The Missing Colton Read online

  Mia started down the wide staircase thinking Jethro’s daughters had been right—the mere thought that Cole was alive, and back, was arousing a fierce passion in their father. It might give him a will to live, to accept more aggressive treatment and fight this cancer.

  As Mia reached the second floor landing she saw Misty Mayhew, the new maid, coming up the stairs, arms clutched around a wide vase of flowers, her dark hair fighting against a tight bun at the nape of her pale neck.

  Her bright blue eyes flashed.

  “Mia—hi!” Misty stopped on the landing and peered at Mia through the yellow blooms destined for Jethro’s room. “I heard about the stranger,” she said excitedly. “Is it really Cole?”

  Misty had only recently been hired to replace Clara who’d been dating the ranch hand arrested for the murder of Faye Frick and the kidnapping, yet Misty was clearly already deeply immersed in the scandals of the household and guileless in her questions.

  “Who said it was Cole?” Mia remained guarded, as always. She had never quite fit in with the rest of the downstairs employees, yet she was not one of the upstairs bunch, either.

  “Everyone is talking about it!” Misty said, cheeks flushed. “Jake Masters, one of the wranglers who went with Dr. Colton this morning to fetch the victim, said you found a piece of Cole’s baby blanket and a photo of his mother on him.”

  So it was already out.

  A quiet defensiveness went up inside Mia. It wasn’t a secret what she’d found, or what had happened. But her patient also deserved some respect.

  “Misty,” she said quietly, deflecting the question, “I need you to do a favor for me. Mr. Colton wants Miss Gabby, Amanda and Catherine by his bedside. Could you please go find them once you’ve taken care of those flowers? I think Miss Amanda is out at the stables. She was attending to one of the geldings when I returned Sunny to her stall this morning. I don’t know where Miss Gabby and Cath are.”

  A shadow of defiance—so slight it might have been Mia’s imagination—flickered through Misty’s eyes.

  “Thank you, Misty,” Mia said, brusquely moving past the maid and starting down the stairs. “I need to get back to my patient.”

  * * *

  Before heading to the infirmary, Mia quickly made her way down into the basement laundry in search of some clothes for “Cole.” He couldn’t very well go up to see Jethro wrapped in a blanket, and the Colton laundress, Bernice Black, had a constantly-growing selection of garments that she collected from both family and staff for the Goodwill store in Dead River. She’d been doing this for years.

  The air in the basement laundry was humid, warm, laden with the scents of fabric softener and detergent. Dryers and washing machines rumbled.

  “Mrs. Black?” Mia called above the sound.

  No reply—both Bernice and her husband, Horace, were in their sixties and somewhat hard of hearing.

  Mia called louder but still no response.

  She walked past the machines, going deeper into the laundry. Around the corner she saw the back of Bernice. Her steel-gray hair hung in a straight ponytail down her spine as she worked an iron over a pair of heavy-duty jeans.

  The woman stilled suddenly, as if sensing Mia’s presence. Turning slowly, Bernice’s milky-white eye settled on Mia. Her good eye was hidden by shadow.

  Mia swallowed, always oddly unnerved by this woman who’d been a part of the ranch since before Jethro bought the land all those years ago. The Blacks still lived in their original log cabin on the property, well apart from the other outbuildings. Bernice was rumored to be of Native American blood and some of the staff claimed she could see things not visible to others. Many of them avoided coming down into her basement domain for that reason.

  “Mia,” Bernice said, her voice papery, husky. “Is it clothes for the stranger that you want?”

  A chill washed over Mia in spite of the damp heat from the dryers. “I...actually, yes. I was wondering if you have anything in your Goodwill stash that he might use temporarily. He’s about six foot two, broad shoulders—”

  “I know.” Bernice Black went to her special cupboard and extracted a shirt. She shook it out and held it up. “Dylan Frick just brought me a whole bag of his clothes the other day, some barely even worn. He’s suffering since his dear mother’s murder, you know. I think he needed to clean out his closets, erase the ghosts.” Her gaze went distant, as if seeing things behind Mia’s shoulder.

  “There’s no good that will come of all this,” she murmured. “No good at all. Faye’s spirit will not rest until the past is exposed.”

  Mia rubbed her arms. “What do you mean?”

  “There is no present that is not rooted in the past, Mia. The past is always the answer to the present. And to the future.”

  “How did you know what size our John Doe is?”

  “Jake Masters, one of the wranglers, described him.”

  “Yes, of course.” It was just the gossip, nothing supernatural. Mia shook the silly thoughts and reached out for the shirt. “Thanks, Mrs. Black, that shirt will be great. Any pants?”

  Bernice rummaged on the shelves, gathering several pairs of jeans, more shirts, underwear, socks. She offered Mia the pile.

  “Thank you,” she said with a forced smile. “I’ll replace these for Goodwill once we get him some new stuff.”

  “Of course,” Bernice said, shuffling back to her ironing. But she hesitated.

  “Be careful, Nurse Sanders.” She kept her back to Mia and her voice suddenly sounded strange. “Things—people here—are not what they seem. Veils and mirrors and tricks of smoke.”

  “Ah, yes, thanks again, Mrs. Black.”

  Mia hurried back past the dryers and upstairs faster than she intended to. Once up in the bright, warm lights of the kitchen, she felt ridiculous. Of course Bernice Black was right. Of course things were not what they damned well seemed. There was a killer among them, dark secrets being harbored. Nothing was going to be “as it seemed” until this was over, and justice was done.

  The kitchen staff all looked up and stared as Mia entered clutching her pile of men’s clothes.

  “What?” she said.

  “How is he—how is Cole!” Liz Dane, the cook’s assistant, said coming forward, wiping her hands on her apron, her green eyes bright with interest under her red curls.

  “Liz!” Agnes snapped at her young assistant. “Get back to stirring that pot or the bottom of the custard will catch! Make sure you keep the movement clockwise.” But the older cook’s eyes told Mia she was just as hungry for news.

  And as Mia took in their expectant faces, it struck her for a second time how much this extended family wanted the stranger to be Cole. It would be like a big happy ending to a nightmarish fairy tale—the stolen baby returned to the Colton castle as a grown prince, the handsome first-born son and primary heir to the ranching empire. Mia understood the psychology of it—good news was needed in the face of death and fear.

  And death had come very close to everyone in this kitchen. Jenny Burke who had worked alongside them had been shot dead in the pantry just around the corner. It was still sealed off, her murder still unsolved.

  “We don’t know yet that he is Cole,” Mia cautioned them. “But he does need something warm and nourishing to eat.” She smiled. “Is there any soup, Agnes? And maybe some bread and fresh fruit?”

  Fiona Cudge, one of the upstairs maids who was in the kitchen collecting a tray with tea stepped forward and said, “Jake Masters said the stranger has the right coloring to be Cole, and he looks to be the right age.”

  “Jake Masters has clearly been busy,” said Mia.

  “Well, it’s not just Jake. Tanner Doake saw the man in the Dead River Diner last night when he stopped there for dinner.”

  Mia’s pulse quickened. “He was at the diner?”


  All looked at Fiona.

  “Well, yes, he was. Around six, according to Tanner.”

  “Did he speak to anyone?” Mia said. “Did he give anyone his name?”

  “He spoke to Grace, the waitress,” Fiona said, suddenly forgetting the tea growing cold on the tray. “He told Grace he’d come looking for work on Dead River Ranch. He showed her the advertisement he’d cut out of the newspaper.”

  “Advertisement?”

  “It was in his pocket.”

  Not when I found him it wasn’t.

  “And Chief Drucker asked the man for his ID,” Liz interrupted, forgetting about stirring her pot again. “I heard Tanner telling the others.”

  “Liz!” Agnes grabbed the wooden spoon from the girl’s hand and started stirring the pot herself. “Go warm up some of that leftover soup from last night for our guest. And heat up some of the fresh artisan loaf from this morning.”

  Liz set her mouth in a grumpy pout and went over to the large stainless steel fridge.

  Mia stared at Liz’s back. “You said Chief Drucker actually saw the stranger’s ID?”

  “Well, that’s what Tanner told the other ranch hands,” Liz said, coming out of the fridge with a container of soup. She began to ladle it into a bowl. “Tanner was eating in the diner with two of his buddies yesterday. He said the stranger looked like he was trouble from the get-go, like he was going to give Chief Drucker all manner of hell—Tanner and his pals were ready to jump in and help if he did.”

  “Liz—the fruit?” snapped Agnes, setting the lid back on the steaming pot, her cheeks pink from warmth and irritation.

  Liz rolled her eyes behind Agnes’s back. “I’ll get to it.” She opened the microwave, put the bowl inside, slapped the door closed and adjusted the timer. She wiped her hands on her apron.

  “The stranger had gear, too,” Tanner said. “A big duffel bag. Heavy looking.”

  So his bag, ID, the employment ad, gun—it all must’ve been stolen. An odd mixture of protectiveness, compassion and curiosity surged through Mia.

  “Did Chief Drucker happen to mention what name was on the ID?” she asked Liz.

  “Not to Tanner he didn’t. But Tanner did see the chief looking at it.” She paused, and the rest of the kitchen staff seemed to stop moving.

  “That’s when the photo fell out of his wallet,” Liz said.

  Silence. Just the sound of the pot boiling, the microwave humming and a kitchen timer ticking.

  “The photo?” said Mia.

  “Yes, the one with Mr. Colton’s first wife, Brittany, holding baby Cole wrapped in the blue blanket. Tanner saw it himself, on the diner table. They all saw it—Grace, Maggie, the diner owner, Chief Drucker, the other ranch hands, the old men at the booth across from him.”

  Mia’s mind raced. Someone had gone to the trouble of rendering the stranger unconscious, stealing his wallet, ID, duffel bag, pistol, job advertisement, anything that might identify him, yet they’d left him with a piece of baby blanket and that one photo? Could he have been followed from the diner by someone who’d seen that photo? But why?

  “Well, now he has no memory of who he is,” Mia said.

  “Conveniently so!” All spun toward the sound of the strident female voice.

  Mathilda had entered the doorway unnoticed, and she stood there now, shoulders squared, chin held high, her silver hair gleaming under the light above. The staff straightened their spines almost imperceptibly. Liz went immediately to fetch the fruit basket into which she put an apple, oranges and a banana. She placed the basket on a tray next to the bowl of steaming soup.

  “What do you mean by ‘conveniently’?” Mia asked Mathilda.

  She felt the others listening intensely as they worked.

  Mathilda came into the kitchen, still handsome in her sixties with strong features and thick hair.

  “It’s common knowledge that as soon as any of the Colton children turn thirty, they receive a portion of their inheritance. And suddenly this stranger appears—precisely when Cole would have turned thirty? It sounds fishy to me.” Mathilda picked up a ledger near the kitchen phone. “There’s also the big reward that the Colton sisters offered on national television. I don’t trust that man and neither should any of you.” She waved the ledger at them. “This stranger could be pretending to be Cole, and right now Mr. Colton is in a weak state. He’s vulnerable to just such a con artist. He could be pretending to have amnesia.”

  “And what good would that do him?” Agnes said, spoon in hand. “If he’s a con artist why not just pretend to be Cole? And if he’s after the reward, I can’t see what good amnesia is going to do him, either.”

  “I don’t know,” said Mathilda. “All I’m saying is that this family is vulnerable right now and desperate to believe. That’s a bad mix in my humble opinion.”

  “Well,” Mia said, gathering the pile of clothes tighter in her arms. “A DNA test will prove definitively either way. Meanwhile our patient needs food, and I need to get back to check on him. Liz—could you bring the tray?”

  Agnes jerked her chin at Liz, ordering her to do as asked. The young redhead grabbed the tray and scurried behind Mia toward the infirmary, more than happy to oblige and perhaps sneak a peek at the mysterious stranger.

  As they neared the infirmary, Mia heard a distant chorus of chimes echoing through the mansion halls. Someone was at the front door.

  * * *

  Jagger was back in hell, trapped in the gutted building. An acrid scent filled his nostrils—fire smoke, the sick smell of blood and guts, burned human meat. Bile rose in his throat as he felt the stickiness on his hands.

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder, shaking, rousing. He tried to scream, to fight the grip, but it was as if he was trapped in molasses.

  “Cole?”

  He stilled. A woman’s voice. Gentle.

  “Cole...are you sleeping? Can you hear me...?”

  It was her voice—a golden gossamer thread reaching down into his darkness, drawing him up, up. To the lightness of day. Life.

  Jagger’s eyes flickered open. Soft blue eyes, full of compassion and warmth, were watching his face intently. Her hand was gentle against his bare shoulder.

  His mouth and throat were dry, sore. His head pounded. Where was he?

  Now he could smell food, and his stomach clenched sharply with hunger. Slowly the room took focus behind her. He was in the infirmary. The nurse—Mia Sanders—she’d rescued him. He’d been attacked by someone on horseback, and he’d been left to die out in the fields. Someone had planted a piece of baby blanket on him.

  Could she have stuffed the blanket scrap into his pocket before calling for help? he wondered as he looked into her eyes. He had only her word for it that it was already on him when she arrived.

  He swallowed, pulling her pretty features into clearer focus, trying to read her expression. Hell, she had the kind of face he liked.

  “Mia,” he said, voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “Hey.”

  Her mouth curved into a smile, lighting her eyes. “You remember,” she said.

  Jagger’s gaze went to the window. It was still day outside. Windy. Leaves blowing from the cottonwood outside danced past the windowpane. The sky was low with cloud. He shifted his gaze back to her.

  “I brought you some soup,” she said. “And some clothes.” She helped him sit up. The blanket fell away from his chest, and her gaze dropped instantly to his bare torso. She flushed slightly, and with surprise Jagger realized he found this modesty attractive.

  “That’s an interesting tattoo,” she said, as if trying to explain her interest. She cleared her throat and reached for a pile of clothes, handing him a plaid flannel shirt. “Do you remember anything about where you got the ink?”

  He shrugged into the shirt, wincing i
n pain as every muscle in his body protested. His head was pounding with each beat of his heart. “I wish I did.”

  “You’ve got one on your arm, too.”

  “I saw—an eagle.”

  “The one on your chest looks like something military,” she said as she watched him buttoning up the shirt. “Something to possibly commemorate a passing soldier?”

  Jagger’s hands froze as Cpl. Lance Russell’s face filled his mind. Careful, Jagger. She’s testing you. Or simply curious. But you can’t trust anyone out here, not yet. Any one of them on this ranch could have ridden that black horse into you....

  Quickly, he resumed buttoning, trying not to think of the look on Russell’s pregnant wife’s face when she’d seen Jagger standing at her door. He’d gone to tell her how her husband had died. She knew already, from military authorities, but he’d needed to go to her himself. She would rather it had been her husband on her doorstep, instead of Jagger. Guilt gushed cold into his chest. There was nothing he could do to outrun this. He could only move forward.

  Mia moved a small table closer to the bed and set the tray of food on top.

  “Want to put the jeans and fresh underwear on, too?”

  He angled his head slightly. “You going to help me?”

  Again she smiled, but this time she gave a soft laugh, too. “I think you can manage.”

  He liked that she wasn’t offended, that she was open to him.

  She turned her back, busying herself with something on the counter against the wall as he worked himself into the clothes. He noticed that his old, damp and bloody clothes were still on the chair.

  He swung his legs over the bed, stood shakily and zipped up and belted the jeans. He held his hands out to his sides. “Ta da—it all fits. How do I look?”

  She turned and slowly ran her gaze over him, approval quiet in her eyes. “They were Dylan Frick’s clothes,” she said. “He’s the head wrangler here—a renowned horse whisperer in these parts.” She paused. “It was his mother, Faye, the nanny, who was killed during the kidnapping.”