Chapter One

      No matter how hard Whitney Barstow tried, there was one memory that never seemed to fade or be twisted by time—it was the moment she had nearly died. The smoke had filled her lungs, stealing her oxygen and making her head ache. The acrid smoke was like hands covering her mouth and nose, and however hard she tried to breathe, they only clenched harder. She had torn at the invisible hands, leaving faint scars on her face—a personal reminder of her desperation to survive.

      Every time she closed her eyes, she was back in the barn. The door was closed, and when the spark had hit the hay, it was like a bomb that had gone off. She could still hear the whoomp as the dry tinder erupted into flames. And the heat. Oh, the heat. Some nights she would wake up in a cold sweat, her body’s reflexes kicking in at the mere thought of being trapped in the inferno once again.

      A tear slipped down her cheek as she stared out at the barn that sat at the heart of Dunrovin Ranch, and her thoughts turned to the lives she’d lost. There would be no replacing Runs Like the Wind, her black Thoroughbred. She could still smell the scent of hay on the horse’s breath and feel her smooth gait from high in the saddle. Nothing would ever be the same. There was no going back and stopping evil from entering her life. There was no undoing what had been done.

      There was only one thing she could do to keep the memories at bay—she could never ride again.

      Even now, almost ten years later, she could barely step foot in a barn. If she was forced, it was only if the door was kept open and the breeze drifted through like a promise of freedom. She couldn’t be trapped again. Not by a person, and never by fire. Never.

      “Whit, are you okay, sweetheart?” Mrs. Eloise Fitzgerald called out from the main office.

      Whitney angrily wiped away the tear that had escaped. She didn’t have room in her life for weakness—or vulnerability. It was emotional weakness that always got her into trouble. If she just stayed tough and shut the world out—even Mrs. Fitzgerald, the kindly matriarch of the Fitzgerald family—she would never have to worry about getting hurt again.

      “I’m fine,” she called back to her boss. “Just wanted a bit of fresh air before the guests started arriving for the weekend.”

      Mrs. Fitzgerald walked out onto the porch and wrapped her arms around her body, shielding herself from the bitter December air. “Brr... You are going to catch your death of cold out here if you don’t get your skinny buns inside, little thing.”

      Whitney snorted a laugh. It would be ironic, dying by hypothermia after nearly dying by fire. “I don’t mind the cold,” she said with a smile she hoped would calm Eloise’s nerves.

      Eloise waved her inside, not letting her get away with such disregard for her well-being. “You know what I always say... You don’t have anything if you don’t have your health.”

      Her health was just fine, thank you very much... It was the rest of Whitney that could really have used some work. She hadn’t been on a date in two years, and her best friend was the ranch dog, Milo, that no one else seemed to notice. Some days, when the phones were not ringing and she found herself looking for work to do, it was almost as if she and the dog were really nothing more than apparitions.

      She walked over to the fence and ran her finger over one of the red Christmas lights that were looped between the posts. Maybe she was just like the Ghost of Christmas Past, an enigma sent to warn others that if they were like her, and continued living set in their ways, only bad things were bound to happen.

      Or maybe she was just spending entirely too much time alone, wrapped up in her head and the things that needed to be done around the place. Ever since the murders, everything had slowed down—guests weren’t filing in and out as they once did, and even their annual Yule Night celebration was barely getting off the ground. It was almost as if the deaths of the women in and around the ranch were only a precursor of what was to come—like some dire warning that nothing could be warm and fuzzy, not even during the holidays.

      Maybe she really needed to talk, to lay bare her feelings. Maybe she wasn’t alone in her fears. And as much as she dreaded opening up, if she was going to communicate with anyone, Eloise would have been a good choice. The woman had seen it all and experienced even more. She’d raised handfuls of kids from all kinds of backgrounds, been through famine and hardship, and yet always seemed to have a smile on her face and soup on the stove. She was the epitome of perfection—always put together and selfless when it came to those she cared for. And of late, all her energies had been focused on looking after the ranch and handling the uproar it had been facing. Yet, even with all this, she had been making time to come and see Whitney and ensure that she was settling into her new role on the ranch.

      “You need to come on in,” Eloise called again, her teeth chattering slightly as she spoke.

      For the woman’s benefit, she made her way over to the door and stepped into her cramped office, and Eloise followed. The place was overflowing with books, and papers littered the desk in no discernible order. She grimaced as she looked over at Eloise, who was staring at the mess as though it was the first time she had taken notice.

      “Sweetheart,” Eloise started, “do you think it’s possible that we could get a few of these things filed away?”

      “Not a problem, ma’am.” She set about shuffling the papers that sat on the farthest corner of the desk and shoving them in the already burgeoning bottom drawer of the desk. She tried to push it closed, but the drawer burped the extra copies of the ranch’s tri-fold brochures and a notepad filled with scrawled notes.

      She laughed as she turned around and tried to hide the mess behind her.

      Eloise smiled, ever elegant and kind even in the face of inadequacy. “Do you want me to show you how I would organize all this?”

      Whitney loved how the woman didn’t try to force her through guilt, but rather the gentle and practiced hand of patience; yet she wasn’t the kind to accept acts of pity. “I think I can—”

      Thankfully, there was the harsh ding of the bell at the front desk and it saved Whitney