the house where their father had supposedly butchered the family. The Hatchet House had been closed up since the murder. The fading, chipped paint and latticework of the Victorian structure testified to its disrepair. The angles and attic window seemed macabre in the murky light. It was tucked on the side of a cliff, isolated but closer to the main road and town than Falcon Ridge, but the way it jutted out over the mountain made it look as if it might slide into the canyon any second. The location, coupled with its gruesome history and the fact that locals claimed it was haunted had kept buyers away. He’d already conducted a preliminary sweep of the downstairs. Tomorrow he’d search every inch of it and the grounds for evidence the police might have missed in their hasty, slipshod investigation.
And he’d run off anyone who got in his way.
HAILEY HAD BEEN DRIVING for hours, battling the snowstorm. Putting the miles between her and Thad. Between her and her past.
A mountain road twisted to the side, and she veered onto it. Darkness bathed the graveled road, shadows from the trees flickering like fingers reaching for her, crystals of frozen ice pelting her windshield. For a brief second when she’d left Thad, she’d considered going to the police. But he had too many friends in the police department, too many important people to protect him. Just like her fifth foster father had. She’d traveled that rocky road before and managed to survive.
Her foster mother hadn’t been so lucky.
So, she’d left Thad’s car at his house, taken her own and left for good. Just to be on the safe side in case he’d followed, she’d traded her Civic for a VW. She’d also traded her golden hair for a brownish-red and had layered it into a shoulder-length bob.
Thank goodness she’d already bought a place in the mountains, so she wasn’t running without a plan.
The majestic view of aging trees, their boughs heavy with icicles, and wildlife roaming free stirred her awe. She’d always wanted to come to this area, had been saving for the right place for months. Here she’d find a sanctuary from the dark shadows that had dogged her all her life.
Here, she would have a new beginning. A future.
She made another turn, then spotted the house in her headlights. The Victorian mansion sat at the top of a cliff overlooking the densely populated woods beyond. She hit the brakes. The For Sale sign dangled precariously over the edge of the cliff as if it had been there a long time and had barely managed to withstand the last storm.
Her gaze swung to the house. Just like in the pictures the real estate agent had shown her, it was weathered-looking and had fallen into disrepair. Boards on the front porch needed replacing, the shutters were loose and the paint peeling. But the price was right, and fixing it up would be cathartic.
Although it was slightly isolated, it was also near enough the supposedly haunted mining town of Tin City to entice visitors. She envisioned her Internet antiques business being housed on the bottom floor, her private quarters on the top. And if she researched the house’s history, the tale of its ghosts would draw customers to her showroom. She’d always been fascinated with history, especially local legends of small towns. Her fascination with storytelling coupled with her degree in history had been an asset when she’d worked at the auction house.
Thad had thought her interests spooky, even boring. But somehow learning about others’ past seemed to help compensate for the fact that she’d forgotten so much of her own.
The hair on the back of her neck prickled as she climbed from the car. Wind howled through the snow-tipped treetops, ruffling the bare branches. A whisper of danger coasted on its tail.
She glanced back down the mountain road. Had Thad found her?
No, she was safe.
Her destiny awaited her. Her future. She felt it in her bones.
Renewed determination filling her, she walked up to the front porch, ready to start over. Towering pines cast spiny shadows around the property like bony fingers hovering over the roof. Spiderwebs and dirt clung to the yellowed wood, and the dark window of the attic seemed sinister in the gray light. She could almost see the ghost of a child’s face peering out through the blackness, her cry of loneliness echoing through the eaves. The house had spoken to her.
And she was unable to escape the lure of its call.
SOMEONE WAS AT the Hatchet House.
Rex couldn’t wait until the next day. He barreled down the curvy mountain road, gravel and ice spewing as he slowed to a stop. A VW sat in the clearing, and a woman stood in front of the picture window, staring up at the sagging latticework. She jerked around at the sound of his Jeep, her startled expression reminding him of a baby eagle cornered in the forest by a hunter.
He killed the engine and climbed out, his pulse accelerating. Even though night had fallen and darkness engulfed her features, he could tell she was small with choppy auburn hair that almost looked unnatural. A baggy denim shirt and jeans covered her frame, revealing nothing about the curves he sensed lay beneath. He zeroed in on her eyes, though. He’d never seen any that color. His body reacted involuntarily, heat spread through his limbs and his sex hardened. Stunning was the only word to describe her.
No, add cold and scared to stunning.
“Who are you?” She hunched deeper inside her coat, backing toward the porch awning as if it might offer safety. But the lights were out and shadows closed around her, fresh snow crystals clinging to her hair.
“Rex Falcon. I live on top of the mountain at Falcon Ridge.” He dragged his eyes from hers and skimmed down her face. Primal instincts overtook him. Even in the shadows, the rose-petal color of her lips made his mouth water for a taste.
But the trembling of her lower lip warned him that his gut instinct had been right.
She was running from something.
No other woman in her right mind would have traveled up this mountain alone. Not at night in this storm when the roads became almost impassable. Not to look at the Hatchet House. That is, unless she was some kind of reporter. Or maybe one of those nuts who chased ghosts and tried to prove they were real.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Hailey Hitchcock.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Studying the house.” She squared her shoulders in a show of bravado, but the purple bruise on her chin negated the effect.
Their gazes locked. A tension-filled moment passed between them, fraught with questions and an undeniable awareness of their isolation. His body began to throb, the call of the wild inside him drawing him to her.
But that could only mean trouble. And he would not give in to those instincts.
Maybe he could scare her off. “You must be a tourist, stopping by to gawk at the house because of all the rumors.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “You mean about the ghosts?”
“Yes, and the murders.” His voice rumbled out hard. Cold. “They say the house is haunted.”
She swallowed, the pale skin of her neck glowing in the twilight. “I know, the real estate agent told me about the ghosts when I bought the place.”
His
