IN SEARCH OF DREAMS Page 6

  "I can set the table."

  "Oh, but—"

  "Kate, Kate." Clamping his hand on her shoulder, J.T. shook his head and gave her an admonishing look, then followed it up with one of those devastating smiles that temporarily short-circuited her brain. "I know you've got a lot of stubborn pride, but you have to learn to accept help gracefully. Now take your flowers and put them in water, and while you dish up the food I'll set the table."

  Kate opened her mouth to protest, but, shaking his head, J.T. put a finger under her chin and closed it again.

  "Ah, ah, ah. No arguing," he commanded, bending close and grinning into her startled eyes.

  Surprise and confusion left her speechless for a moment. Finally, deciding she didn't have the emotional energy left to do battle, she accepted defeat. Besides, she could see that he wasn't going to give an inch.

  Throughout dinner, J.T. chatted away, displaying not the least hint of embarrassment. That torrid scene they had shared just moments earlier might as well not have happened, for all the notice he gave it.

  Kate didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted. Her own system had yet to settle.

  He talked about the snags he had encountered in developing his plot, about the invaluable information he'd found in her father's library. Now and then he asked questions about her family, but she chalked them up to the writer's curiosity he'd told her about and put him off with vague answers.

  Kate was so disconcerted she didn't pay close attention to what he was saying half the time. Mostly, she merely nodded and smiled her way through the conversation.

  When they finished eating she offered to make coffee, but he shook his head.

  "No, thanks, I'll pass. I thought I'd go to town tonight. Have a beer or two and nose around a bit."

  "Oh. I see." He had her full attention now. She stared at him, experiencing a quick rush of dread. If he went to town he was sure to get an earful, about her and Zach.

  Her first instinct was to try to get him to change his mind and stay in that evening, but she dismissed the foolish idea. What did it matter? Sooner or later he would find out, anyway.

  "Very well. As you wish," she said with a polite smile.

  Half an hour later Kate sat on the horsehair sofa in the family parlor. The antique settee was the most uncomfortable piece of furniture in the room, but it afforded her a clear view of the foyer. She pretended to read a book, but every few seconds her gaze darted to the wide doorway.

  At last she heard a faint sound from the back of the hall, followed by approaching footsteps and a softly whistled tune. Then J.T. sauntered into view, heading for the front door.

  "Excuse me, J.T."

  "Oh, hi. I didn't see you there." He halted just outside the parlor doorway and flashed a charming smile. "I was just on my way out."

  Setting aside her book, Kate rose and reached into her pocket. "Before you go you'd better have these." She crossed to the doorway with her hand outstretched and dropped a key into his palm. "It's the house key."

  J.T.'s eyebrows rose. "You lock the house at night? I assumed in a sleepy place like this, no one locked their doors, that crime would be almost nonexistent here."

  It was, in the normal sense, but there were a few in town who weren't above harassing her or vandalizing her property, particularly after they had spent an evening at the Miners' Lodge brooding and boozing. She'd run trespassers off more than once.

  Kate wasn't about to admit that to J.T., though. Instead she shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."

  J.T. looked at her for so long she had to resist the urge to squirm. Then he gave the key a little toss and closed his fingers around it. "Yeah, I guess you're right." A crooked smile tipped up one corner of his mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow. Have a nice evening."

  When he had gone, Kate walked to the front window and pulled back the lace curtain. She watched him stroll down the front walk with his hands in his pockets, then climb into his Jeep and start the engine. She followed the red glow of the vehicle's taillights as it headed down the mountain.

  How long would he stay after he heard the talk in town? And why, she wondered dismally, did the thought of him leaving depress her?

  J.T. heaved a relieved sigh the instant he shut the Jeep door. He had to get out of that house or go quietly mad.

  If he'd stayed another minute he wouldn't have been able to keep his hands off Kate. All through dinner her scent had driven him nuts. So had those soft gray eyes. And that mouth, still slightly swollen from his kiss. He could still taste its softness, feel that slight quiver that shook it.

  Hell, he'd been tempted to rake all the dishes off onto the floor and take her right there on the kitchen table.

  Only that wariness in her eyes had stopped him.

  And thank heaven for that. The situation was too delicate to upset it with an affair. Besides, if Zach was his brother, he doubted he would appreciate J.T. putting the moves on his adopted sister.

  The kiss had accomplished one thing, at least. For those few moments when she'd melted in his arms he'd breached that wall of reserve and wariness that surrounded her.

  "You must be losing your touch, Conway," J.T. muttered to himself as he eased the Jeep around a hairpin curve. Usually he had no trouble getting people to relax and open up to him. That was why he'd been so successful as an investigative reporter. A little easy banter, a bit of charm, and strangers were spilling their life stories and all their secrets as though they'd been bosom buddies for years. The Irish gift of gab, his father had called it.

  Kate Mahoney, however, seemed to be immune. Or maybe she just wasn't the talkative type. J.T. chuckled to himself. Talkative, hell. Sweeping away that wariness and getting her to trust him was going to take some work.

  Still, he wasn't entirely displeased with the progress he'd made so far. He'd laid the groundwork. Even pried a bit of information out of her. Soon she would be accustomed to having him around and would let down her guard. But he had to go slowly…

  Most of the shops were dark and there wasn't a soul in sight on the streets of Gold Fever when J.T. parked in front of the Miners' Lodge.

  His breath puffed out in a white cloud when he climbed out of the SUV. It was only a little before nine, but already the yellow light of the street lamp revealed tiny frost crystals hanging in the frigid air. As he hurried to the door of the bar he blew on his hands to warm them and made a mental note to buy himself some gloves.

  A wall of warmth hit him the instant he stepped inside, along with the combined smells of cigarettes and beer and fried food. Clint Black wailed from the jukebox in the far corner, his mellow baritone competing with the clack of billiard balls, the hum of conversation and the low volume of the football game on the TV above the bar.

  J.T. paused in the open doorway, stunned. Except for the television, walking into the Miners' Lodge was like stepping back in time. The massive, carved-mahogany bar stretched along one wall of the long room. Hanging over it was a painting of a voluptuous, nude woman. Smaller nudes adorned the other three red-and-gold-wallpapered walls, along with gilt-framed mirrors and fancy sconces that held kerosene lamps. Several belt-driven fans and crystal chandeliers hung from the twenty-foot-high, pressed-tin ceiling. In the far corner a potbellied stove radiated heat.

  J.T. shook his head in amazement. He'd wanted eighteenth-century ambience, and he'd sure found it.

  Frigid air swooshed in around him, drawing a chorus of barked commands from the other patrons to "close the damn door."

  "Sorry," he said to the room at large, and hastily complied.

  Conversation stopped when the customers realized that the newcomer wasn't one of them. Curious eyes watched J.T. shrug out of his coat and hang it on one of the hooks beside the door, then tracked him to the bar where he hiked up onto a stool.

  "Man, it's cold out there," he remarked to the man sitting to his left. "The temperature must've dropped forty degrees since the sun went down."

  "What'll ya have, mister?" the barkeep aske
d, eyeing him with the same curiosity as his patrons.

  "Guinness."

  The man was back in seconds with the drink. The bar's other occupants returned to what they had been doing, but every few seconds someone glanced J.T.'s way, even the pool players.

  "You lost, mister? Or just passing through?"

  J.T. took a drink before looking at the man on the stool next to his. "Neither. I'm in town for an extended stay."

  "No kiddin'?" The man looked surprised. "We don't get many tourists this time of year."

  "I'm not a tourist. I'm a writer. I'm here to do some research for a novel I plan to set in this area."

  "Well, now, you don't say." The man's eyes lit up, and he turned more fully toward J.T. "What kinda story is it you're writing? By the way, the name's Cletus. Cletus Taylor."

  "J.T. Conway," he returned, shaking his hand. "And the background for the book is hard-rock mining in the 1880s."

  "Well, sir, you sure came to the right place. Mining built this town. Up until just a few years ago every man in Gold Fever worked the mines, one way or another. I was a powder monkey, myself. You know, the guy who sets the blasting charges. It was dangerous work, but the pay was good. 'Course, things are different now. Ever since they closed down the Shamrock Mine, the only thing that's kept this town going is tourism."

  Cletus's mouth took on a sour twist. "Now seven or eight months outta the year the town is full of gawkers in Bermuda shorts and sandals. And I swear, every last one of them has at least one camera hanging around his neck. Some have two or three. They snap pictures right and left like this was an alien planet or something. And hardworking miners are waiting tables and selling trinkets in the shops. Them that's workin' at all. It's humiliating, that's what it is." He shot J.T. a morose look and took a long pull on his beer.

  "Ah, c'mon, Cletus," the man on the miner's other side chided. "There ain't nothing wrong with shopkeeping. For most of us, it's either that or leave Gold Fever to look for work. I'll be dad-blamed if I do that. My family has lived here since 1870. Anyway, selling trinkets beats the hell out of starving."

  The man leaned around Cletus and offered J.T. his work-worn hand. "Name's Otis Brown. Me 'n' my missus own the Mountain Blue Jay, over on Main Street. We specialize in wood carvings and such. I used to work in the mines, too."

  The ice broken, several others wandered over to introduce themselves and put in their two cents about the fate of gold mining and the hardships that resulted for the miners.

  "So, where're you staying?" Cletus asked. "Not here, surely?"

  "Hey!" the barkeep barked. "There's nothing wrong with the rooms I rent out. Me 'n' the missus run a clean place here."

  "Hold on, Fred. I didn't say your place wasn't clean. But since the man's gonna be here for several months writing a book he's gonna want more than just a tiny room. He'll need a place that's comfortable where he can spread out. Ain't that right, Mr. Conway."

  "Right. And call me J.T."

  "Well, now, J.T., I don't rightly know of any place that's available 'round here," Cletus said.

  "Might be that you could rent out the old Tuttle place," Otis suggested. "It's been boarded up for years now, ever since May and Leon moved to Leadville."

  "Good idea." Cletus's face brightened. "Leon got himself a job working in a zinc and lead mine near there. It ain't gold mining, but a man's gotta take what he can get nowadays. Their old place is empty so you'd have to move some furniture in, but you'd have plenty of room. If you want, I can give them a call and ask if they'd be willing to rent it to you."

  "Thanks, Cletus, but that won't be necessary. I'm staying up at the Alpine Rose."

  The statement had the impact of a bomb. Instantly a thick silence fell over the group.

  Fred, the bartender, kept his gaze on the glass he was drying and Cletus's jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his face stood out. Several others stared at their drinks or the floor and shifted uncomfortably.

  "Is that so?" Otis finally said. "I, uh … I thought the Alpine Rose was closed for the season."

  J.T. chuckled. "It was. I had a helluva time persuading Ms. Mahoney to make an exception and let me stay through the winter, but I finally talked her into it."

  "Humph. I'd sooner sleep in a tent," Cletus grumbled into his beer.

  "Really?" J.T. cocked an eyebrow. "Why is that? It seemed to me like a great place to stay."

  "If you don't mind the company you keep. Me, I'm more particular."

  "Ah, c'mon, give the man a break, Cletus," a man named Joe Dodson said. "He doesn't know anything about what happened four years ago, so you can't blame him for renting from Kate. Anyway, the Smithson mansion is the nicest place in town to stay. Even Fred here will admit that. Won't you, Fred?"

  "Yeah, yeah," the bartender replied grudgingly. "If you like that hoity-toity fancy stuff."

  A mix of excitement and dread knotted in J.T.'s chest. Just a little push. That's all it would take, and he'd learn what his brother—if Zach Mahoney was his brother—was accused of doing.

  "I gather Ms. Mahoney isn't a favorite around here."

  Cletus spat out an oath. "Damn right she ain't. If she had any decency in her, she'd leave. Nobody in Gold Fever wants her or her brother here."

  "Really? Funny, she seems like a nice enough woman to me. What's the problem?"

  "Kate Mahoney and that family of hers are nothing but thieves. That's the problem."

  "Now, Cletus, we don't know for sure that—"

  "Don't you 'now Cletus' me, Otis Brown. Maybe the law can't prove anything, but everyone in this town knows that no-good brother of Kate's is to blame for what happened. And she had to have been in on it, too, seein' as how close the two of them always were. Reverend Sweet was a decent, God-fearing man. He woulda never done what he done if he hadn't been lead astray by that no good stepson of his, and you know it."

  "For Pete's sake, what did they do?" J.T. demanded, running out of patience.

  Cletus turned hard eyes on him. "They ran a scam on the people of this town that stripped every last one of us of our life's savings, that's what."

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  She couldn't sleep.

  Kate raised up on one elbow and punched her pillow into a different shape, then flopped back down.

  It didn't help. Sighing, she stared through the darkness at the shadows on her ceiling, cast by the security lights outside shining through the bare tree branches.

  She had gone to bed early, thinking she would be able to sleep, after the exhausting day she'd had, but it wasn't to be. She had been too tense, too sick at heart, imagining what J.T. was being told about her and what his reaction would be.

  The luminous hands on the bedside clock read 3:14. J.T. had returned over two hours ago. She had heard him drive up under the port cochere and let himself in through the side door.

  Ever since he'd left for the Miners' Lodge, she'd been dreading facing him in the morning—so much so that she had been sorely tempted to put on her robe and go knock on his door just to get it over with, but she hadn't quite had the nerve.

  How, she wondered, would he handle the situation? Would he be straightforward and mention what he'd heard about her and Zach? Bring it all out in the open and ask to hear her side before forming an opinion? Or would he pretend he hadn't heard the talk, but watch her with suspicion and distrust when he thought she wasn't looking?

  Well, why should she care one way or the other? she thought, disgusted with herself. J.T. was nothing to her. If he thought she was a thief and a con artist, so be it. There was nothing she could do about it, anyway. One thing she'd learned over the past four years was that people would believe what they wanted to believe, and opinions, once formed, were almost impossible to change.

  She flounced over onto her side. After a moment she hissed and rose up to punch her pillow again.

  That was when she heard them.

  Kate sat up and cocked her head. They were merely the
faintest of sounds, soft "plops" coming in rhythmic intervals from behind the house, and fainter, irregular thumps farther up the incline. If she hadn't been awake she might never have heard them at all.

  Kate eased out of bed and shoved her feet into her slippers. Pulling on her robe as she went, she crept across the room to the back window and inched the lace curtain open a crack. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as they focused on the silhouette of a man just beyond the back terrace, digging in her garden.

  The chicken wire and layers of straw that she had worked so hard to put in place lay scattered to one side. He had already made several small craters in her carefully tended and insulated winter bed of endive.

  Drawn by a metallic thump, her gaze swept up the incline to the garage, where yet another man was trying to cut the padlock off the doors with what appeared to be a pair of hedge clippers.

  Kate saw red. "Why those dirty, no-good…"

  All sense of caution vaporized in an atomic blast of temper.

  Enraged, she stomped to the closet, threw a coat on over her robe, filled the pockets with shells from a box on the shelf and grabbed her father's old double-barreled shotgun.

  "Think you can come sneaking around here, tearing up my property," she grumbled racing out of the room. "We'll just see about that."

  Her coat and robe flapped out behind her as she flew down the stairs and out the back through the kitchen. On the service porch she paused just long enough to break open the shotgun's action and thumb a shell into each barrel before shoving, the screen door open.

  Before it slapped back into place, she cleared the steps in one leap, crossed the terrace, took aim and fired.

  * * *

  The blast jerked J.T. from sleep with a suddenness that jackknifed him straight up in the bed. "What the hell!" He looked around, wild-eyed, his heart pounding, but all he saw through the darkness were the shadowy shapes of the furniture.

  He rubbed his hands over his face. Must have been a bad dream, he thought groggily, relaxing his shoulders.

  Below his window someone yelled, and he jerked to attention again, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.