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Bethany—aka The Bitch From Hell—wasn’t home.
Continuing to the cabin at the back of the property, she parked under the carport and hurried inside. She’d been spending most of her days in the woodsy dwelling. The living room had become her studio, there was a small kitchen, a separate bedroom where she often napped, and a full bathroom. At night she ventured into the big house, occasionally to join him for dinner, though mostly to sleep and watch over her father. But it was becoming increasingly frightening.
Sinister sounds kept her awake. A couple of times she had dared to creep around the dimly-lit hallways to find the source, only to find nothing and end up sleep deprived.
Changing into comfortable tan slacks, her Gucci loafers, and a forest green cashmere sweater, she returned to her car, sped back to the motor court, and walked into the luxurious home.
“Dad?” she called, her voice echoing as she walked towards the winding staircase. “Are you here?”
Receiving no reply, she pulled her phone from her back pocket and texted him.
Hey, dad, I’m home. Where are you?
In my office. Come and join me.
Though parts of the house had undergone significant remodeling, she found its murderous history deeply disturbing. There were times she wondered if the noises she heard were the ghost of the assassinated villainous gangster. She was grateful her father’s office was on the ground floor, and under Bethany’s supervision, the room where the homicide happened had been completely transformed. It was now an expansive library complete with a reading nook.
“Hi, dad,” she said as she entered, loving the comforting smell of brandy and cigars. “Where’s The Bitch From Hell?”
“Sweetheart, please, I’ve asked you a thousand times, don’t call her that,” he chided, shaking his head. “Bethany is a kind, lovely woman. Why won’t you give her a chance?”
“I’m sorry, and I can’t explain it, but I just don’t trust her. Where is she, or don’t you know?”
“She’s gone into town to pick up some cakes from Matilda’s Munchies.”
“Any special reason?”
“I like them, and so do you,” he retorted, then suddenly frowning, he let out a groan.
“Dad, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing…it’s nothing.”
“Don’t tell me it’s nothing. What’s the matter?”
“I think I have a migraine coming on.”
“I wish you wouldn’t work so hard.”
“My business doesn’t run itself, and I love what I do.”
“How can you love something that gives you a headache?”
“I love you,” he shot back with a wink. “Anyway, where have you been? I didn’t hear you come in last night. Did you stay out?”
“Actually, I did. I had one drink too many at The Barnyard and I was rescued by a handsome stranger.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, his name is Noah Jackson. He owns a breeding farm at the base of a mountain, the one with that huge rock, and he has this gorgeous stallion called Stetson.”
“If it’s a facility for horses it’s called a stud farm.”
“Whatever! The point is, I’m going to spend some time there. I want to paint Stetson and the foals. They’re so cute, and the place is just beautiful.”
“And the cowboy? Is he beautiful too?”
“Handsome,” she replied with a grin, “though now that I think about it, there’s something beautiful about him.”
