Resonable Doubt

  An hour later, Tyler rocked back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes searched Breanna's.

  "Well?" she demanded.

  "You want the truth? I see nothing conclusive to impli­cate Dane. Or you, for that matter. You had an alibi, an airtight alibi, given by Chuck Morrow." He shook his head. "There has to be another side to this story. You don't strike me as the type to make accusations unless you're mighty positive you're right."

  "That was my biggest problem. I wasn't sure, so I kept my mouth shut. A man was killed, and I said nothing."

  "I don't understand. According to the paper, Dane couldn't have set that fire."

  "And the paper is all lies. At least about the alibi. We weren't with Chuck all night. We ran into him when we were escaping the fire. Chuck lied to the police to get us off the hook." Breanna propped her elbows on the table, covering her eyes with trembling fingers. She could scarcely bear the memories, the screams that echoed inside her mind, the vi­sion of Rob Thatcher caught under a tree, burning alive. And with the memories came guilt that cut through her like a knife. She couldn't bring herself to tell all of it. But some of it she had to tell. It was too heavy a burden to keep locked inside her any longer. "Oh, Tyler, why didn't I simply tell the truth?"

  "Only you can answer that. Did you suspect Dane then?"

  "Yes and no. I woke up after the fire started, and Dane wasn't in camp. By the time he got there the fire was all around us—" She broke off. She didn't want to verbalize the rest, couldn't. "It was all a blur for days after, the trees falling, the fear, the realization we might die. I wasn't thinking. I was just running."

  "Go on."

  "Then the next morning the police came. They accused us of setting the fire. Arson, they said, started with gas cans placed around the hippie commune. The hippies weren't too popular in these parts. Lots of people, kids and adults, had made threats. Dane and I were just in the wrong place at the right time." She dropped her hand to look at him. "I was terrified. Murder! Rob Thatcher was pinned by a fallen pine and couldn't escape. I envisioned the electric chair. At sev­enteen, it's pretty scary when police accuse you of any­thing, let alone killing someone. We swore we didn't do it, but the police were convinced otherwise. They didn't be­lieve anything we said. And they took us to juvenile hall. I think Dane was even more frightened than me."

  "I can imagine. That would scare even an adult."

  Breanna forced herself to remember. "It's like a fog, those first few days. I was no sooner in custody than they put me in the hospital for treatment. Smoke inhalation. Just a day, for observation. By the time I was released, Chuck Morrow had come forward, saying we were with him all night, that we couldn't have set the fire. Dane and I—we— we were so scared, we said it was true."

  "Chuck was a friend, I take it? According to the paper he was quite a hero, risking his life to save women and chil­dren that night."

  Tension clogged Breanna's throat. "I've never under­stood that part. Chuck is—a snake. He'd never put himself out for anybody."

  "He did for you, for Dane."

  "And demanded his pound of flesh, believe me. A few days after I got home, Chuck started coming around."

  "You lived here?"

  "Only for a month in the summer. And we visited a lot. We were staying here then, Dane and I, like we did every year."

  "And Chuck demanded his pound of flesh?"

  She nodded. "Little favors at first, then bigger ones. Dane seemed scared to death of him. That's when I began getting suspicious. I remembered Dane being out of camp. I realized Dane was scared Chuck would go to the police about something. It occurred to me Chuck knew some­thing, something Dane had done that he wasn't telling. But I wasn't sure, and without being sure, I couldn't accuse Dane. Now I regret that. I think—no, I guess suspect is a better word—that Dane has something hanging over his head, something eating at him, even though it's been ten years."

  "You had a reasonable doubt. I don't think there's any­thing so wrong in your not having gone to the police, con­sidering the circumstances."

  Breanna straightened in her chair. Her chest tightened. "I knew right from wrong. And I've had to live with my deci­sion ever since."

  "And you're on a guilt trip? Breanna, give yourself a break. You were young, scared, confused. If you had gone to the police, what would they have thought? You could have been charged with a very serious crime at that point. I think it's understandable. Not wise, perhaps, but under­standable. What kind of favors was Morrow asking of Dane?"

  Breanna glanced up at him. There were some things she couldn't yet bring herself to discuss; not with Tyler, not with anyone. "Nothing important."

  "So, here we sit with photocopies. Am I to understand you're looking for proof against Dane, that you've re­turned to set a wrong right?"

  "No, I didn't come back with that intention." Breanna told him about Dane's first visit, his warnings. "It seemed suspicious. It set me to thinking. Dane's so paranoid about the treasure, so afraid I'll look for it. And he gets abso­lutely furious if I mention the fire. I know he's afraid of something. And I want to find out what. It's almost as if it all ties in together. I know it doesn't make sense, but it's as if the fire and the mine are all the same in Dane's mind."

  "You're right. It doesn't make sense." Or does it? Tyler studied the woman sitting opposite him. Now that she had told him this, the possibilities were endless. Dane Van Pat­ten with a secret. Morrow holding it over his head as black­mail. It had never occurred to Jack or to himself that Dane Van Patten's involvement could be due to coercion. A fire, a death, a kid with a secret. If Breanna had acted unwisely out of fear, why not Dane? "If I were you, I'd let the past be buried, Breanna."

  "Dane could have been my ghost last night." She laughed softly. "I know it sounds idiotic, but he's obviously getting desperate. He wants me out of here so badly, he might do something like that to scare me away. Don't you see? I can't forget it. Dane won't let me."

  Tyler rocked back in his chair again. "Has it occurred to you he might go even further, that he could be danger­ous?"

  Her eyes widened. "Dane? No, not Dane. You saw him at his worst today. Dane could never hurt me. And if he hurt someone else, I'm sure he never meant to."

  "I saw him trying to bully you around. Sorry, but I think he's capable of violence. It's not worth it, Breanna. I think you should do as he said. Pack up and go."

  "I won't give him the satisfaction. No, if it was Dane here last night, he'll have to get more inventive. I'm not break­ing my promise to Gran because a ghost is haunting me and Dane made vague threats."

  "Vague? I thought he was pretty blatant."

  "You don't know him like I do. Believe me, Tyler. Dane would put his life on the line for me. I know he would."

  Tyler hoped she was right. Oh, how he hoped she was right.

  Because Breanna insisted, Tyler returned with her to the rock slide to do more searching for the entrance to The Crescent Moon. He was more relaxed on the second trip up there, more certain of Breanna's motives. She was off base, thinking the mine and the fire were tied together, but for one guessing in the dark, she was close to the truth. The mine was intertwined with crime, all right, but it had nothing to do with the fire.

  The entire time they worked, he tried to think of ways he might get Breanna's twenty from the barn out of her purse.

  If he could distract her, he would be able to snatch it and pull a switch. To do that, he had to stick to her like glue un­til the opportunity presented itself.

  After moving what seemed like mountains of rock, Tyler and Breanna found the wooden frame of a mine opening. "Well, nobody's going in through that," she quipped. "Not without several sticks of dynamite."

  Tyler nodded, staring at the cave-in. Rock filled the opening. The day wasn't a complete loss. Now he knew for certain the counterfeiters had only one entrance, the one under Breanna's barn. Jack would be pleased to hear it. "Well, that scotches the theory of a bear under the barn
," he said lightly, "We're back to rats."

  Breanna laughed. "I guess we are, at that. It's a relief in a way. I can stop worrying that Dane found it. It was pretty scary, thinking he might have hurt someone, trying to keep the old mine a secret."

  "I'll tell you what. How's about a late lunch in Grants Pass?" He glanced at his watch. "We've got time. What do you say? My treat. We can make a laundry run while we're at it."

  "I don't know, Mr. Ross. You might regret the offer. I'm so hungry after all this work, I might bankrupt you. One thing I don't have is a delicate appetite."

  "So make it two lunches. I'm willing to pay that price for your company."

  As they walked down the trail, Tyler rested his arm over Breanna's shoulders once again, this time intentionally. An ache of protectiveness tightened his chest. Judging by Dane's threats, he knew he had to get that counterfeit twenty to Jack fast. Breanna's life could be riding on it.

  Chapter Six

  Forty minutes later, Tyler pulled Breanna's Honda to the far right lane of Interstate 5 and entered Grants Pass at the town's north end. As they passed the gigantic statue of a caveman at the city's entrance, he said, "Now, that's my kind of fellow. See that club he's got? Those things saved prehistoric man a lot of lunch tabs when it came to wooing the ladies."

  She arched an eyebrow at him, thoroughly enjoying the easy camaraderie that had been established between them during their drive. "Neanderthal are you? You didn't by any chance go to school here?" She pointed to a busy parking lot on their right. "Pull in at the Ninety-Nine Market and I'll get us some laundry soap."

  Tyler braked the Honda and shifted down to make the turn. Pulling to a stop, he shoved in the clutch and reached for his wallet. "Here, use this," he said, handing her a twenty.

  "I'll spring for the soap. You're buying lunch."

  "Well, take it for a roll of quarters then."

  She took her wallet from her bag. Flipping it open, she withdrew a ten and exchanged bills with him.

  His eyes sharpened as she fitted his twenty into her bill­fold. "Why don't you just take the twenty, Bree, and leave your purse? It'd be less to carry."

  "I might want something else. Be right back."

  The moment Breanna turned to walk away, Tyler heaved a sigh. With any luck, she wouldn't spend the twenty from the barn, and he could snatch it later.

  The store was crowded with customers. Breanna found the laundry soap, then selected two candy bars from the display rack as she passed. The opportunity to tease Tyler about her gargantuan appetite later was too tempting to re­sist. She stood in line, stepping forward as the clerk fin­ished each transaction. When her turn came, she set her purchases on the counter and pulled out her wallet.

  "That's four forty-nine," the clerk told her.

  "Oh, and I need quarters. Can you spare a roll?"

  "Sure." The woman took a red cylinder of coin from the left section of her drawer. "That makes it fourteen forty- nine."

  Handing her a twenty, Breanna opened her grocery bag.

  "A brand-new one," the blonde said. "I don't see many."

  Breanna, busy fishing for her candy bars so she could hide them in her purse, replied, "Yes, it is, isn't it?"

  The clerk counted change into Breanna's outstretched palm. When she finished, she lifted curious green eyes, her eyes friendly. "You have a nice day."

  "You, too."

  As Breanna approached the Honda, she smiled to her­self. After lunch, when Tyler was full, she'd offer him a candy bar. Sliding into her seat, she said "Okay, I'm ready to eat you into bankruptcy."

  He flashed her a grin and pulled out into traffic.

  Four hours later, Breanna parked outside the cabin and cut the Honda's engine. The sun dipped behind the mountain, streaking the gray-blue sky with cottony pink. She sat there a moment, absorbing the evening sounds, the swish of pine boughs, the songs of the crickets, the occa­sional chirp of a bird preparing to roost. She heard Coaly barking from inside the cabin, eager to be let out, but she stole another few seconds of quiet. Leaning her head against the rest, she closed her eyes.

  Tyler. What a lovely day it had been. Even doing the laundry with him was fun. There had been only three dryers available, so Tyler had suggested drying their white things together. It had seemed a practical idea until the clothes came out sparking with static, her nylon lacies sticking to his briefs and undershirts. When all the clothes were folded, two pairs of her bikinis were missing. She felt fairly sure Tyler would pull on a pair of shorts one morning next week and find her lavender Tuesday panties inside the garment with him. A mischievous grin slanted across her mouth. It was one way to make a man remember you. And he was sup­posed to help her dig postholes again in the morning. She found herself looking forward to that with as much antici­pation as she might have to a dinner date.

  Glancing at her watch, she sat upright. No more time for loafing she decided. She still had to unload her laundry, let Coaly out for a run, and take a bath before dark.

  Tyler parted the dogwood leaves, gazing down the hill­side as Breanna left the cabin. She had a blue terry robe draped over one arm, and clutched her toiletry items in the other. Glancing at his watch, he noted the time. Seven- thirty. He had to enter the house, find the twenty and be gone within ten minutes. That creek was too cold for her to lounge around in. A quick scrub, and she'd be out and headed for home. He watched her crisscross through the brush along the creek, checking to be certain no one was there. Someone was watching her, all right, but not for the reasons she suspected.

  He waited for her to disappear, then ran out of the bushes, crossed the road and leaped the picket fence that bordered one side of the yard. Pulling out his wallet, he withdrew a plastic credit card and crept to the French doors. Coaly appeared, pressing his wet nose against the glass. Don't bark, Tyler prayed. The dog let out a single "Woof," then wagged his tail.

  Sliding the plastic card into the door seam, Tyler jiggled the lever lock, lifting it free of its catch. The doors swung open, and he stepped inside, nabbing Coaly by the collar. "No way, pal. If you get loose, the game's over."

  Breanna's purse sat on the table. Tyler slid his hand into the side pocket. The grocery list, the bank stub, a tissue blotted with lipstick. Voila, the twenty. He took it, replac­ing it with a bill of his own. As he slid his wallet into his hip pocket, he noticed the maps and photocopies lying on the table. His hand hovered over them, then he vetoed the idea. She'd probably let him take them later to have them drawn to scale. No sense in making her suspicious. Just in case, though, he gave the map another quick study.

  A growl from Coaly made Tyler leap and toss the papers back on the table. Footsteps. In three strides, he stepped outside and pulled the windows closed. No time to lock them. He vaulted the fence, zigzagged across the asphalt and dived into the bush.

  The night wind was picking up. Breanna shivered, knowing how chilly the water would feel. She stepped into the copse and shimmied out of her clothes. Draping her robe over a limb, she carried her bathing things with her to the diving rock. She missed Coaly. With him nosing around, no one could sneak up on her. She had checked the brush, though. She was probably safe enough, and without Coaly along to liven things up, she wouldn't smell like a dog after her bath.

  The pool felt like ice when she dived in. Clenching her teeth, she surfaced and began scrubbing. She had just fin­ished rinsing her hair and was rubbing the soap from her lashes when she heard a creaking sound, similar to what she had heard that second night when Coaly had growled. Pulling her hair back, Breanna stared at the copse beyond the bathing hole.

  The brush still swayed where someone had disturbed it, but she couldn't see anyone. Alarm coursed through her, growing in intensity until her nerves jangled. Not only was no person there, but her clothes weren't there, either.

  She gaped in disbelief. Even her towel was gone.

  "Tyler?" That scoundrel. She sank in the water to her collarbone, smiling expectantly. She envisioned him dan­gling he
r jeans, teasing her. "All right, Mr. Ross, the fun's over. I'll freeze if you don't cut it out."

  The scenario was so clearly etched upon her mind that alarm coursed through her when Tyler didn't step out of the brush. Silence weighted the air. Tyler might tease, he might give her a scare, but he wouldn't drag it out like this while she was treading neck deep in icy water.

  After several minutes had passed, Breanna could bear the cold no longer. Modesty be damned, she thought. She couldn't stay in there and freeze to death. She seized hand­holds on the diving rock, hauling herself from the pool. Water poured off her as she gained her footing. Hiding her body with her arms, she ran along the rock, reached shore and dashed into the bushes.

  Acutely aware of her vulnerability, she didn't stay long in the brush. Working her way through the foliage, she kept her ears strained for the sound of approaching footsteps. Then, taking a deep breath, she ran into the open. Rocks and stickers gouged the soles of her feet, but she didn't slow down as she wove her way between the outhouse and ga­rage and sprinted across the drive. When she reached the retainer wall steps, a horrible thought hit her. The cabin key was in her jeans. She was locked out of the house.

  That realization had no sooner sunk in than Breanna froze on the walkway in midstride. Her clothes lay on the porch, slashed to ribbons. The thief had taken a knife to them. Her pulse rate accelerated as she drew closer. If this was a joke, it wasn't funny. It was sick.

  Fear and anger knotted inside her, the ferocity of both blocking out all else. She grabbed her tattered jeans, slip­ping her fingers into the pocket. The key. Thank goodness. With trembling hands, she inserted it in the lock, gave it a twist and burst into the cabin, shoving the door closed be­hind her.

  Making her way to the bedroom, she grabbed a towel off the shelf and dried. Then she dressed, searching the floor of the closet for her other shoes. Her earlier fear ebbed, crowded out by rage. Someone was trying to terrify her. There could be only one motive, to force her to leave.