A Dangerous Inheritance

As evenly as her rapid breath would allow, Stacy said quickly, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset you and your grandfather in some way. My name is Stacy Ashford. I’m from L.A.” Then she added a lie. “My family will be expecting me in Timberlane and they are probably already out looking for me.”

Josh realized that it was the curly black hair and familiar robe and socks that had created the illusion. This woman’s melodious voice, and the soft beauty in her clear sky-blue eyes and gently curved lips had never belonged to Glenda.

Josh quickly explained to his grandfather that she was a woman who had been caught in the storm, and he’d given her some of Glenda’s clothes to wear.

The old man didn’t look convinced, and he continued to glare at her. Stacy saw his gnarled hand tighten on his cane as if ready to strike out at her if she came a step closer.

“I apologize,” Josh said quickly. “My name is Josh Spencer and this is my grandfather, Nate Spencer. Please have a seat, and we’ll have the warm brandy I promised.”

Stacy moved slowly toward one of the kitchen chairs as the old man continued to glare at her. She couldn’t tell from his wizened frown whether he was convinced that he’d made a mistake or still believed it was Glenda playing some kind of evil trick on him. She suppressed a shiver, remembering the venom in his tone. What had this Glenda done to create such bitter anger in him?

“Come on, Gramps. I’ll see you back upstairs,” Josh said briskly, taking his arm and urging him toward the hall door. They left the kitchen, and Stacy heard their steps on the stairs, accompanied by the querulous swearing of the old man.

Outside the wailing of the wind and the relentless peppering of rain warned her that the storm was still full-blown. Any thought of fleeing the house was utter stupidity. She was trapped. She sat stiffly in a kitchen chair, trying to prepare herself for spending the night in a house with two strange men and the lingering, unwelcome presence of someone named Glenda.

When Josh returned to the kitchen, Stacy had her first look at him without his hat. He was ruggedly good-looking with brown eyes, longish dark chestnut hair, and high cheekbones accenting a firm chin. Any producer casting an adventure movie would definitely have given Josh Spencer a second look, she thought. There were plenty of hopefuls running around Hollywood that couldn’t measure up to his robust physique. But would they cast him as a good guy or the villain?

Stacy watched him prepare hot mugs of coffee and brandy with a confident ease that told her he knew his way around the kitchen. Washed dishes were drying in a rack, and there were no signs of feminine or extraneous culinary equipment sitting around on the counters.

“There you are, Miss Ashford,” he said as he handed her the mug of hot liquid.

Miss Ashford? The formal use of her name seemed totally at odds with the present situation, especially since she looked like the refugee she was. Was this macho man secretly enjoying seeing a big-city woman dependent upon a local yokel?

He eased down into a chair across the table from her and apologized again for his grandfather’s behavior. “Sorry about that. When he gets something in his head, nobody can get it out.”

“Who is Glenda?”

His fingers visibly tightened around his mug. As he focused on some unseen point over her shoulder, he answered gruffly, “My younger sister.”

“Glenda is your sister?”

“Was,” he corrected curtly. “As you must have guessed, she’s dead.”

“How did she die?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

His flat refusal sparked Stacy’s indignation. “Obviously, I’ve landed in the middle of something that’s none of my doing. You gave me your dead sister’s clothes to wear, and your grandfather frightened me with accusations of coming back from the dead to haunt him.” She knew that she might regret demanding an explanation, but she hated being in the dark when her very life might be at stake. “What happened to Glenda?”

He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose you have the right to know.”

Stacy listened attentively as he explained how he and his younger sister, Glenda, were orphaned at the ages of sixteen and twelve when their parents were killed in a train/car accident, and their grandfather, Nate Spencer, a widower, took them in to raise. Stacy gathered Josh had adjusted to life in the Rocky Mountains, but his sister had hated it from the first moment.

“Gramps and I built a half-dozen fishing and hunting cabins and facilities down by the river. We do a good business all year around.” He sighed. “When Glenda was sixteen, she ran away to Timberlane, got a waitress job and refused to come back home to live despite Gramps’s threats and bribes. She stole money from the cabin rentals, lied to us about everything and was responsible for vandalism to the property by some of her pothead friends. Until her death two years ago, her life had spun out of control, and there was nothing that Gramps and I could do about it.”

He stood up abruptly, and firmness around his mouth and a fierce glower discouraged any more questions. Obviously Josh Spencer wasn’t a man who could be led where he didn’t want to go. However his sister had met her death, it was clear that he carried a lingering hurt deep inside, and he wasn’t about to talk about it.

“Time to turn in. We left a bed in her old room. You can use it.”

“Haven’t you got a couch somewhere?” she protested. Wearing the dead woman’s clothes was one thing, but sleeping in her bed was another. “I’d be fine bedding down anywhere.”

Refusing to listen to any argument, he put a firm hand on her arm and led her up the narrow staircase to a small bedroom at the front of the house.

At one time it might have been pleasant enough, Stacy decided, but a stale, musty smell permeated the room. Heavy, ugly curtains hung at two long, high windows. A single light bulb hung on a chain from the ceiling and sent an orangish light across a small bed, an old vanity dresser and a hooked rug that was rough under her stocking feet.

Stacy would rather have bedded down on the floor in the kitchen than stay cooped up in this room, but one look at her host’s marble face warned her that a choice of accommodations wasn’t an option.

A quiver of fear crept up her spine as he stood there, barring her way to the open door. His domineering, muscular frame filled up the small floor space, and she wondered if the brief pleasantries in the kitchen had been intended to lull her into a false sense of security.

She had never felt so totally helpless and vulnerable in her whole life. Here she was, trapped in a dead woman’s room and wearing her clothes. No chance to flee. No one to hear her cries. Outside the raging storm mocked any attempt to reject the questionable hospitality offered her.

“Good night, Miss Ashford,” he said, politely. In the dim light, she thought a flicker of something like amusement eased the firm muscles in his cheeks as he added, “You’ll be sure and lock the door, won’t you? Sometimes my grandfather walks in his sleep.”

After that unsettling announcement, he disappeared into the hall, and she heard his firm steps as he went back downstairs. She quickly shut the door and turned the skeleton key in the lock. Like the old bathroom door, it didn’t look strong enough to keep anyone like Josh Spencer out if he decided to come in. She consoled herself with the thought that a feeble old man wouldn’t be able to break it down.

Fighting against a rising claustrophobia as the stifling closeness of the tiny room crowded in on her, she went to a window and pulled back a dusty heavy drape. Dirty streams of water ran down the glass pane, and the raging storm outside warned that it would be stupidity to try and open the window.

Leaving the dangling ceiling light on, she lay down on the small bed still wearing the purple robe. Her body remained rigid for a long time until slowly her mental and physical exhaustion claimed her. Finally, with the smell of cheap perfume invading her nostrils, she relaxed, and slept.

THE ROOM WAS STILL in shadows when she woke, but a thin line around the window draperies told her it was morning. Eight o’clock, to be exact, she realized as she checked her wristwatch. She lay there for a moment, unconsciously listening for the noisy fury of the storm that had been in her ears for so many hours.

Stillness. No lashing rain. No thunder. The storm was over. Breathing a prayer of thanksgiving, she went over to a window, drew aside the faded curtain, and peered outside.

The weather was gray and dank, and the scene that greeted her eyes instantly dissipated her sense of well-being. Heavily wooded mountains rose to jagged and barren peaks against the colorless sky.

She could see a line of rustic cabins stretched along the river. All apparently empty. No smoke wafted from any of the chimneys, no cars were parked in the adjoining carports and no hint of anyone moving about.

He had lied to her. The place was closed down. A cold chill prickled the back of her neck. No one was around except him and his crazed grandfather.

Turning away from the window, she crossed the room and cautiously opened the door. She blinked in disbelief as she looked down at the neat pile of her own clothes, lying there washed and dried. The swell of gratitude was like nothing she’d ever felt before. She even blinked back grateful tears as she picked them up and made her way to a central bathroom a short distance down the hall.

She hurriedly took off the purple robe and socks and threw them in the corner. Once she was dressed again in her yellow slacks and summer top, she almost felt in charge of herself and the situation.

Her sense of confidence was short-lived, however. When she came into the kitchen, the old man was sitting at the table, eating. The minute he saw Stacy, he began jabbing his fork in her direction, shrieking, “Out! Out of my house.”

“Stop it, Gramps!” Josh ordered as he swung around to face his grandfather. He’d been standing in front of the stove, tending to a sizzling skillet. “If you’d wear your blasted glasses, you’d see the lady doesn’t look anything like Glenda.”

“I ain’t eatin’ with the likes of her,” his grandfather retorted. With the belligerent stubbornness of a child, the old man shoved back his chair, lumbered to his feet, and stomped his way out of the kitchen with a loud thumping of his cane.

“Sorry about that,” Josh said with an apologetic smile. “Are you ready for breakfast? Come on, sit down. Would you like some scrambled eggs and bacon?”

“No, thank you. I…I’m not much of a breakfast eater.” If she’d had any appetite it had been squelched by his grandfather’s hostile greeting. More than anything, she wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

“I’d like to use your telephone, make arrangements for recovering the car and getting a ride to Timberlane.”

“Sorry, the storm knocked out service. Probably won’t be back in use for a couple of days. The telephone company takes its time getting to us.”

“Don’t you have a cell phone?”

“Nope, I’ve tried using one, but it kept breaking up and wasn’t any good in these mountains.” He pulled out a chair for her. “Sit down and have a cup of coffee.”

As Stacy glanced at the back door, Josh suspected that she was considering walking out of the house right then and there. Not that he blamed her. His grandfather’s explosive tirades would put anyone on edge, and she’d handled herself better than he would have expected any woman caught in these circumstances.

“It wouldn’t do much good to call a towing company if your car has already been swept miles down the river,” he said gently.

“I was driving a rental car, and it’s important I inform them about the accident.”

He nodded. “Why don’t you sit down and have some breakfast, Miss Ashford? Then I’ll get out the pickup, and we’ll head down to the river and assess the situation.”

She noticed that he didn’t volunteer to drive her into Timberlane so she could use the phone there. At the moment, she had no alternative but to go along with his suggestion. She sat down and accepted the cup of coffee he offered.

“You’re sure about breakfast?”

“Well, the bacon does smell good. Maybe a couple of pieces and a piece of toast.”

He turned away, so she couldn’t see his smile of victory. He realized for the first time, as he watched her eat, that she was a damned attractive woman. More than just pretty, in his judgment. Even without any makeup, her full, nicely curved mouth, slender nose and heavily lashed soft blue eyes commanded a natural beauty. He’d become so used to women in mannish shirts and denim pants he couldn’t help but notice how her thin summer top revealed the soft smoothness of her neck and accented the firm fullness of her breasts. He did his best to keep his gaze from lingering there.

What was a woman like her doing alone in these parts? She hadn’t offered anything but her name and the fact that she had family in Timberlane. It puzzled him. As far as Josh knew there weren’t any Ashfords anywhere in the immediate area. He kept his curiosity in check, and as soon as she finished eating, they left the house.

He led the way to a pickup truck with more mud than paint showing on it. The interior was scarred and the upholstery on the seats worn.

As they drove away from the house and passed some of the empty cabins, Stacy couldn’t help remarking, “Business must be bad.”

The muscles in his cheeks tightened. “August is usually our busiest summer month, but recent repairs on the bridge have closed us down for six weeks now.” He shot her a stern look. “If your car has damaged some of the new bulwark, our hopes for a busy September may be shot.”

“I’m…I’m sorry,” she stammered, realizing for the first time how her accident might affect him and his livelihood. No wonder he’d been gruff and distant with her. Under the circumstances his attitude was understandable. She felt guilty for having endowed him with all kinds of unfounded motives for rescuing her. She’d certainly imposed upon him enough. If he took her as far as the road, she could, perhaps, flag someone down and catch a ride into Timberlane.

When they reached the bridge, Josh’s worst fears were realized. Her rental car was still there and resting against a cement reinforcement that had been knocked out of position. The bridge shook as Josh drove the pickup over it, making it clear that it wouldn’t be safe for general traffic until it could be repaired.

He stopped the pickup, got out, and surveyed the abandoned car. Swollen waters had engulfed the front of it, but the back doors seemed free. “I’ll take a look and see if I can get some of your things. Is the trunk locked?”

“Yes, but I put my two suitcases on the back seat, and my purse is in the front.” She swallowed hard. “Are you sure it’s safe to try and get them?”

“We won’t know until I try.” His blunt tone cut off all argument. Reaching into the back of the truck, he took out a pair of hip waders and pulled them on over his jeans. Then he waded down the embankment to the muddy swath her car had cut when she missed the road.

As she watched him, the terror of the storm came back with its shrieking wind, clawing torrents of rain, and the lashing darkness. Remembering the strength of his embrace and the warmth of his body as he held her against his chest, she was painfully aware of how much she was indebted to this stranger. When Josh reached the car, he opened the back door, leaned in over the front seat, picked up her purse and slung the strap over his shoulder. Then he picked up the two matched suitcases lying on the back seat and eased out of the car.

As Stacy watched, the illusion of rapidly flowing water made it seem as if the car was moving and slipping away. Her breath caught and choked cries crowded her throat. Get out! Get out!

She was weak with relief when he moved away from the car with the suitcases in his hand. Bending forward, his strong legs took him through the sucking mud and water. He was breathing heavily when he reached the pickup and slung the suitcases in the back. Then he shed the muddy rubber boots and climbed into the seat beside her.

“I guess I got everything,” he said as he handed her the leather purse.

“Oh, yes,” she said, grasping it gratefully. “I really appreciate what you’ve done. If you’ll just take me as far as the main road, I can flag someone down and catch a ride into Timberlane.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” he snapped. “I’ll take you into Timberlane. No telling who might pick you up.”

She had trouble controlling a swell of laughter and covered her mouth to muffle it.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just that…that…” She didn’t know how to explain that it was likely that anyone picking her up would have frightened her as much as he had.

“Oh, I get it.” His brown eyes suddenly darkened with black flecks. “You’d rather take your chances with anyone but me.”

“No, not now,” she countered quickly. “I’d appreciate the ride. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m really in your debt.”

“Yes, you are, aren’t you?”

The way he said it gave her a strange feeling that he might collect on that debt sometime in the future.

When they reached Timberlane, Stacy’s heart sank. If it had once been a busy logging settlement in the early forties, now only a hodgepodge of old buildings remained. Any hint of prosperity was gone on the rundown two-block main street, and the few rustic homes clustered on the nearby mountain slope.

Stacy tried to cover up her shock.

Seeing her expression, Josh explained that modest summer tourism, activities in a nearby National Forest and a limited local economy barely enabled the town to limp along.

“I wonder why my uncle bought property in a place like this,” she said.

“What kind of property?”

“It’s called the Haverly Hotel.” She wasn’t prepared for the surge of color that swept into his face.

“Haverly Hotel?” he repeated as if the name was like poison in his mouth.

“Yes, my uncle left it to me. Do you know it?”

He gave an ugly laugh. “Know it? Hell, yes, I know all about the Haverly Hotel.”

Her mouth suddenly went dry. “I don’t understand.”

“My sister, Glenda, fell to her death off one of the balconies.” Then he added bitterly, “Only she didn’t fall. She was pushed!”

“Who…who pushed her?” she asked as her heart jumped. Please God, not weird Uncle Willard.

“If I knew,” Josh answered bitterly, “the bastard wouldn’t be drawing his next breath.”

“That was two years ago?” Stacy said, remembering Josh had said his sister had been dead that long.

Josh nodded as his hands tightened on the wheel.

Stacy’s breathing eased. Uncle Willard had only owned the hotel for a year. “Who had the Haverly Hotel before my uncle bought it?”

Josh’s mouth tightened. “Malo Renquist. He left town the same night Glenda was killed, and the bastard has eluded the authorities for two years. The property was sold to cover delinquent taxes.” He shot her a quick look. “The place was a haven for drugs, drifters and all kinds of scum. What are your plans for it?”

She took a deep breath and told him about her uncle’s will, which stipulated that she couldn’t collect her inheritance until a certain amount of the bequest was spent on renovating the property.

“The place should be torn down,” Josh stated flatly. “What in the hell was your uncle thinking?”

Stacy gave him a weak smile. “We didn’t call him Weird Uncle Willard for nothing. He never seemed quite normal. Much to everyone’s astonishment, he sold one of his inventions for big bucks and ended up with more money than the rest of the family put together.”

“What was he going to do with the place?”

“I don’t know. I think some renovation work has already been done. Where in town is the hotel located?”

“It isn’t. It’s up Devil’s Canyon about five miles.”

Stacy’s mouth was suddenly dry. “Why was it built there?”

“God only knows. The Haverlys were a well-to-do couple from Tennessee. They built a modest hotel in the style of southern architecture, and I guess they planned on doing a thriving business with affluent summer visitors to the area. Unfortunately, the resorts of Vail and Aspen were too much competition for the small logging town of Timberlane. When the Haverlys couldn’t make ends meet, they gave it up.

“A series of owners after them left the place more dilapidated than before. Then Malo Renquist bought it and turned it into a hang-out for modern-day hippies.” His jaw hardened. “After Glenda’s death the place was closed until your uncle came along and bought it.”

“Well, I guess I have my work cut out for me,” she said with as much bravado as she could manage.

“Isn’t there someone else in your family who could help you out. A brother—?”

“I lied. I don’t have any family in Timberlane. I’m an only child. My father passed on from a lingering illness when I was five, and my mother never married again. I lived at home until she died. There’s just me. I had a fairly good job with a marketing company until a few weeks ago. And now I’m here.”

Josh could hear the uncertainty in her voice. And for good reason, he thought as he stopped the car in front of a tall brick building on Main Street.

“I need to make a quick stop and talk to the men who have been repairing the bridge. I’ll call the service station and ask Hank to see if he can pull your car back on the road with his tow truck. It’ll only take a few minutes, and then I’ll drive you up to the hotel and let you off.”

The blunt way he said it gave her the impression he was intending to set her suitcases on the front steps and get away as quickly as possible. Not that she could blame him. The place must open some deep wounds.

As Stacy waited for him, a feeling of being totally displaced in this crude alien place came over her. The physical trauma of the last twenty-four hours had completely dispelled any feelings of excitement or anticipation. She wondered if Josh Spencer’s attitude toward her and her inheritance was indicative of what she could expect from other people in the town. What if he wasn’t the only one who had a personal vendetta against the place her uncle had left her? She knew that some houses and places seemed to harbor bad luck and evil miasma despite attempts to change the karma. Was the Haverly Hotel like that? Was her accident a warning?

Foreboding settled on her so heavily that she couldn’t just sit there any longer. Across the street, she could see a saloon, a general store, a café and a filling station on the corner. Not much to see, but anything would be better than just sitting here getting more and more depressed. The thought of being stuck in this run-down place for God only knew how long wasn’t doing much for her sense of well-being.

She slung her bag over her shoulder and had just taken a few steps away from the pickup when Josh came out of the brick building.

He wasn’t alone. Walking beside him was an attractive brunette wearing tight western jeans, a man’s shirt, and a belt that flashed a large silver buckle. Almost as tall as Josh, her well-rounded figure suggested an athletic firmness. She had a casual arm linked through his, and Stacy knew with feminine certainty that there must be some romantic history between them. Josh frowned when he saw that Stacy was out of the car. Where was she going? He’d taken care of his business as quickly as he could, explaining to Marci’s boss what had happened and what needed to be done right away to keep the whole bridge from collapsing.

He’d even told Marci that he was in a hurry, but she’d insisted on walking out with him to meet the woman who had crashed into his bridge. When he’d told her that Stacy Ashford was the new owner of the Haverly Hotel, Marci’s hazel eyes had nearly popped out of her head.

“You’ve got to be kidding. Does she resemble that kooky Willard?”

“I’ll let you judge for yourself,” Josh answered with a slight smile.