Tangled Webs Page 2

  Whatever it took.

  Finn stopped outside the door. Angled sideways. Smashed his heel below the lock.

  The door flew back.

  Another scream sliced through the air as he tucked himself beside the frame, pistol in the ready position. He ducked down, muscles coiled as he prepared to spring into action, and looked around the edge.

  Froze.

  A thirtyish woman with tousled light brown hair was sitting bolt upright in bed, clutching a blanket against her, blinking as if she’d been abruptly awakened from a peaceful slumber and was trying to figure out what was going on.

  There was no one else in the room.

  She squinted at him, and despite the dim light he knew the instant full consciousness returned. Stark terror widened her eyes, and she shot to her feet, grabbed a cell phone off her nightstand, and dashed for the door in the corner. It banged behind her. A moment later, the lock slammed into place.

  Regroup, McGregor.

  Sucking in a lungful of air, Finn gave the room a fast sweep. The covers were jumbled. The pillow was scrunched up. A glass of water and a bottle of aspirin rested on the nightstand.

  Conclusion?

  There was no emergency here. This woman had simply been having a nightmare.

  To make matters worse, he’d broken into her house wielding a gun, exacerbating whatever trauma she was already dealing with.

  Stomach clenching, he closed his eyes.

  What a colossal mess-up.

  And now she was barricaded in the bathroom, calling the cops. Or trying to.

  If he was lucky, her cell would be as useless as his was out here.

  But whether she got through or not, he had some serious explaining to do.

  He holstered his pistol and crossed to the bolted door. “Ma’am?”

  No response.

  Of course not. She thought he was some thug, up to no good.

  Would telling her the simple, honest truth convince her otherwise?

  Unlikely—but that was the only strategy that came to mind.

  “Ma’am? I’m sorry about frightening you. I’m actually your neighbor, Finn McGregor. I heard screams coming from your cabin and thought you might need help, but it appears you were just having a bad dream. Mark Busch, who owns the adjacent property, can confirm my identity if you want to contact him. In the meantime, I’ll take the screen I destroyed getting in, have it fixed in town, and return it tomorrow. I’ll also repair your bedroom door. I’m leaving now—but I’ll come around back first to let you verify I’ve left the house. Again . . . I apologize.”

  Beating a hasty retreat, he escaped through the window, unclipping the slashed screen first. Man, he’d done a number on it. If there wasn’t a hardware store in Beaumont, he’d have to drive into Potosi to get it fixed.

  At least tomorrow was Monday, and the local businesses should be open bright and early.

  He circled the cabin, screen in hand, and stopped a few feet away from the bathroom window in the back. She hadn’t flipped on the light. Smart. Staying in the dark would allow her to crack the shade and see the exterior without being seen.

  “Ma’am? I’m outside now.” He set the screen on the ground, pulled the flashlight out of his back pocket, and shined the light on his face, making it easy for her to identify him. That should help calm her.

  Or would it?

  He hadn’t shaved in two days, and while the stubbled bad-boy look might be popular in Hollywood, it could have a negative connotation in this situation. In real life, true bad boys often sported this look too.

  He flicked off the light.

  “Again, it’s Finn McGregor. I’ll return your repaired screen tomorrow.”

  With that, he turned away from the window and trudged back toward his cabin—berating himself every step of the way.

  Way to go, buddy. Freak out a woman who’s already on edge—and who isn’t going to sleep another wink tonight, thanks to you.

  But what else could he have done? She had been screaming. And if she had been in trouble, politely knocking on the door and alerting the perpetrator to his presence would have been stupid.

  He’d explain that to her tomorrow when he returned her screen—unless she’d locked herself in the house . . . or summoned reinforcements . . . or hightailed it out of here.

  He pushed past a cedar tree, the distinctive scent reminding him of the old chest his mom had inherited from her grandmother. She’d always said the treasured heirloom was a reminder of the importance of family—a value she’d passed on to her three sons. The McGregors always stood shoulder to shoulder in times of trauma or trouble.

  The woman in that cabin was obviously in the midst of some kind of trauma too—yet she appeared to be alone.

  Had she left a caring family behind, as he had—or did she lack a support system?

  And what sort of demons would produce such anguished screams?

  He increased his pace as the wind picked up, the chilled air sending a shiver rippling through him.

  Neither of those questions would be answered tonight.

  But perhaps on his return visit tomorrow, in the safety of daylight and after another sincere apology, he might get a few clues about the background of his young, attractive—and traumatized—neighbor.

  Assuming she was still around.

  Dana Lewis lifted her shaking hand and checked her cell again.

  No signal.

  Raking her fingers through her tangled hair, she huddled on the toilet seat lid. What did she expect? In the four weeks she’d been here, how often had she managed to get a signal in the cabin? Never. Just on the dock down by the lake.

  No way was she venturing out there tonight, though. The guy who’d burst into the cabin could be lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce.

  Not likely, Dana. He was in your bedroom. If he’d wanted to get to you, he could have.

  Yes . . . that was true. Plus, he’d made a point of letting her see his face. The light he’d flashed on hadn’t illuminated it long, and the shadows had distorted his features, but there’d been no missing the dark auburn hair and wide, muscular shoulders.

  Her pulse slowed as the left side of her brain continued to process the situation. He’d told her his name too. And Mark Busch did own the adjacent property. First senior, now junior. A quick call to him would confirm the man’s identity.

  As for the excuse the intruder had offered for breaking in—it was credible. The nightmares plagued her less often now, but they cropped up on occasion . . . and the one tonight had been bad. It was very possible she’d screamed. Hadn’t her big-city neighbors told her they’d heard her cry out on several occasions, despite the soundproofing in the high-rise walls?

  But given her remote location, who’d have guessed someone out here would not only hear her but respond?

  Clutching her dead phone, she stood and sidled up to the window. A quick crack of the shade confirmed the man was gone.

  And unless she wanted to cower in the bathroom all night, she needed to open the door and do a walk-through of the house.

  Gathering her courage, she slid the bolt back and pushed the door open.

  The room was just as she’d left it—bedclothes disheveled, dim light burning, purse untouched on the chair beside the door. She moved to the window and shut it, flipping the lock.

  Then she crossed to the hall door that was hanging on one hinge. Peeked out.

  The corridor was deserted.

  There was no one in the rest of the house, either. When she came to the screenless window in the living room, she closed and locked it too.

  She was as safe as she could be for the rest of the night.

  Rotating her stiff shoulders, she returned to the kitchen and peered at the tacky fish-shaped clock that had hung on the wall for as long as she could remember. Two-forty-nine.

  Daylight was more than three sleepless hours away.

  But between the nightmare and her unexpected visitor, there would be no more slumber for
her this night.

  Stifling a yawn, she filled a mug with water, added a bag of English breakfast tea, and slid it into the microwave. Might as well get some work done if she was going to be up anyway. She could always take a nap tomorrow if her short night caught up with her.

  While she waited for the water to heat, she booted up her laptop, flipped on the adjacent monitor, and padded back down the hall in search of her slippers and the oversized cardigan sweater Pops had always worn.

  She found both at the foot of her bed. After shoving her feet into the slippers, she pushed her arms through the rolled-up sleeves of the sweater, fingering a spot that was beginning to unravel.

  Kind of like her life of late.

  Wrapping her arms around herself, she did a slow pivot in the room, with its knotty pine paneling, handmade log bed crafted from trees grown on this property, and framed serenity prayer attributed to Francis of Assisi that sat on the doily-bedecked pine dresser. At least here, in her refuge, life felt more stable.

  Or it had until tonight.

  Spirits drooping, she returned to the kitchen as the microwave emitted a high-pitched summons. A soothing cup of hot tea was the perfect antidote to whatever ailed you. That and a warm hug. Or so Mags and Pops used to tell her.

  She retrieved the mug from the turntable, dunking the tea bag as she wandered toward her computer. The tea, she had. Warm hugs? In short supply.

  Instead of the discouragement that usually accompanied such melancholy thoughts, however, an image of auburn hair and broad shoulders zipped across her mind.

  Dana stopped in front of the laptop, frowning. How bizarre was that? She’d seen the man for less than ten seconds and could call up nothing more than a vague impression of him. Plus, he’d broken into her house. With a gun.

  Taking a sip of tea, she lowered herself into the chair, for once barely noticing the baby giraffe in her screensaver, neck straining to reach a leafy branch just out of grasp.

  The man hadn’t seemed to be a criminal, however. He’d had a logical explanation for his appearance, offered a heartfelt apology, and left fast once he realized his mistake. Plus, he had a nice voice. Deep and resonant and . . . caring. It was the voice of someone who’d come to help, not hurt.

  In fact, if everything the man told her was true, his behavior tonight was downright heroic. He’d been willing to put himself in danger to rescue her.

  Dana opened the document she’d been working on earlier and scrolled through to where she’d left off. This author was talented—but her work needed a lot of polishing. The perfect project to occupy her mind until dawn chased away the darkness.

  Yet as she dived into the task, she found herself thinking ahead to tomorrow—and looking forward to Finn McGregor’s return visit.

  Which was silly.

  The man was a stranger to her. He might be her temporary neighbor, living within shouting—or screaming—distance, but once he returned her repaired window screen, there would be no reason for their paths to intersect.

  Besides, for all she knew, he had a wife and children staying with him at Mark’s place. That would put the kibosh on any dreamy-eyed fantasies.

  Rolling her eyes, she picked up her glasses, slid them on, and leaned toward the screen. She’d been editing too many romances recently—like this one. Maybe she should take on a literary novel next. No need to worry about optimistic, happy endings with those.

  Yet the whole notion of heroes and heroines overcoming great odds to find a future together was a lot more uplifting.

  Even if it didn’t often happen in real life.

  2

  Good morning, Chief Burnett. I’m glad I caught you.”

  At the comment from behind him, Roger Burnett tightened his grip on the arms of his chair.

  He knew that voice—too well. Alan Landis had cornered him twice in the past month . . . but always during normal business hours.

  If the finance manager for Woodside Gardens long-term care facility was here this early on a Monday morning, he was getting ready to play hardball about the overdue bill. This wasn’t a casual meeting, as his greeting implied; he must have told the staff to let him know if Leah’s husband showed up during off hours.

  The sheets rustled. His wife stirred and peered at the man in the doorway.

  “Are you from the nursery? Did you bring the impatiens I ordered? I’m not paying you until they’re all planted, you know. And I don’t want any half-dead ones, like you brought last summer.”

  “Honey.” Roger pushed himself to his feet and moved beside the bed. “This is Mr. Landis. He works here. He came to see me.”

  His wife glowered at the finance manager. “I don’t like him.”

  Neither did he . . . but his reasons weren’t delusional, like his wife’s. They were all too real.

  Landis wanted money he didn’t have . . . and he wasn’t going to be able to put him off much longer.

  Roger tried to contain the wave of panic that crashed over him. He had to find a way to pay this bill. Leah deserved the best possible treatment—and he’d promised to provide it. Going back on his word wasn’t an option. He owed her this.

  “You . . .” Leah poked him in the arm and pointed toward Landis. “Make him go away.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop by my office before you leave.” The man spoke in the sotto tone he’d no doubt perfected as a result of dealing with dementia-plagued residents like Leah.

  “I’ll do that.”

  Landis dipped his chin and disappeared from the doorway.

  Leah pulled a tissue from the box on her bedside table and began to shred it, her head whipping back and forth on the pillow. “Where am I?”

  “Woodside Gardens. In Potosi.”

  “I live in Beaumont.”

  A rare moment of lucidity. The kind that used to give him hope.

  But hope was a rare commodity in his life these days.

  “That’s right. You’re staying here until you get better.”

  “Am I sick?”

  Very—and there was no cure for early onset Alzheimer’s. The woman he loved had been slipping away day by day for the past seven years. She didn’t even remember his name anymore.

  “You’ll get better soon.” It was the same lie he told her whenever this subject came up.

  She gave him a hard stare. “I think you’re keeping me here! You don’t want me to leave! You don’t want me to go home!” Her pitch rose with each word. “You get out! Get out now! I hate you!”

  Her tirade ended in a screech that brought one of the aides hurrying in.

  Roger backed away. He knew the drill by now. Leave it to the experts to calm her. When she got like this, his presence only upset her more.

  Once in the hall, he ran a hand down his face while his wife continued to rant. There was so little left of the vivacious woman he’d exchanged vows with thirty-five years ago. So little. In fact, with every passing day, it was getting harder and harder to recognize this shrieking shrew as the bright-eyed, happy-go-lucky girl who’d stolen his heart.

  But she was there, trapped somewhere in the recesses of her deteriorating mind . . . and he wasn’t going to let her down.

  Hand resting on the gun at his hip, he straightened up, smoothed a hand down the front of his navy blue uniform shirt, and set out for Landis’s office.

  The man was waiting for him, mug of coffee at hand. No surprise he was loading up on caffeine, given the early post-dawn hour. He must have rushed into work after receiving the call from a staff member.

  “Would you like some?” Landis lifted his mug.

  “Yes. Thanks.” An infusion of java might help him get through this meeting.

  The man disappeared out the door, and Roger sank into the seat across from the desk. The same seat he’d occupied during their previous two meetings. Landis had been sympathetic and polite at the first one, concerned and a bit cooler at the second.

  If the pattern of deteriorating civility continued, today wasn’t g
oing to be pleasant.

  He’d stall again, of course. Make more promises he couldn’t keep. What else could he do? The well was dry. The equity loan he’d taken on the house was gone, since there hadn’t been much equity to tap. The family jewelry Leah had inherited had been sold. He owned nothing else of value. And no bank would give him a loan he couldn’t repay.

  At least no one knew about his dire financial straits. Not a single person in Beaumont, and certainly not Alan Landis. If the finance manager had the slightest inkling how tapped out he was, Woodside Gardens would throw Leah out on her ear, despite their “Where every guest is treated with dignity” marketing slogan.

  Landis reentered, set the coffee on the desk, and circled back to his seat. “I’m sure you know why I asked you to stop by.”

  “Yes.” Roger lifted the disposable cup and took a sip. “I appreciate your patience these past few weeks.”

  “We try to give the families of our guests as much consideration as we can. Illness creates a great deal of stress, and we all want the best possible situation for our loved ones. But care at a top-notch facility like Woodside Gardens isn’t inexpensive, and sometimes, if a guest is here for an extended period, it becomes burdensome.” He shuffled some papers and extracted a sheet. “According to our records, your wife was admitted twenty-eight months ago.”

  “Yes.” The day was seared in his memory. She’d clung to him—sobbing, begging, making promises she couldn’t keep—when he had to leave.

  He hadn’t clocked more than two hours’ sleep a night for the next two weeks.

  “And you’ve always been prompt with your payments—until last month. Now you’re two months in arrears. That’s a lot of money, Chief Burnett.”

  “I know . . . and I’m working on it.”

  “That’s what you said two weeks ago.”

  “It’s still true.” Roger took another sip of the unsweetened coffee and set the cup back on the desk. “Look, I’ve had difficulty liquidating some assets. I expect to have this resolved very soon.” He maintained eye contact with the finance manager, hoping the man wouldn’t see through his lie.

  Landis tapped a finger on the polished surface of his desk. “I’d like to help you out—but I have to report to the Woodside board, and they expect our guests to pay their bills.”