Still within the drawer were several plastic bags, carefully sealed, the pictures within preserved. He flipped through them until he came to the handful of photos he sought, photos he’d processed himself in the small darkroom he used to use.
“Payback time,” he said, eyeing the girls by the lake. In the photos, he had caught them splashing in the water or stretching their arms to dive off the dock. Their young, nubile bodies with high breasts and dark triangles at the joining of their legs brought back memories. His mouth turned dust dry with desire.
Katrina, the detective.
Ruth, a mother and psychologist.
And now, Shiloh, the runaway cowgirl.
All home to roost. At least for a while. He didn’t know, hadn’t heard how long Shiloh intended to stay.
He’d have to work fast.
He stared at the images.
He couldn’t wait.
Chapter 9
Seeing Kat again brought back all the old memories, painful thoughts that Shiloh had tried like hell to tamp down. But as she drove back to her mother’s house, she couldn’t shake them. It was as if the ghosts of the past, her mother, Larimer Tate, and that damned bastard who’d attacked them swirled over her vehicle as it rolled home over the hot asphalt.
Once parked in her usual spot, she noticed that Beau’s truck was missing. Unbidden, a drip of disappointment ran through her blood. “You’re an idiot,” she told herself as she shielded her eyes and headed inside, where despite the windows being open, the house was hot. Stuffy. Empty.
For the first time since landing in Prairie Creek over a week earlier, she was alone on the property. Inside the little house, she felt suffocated. According to her mother’s lawyer, the place had been left to Morgan for use as a home while she was raised by Beau and Shiloh. A bad arrangement, she thought, and again felt her mother’s spirit hovering nearby, which was flat-out ridiculous.
She opened the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of water, and took a long swallow.
Setting down her glass, she eyed the Formica table where she’d sat for so many meals. She could envision her mother seated in her favorite chair. Over the years, Faye had given her advice from that very seat: “Eat your asparagus; it’s good for you.” Then, “I wouldn’t worry too much about what Mary Jordan thinks, or anyone else, for that matter.” Or, “Be careful, Shiloh. I know you don’t get along with Larimer, but all this wild acting out is not going to help.” Over the years, her mother’s face had grown thinner, the lines more visible, the bits of silver showing through her naturally blond hair, while Larimer Tate had become more and more of a presence to the point that Mom had seemed to shrink as he’d loomed larger. She’d withered beneath his shadow.
But was it fair to blame Beau for all his father’s faults? Probably no more than it would be to point a finger at Shiloh for Faye’s failings or for the genes of Frank Silva, her dead father.
Things had changed so much since she’d first come here. Her whole attitude about the town, her family, and especially Beau Tate, had altered, which was probably a mistake. “You’re getting soft, Shiloh,” she chided herself, and thought about calling Morgan’s phone to see if she was okay, or Beau’s to make certain the girl had been dropped off at Ayla’s place.
Again.
She wasn’t used to this mothering thing, or the big sister thing. She didn’t recall ever having an emotional tie to a younger, dependent human being. Now, being another person’s guardian and provider felt right, before it felt wrong, before it felt awkward.
Give it time, she thought she heard her mother say and took another swift glance at the table to see if Faye’s ghost was there, smoking a cigarette while flipping through the coupon section of the weekly freebie advertising paper.
With all the memories, ghosts of the past, and recriminations crowded in her head, she drained her glass, then slammed it onto the counter, nearly cracking it.
Enough!
She had to clear her head, get rid of the images of the past, and look to the future, whatever that might be.
Walking onto the back porch, she couldn’t help a glance at the windows to the attic over the garage. If a light burned within, she wouldn’t be able to see it as the glass panes had become opaque with the reflection from the evening sky. The vibrant colors of a Wyoming sunset were the only thing visible.
What did she care if Beau was inside, which he wasn’t? He was an irritation. Nothing more. Larimer Tate’s son.
But her thinking about him had changed. He wasn’t the same kind of man as his father. If anything, he seemed nearly diametrically opposite to the man who had sired him, at least from what she’d observed in the past week or so. He was kind to the animals, had a sense of humor, and was straight and caring with Morgan. Shiloh had assumed that his connection to their mutual half sister might be tenuous at best, or even all for show, but from the moment she’d first spied him with Morgan, Shiloh had been aware of the incredibly strong bond between Beau and his only sibling.
Not faked.
Not temporary.
The real thing.
Shiloh was the outsider.
She was the one who didn’t belong, the sibling Morgan didn’t trust—and with good reason. Morgan hadn’t known her. She was a stranger.
She crossed the porch that had become her bedroom and jogged along the path leading to the barn. The horses were grazing in the closest pasture, so she grabbed a bridle from the tack area and called to Dot, a dappled mare with more than a little fire in her eye. “Come on, girl, let’s go,” she said.
With the bridle in place, she flung herself onto the gray’s back and headed toward the back end of her mother’s property. Along the western border, a creek snaked beneath the fence line, and a pool collected in the surrounding pines. Leaning forward, she urged the mare faster, and the horse responded, stretching out, galloping across the dry earth and the sun-bleached grass. Squinting against the brilliance of the western horizon, Shiloh felt the gray’s muscles bunch and stretch beneath her. The wind tore at her hair as Dot’s hoofs threw up clouds of dust, thundering over the song of crickets greeting the coming night.
Riding had always been an exhilarating experience for Shiloh—her escape—and often she found being around horses easier than dealing with people. She pulled on the reins, and Dot, breathing hard, slowed to a walk to pick her way through the scrub brush and pines where the creek flowed. The sound of water rushing over stones and roots filled the air. It was cooler here, and Shiloh relaxed as she guided Dot to an area where the water eddied and swirled, the stream colliding with another brook and creating a pool deep enough to submerge in when the winter snow melted and the icy spring runoff filled the banks.