bay window, but she nudged them aside to look out at a majestic view of the Colorado mountains. The valley below would be green in summer, but now brown dotted the trees, along with an increasing layer of snow.
She imagined the white-topped mountain peaks at sunset, and a smile tugged at her lips.
But the wind howled outside, the thin panes of glass crackling with the force. The floor was darker near the mudroom, too. She stepped closer to examine the deep brown of the planks, but a sense of horror immobilized her.
Was the dark area the bloodstain from the family who’d died inside the room twenty years ago?
TWENTY YEARS SINCE anyone had lived in the Hatchet House. And now this woman…
Rex couldn’t shake his anxiety over her appearance. Hailey Hitchcock was beautiful. But she was in trouble. Running from something. Probably scared of her own shadow although she’d tried to appear unfazed by his appearance.
So why had she bought a supposedly haunted old house in the middle of nowhere in the dead of winter?
Because she didn’t want to be found. But wasn’t she afraid to live alone in a house where a brutal crime had occurred? And who was she running from? Her husband? A lover?
Or could she be in trouble with the law?
His father’s haggard face materialized. Years ago, he’d been tall in stature, a mountain of a man with an animalistic nature and skin bronzed from the sun and outdoor work. Now, he was pale and drawn, the lack of ample light and time in his natural environment killing him. Just as it would kill Rex and his brothers to be locked away, deprived of the very essence of their being.
And his mother…she had suffered so much over the years. She’d loved their father unconditionally, had stood beside him at the trial, had endured the tauntings of the neighbors. Even after his father’s conviction, she’d tried to hold her head up in the town, but some people were cruel. So, she’d finally taken her boys to Arizona, far away from the hateful gossip and condemning eyes.
Just returning to Falcon Ridge, Rex felt those damning eyes as if the past twenty years hadn’t passed, as if he was that same child who’d been ostracized as a killer’s child.
Telling himself Hailey Hitchcock was not his concern, that his job here was to find the man who’d framed his father, he strode through the ten-foot-tall stone walls that shaped his homestead on Falcon Ridge. The icy, cavernous rooms echoed with age, like a fortress that had stood the test of time against the bitter Colorado elements.
Although his mother had hated the monastery-like house and stone walls, the fact that they’d been virtually cut off from civilization during the long winter months, the house resurrected happy memories of his childhood. Of running through the mammoth structure, hiding in the labyrinth of rooms in the basement. Hiking with his dad into the woods to watch the birds of prey.
He went to his basement office, the space he had set up for his P.I. business, booted up his computer and pulled up the old case files on his father’s arrest. The Lyles’ son, eight-year-old Steven, had been the apple of his father’s eye. Mrs. Lyle had become a recluse, though, and kept the little girl, who was supposedly autistic, at home. According to the locals, Lyle, an attorney, had been charismatic, covering for his wife with excuses.
Rex’s father had been the caretaker of the grounds. He’d claimed Mrs. Lyle was afraid of her husband, that he was abusing his wife and daughter. But no one else could corroborate his story. And Rex’s father’s long trek alone into the woods that day had robbed him of an alibi.
Rex skimmed further, trying to figure out the motive they’d attached to his father’s alleged crimes. If he’d had an affair with Mrs. Lyle, why murder her and the children? Why not kill the abusive husband?
Frustrated, he rammed a hand through his hair. In fact, they’d never found the hatchet itself or any bloody clothes or fingerprints. Were they somewhere in the house or on the grounds?
He stood and paced, thinking about Hailey Hitchcock in that house alone. She hadn’t brought much with her, just a suitcase or two he’d seen in the back seat and whatever had fit in her trunk. Was she having her other things shipped, or did her lack of belongings suggest she’d left in a hurry?
He pictured those reddish-brown eyes and his body hardened, a surge of lust burning through him.
Was she sleeping in that house tonight? Thinking of the people who’d lived there before her?
SHE WAS LOCKED IN A ROOM.
Alone. Frightened. Only a child.
She curled within the darkness, listening for footsteps, but the house was silent. The air felt heavy around her. Sickening. Stale. Deathly quiet.
Was he coming back for her?
She opened one eye and scanned the interior of her prison, the whisper of a breath cascading through the dust-filled room.
“I’ll be back for you,” he’d said.
She shivered. She wanted out. But she didn’t want him to come. No, not him. He scared her so bad she’d wet her pants once. And that had made him madder.
A sob welled in her throat, and she rubbed her arms, fighting panic. Then footsteps pounded up the steps. The shuffling sounded familiar. It was him.
One. Two. Three. Four. He was getting closer.
A scream locked in her throat. The shadow below the doorway moved, blocking the tiny sliver of light she’d latched on to.
Her safety net. It was gone.
Then the doorknob rattled, and he opened the door. She shrank back against the closet door as he stalked toward her…
Hailey jerked awake, sweat-soaked from her nightmare. Her breathing erratic, she searched the darkness for intruders, trying to orient herself in the predawn light. Where was she?
She had been dreaming, hadn’t she? Or had she been remembering one of her foster homes?
The floor creaked in the old house. Was that a footstep?
She hugged the sheets, listening carefully. Another squeak. It was coming from the attic. Chipmunks or mice maybe?
Struggling for calm, she pulled on a robe, rose and peeked into the hall. Shadows claimed the corners, then something moved at the opposite end. A shadow. Almost ghostlike, it floated into one of the extra bedrooms, the ones where the children had slept.
Her throat muscles worked to swallow. She had to have imagined it.
But another creaking sound broke the quiet. A foot-step maybe. The distinct sensation of air moving around her caused her to pause, the scent of lilacs drifting nearer. She wasn’t alone, the smell, the sound of someone walking—this time it was real.
AS USUAL, REX WOKE with the dawn. He slid on the protective gloves he used to work with the hawks, lifted the cloth from the cage and looked inside. Sutter, he called him, a ferruginous hawk who’d been hit by a pellet gun, stared up at him with caution. After the pellets had been removed the bird needed rest, but soon he’d be able to hunt again. A few quiet moments passed as they assessed one another. Rex felt the connection, the bond of trust
