Chapter 8
Beckett
Apparently, Carson Wells’s secret daughter didn’t much like him.
He looked in the rearview mirror and saw her gazing out the window, her slender jaw clenched and her expression remote.
He might have thought Alison had told the other woman something unfavorable about him except he and Ali had been friends for
years, and she was treating him with her usual affection.
Either Juniper was the kind of person who could form an instant dislike for someone or she had some justifiable reason to
look at him with the hard expression of someone who had suddenly encountered a lifelong enemy.
He didn’t remember ever meeting the woman. She lived in Seattle and he had only been there a few times. Maybe their paths
had crossed and he simply didn’t recall, though he was certain he wouldn’t have forgotten that long, willowy frame and her
deep blue eyes.
Or perhaps he had prosecuted someone she cared about.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel as the inevitable thoughts of Kathleen Morton rattled through his mind.
Sometimes his pain felt as fresh and raw as it had five years earlier.
Alison kept the conversation going, needing little more than his occasional responses as they drove to the ranch.
He passed his own property then went a short distance farther before driving under the log arch that read The Painted Sky. The nearby mountain range was a stunning backdrop to the trio of horses that ran along the split-rail fence, as if racing them toward the house.
“Why don’t you take us both to the cabin?” Ali suggested right before the driveway split. “That way I can help June get settled
and show her where to find everything.”
“Since the house is right there, I can drop your bags off first and then head over to the guesthouse. That way you don’t have
to lug them through the woods.”
“Oh, good idea.”
When he pulled up in front of the beautiful log-and-glass structure Carson had built, she hopped out of the passenger side
and went around to the back to show him which bags were hers.
“You probably figured out I haven’t told June yet,” Ali said, her voice low. “Don’t say anything to her, okay?”
He frowned. “Why not? You’ve been in Seattle nearly a month.”
She looked back at the pickup truck before speaking in a low voice. “Because I’m a chicken. She wasn’t exactly approachable
when I was a lowly intern and then she had a cardiac arrest, for heaven’s sake. The time has never felt right.”
“If she doesn’t know about the connection between you, why did she agree to come all the way to Wyoming with you? The two
of you barely know each other.”
While he hadn’t been a prosecutor for five years, Beck still had a bad habit of always looking for the holes in a person’s
story, the points where logic and reason didn’t always connect.
Ali looked sheepish. “Apparently, her mother was a big fan of Dad’s.”
Beck gave her a dry look. “I would say that’s obvious. She apparently had his baby.”
He regretted the words as soon as he said them, especially when Ali winced.
“Sorry. That was crude.”
“But accurate. I’ve done the math and they must have connected right after his first book came out. June has a signed copy of Purgatory River .”
Ali had come to Beck in shock after she received the results of the DNA test she and Carson had both submitted to find out
more about their heritage. She had spent her life as an only child. For more than a decade, since her mother’s death, Ali
and her dad had been a single unit, though he supposed her grandmother Loretta formed another link in that chain.
He understood why the idea of finding a long-lost sister appealed to her, especially coming so close on the heels of Carson’s
unexpected death.
Beck had cautioned her against suddenly bursting into Juniper Connelly’s life, especially after he did his due diligence as
both Ali’s friend and as her cotrustee in Carson’s literary trust.
He had learned Juniper had a reputation in business circles as smart and creative but also ruthless and determined.
He hadn’t learned that she apparently despised former prosecuting attorneys from San Jose.
“I’m waiting for a good time to tell her,” Ali said. “I want her to settle in here, heal a little more. It’s probably a good
idea to make sure she feels comfortable at the ranch before I spring that kind of shocking news on her.”
“Secrets are never a good idea, Al. They always come back to bite you in the ass.”
She sighed. “I know. But I still think it’s for the best not to tell her quite yet. You won’t say anything, right?”
He worked his jaw, hating the deception but not seeing he had any choice in the matter.
“Fine. I hope you don’t regret it. Something tells me she won’t appreciate being lied to, whether overtly or by omission.”
“I know. I’ll tell her as soon as the moment feels right, I promise.”
“Is this everything of yours?” he asked once he had removed the two large suitcases from the back of his truck.
“Yes. The other two are June’s. You can leave mine on the porch.”
“I can take them inside for you.”
He picked them up and walked up the steps to the house then punched in the security code. Inside, the house smelled fresh
and clean, but was still far too empty without Carson’s presence.
When he climbed back into the truck, he found Ali telling June about The Painted Sky.
“No. It hasn’t been in our family for long. Dad was raised in Wisconsin but always wanted to have a ranch in Wyoming. He and
my mom bought it right after they were married, after his second book, Beneath the Dusty Sky , won the National Book Award.”
“It’s truly stunning.”
Alison seemed pleased at the praise of her home. “You’re lucky that you came at the most beautiful time of year, when the
mountains still have snow on the tops but everything else is green and lush. Dad called this time of year nature’s Renaissance.”
“That’s lovely. I’ll have to remember that. Every time I read one of your dad’s books, I discover something new.”
He could only imagine how she would feel when she discovered Carson was actually her father, as well.
A quarter-mile path led through the trees from the house to Carson’s writing cabin. He always used to say it was far enough
away for him to be able to have room to think, but close enough that he could wander home for lunch when his brain needed
a rest.
He missed his friend with a fierce ache. Carson had been gone six months, but Beck still thought of him each time he saddled
a horse or drank a Scotch or gazed up at a star-kissed sky.
By car, the distance to the cabin was about twice what it took to walk the path, traveling along the paved driveway that curved around pastures and outbuildings. His own house was only about two city blocks in the other direction from the writing cabin, because of the landscape.
Whenever he drove this road, he had to admire the ranch all over again. It wasn’t really a working ranch, though Carson kept
several horses and a small herd of about fifty cattle and liked to grow alfalfa in a few of the fields.
It was hard not to imagine him standing on the porch of the cabin where he spent so much writing time, a smaller log-and-glass
structure similar to the main ranch house, that Carson had designed himself.
Carson, a man of many talents, had also built some of it. Beck could still remember the man showing off his carpentry skills:
the window frames he had built, the writing desk made out of a tree that had been cut on the property and planed in town.
That love of carpentry had been one of the things that had solidified their friendship. Carson loved to watch Beck work on
the tables he made for commissions across the world.
Carson had firmly believed every writer needed another creative hobby he could turn to when his brain needed a rest.
After he pulled up to the cabin, Ali and June Connelly climbed out of the truck. June, he noted, looked at the structure with
an expression of reverent awe.
“Oh,” she breathed. “It’s lovely.”
He had to agree. Carson had chosen one of the prettiest spots on the ranch for the place he called alternately his writing
cave or his writing palace, depending on his mood and how his current book was going.
Surrounded by tall trees and with spectacular views of the mountains, the cabin had been designed to fit its surroundings.
The creek ran behind it, covered with a wooden bridge, and the cabin featured both a stone patio and a wraparound porch, complete
with porch swing, where Carson would sometimes sit for hours, deep in thought.
By the time Beck had pulled June’s luggage out of the back of his pickup, Ali had let them both inside.
If one didn’t know this was a writing retreat, it would have been easy to think it was an ordinary guest cabin. Carson wrote
by hand in a notebook and he liked to move around while he worked. While one of the three bedrooms contained that desk he
had built, Beck had rarely seen him sitting there.
Instead, he would be out on that porch swing or at the scarred pine kitchen table or in the big comfortable easy chair next
to the fire during colder months.
“I can’t believe this is really where your dad worked.”
Ali gave a small laugh that sounded more hollow and sad than amused. “It really is. He loved this place.”
“Are you sure it’s okay that I stay here? I feel like I’m intruding.”
“Dad would want you to use it. Don’t you agree, Beck?”
“Sure,” he answered slowly. What else could he say?
“It’s so kind of you to let me use it. I can’t imagine a better place to recuperate.”
“It’s definitely a peaceful place,” Ali said. “You don’t have to do anything but listen to the birds or the water in the creek
or the wind in the treetops. Dad’s whole library is here, too. Feel free to read what you like.”
One entire wall in the living room and two in the office were covered with books. Carson had an extensive and eclectic collection.
He picked up books wherever he went. Nonfiction, fiction. If any book caught his interest, he would buy it. As a result, his
library contained everything from esoteric research tomes to romance novels to old Westerns to the latest thrillers.
“Also,” Ali went on, “we’re only a five-minute walk through the woods to the house. Faster than that if you use the bike that’s
parked on the side over there.”
Could the woman ride a bike? She had a cardiac arrest a week earlier. Also, was it really a good idea to leave her down here
by herself, with her medical condition? What if she needed help?
It wasn’t his place to lecture, Beck reminded himself. Especially when she clearly didn’t like him.
“I can take those into the bedroom for you,” he offered, gesturing to the luggage.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice terse, as if she had forgotten he was there until he spoke.
He carried her bags to the room where Carson would sometimes sleep when he was deep in a project. It was an undeniably masculine
room, with a dark blue log cabin quilt and another big, sturdy armchair beside a gas fireplace.
He set the suitcases beside the craftsman-style dresser before returning to the living area.
“Grandma and Jo stocked the refrigerator with low-sodium meals and made sure you have fresh sheets and towels,” Ali was saying.
“Thank you. That’s very kind of them.” She smiled, though he could see exhaustion filter through. She looked tired and fragile.
What was it about Juniper Connelly that brought out all his protective instincts?
His urge to watch out for her annoyed him, especially given her obvious dislike of him.
She didn’t need or want him to take care of her. He needed to stay away and let her heal in peace.
“Looks like it’s starting to rain. I can give you a ride back to the house so you don’t have to get soaked running through
the woods,” he offered to Ali.
She looked briefly torn then nodded. “Thanks. That would be good. Give me a minute.”
He nodded and walked down the steps to his truck to wait for her.