A Dangerous Inheritance Page 2

  Clothes.

  Everything was in the car, probably floating down the river by now! Suitcases. Purse. Keys. Boxes. All gone!

  “I’ll scrounge up something for you to put on,” he said quickly as if reading her expression. “I don’t expect you’ll be too picky,” he added, glancing at her soaked summer slacks and top.

  “No,” she agreed, fighting the sinking plunge of her stomach.

  “I’ll show you the way.”

  She still couldn’t see his face clearly, only the lower half. He had a wide, firm mouth and a well-defined jaw. A wide-brimmed western hat still put his eyes in shadow, and his raincoat, tight jeans and cowboy boots only added to the girth of his masculine stature.

  He firmly took her arm and propelled her down a hall adjoining the kitchen. One thing was certain, he was just as dominating and commanding in the kitchen as he’d been outside. Under ordinary circumstances she would have bristled at his macho behavior, but she knew better than to challenge his authority until she was warm and dry and had decided how to protect herself if things started to get ugly.

  A small bathroom at the end of a short hall looked as if it had been built as an afterthought. The plumbing was old and a large claw-footed tub took up most of the space. There were no feminine toiletries, just a bar of white soap, a man’s hairbrush and some faded, worn towels.

  “Wait a minute.” He opened a nearby hall closet and brought out a stuffed plastic bag. “There ought to be some clothes in here that will do.” He handed her the sack. “After I put up the horse, I’ll warm some brandy.” With that, he turned his back on her, and a moment later she heard the back door close with a distant bang.

  She stood for a moment, leaning against the closed bathroom door, whispering, “It’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right.”

  As she began to strip off the drenched clothes, she caught a reflected image of herself in a mirror above the sink. She stared in disbelief. Her ebony hair had become a straggly, frizzled mop framing her pale face and blue lips. Then she looked down. Mud coated her arms, legs, clothes and shoes, and she looked like something that had crawled out from under a rock.

  Horrified that anyone had seen her in such a condition, she filled the old bathtub nearly full and sank into the blessed warmth of a hot bath. As her chilled body began to revive, her mind began to dwell on unanswered questions. How was she going to handle this situation with her rescuer? He hadn’t answered her question about a family. How safe was she? She’d never felt so vulnerable in her life.

  She stepped out of the tub, dried herself and tried not to let her imagination build a tale of horror about a woman at the mercy of a stranger in a storm like this.

  As she opened the plastic bag, the sickening sweet smell of cheap perfume assaulted her. It contained a few women’s clothes, a box of costume jewelry and ribbons. Her mouth went dry as she wondered if this was some feeble collection from other rescued victims? Just the thought made her want to shove them away as far as possible, but standing there naked in the strange bathroom, she didn’t have a choice.

  She couldn’t bring herself to put on anything but a horrible purple-and-red flannel robe that offered more concealment and warmth than anything else in the bag. A pair of knitted socks in the same ugly purple were too large for her feet, but gave her some protection from the cold floor.

  Once she was dressed, she lingered, drying her naturally curly dark hair with a towel and using the man’s hairbrush to try and subdue it until it fell softly on her shoulders.

  A pale face looked back at her as she buttoned the high-necked robe to the top. She was tempted to hide out in the bathroom until daylight, but one glance at the feeble lock on the door warned her that it wouldn’t hold him out for long if he decided to come in after her.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the bathroom door and went out. Light from the kitchen spilled down the hallway, and she wondered if he’d come back to the house yet. The only sound was a whispering of her stocking feet on the bare wooden floor as she moved down the hall.

  When she entered the kitchen, she heard a quick intake of breath that sounded like a growl. Sudden fear lurched through her. For a second she was confused about where the ugly sound was coming from. Then she saw a slight movement and jerked her eyes in that direction.

  An old man with rounded shoulders was leaning on a cane in a corner of the room, staring at her. Shocks of white hair framed his leathery wizened face as his biting gaze slowly passed over her hair, down the robe to her purple socks.

  She wanted to say something, but the hatred in his eyes and ugly mouth stopped her.

  His voice was raw and rough as he lashed out at her. “So ye came back, did ye, Glenda? I didn’t think a grave would hold the likes of you. Even the Devil is particular about his playmates.”

  Chapter Two

  Josh quickened his steps as he reached the back door of the house and heard his grandfather’s raised voice, ranting and raving. Damn! He’d thought the old man was asleep and wouldn’t be aware of their unexpected houseguest till morning. What in blazes had set him off?

  “All right, Gramps! Settle down,” Josh ordered as he came into the kitchen and saw his grandfather waving his cane and cursing. “What’s this all about?”

  “Glenda’s come back.” The old man’s bushy gray eyebrows matted over wrinkled eyelids. “Glenda’s come back. Climbed out of her own deceitful grave, she did.”

  “Nonsense,” Josh said firmly, but with an edge of impatience.

  “See for yerself,” Gramps growled, and pointed his cane.

  Josh turned around, and his stomach took a sickening plunge. For a mesmerizing moment, his tormented sister stood there, materialized in front of his eyes. The familiar gaudy robe and dark curly hair assaulted his senses, and he half expected her to break out into her rough laughter. He just stared at her.

  Stacy didn’t know who the dead Glenda was, but she was very much aware of angry hostility filling the room. Both men were staring at her as if she had indeed come back from the grave to haunt them. Why?

  Stacy’s mind suddenly filled with terrifying scenarios. Had they killed this Glenda? What if they really believed her murdered soul had come back from the grave to haunt them?

  As evenly as her rapid breath would allow, Stacy said quickly, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you and your grandfather in some way. My name is Stacy Ashford. I’m from L.A.” Then she added a lie. “My family will be expecting me in Timberlane and they are probably already out looking for me.”

  Josh realized that it was the curly black hair and familiar robe and socks that had created the illusion. This woman’s melodious voice, and the soft beauty in her clear sky-blue eyes and gently curved lips had never belonged to Glenda.

  Josh quickly explained to his grandfather that she was a woman who had been caught in the storm, and he’d given her some of Glenda’s clothes to wear.

  The old man didn’t look convinced, and he continued to glare at her. Stacy saw his gnarled hand tighten on his cane as if ready to strike out at her if she came a step closer.

  “I apologize,” Josh said quickly. “My name is Josh Spencer and this is my grandfather, Nate Spencer. Please have a seat, and we’ll have the warm brandy I promised.”

  Stacy moved slowly toward one of the kitchen chairs as the old man continued to glare at her. She couldn’t tell from his wizened frown whether he was convinced that he’d made a mistake or still believed it was Glenda playing some kind of evil trick on him. She suppressed a shiver, remembering the venom in his tone. What had this Glenda done to create such bitter anger in him?

  “Come on, Gramps. I’ll see you back upstairs,” Josh said briskly, taking his arm and urging him toward the hall door. They left the kitchen, and Stacy heard their steps on the stairs, accompanied by the querulous swearing of the old man.

  Outside the wailing of the wind and the relentless peppering of rain warned her that the storm was still full-blown. Any thought of fleeing the hou
se was utter stupidity. She was trapped. She sat stiffly in a kitchen chair, trying to prepare herself for spending the night in a house with two strange men and the lingering, unwelcome presence of someone named Glenda.

  When Josh returned to the kitchen, Stacy had her first look at him without his hat. He was ruggedly good-looking with brown eyes, longish dark chestnut hair, and high cheekbones accenting a firm chin. Any producer casting an adventure movie would definitely have given Josh Spencer a second look, she thought. There were plenty of hopefuls running around Hollywood that couldn’t measure up to his robust physique. But would they cast him as a good guy or the villain?

  Stacy watched him prepare hot mugs of coffee and brandy with a confident ease that told her he knew his way around the kitchen. Washed dishes were drying in a rack, and there were no signs of feminine or extraneous culinary equipment sitting around on the counters.

  “There you are, Miss Ashford,” he said as he handed her the mug of hot liquid.

  Miss Ashford? The formal use of her name seemed totally at odds with the present situation, especially since she looked like the refugee she was. Was this macho man secretly enjoying seeing a big-city woman dependent upon a local yokel?

  He eased down into a chair across the table from her and apologized again for his grandfather’s behavior. “Sorry about that. When he gets something in his head, nobody can get it out.”

  “Who is Glenda?”

  His fingers visibly tightened around his mug. As he focused on some unseen point over her shoulder, he answered gruffly, “My younger sister.”

  “Glenda is your sister?”

  “Was,” he corrected curtly. “As you must have guessed, she’s dead.”

  “How did she die?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  His flat refusal sparked Stacy’s indignation. “Obviously, I’ve landed in the middle of something that’s none of my doing. You gave me your dead sister’s clothes to wear, and your grandfather frightened me with accusations of coming back from the dead to haunt him.” She knew that she might regret demanding an explanation, but she hated being in the dark when her very life might be at stake. “What happened to Glenda?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose you have the right to know.”

  Stacy listened attentively as he explained how he and his younger sister, Glenda, were orphaned at the ages of sixteen and twelve when their parents were killed in a train/car accident, and their grandfather, Nate Spencer, a widower, took them in to raise. Stacy gathered Josh had adjusted to life in the Rocky Mountains, but his sister had hated it from the first moment.

  “Gramps and I built a half-dozen fishing and hunting cabins and facilities down by the river. We do a good business all year around.” He sighed. “When Glenda was sixteen, she ran away to Timberlane, got a waitress job and refused to come back home to live despite Gramps’s threats and bribes. She stole money from the cabin rentals, lied to us about everything and was responsible for vandalism to the property by some of her pothead friends. Until her death two years ago, her life had spun out of control, and there was nothing that Gramps and I could do about it.”

  He stood up abruptly, and firmness around his mouth and a fierce glower discouraged any more questions. Obviously Josh Spencer wasn’t a man who could be led where he didn’t want to go. However his sister had met her death, it was clear that he carried a lingering hurt deep inside, and he wasn’t about to talk about it.

  “Time to turn in. We left a bed in her old room. You can use it.”

  “Haven’t you got a couch somewhere?” she protested. Wearing the dead woman’s clothes was one thing, but sleeping in her bed was another. “I’d be fine bedding down anywhere.”

  Refusing to listen to any argument, he put a firm hand on her arm and led her up the narrow staircase to a small bedroom at the front of the house.

  At one time it might have been pleasant enough, Stacy decided, but a stale, musty smell permeated the room. Heavy, ugly curtains hung at two long, high windows. A single light bulb hung on a chain from the ceiling and sent an orangish light across a small bed, an old vanity dresser and a hooked rug that was rough under her stocking feet.

  Stacy would rather have bedded down on the floor in the kitchen than stay cooped up in this room, but one look at her host’s marble face warned her that a choice of accommodations wasn’t an option.

  A quiver of fear crept up her spine as he stood there, barring her way to the open door. His domineering, muscular frame filled up the small floor space, and she wondered if the brief pleasantries in the kitchen had been intended to lull her into a false sense of security.

  She had never felt so totally helpless and vulnerable in her whole life. Here she was, trapped in a dead woman’s room and wearing her clothes. No chance to flee. No one to hear her cries. Outside the raging storm mocked any attempt to reject the questionable hospitality offered her.

  “Good night, Miss Ashford,” he said, politely. In the dim light, she thought a flicker of something like amusement eased the firm muscles in his cheeks as he added, “You’ll be sure and lock the door, won’t you? Sometimes my grandfather walks in his sleep.”

  After that unsettling announcement, he disappeared into the hall, and she heard his firm steps as he went back downstairs. She quickly shut the door and turned the skeleton key in the lock. Like the old bathroom door, it didn’t look strong enough to keep anyone like Josh Spencer out if he decided to come in. She consoled herself with the thought that a feeble old man wouldn’t be able to break it down.

  Fighting against a rising claustrophobia as the stifling closeness of the tiny room crowded in on her, she went to a window and pulled back a dusty heavy drape. Dirty streams of water ran down the glass pane, and the raging storm outside warned that it would be stupidity to try and open the window.

  Leaving the dangling ceiling light on, she lay down on the small bed still wearing the purple robe. Her body remained rigid for a long time until slowly her mental and physical exhaustion claimed her. Finally, with the smell of cheap perfume invading her nostrils, she relaxed, and slept.

  THE ROOM WAS STILL in shadows when she woke, but a thin line around the window draperies told her it was morning. Eight o’clock, to be exact, she realized as she checked her wristwatch. She lay there for a moment, unconsciously listening for the noisy fury of the storm that had been in her ears for so many hours.

  Stillness. No lashing rain. No thunder. The storm was over. Breathing a prayer of thanksgiving, she went over to a window, drew aside the faded curtain, and peered outside.

  The weather was gray and dank, and the scene that greeted her eyes instantly dissipated her sense of well-being. Heavily wooded mountains rose to jagged and barren peaks against the colorless sky.

  She could see a line of rustic cabins stretched along the river. All apparently empty. No smoke wafted from any of the chimneys, no cars were parked in the adjoining carports and no hint of anyone moving about.

  He had lied to her. The place was closed down. A cold chill prickled the back of her neck. No one was around except him and his crazed grandfather.

  Turning away from the window, she crossed the room and cautiously opened the door. She blinked in disbelief as she looked down at the neat pile of her own clothes, lying there washed and dried. The swell of gratitude was like nothing she’d ever felt before. She even blinked back grateful tears as she picked them up and made her way to a central bathroom a short distance down the hall.

  She hurriedly took off the purple robe and socks and threw them in the corner. Once she was dressed again in her yellow slacks and summer top, she almost felt in charge of herself and the situation.

  Her sense of confidence was short-lived, however. When she came into the kitchen, the old man was sitting at the table, eating. The minute he saw Stacy, he began jabbing his fork in her direction, shrieking, “Out! Out of my house.”

  “Stop it, Gramps!” Josh ordered as he swung around to face his grandfather.
He’d been standing in front of the stove, tending to a sizzling skillet. “If you’d wear your blasted glasses, you’d see the lady doesn’t look anything like Glenda.”

  “I ain’t eatin’ with the likes of her,” his grandfather retorted. With the belligerent stubbornness of a child, the old man shoved back his chair, lumbered to his feet, and stomped his way out of the kitchen with a loud thumping of his cane.

  “Sorry about that,” Josh said with an apologetic smile. “Are you ready for breakfast? Come on, sit down. Would you like some scrambled eggs and bacon?”

  “No, thank you. I…I’m not much of a breakfast eater.” If she’d had any appetite it had been squelched by his grandfather’s hostile greeting. More than anything, she wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

  “I’d like to use your telephone, make arrangements for recovering the car and getting a ride to Timberlane.”

  “Sorry, the storm knocked out service. Probably won’t be back in use for a couple of days. The telephone company takes its time getting to us.”

  “Don’t you have a cell phone?”

  “Nope, I’ve tried using one, but it kept breaking up and wasn’t any good in these mountains.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

  As Stacy glanced at the back door, Josh suspected that she was considering walking out of the house right then and there. Not that he blamed her. His grandfather’s explosive tirades would put anyone on edge, and she’d handled herself better than he would have expected any woman caught in these circumstances.

  “It wouldn’t do much good to call a towing company if your car has already been swept miles down the river,” he said gently.

  “I was driving a rental car, and it’s important I inform them about the accident.”

  He nodded. “Why don’t you sit down and have some breakfast, Miss Ashford? Then I’ll get out the pickup, and we’ll head down to the river and assess the situation.”

  She noticed that he didn’t volunteer to drive her into Timberlane so she could use the phone there. At the moment, she had no alternative but to go along with his suggestion. She sat down and accepted the cup of coffee he offered.