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“You think this is authentic?” Jarrod asked as he eyed a copy of the note Katie had received from Isaac Wells.
Dressed only in frayed cutoff jeans, he toweled his hair and stood dripping on the rocky shore of the Rogue River. His house, a small single-story cabin of shake and shingles, overlooked this wild stretch of water and had been his home for nearly ten years. Jarrod, solitary by nature, lived alone here with his dog and seemed to like it just that way. No women to bother him. No children to care for.
“I wish I knew,” Katie admitted. “It would make things a whole lot easier.”
“What did the police say?”
“Just that they’d look into it”
A half-grown black Lab bounded up, and Jarrod bent down to pick up a stick, “Here ya go, Watson,” he said, hurling the stick into the water. The dog jetted into the swift current and caught up with the bobbing piece of wood.
“Do you think it’s a hoax?”
“Could be.” Jarrod scowled and squinted as the sun lowered over a ridge of hills to the west. Overhead a hawk slowly circled in the hazy blue sky. “But why?” He shoved his hair out of his eyes and chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t like it. Something’s not right.”
“What do you mean?”
“Why would Isaac Wells—or even an imposter, for that matter—want attention from you?”
“Publicity?”
“A man who spent most of his life as a recluse?” Jarrod’s eyes followed the dog as he galloped out of the river and, with the prized stick in his mouth, shook the water from his coat. “Tell me you’re not going to print it.”
“Too late.”
“Not smart, sis.” His eyebrows slammed into a single, intense line. “You might be playing right into his hands.”
“Whose? Into whose hands? Ray Dean’s?”
“I wish I knew,” Jarrod said.
“Well, maybe we’ll finally find out.”
“Be careful, Katie. One guy’s already missing, and don’t even think about messing with the likes of Ray Dean if he’s involved—and even if he isn’t. The guy is a criminal, remember that.” Jarrod’s eyes held hers for a second. “I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”
“It won’t. I’m always careful,” she said flippantly. “I just stopped by because I thought you’d want to know.”
Jarrod flung the wet piece of wood back into the river.
“I do.” His scowl was so dark she nearly laughed.
“Better crack this case quick,” she teased, “or I might just beat you to it.” She checked her watch and sighed. “Look, I’ve got to get a move on. I’ve got another errand to run before I go home. Mom’s hanging out with Josh, and I said I’d be back by five.” With a wave she was off, and she refused to let Jarrod’s warnings give her pause. He was just in a bad mood because this was one case he hadn’t been able to solve. The deputy she’d spoken with at the sheriff’s department hadn’t been any happier with her. He’d taken the note and asked her if she’d touched it, which, of course, she had, though she’d been cautious as she’d figured someone would check it for fingerprints.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” she whispered to herself as she drove away from Jarrod’s hermit’s abode in John Cawthorne’s Jeep. At a fork in the road, she turned toward the hills and angled away from town. As she passed Isaac Wells’s ranch she thought fleetingly of the mystery surrounding him, but didn’t turn off until she reached the Sorenson place. Her heart thudded with painful memories as she wheeled through an open gate where wildflowers and brambles grew in profusion. The smell of dust, dry grass and Queen Anne’s lace hung in the late-summer air as the Jeep bounced over the ruts and potholes of a lane that was once familiar to her.
How had she let the years roll by without once trying to contact Dave, to tell him about Josh? Why had she let pride—always her enemy—come between her and the truth? She swallowed back a lump in her throat as she angled the Jeep around a bend in the lane and the Sorenson cabin came into view. A rambling single-story with a loft, it sprawled between thickets of pine and oak.
Wearing only worn jeans that looked as if they might fall off his hips at any second and a pair of weathered rawhide gloves, Luke was straining against a wayward post in the fence near the barn, trying to push it into an upright position. His booted feet were planted solidly in the dry earth, one muscular shoulder braced against the graying post. Jaw set, lips pulled back with effort, he glanced in her direction, then gave one final shove. The post slowly inched upward, and Luke, muscles straining, sweat rolling down his face and back, moved one leg and kicked a pile of stones into the widening hole at the post’s base.
Katie felt a jab of disappointment that he wasn’t glad to see her, then swept that wayward emotion aside. Feigning disinterest in his sun-bronzed chest with its mat of gold hair, she pretended not to notice how those curly, sun-kissed swirls arrowed down to his navel to disappear in a gilded ribbon past the worn waistband of his jeans.
Her heart fluttered, and her stomach did a slow, sensuous roll as he straightened, crossed his arms over his chest and she noticed the striated ridges of his flexed shoulder muscles. Perspiration glistened on his chest, face and arms; dust clung to his skin.
She climbed out of the Jeep and managed a smile that felt as frail and phony as it probably appeared. Just being on Sorenson ground gave her pause. “Hi.”
“The convertible’s still not workin’?” He kicked the remainder of the stones into the hole, then tested the post by trying to move it with his hands. It held, and he grunted in satisfaction.
“No… And Len seems to think it’s a
