Ransom Canyon

Asking her about her love life seemed far too personal a question.

Climbing in his truck he forced his thoughts toward problems at the ranch. He needed to hire men; they’d lost three cattle to rustlers this month. As he planned the coming day, Staten did what he always did: he pushed Quinn to a corner of his mind, where she’d wait until he saw her again.

As he passed through the little town of Crossroads, all the businesses were closed up tight except for a gas station that stayed open twenty-four hours to handle the few travelers needing to refuel or brave enough to sample their food.

Half a block away from the station was his grandmother’s bungalow, dark amid the cluster of senior citizens’ homes. One huge light in the middle of all the little homes shone a low glow onto the porch of each house. The tiny white cottages reminded him of a circle of wagons camped just off the main road. She’d lived fifty years on Kirkland land, but when Staten’s granddad, her husband, had died, she’d wanted to move to town. She’d been a teacher in her early years and said she needed to be with her friends in the retirement community, not alone in the big house on the ranch.

He swore without anger, remembering all her instructions the day she moved to town. She wanted her only grandson to drop by every week to switch out batteries, screw in lightbulbs, and reprogram the TV that she’d spent the week messing up. He didn’t mind dropping by. Besides his father, who considered his home—when he wasn’t in Washington—to be Dallas, Granny was the only family Staten had.

A quarter mile past the one main street of Crossroads, his truck lights flashed across four teenagers walking along the road between the Catholic church and the gas station.

Three boys and a girl. Fifteen or sixteen, Staten guessed.

For a moment the memory of Randall came to mind. He’d been about their age when he’d crashed, and he’d worn the same type of blue-and-white letter jacket that two of the boys wore tonight.

Staten slowed as he passed them. “You kids need a ride?” The lights were still on at the church, and a few cars were in the parking lot. Saturday night, Staten remembered. Members of 4-H would probably be working in the basement on projects.

One kid waved. A tall, Hispanic boy named Lucas whom he thought was the oldest son of the head wrangler on the Collins ranch. Reyes was his last name, and Staten remembered the boy being one of a dozen young kids who were often hired part-time at the ranch.

Staten had heard the kid was almost as good a wrangler as his father. The magic of working with horses must have been passed down from father to son, along with the height. Young Reyes might be lean but, thanks to working, he would be in better shape than either of the football boys. When Lucas Reyes finished high school, he’d have no trouble hiring on at any of the big ranches, including the Double K.

“No, we’re fine, Mr. Kirkland,” the Reyes boy said politely. “We’re just walking down to the station for a Coke. Reid Collins’s brother is picking us up soon.”

“No crime in that, mister,” a redheaded kid in a letter jacket answered. His words came fast and clipped, reminding Staten of how his son had sounded.

Volume from a boy trying to prove he was a man, Staten thought.

He couldn’t see the faces of the two boys with letter jackets, but the girl kept her head up. “We’ve been working on a project for the fair,” she answered politely. “I’m Lauren Brigman, Mr. Kirkland.”

Staten nodded. Sheriff Brigman’s daughter, I remember you. She knew enough to be polite, but it was none of his business. “Good evening, Lauren,” he said. “Nice to see you again. Good luck with the project.”

When he pulled away, he shook his head. Normally, he wouldn’t have bothered to stop. This might be small-town Texas, but they were not his problem. If he saw the Reyes boy again, he would apologize.

Staten swore. At this rate he’d turn into a nosy old man by forty-five. It didn’t seem that long ago that he and Amalah used to walk up to the gas station after meetings at the church.

Hell, maybe Quinn asking to kiss him had rattled him more than he thought. He needed to get his head straight. She was just a friend. A woman he turned to when the storms came. Nothing more. That was the way they both wanted it.

Until he made it back to her porch next Friday night, he had a truckload of trouble at the ranch to worry about.

* * *

TWENTY MILES AWAY Quinn O’Grady curled into her blanket on her front porch and watched the night sky, knowing that Staten was still driving home. He always came to her like a raging storm and left as calm as dawn.

Only tonight, she’d surprised him with her request. Tonight when he’d walked away at midnight, it felt different. Somehow after five years, their relationship felt newborn.

She grinned, loving that she had made the first move. She had demanded a kiss, and he hadn’t hesitated. She knew he came to her house out of need and loneliness, but for her it had always been more. In her quiet way, she could not remember a time she hadn’t loved him.

Yet from grade school on, Staten Kirkland had belonged to her best friend, and Quinn had promised herself she’d never try to step between them. Even now, seven years after Amalah’s death, a part of Staten still belonged to his wife. Maybe not his heart, Quinn decided, but more his willingness to be open to caring. He was a man determined never to allow anyone close again. He didn’t want love in his life; he only wanted to survive having loved and lost Amalah.

Amalah had wanted to be Mrs. Kirkland since the day she and Quinn had gone riding on the Double K ranch. She’d loved the big house, the luncheons and the committees. She knew how to smile for the press, how to dress, and how to manage the Kirkland men to get just what she wanted. Amalah had been a perfect wife for a rich rancher.

Quinn only wanted Staten, but never, not for one moment, would she have wished Amalah dead. Staten was a love Quinn kept locked away in her heart, knowing from the beginning that it would never see light.

When her best friend died, Quinn never went to Staten. She couldn’t. It wouldn’t have been fair. She never called or tried to accidentally run into him in town. Amalah might be gone, but Staten still didn’t belong to her. She was not the kind of woman who could live in his world.

Two years passed after Amalah died. Staten would stop by now and then just to check on Quinn, but her shyness kept their conversations short.

Then, Randall died.

She’d heard about the car crash on the local radio station and cried for the boy she’d known all his life.

Tears for a boy’s life cut short and for a father who she knew must be hurting, but who she couldn’t go to. She wouldn’t have known what to say. He’d be surrounded by people, and Quinn was afraid of most people.

When she’d heard a pounding on her door that night, she almost didn’t answer. Then she’d seen Staten, broken and needing someone, and she couldn’t turn him away.

That night she’d held him, thinking that just this one time, he needed her. Tomorrow he’d be strong and they’d go back to simply being polite to one another, but for one night she could help.

That next morning he’d left without a word. She had never expected him to return, but he did. This strong, hard man never asked anything of her, but he took what she offered. Reason told her it wouldn’t last. He’d called the two of them the leftovers, as if they were the ones abandoned on a shelf. But, Staten wasn’t a leftover. One day he would no longer suffer the storms. One day he would go back to living again, and when he did, he’d forget the way to her door.

As the five years passed, Quinn began to store up memories to keep her warm when he stopped coming. As simple as it seemed, she wanted to be kissed. Not out of passion or need, but gently.

Every time he walked away might be the last time. She wanted to remember that she’d been kissed goodbye that last time, even if neither of them knew it at the moment.

CHAPTER THREE

Lauren

A MIDNIGHT MOON blinked its way between storm clouds as Lauren Brigman cleaned the mud off her shoes. The guys had gone inside the gas station for Cokes. She didn’t really want anything to drink, but it was either walk over with the others after working on their fair projects or stay back at the church and talk to Mrs. Patterson.

Somewhere Mrs. Patterson had gotten the idea that since Lauren didn’t have a mother around, she should take every opportunity to have a “girl talk” with the sheriff’s daughter.

Lauren wanted to tell the old woman that she had known all the facts of life by the age of seven, and she really did not need a buddy to share her teenage years with. Besides, her mother lived in Dallas. It wasn’t like she died. She’d just left. Just because she couldn’t stand the sight of Lauren’s dad didn’t mean she didn’t call and talk to Lauren almost every week. Maybe Mom had just gotten tired of the sheriff’s nightly lectures. Lauren had heard every one of Pop’s talks so many times that she had them memorized in alphabetical order.

Her grades put her at the top of the sophomore class, and she saw herself bound for college in less than three years. Lauren had no intention of getting pregnant, or doing drugs, or any of the other fearful situations Mrs. Patterson and her father had hinted might befall her. Her pop didn’t even want her dating until she was sixteen, and, judging from the boys she knew in high school, she’d just as soon go dateless until eighteen. Maybe college would have better pickings. Some of these guys were so dumb she was surprised they got their cowboy hats on straight every morning.

Reid Collins walked out from the gas station first with a can of Coke in each hand. “I bought you one even though you said you didn’t want anything to drink,” he announced as he neared. “Want to lean on me while you clean your shoes?”

Lauren rolled her eyes. Since he’d grown a few inches and started working out, Reid thought he was God’s gift to girls.

“Why?” she asked as she tossed the stick. “I have a brick wall to lean on. And don’t get any ideas we’re on a date, Reid, just because I walked over here with you.”

“I don’t date sophomores,” he snapped. “I’m on first string, you know. I could probably date any senior I want to. Besides, you’re like a little sister, Lauren. We’ve known each other since you were in the first grade.”

She thought of mentioning that playing first string on a football team that only had forty players total, including the coaches and water boy, wasn’t any great accomplishment, but arguing with Reid would rot her brain. He’d been born rich, and he’d thought he knew everything since he cleared the birth canal. She feared his disease was terminal.

“If you’re cold, I’ll let you wear my football jacket.” When she didn’t comment, he bragged, “I had to reorder a bigger size after a month of working out.”

She hated to, but if she didn’t compliment him soon, he’d never stop begging. “You look great in the jacket, Reid. Half the seniors on the team aren’t as big as you.” There was nothing wrong with Reid from the neck down. In a few years he’d be a knockout with the Collins good looks and trademark rusty hair, not quite brown, not quite red. But he still wouldn’t interest her.

“So, when I get my driver’s license next month, do you want to take a ride?”

Lauren laughed. “You’ve been asking that since I was in the third grade and you got your first bike. The answer is still no. We’re friends, Reid. We’ll always be friends, I’m guessing.”

He smiled a smile that looked like he’d been practicing. “I know, Lauren, but I keep wanting to give you a chance now and then. You know, some guys don’t want to date the sheriff’s daughter, and I hate to point it out, babe, but if you don’t fill out some, it’s going to be bad news in college.” He had the nerve to point at her chest.

“I know.” She managed to pull off a sad look. “Having my father is a cross I have to bear. Half the guys in town are afraid of him. Like he might arrest them for talking to me. Which he might.” She had no intention of discussing her lack of curves with Reid.

“No, it’s not fear of him, exactly,” Reid corrected. “I think it’s more the bullet holes they’re afraid of. Every time a guy looks at you, your old man starts patting his service weapon. Nerve-racking habit, if you ask me. From the looks of it, I seem to be the only one he’ll let stand beside you, and that’s just because our dads are friends.”

She grinned. Reid was spoiled and conceited and self-centered, but he was right. They’d probably always be friends. Her dad was the sheriff, and his was the mayor of Crossroads, even though he lived five miles from town on one of the first ranches established near Ransom Canyon.

With her luck, Reid would be the only guy in the state that her father would let her date. Grumpy old Pop had what she called Terminal Cop Disease. Her father thought everyone, except his few friends, was most likely a criminal, anyone under thirty should be stopped and searched, and anyone who’d ever smoked pot could not be trusted.

Tim O’Grady, Reid’s eternal shadow, walked out of the station with a huge frozen drink. The clear cup showed off its red-and-yellow layers of cherry-and-pineapple-flavored sugar.

Where Reid was balanced in his build, Tim was lanky, disjointed. He seemed to be made of mismatched parts. His arms were too long. His feet seemed too big, and his wired smile barely fit in his mouth. When he took a deep draw on his drink, he staggered and held his forehead from the brain freeze.

Lauren laughed as he danced around like a puppet with his strings crossed. Timothy, as the teachers called him, was always good for a laugh. He had the depth of cheap paint but the imagination of a natural-born storyteller.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten an icy drink on such a cold night,” he mumbled between gulps. “If I freeze from the inside out, put me up on Main Street as a statue.”

Lauren giggled.

Lucas Reyes was the last of their small group to come outside. Lucas hadn’t bought anything, but he evidently was avoiding standing outside with her. She’d known Lucas Reyes for a few years, maybe longer, but he never talked to her. Like Reid and Tim, he was a year ahead of her, but since he rarely talked, she usually only noticed him as a background person in her world.

Unlike them, Lucas didn’t have a family name following him around opening doors for a hundred miles.

They all four lived east of Crossroads along the rambling canyon called Ransom Canyon. Lauren and her father lived in one of a cluster of houses near the lake, as did Tim’s parents. Reid’s family ranch was five miles farther out. She had no idea where Lucas’s family lived. Maybe on the Collins ranch. His father worked on the Bar W, which had been in the Collins family for over a hundred years. The area around the headquarters looked like a small village.

Reid repeated the plan. “My brother said he’d drop Sharon off and be back for us. But if they get busy doing their thing it could be an hour. We might as well walk back and sit on the church steps.”

“Great fun,” Tim complained. “Everything’s closed. It’s freezing out here, and I swear this town is so dead somebody should bury it.”

“We could start walking toward home,” Lauren suggested as she pulled a tiny flashlight from her key chain. The canyon lake wasn’t more than a mile. If they walked they wouldn’t be so cold. She could probably be home before Reid’s dumb brother could get his lips off Sharon. If rumors were true, Sharon had very kissable lips, among other body parts.

“Better than standing around here,” Reid said as Tim kicked mud toward the building. “I’d rather be walking than sitting. Plus, if we go back to the church, Mrs. Patterson will probably come out to keep us company.”

Without a vote, they started walking. Lauren didn’t like the idea of stumbling into mud holes now covered up by a dusting of snow along the side of the road, but it sounded better than standing out front of the gas station. Besides, the moon offered enough light, making the tiny flashlight her father insisted she carry worthless.

Within a few yards, Reid and Tim had fallen behind and were lighting up a smoke. To her surprise, Lucas stayed beside her.

“You don’t smoke?” she asked, not really expecting him to answer.

“No, can’t afford the habit,” he said, surprising her. “I’ve got plans, and they don’t include lung cancer.”

Maybe the dark night made it easier to talk, or maybe Lauren didn’t want to feel so alone in the shadows. “I was starting to think you were a mute. We’ve had a few classes together, and you’ve never said a word. Even tonight you were the only one who didn’t talk about your project.”

Lucas shrugged. “Didn’t see the point. I’m just entering for the prize money, not trying to save the world or build a better tomorrow.”

She giggled.

He laughed, too, realizing he’d just made fun of the whole point of the projects. “Plus,” he added, “there’s just not much opportunity to get a word in around those two.” He nodded his head at the two letter jackets falling farther behind as a cloud of smoke haloed above them.

She saw his point. The pair trailed them by maybe twenty feet or more, and both were talking about football. Neither seemed to require a listener.

“Why do you hang out with them?” she asked. Lucas didn’t seem to fit. Studious and quiet, he hadn’t gone out for sports or joined many clubs that she knew about. “Jocks usually hang out together.”

“I wanted to work on my project tonight, and Reid offered me a ride. Listening to football talk beats walking in this weather.”

Lauren tripped into a pothole. Lucas’s hand shot out and caught her in the darkness. He steadied her, then let go.

“Thanks. You saved my life,” she joked.

“Hardly, but if I had, you’d owe me a blood debt.”

“Would I have to pay?”

“Of course. It would be a point of honor. You’d have to save me or be doomed to a coward’s hell.”

“Lucky you just kept me from tripping, or I’d be following you around for years waiting to repay the debt.” She rubbed her arm where he’d touched her. He was stronger than she’d thought he would be. “You lift weights?”

The soft laughter came again. “Yeah, it’s called work. Until I was sixteen, I spent the summers and every weekend working on Reid’s father’s ranch. Once I was old enough, I signed up at the Kirkland place to cowboy when they need extras. Every dime I make is going to college tuition in a year. That’s why I don’t have a car yet. When I get to college, I won’t need it, and the money will go toward books.”

“But you’re just a junior. You’ve still got a year and a half of high school.”

“I’ve got it worked out so I can graduate early. High school’s a waste of time. I’ve got plans. I can make a hundred-fifty a day working, and my dad says he thinks I’ll be able to cowboy every day I’m not in school this spring and all summer.”

She tripped again, and his hand steadied her once more. Maybe it was her imagination, but she swore he held on a little longer than necessary.

“You’re an interesting guy, Lucas Reyes.”

“I will be,” he said. “Once I’m in college, I can still come home and work breaks and weekends. I’m thinking I can take a few online classes during the summer, live at home, and save enough to pay for the next year. I’m going to Tech no matter what it takes.”

“You planning on getting through college in three years, too?”

He shook his head. “Don’t know if I can. But I’ll have the degree, whatever it is, before I’m twenty-two.”

No one her age had ever talked of the future like that. Like they were just passing through this time in their life, and something yet to come mattered far more. “When you are somebody, I think I’d like to be your friend.”

“I hope we will be more than that, Lauren.” His words were so low, she wasn’t sure she heard them.

“Hey, you two deadbeats up there!” Reid yelled. “I got an idea.”

Lauren didn’t want the conversation with Lucas to end, but if she ignored Reid he’d just get louder. “What?”

Reid ran up between them and put an arm over both her and Lucas’s shoulders. “How about we break into the Gypsy House? I hear it’s haunted by Gypsies who died a hundred years ago.”

Tim caught up to them. As always, he agreed with Reid. “Look over there in the trees. The place is just waiting for us. Heard if you rattle a Gypsy’s bones, the dead will speak to you.” Tim’s eyes glowed in the moonlight. “I had a cousin once who said he heard voices in that old place, and no one was there but him.”

“This is not a good idea.” Lauren tried to back away, but Reid held her shoulder tight.

“Come on, Lauren, for once in your life, do something that’s not safe. No one’s lived in the old place for years. How much trouble can we get into?”

Tim’s imagination had gone wild. According to him all kinds of things could happen. They might find a body. Ghosts could run them out, or the spirit of a Gypsy might take over their minds. Who knew, zombies might sleep in the rubble of old houses.

Lauren rolled her eyes. She didn’t want to think of the zombies getting Tim. A walking dead with braces was too much.

“It’s just a rotting old house,” Lucas said so low no one heard but Lauren. “There’s probably rats or rotten floors. It’s an accident waiting to happen. How about you come back in the daylight, Reid, if you really want to explore the place?”

“We’re all going now,” Reid announced, as he shoved Lauren off the road and into the trees that blocked the view of the old homestead from passing cars. “Think of the story we’ll have to tell everyone Monday. We will have explored a haunted house and lived to tell the tale.”

Reason told her to protest more strongly, but at fifteen, reason wasn’t as intense as the possibility of an adventure. Just once, she’d have a story to tell. Just this once...her father wouldn’t find out.

They rattled across the rotting porch steps fighting tumbleweeds that stood like flimsy guards around the place. The door was locked and boarded up. The smell of decay hung in the foggy air, and a tree branch scraped against one side of the house as if whispering for them to stay back.

The old place didn’t look like much. It might have been the remains of an early settlement, built solid to face the winters with no style or charm. Odds were, Gypsies never even lived in it. It appeared to be a half dugout with a second floor built on years later. The first floor was planted down into the earth a few feet, so the second floor windows were just above their heads giving the place the look of a house that had been stepped on by a giant.

Everyone called it the Gypsy House because a group of hippies had squatted there in the ’70s. They’d painted a peace sign on one wall, but it had faded and been rained on until it almost looked like a witching sign. No one remembered when the hippies had moved on, or who owned the house now, but somewhere in its past a family named Stanley must have lived there because old-timers called it the Stanley house.

“I heard devil worshippers lived here years ago.” Tim began making scary movie soundtrack noises. “Body parts are probably scattered in the basement. They say once Satan moves in, only the blood of a virgin will wash the place clean.”

Reid’s laughter sounded nervous. “That leaves me out.”

Tim jabbed his friend. “You wish. I say you’ll be the first to scream when a dead hand, not connected to a body, touches you.”

“Shut up, Tim,” Reid’s uneasy voice echoed in the night. “You’re freaking me out. Besides, there is no basement. It’s just a half dugout built into the ground, so we’ll find no buried bodies.”

Lauren screamed as Reid kicked a low window in, and all the guys laughed.

“You go first, Lucas,” Reid ordered. “I’ll stand guard.”

To Lauren’s surprise, Lucas slipped into the space. His feet hit the ground with a thud somewhere in the blackness.