Colton by Blood, page 11
It wasn’t until his forehead hit cardboard that he realized he was curling over the box of his mother’s possessions. He clamped his eyes closed, gritting his teeth to fight the rush of grief.
Damn it, Mom. Why did everything have to turn out so screwed up?
He flattened his palms on the box lid. The element of the unknown infused the box with a kind of toxic cloud, eating up the air and stability of the room. Levi’s heart was already crowded with darkness, so perhaps it was as good a time as any to open the box and dispel the mystery before it ate away at him any further.
He’d timed his call to Chris to avoid dinner with the Coltons, planning instead to raid the refrigerator later, and he owed Jethro one last check-in for the night, but all of that could wait. With any luck, he wouldn’t find anything worth keeping and could then walk the whole thing out to the trash. Like amputating an infection, he could wipe his hands and heart clean and retake control over his emotions. And move on.
Box in hand, he strode to the carpet in front of the fireplace, set it on the sofa and tore off the lid. The box was half-full of broken odds and ends, old makeup, saggy candles and papers. A pair of white plastic sunglasses sat atop a newspaper clipping. When he read the words scrawled over the clipping in sloppy blue ballpoint-pen ink, his gut twisted.
Maybe this wasn’t going to be so simple an exercise after all. He flicked the sunglasses out of the way, snatched up the paper and sank to the ground.
Chapter 8
Kate stared at the closed door, debating how big of an error in judgment it was that she’d volunteered to bring dinner to the private room of a man she found irresistible in every way.
Her heart hammered with anxious exhilaration at the idea that as soon as she knocked, she’d be face-to-face with him again, or rather her face at eye level with the vee of skin framed by his shirt collar that hinted at the tight, muscled chest she’d created a perfect visual of in her imagination.
He’d eye the tray, homing in immediately on the massive wedge of lemon pie she’d brought. She loved the way her desserts changed the landscape of his features, lightening everything. If he was her man, she’d probably carry cookies in her purse to ply him with when he got too serious.
Yeah. Coming to his room wasn’t the smartest plan she’d ever dreamed up. Too late now.
Shifting the weight of the tray to her left side, she knocked.
After what felt like an eternity, he opened the door no wider than his body, his expression wary. When he realized it was her, he opened the door all the way and offered a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Hey.”
She pushed the tray out in front of her, ridiculously nervous, waiting for him to notice the pie, but his gaze never strayed from her face.
“I heard you weren’t at dinner, so I made you a plate,” she said. “Agnes plated the dinner, actually, because it’s shrimp and I’m allergic to shellfish, but I offered to bring it to you.”
And now she was babbling. Nice going. She bit the inside of her cheek and waited.
He took the tray and leaned against the doorframe, a pose that would’ve been casual had his face not been tight with repressed emotion. Something was wrong. She sure hoped she wouldn’t make it worse by sharing with him the framed photograph she’d smuggled from Mr. Colton’s room, presently hidden below the napkins and silverware.
“You don’t have to wait on me,” he said. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know that’s one of the reasons why you weren’t at dinner, seeing as how you don’t like to be waited on, but I brought you a slice of lemon pie, so I also know you won’t turn me away.”
His focus shifted to the tray and, just like that, his smile turned genuine. “Is this because you’re afraid I’m going to wipe out the rest of your crème brûlée when I raid the fridge tonight—which I still plan on doing, by the way? I might even try out that blowtorch of yours so I don’t run the risk of eating an incomplete dessert.”
Eager to keep his smile in place, she planted her hands on her hips, faking annoyance. “I swear, every man on this ranch wants to get their hands on my blowtorch. One time I walked in on Trevor using it to light birthday candles.”
“Nice.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re such a guy.”
“You noticed.”
Her gaze flickered to the vee of skin above his collar while her imagination kicked to life, conjuring an image of him sleeping on the sofa. She wrenched her focus to the tray of food. “Kind of hard to miss.”
He tipped his head toward the interior of the room. “Come on in.”
She hesitated. This was her last chance to scram before his charm obliterated her already-shredded willpower. Then she recalled the haunted look on his face when he’d first opened the door. Whatever he was going through, maybe he needed a friend. That, she could handle.
She strolled into the room, feigning casual coolness though her heart was hammering like mad. He’d settled cross-legged on the carpet near the fireplace, the tray to one side and in front of him a box she recognized as the one Luella had handed them. Forgoing the covered plate of shrimp and pasta, he picked up the pie.
“You’re going to eat the dessert first?”
“Absolutely.” He sliced off a bite so huge he had to angle the fork to fit it into his mouth.
“Aren’t you worried about the rest of the meal getting cold?”
He swallowed, rolling his eyes back in his head in a demonstration of bliss. “It’s no use eating the dinner first while a slice of homemade pie is waiting. With every bite, I’d grow to resent the main course for not being the pie, and by the end of the meal I’d have transformed into a bitter, passive-aggressive diner. It won’t do.”
She sat across from him, with the box between them, grinning widely as she took in his chatter as though she was starved for it, starved for wit and humor with someone whose worldview matched her own. “That’s logic a pastry chef can appreciate.”
“Why didn’t you bring a piece of pie for yourself?”
She shrugged. “Because the staff doesn’t eat with the family.”
His face wrinkled into a pained look of incredulity. “Is the staff also trained to only give evasive, B.S. answers?”
In a way, they were. The opinions of employees, especially those as low in the pecking order as Kate, weren’t valued or sought. Opinions could, in fact, get you fired. “Sorry. It’s habit.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “Do you know I have yet to see you eat dessert?” He speared his fork in her direction, waggling a brow. “It’s pretty suspicious when a chef’s never seen eating her own creations. For all I know, you don’t like sweets.”
She indulged often, but it usually took the form of sampling as she worked. Rarely did she find the time to sit and eat a proper meal, or even a proper dessert. “Trust me, I eat plenty. But if it makes you feel better...” She swiped the spoon from the tray, carved off half of the remaining pie and popped it in her mouth.
“It does, actually.” He polished off the last of his pie with a flourish. “You know what that tasted like? More.”
“I’ll make it easy to find in the refrigerator at midnight-snack time.”
He set the empty plate on the tray. “I’m not like them. I’m serious, Kate. I don’t want you to feel like you’re a servant around me.”
“I know you’re not like them, but you might be surprised to discover that the Coltons are good people.”
He shot her an “I smell horse pucky” look.
“I’m serious. The Colton women are kindhearted to their cores. I’m happy here. This ranch is a great place to call home.” Until... Grief washed over her. Poor Faye.
As if reading her mind, he said, “If you don’t count the kidnapping and murder last month. Or Cole Colton’s kidnapping thirty years ago.”
She chewed her lower lip, deliberating. “I brought something to show you.” She pushed the napkins out of the way and held out the photograph. “I found it in Mr. Colton’s room, under his mattress. I thought it might be you and your mom. Maybe he cares about you more than he lets on.”
Levi held the photograph by the wood frame and stared at it, his face turning stoic. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were mournful. “I don’t know what I looked like as a baby because my mom never took any pictures, but that’s not my mom. I bet it’s Cole and Jethro’s first wife, Brittany. Thank you for thinking of me, though.” He handed it back to her and she tucked it under the napkins again. “Would you like to see a picture of my mom? I think there’s one or two in here.”
He rummaged through the box and pulled out a sepia-tinted square photograph. Kate scooted close and took a long look at the smiling face of the frail-looking woman in orange bell-bottoms and a crocheted blouse. “You inherited your eyes and hair from her.”
He studied the picture. “I suppose you’re right. She was prettier than this picture shows.”
Kate took a second look at the picture. “I can tell how pretty she was just from this.”
He huffed. “It’s weird, going through this box of her stuff. I thought I knew everything about her life, but there are a couple things in here that threw me for a loop.” He cringed and scratched his neck. “I don’t know why I’m telling you that personal stuff. I’m sorry to dump that on you. You’re a really good listener.” He shook his head as if to clear it.
Men could be so dense. Trying to be tough and stoic. Of course he didn’t like to talk about topics that brought his grief to the surface. Then again, maybe it was shortsighted of her to think it was only men who tried to bottle it. Kate hadn’t wanted to talk about William’s and Olive’s deaths, either.
She couldn’t talk to her parents or brother, or any of her friends. But Faye helped her see the value in opening up. Under Faye’s gentle coaxing, Kate began to heal. Didn’t mean she was over her losses. She never wanted to be okay with what had happened to William and Olive, but she now knew better than to let such things sit like poison in her soul.
She inched closer until their shoulders touched. “You’re not dumping—you’re getting it off your chest. Big difference.” She tapped the rim of the box. “Walk me through it.”
* * *
He wasn’t sure he could talk about his past. He never, ever did. There wasn’t a point to it except to get dragged back into the grief and the guilt that had consumed too much of his life already. But if he refused her gentle persuasion to open to her, then she’d probably leave. She’d take her softness with her and that full, thick head of hair that was brushing against his arm. She’d take those big brown eyes away, and her warmth, too, and he’d be alone in this sterile, uncomfortable room again. With nothing but a box of pain as company.
And that was unacceptable, even if it meant giving voice to parts of his life he wanted nothing more than to bury.
From the box he picked up the sunglasses. He didn’t remember his mom wearing them, but they looked like the kind of cheap, gaudy accessory she favored. He flipped the ear pieces out, let his mind get temporarily distracted wondering what those ear sticks were called, then shook his head to clear it. “I always thought Jethro’s affair with my mom was brief. Like, a few weeks. Just long enough for her to get pregnant with me.”
“Anything specific make you think that?”
Sighing, he thought back. “No...not really, I guess. She never said it exactly, but it was obvious when I got older that she’d gotten pregnant with me because she thought it might make Jethro love her and invite her to live on the ranch. She never let up about how I needed to be ready to live here because someday we were going to be called home.”
“Sounds like how some people talk about the ‘end of days.’”
The comparison was so perfect that he released a hard, silent laugh, then tossed the sunglasses in the box. “Pretty much. You could definitely describe my mom as evangelical about Jethro.”
“That must have been hard to hear.”
“I didn’t know any better until I started school. All I cared about was making Mom happy and that meant the two of us daydreaming about when we’d move to the big mansion on the hill, as she called it. I have a very specific memory from first grade of telling my friends about it and getting laughed at. It took a cold shoulder from Jethro when we saw him in town for me to figure out that maybe Mom wasn’t the best authority on where she and I would be living in the future.”
“Mr. Colton ignored you?”
“For the most part, yeah. That time I mentioned, my mom saw him coming out of a church after a wedding ceremony with his daughters. She started waving and hollering. I must’ve only been six or seven because I was still a believer, so to speak. I ran right up to Jethro and grabbed onto his leg. He shook me off like I was a stray dog and told my mom to control her child.”
There was a lot of shame floating around in that particular memory. He could summon it still, the shame and confusion of that day, of looking up from the ground to find Amanda, Catherine and Gabriella watching him from over their shoulders as Jethro hustled them away.
He flinched at the unexpectedness of Kate’s hand touching his skin, smoothing over his arm. Man, he liked the feel of her hand, those slender fingers and smooth, soft palm. He crossed his right hand over and captured hers, then transferred it decisively into his left.
“Anyway, look what I found in the box.” He pulled out the newspaper clipping that had rocked him off his axis before Kate had arrived with the food tray and set it on his bent knees for her to see. “Do you know how Brittany Colton died?”
“Yes. Faye told me she died in a car accident when Cole was an infant.”
Levi’s gut clenched. After all this time, the mere mention of car accidents shouldn’t have affected him so acutely. He blamed the recurring nightmares of his own accident for keeping the wound raw.
The black-and-white photograph had been roughly cut away from the article that it had most likely accompanied. It depicted a line of people standing outside a church where, according to the caption, Brittany Colton’s funeral was taking place. One woman’s face had been circled at least a dozen times with the sloppy loops of a ballpoint pen. Whore was written next to it, over the face of a young, strapping Jethro. The word had been written with such force that little tears had been made in the paper.
“Who is she?” Kate asked as her focus shifted to the photograph’s caption.
“Desiree Beal,” he replied, having already performed the name search. “Does that name ring a bell to you?”
Her mouth screwed up as though she was thinking hard. “It does, but I can’t remember where I’ve heard it. I’ve only lived in Dead for five years, and there’s a lot of history I don’t know. If her identity doesn’t come to me, then Agnes and Mathilda would know. They were around back then.”
“My instinct is telling me that this Beal woman was Jethro’s mistress. Why else would my mom feel so strongly about her? I mean, doesn’t that look like the work of a jealous woman? But a mistress at his wife’s funeral...even Jethro wouldn’t stoop that low.”
“Agreed. How old are you? Were you born around this time?”
“Over two years later. I’m twenty-seven.”
“I’m going to come right out and ask you—please don’t be offended. Are you sure about your age?”
“Yes. I mean, why wouldn’t I be? I have a birth certificate.” He didn’t have any other proof than that, not really. But what would’ve been the purpose of faking his age, especially in a small town like Dead, where something like that would be nearly impossible to get away with?
Then it hit him what Kate might be getting at. “I’m not Cole Colton.”
“I don’t think so, either, but it’s at least worth considering. Your mom didn’t have much money and she was obsessed with Mr. Colton.”
Damn it, she was right.
“Mathilda would know who Desiree Beal is. Agnes, too, but I would never ask her. Both of them worked here since before Jethro’s first marriage, and I know Mathilda would never betray your confidences if you asked. She’s a strict boss but also kind and fair. And unlike Agnes, she doesn’t gossip.”
“But she might not know why my mom hated Desiree. The person I really need to talk to is Luella, fingers crossed that her memory isn’t too fried from the drugs. It’s the best place I can think of to start.”
“Agreed.” She picked up his dinner plate. “Time to eat before it gets cold.”
He accepted it and dug in enthusiastically. “You said you’ve lived in Dead for five years. How long have you worked here?”
“Four years.”
“And before that?”
“I worked at the Dead River Diner for a few months. Before that I owned a bakery in Laramie.”
“Wow. You were young to own a business.”
“True. Too young, I think, looking back. It’d been my dream since I was a little girl to open my own bakery. William supported my dream, financially and emotionally. He was my neighbor growing up, older than me by ten years and a successful structural engineer. We opened the bakery in Laramie the year we got married. I was nineteen.”
“What happened to it?”
“Life.”
“Your husband died.”
She nodded. “I tried to hold on to the business on my own, but...” She shrugged, her expression taking on the dull weight of defeat. “When the money ran out and my bakery went under, I had nothing. Less than nothing, according to the creditors. Faye—the woman who died last month—helped me secure this job. I’m grateful for it because at least I get to make dessert while I regroup and figure out what to do with my life next.”
“What is your new dream?”
“Dream isn’t a word I throw around anymore.”
