Pay up the owed rental, the note said, or I shall report you to the police. It was not so much the threat, as the way it was worded that struck him as odd. Why the police rather than the rangers? Why even go to the police for a rental dispute? There were certainly other avenues to try first. He put the letter to one side, and continued on.
"So who is Lonny's father?"
"Jontee McGuire."
Elation ran through him. Finally, they had a connection. Maybe not to the current murders, but at least to Jontee and Rosehall, and that was what these murders were about. “You sure?"
"Bryton is. Apparently, knocking Frankie up is the reason Jontee left Merron in the first place. Frankie's father was furious that a half-breed had done his daughter and beat both of them to an inch of their lives. Jontee did a runner, and Frankie was apparently never the same mentally."
From what Vannah had said, Jontee hadn't been, either. Though he'd seemed pretty damn sane when they'd caught and convicted him. “How old were they?"
"Fifteen. Jontee apparently lived next door to the Doherty household."
"The time frames are right.” He paused, studying a snip of paper with an out-of-town phone number on it. Probably nothing, but worth checking. “So what happened to Candy and Lonny when Frankie and her husband died?"
"They apparently went to a nominated guardian."
"Who was?"
Trista paused, and the sound of flicking paper came down the phone line. “Jina Hawkins. Hawkins was Frankie's mother's maiden name."
He frowned. The name rang a distant bell. He'd heard it before, not so much connected to Rosehall but to Jontee himself. “So she was Frankie's half sister?"
"Apparently, though she never lived with her mom and Frankie's dad."
"Bryton tell you much about Jina?"
"Not really. Apparently she was thirteen years older than Frankie, and her mother would never tell anyone who her father was. Whether Jina knew is anyone's guess. She left the place when she graduated, and she hasn't been seen at the reservation since."
"So how did they find her to relocate the kids?"
"Bryton didn't know, but he's going to ask around."
"Good. Do a check through the system and see if you can find anything our end. And while you're there, do a check on Anni Jenkins, Anni Hawkins and a Lana Lee.” He gave her all the spellings.
"Anni Hawkins any relation to Jina Hawkins?"
"That's one of the things I need to find out."
"Who are the others?” she asked.
"Maybe more pieces of the puzzle.” He shoved the papers and notebooks back into the drawer and closed it. “Don't suppose you or Anton have had a chance to look into James Oliver?"
"There's nothing out of the ordinary yet."
"What about banking records?"
"Again, there's nothing unusual so far.” She paused. “It would be quicker to do it through official channels."
"And maybe stir up a hornet's nest for no reason? No thanks.” Besides, maybe there was nothing to find. His intuition might not be wrong often, but that didn't mean it couldn't be this time. “Oh, and check this number for me.” He grabbed the scrap of paper and read out the phone number. “Let me know who or what that belongs to."
"Will do."
She hung up, and he shoved the phone back into his pocket. He scanned the area to ensure everything was back in place, then picked up the two bits of paper and retreated. Vannah was dressed and brushing her hair in the kitchen by the time he got back up to her apartment.
"Anni's not downstairs.” His boot heels echoed against the wooden floorboards as he made his way across the room. “And there doesn't seem to be anything out of place in the shop."
"I figured as much.” She picked up the coffee pot with her free hand. “Coffee?"
"Yes, thanks.” He grabbed the brush from her and began to run it through the wet silk of her hair. Her sigh was filled with contentment. He wished there was a mirror close so he could see her face, see the sweet half-smile that always curved her lips whenever he'd done this at Rosehall. “What do you know about Anni Jenkins?"
She shrugged. “Not a great deal. We do the inane chat thing whenever we see each other, but it never goes beyond that."
"Do you have any idea why Lana Lee would send a note to Anni Jenkins but address it as Anni Hawkins?"
"No. But Lana had to be at least one-fifty. Always possible her memory was going.” She paused. “What did the note say?"
"It was a demand for rent or she'd report Anni to the police."
"Odd for her to say police rather than rangers."
"Exactly what I was thinking. Maybe the old girl knew something about Anni that we don't. Maybe that's the reason Lana died in your suspicious fire."
"What date was the letter?"
"Seventeenth."
"Two days before the fire.” She took a sip of her coffee and then added, “Can I look at the letter?"
He took it from his pocket and handed it to her. As she read it, he continued running the brush through her glorious hair, enjoying the soft feel of it as it slid past his fingertips, the way the silky strands gleamed like liquid gold as the overhead light caressed them. Was there anything more erotic than brushing a woman's hair? Other than caressing skin to skin? It had always gotten him fired up. But then, when it came to Vannah, just one look could push him over the edge.
"It definitely looks like Lana's writing,” she said. “The old girl was always writing us about the ‘hoodlums’ taking over her street and demanding we do something about it."
"But she never mentioned Anni Jenkins?"
"No.” She hesitated. “You know, Anni's talked about a lot of things over the last six months, but I can't actually recall her ever mentioning where she came from. Odd, really."
"I've asked Trista to do a search to see if she can come up with anything."
"Good.” She handed him the note, turned around and snagged her brush from his hand. “In the meantime, we'd better go question Ari."
He wrapped his arms around her supple body and pulled her close. Then he tried to ignore how good it felt, how swiftly his body responded to the warm press of hers. But it wasn't so easy to ignore the sudden longing to be able to do this any time he pleased, for the rest of his life. “Before we go anywhere, you need to answer that question."
She frowned. “What question?"
"Why can't you be a ranger forever?"
"Oh, that.” She screwed up her nose. “Because I want to have kids one day."
"Kids and working are not mutually exclusive."
"I know that, but I don't want to be a working mom. I want to be able to stay home and watch their every little milestone. At least until they're old enough to go to school."
Surprise ran through him. “Somehow, I can't imagine the free-spirited woman I knew at Rosehall becoming a stay-at-home mom."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his nose. The brief touch sent desire shooting through every inch of his body, and it was all he could do not to press her back against the counter and give in to it.
"As I keep reminding you,” she said softly, her lips so close they were teasing his with possibilities, “the me you knew at Rosehall was discovering and exploring my sexuality, and I'd certainly never planned on committing to just one man."
Which she hadn't. And it still hurt, still angered him, even if the sensible part of him was willing to accept her reasons now that he'd heard her side of it. He might not understand them, but he was willing to believe them.
"What about you?” she continued softly, her green eyes twinkling with what suspiciously looked like amusement.
"Never imagined myself as a stay-at-home mom,” he answered dryly. “But if my wife wants to be the bread winner, I'm more than willing to look after the kids."
"So you're a modern-thinking man?"
"I'm a lazy man who only works because he needs to support himself."
"Raising kids ain't easy, you know."
/> He grinned. “Don't I know it. I helped raise my brothers after my dad died and Mom was forced to work."
She raised her eyebrows. “How many brothers?"
He slid one hand down to her butt and pressed her even closer, until the heat of her mound was pressed firmly against his erection. Gently, he rubbed back and forth against her, enjoying the sensation even if it was also the ultimate form of torture since he had no intention of taking it any further. “Four."
Her pupils dilated as desire overran the amusement in her eyes. “I would have thought that having four brothers would turn you off to having kids of your own."
"Well, it did make me damn careful about getting the fertility control injection every six months, just to make sure I was shooting blanks."
She grinned. “I hope you're still shooting those blanks, because I'm not ready to have kids just yet."
"Neither am I, believe me.” Even if the thought of having kids with her made him warm inside.
And therein lay his real dilemma. He could lie to her, and he could lie to himself, as much as he liked. But the truth was, if he wanted to discover if what lay between them had the strength to end in such a dream, then he was going to have to release her from the moon magic and allow her the choice of being with him. Or not.
But if he released her, he risked losing her again, and once was more than enough. Yet, by not releasing her, he faced the risk of losing her anyway. He might hold her physically, but he'd never be able to lay claim to anything more.
And he wanted that more. Wanted all she was willing to freely give.
So was it love?
Having never been in love, he couldn't honestly say what it felt like. But he very much suspected that if he didn't already love her, then he was certainly headed that way. Fast. And the more he tried not to think about it, to concentrate on the reason he was here rather than what he was feeling, the more control seemed to slither from his grasp. She'd had that effect on him at Rosehall, and it hadn't lessened in the ten years they'd been apart.
Maybe what he should really do was just talk about it. Get it all out in the open and let it hang there for discussion. But his gut clenched and his throat threatened to close over.
Talking about emotions wasn't something he'd ever been prone to do, and it was a hard habit to break, even for something—someone—as important as this.
She was right. He was a coward. He'd faced many a criminal with a loaded gun aimed at his face, and never once had he been as terrified as he was just now.
Her lips brushed his tenderly. “Some deep thoughts you appear to be having there,” she said, the glow in her eyes making him wonder if she'd perhaps been following them. “Hope all this talk of babies hasn't made you skittish."
"Not in the least. In fact, it's nice to know the free spirit has mellowed."
"I haven't mellowed that much, as you'll find out if you don't stop doing what you're doing."
He raised a teasing eyebrow. “And what might I be doing?"
"Like you can't smell my arousal.” Her sudden smirk was saucy. “That's like saying I can't feel your erection."
"It's attracted to heat, and there seems to be a lot happening at the moment.” He leaned down and kissed her like he intended to make love to her tonight—long and slow.
The sharp ringing of the phone brought the moment to an end. She broke away with a sigh, then leaned across and snagged the handset off the wall.
"This had better be good,” she said, her voice smoky with frustrated desire.
He wasn't sure what the person on the other end said, but the sudden tension stiffening her body told him it wasn't good news.
"I'll be there in ten,” she said, and hung up.
"What?” he asked immediately.
Her stricken gaze turned to his. “There's been another murder. They think it might be Ike."
Chapter Eleven
Savannah pulled on the hand brake then crossed her arms over the steering wheel as she stared up at the old walking trail. Despite the sun flaring against the golden hues of the Aspens, the trail itself lay wrapped in a darkness as complete as the clouds gathering above.
It couldn't be Ike lying dead up there in that darkness. It couldn't be.
But what was she going to do if it was? She'd sent him after Denny, despite Cade's protests that he was too inexperienced. If Ike was dead, then she was responsible, as surely as if she'd loaded the gun and pulled the trigger.
"You okay?"
Cade's voice was soft, full of an understanding that almost unleashed the tears building inside.
She nodded, licking her lips as she battled for control. She was a ranger, damn it, and she would continue to act like one, no matter who was up there.
"Grab your coat.” She wrapped a shaking hand around the handle and opened the door. “Bad weather has a habit of coming in fast up here."
He nodded, getting his coat and the crime scene kit from behind the seat as she climbed out of the truck. The wind skidded around her with icy sharpness, filled with the scent of the oncoming storm. They had to get up there before the rain hit and destroyed any chance of finding evidence. She zipped up her coat, but the sound of a truck engine coming up the hill behind them made her spin around.
It was a red truck she recognized. Ronan's. And Steve was sitting beside him.
"Shouldn't he be in the hospital?” Cade asked, limping around to stand beside her. His shoulder brushed hers, and warmth jumped between them. She fleetingly wished he'd stand closer. Wrap an arm around her shoulder and enfold her in his heat, because right now, she was chilled to the bone, and it wasn't the weather.
"Yeah, he should,” she replied, as Ronan climbed stiffly out of his truck. She raised her voice a little. “So why isn't he in the hospital?"
"Because he has no intention of twiddling his thumbs in bed while mad women are running around trying to murder his workmates and best friend.” He shrugged into his leather jacket, his face pale but determined. “These bitches are mine."
"You and Cade have a common goal, then,” she said. “Fitting really, seeing you're both so goddamned stubborn."
A grin teased Ronan's lips as his gaze went to Cade. “She could teach both of us a thing or two about stubborn. You know that, don't you?"
"I'm beginning to discover it,” Cade said dryly, then touched a hand to her spine. The heat of his fingers soaked through the jacket and swept across her skin like fire. “We'd better get up there."
"So says the three-legged wolf who should also be in the hospital,” she muttered, but she knew she was only delaying the inevitable. She snagged the crime scene kit from him and slung it over her shoulder. “Steve, you want to grab the cameras from the back of Ronan's truck?"
"You carry cameras in the back of the truck?” Cade asked, as they began to make their way up the trail.
"Specially-made locked compartment,” Ronan answered. “They're mine rather than the department's. I'm a would-be photographic artist in my spare time."
"Really?” Cade's voice held a note of surprise. “What sort of cameras do you use?"
Savannah couldn't help smiling as the two men who were, other than her sister, the two most important people in her life conversed. Given all the hostility Cade had thrown Ronan's way yesterday, the easy way they talked now was something of a surprise—and a welcome one. But had anything really changed? Or was it simply a matter of common interest breaking down the barriers? After all, while she might love Cade, she knew nothing about his life or what he did outside his job, though he'd once told her his work was his life. But a man who lived for his work didn't go on alcoholic benders and smash up his place when a woman walked out of his life.
It was, she thought, a rather telling reaction to the feelings he'd refused to admit at Rosehall.
The trail ahead turned sharply to the left. If the hiker who'd found the body had his distances right, then they'd find the victim not far ahead.
Her stomach began to churn even harder, and
she found herself silently praying that it wasn't Ike, that it was somebody, anybody, else. Which wasn't entirely fair, because that somebody else would have family, friends and loved ones, just like Ike did.
When she found the twisted pine the hiker had mentioned, she hesitated. Then she determinedly swept aside the drooping branches and kept on going. And there, on the dirt and rotting leaves not far off the trail, was the naked body of a man. She stopped, her gaze sweeping his mutilated, spread-eagled body before coming to rest on his face.
It wasn't Ike.
It was Denny.
Relief ran through her, but it was swiftly followed by anger. Denny might not have been anyone's favorite kid, but he had been just a kid, and he certainly deserved more than this.
The three men stopped on either side of her. “Shit,” Ronan said softly. “Denny."
"Yeah. Even death was a bitch to the kid.” She hauled the kit off her shoulder and unzipped it. “So where the hell is Ike if Denny is here?"
"Hopefully, not a hostage.” Ronan glanced at her. “Have you contacted search and rescue? It's not their usual type of rescue but still—"
"I know. And Steve did."
Cade squatted on his heels, his expression pensive has he studied the scene before them. “This is different than the other two murders. This wasn't a ritual, just a murder."
Her gaze jumped back to the body, and for the first time, she saw the differences. “No stone ring."
"And while his penis and scrotum are sliced away, they didn't remove his heart,” Ronan added. “We have a different killer."
"Or a copycat,” Cade said grimly.
"It can hardly be a copycat when we've kept the murders out of the newspapers,” Ronan retorted. “And none of us has let the cat out of the bag."
"It's not a copycat,” she said softly, staring at the body. For an instant, it almost seemed like she could almost feel his struggle for life, taste that moment of stark horror when he realized what was going to happen to him. Could smell the thick smell of citrus and cigarette smoke as cold steel slid into his spine and pain flared like fire ... the sensations slid away and she shuddered.