Rogue Gunslinger. B.J. Daniels
Читать онлайн книгу.
let out cries as ice crystals glittered in the silver evening before covering them from head to toe.
TJ shook the light snow from her long blond hair and laughed. It was good to see Annabelle like this. It had been a long time. Now, she was again that adventurous young girl who’d gotten stuck in the neighbor boy’s tree house.
“I thought you’d want your old rooms,” Annabelle was saying as they crossed the porch and she unlocked the door.
TJ hadn’t known what to expect as the door swung open. Her grandmother had been a hoarder in her old age. The last time she’d seen this place—when she and Chloe had come up for the funeral—it had been so full of newspapers, magazines, knickknacks, old furniture and so much junk there were only paths through the house. Little had they known what was buried in there.
She stopped in the doorway, dumbstruck. The junk was gone. The walls were painted a nice pale gray, and the place looked warm and welcoming, complete with new furniture.
“Annabelle, you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble. We aren’t staying that long,” TJ said, shocked.
“It wasn’t all me. Willie insisted on helping and I wasn’t about to say no,” Annabelle said. “You remember Dawson’s mom. When she takes on a project... You have to see the kitchen. Dawson completely remodeled it.”
TJ could only nod and follow her sister into the kitchen where their grandmother used to attempt to cook. She stopped in the doorway. This was the room where Annabelle had discovered her grandmother’s biggest secret. It looked like any other kitchen in an older remodeled house.
“Remember the cookie jar where Frannie kept her grocery money?” her sister was saying. “I saved it.”
Chloe had stepped in and was looking around, wide-eyed. “It’s amazing.” She met TJ’s gaze. “Ghosts?”
“Gone,” Annabelle said, and crossed her heart with her index finger. “No ghosts.”
TJ thought ghosts were the least of her problems. “Did Willie help you with our rooms as well?”
“She did. Come on, I’ll show you.” Annabelle ran up the stairs. TJ and Chloe followed, whispering among themselves.
“She did a great job,” Chloe was saying. “Remember what it was like?”
“Unfortunately, I do,” TJ said. “Like a horror story.”
“Or a thriller,” Chloe whispered back. “Like the kind you write.”
TJ didn’t need the reminder.
Annabelle had stopped at Chloe’s old room. They joined her. The room had been painted her favorite color, pale purple, and decorated to fit their investigative reporter sister’s style.
“You do realize that this visit is temporary, right?” TJ asked. Annabelle didn’t seem to hear her. Stepping down the hall, TJ stopped at a room she knew at once was hers. It was painted a pale yellow. A quilt of yellow-and-blue fabric lay on the antique white iron bed. There was a small white desk and chair to one side of the bed with a lamp and spot for her laptop. On the wall above it was a framed collage of her book covers.
“Do you like it?” Annabelle said behind her, sounding anxious.
“Oh, Annabelle.” She turned to hug her sister, hoping to hide her discomfort. The last thing she wanted to see were her book covers right now. They reminded her of the threats from her True Fan, who had found fault with all of her latest plots—and even her covers.
“It’s perfect.”
Her sister seemed to relax. “Is this going to be all right?” she asked.
“It is, Belle,” she said using a nickname for her littlest sister that she hadn’t used in years. “I’m glad you kept Frannie’s house.”
“It was Dawson’s idea. He bought it for a rental but he thought it would be nice for us to have it for when the two of you visit. After we’re married, we’ll build a house with guest rooms for you and Chloe when you come home. Then we’ll either rent this house or sell it. But I like the idea of keeping it. At least for a while.”
She loved her sister’s enthusiasm, but she couldn’t imagine visiting Whitehorse often. So she said nothing, just smiled and hugged her again.
Chloe came out of her room holding a framed photo of the three of them.
“Check this out,” she said, wiping tears as she showed TJ a photo of the them when they were girls. “We were so cute.”
“We are still cute,” Annabelle said. “Let’s go to Ray J’s and get some barbecue. Then I’m thinking we should go to the Mint and celebrate.”
“Whoa,” Chloe said. “Barbecue, yes. Our old bar, no.” She looked to TJ to back her up.
“How about we come back here, open the wine and make it a fairly early night,” TJ said. “At least for today. It’s been kind of a long day. But could we stop by the bookstore before it closes on the way to supper? I need to see if they have everything they need for my book signing.”
“You’re doing a book signing this close to Christmas?” Chloe said.
“Don’t ask.”
* * *
THE BOOKSTORE WAS actually a gift shop that carried her books because she was considered a local author. TJ stopped inside the door. It had been so long since she’d had her very first signing here. She remembered her excitement from the acceptance of her book to actually seeing her words in print. She’d been over the moon. She hadn’t been able to quit staring at her book. The memory made her smile. Her dream had come true.
Her first book signing under this roof had been good. She’d known most everyone who’d waited in line to talk to her, wish her well, say they knew her when, and then get their book signed.
TJ hung on to that feeling for a moment before stepping in to look for the owner. Her sisters scattered throughout the store, oohing and aahing over this or that as she made her way to the books.
There were a dozen piled up next to an older image of her along with some articles about her on poster board. She’d been interviewed so many times and freely told stories about her life, her dreams, her process.
She couldn’t help but grimace at the memory of the tongue-lashing the New York City police officer had given her when she’d taken the threatening letters in to him.
“Look, there’s nothing we can do,” the cop said. “These aren’t the first threats you’ve gotten, nor will they be the last. You writers,” he said with a shake of his head. “I checked out your web page, your social media. Your whole life, everything about you from what you ate for dinner last night to your favorite color, is out there for public consumption. You put your life out there to promote yourself and your books. So...” He shrugged. “What do you expect?”
Not seeing the owner, TJ stepped away from the book display and the poster of her as she heard more people come into the store on a gust of cold air. She hadn’t gone far when she heard a deep male voice ask if they had TJ St. Clair’s latest book.
She turned and froze. The man was a good six foot five, shoulders as wide as an ax handle and arms bulging with muscle. But it was the dark curly hair at his collar, the baseball cap and the sheepskin coat that sliced into her heart like a knife.
The owner of the store was telling him about the book signing the following day and how TJ had grown up right here in Whitehorse. “Here, you’ll want a bookmark. The signing is at 10 a.m. Best come early because it will fill up fast. Tessa Jane hasn’t done a signing here in years so we’re all very excited.”
“Yes, I don’t want to miss that,” he said, his voice a low rumble.
TJ felt glued to the floor. This was the man who’d pulled her back from the speeding truck—and possibly pushed