Dangerous Refuge Read Free Page A

out. Nothing but black dust and darkness filled the opening behind.
    Tanner’s first thought was robbery followed by murder. He told himself again that it wasn’t a crime scene.
    Times have been real hard on small ranchers. Lorne probably traded in the gold to keep himself in beans and bread, and pay taxes, and keep the horses in winter hay.
    He left the stone on the mantelpiece, a reminder to check the area again later. Then he went through the small house, looking with a cop’s eyes. No signs of a search. Nothing out of place. No clothes scattered around. Old wicker basket holding dirty laundry. No notes or doctor’s appointment slips or reminders of any kind.
    No signs of anything but an old man living alone, keeping up the ranch for a family he hated and a tomorrow he wouldn’t see.
    When Tanner was satisfied that nothing was out of place, he stripped the double bed and put fresh sheets on from the extras kept in a steamer trunk in the corner of the room. He was too old to sleep in the barn like he had when he was a kid. He started to kick off his shoes, then realized he wasn’t fooling anybody, most of all himself.
    He couldn’t sleep here.
    Too many memories. Too many regrets.
    Too many questions.
    Telling himself he shouldn’t even as he punched in the numbers on his cell phone, he waited for it to ring.
    Nothing happened.
    No cell, idiot.
    Then he froze. The sound outside was familiar and wrong. Someone was driving up the dirt road toward the house.
    Now what? Isn’t being stuck in Refuge again bad enough?
    The sound came closer.
    His car was still out front, pinging and hot from the drive to the ranch. No way to hide it, or himself. Whoever was coming now was either a close friend of Lorne’s who could barge in at any time or someone who had heard about the owner’s death and wanted to give the place a quick toss.
    He snapped the light off and waited.
    There was a crunch of dirt and gravel as the car stopped on the far side of Tanner’s car.
    “Hello?” called a woman’s voice. “Anyone home? Dingo? Here, boy. C’mon, I’ve got treats for you.”
    He recognized the voice. No male under eighty was likely to forget that husky sigh of tangled sheets and sex. It was the woman on the answering machine.
    Hand on the doorknob, he waited, wondering if she was a thief, a murderer, a neighbor—or all three.

Three
     
    C alifornia plates, Shaye thought, looking at the Ford Crown Victoria. Someone didn’t just stop by like me to check on Dingo and the animals. We’re close to the border here, but not that close.
    She took another step from her Bronco and whistled. Or tried to. Her throat was dry. She didn’t like remembering the last time she had been here, the vultures and body that was both Lorne and not Lorne.
    No single bark of greeting from Dingo. No lights coming on to welcome her.
    Yet there was a car here, its engine still radiating heat into the night.
    “Hello? Is anyone home?”
    She called loud enough to disturb the cows at the close end of the pasture. They rustled and lowed in response. Motionless, she strained to make out a more human sound. All she heard was her pounding heartbeat, blood rushing through her ears like waves on the shore. Fear slid coolly down her spine.
    Don’t be ridiculous. Whoever is here is probably asleep.
    Swallowing hard, she walked up to the door. She didn’t want to poke around the barn checking the horses and get shot as an intruder. She rapped hard on the wooden door.
    Silently, it opened into darkness.
    She made a startled sound. A black shape loomed just beyond the door.
    The room light snapped on, backlighting the shape. A man. Taller than she was and then some. Not skinny, not fat. Strong and at ease, yet somehow . . . dangerous.
    “You’re Shaye,” he said.
    The sound was barely above a growl.
    “Yes,” she said. “Who are you?”
    “Tanner Davis, Lorne’s nephew.”
    “He never mentioned any relations,” she said warily. She wished he would