The Man From Falcon Ridge. Rita Herron
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made another turn, then spotted the house in her headlights. The Victorian mansion sat at the top of a cliff overlooking the densely populated woods beyond. She hit the brakes. The For Sale sign dangled precariously over the edge of the cliff as if it had been there a long time and had barely managed to withstand the last storm.
Her gaze swung to the house. Just like in the pictures the real estate agent had shown her, it was weathered-looking and had fallen into disrepair. Boards on the front porch needed replacing, the shutters were loose and the paint peeling. But the price was right, and fixing it up would be cathartic.
Although it was slightly isolated, it was also near enough the supposedly haunted mining town of Tin City to entice visitors. She envisioned her Internet antiques business being housed on the bottom floor, her private quarters on the top. And if she researched the house’s history, the tale of its ghosts would draw customers to her showroom. She’d always been fascinated with history, especially local legends of small towns. Her fascination with storytelling coupled with her degree in history had been an asset when she’d worked at the auction house.
Thad had thought her interests spooky, even boring. But somehow learning about others’ past seemed to help compensate for the fact that she’d forgotten so much of her own.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she climbed from the car. Wind howled through the snow-tipped treetops, ruffling the bare branches. A whisper of danger coasted on its tail.
She glanced back down the mountain road. Had Thad found her?
No, she was safe.
Her destiny awaited her. Her future. She felt it in her bones.
Renewed determination filling her, she walked up to the front porch, ready to start over. Towering pines cast spiny shadows around the property like bony fingers hovering over the roof. Spiderwebs and dirt clung to the yellowed wood, and the dark window of the attic seemed sinister in the gray light. She could almost see the ghost of a child’s face peering out through the blackness, her cry of loneliness echoing through the eaves. The house had spoken to her.
And she was unable to escape the lure of its call.
SOMEONE WAS AT the Hatchet House.
Rex couldn’t wait until the next day. He barreled down the curvy mountain road, gravel and ice spewing as he slowed to a stop. A VW sat in the clearing, and a woman stood in front of the picture window, staring up at the sagging latticework. She jerked around at the sound of his Jeep, her startled expression reminding him of a baby eagle cornered in the forest by a hunter.
He killed the engine and climbed out, his pulse accelerating. Even though night had fallen and darkness engulfed her features, he could tell she was small with choppy auburn hair that almost looked unnatural. A baggy denim shirt and jeans covered her frame, revealing nothing about the curves he sensed lay beneath. He zeroed in on her eyes, though. He’d never seen any that color. His body reacted involuntarily, heat spread through his limbs and his sex hardened. Stunning was the only word to describe her.
No, add cold and scared to stunning.
“Who are you?” She hunched deeper inside her coat, backing toward the porch awning as if it might offer safety. But the lights were out and shadows closed around her, fresh snow crystals clinging to her hair.
“Rex Falcon. I live on top of the mountain at Falcon Ridge.” He dragged his eyes from hers and skimmed down her face. Primal instincts overtook him. Even in the shadows, the rose-petal color of her lips made his mouth water for a taste.
But the trembling of her lower lip warned him that his gut instinct had been right.
She was running from something.
No other woman in her right mind would have traveled up this mountain alone. Not at night in this storm when the roads became almost impassable. Not to look at the Hatchet House. That is, unless she was some kind of reporter. Or maybe one of those nuts who chased ghosts and tried to prove they were real.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Hailey Hitchcock.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Studying the house.” She squared her shoulders in a show of bravado, but the purple bruise on her chin negated the effect.
Their gazes locked. A tension-filled moment passed between them, fraught with questions and an undeniable awareness of their isolation. His body began to throb, the call of the wild inside him drawing him to her.
But that could only mean trouble. And he would not give in to those instincts.
Maybe he could scare her off. “You must be a tourist, stopping by to gawk at the house because of all the rumors.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “You mean about the ghosts?”
“Yes, and the murders.” His voice rumbled out hard. Cold. “They say the house is haunted.”
She swallowed, the pale skin of her neck glowing in the twilight. “I know, the real estate agent told me about the ghosts when I bought the place.”
His pulse kicked up with surprise. “A family was killed here twenty years ago. They say their spirits are waiting around for revenge. That doesn’t bother you?”
“I’m not afraid of ghosts.”
Just of real men. He saw it in her eyes and the hands-off look she shot him.
“You seem to know a lot about this house,” she said. “Tell me more.”
Her low voice sounded sultry beneath the whistle of the wind. Slightly shaken, he struggled for a reply, not ready to share the truth about his own family’s involvement in the murders. If she stayed, she’d find out soon enough.
But her presence would complicate everything. How could he search the property with her inside?
“What are you planning to do with the house?” he asked, ignoring her comment.
She pulled the coat tighter around her throat, her breath a puff of white in front of her. “Live here. And I’m starting an antiques business.”
He frowned. “Why antiques?”
“I like the stories behind them,” she said. “The antiques once belonged to people, they were important to them at one time.”
Did she belong to anyone? A man maybe? How about a family? It was none of his business, he reminded himself. “This house isn’t in good enough shape to live in, much less house a business.”
“I’m going to renovate it.”
Dammit. She’d tear up the inside, get rid of things, any evidence that might still be around. “If you’re looking for someone to do repairs, my brother and I happen to be in the business.” At least they were now.
Her mouth parted in surprise, but her eyes flashed with wariness. Now he knew why they mesmerized him. They were the deepest reddish-brown he’d ever seen, like the earthy tones of a red-tailed hawk.
Her sweet scent invaded his nostrils, too, stirring urges that warred with his better sense. But old ghosts echoed around the house, reviving memories of the blood bath that had taken place within the rotting walls.
She studied him for another long moment, then nodded. “Thanks, although I’m not sure how much I can pay.”
“No problem.” He shrugged, blinking away fresh snowflakes. “We live simple lives in the mountains, our materialistic needs are few.” But his need for the truth and revenge was strong.
She offered a tentative smile that twisted his gut.
He steeled himself against her beauty. He was interested in this place for one reason and one reason only. For the answers it offered about his father.
And he’d be damned if he’d let Hailey Hitchcock interfere with his plans.
HUNCHING