Chapter 16
16
M ovement in the side mirror drew Lina’s attention from the three men in front of them. A fourth man rode up from behind, the sun reflecting off his chestnut horse in flashes of red and gold. She studied him as he approached, taking in his work boots, worn jeans, and long-sleeved shirt. His hat covered a face tanned from the sun except for a jagged white scar running from his brow diagonally to his chin. The pistol in his right hand, resting casually on his thigh, didn’t escape her notice, either.
She rolled her window down as he approached at what appeared a leisurely pace. Both she and Jackson knew better. He was giving himself time to assess them.
Jackson put the car in Park, and both kept their hands visible. Unless the men felt provoked, she didn’t think they posed any real danger. And agitating the welcome wagon wasn’t on their agenda for the day.
“Ma’am,” the man said, reining his horse to a stop at her window, far enough away to see inside the cab. “The Long Shadow isn’t expecting any visitors today.” His gravelly voice made her wonder if he’d injured more than his face.
“My name is Lina Kato. Mr. Hughes bought a car from my dad several years ago. My dad was recently murdered, and I have reason to believe he wanted me to see Mr. Hughes,” she said, keeping her story short.
The man studied her with dark, inscrutable eyes. Twenty seconds passed before he looked away, long enough to give a chin lift to the three riders on the road. They rode away, silently vanishing into the woods.
“Mr. Hughes is expecting you. He’ll be at the main house,” the man said before reining his horse to the right and riding back from where he’d come.
When he turned off the road, she looked at Jackson. “Was that weird?”
Jackson inclined his head as he put the SUV back in Drive and eased forward. “We should have looked into Clint Hughes before we traipsed out here.”
The thought that niggled at her when they’d first seen his name on the bottom of the toy car crystallized. She didn’t expect to find evidence of what she suspected, but she pulled out her phone and typed his name into a browser along with the name of the ranch. Several links to people named “Clint Hughes” popped up, but none were a man living north of Spokane. The ranch had fewer hits, mostly all about the sale of cattle.
“Nothing interesting online,” she said as they rounded a bend and the woods gave way to a meadowed valley. This late in the summer, the fields swayed with golden grass, although one field—lush and green—looked like alfalfa. A stream meandered through the vast openness, glistening in the afternoon sun, and a sprawling single-level ranch house with a long, deep front porch sat nestled in the middle of it all. A barn lay not far away, and both cattle and horses grazed in the fields. In the distance, several small cabins sat in a line, their front porches facing west.
“Wow,” Jackson said. “I thought the Falcons’ compound was nice, but this is…”
“Yeah, it is,” she said on an exhale. Ranching was a hard life, success always at the mercy of Mother Nature, but this place looked straight out of a fairy tale.
Neither spoke as they pulled to a stop in front of the main house. When Jackson opened his door, a man—Clint Hughes—stepped onto the porch. Hands on hips, he stood, watching, as they climbed out of the Range Rover.
She almost laughed at the tableau—Hughes holding his ground, assessing them, with her and Jackson doing the same. A search for weapons first, followed by a closer study of the person. How they walked, what caught their interest, and even the energy surrounding them would tell a tale.
Hughes’s sock-clad feet—no doubt because boots weren’t allowed in the house—signaled his ease, though. And his light eyes—maybe blue or perhaps green—watched them without hostility. With his round face, slightly bulbous nose, and ruddy white skin, Lina suspected that under his hat, his hair would be thin and somewhere in the lighter range of the brown spectrum. He appeared in his late sixties or early seventies but still fit and trim. Her appraisal revealed a man more curious than dangerous. Still, not someone she’d underestimate.
They stopped at the bottom of the two steps leading to the porch. Clint Hughes didn’t invite them up. Didn’t move or say a thing.
Jackson’s fingers twitched against hers, urging her to break the silence. She opened her mouth but stopped when a huge smile lit the man’s face.
“Lina Kato,” he said. “As I live and breathe, you are the mix of your parents.”
His accent confirmed her earlier suspicion. “You met my parents through my grandfather,” she said.
Hughes smiled, but didn’t answer. “Come on in, come on in,” he said, waving them onto the porch. Jackson shot her a questioning look as they followed. She shrugged. Hughes spoke the King’s English, the accent that had given him away, but oddly, it was heavily laced with a Southern drawl. The fact that a Texas twang wasn’t exactly common in Eastern Washington made it even weirder.
“I was right sorry to hear about your dad. We have people looking into it, of course,” Hughes said, leading them into a great room. The beamed ceiling peaked above them, the color of the wood a mirror to the wide plank floors at their feet. A comfortable mix of furniture lay scattered around the room: craftsman-style tables, Tiffany lamps, and colorful area rugs, sofas, and chairs. A massive stone fireplace big enough for her to stand in anchored the south wall, a mounted buck head hanging on each side.
A woman entered the room, dressed much the same as everyone else on the ranch but with long gray hair tied back. She glanced at her and Jackson before turning to Hughes. “Drinks, Mr. Hughes?”
“Whiskey for me,” he replied before gesturing to her and Jackson.
“Coffee, if you have it,” Jackson replied.
“The same, please,” she said.
The woman nodded and left.
“Word of warning,” Hughes said, motioning them to two seats. “Coffee here will shrivel the balls off a bull.”
She made a mental note to add cream, not something she usually did. “You knew my parents,” she said, sinking onto an upholstered chair.
“I knew Eugenie through your grandfather, Chester,” he replied. “I met your father when you all delivered the car. He and I stayed in touch over the years.”
A stab of something part anger and part disappointment nudged at her heart. Her father had stayed in touch with this man he’d met only once, yet he couldn’t be bothered to do the same with his own daughter.
“Now don’t go takin’ that the wrong way,” Hughes said. “Your father wasn’t one for reachin’ out. But I found his brain helpful on occasion.”
That simple sentence raised so many questions. Questions she didn’t have time to explore. Or maybe didn’t want to.
“I believe he left something for me when he died. Something he might have given to you for safekeeping. Do you know anything about it?” She left the question purposefully vague.
Hughes nodded as the woman with the gray hair reentered the room carrying a tray. Lina thought he’d wait to speak until she left, but he continued as she set the tray on the coffee table between them. “Six months ago, he came for a visit. The first time I’d seen him in person since y’all dropped the car.” He rose and walked to a shelf filled with books, photos, and pottery. The woman set Hughes’s whiskey on the side table closest to his seat, then poured their coffee. Both she and Jackson nodded when she asked if they wanted cream and sugar.
Hughes followed the line of the books until he found what he sought. After sliding a white envelope from between two history tomes, he turned around.
“Thank you, Grace,” he said to the woman. With another glance at their coffees, she nodded and left. “This is what he left for you,” he said, handing it over to her before retaking his seat.
Lina turned the envelope over to see her name scrawled across the seal in her father’s handwriting. “How long was he here?” she asked.
“Two hours or so. Not more than three. He drove here and back in the same day. Had a bite to eat before he left, though.”
She raised her eyebrows at that. The comment would mean nothing to Jackson, but her father almost never ate out. He preferred to have the same thing every day and for each meal—one of the few things she knew about him as she was the one who ordered his food delivery. Toast and coffee for breakfast, a turkey sandwich with Swiss cheese and mayonnaise for lunch, and a lentil curry with rice for dinner. If he was feeling adventurous, he’d add potato chips to his lunch, although he never finished them. He disliked the sound of the crunch they made when he bit into them and the grease they left on his fingers.
“Did he say anything while he was here?” Jackson asked.
“Not about that, Mr. Bond,” he replied, nodding to the envelope. He emphasized his British accent when he spoke Jackson’s name, an exaggerated allusion to the iconic MI6 agent, but his use of it startled her. She hadn’t introduced Jackson when they arrived. Apparently, Mr. Hughes still had resources at his fingertips. Most likely her grandfather, whom she’d texted from Roxanne’s.
“Jackson,” he corrected. Lina took note that he didn’t care for his last name. Mr. Hughes inclined his head before taking a sip of his drink.
“What did he talk about?” she asked.
Before he could answer, a door on the far wall swung open and a woman stepped through. Dressed in a flowy, tie-dyed skirt, a fitted tank top, and bangles on both her wrists and ankles, she stood out from everyone else they’d seen. Her long black hair hung to her waist in a riot of tight curls, and her skin tone hinted of a mixed ethnicity.
She took in the group before her dark gaze landed on Hughes. Her head cocked to the side. Hughes flushed at the scrutiny.
“Oh, yes, you know better than that,” the woman said, walking toward him.
“Apologies, my love, I forgot,” Hughes stammered, yanking off his Stetson. The Texas twang nowhere to be heard.
The woman stopped in front of him, her bangles tinkling as she jammed her hands on her hips. “You didn’t forget. You wanted to send a message to our guests,” she said. Hughes looked sheepish, something so ill-fitting on the man that Lina felt uncomfortable on his behalf.
“What message would that be?” Jackson ventured to ask. When both sets of eyes turned on him, Lina thought maybe he should have stayed out of it.
“That he’s a big bad rancher who is master of his domain,” she replied, sweeping her curls away from her face.
“I am a rancher,” Hughes protested.
The woman turned back to him, and, to Lina’s surprise, her expression softened. “You are, my love. But no hats in the house.” To her and Jackson, she added, “It invites the spirits to toy with us. Leaky roofs, falling lights, those sorts of things.” Then, as if she hadn’t just spoken one of the strangest sentences Lina had ever heard, she grabbed Hughes’s drink and took a sip. After handing it back, she approached them. Both she and Jackson stood, as if pulled up by an invisible string.
“I’m Maya Hughes, Clint’s wife,” she said, holding out her hand to Lina first.
Lina shot a look at Jackson. She hadn’t considered whether Hughes might be married, but if she had, the woman in front of her was not who she would have pictured.
“Lina Kato,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Hughes.”
“Maya, please,” she said. Maya wrapped her fingers around Lina’s outstretched hand, and a shock of electricity traveled up her arm. Lina nearly jerked it back, but Maya held tight.
“Oh dear,” she said. Lina darted a look at Hughes, who looked at his wife, his expression curious. “Whatever journey you’re on, this is the beginning. Your father won’t make it easy. He didn’t want anyone but you to understand. You’re the only person he trusted to do the right thing.” She paused, tilted her head as if listening to something, then added, “And be careful of sunset. What happens there won’t be an accident.”
Lina had seen a lot in her life. As a child, her mother had rarely shielded her. And as a field agent for the CIA, she’d worked in hot spots all over the world. She’d experienced too many of the real, raw, and terrible things people could do to each other. And she did not believe in the paranormal.
She met Maya’s gaze with a steady, unwavering one of her own, but the woman simply smiled and withdrew her hand. “You don’t have to believe it for it to be real,” she said before taking Jackson’s hand. He darted a concerned look at Lina, but it was too late to take his hand back.
“Oh, child,” she said, even though Maya looked less than ten years older than Jackson. “You are nothing like them. Easy for me to say, I know. But that life isn’t one you need to worry about. It’s not in you to ever be like them. Especially not now you have a real family.” Her gaze flickered to Lina before returning to him. “You’ve chosen well. It’s a good match. It won’t always be easy, but you won’t regret it.”
Lina didn’t want to contemplate what that meant. No, scratch that, she didn’t have to contemplate anything. She knew exactly what Maya meant. She just didn’t want to think about it.
She cleared her throat, and Maya dropped Jackson’s hand. “You’ll stay for dinner,” Maya said, turning in a swirl of skirts and walking back to Hughes. “You’ve been traveling light, and you need the use of a washer and dryer and more clothes. I’ll take care of the latter, Grace can help with the former,” she said. Then, picking up her husband’s whiskey, she leaned over, dropped a kiss on the top of his head, ran her fingers through his straight medium-brown hair, and waltzed out of the room.
Both Lina and Jackson sank back into their seats. A beat later, Lina’s gaze found Hughes’s. “Mr. Hughes?” she said, unsure what else to say. She didn’t want to offend him by asking if his wife was stable, but if he needed help, she felt obliged to offer it.
He shrugged and reached for his glass. Then, remembering Maya had taken it, he called for Grace, who was already entering the room with another.
“Call me Clint,” he said. “Maya is…she has abilities that none of us understand.”
Lina glanced at Jackson, wondering if he was buying any of this. With a cautiously curious expression, he waited for Hughes to say more. She decided to take a page from his book and returned her attention to Clint. As soon as they could politely say goodbye, none of this would matter. Except for the envelope sitting in her lap burning a hole through her jeans.
“I didn’t believe it at first either. I have no idea how it works or why her, or why she only sees certain things. But she’s right too often to ignore. It’s just a part of who she is. If it makes you feel any better, think of it as a heightened intuition.”
That was a nice little box Lina could stuff the interaction into. “So what did my father talk about when he was here?” she asked, returning to the conversation from before Maya’s arrival.
“Not much. Your father’s not the chattiest person. Never was,” he replied, his accent now back to the hybrid British/Texas drawl. “We talked about the weather; the winter was long this year. And he had a look at a…puzzle I’ve been working on.”
“You didn’t see what’s in here?” she asked, lifting the envelope.
Clint shook his head. “Wasn’t my business unless he—or you—make it my business.”
“How did he seem?” Jackson asked.
Clint started to shrug, then stopped. “His usual, quiet self. Thoughtful, a bit withdrawn. But no more than usual. The only thing that stood out was that he came here at all. That alone should have told me something was going on. I did ask if there was anything he wanted to tell me, but he ignored the question, didn’t even acknowledge it.” He looked down, rolling the glass of whiskey between his palms. “Still, I should have known. It wasn’t like him to call me. It wasn’t like him to drive at all, let alone across the state. And it wasn’t like him to join us for a meal.” He took a sip of his drink and sighed. “I should have pushed harder, but I didn’t want him to regret coming to me. Now it’s something I’ll regret the rest of my life.”