Resonable Doubt

  "You know better than that. If there is a treasure, and I stress the if, I'd divide it equally among all us kids." Breanna felt the color wash from her face. "It isn't the treasure at all, though, is it? That's not really what's trou­bling you."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  She didn't miss the way his gaze shifted, as if he were afraid she'd read too much in his eyes. "It's the fire," she said softly. "Admit it, Dane. What really concerns you is that my return may start people talking again."

  "And why not? You're not stupid, Breanna. We got off by the skin of our teeth on a fake alibi. Don't you realize how shaky our position is? Another investigation could land us both in jail."

  "Not if we've nothing to hide." Breanna shoved her hands into her jeans pockets, watching, analyzing his expression. She knew him so well, perhaps too well, this man who had been her childhood chum. "And we don't. Do we, Dane?"

  The question drifted into the air; hung there unan­swered. Dane's sudden pallor alarmed her.

  "Dane." Breanna stepped forward, lifting a hand to touch his arm. "Dane, I love you like my own brother, you do know that? If there's something you haven't told me, you can trust—"

  He jerked his arm away. "I'm so sick of you suspecting me. What kind of a person are you? We used to be best friends, and you believe I'd murder somebody? You know better."

  "Yes... yes, I do. And knowing you is what has kept my mouth shut. But you're hiding something. I see it in your eyes. What happened that night, Dane? What really hap­pened?"

  He stepped back, leveling a finger at her. "Fair warning. Don't go stirring up gossip. You got it? And don't go pok­ing your nose where you shouldn't. That goes for the gold and the fire. Is that clear? You screw around with me, and I'll—"

  "You'll what?" Every muscle in Breanna's body tensed. "You'll what, Dane? I want to hear it. Don't threaten me. It won't work this time. You're not the only one who's fed up. You're hiding something from me. I'm going to find out what it is."

  "There's nothing."

  "And I think you're lying."

  "You think I murdered a man?"

  Breanna couldn't speak. She could only stare at him.

  "That's it, isn't it?"

  "Yes! Does that satisfy you? I think you lit that fire, Dane. I think you killed Rob Thatcher." The words came with such difficulty that she trembled. Ten years, and she had finally accused him to his face. She hadn't planned on that. A sob ripped its way up, ragged, hollow, turning her throat raw. "I think you were involved. When I woke up that night, you were just returning to camp. You said you'd been out in the bushes, but you had been running. You were sweating and breathing hard."

  "Sure I was running. For God's sake, the whole damned mountain was on fire!"

  "How far did you go into the bushes? A mile?"

  "I was scared. That's why I was out of breath. Panicky."

  A surge of anger swept through her. "If I knew for sure that you were lying...if I had any proof whatsoever, I swear to heaven, ten years ago or not, I'd turn you in."

  "Oh, is that right? You remember one thing, Saint Breanna. We were both camping on the mountain that night. If it hadn't been for Morrow giving us an alibi, we'd have both hung for it. So go ahead, tell the whole world. When you put a noose around my neck, you'll put one around your own as well."

  Breanna knocked away his accusing finger. "I told you, don't threaten me. One thing keeps me silent, just one thing, and that's not knowing anything for sure."

  "And you never will." His voice grated as he spoke.

  "That remains to be seen, doesn't it? I need to get sup­plies in town. Maybe I'll do a little research, too. Go to the library, read the old news stories. Will I find something, Dane? Something I didn't notice then?"

  "Let me give you a little advice. If you ever decide to tell the cops we weren't with Chuck all night, that I had left camp, you remember one thing. You'll be stepping on toes. You might end up real sorry someday, real sorry."

  "For someone with nothing to hide, you sure rile easily. Get off my land, Dane. Now, before I forget you're my cousin."

  "Gran wouldn't want me to feel unwelcome here, re­member?"

  "Maybe Gran didn't know you. Maybe none of us really did. Get out of here."

  "Oh, I'm going," he said with a laugh. "And, uh, take care of yourself. It's rugged country. Fact is, I'd think twice about staying. A lot of folks around here might not like having an arsonist for a neighbor."

  Breanna had an unholy urge to draw back her arm and hit her cousin. Dane's gaze dropped to her tightly clenched fist. "What's happened to you?" she whispered. "There was a time I trusted you with my life. Now you threaten me? Me, Dane? Look at me. Really look. I'm not your enemy."

  Something other than anger crept into his eyes, another emotion, long lost, almost forgotten.

  "Take care of yourself." He looked over his shoulder. "No matter what you might think, I never meant to hurt anyone. I sure as hell never meant to hurt you." His voice dropped so low that she could barely discern the words. "Leave here, Breanna. Please. Don't stay here."

  "Why? What are you saying?"

  He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head, his expression pleading. Then he turned and strode toward his car.

  "Dane!" Breanna started after him.

  Just then she saw a streak of black coming from behind the lean-to garage. It was Coaly, running low to the ground, neck extended, going so fast he was almost a blur. The dog skidded to a halt, lifting his muzzle to bark, circling Dane. Breanna wasn't alarmed. Her pet usually greeted strangers in a threatening manner and her cousin had never met Coaly before.

  "It's okay, Coaly," she called.

  Her words didn't have their usual calming effect. The dog drew closer to Dane, sniffing, snarling, his eyes glinting. Dane stood stock-still.

  "Call him off, Bree."

  At the sound of Dane's voice, the dog crouched, then leaped forward. Too late, Breanna managed to scream. "No!"

  Coaly cannoned into Dane's chest and knocked him backward against the automobile fender. Man and dog rolled in the gravel. Dane yelled, fingers entangled in the animal's black ruff, arms shoving him away. Breanna couldn't believe what she was seeing. As cantankerous and protective of her as Coaly was, he had never launched a flying attack before. His fangs snapped the air.

  "Coaly, no... no...!" Breanna rushed to drag the dog off her cousin. Coaly was so intent upon biting that he nearly turned on her before he recognized her touch. "Bad dog." Never before had she hit her pet, but now she raised her hand. "You bad, bad dog!"

  "Don't!"

  Breanna hesitated. Blood streaked Dane's cheek. His ex­pensive jacket was torn at the lapel.

  "Don't," Dane repeated more quietly. "He's just trying to protect you. Don't punish him for it."

  "But he..."

  Dane staggered to his feet, keeping his face averted. He turned toward his car, straightening his coat with a shrug of the shoulders. "Think about what I said, Bree. You shouldn't stay here."

  "Dane, how bad are you hurt? You're bleeding. Dane?"

  He stopped beside the car, fishing in his slacks for his keys. Breanna wanted to go to him, but didn't dare release Coaly. Dane threw open the door and swung himself into the car. A moment later he was reversing up the driveway to the road. When the Corvette disappeared around the curve, Breanna was still standing there.

  Several seconds passed before she could straighten her frozen fingers to release Coaly's collar. Then, as she turned to go back to the barn, she saw something green on the ground, right where Dane had stood. A neatly folded twenty-dollar bill. He must have pulled it out with his keys. She hurried to pick it up, snatching it from under Coaly's nose.

  "You start eating money, fella, and your compulsion to devour paper could get expensive." Breanna stuffed the twenty into her pocket. The next time she visited her folks, she'd leave twenty dollars with her mom to pass on to Dane's. Better that than seeing Dane herself to return it. "Come on, troublemaker," she ca
lled crossly to her dog.

  As she walked up the drive toward the barn, she held off scolding Coaly until she calmed down. Lifting her eyes to the mountain, she paused. It was beautiful, silhouetted as it was against the powder-blue sky. The burn area was on the other side of the ridge. By now, any significant clues would be overgrown with new trees, grass, underbrush. After all these years, was it worth it to dredge it all up again?

  Yes. Once and for all, she wanted to get to the bottom of it. Rob Thatcher had lost his life in that fire, one that had been deliberately set. Whether it had been premeditated murder or a prank gone awry, she had to know if Dane had been in any way involved. There was something her cousin had never told her, something he couldn't tell her.

  Breanna propped her hands on her hips. Perhaps Dane had found the entrance to The Crescent Moon. The Van Pattens had stopped working it after the second collapse at the opening, and that was before Gramps was born. It was too dangerous, Gramps had said. Over time, with the help of several rock slides, even Gramps had forgotten exactly where The Crescent Moon's entrance was supposed to be, and he had forbidden Dane to look for it. Had Dane dis­obeyed? Had he found the underground tunnels that hon­eycombed the property?

  A lump of dread congealed in the pit of her stomach. What if Rob Thatcher had also found the entrance? She couldn't believe Dane would hurt someone over a fictitious treasure, but maybe she had never really known him. Her stride lengthened. As soon as she finished cleaning the flue, she was making that trip to town.

  As she drew near the barn, Breanna remembered her dog. "And you! You're on my blacklist, old man. Dane is fam­ily, understand? You act like that again, causing a big ruckus, and I'll have to chain you. I can't have you making trouble."

  She had the distinct feeling she wasn't alone as she walked up the entrance ramp. Turning, she checked behind her, but there was no one in sight.

  The woman's voice trailed across the orchard, clear as a bell as she climbed the rickety ramp into the barn. The two men watching her glanced uneasily at one another. "Call Ross. We gotta get her out of there. The last thing we need is her snooping around and finding our equipment."

  "You warned him."

  "Call him," the older man growled. "Tell him to get down here on the double."

  Breanna gave the hearth a final sweeping and carried the last bucket of ash out of the cabin to dump it behind the garage. On a scale of one to one hundred, she rated chim­ney sweeping at about zero. She was black from head to toe. A bath was in order before she drove to Grants Pass, no question about it.

  "Hello there."

  Breanna whirled, nearly upending her bucket. Tyler Ross was walking up the drive. "Well, well," she said. "Fancy meeting you here." Taking quick stock of his fresh brown shirt and denims, she added, "Not crawling in my bushes today, I see?"

  His eyes touched on her face. Breanna couldn't see her reflection in them, but she didn't need to. She knew her face was soot-streaked.

  "Have I caught you at a bad time?"

  "Not at all. Last night was a bad time. Today's a mere irritation."

  Oblivious to her sarcasm, he gestured at the bucket. "Cleaning the fireplace?"

  "The chimney." Her nose itched. She resisted the urge to scratch. "Mr. Ross, let's get down to brass tacks, shall we? I know you were spying on me last night, and to say I'm fu­rious would be an understatement."

  "I thought I explained—" He broke off, apparently at a loss. "Look—uh—I dropped by to apologize. I'm afraid I got off on the wrong foot with you last night, and I didn't—"

  "The wrong foot? If you think an apology can undo it, you're very much mistaken. You violated my privacy."

  He raked a hand through his hair. "Come again?"

  He was either a consummate actor, or he hadn't the faintest idea what she was talking about. "Last night, down by the creek. You spied on me while I bathed."

  "Someone was spying on you while you bathed?"

  "Not someone... you. I found hiking boot tracks all through the brush. And please don't insult my intelligence by denying they were yours."

  "Why would I deny it? My prints are all up and down the creek."

  "They are?"

  "I traipse all over down there." His voice rose. "Listen, it wasn't me. I drove to Wolf Creek right after leaving here. If you want to check, ask Charley at the gas station. I filled up before I went to the store. Are you okay? Did they hurt you?"

  "They?"

  "The men."

  "What makes you think it was more than one?"

  Irritation flickered in his eyes. "A figure of speech. Are you all right?"

  Uncertainty stilled her tongue. He looked so sincere that she found it difficult to believe he was lying. Charley. It would be easy to check his story. Surely he realized that. "I'm fine. Angry, but fine. I'm sorry for jumping to con­clusions if it wasn't you. I guess I put two and two together and came up with five. You do have on hiking boots."

  "So does anyone else down here who has good sense." His eyes dropped to her sneakers. "Present company ex­cluded, of course."

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

  "I'm batting a thousand, aren't I? Look, Miss—could I call you Breanna?—I stopped by to apologize for being so negative last night. After I had time to mull it over, I real­ized I didn't even welcome you back to the neighborhood. I'd like to do that now."

  He proffered her his palm, his gaze meeting hers so di­rectly that she would have felt petty refusing the hand­shake. She peeled off her sooty glove. "Thank you. A welcome is a nice change of pace after the last two days."

  "That sounds discouraging. Problems?"

  "Nothing I can't handle. You know how it is when you're moving. Murphy's Law and all."

  She eased her hand from his.

  "You know, I don't live but a mile from here by road. If you need anything, anything at all, I'd be happy to help."

  For the second time since meeting him, she found herself admiring the handsome blend of his features. "I appreciate the offer."

  "I'd like to know you'll take me up on it. Don't get me wrong, but what I said last night still stands. It's not safe down here nowadays. A woman alone... well, it worries me. I'd rest easier, knowing you'll come pounding on my door if trouble pops up. And please stay out of that barn. The floors in there are about to rot through. If you fall and bust a leg, you could lie there for days before anyone found you."

  She had to agree. The floors in the barn had seemed a lit­tle weak. "I'll bear that in mind."

  With a nod at her bucket, he said, "Well, it's obvious you're busy. I'll be on my way so you can finish up."

  Breanna wiped the soot off her watch crystal to check the time. "You're right. I'd better get cracking if I'm going to town."

  Striking off up the drive, he lifted a hand in farewell. "Catch you later."

  "Yes, later."

  Breanna strode to the ash pile and dumped her bucket, then gazed toward the brush along the creek where she had seen Ross's footprints. Worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, she turned toward the house. Then she realized what was bothering her. Tyler Ross had mentioned the barn. How had he known she'd been in there? And why did he care? Breanna shrugged and went on into the house.

  Before bathing, she wanted to check the flue. A small fire would come in handy. She could dry her hair more quickly by the heat of the flames. She hurried to the bedroom closet where Gran had stacked the old newspapers. Pulling one down, she crumpled a sheet as she returned to the living room. Tossing it onto the freshly cleaned grate, she tugged out another.

  Just as she was about to crumple it, she noticed a circle of ink around a tiny news story. Frowning, she smoothed the paper and sat down on the sofa to scan it. A fatal car acci­dent on Mount Sexton, a man whose name she didn't rec­ognize, a resident of San Diego, California. A single-car wreck. No alcohol level in his bloodstream. The police as­sumed the lone driver had lost control in a curve and plunged through a guardrail.

  Puz
zled, Breanna crumpled the paper and tossed it into the grate, following it with another sheet. Why had Gran circled a story about a stranger? Breanna stared at the front page. August sixteenth, the year of the Reuben Creek fire. Recalling the date of the newspaper she had used on her first night back, she returned to the bedroom. She lifted the en­tire pile off the shelf, throwing them onto the bed. Shuf­fling through them, she checked date after date. All were August releases.

  Sifting through them, she searched for headlines about the fire, hoping to save herself a trip to the library. That seemed strange. Gran had saved papers up through August twenty-fifth, the day before the tragedy. After that, noth­ing.

  Glancing at her watch, she started. If she was going to bathe before going to town, she'd have to hurry. She'd need to make copies of the newspapers on file at the library, speed to the courthouse for maps, buy No Trespassing signs, then go grocery shopping. And she wanted to be safely locked in the cabin tonight when the sun dipped behind the moun­tain.

  Eight o'clock. Breanna looked at the darkening sky. She had a good thirty minutes of light left. She had made rec­ord time going to town. Despite a dead end at the court­house, which had forced a detour to the mini-storage facility where Gran's papers were stored, she had obtained every­thing she needed, including copies of maps of The Crescent Moon, which the court clerk had maintained didn't exist. She was pleased she had time for a walk before dinner and bed. A little exercise would help her sleep.

  Her sense of accomplishment faded a bit as she strolled with Coaly through the lower orchard. She had photo­copied several reports of the fire, but hadn't yet had time to study them. Later. For now, she and Coaly deserved a romp. Dragging in a breath of air, she broke into a jog. After making three circles around the orchard with Coaly at her heels, Breanna headed upstream toward the house.

  The orchard made a lovely picture this time of evening. No wonder Ross took photos here. The old barn, weath­ered gray with age, sat to the left. As Breanna passed it, a thumping noise echoed through the dusk. She swung around to stare and saw a flash of movement angling from the barn across the road to disappear into the shadowy woods. A man? Gramps's tales of John Van Patten's ghost filtered into her mind. One of his favorites had been that he had seen John inside the barn one evening.