skin looked dry and sallow; her hair hung in limp, tangled strands around her face. There were two ear piercings in each of her ears, as well as one in her left eyebrow, and cheap black stone studs poked through each one.
But worse than anything else was the sense of hopelessness that clung to the girl like an unseen second skin.
“T-Tiffany?” The blue eyes stretched wide. For an instant, Erinn thought she saw a flicker of wonder, then something else clamped over it—rage. Pure red-hot rage. A moment later it merged with a flash of fear.
“What’re you doing here? How’d you find me?”
“It wasn’t easy. But if you’ll invite me in, I’ll tell you.” Erinn spoke steadily. But as she glanced beyond Devon into the shack, her stomach took an unpleasant bounce.
The place was a pit. Filthy, dim, and dingy, it reeked of cigarette smoke and beer. She caught a swift glimpse of broken floorboards and dark cheap furniture that looked like it had been carted off from a secondhand shop. There were beer bottles everywhere, scattered across the floor, littering the wooden crate that served as a coffee table—and laundry overflowed from a grimy plastic basket in the corner. She caught a whiff of something sour wafting from the tiny kitchen in the back, and nausea filled her throat.
This was Devon’s home? Guilt and horror surged through her.
“Invite you in? Nah, I don’t think so.” Devon’s face twisted with fury. “Go away!”
She tried to slam the door, but Erinn gripped it firmly with both hands and slipped inside before her sister could stop her. “I’ve been looking for you for a long time, Devon,” she said quickly. “And I’m not leaving without you. I know I let you down, but we have to talk. Just hear me out. I want to make it all up to you—”
“Kind of late, aren’t you?” the girl sneered. Before Erinn could answer a rumbling male voice called out from behind the closed door near the laundry basket.
“Who’s there?”
As both Erinn and Devon started, the door swung open and the brawny man with the close-set eyes Erinn had seen in the photos glared at them.
“Who the hell are you?”
Mick Wheeler was big and coarse in person, with large ears and too much brawn for any one man. He had some nasty white scars zigzagging across his cheek, and mean slitted eyes the color of black beans. He came barreling toward her, smelling of onions and sweat, his hands clenched into beer-can-size fists.
“She’s no one, Mick,” Devon said quickly. “She was just leaving—”
“No, I was not.” Erinn stared at the man bearing down on her and stood her ground. “My name is Erinn Winters. I’m Devon’s sister.”
Wheeler froze, his close-set eyes boring into her face.
“Yeah? She never told me she had a sister,” he growled, flicking a dark glance at the girl.
“Well, I just did.” Erinn tried to ignore the stench of the man. “Perhaps you’re not aware that Devon is underage. She’s only fifteen—and she’s a runaway. I’ve traveled a long way to find her and now she’s going to be coming with me. If you try to stop her,” she added, “you could get yourself into a lot of trouble.”
He looked dumbfounded. And furious. He swiveled toward Devon, his eyes narrowing. “Is she telling the truth? She’s your sister?”
“Half-sister. But…I don’t want to go with her. She’s nobody to me now.”
“Devon.” Erinn kept her tone calm, even though her palms were sweating. “Please. Come outside and talk to me. I want to help you—give me just ten minutes—”
“No. My boyfriend’s coming home soon—I have to go wash my hair. Leave.”
“I’m not leaving without you.” Erinn’s heart twisted at the misery in her sister’s eyes and the anger flushing her pinched cheeks.
“Wanna bet?” Mick Wheeler took a step forward.
“Come with me, Devon. I’m staying at the Watering Hole motel. Let’s go back there, just for a little while. We can talk—I can explain—”
“Get out of here! Why would I want to talk to you?” Sobs choked from Devon’s throat. “You…you never came back, never called me, nothing. I h-hate you…as much as I hate him…our father!” she gasped, as tears streamed down her cheeks. “Just go back where you came from and leave me alone!”
“You heard her.” Wheeler shoved Erinn’s arm, his voice rough. “Out.”
Erinn’s heart pounded. She ignored the man glaring at her.
“I called you, Devon,” she said quickly. “I did. Didn’t Annabeth give you any of my messages? I wrote you several times, as well. And I did come back…once.”
“Get out! I hate you!” Devon’s voice rose to a shriek and Mick Wheeler swore, grabbed Erinn by the shoulders, and shoved her backward out the door.
“Don’t come back here—she don’t want nothing to do with you,” he yelled, then he stepped back inside and kicked the door shut with his boot.
Erinn had a final fleeting glimpse of her sister’s face, tears spilling down her cheeks, her eyes glittering with pain.
Then Erinn found herself staring only at a scarred wooden door.
As the sun slid across the softening Montana sky and a hawk circled high above, Erinn clutched her arms around herself and listened to the anguished sound of her sister’s sobs.
Chapter Four
Erinn was too shaken to do more than sit in the Jeep with the engine running. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest, making it difficult to breathe without a clenching pain. She didn’t want to leave here—not without Devon. Guilt wracked her as her sister’s accusations roiled through her head, and the rage etched in Devon’s face flashed over and over in her mind.
Oh God. What was I thinking all those years? How could I have been so self-absorbed…so busy going to school, making ends meet, writing my books…
Forgetting all about my sister.
Self-recrimination burned through her. She’d only tried to reach Devon a handful of times…not nearly enough…
Leaning forward, she rested her head against the steering wheel, trying to block out the memory of her sister’s agonized sobs within that squalid, pitiful shack.
Finally, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and took a tight hold of the steering wheel. She managed to back the Jeep and turn it around, her stomach still churning. But after she drove up Whistle Road, then turned once more onto Buckhorn Point, she glanced about for Cordovan’s directions.
Where were they?
She hit the brakes and searched the passenger seat, then the floor, and finally, her purse. But there was no sign of them. With a sinking heart she realized they must have somehow fallen out back at the cabin.
Damn it. I’m not going back there—not yet—not until I’ve had a chance to come up with plan B.
Cursing her carelessness, Erinn concentrated on trying to remember how she’d reached this desolate dirt road, and how to retrace her trail back to town.
All she had to do was drive farther along Buckhorn Point, she told herself. She’d recognize the place where she’d turned onto it, wouldn’t she? Something along the route would have to look familiar.
She drove forward again, trying to mentally summon Cordovan’s instructions, but as the pines rolled lazily by, their sameness began to induce a lulling effect on her. Her thoughts drifted, roaming back to her past, to her own frantic break for freedom on the day she turned eighteen and escaped her father’s house.
From that day on, Tiffany Erinn Stanton, eldest daughter of banking mogul Dane Stanton, had ceased to exist. She’d legally changed her name to Erinn Winters, boarded a Greyhound bus for New York City, and struggled to survive like a puppy running lost in a zoo.
Now that she looked back on it, she realized that God only knew how she had survived. The first six months had been pure hell. She’d pawned the pearl and amethyst ring her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday, and the diamond Tiffany necklace he’d gifted her with on her seventeenth, and used the money for a security deposit and several months’ rent in a rat-infested walk-up in Queens.
It had taken weeks before she found a job as a waitress in a Brooklyn diner and began working six days a week. Then she’d begun working weekend nights as well—running her legs off at an always-packed froufrou French restaurant on the Upper East Side.
