Page 2 of Resonable Doubt

  Turning, she directed a speculative glance at the dusty stove. Breakfast would be short and simple. Her work was cut out for her if she wanted this place livable by nightfall.

  By early evening, Breanna had given the last screw on her new front door lock a final twist. She had been busily working since morning, scrubbing the cabin, unpacking her things, driving to town for a lock and wood to replace the splintered door frame. She stood back to survey her handi­work with a sense of satisfaction. Not only had she accom­plished a lot, but staying occupied had diverted her thoughts from last night's uneasiness.

  Tossing her screwdriver into the toolbox, she leaned her head back and stretched. As tired as she was, it comforted her to know she would be able to sleep tonight, safe behind a locked door. Then a troubled frown pleated her fore­head. Dropping her outstretched arms, she glanced over her shoulder. If she had felt it once today, she had felt it a dozen times. Eyes following her, making her skin crawl.

  Was someone out there? Or had her nerves shoved her imagination into overdrive? She scanned the thick brush that bordered the creek. Nothing, not a sign of movement. Smiling at her own silliness, she bent to close her toolbox. Even if someone was there, it was probably a local from Wolf Creek or Leland. Sunday was a day for campers.

  "Nice evening, isn't it?" a deep voice boomed.

  Breanna gave such a start that she slammed the lid of the toolbox on her thumb. Pain ricocheted up her arm. She sprang to a standing position and turned with a muffled cry. A dark-haired man wearing jeans and hiking boots was striding up the steps. His shirt was such a brilliant red that she couldn't believe she had missed seeing him a moment ago.

  "Where did you come from? Don't you know it can be dangerous, sneaking up on someone like that?"

  He paused midway up the walk to study her, his steely blue eyes alert to her every move. "I wasn't sneaking. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

  She gave a shaky laugh and dropped her gaze to his boots. Hiking boots, suede with red laces and waffled soles. She felt the blood drain from her face as she focused her atten­tion on him. If this was her intruder, she could be in seri­ous trouble. He was well over six feet tall with a good two hundred pounds to back up his height, every ounce hard, lean muscle. A camera hung from a braided strap around his neck, a Leica, the type only a professional photographer or serious hobbyist might carry.

  "Well, for not trying, you sure did a good job of it. I about jumped out of my skin. I didn't hear you drive up. Are you on foot?"

  He nodded. "I'm Tyler Ross. I have a cabin about a mile up the road. Been down by the creek working and when I saw you moving in, I thought I'd better stop by and check on things. You do realize this place is a mining claim? It be­longs to the Van Pattens."

  "You say you were working? Doing what? How long have you been watching me?"

  "I wasn't exactly watching you. I just noticed you up here." He shrugged one shoulder, an offhanded gesture that belied the distrust she saw in his eyes. "I'm a photogra­pher. I was getting a few shots down in the orchard."

  "In my orchard? Of what?"

  "Deer. A doe and fawn."

  Breanna tensed, watching his face for any sign, of decep­tion. His eyes met hers without wavering. If anything, she read suspicion in them, not guilt. This time of evening, deer usually emerged to feed. The apple orchard would be a likely spot to get pictures of them. "You say you live up the road?"

  "Look, I didn't mean to frighten you—"

  "I'm not frightened." Her voice rang a little too sharply. A flush of heat spiraled up her spine. "Well, maybe I am, just a little." She managed a smile and extended her hand. "I'm Breanna Morgan, Alicia Van Patten's daughter."

  Expecting him to relax, Breanna kept her hand extended, but he ignored it.

  "Then you're related to Dane Van Patten?"

  Why the question sounded like an accusation she didn't know. "Yes. He's my cousin. Is there a problem with that?"

  "No, of course not."

  Feeling ridiculous with her hand held out, she dropped her hand just as he reached out to shake it. By the time she could react, he was drawing back.

  A sudden smile creased his tanned cheeks. "We'll get this right sooner or later. I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Mor­gan."

  "Likewise, I'm sure." She placed her palm across his. His callused fingers tightened around hers in a firm grip, pleas­ant, not crushing, the kind of handshake Gramps had called trusty.

  "It is Miss, isn't it?" He loosened his hold slowly. "Or should I say Ms.?"

  "Miss is fine."

  With a nod toward her porch, he said, "I see you've fixed the lock."

  "You knew it was broken?"

  "Noticed it late yesterday afternoon. I planned to repair it, but I haven't been to town since to get a dead bolt and molding. Nothing disturbed, I hope?"

  Tipping her head back to watch him, she said, "There were a few things stolen, but nothing I can't replace."

  She braced herself for a reaction to the lie, a twitching muscle, a flicker of surprise, but all Ross did was nod. He either had rock-steady nerves or was innocent, she wasn't sure which. While she studied him, she caught herself ad­miring the striking blend of his irregular features. His nose was a bit too large, jutting sharply from between his thick eyebrows with no indentation at the bridge, but it suited him, enhancing his high cheekbones while it offset the squared angles of his jaw,

  "So, Miss Morgan, how long do you plan to stay?"

  His eyes caught and held hers, a much deeper blue than her own, smoky, darkened with flecks of cobalt arid out­lined by a sweep of black lashes. Magnetic, direct, the kind of eyes that hid secrets well. She would be wise not to for­get that.

  "For good. My grandmother passed away recently and willed me the cabin. One stipulation was that I file on the claim and keep the assessments done so it can stay in the family. Her biggest fear was that strangers would take it."

  ‘‘You mean you plan to live here?''

  "Why shouldn't I?"

  "On a permanent basis? Mining, part-time or full-scale, is heavy work."

  "I'm not afraid of work. And I come from a long line of miners. My grandfather worked in the California mine for a number of years."

  He glanced toward Mount Reuben. "The California, that's up Reuben Creek, isn't it? Funny name for a mine in Oregon."

  "My grandfather claimed it was named for a Californian, and other miners said it ran so deep, it went clear to California. I don't think anyone knows now for sure."

  "So you're going to be a prospector? Having no electric­ity will get old in about a week. Same for no indoor plumb­ing. It'd take a lot of mettle to stick it out down here." The breeze lifted a lock of his ebony hair, waving it across his forehead. "Take some friendly advice. This is no place for a woman alone. You'd be asking for trouble."

  "I avoid trouble."

  "I hope so. Wouldn't want you getting hurt."

  Breanna's earlier distrust mushroomed again. She tensed and shot him a glare. "Hurt? I played in these woods as a kid, know them like the back of my hand."

  "It's not as peaceful down here as it used to be."

  The night wind picked up, cool, raising goose bumps on her arms. "Is that so?"

  "Look at your door. If that's not trouble's calling card, I don't know what is. If you plan to stay, I wouldn't go wandering if I were you. And I'd steer clear of those old outbuildings. You don't want to end up a statistic."

  "You have an interesting way of turning a phrase, Mr. Ross. I could almost believe you're trying to scare me."

  "Maybe I am."

  "Why?"

  "Could be I'm a concerned neighbor. I realize it's a dying breed, but there are still a few of us left."

  Shoving her hands into her jeans pockets, she nudged a pebble on the walk with the toe of her sneaker. "Well, I don't scare easy."

  "I hope I haven't offended you."

  "Not at all." Breanna gritted out a smile she felt sure looked set in concrete. "I do have
a lot of work to do, though, and it's nearly dark."

  One of his eyebrows shot up, but he didn't argue. "I'll get out of your hair then. Nice meeting you." He turned and struck off down the walk.

  "The pleasure was all mine," she replied evenly. Then, as a parting shot, she called, "Oh, and watch out for my dog. He's not one to be friendly with strangers. I'm afraid he's an incurable biter."

  Ross slowed and glanced back at her. "A little black fella?"

  "Not so little."

  Another smile curved his mouth. "He and I already tan­gled down by the creek. The only thing he seemed inter­ested in biting was my lunch. Be seein' you, Miss Morgan."

  She stood there watching until he disappeared around a bend in the road. "Not if I have my druthers, you won't."

  Silence settled around her like a cloak. Sighing, she nudged the pebble with her shoe again, then kicked it. She wasn't quite sure what to make of Tyler Ross, but for now he was her number one suspect. It would take a big stretch of her imagination to believe his visit this evening had been sheer coincidence, especially after the ominous little warn­ings he had given her. The word statistic conjured up ugly newspaper headlines.

  Shifting her gaze to the weathered old barn, Breanna mulled over their conversation. A treasure seeker, per­haps? Maybe he was one of a group. She could almost see them, armed with maps, metal detectors strapped to their shoulders. Ross didn't look the type, but one could never tell.

  Her eyes trailed to the boot prints near the porch that she had found last night. Waffled soles. Did Ross's hiking boots leave a similar impression? Unfortunately, he hadn't stepped off the walk onto soft dirt so she could check. Even if he had, and she could be certain the prints were his, it would prove nothing. He had admitted to having seen her broken door. He might also have walked onto the porch to exam­ine the damage.

  Exhaustion weighed like an anchor on Breanna's shoul­ders. A flash of black at the corner of the barn drew her notice. Coaly. Dirt flew from beneath his paws. He was probably after some animal. She gave a sharp whistle and waited for him to reach her. An early night sounded tempt­ing. First a bath, then a quick dinner, and the last order of business was bed.

  After gathering fresh clothes and toiletry articles, Breanna struck off for the creek with Coaly tagging behind. The bathing hole was a deep pool, surrounded by a privacy screen of thick foliage. On the opposite bank, the eroded earth was rust red, with gnarled tree roots reaching like clutching fingers into the stream. She stripped near a bush, dumping her clothes in a pile, then carried her bathing things to the diving rock, a low bank of shale that curved out into the water. As she poised to dive, she hesitated.

  Eyes. Instinctively she hugged her breasts with one arm and crossed her lower body with the other. Then Coaly came into view, tail wagging, nose to the ground. That was her cue to stop being paranoid. She lifted her arms and pushed off the rock, slicing deep into the water.

  Breanna emerged in a spray, gasping for breath. She had forgotten how icy Graves Creek was. Doing a breast stroke to the rock, she grabbed her shampoo, did a quick job on her hair, then seized the soap. This would be one quick bath.

  Coaly, drawn by her splashing and sharp gasp of sur­prise, came bounding onto the rock, barking furiously. Breanna tried to reassure him, but he seemed convinced she would go under and never come up. In his frenzy he man­aged to muddy her towel, knock her razor into the pool and slip partway off the rock to douse his hindquarters.

  Breanna heaved herself out of the water, fended off the dog, and extracted her towel from beneath his feet. The fabric was nearly as wet as she was and smelled of... dog. By the time she had used her clean clothes to dry off, and then struggled into them, she had had it with dogs, and even without using the doggy towel, she felt pretty sure she was wearing enough dog hair to pass as one if someone didn't look close.

  And someone was looking. It hit her as she finished tying her sneakers. Coaly, elated to have her safe on shore, paused in his prancing to curl his lip, his liquid brown eyes glint­ing.

  Chapter Two

  An eerie creaking noise drifted to Breanna from the brush. It had no sooner stopped than Coaly barked, throwing his ears forward. Then off he went into a thick growth of Manzanita. Apprehensive about what he might find, she held back for a moment. When no snarling erupted, she struck off after him. Ten feet into the foliage, she found her pet sniffing the ground. Pushing him aside, she spied foot­prints. Waffled soles, like the impression she'd found by her porch.

  Impotent rage. Now she knew exactly what it meant. Coaly, hot on the scent, plunged through the brush toward a low-hung copse, but Breanna had seen enough. It had to have been Ross. Graves Creek wasn't exactly teeming with people.

  Returning to the stream for her things, Breanna then strode for the cabin. She made short work of getting ready for bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress to brush her wet hair, glaring at the floor. Ross was cool, she'd give him that. He hadn't batted an eyelash when she baited him. Well, she wasn't leaving, if that was his game plan. It would take a whole lot more than silly warnings and lurking in the brush to make her break her promise to Gran and leave the place to claim jumpers.

  Going to the kitchen, Breanna hugged her arms around her against the evening chill. Her long flannel gown did lit­tle to warm her, especially with her hair hanging wet on her shoulders. Putting a pan of soup on the gas stove to heat, she cast a determined glance at the fireplace. Cleaning the flue was the next chore on her list. Next time she bathed, she could dry her hair by the fire. She would need a chain, though, to knock the blockage loose. If she remembered right, Gramps had kept some in the barn.

  Her lips thinned to a grim line. If Ross showed his face tomorrow when she was armed with a chain, she'd be sorely tempted to throttle him with it.

  En route to the barn the following morning, Breanna was brought up short by the low rumble of a powerful car coming around the bend. A blue Corvette? A fancy auto­mobile like that was as out of place down Graves Creek as a San Francisco trolley car. She knew instantly who must be at the wheel. Less than two months ago her mother had mentioned how well Dane seemed to be doing at the ac­counting firm, and that he had recently purchased a fancy new sports car.

  Breanna walked toward the approaching vehicle, debat­ing how to handle this meeting. Dane undoubtedly resented the stipulations in Gran's will that gave Breanna first op­tion of owning the cabin. With much less enthusiasm than she would have liked, Breanna watched her cousin climb out of the driver's seat. The sunlight glanced off his blond hair as he straightened his gray sport coat and gave one leg a shake to get a wrinkle out of his slacks. Same old Dane, fussing and primping.

  "Hello, Dane. It's good to see you." The lie left an acid taste on her tongue.

  "Hi, Bree."

  His eyes met hers, large, sky-blue Van Patten eyes, right down to the thick fringe of his gold-tipped lashes. Looking into them, Breanna could no more deny her kinship with him than she could her own brother. Memories of their childhood drifted into her mind, of long, lazy days of sum­mer when they had run wild together, catching salaman­ders in the creek, romping in the hayloft, sharing secrets. What had happened to them that they could stand here to­day, eyeing one another like enemies?

  "It really is good to see you," she repeated, truly mean­ing it this time, hoping he'd do nothing to spoil it.

  "So you said." His tone was curt. "I wish I could say the same. When I drove in, you were headed for the barn. What for?"

  "Some chain. I have to sweep the chimney."

  "Yeah. Well, who promised you a rose garden?"

  "Dane, there isn't much point in being antagonistic."

  "Isn't there. I've put my sweat into this place these last seven years. Have you? No, you just get it handed to you."

  "It was Gran's decision, Dane. I tried to make her change her mind and she refused."

  "Because you were her favorite, always were."

  "Oh, come on. Be fair. Of the four grandkids, I wa
s the only one who could really make a go of this place. You're an accountant, Jason's a lawyer, Deanna's a teach—"

  "You could have refused, Breanna. The word no is in your vocabulary. I've heard you say it enough times."

  "Are you questioning my right to be here?"

  "You swore you'd never come back. Then, bingo, you walk in and take over. Why, Bree? That's all I want to know."

  "I was seventeen when I said that. I realize now that I have too many memories here to let the place go to strangers."

  "Are you implying I'd let claim jumpers come in? Watch what you say. My mood isn't the best."

  The thin thread of Breanna's patience snapped. Before she could stop herself, she gestured toward the neglected yard. "The truth is that you don't give a fig for the claim, Dane. Look at it, then tell me Gran should've left it to you. For seven years she paid you to keep it up—out of her so­cial security, mind you—and in all that time you squeaked by, doing as little work as you could. The walks are disin­tegrating. The outbuildings are rotting away. The fences have tumbled down. For the time you've spent here, you've done precious little sweating. What have you been doing, anyway? Lounging under a tree, daydreaming?"

  "What I do down here is none of your business unless it somehow affects you, which it doesn't. Too bad I can't say the same. You come sailing in, taking over, to hell with the gossip it will cause. It doesn't even occur to you that I've stuck it out, lived through the stares and nasty whispers un­til people started to forget." A grimace crossed his face. "All that is beside the point. What bothers me worst is you don't stop and think how I feel. I've spent years searching, never giving up on the gold. With my luck, you'll stumble over the treasure and keep it yourself. It isn't fair, but you don't care, do you?"