The twin shafts from the high beams lighted the sign. Want cabin, fishing boat, or canoe rentals? This is the place for you. Emma peered at the red block letters through the bug-spattered windshield of her car and heaved a deep sigh. She’d made it.
The driveway ended at what her grandfather had called the main cabin, the headlights lighting the building that had served as his rental office and living quarters. Now it would be her home.
She stepped out of the car and stopped for a minute, head tilted back, to take in the epic grandeur of the Sierras at night. Tall trees formed spired shadows against a starry sky glittering in a brilliant display. The stars were beautiful but did little to dispel the darkness. After the never-quite-dark nights of Los Angeles, this blackness left her a little unnerved. A shiver snaked down her spine and she gave a tug to pull her collar snug, then rummaged under the seat of her Toyota for her flashlight.
Arriving so late in the evening had not been part of her plan. She was a planner, because planning meant having control. Until it didn’t. She hadn’t planned on a leaky fuel line holding her up in Bishop, or the spectacular view of the mountains at sunset luring her into pulling off the highway to take it in. The combined effect made her arrival hours later than she’d intended. She eyed the dark buildings of the resort, crossing her fingers that the power company had done as they’d said they would, and hooked up the electricity. Clutching the flashlight like a lifeline, she debated leaving the headlights on, then killed them. Iffy car battery made that too risky.
Cold mountain air numbed her fingers and Emma’s feet thudded against the wooden steps as she hurried to climb to the porch. A niggling little thought tantalized her with the idea that she could drive back into town and find a nice, cheery, lighted motel, and come back in the morning when the place didn’t look so spooky.
But this was her grandfather’s cabin, damn it. A place that had been her refuge from a chaotic life for those few golden summers she had spent with him. And while Walt Kincaid was gone, his home was now hers, and she wasn’t about to let the dark chase her away.
Tugging the key from her pocket, she slid it into the lock to open the front door. Reaching in, she felt for the switch and flipped it up, then down. Nothing happened. Up, down. Up and down again and still nothing. No cheery light, nothing to see with. Shit.
Tightening her hold on the flashlight, she stepped inside to cast the narrow beam around the room. The cabin held the musty smell of a closed-up building. The check-in counter stretched across the front of the room, and her grandfather’s army surplus desk sat in a corner behind it. Rudy, the stuffed deer head mounted on the far wall, reflected the beam in his beady glass eyes. That much hadn’t changed since the last time she’d been here, the summer after she’d graduated from high school. While back then she’d thought Rudy kitschy, now he looked plain creepy. Get a grip.
The living quarters were in the back; she would check them out before bringing in enough gear to get through the night. She crossed to the little hall and peeked into the bathroom. It was much as she remembered: dated fixtures and chipped grout. Even the medicine cabinet looked—
A sound from outside held her motionless, ears straining. Unnaturally loud tires crunched on gravel. Someone had pulled into the driveway. She snapped off the flashlight, her mind racing. Crap, crap, crap. Who could be here this late in the evening? She was in an unfamiliar area, it was dark as a tomb, and if by some stroke of luck the area had cell coverage, her phone was in the car. She was on her own.
On her own wasn’t new, but she sure as hell didn’t have to like it.
Warily, she made her way through the front office. A car door slammed, echoing like a shot through the night. She edged along the wall to the front window and took a quick peek out. A dark shadow loomed large, thrown in silhouette by bright headlights. Taking a careful breath, Emma forced herself to think. She could try to make it to the kitchen door, or maybe—
“This is the police. Come on out, hands up.”
Police! Clenching her teeth, Emma fought back a surge of unbridled fear. Stay calm, stay calm. Panic was not allowed; she was past that. She closed her eyes momentarily to try to find calm, to listen to that inner voice and not lose it.
Okay, there was a cop out there and not all cops were bad. That was rational. She wasn’t a kid again, in a patrol car paralyzed by terror. Dread gripped her at the realization that, as much as she hated the idea, she would have to trust this cop.
“I repeat, this is the police. Come out with your hands up.”
Bracing herself, she tried to speak but a dry throat made her voice inaudible. A convulsive swallow, and she tried again. “I’m coming out.”
Cautious, she eased into the doorway. She pushed open the screen, grip tight on the heavy flashlight, then hesitated, blinded by the powerful beam of his light.
He stood in front of the porch, a shadow darker than the rest. “Stop. Lower your flashlight to the floor.”
Emma ordered herself not to freak out. Crouching, she reluctantly set down her only possible weapon. “This is my place. I can be here.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded tight with dread.
“We’ll figure that out.” When she’d risen again, he continued, “Put your hands behind your head and come down the steps.”
Emma raised her arms, linking her fingers behind her head. Slowly she moved forward. That voice kept whispering in the back of her mind. He could be a rogue cop. He could rape and kill her, bury her body out in the woods somewhere and no one would even know she was gone. If he made one wrong move, she’d take her chances and run. Poised for flight, she couldn’t keep a hard shiver from wracking her body.
“What’s your name?”
His voice had a low timbre that was somehow calming. They probably taught the technique in cop school. She tried to see beyond the blinding light but couldn’t make out his features. “My name is Emma, and this is my property.” She paused. “Can I put my hands down?”
She’d never felt more vulnerable in her life when the cop ignored her question and moved behind her. She tensed as he gripped her wrists with one warm hand and conducted a quick pat down with the other. “Is there anyone with you?”
Her heart beating so hard it was a wonder she didn’t pass out. Emma conducted a fast internal debate on whether to admit there was no one else, but realized she had no choice. She was alone. “It’s just me.”
The unyielding presence behind her made her hyperaware. The creak of the leather cop belt, the hiss of his radio, even the scuff of his boots on gravel brought back frightening flashes of memory that served to reinforce that she was at his mercy. And that this could go very, very badly for her. To the depths of her soul, Emma hated feeling so vulnerable.
He released her clasped hands and moved to stand in front of her. Angling the flashlight so it wasn’t shining directly in her face, he stood back, watchful. A stillness settled over him. He stared at her, making her aware of the pull of his gaze. After a long, arrested moment he appeared to gather himself.
“You can lower your hands now. Sit down on the steps.” He pulled the radio off his belt, low voice reporting his location and situation, then strode back to his vehicle to open the rear door.
Sinking onto the porch steps, Emma watched as he leaned inside to retrieve something, then moved to the driver’s door to reach in and flip off the headlights. His radio buzzed and he paused to respond. He had the sure, economical movements of a supremely self-confident man.
The dome light of the SUV lit him from the side, showing a strong profile. His eyes were on her but he was a good thirty feet away. He responded to the radio and took his gaze off her to lean farther into the vehicle.
Watching him warily, Emma thought briefly, insanely, of running. She could do it. Just slip into the darkness and find safety in the trees. But that would be madness. So far he’d done nothing threatening, other than being a cop, and, more importantly, she hadn’t done anything wrong. But having the legal right to be here sure didn’t make her feel any safer.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Emma startled, looking up to find him staring at her across the distance. Great, the cop was a mind reader.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she muttered. It would have been pointless anyway. With that determined look about him, she got the feeling if she ran, he’d chase her down, and then her problems would be compounded. Cops didn’t like civilians who resisted. She comforted herself with the thought that if he did have some deviant plan, he wouldn’t have checked in with his dispatcher. Small comfort, but logical.
The vehicle door slammed and he returned with a battery-powered lantern. He switched it on and set it on the step next to her where it lit them both. With his composed movements, his focus on the job, Emma could feel herself settle. The fluorescent bulb put out a white glow and she got her first good look at him. He’d put on a low-crowned cowboy hat that only made him look taller. In addition to his height, he had a lean build with broad shoulders under a heavy jacket. He’d be kinda sexy if he wasn’t wearing a badge.
His eyes remained shadowed and Emma couldn’t tell the color. Denim jeans encased long legs, and his jacket sported a patch on the shoulder. “Chief Gallagher” was embroidered in gold lettering on the front. Chief? As in the chief of police? Wasn’t that a desk job? What was the chief doing checking out potential trespassers this late in the evening?
An eyebrow winged upward as he caught her scrutiny, and Emma shifted nervously, blowing on her chilled fingers.
“I’m Brad Gallagher, police chief of Hangman’s Loss.” His intense focus made her squirm. “I need to see your identification.”
Yep, he was the chief, Emma thought dispiritedly. Not some beat cop, but the top guy. And didn’t that put a nasty end to the day that was supposed to be the start of her brand-new life?
She made to stand but he held up a hand. “Stay put. Tell me where your ID is.”
Emma blew out a frustrated breath. “In my purse, in the passenger seat of the car.”
He shot her a look that told her not to budge before he turned and walked to her car. Returning a moment later, he gave the purse contents a quick scrutiny before setting the bag on her lap.
With fingers made clumsy by the cold, Emma fumbled for her wallet. She opened it and pulled out her driver’s license, thrusting it at him before crossing her arms in front of her in an attempt to keep warm. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.
He gave her license a quick glance, then cast his gaze over her face. “So, what is Emmaline Kincaid of Los Angeles doing in Hangman’s Loss?” Wary, she held herself still. He’d barely looked at the license. Why did she have the feeling he’d recognized her? Unsettled, she responded, “Emma Kincaid is minding her own business.”
The cop rubbed a hand over his face, beard stubble making a rasping sound. The action gave her the impression that he’d had a long day, too.
“You’re going to have to explain yourself, Emmaline. Unless you want to take a ride to the station where you can stay until I run a background check on you. To me it looks like you’re trespassing.”
“It’s Emma, and you don’t need to run a background check.” Damn, that sounded defensive. Forcing a more neutral tone, she continued, “This was my grandfather’s place. He left it to me in his will.”
The anger that flashed across his face was undeniable. “You’re Walt’s granddaughter. Why the hell weren’t you here when he was dying?”
A physical blow couldn’t have hurt any less. But who the hell was this cop to judge her? He had no idea what else had been happening when her grandfather had been dying. She’d heaped on enough guilt herself, and sure didn’t need him adding to it.
She looked away, carefully schooling her features. Self-reproach ate at her, but he didn’t need to know that. When she turned back, she said, “There were reasons. I would have been here if I could.”
“I sure hope they were good reasons because your grandfather needed someone at the end.”
Damn it. Tears tightened her throat and she swallowed, forcing them back. No way was she going to let him see her cry. The cop was quick to judge but he was right; she should have been here for her grandfather. As always, throughout her life, her mother had put her needs first, sucking Emma in. Trudy Kincaid had been sick, really sick, but even after Emma had arranged care so she could visit Walt, her mother had still found a way to keep Emma from leaving. She should have come anyway, not given in to the guilt trip. Phone calls hadn’t been enough. And then her grandfather had died and it was too late.
She frowned at the man standing in front of her, face shadowed. Why did they make cops so big? Fighting the feeling of intimidation made her tone sharp. “I wasn’t able to help my grandfather when he was sick, but I can’t change that now. A lawyer contacted me a couple of months ago and told me I had inherited this property. So here I am.”
“You have proof of that?”
Steadier, feeling less shaky, she nodded. “Yeah. There’s a box in my car with files. I have letters from the lawyer and copies of everything I signed. I told you I can be here.”
“Show me the paperwork.”
He followed her to her car, and Emma opened the back hatch. She shoved aside a duffel to reach a large plastic bin with a hinged lid. Before she could pick it up he reached around her to lift it and carried it to the porch steps. He raised the light so she could see into the bin.
Half the bin was taken up by the box containing an urn with her grandfather’s remains, the other half with hanging file folders. Walt’s will had stated he wanted his ashes scattered on the lake, so she would make that happen.
First things first. Emma pushed through the files until she found the one she wanted. She pulled out a manila folder and handed it to the cop. He didn’t take it from her. Instead closing the lid of the bin and motioning for her to set down the file on the flat surface. “Open it and show me what you’ve got.”
Emma could barely resist rolling her eyes. She pulled out the copy of the title transfer and, smiling sweetly, handed it to him. “Is this sufficient, Chief?”
He scanned it before giving a brief nod. “For now.” After she replaced the file, he handed her the light and hefted the bin. “I’ll take this in for you.”
Emma frowned. “I’m quite capable of taking it in myself.”
He looked back at her. “I guess you are. I’ll take it in all the same.”
She moved ahead to open the screen door. Cold and tired, she desperately wanted him to leave so she could unroll her sleeping bag, close her eyes, and snuggle in.
After he set the bin on the check-in counter, he picked up the light and handed it to Emma. “Here, keep this until you get the electricity on.”
She wanted to tell him he could keep his fancy light but the idea of stumbling around the cabin if her flashlight batteries died held little appeal. She took the light.
“I really was more prepared than it might seem. I called the power company last week and ordered service. They told me it would be on by today.”
“Call them in the morning. It’s a long shot but they might come out on the weekend. Do you have a cell phone?”
She nodded. “I’ll take care of it.”
He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a card and a pen, flipping the card over to write on the back. “Here’s my cell number. Put it in your phone. I live close by and can be here in a couple of minutes if you have any trouble.”
Emma shook her head. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. I can take care of myself.”
He set the card on the counter. “Take it anyway.” He gave her a long look. “The Bluebird Motel has rooms available, you know. You could get a good night’s sleep, come back in the morning.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
He shrugged and lifted his hand in a half salute before walking outside to his SUV. The driver’s door slammed, and Emma watched the big vehicle back up and turn onto the dirt driveway that led to the highway. When his taillights disappeared from view, she shivered.
She didn’t like cops. She really didn’t. But she sure hadn’t felt so alone when Police Chief Brad Gallagher had been with her.
***
Pulling onto the narrow highway, Brad fought the urge to go back and make sure Emmaline Kincaid was settled. His job was to serve and protect, and it went against the grain to leave a woman alone in an unfamiliar area without electricity. An idea which, no doubt, would incite his mother and sisters to clobber him. But still.
The inside of his SUV smelled like the burger and fries he’d picked up at the diner. His rumbling stomach let him know too long had passed since his late lunch. He turned right onto the gravel road that was his driveway, pulling in behind his garage as the motion lights blazed on. He waited for the garage door to rise, his thoughts on Walt Kincaid getting sicker and sicker and still trying to run that rental business. Like other folks in town, Brad had tried to visit him regularly, to help out when he could.
The old guy had sure liked talking about his granddaughter. Brad still remembered the uncomfortable jolt the first time he saw that photo of Walt and Emmaline. She’d been about eighteen or nineteen, wearing a broad smile and a fishing hat perched on her head, an arm wrapped around her grandfather’s waist. Those smoky gray eyes laughing at the camera had drawn him in. Seeing her now felt like a sucker punch. He hadn’t needed to look at her driver’s license to know she was Walt’s granddaughter. He eased the SUV into the garage, thinking that as pretty as she’d looked in the photo, the real deal was a whole lot more potent.
Grabbing the bag holding his dinner, he exited the garage and made his way to the back of his cabin. He’d nuke the burger and fries to warm them, then he’d get himself a cold beer and catch a little ESPN, see how the Giants were doing.
He pushed back on an odd feeling of discontent. That kind of evening had always been fine in the past. Something about tonight made him feel restless. Like something was missing.
Ignoring those thoughts, he opened his back door and walked into the empty house.