Thunder at Dawn Read online

  The mere idea of having another child sent his thoughts spinning toward Faith. He couldn’t seem to stop thinking about her.

  Especially about her living all alone out at that cabin.

  Blue Moon Mesa was a lonely spot. Too damned lonely, out in the middle of nowhere, with a killer on the loose.

  She belongs here, he thought, his gut tightening. She belongs in this house, in my home, Dillon’s home. She’s still a part of me—and she has been all these years, even when we were apart, even when I wouldn’t let myself think about her.

  There were other things that dragged at his mind . . . Candy’s murder, the kids he’d promised would have a camp, the trouble brewing from Fred Harrison and Wood Morgan and that slimeball mouthpiece, Rusty Gallagher.

  But he could deal with all of that. The one thing he couldn’t deal with was the hurt and wariness he still saw in Faith’s eyes when he was with her. The way she refused to trust him, to lean on him, to open herself to him.

  That carved a deeper slice out of his gut than any other. And he knew that everything that happened that final night in Thunder Creek all those years ago still stood between them, like a stone barricade. His chest was tight with pain because he knew it always would.

  As the boys threw down their water guns and raced toward the barn, he checked his watch. Faith would be here soon. He should shave, change his shirt. And remind Dillon to put on dry clothes.

  Then he heard boots clumping hard and fast from the back of the house and he turned toward the study door to find Gabe frowning at him. As the foreman entered the study, Zach noticed the steely center of Gabe’s eyes and somehow knew his plans for the evening were about to go up in smoke.

  “I just came from the building site, boss. All hell is breaking loose—you need to get over there pronto. We got ourselves some real trouble.”

  Faith drove slowly up the long paved road lined by rows of juniper and pine that led to the Last Trail ranch house. It loomed before her at last, a great winding two-story house, five thousand square feet of spaciousness and grace that had been in Zach’s aunt’s family for four generations.

  As she parked the car in the front drive, her heart caught at the sight of the horses chasing each other in the corral, of the big dog that came thundering out to greet her, barking authoritatively and wagging his tail to beat the band.

  She got out of the car and extended a hand for him to sniff, then stroked his head, surprised that Zach hadn’t come out to greet her as well.

  Perhaps he’s still working, she thought as Batman nudged closer. He’s a busy man, after all. And you’re not the center of his world, not anymore—if you ever were. He has a company to run, an office to build, and international obligations to meet. Not to mention a son who owns his heart.

  Maybe he’d forgotten she was even coming.

  As Batman began to bound in happy circles around her, she straightened and gazed before her at the grand ranch house that looked every bit as magnificent as it had when she’d come here with Zach several times. The first time, she’d drunk a cup of after-dinner tea with Ardelle Harvey before Zach had pulled her away and shown her around the house. From the first, Faith had been fascinated by its lofty dimensions, bronze chandeliers, and charming antique furniture. From the painted mirror and pier table in the foyer to the fresh flowers gracing the carved oak dining room table, the Last Trail ranch house had been a stunning mix of antiques, Western art, and homey charm on a large scale.

  Best of all, it boasted wide generous windows that opened in every direction to soaring vistas of wild Wyoming splendor.

  Steeling herself, she started forward, long-buried memories swirling through her. That first evening, with its delicate breeze and the hint of thunder in the air, held some of her most beautiful—and painful—memories. She and Zach, ducking out onto the back porch, alone with the night and the summer lightning, the hum of crickets, and the beating of their own lovestruck hearts . . .

  “Hey!” Dillon burst out the front door and across the porch, clutching a grape Popsicle. A red-haired boy with tiny freckles sprinkled all over his face raced after him. His Popsicle was yellow. Batman instantly wheeled and bounded toward them, his tail wagging madly.

  “You’re having dinner with us tonight,” Dillon announced, skidding to a stop right in front of her.

  Faith had to laugh as she looked at him, at both boys. They were sopping wet, hair dripping, shirts and pants stained with water marks.

  The squirt guns on the ground near the corrals confirmed her guess. “Who won?” she asked, gazing from one to the other.

  “I did!” both boys chimed in simultaneously.

  She laughed again, strongly reminded of her brothers, Ty and Adam, during all the years they were growing up. Except for one thing. Dillon wasn’t a Barclay. He was a McCallum through and through.

  She’d never seen a picture of Zach as a young boy, but she knew he must have looked very much like Dillon—only Dillon looked so happy-go-lucky, so carefree, and she doubted Zach had ever felt that way.

  Her heart twisted as she gazed at his son. Finally, she forced herself to look at his friend instead.

  “And what’s your name?”

  “This is Brett,” Dillon informed her before the other boy could speak.

  “Brett Grayson,” the red-haired kid piped up.

  “He’s staying for dinner too.” Dillon took another lick of his dripping Popsicle. “Then we’re sleeping at his house and leaving in the morning.”

  “Leaving for where?” Faith asked as she fell into step with them, headed toward the house.

  “The Grand Canyon.” This time it was Brett who explained, even as Faith remembered Zach mentioning the trip. “My parents are taking us for two whole weeks. My uncle’s a ranger there,” he said proudly. “We’re going to camp out with him on the rim.”

  “And ride down all the way to the bottom on mules.” Dillon took the porch steps two at a time. “How awesome is that?”

  “Very awesome. Awesomely awesome.” Faith smiled. She peered around the high-ceilinged foyer, almost exactly as she remembered it, half expecting to see Zach coming toward her down the stairs, but no one appeared—except a sleek marmalade cat that pranced down the carved oak staircase and whisked around the corner as if late for an important appointment. The only sound was that of drawers slamming and some ominous banging coming from the back of the house, probably the kitchen.

  “Is your dad around?”

  “He had to leave—he said there was something he had to take care of at work, but he’ll be back for dinner—”

  “Dillon McCallum, you’re letting that Popsicle drip all over my nice clean floor!” Neely rushed into the hallway, her bushy iron-gray hair sticking out from behind her ears, her scowl as dark as the aged leather boots on her feet.

  “You’re that Barclay woman,” she sniffed. She eyed Faith as if she’d just slithered out from a hole in the hard-packed earth beneath the porch.

  “Yes, I’m waiting for—”

  “I know who you’re waiting for.” Neely snorted. “He doesn’t tell me until this very morning that you and Brett here are both coming to dinner. How do you like that? You’d think it would kill him to give me advance notice.”

  Startled, Faith found herself fumbling for words. “Well, I didn’t mean to cause any extra work—”

  “This is Neely,” Dillon interrupted her, grinning. “She always complains. You do,” he told the woman with a giggle. Brett was laughing too and slurping at his Popsicle to keep it from dripping on the floor.

  “And she always has tons of food, even if it’s only me and my dad, and sometimes Gabe. I end up having leftovers for lunch for days at a time.” Dillon rolled his eyes.

  “My mom does that too,” Brett chimed in.

  “Are we having fried chicken, Neely?” Dillon looked hopefully at the stout housekeeper in her jeans and baggy yellow-and-blue flannel shirt, apparently unfazed by her frown. “That’s my favorite and Brett’s too
.”

  “Is it now? Hmmph, I had no idea.”

  The boy only grinned wider.

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” She glared at him. “March upstairs and get out of those wet clothes this instant, both of you. Brett, you put on some of Dillon’s clothes until yours are dry. And wash your hands—they look sticky as a couple of cinnamon buns. No, no, first go in the kitchen and throw away those Popsicle sticks. I swear, you and those wild animals of yours will be the death of me.”

  “Wild animals?” Faith raised a brow at Dillon.

  “They’re not wild. They’re just not tame . . . like people,” he explained seriously. “I have one dog . . . that’s Batman, you know him—one cat named Jelly, one kitten named Zena, and my rabbit, Tigger—he got loose in the house one time—only one time,” he added quickly. “Plus my own horse, Rocket Boy. I had a hamster named Sonny, but he died. And I turned my frog loose yesterday, so it could be free.”

  “I’ll tell your father to sell them all if you don’t throw out those Popsicle sticks right now and change your clothes,” Neely grumbled. “You’ll get pneumonia and then he’ll fire me for sure.”

  When the boys were gone, pounding up the stairs at last, and Jelly the cat had nudged open the screen door and slipped outside, Neely shrugged, addressing Faith.

  “You can wait in the living room, I guess. Or Zach’s study. Whichever you prefer. I have to go back to the kitchen and slave away some more.”

  “Why don’t I help you?” Faith suggested.

  “I don’t need help.” She scrutinized the slim young woman standing before her in cream-colored pants and a chocolate-colored sweater, rich curls tumbling loosely to her shoulders. This Faith Barclay was not only pretty, there was intelligence and warmth in her face. She couldn’t have looked more different from that high-strung, flitty blond witch Zach had married.

  Suddenly Neely shrugged again. “You want to help? How about peeling potatoes? I have to turn the chicken and season the soup and take out the pie—sometimes I think I need five hands, between Dillon pestering me and cooking all day and night, and all those animals running loose.”

  “Then by all means, I’d love to peel potatoes.”

  “You know how?” Neely narrowed her eyes. “Lots of girls these days, they don’t know how to boil an egg, much less peel a potato or fry up a mess of chicken.”

  “I’ve been peeling potatoes for my mom since I was seven,” Faith assured her. “And I’ve fried up more chickens than Colonel Sanders in his prime.”

  “Well, then.” Neely sniffed, turning toward the kitchen. “What are you waiting for? Come along.”

  “Mr. McCallum, you seem to be up to your neck in trouble every which way you turn.”

  Deputy Rick Keene faced the CEO of TexCorp Oil, inspecting him like he was a laboratory rat under a microscope.

  “That’s one way of looking at it.” Zach controlled the flicker of anger that licked through him. “But someone just faked a bomb threat to my company and shut down my construction site for the rest of the day, maybe two days. I expect you to find whoever is responsible.”

  “That’s my job and I’ll surely do it.” Keene nodded, holding the other man’s gaze. “Just like I’m going to find out who killed poor little Candy Merck. Interesting—there’s not a whole heckuva lot of crime in Thunder Creek—but you happen to be involved in two of the most unusual kinds of crimes in small towns, and they both occurred during the very same week. Do you believe in coincidence, Mr. McCallum?”

  “What’s your point, Deputy?”

  “Just thinking out loud.” Keene offered a hard smile. “You got any enemies, Mr. McCallum?”

  “Most powerful men have enemies. I don’t know of any who would threaten my building and scare my workmen. But maybe someone’s trying to disrupt the construction of my office.”

  “Why would someone do that?”

  “Isn’t it your job to find that out?” Zach retorted. He turned away, staring out at the construction site where moments ago a group of sheriff’s deputies had blown up a black duffel bag found behind a pile of two-by-fours. No bomb had been discovered inside—only a couple of old local telephone books.

  There had been a note pinned to the duffel bag. Someone had sliced up newspapers and magazines and used the printed letters to spell out a message.

  It said: Go home, McCallum. You’ve been warned.

  Now the site was empty of workers. Sheriff’s deputies and a bomb-sniffing dog prowled the equipment and debris, searching for clues.

  “I need some information from you to get me started.” Keene was also looking over the site. He made a clicking sound with his teeth, and his pale green eyes held a glint of speculation. “There’s bad blood between you and Fred Harrison, isn’t there? Someone mentioned that a while back you assaulted and seriously injured his son.”

  Zach’s jaw tensed. “Mr. Harrison blames me for his son’s injuries,” he said curtly. “But it was a long time ago. And Pete recovered. He lived another four years before dying in a small plane crash—on a business trip for his father.”

  “Yeah, I heard that. Can you think of anyone else here in Thunder Creek who might want to harm you or your business?”

  “I can. Some people don’t like my plans for leasing a back parcel of my land. You’d have to ask them if they’d stoop to bomb threats and intimidation to try to stop me.”

  “And these people would be?”

  “You know damn well who they are,” Zach said evenly, his gaze hard as he met the deputy’s stare. “You signed the petition they started to pressure me to change my mind. Your name is number thirty-two out of ninety-seven.”

  Deputy Rick Keene scratched his head. “Are you accusing Mr. or Mrs. Wood Morgan of doing this?” he asked. “That’s a pretty big accusation against one of the finest families in this town.”

  “Even fine families have black sheep, Keene. And they’ve made it clear they don’t want me here any more than they want the camp I’m allowing to be built on my property. Seems they want to build on it themselves.”

  “Have they said this to you in so many words?”

  “Yep. Wood Morgan offered to buy the land from me. He wants to expand his dude ranch—to build luxury condominiums in the foothills. I refused his offer. You take it from there.”

  “I know how to do my job,” Keene said flatly. He spat on the ground. “Can you think of anyone else? Employees you fired? Old girlfriends who might hold a grudge?”

  Zach shook his head.

  “You know, that reminds me.” Keene looked him directly in the eyes. “Did you date Candy Merck?”

  “No. And what does she have to do with this?”

  “Not a thing. But right now hers is the other big case I’m working on. So as long as you’re here, I just happen to have a few questions.” The acting sheriff’s smile was both cool and fleeting. “I heard that you were seen with her at the Tumbleweed Bar and Grill. Isn’t it a fact that she was your date? And wasn’t there an altercation that night involving Faith Barclay?”

  “You seem to already know the answer to those questions.”

  It seemed obvious to Zach that he wasn’t going to get much help finding out who was behind this bomb threat until Ty Barclay returned to his sheriffing duties. Rick Keene, no doubt seeking Wood Morgan’s endorsement in the upcoming election for sheriff, wasn’t about to turn the spotlight on Morgan or anyone connected with him. That would include Rusty Gallagher and Fred Harrison, who’d been first in line to sign Morgan’s petition opposing the camp.

  Talking to Keene and expecting him to question Wood Morgan himself was a waste of time.

  Speaking of time . . .

  Zach glanced at his watch. Damn, it was after seven. Faith had probably come and gone from the ranch. She’d no doubt left when he didn’t show up by half past six. And his chance at dinner with the boys was blown too. Not to mention the fact that he still had to get Dillon and Brett back to the Grayson house for an early bedtime before
their trip.

  “Let me know what you find out,” he told Keene abruptly, knowing full well he’d never hear that a suspect had been arrested. “When can my crew get back to work?”

  “Tomorrow.” A distant roar of thunder followed his words. Glancing up at the clouds rolling in, Keene started toward his Crown Victoria. “Or the next day,” he said, smiling over his shoulder.

  The sun was setting in a molten blaze of mauve and gold as Zach roared to a stop in the long driveway right behind Faith’s SUV.

  He was about to head into the house when he heard laughter and voices inside the barn. The door was open, and Faith’s soft laugh sounded above his son’s giggles.

  He couldn’t believe she was still here.

  He stepped inside and saw them kneeling in the corner, playing with the cats. Jelly was chasing a string that Dillon dangled and zigzagged. Faith had the kitten cuddled against her shoulder, while Brett and Batman chased each other in circles.

  Zach stood perfectly still, taking in the scene. He hadn’t seen that expression of pure relaxed happiness on Faith’s face since that long-ago summer. She was smiling warmly at his son, her eyes soft, approving, and his chest tightened.

  Things could have been so different. If he hadn’t gotten Alicia pregnant, if he hadn’t had to fly back to Texas that night, Dillon might have been his and Faith’s son. They might have spent the past ten years together, close and loving, a real family . . .

  She looked up then and saw him.

  Zach saw the laughter fade, saw the wall of mistrust swing back, lock into place.

  Even the truth couldn’t break down that wall, he thought, despair settling upon his shoulders.

  It was too late. Ten years too late.

  “Dad, Ms. Barclay taught Zena her name—watch! Zena! Zena, come here!”

  As Faith set the kitten down on the floor, it peered over at Dillon inquisitively, made a tiny mewing sound, then took a swipe at the string in Dillon’s hand.

  “See how smart she is?” Dillon cried in delight.