“Nathan Kendall’s story isn’t unique—not among Southern soldiers who were displaced after the Civil War,” Scarlet told Meg.
They were seated at her desk at the back of the museum, where she kept her files and had her computer set up. She didn’t have an actual office, only this space between two display cabinets. To either side of the desk against the wall were bookshelves holding titles like Know Your Colt, Smith & Wesson—the First Years and Get to Know Winchester! Her work chair was comfortable, and there were two easy chairs in front of the desk, along with a few scattered straight-back chairs for those who wanted to pick up a book and browse for a few minutes.
Meg sat in one of the easy chairs, studying one of the historic diaries that was kept under lock and key, and wasn’t available for public perusal.
Nathan had kept a series of diaries, an ongoing journal of his life, both during the war and after. Scarlet had read it and found it extremely moving. She and Ben had actually discussed publishing it. He wanted a university press to take it on, and she didn’t disagree, though she knew getting the right person to acquire it and shepherd it through the process wouldn’t be an easy task.
“I can only imagine what it must have been like—felt like—and how bitter the men must have been after fighting so long and losing,” Meg said. “Losing their homes, then seeing people come down from the North, intent on making money off their misery, taking over their shops and farms and even the government.” She sighed. “If John Wilkes Booth hadn’t shot Lincoln, the aftermath of the war might not have been so bad. Then again, you probably had some toughs on both sides who were going to take advantage of the confusion to become criminals no matter what. Like at least one of these bandits Nathan Kendall rode with,” she said, indicating the leather-bound journal she’d been reading.
“Do you think it will matter—as far as finding out who killed the Parkers, I mean—if we discover who killed Nathan and Jillian Kendall?” Scarlet asked.
“Considering it seems pretty clear that the killer intentionally imitated the Kendalls’ murders, it’s certainly possible,” Meg said. “Understanding the human mind is really the last frontier, and when it comes to killers, you’re talking some of the most twisted logic you can think of. At the moment, this seems like a relevant avenue to explore. Amazing to think that this man was actually your ancestor.”
Scarlet laughed softly. “It didn’t really mean much to me when Ben first told me. I knew I was basically an all-American mutt but until I came out here, my ancestors were just people who lived, worked, had families and died. But now I realize they were all individuals and they seem so much more real to me. You’re reading Nathan’s journal of the war years, right?” Scarlet asked her.
“Yes, and it’s so sad. I’m at the part where his friend Jeff Bay—one of the guys he wound up riding with during his outlaw days—found out that his wife died in childbirth.”
“I’ve read it,” Scarlet told her. “Heartbreaking.”
Meg nodded. “Listen to this. ‘I watched my friend crumple. He fell to the ground at first, no sound coming from him. Then he let out a wail louder than the most plaintive call of a thousand wolves. Had the enemy been within reach, they would have heard and known where to find us. The day after, we began the terrible fight at Gettysburg, and at first I did not believe that Jeff would make it through, he walked so boldly into the fray. We pulled him from certain death time and time again. But the second day of battle was even more horrible. My friend became an unstoppable killer, as if he was mindless of all else. I am amazed that he alone did not win us that battle, for he was responsible for a field of graves that day.’”
“Hang on,” Scarlet murmured, looking over at Meg. “This is after he bought this property.”
“Anything?”
“I don’t know, but it’s lovely,” Scarlet said, and started reading aloud. “‘Today is the start of a new life for us. Of course, thank the Lord above, it is possible only because I have never been prosecuted for the terrible things I did. Billie didn’t understand how I felt when I told him that I had to leave the company. He said that a good Yankee was a dead Yankee, and all the better dead now, since we’d missed killing him during the war. But I never did cotton to killing. I saw the eyes of those Northern boys, and I knew that they were just as scared of dying as I was. But I’d have to shoot anyway—just as they had to shoot—and somehow, by the grace of God, I came out of the war alive and whole. And now here I stand, about as close to Heaven as a man can get. I still cannot believe my good fortune that old Rollo sold this land to me for what I can afford to pay. But he wants to work some property a little south of here, hoping to find gold at last, and he needed the money for supplies. Rollo wants to get rich from gold. I just want to stay here forever and see the mountains, valleys and streams, every morning when I wake up. Those are the riches I want to live for now.’”
Meg shook her head. “I’m glad he found peace, at least for a little while, before he was killed. Listen to this,” she said. “‘Sharpsburg today by Antietam Creek. The dead were falling on the dead, the injured were buried beneath blown-off limbs and bloody bodies. All those men dying, and somehow the screams of the horses sounded loudest in my head. Fighting next to Billie, there came a point when he rallied me. A fellow from our company fell next to me. I watched his eyes roll back, watched him die, and I froze where I stood. Billie kicked me to get me moving again. A Yank in front of me went down. Billie stood over him and put a bullet into his heart. He told me it was a mercy that he killed the fellow instead of leaving him there to die slow. But I saw the hatred in Billie’s eyes. He wants them all dead. Said even his father and brothers should die for joining the Yankee cause and turning against their own.’”
“Billie sounds like one hateful man,” Scarlet said.
“But honest about his hate,” Meg said. “Not the kind to hide in the shadows.”
“In other words, you think that if Billie had killed Nathan, he would just have shot him straight out, he wouldn’t have tortured him first,” Scarlet said.
“What about the father-in-law?” Meg asked.
“I found an entry from the day Nathan met Jillian. It’s really sweet,” Scarlet said, smiling and flipping pages. She read: “‘She touched my soul like the first sight of the snow on the mountains. And when she turned to me and smiled, I felt as if the purity of the air and the warmth of the high sun had entered my heart.’”
Meg smiled for a moment, but her voice was grim when she asked, “But what about the father?”
“Oh, him. There’s this. ‘US Marshal Vickers is a master of authority or, dare I say, an outright bully. Perhaps I have the man all wrong and he is simply a good and doting father, worried for Jillian because of what he knows—or may know—about me. He fought for the North—I fought for the South. He should know nothing of my outlaw days, and yet he looks at me as if he does. I have never lied to Jillian. She knows everything about my past, yet I do not think she would have told him. Whatever his reason may be, her father has forbidden us to see one another. But my love—my sweet Jillian!—has informed him that she is an adult and a free woman, and that she will make up her own mind in this regard. Thus far, however, we meet only in secret. One day, she assures me, her father will accept me. He loves her and she loves me, so eventually, she insists, he must love me, too. I hope she is correct in this, though I fear she is blinded by the love of a daughter for her only living parent.’”
“Would he have killed his own daughter?” Meg asked.
“I hate to think of a father killing his daughter,” Scarlet said, shaking her head.
“There are fanatics who would rather see their children dead than ‘defiled.’ And the evidence seems to say that Jillian caught the killer in the act. Vickers might have killed her to save himself,” Meg said.
“I still think it has to be someone else,” Scarlet said.
“We need to keep reading his journals. The way he was killed… I think someone wanted something from him, and the answer could be in the journals.”
“It could have been anyone, then, one of his old running mates or someone from the area.”
Meg laughed. “Which wasn’t well populated at the time, at least, so that makes our job easier.”
“I know no one called them serial killers back then, but I’ve read that they existed. Or it could just have been someone with a grudge.”
“Exactly,” Meg said, and looked over toward the stairs and the statue of Nathan Kendall.
Scarlet looked over at the statue, too. She wasn’t sure why, but ever since it had shown up by her bed, she’d found it frightening.
It was just a mannequin, she told herself. Of one of her own ancestors.
She turned her head, choosing not to look at it.
Because now, whenever she looked at Nathan Kendall, she felt as if he was looking back at her.
She tried not to let Meg see the unease in her eyes. And she was glad that—awkward as it would undoubtedly be—she’d asked Diego to sleep with her.
Yet, would it really be so awkward? She’d often wondered whether, despite what she’d done back then in response to the deep hurt and her wounded pride, life could change and they could somehow get back to the way they’d been. She’d thought about him so often on lonely nights, times when she couldn’t even talk herself into going out and enjoying the company of friends, much less contemplate dating again. Diego had filled her mind then, just as he did now. She remembered the first time she’d seen him, the first time he’d touched her, how her flesh had come alive at the mere feel of his finger idly touching her hand across a table, desire sweeping through her like the sweetest fire.
There was a knock at the museum door, and Scarlet nearly jumped out of her chair. “Do you think the guys are back already?” she asked Meg.
“I don’t know. Sit tight.” Meg was already on her way to the door. She opened it a crack and peered out. It wasn’t the guys.
It was Lieutenant Gray.
“Lieutenant Gray, hello,” Meg said. “How can we help you?”
Gray seemed his usual hard-core, jaded self. “I understand it’s now all about how I can help you,” he said curtly. “I understand the FBI has taken the lead on this case.”
Scarlet saw Meg quickly lower her head, as if to hide whatever she might have been feeling at the lieutenant’s displeasure.
Apparently Adam Harrison and the Krewe of Hunters really did get what they wanted.
“Well, then, thank you so much for making yourself available to us,” Meg said, her gratitude apparently genuine. “We don’t really see ourselves as taking the lead, though, We see all law enforcement as working together. Come on in—Scarlet and I have been reading through some old documents.”
“Well, I’ve just been going through a few new documents—Mrs. McCullough’s recent inventory of the museum’s collection of weapons. And it seems that our list of pieces taken from the museum and her inventory don’t match up.” He looked past Meg to stare suspiciously at Scarlet. “One gun on your list isn’t in our evidence locker.”
“What’s missing?” Scarlet asked.
“An 1849 Colt pocket percussion revolver,” Gray told them. “And, according to the lab reports, it just might be the weapon that killed Larry and Candace Parker.”
* * *
Diego saw what was clearly an unmarked police vehicle in the Conway Ranch lot as they drove up.
“What the hell?” he muttered, feeling his tension grow.
He suspected the car belonged to Lieutenant Gray, and he knew Gray resented their presence. Worse, the man was still convinced that Scarlet was somehow complicit in what was going on.
“How much do you want to bet that’s Lieutenant Gray’s car?” he asked his fellow agents.
“Not a dime, but he could just be here to give us information,” Brett said.
“Oh, yeah, ’cuz he’s such a team player,” Matt muttered.
“Well, let’s go see, shall we?” Diego asked.
They went in without knocking, and to Diego it looked almost as if Scarlet had been waiting for them. And yet, when he strode in, looking at her questioningly, she almost smiled.
“Upstairs,” she told him. “Lieutenant Gray—first name Ernie, by the way—is having a cup of coffee with us.”
He looked at her in surprise.
She shrugged. “He seems to have made a complete turnaround. Meg’s with him now. I just came down to turn on the outside light, in case it was dark by the time you got back.”
“All right,” he said skeptically. “I guess coffee sounds good. And we need to talk to the man anyway.”
“He’s also investigating the remains found up on the mountain,” Brett said. “I wonder what changed his mind about us?”
“I think I can explain that,” Scarlet said. “It turns out he’s another of the many descendants of Nathan Kendall. Come on up,” she told the three men. “We’ve got sandwiches for dinner, too. And Lieutenant Gray is on a roll, telling stories.”
“Wait, wait,” Diego said. “Gray came here to tell you that he’s a descendant of Nathan Kendall?”
“No,” she said, serious now. “He came to tell us that we’re missing an 1849 Colt pocket percussion revolver. When they compared my inventory to the weapons the forensic team took, they discovered that one is missing.”
Diego looked over at Brett and Matt.
So the couple had been killed with a weapon from the museum?
“What is it?” Scarlet asked.
“Time to get a locksmith in—now,” Diego said. He headed upstairs, uneasily aware that the statue of Nathan Kendall seemed to be watching him as he went. As the others followed, he wondered if any of them sensed something eerie about the mannequin, too.
In the kitchen, he greeted Lieutenant Gray, who really did seem to have done a complete one-eighty, judging by the way he and Meg were laughing about something. Gray had a sandwich in front of him. A large pot of coffee sat on the stove and there was a big plate of sandwiches on the counter.
Gray smiled and said a friendly hello, then added, “I gather you guys were just at the morgue.”
Diego nodded. “And I’m glad we did. Did you know that your medical examiner is also a historical reenactor? He named that exact model as the possible murder weapon.”
Gray nodded. “Yeah, I know. And he’s right, according to the forensic lab. Handmade bullets out of an antique mold. The bullets weren’t antique, though. They were made of new materials, melted lead and gunpowder. Someone was in the museum and stole the gun that killed Mr. and Mrs. Parker,” he said solemnly, then tried to lighten the mood with a joke. “Or maybe Nathan Kendall has come back to kill people for… I don’t know, trespassing on his land or something. Hell, that statue downstairs looks pretty damn lifelike. Maybe it stole that gun and gets up to no good at night, when everyone else is asleep.”
Diego saw Scarlet’s eyes widen. “How sure are you that the gun that’s missing from the museum is the gun that killed the Parkers?” he quickly asked Gray, hoping to focus people’s attention away from Scarlet.
Gray looked at him curiously. “Let’s see, an 1849 Colt pocket percussion revolver is missing, the same weapon the murderer used and not exactly your garden-variety gun. Hell yes, I think the murder weapon is the one that’s missing from the museum.”
“Do you have a suspect in mind?” Diego asked.
Gray shrugged, frustrated. “The department got and executed a search warrant for the Conway Ranch, but the gun wasn’t anywhere to be found. It’s at the bottom of a lake somewhere, I suspect. We’ve questioned everyone who was here at the time of the murders, but there’s no evidence pointing to anyone at all.”
“The museum has no security to speak of and never has,” Meg pointed out.
“A situation that’s about to change,” Diego interjected.
“Meanwhile,” Meg said, shooting him a frustrated look, “there’s nothing but a basic lock on the door.Before Ben hired Scarlet, no one was living upstairs, and in fact the apartment was still being renovated. Dozens of workers were in and out, and the door was left open half the time. Foolish on his part, if you ask me, given the value of his collection, but his choice.”
“I’m sure you’re right and the murder weapon came from the museum, but since there was ample opportunity for pretty much anyone to steal it, that also means pretty much anyone could have used it,” Diego said. “I’d pretty much guarantee, though, that your killer is someone who knew in advance about both the museum’s weapons collection and the Kendall family history, quite likely someone who’d already visited the museum at least once.”
“Which is pretty much anyone who’s ever stayed or worked here at the ranch, at least when it comes to knowing about the guns. The family connection is another matter,” Gray said. “We’re not fools, Agent McCullough. I have men going over lists of all the workers and past guests.”
“It could also be someone who lives in the area and knows about the museum and the ranch’s history,” Matt said.
Gray nodded. “Which is pretty much everyone in town. And then there are all of us who are descended from Nathan Kendall.” He nodded at Scarlet and grinned.
Diego wasn’t sure why, it looked to him that there was something scary about that grin. “True, though I’m not sure why one of the man’s descendants would want to kill any of the others. It’s not as if there’s an inheritance involved.
“Listen,” Diego said, looking at Gray. “We need a security upgrade for this place. Can you give me the name of someone reliable who can put in better locks and arrange a security system? I’d like the locks changed by tonight.”
“Why don’t you let me take care of that?” Gray offered, and promptly pulled out his phone to make a call. When he hung up, he was smiling. “There’s a guy on the way,” he promised.
“Thank you,” Diego said. Whatever had changed the guy’s attitude for the better, he was glad of it. He leaned forward to talk to Lieutenant Gray. “I understand that you’re handling the human remains found up on the mountain.”
“Yes, a month or so ago. I mean, what’s left of the body was found a month or so ago. It had been there awhile. It’s strange when you find remains at the tundra level. Because they’re above the tree line, there’s a lot less cover to protect them, so sometimes they’re nearly perfect, if the snow comes in time to cover them, but otherwise, it’s a crapshoot. In this case, we don’t know yet when he—we do know it’s a man, by the way—was killed, whether it’s been months or even years. Our department experts can’t agree. Betsy Wiggin, the department head, is convinced he died this summer, so not even a year ago yet. A couple of the others say the fabric scraps found under the body suggest that the remains are a lot older. But Betsy thinks we’re looking at the reenactor wearing authentic clothing. At this point we’ve got a forensic anthropologist working on it, and we’ll wait and see what he says.”
“You said it’s a man, but do you know anything else?” Matt asked.
“Somewhere between thirty and forty, but that’s it,” Gray said.
“No one similar in the missing persons database?” Brett asked.
“No one so far, but once we figure out when he died, maybe we can focus our search more effectively.”
“Have you done a facial reconstruction yet?” Diego asked.
“No,” Gray said. “Right now we’re focusing on how he died—along with when, of course. There aren’t any nicks on the bones that suggest a knife wound. No bullets were retrieved from the area. He could have gotten himself lost up there and just frozen to death. Or fallen. We’re still working on it.”
Diego made a point of not looking at any of the other agents. He knew the Bureau had the resources to figure that out—and quickly.
“We don’t believe he was from around here,” Gray told them. “There’s definitely no one missing locally who’s anywhere near the description.”
Matt cleared his throat. “We have an agent in our unit who’s a brilliant forensic artist. We can bring her in, if you want.”
When Gray didn’t say anything right away, Diego thought he was going to refuse their help, since the case didn’t have any connection to the murders of Larry and Candace Parker.
But then the lieutenant surprised him by shrugging. “Sure. Quite frankly, we have no idea what we’re dealing with, and I’d appreciate any help.”
“I’ll get on it,” Matt said.
“On another note, what can you tell us about the guests who left the Conway Ranch after the Parkers’ bodies were discovered?” Diego asked.
Lieutenant Ernie Gray almost smiled. “The interview reports have already been emailed to all four of you.”
“Thank you,” Meg said.
“I like to think we could have handled this,” Gray said gruffly. “But, hey. A solved murder is a solved murder, right?”
Scarlet stood. “I think I heard someone at the door,” she said, and started out of the room.
Diego rose quickly, blocking her.
She turned to him almost indignantly. “I was going to look before I opened the door.”
“That should be the security guy,” Gray said.
Diego went with her to open the door and discovered that Gray was right.
He was young, no more than twenty-five, but he was with the police, one Officer Benjamin by name, and he seemed to know his stuff. He’d not only brought state-of-the-art locks, but he’d also come with an alarm system and a motion detector. He had the system installed and showed them how it worked, and by the time he finished, the agents, who’d left ridiculously early that morning, were dragging.
Meg and Matt said good-night and headed over to the main house, promising that before they went to bed they would tell Ben and Terry to use a little extra caution, just in case the connection to Nathan Kendall had played a role in the recent murders. Brett told them that he was going to call Lara before he turned in for the night.
“I can’t wait for her to get here this weekend. You’re going to love her,” he assured Scarlet.
“Of course I will. If you love her, so will I,” she told him.
Words, Diego thought. They were all saying the right words, but what difference did it really make if Scarlet and Lara got along? They would all be leaving as soon as this case was solved.
Except for Scarlet. Scarlet would stay.
And that, he realized, didn’t matter at all. He’d come here to keep her safe. No matter where they might be in life, or with whom, it wouldn’t change a thing. He loved her, and nothing mattered more than keeping her safe.
Brett left them to close himself into the far bedroom for the night and make his call. And once again, Diego and Scarlet were left alone.
“I need to get some sleep, too,” he said.
“Of course. Your things are in the room,” she said. She sounded nervous, but she met his eyes as she spoke.
He shook his head, smiling slightly. “We don’t have to do anything, Scarlet.”
“What if I want to do something?” she asked.
The color of her eyes was like a mix of the sea and sky on a summer’s day; the wistfulness in her voice seemed to touch something as old as time in his soul. He fought not to fall prey to his emotions, to remember that once they’d had something unique, special beyond anything he’d ever dreamed of, but it still hadn’t been enough to last for all time.
And yet he couldn’t stop himself.
“I have a feeling I could be convinced,” he told her lightly.
She smiled. “Well, then…”
She turned to head for her room. He caught hold of her shoulder, and swung her back around and into his arms. He kissed her, relishing the softness of her lips, her tongue…and a hunger that seemed to match his own.
He broke away, breathless. Her eyes seemed dazzling now on his.
“Wow,” she murmured, then turned serious. “Brett is down at the other end of the hall.”
He grinned. “And you don’t think Brett knows what we’re doing?”
She flushed. “Some divorced people hate each other.”
“I never hated you.”
“I only hated you a little.”
That hurt—because he knew why.
He started to pull away, but she held him back. “Only a little bit—and only for a little while,” she whispered, sounding almost desperate. “And I know that…that I was at fault, too.”
“You were never at fault,” he told her.
“But I was,” she said. “I wanted the knight in shining armor all the time, the man who was charming and teased and laughed, and could make everyone around him comfortable…who even made me jealous sometimes, but not really, because I knew I was the one you wanted. I didn’t want to get between you and your work, because I knew it was a passion for you, but at the same time I resented it for coming between us.”
“I shouldn’t have let that happen,” he said. He started to turn away.
She stopped him, pleading in her eyes. “Can we forget the past for tonight? No past, no future. Just tonight.”
His only answer was to pull her back into his arms. His physical response to her was almost embarrassingly instantaneous.
She felt him against her and practically melted into him. Her fingers started playing with the buttons of his shirt.
“Brett’s down the hall,” he reminded her, echoing her words in one last attempt to retain his sanity.
“Yes, but he knows what we’re doing,” she said.
Then she smiled, turned and walked down the hall to her room.
He followed.
She closed the door and kicked off her shoes. Her T-shirt hit the floor in seconds, her bra following suit without a pause. She shimmied out of her jeans and panties while he watched, and then she stood naked before him, smiling.
He grinned, pulling his holster and gun from his waistband, then set them on the bedside table before practically tearing off his shirt.
There had been a time when she’d hated the gun, when she’d asked him to put it out of sight the minute he got home, a request he hadn’t recognized for what it was: an attempt to forget about his job for a little while and have him all to herself.
She didn’t ask that tonight.
The minute he ditched the rest of his clothes she moved into his arms, her heated skin practically setting his aflame. “Remember how to do this?” she teased.
“I remember everything,” he told her seriously. “I remember that one of the things that drives you the craziest is when I stand behind you and run the tip of my tongue down your spine. Want me to show you?”
She started to say something, but he didn’t give her the chance. He caught her lips, then lifted her and set her down on the bed. He kissed her long and deeply, and he never really broke away, he just trailed down to her throat and her breasts, and then her midriff and along the soft silky flesh of her inner thighs.
She writhed and moaned against him, her fingers on his shoulders, her body arching in a way that fed his hunger and desire nearly to the breaking point. He made love to her slowly, despite the burning need within him, taking her almost to the point of no return, then backing off and finding her lips again, teasing her flesh as he savored the feel of her, the pleasure of being with her again.
She cried out softly again and again, until suddenly she became the aggressor, shifting until she was on top of him, burning his skin with kisses and caresses, and then sliding onto him again until he rolled her under him again and drove them both to a violent climax. Finally, exhausted, sated, the sound of their heartbeats like a crescendo in the night, they rested.
As he held her, he remembered how they had promised each other forever…and how soon they’d broken that promise.
He was surprised when she spoke.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He turned to her. “No, thank you,” he said, and smiled.
“I—I haven’t, um, I haven’t really even dated since…” Her voice trailed off, and she looked away.
Resting on an elbow, he watched her face in the pale light that seeped in through the window. “Neither have I.”
“What? I don’t believe you.”
“One dinner,” he told her.
“Was she nice?”
“Yes.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Very.”
“Then what happened?”
“She wasn’t you,” Diego said softly. Then he pulled her against him. “Let’s get some sleep. I really did get up at the crack of dawn.”
“Whatever you want,” she said, which sent his mind running in a direction conducive to anything but sleep. But a moment later she said, “Thank you for coming here.”
“Of course.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
“That’s who you are,” she said softly.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.
“Diego?”
“Yes?”
“That’s an admirable quality, you know.”
Her fingers closed around him, and to his chagrin, he was instantly aroused.
Apparently forgetting her promise to let him sleep, she slid atop him. “And so is this,” she teased.
They made love again, and it was a very long time before he went to sleep.