The Lost Sheenan's Bride (Taming of the Sheenans Book 6) Page 11

  “Their mother’s sister, Karen, took them in for a bit. She used to live north of Livingston in a little town called Clyde Park, but she sold her house and bought something close to the high school. McKenna and Quinn lived with her after Quinn was released from the hospital.”

  “And Rory?”

  “He wanted to live with friends in Marietta. He was a senior and a star wide receiver and everyone wanted Rory to have a normal senior year…or as normal as it could be, considering. The town rallied around those kids. No one wanted to see them get sent to foster care, not after what they’d been through, and even though they are no longer teenagers, those three still mean a lot to Marietta.”

  “So who did it?”

  Louise shook her head. “No one knows.”

  “No one has any suspicion? No person of interest that wasn’t charged for whatever reason?”

  “There has been so much speculation that I hate to weigh in. It doesn’t help.”

  “I met someone today whose father was a ranch foreman for the Circle C and she mentioned a traveling church that came to Paradise Valley every summer. Do you know anything about that?”

  Louise’s expression firmed. “Pastor Newsome. Went once to hear him preach but didn’t like his message, or some of the people he traveled with, and never went back.”

  “Could he have been involved?”

  “He was leading a Bible study at the time so it wasn’t him, but he had some odd followers. They were a little too zealous. Wasn’t for me, and OC—my husband—agreed.”

  “How were his followers odd?”

  “Now you sound like Mr. Finley. He asked me that, too, when he interviewed me.”

  “People are upset about the book he’s writing. Does his book bother you, too?”

  She hesitated. “I know Mr. Finley’s work and the quality of his writing and research, so in theory, I don’t have an issue. But as someone who has watched over those Douglas kids, and fretted over their well-being, it’s difficult.”

  “So you wouldn’t try to stop it.”

  “I don’t believe in censorship. I’m a librarian.” She smiled, and then her smile faded. “But it’s not an easy subject. I grew up with Grace Gordon—that was Grace Douglas’ maiden name—and she was a very dear friend. What happened to her, and her family, in that home still haunts me to this day. I’ll never forget visiting with Catherine Sheenan not long after the murders, and Catherine said, ‘That could have been me.’ And Catherine’s words stuck with me, because I think every woman in this community felt that way.”

  Jet was usually quite comfortable driving Highway 89. After six weeks of commuting to Emigrant Gulch for the teaching job, she knew the road well. It was just one lane in each direction and traveling south, the Yellowstone River was on her left, a dark glimmer against the patchy snow on the riverbanks.

  The sun was trying hard to shine through the heavy clouds that gathered over the Absarokas, and Jet appreciated the effort as she battled a fit of nerves.

  Harley would not be happy if she found out about Jet visiting Shane on the Sheenan ranch.

  But then, no one in the Sheenan family would be happy.

  Jet had never thought of herself as a rebel. Yes, she’d always had a mind of her own, as well as a strong sense of self, but she’d never broken “rules,” she hadn’t ever caused trouble. Even as a teenager she hadn’t been contrary, too intent on excelling in school, too determined to be a success. So Jet didn’t know why she felt so compelled to see Shane. She didn’t like conflict. She didn’t want to stir things up. And yet here she was, heading straight into potential heartache.

  Uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts, and the butterflies in her middle, she forced her attention to the narrow road taking her deeper into the rolling hills. The smaller houses and acre properties lining the river gave way to larger spreads. Rustic signs and cattle guards marked the entrance to different properties. One of them was the entrance to the MacCreadie ranch. Another was the entrance to the Douglas’. And then the Sheenan’s, the big iron “S” dangling from a wooden beam the only indication she’d reached the entrance to their property. She knew from hearing the Sheenans talk the ranch had been in the family for almost a hundred years. The first Sheenan had arrived in Montana in the 1890s but didn’t have the money to buy the current property until the 1920s. It was a big property, too, and the only other family spread that rivaled the size of the Sheenan ranch was the Carrigan’s, owners of the Circle C, the ranch east of the Sheenan place.

  Jet followed the dusty dirt road a quarter of a mile until it dead-ended in front of a two-story, log cabin ranch house. A relatively modern tractor was parked just in front of a huge weathered barn. Corrals flanked both sides of the barn.

  The house wasn’t particularly inspiring. Constructed of hand-hewn logs, the house looked solid but lacked what a real estate agent would call curb appeal. The front porch was small and narrow, with an equally small overhang to protect one from rain or snow, but the smallness of the porch and the steepness of the brown roof all looked practical rather than charming. Even the trim on the windows and front door were the same shade of brown as the roof. There were no homey touches, but also, no clutter.

  Shane opened the front door before she’d even had a chance to knock.

  “Hi there,” she said, smiling, thinking he looked ridiculously handsome in his soft, faded Levis and cherry-red Henley shirt. He’d pushed the long sleeves up on his forearms, revealing the intricate ink on one arm. She’d love to see the tattoos without his shirt, curious as to how much of his body they covered. Was it just the arm, or did they extend over his shoulder, too? She didn’t think he had tattoos on his chest. At least, the round neckline of the shirt didn’t reveal any, just smooth taut skin and the top of his muscular chest. He was built. Muscles everywhere.

  She swallowed hard. “I’m not too early am I?”

  “Not at all. Welcome,” he answered, holding the door wider so she could enter the house.

  She felt nervous all over again as he closed the door behind her. “Where did you go skiing?” she asked, trying to sound calm and normal when her pulse was pounding and her confidence was dipping. “Bridger Bowl?”

  “I went skate skiing. Over by Miracle Lake.”

  She was impressed. She’d tried to skate ski once and it was hard. “Did you come home tired?”

  “The good kind of tired. Definitely more mellow.”

  “So you’re making good progress on your book.”

  “No, making very little progress but it was that or lose my mind, and I don’t feel like losing my mind.”

  “Good call.” Jet began unsnapping her coat. “Isn’t Miracle Lake where all the kids go skating?”

  “You haven’t been there yet?”

  “I don’t skate.”

  “At all?” he asked, taking her coat from her and heading down the long hall.

  She followed him. “I can wobble around a little bit. Maybe even wobble backwards, but it’s not pretty. Do you skate?”

  “I learned to play hockey at one of the boys’ homes. The more aggressive I could appear on the ice, the less aggressive I needed to be off the ice.” He hung her coat on a hook near the kitchen. “Hungry? Thirsty?”

  “I’d love a cup of tea.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  In the kitchen, with the yellow pine cabinets and Formica counters, he moved efficiently from stove to sink, filling the copper kettle, and then back to the stove, placing the dented kettle on a gas burner.

  As he busied himself at the stove, she found herself checking him out again. He seemed made for old, faded jeans and soft thermal shirts. She liked the way the knit fabric skimmed his broad chest but wrapped his hard biceps, highlighting the thick muscle. She liked the fit of the Levis and how his dark hair was loose. He’d done something to his beard, too. It was shorter and lighter, as if he’d come close to shaving it all off. She liked him with a beard, but she thought he looked even more handsome
with a cleaner jaw. “Looks like you got a little crazy with your razor,” she teased.

  He glanced at her over his shoulder, expression rueful. “Wasn’t intentional. I was trimming the beard and not paying attention. You can’t leave one side of your face furrier than the other.”

  “When did you do that?”

  “Just after I got back from skiing. I showered, thought I ought to polish up a bit for you, and then—oops.” He lined up two mugs and pulled out a number of boxes of tea. “Which one appeals? English breakfast, peppermint, orange spice, and Earl Grey.”

  “English breakfast if I can add a splash of milk and sugar.”

  “You can.” He turned around to face her as the water heated. “So does Harley know you’re here?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure this is wise?”

  “Probably as long as we don’t get married and have babies.”

  One black eyebrow lifted. “I suppose that rules out me taking you to bed.”

  One second they’d been bantering and the next the kitchen felt taut and explosive. She felt her cheeks grow hot and her insides do a somersault.

  “Probably wise to avoid bedrooms,” she agreed, voice husky.

  His dark eyes warmed, the expression intent and very male. “Any place else we should avoid?”

  Her heart thudded hard and yet her pulse felt like warm honey in her veins, thick, sweet, seductive. “Places with couches and sofas.”

  “Bad, too, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  His gaze locked with hers and held. “What about rugs in front of fireplaces?”

  “No. Hardwood floors…stone floors…no blazing fires.”

  “No fires, either?”

  She could picture him stretched out over her, kissing her, his hands in her hair, his lips finding every little sensitive spot on her neck…

  “Cold hearths are preferable.” She choked, her skin prickling, body now hot all over. She’d peel off her sweater if she could but she didn’t have anything but a bra underneath. “Cold is good. Hard and uncomfortable even better.”

  His mouth curved in the most sinful, wicked grin she’d ever seen in her life. “As I’m concerned for your well-being, I would recommend hard is always better, but we can’t have uncomfortable. I promise you’d never be uncomfortable.”

  Jet exhaled in a soft dizzying rush. He was going straight to her head, seducing her with words, and her body loved it. Traitorous body.

  Thank God the kettle came to a boil and whistled. “You play dirty.”

  “I do?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “You’re the one who sent a text that said ‘I could call, or drop by’.”

  “Drop by doesn’t mean sex.”

  “No, but drop by means I could see you, in person, which for men, is far preferable to phone conversations.”

  “This is about the Douglas ranch investigation.”

  He gave her a pointed look before grabbing a hot pad to lift the kettle from the stove and fill the mugs. “Right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  Steam swirled from the kettle and mugs. “So am I. I’ve been told to keep my distance from you or someone is going to cause me bodily harm.” He set the kettle down and gave her another pointed glance. “But here you are.”

  She smiled. She couldn’t help it. It was his inflection and the glint in his dark eyes and the easy way he moved about the kitchen, so very comfortable. He’d obviously been a bachelor a long time. “Do you mind so terribly much that I am here?”

  “No. I wanted to see you. I like you. And apparently I like a good fight.”

  Jet choked on smothered laughter. “Nobody is going to put a fist in your face.”

  “Because Harley and Cormac and the rest of that beast of a family have agreed that we can be friends?” he asked dryly, handing her a cup. “Be careful. It’s hot. I don’t want you to get burned.”

  She appreciated the concern. She didn’t want to get burned, either. Not by the scalding hot mug, or by his gorgeous fascinating self.

  He could hurt her. He’d break her heart if she let him. She couldn’t let him. She couldn’t drop her guard. Not with him, or anyone. It was too soon after Ben. She wasn’t strong enough yet, wasn’t ready to love, or trust…

  Especially herself.

  He reached out suddenly and brushed a tendril from her brow. The long strand tangled on a lash and as he freed the strand his fingertips brushed her cheek.

  She inhaled hard, pulse jumping. His touch was electric and everything inside her zinged.

  “You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice pitched low, his tone serious.

  Her heart drummed even faster. She couldn’t look away from his eyes, the irises so dark she felt lost in them. Yesterday when they’d talked, she’d been able to see the boy in him, and yet this afternoon he was all man. A tough, physical, sexual man and she didn’t know what to do with him…

  Or how to feel about him…

  But she knew why she was here. In person. She hadn’t wanted to talk on the phone. She’d wanted to be here for this…this hot, crackling, sizzling energy. His hot, crackling, sizzling energy. She must be mad but everything about him intrigued her. He was like the story she just couldn’t put down. Beautiful. Unpredictable. And oh, so very compelling.

  But did she really need to have her heart broken again? Because he would break it. He was a take no prisoners kind of guy. What she should do was go, before she developed more feelings, before she lost her head altogether.

  “So I heard something interesting today,” she said huskily, holding her cup in front of her as if it was a shield and able to protect her in battle. “I thought it might prove useful to you somehow.”

  “I’d love to hear,” he said, as if nothing had just happened between them. As if his touch had been nothing…

  Maybe it was nothing…

  That thought hurt more than it should.

  She gulped a breath and dove into her story, desperate to find her footing. “I went to Java Café this morning for breakfast and ended up sharing a table with a couple. They were close to my age and the girl was telling her boyfriend about the Douglas ranch murders. I couldn’t help listening. It was impossible not to hear.” She paused and took a breath, telling herself to slow down. He wasn’t going anywhere. He was listening. Everything was fine.

  “What made it interesting,” she continued, “is that the girl, Laura, lived on the Carrigan ranch at the time of the murders. Her dad was one of the foremen for the Circle C and even though she was just five, Laura remembered how awful it was then, living in the valley, and how scared everyone was. With the murders unsolved, her mom wanted to leave Paradise Valley. She didn’t feel safe so far out, and so they ended up moving to town, and then later her parents divorced.”

  “Did she say why her parents divorced?”

  “Her mom blamed the murders. Laura said something like whoever committed the crime killed two families that day, not one.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I asked her if she had any theories on who did it,” Jet added.

  Shane’s eyebrows lifted.

  Jet saw his expression and grimaced. “I like knowing things.”

  He seemed to be struggling to check a smile. “So what did you learn?”

  “Laura’s mom had two theories about the person who did it. It was either a ranch hand who had a beef with Mr. Douglas over something, or it was someone who had a thing for Mrs. Douglas. Apparently Mrs. Douglas was really beautiful and Laura’s mom thought that maybe someone had become obsessed with her and kind of went nuts.”

  “Mmm. Only I don’t think it was a ranch hand.”

  “Could it have been someone with that revival? The one that visited Paradise Valley in the summer?”

  “How did you hear about that?”

  “Laura mentioned it and then I asked Louise Jenkins—”

  “Louise Jenkins?”

  “The librarian. In Marietta.”

>   “When did you talk to her?”

  “Today. I went to do some research. They have copies of all the original newspapers.”

  “I’ve interviewed her at length.”

  “She told me.”

  His lips curved. “You could be a detective.”

  She smiled crookedly. “I could, couldn’t I?”

  He was still smiling but he was looking past her, out the window over the kitchen sink, his attention on something else now. Silence followed and Jet could see he was deep in thought. She waited to hear what he’d say, wondering if her information helped him at all.

  “I’d love to talk to Laura’s mother,” he said at last. “Sounds like she has very vivid memories and wouldn’t be opposed to telling me what she remembers.” His brow creased a little as he turned to look at her again. “She’s here in town?”

  “No. She’s in Polson. I’m not sure where that is, though.”

  “It’s on the south end of Flathead Lake.”

  “Isn’t that where you lived with your grandmother?”

  “Yes. And my mom’s cabin in Cherry Lake is just north of Polson. Maybe fifteen minutes from the town.”

  “Is it someplace you’d fly from here or would you drive?”

  “I’d drive. It’s not that far. Four or five hours, depending on the weather.”

  “You should go.”

  “I’m thinking about it.” He sipped his hot tea. Steam still rose from the cup. She could see that he was thinking hard on something and then he looked at her intently, dark eyes studying her over the rim of his mug. “Feel like a road trip? Want to go?”

  “Go?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? It’s a beautiful drive. You’d have the chance to see more of Montana.” He must have noticed her tell-tale blush. “We’ll have separate rooms. I respect the whole avoid the bed-couch-sheepskin-rug-in-front-of-the-fire thing.”

  Her lips twitched and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling too widely. He was impossible. And apparently she liked that. “There is no way I could hide that from Harley.”

  “Wouldn’t want you to.”

  “She’d freak.”

  “She would.”