how you see her?” Lucille asked in shocked disbelief.
“That’s all I can afford to see. She’s an eyewitness,” he said, fighting to keep his voice down, fighting to hold back his frustration. All these months of looking for her, and for what? He’d finally found her, heard her admit she’d seen Derrick kill Jason, and what good did it do unless he took her back to Montana and made her take her evidence to the authorities?
“Luke, she’s a victim of this Derrick Killhorn just like Jason was. Can’t you see that? A woman who runs and hides all this time isn’t protecting her husband, she’s scared to death of him.”
He didn’t pretend to understand the mind of a woman. And right now he saw nothing but his own rage, his own need for vengeance. “She married him, had his child. Surely she knew the kind of man she was marrying.”
“Maybe not. And what about that child?” Lucille demanded. “My God, Luke, you’ve decided he’s dispensable too because he’s Killhorn blood?”
Luke turned at the sound of the studio door opening behind them. They abruptly stopped their conversation as Kit came back into the room. She halted, her gaze on them, no doubt aware they’d been talking about her. He watched her as she headed for the crib and her son. Derrick Killhorn’s son. Luke clamped down his jaw, looking at her through unforgiving eyes.
“How are the clothes?” Lucille asked, her voice sounding strained to Luke’s. “Oh, they’re huge on you.”
The sweatpants puddled at Kit’s ankles, the sweatshirt billowed around her like a balloon. She looked almost comical, the clothing was so large on her slight form. Then he narrowed his eyes as he watched her pluck at the loose-fitting top, tugging it away from her breasts as if self-conscious about the curves that even the huge sweats couldn’t hide. Her discomfort surprised him. And drew his attention.
He tried to remember what she’d been wearing before. Something bulky. Not that he’d really noticed. He’d been too anxious, too single-minded in his determination, too angry with her to care about anything but getting her into the car and getting away.
Now as he watched her move around the living room, studying his aunt’s art work, he speculated about the body that was hidden under the clothing. The sexual nature of the thought amused him, but he reined in his thoughts. He was more interested in what else the woman was hiding from him.
Almost absently, she uncoiled her hair and shook out the waves of fiery red. They tumbled down to the middle of her back, thick and rich, with a texture that at one time would have made him want to run his hand over it, just as he would a fine piece of wood.
She turned, the movement accenting the swell of her breasts beneath the baggy sweats, the rounded curves of her hips. He was stunned by a sudden stab of longing that pierced his angry shell like an arrow.
But he recovered quickly and smiled to himself as he brushed the feeling away, finding it insignificant in light of his other emotions—disdain for Kit Killhorn being at the top of the list. She could call herself “Bannack” but to him she was Mrs. Derrick Killhorn. The name alone damned her.
He’d never before thought of himself as vengeful. But he’d never before dealt with the pain of losing a brother. That loss, coupled with the injustice of Derrick Killhorn going unpunished for the crime, burned within Luke stronger than any desire he’d ever felt—or thought he ever would. And this woman, he reminded himself, stood between him and the vengeance he demanded.
He concentrated on how Mrs. Kit Killhorn was going to help him. One way or the other. With the evidence she had and her eyewitness testimony, Derrick Killhorn would probably go to prison for most of his miserable life. But was that enough? No, Luke thought, as he looked at Kit. Not nearly enough.
Kit could feel the tension in the air the moment she walked back into the room. There was no doubt that they’d been talking about her. Lucille looked upset and Luke…Well, he looked even more angry—if that were possible.
“Let’s try some of this gumbo,” Lucille said nervously.
Luke got up and moved to the fireplace to throw a log onto the dwindling blaze.
Kit pretended she hadn’t noticed anything amiss as she pulled her hair up into a ponytail and went to the crib where Andy sat surrounded by toys. He looked utterly content. She picked him up, hugging him to her tightly and dug into his bag for the baby food.
As she headed for the table, she noticed more watercolor seascapes lining the walls. “Are these yours?” she asked Lucille.
“It’s just a hobby,” the woman said modestly.
“They’re very good,” Kit said, the cheerful bright paintings warming her all the more to Lucille.
“See, I told you you have talent,” Luke said to his aunt as she placed a huge pot of steaming gumbo in the center of the table.
Kit noticed something odd in the way he moved toward the table, but before she could think of what it was, she heard Luke say, “Mrs. Killhorn is an artist herself. A painter. I’ve seen her work.”
Kit felt as if he’d punched her. All the air rushed from her lungs; she thought she might faint. How could he know that? It wasn’t as if it was common knowledge. And where could he have seen any of her work? She didn’t like him calling her Mrs. Killhorn either, and he knew that—but it was her name, wasn’t it? Did he think he needed to remind her what a fool she’d been to marry Derrick?
“I was at the house,” he said sitting down at the table. “Killhorn’s house. Twice, actually.”
“When could you have—”
He looked up, pulling her down into the gray depths of his gaze until she thought she could see the dark bottom of his soul. “Seven months ago. One of my cousins is a locksmith.”
Kit knew she shouldn’t have been shocked by his confession. Nor by the open defiance in his eyes. The man had spent seven months tailing Sanders, bugging Sanders’s car and his motel rooms, tracking her, then abducted her and Andy. Why was she so shocked that he’d broken into the house she used to live in with Derrick?
Because she was just beginning to understand how far Luke St. John would go to get what he wanted. And that was exactly what he wanted her to know.
She met his gaze with an angry one of her own. Her art had always been private, painted in secret. First, because her aunt hadn’t approved. Later, because Derrick didn’t like her wasting her time painting.
But she had painted, filling the long hours alone in Derrick’s huge house with the one thing she loved. When he’d seen her work before they were married, he’d shown no interest. His only concern was that she might want to hang some of them in the house, the house he’d spent a fortune paying an interior designer to decorate.
“I have a certain position in the community to uphold, you understand,” he’d said. “I can’t have amateur artwork on the walls.”
He’d given her one room upstairs—what he called her sewing room; what she called her studio—and told her she could do with it whatever she wanted. So she’d put
