Page 8 of Dark Side of the River

Her horse, grazing nearby, lifted his head as Holden dismounted and started toward Charlotte. Transfixed by her, he was flooded by memories of other warm summer Montana days by this creek. He felt a familiar ache, an old longing that had eaten away at him for years.

As if sensing him, she looked up. It had been so long since he’d looked into those emerald eyes. The sun-dappled leaves of the cottonwoods rustled in the slight breeze, throwing shadow and light over her beautiful face. Their gazes met for an instant before she moved, without a word, to her horse.

For a moment, he thought she was going for a gun. He thought it poetic that he might die here at her hand. Instead, she pulled out a bullwhip. As she turned to look at him, she snapped the whip, knocking off his Stetson, the tip of the cattail slashing his cheek.

“Lottie,” he said as she started to snap the whip again. The use of his nickname for her made her green eyes flare in warning. He moved swiftly to her, grabbing the whip before she could snap it again.

Taking it from her, he pushed her back against the trunk of a large cottonwood, aware that they were both breathing hard. Their eyes met in that instant before he kissed her, the passion between them hotter and more dangerous because of all the time they’d been apart and the betrayal between them.

He recoiled as she bit his lip hard, drawing blood yet again. They stared at each other for a long moment before she kissed him with a longing he knew only too well. The sound she made sent a river of desire raging through his veins. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him as if, like him, she’d been denying this for far too long. He’d never felt like this with any other woman, including his two wives. It had always been Lottie. Would always be Lottie.

At the sound of a rider approaching, they pushed apart, adjusting their clothing and their expressions as her ranch manager, Boyle Wilson, came riding up. A rugged, surly man in his midfifties, Boyle often had a scowl on his face. Holden had once seen him kick a dog. Boyle went after the animal as if he planned to kill it. Holden had jumped him, throwing the man to the ground as the dog scrambled away. Alfred Wilson, Boyle’s father and then-manager at Stafford Ranch, had pulled Holden off his son. But not before Holden had seen a malevolence close to evil in that young man’s face, the same look he now saw etched deep in the now-older Boyle’s expression.

The ranch manager drew up sharply, reining in his horse in obvious surprise at seeing Holden not just on the Stafford Ranch—but with his boss. The one thing Holden knew about Boyle was that he was very protective of Charlotte, maybe a little too much so.

“I was just leaving,” Holden said, shifting his gaze to Lottie. She had regained her composure more quickly than him. Now she stood looking regal, the queen of the manor, his nemesis and his neighbor, his once-lover, now his enemy.

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Boyle said sarcastically, clearly hoping the exact opposite. “There’s been a shooting,” he said, glaring at Holden as if he recognized the kind of tension roiling between them. “It’s Oakley,” he said to his boss. “She was shot on the McKenna Ranch. Cooper was the one who apparently found her.”

Lottie glared at Holden as her fingers worked urgently to pull her long hair back into a tightly contained twist. “Is that what you rode over here to tell me?” she demanded.

“Cooper called 911 and got her to the hospital.” He didn’t mention that his son was taken into custody and transported to the sheriff’s office. She’d hear about that soon enough. “Lottie,” he said. “The sheriff told me that he’d been trying to reach you. I knew where I could find you.”

She shook her head, her eyes warning him not to say his nickname for her again. He could see that she was already regretting that seeing him here had made her weaken, just as it had him. It had been too long since they’d seen each other completely alone in a place they’d once made love in secret. The difference was, he didn’t regret that stolen moment of wild abandon. But he could see that she did. Now she hated him more than ever, her look said.

He nodded, turned and walked toward where he had ground-tied his horse, not sure she wouldn’t put a bullet into his back. Swinging up into the saddle, he turned to look at her, his heart aching. If he hadn’t known her so well, he might have thought that all that anger was for him.

But he could see that she would never forgive herself for kissing him back the way she had, for wanting him as desperately as he wanted her. He had enough self-loathing for both of them. He didn’t want her hating herself for old feelings neither of them had been able to control.

“I’m sorry about Oakley,” he said. He spurred his horse, riding away sick with worry about their families. He felt more regret than he’d ever known. He was responsible for the animosity between the families. Years ago he’d betrayed Lottie and lost her forever, creating this ever-widening chasm between them and their own children.

“GOBACKTOthe house,” Charlotte ordered Boyle without looking at him. But she could feel his disapproving look, sitting up there on his horse, looking down at her, judging her. As if he could judge her more critically than she was doing herself. “Go!”

She crossed to where she’d left her socks and boots earlier, but didn’t lower herself to the boulder to put them on until she’d heard him ride away. Sitting down heavily on the large, smooth stone, she started to lean over to pick up her socks. The pain and anger and fear came hand in hand, hard and fast, doubling her over. She opened her mouth to let out all the anguish inside her, but no scream emerged.

How much longer could she pretend she was all right? The wave of pity she felt for herself was what made her snatch up her socks and angrily pull them on over her sandy feet. Her daughter had been shot. Oakley, her baby. Who would do that?

Someone as angry as she often felt, she thought as she tugged on her boots. Why had she gone for the whip instead of her gun? Because she’d wanted to hurt Holden—not kill him. She promised herself if she ever caught him beside the creek at their old place again, she’d go for the gun—and she’d use it, ending this for both of them.

With a curse, she thought how much he looked the same. Older, just like her, his dark hair salted with gray, making him even more handsome. He still had the broad shoulders and slim hips, and she could attest to how strong he still was. But it was his blue eyes, what she’d seen in them, that had made her weaken.

She pushed the thought away and rose. Mounting her horse, she rode hard back toward the ranch house as if the memories were chasing her. Once there, she left her horse for Boyle to take care of, and she headed for the house and her cell phone.

But as she walked in, she saw Tilly and immediately knew that her daughter had been waiting for her. “Oakley?” Charlotte asked, heart rising to her throat.

“She made it through surgery, but she’s in serious condition,” Tilly said, her voice breaking with emotion. “I came home to get you.”

Charlotte could see how upset her older daughter was. But she knew that if she tried to comfort her, she herself would break down. Neither of them needed that right now, so she didn’t move. They had to get to Oakley. “Just give me a few minutes to change,” she said, feeling the sand between her toes and the taste of Holden McKenna on her lips. She had to get rid of both before she faced what was waiting for her at the hospital as she turned and headed up the stairs.

Now more than ever, she had to be strong. She’d shown enough weakness already today.

STUCALLEDINthe new state medical examiner, Frank Brewer. Powder Crossing was a small town without the kind of resources needed to investigate a shooting involving two families like the McKennas and Staffords. If Oakley died, Stu would be forced to call in the state crime investigators. He’d be glad to hand it over to them. But right now, it was still his investigation.

Brewer had flown to the local airfield, and the sheriff picked him up and brought him to the crime scene out on the county road. On the way, he’d filled Frank in on what Cooper had told him.

“It does appear she was being chased or thought she was, given the prints left in the earth under the trees,” Brewer agreed once he’d seen the crime scene.

Deputy Dodson had been waiting. The three of them moved through the deep shadows of the cottonwood grove to the sound of crickets and grasshoppers. The dark canopy of leaves overhead had a suffocating feel, as if he couldn’t draw enough breath. Stu was glad when they left the trees and entered the open area before the rugged badlands rose toward the sky. A ravine dotted with cedar and rock cliffs had carved a passage back into the mountains.

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