LAUREN'S EYES
She ignored the first tingle. After all, she'd been bent over this operating table for what felt like hours.
Then the second hot shard of sensation shot up her neck. Her hands stilled over the spread-eagled tabby whose abdominal incision she was closing. Please, God, not here. Not now.
Her prayer went unheeded. In the time it took to form the plea, she felt her scalp prickle. Soon, a shower of stars would appear in the periphery of her vision, narrowing it to a tunnel, and the tingling in her scalp would graduate to a band of pain.
"Lauren, is something wrong?"
Lauren Townsend glanced at her assistant, Heather Carr. "Migraine," she lied. She gestured to the patient on the table, "This'll have to be the last one tonight. Why don't you break the news to the waiting room while I finish up?"
Heather grimaced. "They won't like it."
No, they wouldn't, but it was elective stuff. "Tell them I'll make it up Thursday night, for free." Already her tongue was getting thick. She'd have to be quick.
Lauren finished the cat's sutures just as Heather returned.
"Riot averted," Heather announced. "Finished here?"
"Yes, thankfully."
"Gosh, Lauren, you look awful."
"Yeah, well, I don't feel so hot either." She peeled off her gloves. "Can you manage our post-op patients if I take off?"
"No problem." Heather removed the anaesthetized cat's restraints and scooped its limp body up gently. "But you're not driving anywhere like that. I'll call a cab while you get cleaned up."
"Good idea." Lauren slumped against the table. "Tell them there's a good tip in it if they make it fast."
Twenty minutes later, Lauren stumbled across the threshold of her house. Closing the door, she sagged against it. She'd made it. Just. By the time the cab had arrived, she'd been far enough gone to mildly alarm Heather. Her assistant had joked that Lauren should direct the driver to the ER instead of her house in this Halifax suburb.
But she didn't need a doctor. She just needed to lie down.
Rubbing damp palms on her khakis, she pushed herself away from the door. Her legs felt shaky, but they carried her to her bedroom. Heart pounding, she crawled onto the bed to wait. Deep breaths, she told herself as the paralysis stole into her limbs. You're okay.
Yeah, right.
Abruptly, her vision went completely black. For a terrifying moment, the sound of her own harsh breathing was her only anchor in the utter, lonely darkness. Then the vision exploded on her consciousness.
A blonde woman dressed in Western wear stood on a ridge top, staring out across a canyon. In the background, the sun brushed the horizon, staining the sky pink. A lovely woman against a lovely backdrop. But Lauren had seen this silent picture before.
Watch carefully. Check the background this time.
She forced herself to "look" past the woman, if that was the right word for it. Mountains rose against the sky, blue smudges in the distance. Over the woman's shoulder, Lauren noted four peaks which aligned themselves like bumps on a dragon's back. That's good. You can remember that.
If only she could turn and scan the area. But she couldn't. She saw only what he saw, condemned to watch through his eyes.
Then the woman turned. She was even more beautiful than Lauren remembered. Her green eyes radiated a sultry welcome, an assurance in her own sex appeal that Lauren couldn't begin to imagine. Then the woman's lips moved as she mouthed a greeting.
She's not talking to you, Lauren reminded herself.
Helpless, Lauren watched gloved hands rise into her line of sight, one on either side, as though they were her own appendages. No, please, she begged. But it was no use. She longed to close her eyes, flinch away, but she couldn't. The man's hands skimmed up the woman's arms, then closed suddenly over her throat. The sensual welcome on the blonde's face turned to surprise, then panic, then sheer terror.
As the woman fought for her life, Lauren fought to distance herself. Fought and lost. Stomach revolting, she watched the life squeezed out of the beautiful stranger. Watched it up close and personal, as though the murder's hands were Lauren's own.
Then it was over. As always, the link began deteriorating immediately, but this time Lauren clung to it. She ignored the shut-down signals from her battered mind and held on. Show me something! she screamed silently.
He did.
Drawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he extracted one. Calmly, as though he hadn't just committed murder, he produced a book of matches. Lauren shook, but the killer's work-gloved hands were steady as he lit his cigarette. Steady enough that Lauren had plenty of time to read the logo on the matches.
Foothills Guest Ranch.
Then he tossed the matches to the ground and wheeled away.
She let go then, exhausted, and started the slow climb back. At periodic intervals, she tested her limbs until at last they obeyed. Stumbling to her office, she flicked on the computer. Anxiety gnawed at her as she waited for it to boot and for the modem to connect. Another delay while the search engine loaded. Finally, she plugged in "Foothills Guest Ranch" and almost sobbed her relief when she struck pay dirt on the first try.
Foothills Guest Ranch, Borland, Alberta. The logo was a stylized mustang over the ranch's name in black "wanted poster" lettering. This was it, exactly the same as the one on the book of matches! For the first time since the visions began, she felt a stir of hope. Maybe she could do something this time.
Her next thought deflated her. It was just a book of matches. There was no guarantee the murder would happen anywhere near the Foothills Guest Ranch. There was no telling how far those matches might have migrated. Yet the rugged country she'd glimpsed in the background couldn't be anything other than the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, could it?
Her meager hope fizzled again as another thought struck her. Though she made the season to be high summer, who was to say it would be this summer? What if the murder wasn't destined to take place for years? What if she were doomed to living this horror for another year? She shuddered. It didn't bear thinking about.
No, she had to act, and act now. She wouldn't wait around until she read about the crime in the Globe and Mail. Not this time. Nor could she go to the police. Not after that nightmare with the DiGiacinto girl. Not only had she failed to prevent the runaway's death, she'd found herself the main suspect. When she tried to warn the police, they'd dismissed her as a crank until the teen's body showed up in that dumpster down by the docks.
Quickly, before doubt could set in, she registered at the Foothills Guest Ranch for an open-ended stay, starting next week. "You won't get her," she vowed, then shivered as a faint echo of evil reverberated in her mind.
***
"Smile, Boss. Here comes another bus load of wranglers."
Cal Taggart scowled at his foreman, Jim Mallory. "Would-be-wranglers, you mean. Cripes, I wish there was another way outta this mess. I'm not cut out for this, Jim."
"It's not such a bad bargain, I don't reckon, long as you can hang on to the ranch. Whatever it takes, right?"
Cal grimaced as Jim threw his own words back at him. "Right." Whatever it takes. That was his credo, sure enough. Whatever it took to amass thousands of acres of prime ranch land. Whatever it took to secure the best breeding stock. And now, whatever it took to keep the whole damned shooting match from falling into the clutches of the bank.
"Whatever it took" these days meant throwing his back into making this guest ranch a success. If it took off, the profits would help his cattle ranch through this downturn.
Downturn, hell. His eyebrows drew together in a fierce frown. He'd had the worst run of misfortune of his life this summer. A grassfire in June claimed three head, although in truth he counted himself lucky. It might have destroyed his entire herd if it hadn't caught it in time. Then what must have been lightning strikes claimed a few more cattle.
But in the scheme of things, those were just aggravations. The real problem was that farm incomes had hit their lowest point since the Depression. Foreign subsidies, low commodity prices, you name it. Which is why he was stuck playing to the tourists.
As the two men pondered the price of survival, the first of the passengers clambered off the bus.
"I'll handle this, Boss." With a grunt, Jim pushed his arthritic frame off the fence.
"Stay put, Jimbo. I'll see to it." Cal tugged the brim of his hat down and strode across the drought-scorched grass toward the bus. Jim was the best wrangler he'd ever ridden with. Asking him to babysit tenderfooted adventure-seekers on tame trail rides was bad enough. He'd not see his friend reduced to the equivalent of Wal-Mart greeter.
No, that distinction he reserved for himself.
***
Dust rose up from her sandals as Lauren stepped off the bus into the punishing August sun. The black sun dress she'd thought so perfect for traveling sucked up the sun's heat. Her hands came up to shade her eyes despite the sunglasses she wore. She was definitely going to need headwear. Back home in Nova Scotia, she'd have worn a sun hat to protect her face, but she'd left it behind. Nothing short of a Stetson was likely to cut it here.
She glanced at the man making his way down the line, greeting guests. Now, there was a working hat. Battered and dusty, it looked custom-molded for its owner, a compact man who moved with what she imagined to be a typical cowboy cockiness.
Except he didn't really look much like a cowboy, she realized. Shave off a few years, lose the hat, and she could picture him in a leather jacket, cigarette dangling James Dean-like from his mouth. Or maybe astride a motorcycle.
She focused on his face. All planes and angles, it looked like it might have been carved from the rock that rose in the distance. What would it feel like under her palm? The thought came out of nowhere, as did the answer. Hard, but warm.
Suddenly he was there, offering his hand. "Welcome to Foothills, ma'am. I hope you enjoy your stay."
"Thank you." As his big hand enfolded hers, she noticed his eyes. Sensual, hooded, they gleamed a silvery gray, like her beloved Atlantic Ocean under overcast skies.
They also gleamed with something else, she realized with another small jolt. Masculine interest.
Suddenly, she wished for her lab coat and trousers. The professional costume usually precluded this kind of thing. Not that she minded a little male appreciation. But from this cowboy, it made her unaccountably nervous. Maybe because she felt an answering twinge, a twinge she couldn't afford to indulge. She hadn't crossed a continent to flirt with a cowboy. She had one purpose here, and one only.
Turning toward the growing mountain of luggage, she dragged her duffel bag and overnight case from the pile. A hand closed over hers on the duffel bag's handle.
"Let me help you with that."
Damn. The gravel-voiced cowboy. "I can manage, thanks."
"Allow me. You're really not dressed for it."
"I've got it, thanks."
At her tone, he released his grasp. "Ma'am." He tipped his hat, the barest suggestion of amusement flickering in those gray eyes. Then he was gone, helping a family of five drag their luggage from the pile.
Check in, handled by a capable middle-aged woman, went smoothly. Another employee, a handsome young man of maybe nineteen or twenty, showed her to her cabin. It was a fair distance from the lodge, and he insisted on carrying her bags. Not wanting to puncture his youthful machismo, she allowed it.
En route, they encountered the cowboy, who looked pointedly from Lauren's empty hands to the overburdened Brad Pitt wannabe. She shrugged, averting her flaming face. After she'd turned down his help only to accept it from this handsome youth, he no doubt concluded she preyed on teenage boys.
A moment later, her young escort left her at her cabin. Putting the disturbing cowboy out of her mind, she explored her new living space. It was tiny, nothing more than a small kitchenette, a single bedroom and a tiny bathroom. The bath, she noted with relief, was modern. Equally pleasing was the sunny bedroom, its double bed draped with a hand-sewn quilt. On a scarred dresser, a bouquet of wildflowers trembled in the breeze from the open window. She fingered the blooms, inhaling their sweet scent. Prairie mallow and some fragrant purple thing.
Lauren crossed to the bed and stretched out on it, testing the firmness of the mattress. Exhaustion tugged at her. She'd love to pull the colorful coverlet over her shoulders, but she couldn't. If she succumbed to sleep now, she'd be dead to the world until tomorrow, and that wouldn't do. She had a job to do.
She'd pumped Brady, the young man who'd shown her to the cabin, for information. The best way to meet other folks, he'd said, was to take meals in the ranch house's dining room. Sooner or later, all the guests turned up there. Groaning, she rolled off the bed and hit the shower.
When she walked into the dining room an hour later, she was among the first of the diners. She picked a table by the door so she could keep an eye on the comings and goings.
Dinner was buffet style. The dueling aromas of beef and fresh baked bread tantalizing her, she strolled over to the big table. She could only gape at the volume and variety of food. Hip of beef, baked potato, molasses baked beans, garden salads... After six or seven dishes, she stopped counting. And carving the beef, a white chef's hat on her head, was the same round-faced woman who'd handled the registrations.
"You sure get around," Lauren said.
The other woman smiled. "'Round here, nobody has just one job."
"And what are yours?"
"Registration desk, cook, and housekeeper." She poked the beef with the tines of her fork. "How do you take your beef?"
"Medium." Lauren's mouth watered. "It looks wonderful."
"It is wonderful."
At the masculine voice, she turned to find the cowboy, minus his hat and with plate in hand.
"It's our specialty," he continued, as the cook handed Lauren back her plate, which now bore a sizeable hunk of meat. "Rolled and aged before being cooked in a big ol' barbecue oven. Nobody does it like Delia." He winked at the cook.
"Go 'way with you." The older woman blushed to the roots of her red hair.
He grinned at Delia. "Not without some of that beef."
Lauren almost dropped her plate. He'd smiled when he greeted the tour group, but it hadn't changed his face like this. Good thing. She might have melted into an embarrassing puddle.
"I've got just the piece for you, Boss. It still moos when you poke it."
Boss? This hard-edged cowboy was the proprietor? Lauren watched as the woman forked a slab of rare beef onto his plate. She should have figured it, she supposed. He did exude an undeniable air of authority. Not conventional authority - she'd bet he didn't have much use for that. More like an aura of confidence that came from competence.
She'd bet, too, that he harbored a wide streak of cynicism. It was there in the set of his mouth, as attractive as it was. Yes, his character was certainly set in his bones. High, intelligent forehead, strong cheekbones, stubborn chin. What in God's name drew a man like this to the hospitality industry?
He cleared his throat, and she realized he was waiting for her to move on. She'd been standing there studying his face as though it held the key to some ancient lost secret.
"Oops, sorry. Woolgathering." She smiled, then moved on leisurely. No small feat when she felt like bolting. As it was, she felt a flush climb her neck as she added food to her plate. Skipping dessert, she escaped to her table.
She'd barely regained her composure when a pair of pointed boots stepped into her downcast vision. Wonderful. She didn't need to make the journey up his spare frame to know it was him.
"Mind if I join you?"
Did she mind eating her meal with him watching her through those hooded eyes? Absolutely. "Not at all."
He drew up a chair. "Cal Taggart."
"Lauren Townsend."
"So, did I pass inspection back there?"
Of course, he would mention it. Well, she refused to be embarrassed at being caught out. And if she played it right, he'd be the one blushing.
"I don't know yet." Her gaze swept his torso visible above the table. "I didn't get past the face."
A glint in those gray eyes was his only reaction. "And how'd the face rate?" She pursed her lips, tilted her head consideringly. "Too strong, but good around the eyes."
He raised an eyebrow. "You an artist or something?"
"Or something."
He smiled, the same smile that jerked at her senses when he'd used it on Delia. Good around the mouth, too.
"So, do I get a turn?"
She sipped her water. "I guess it would only be fair."
He studied her. "Good hair, good bones, good diction." His gaze fixed on her eyes. "Proper east coast lady."
Oddly, his assessment gave her a pang. She let her lips part on a smile. "Boring, you mean."
He shrugged, reaching for his own water goblet. "Could be, I suppose, if I believed it."
She arched an eyebrow. "And you don't?"
She waited while he chewed an ice cube. "Mouth makes a lie of the rest of it."
Her pulse leapt. "Maybe it's the mouth that lies."
He made no remark, just watched her with those steady eyes. She suppressed the urge to swallow.
"To faces, then." She raised her water goblet.
He clinked her glass in a salute. "To faces."
"Okay, now that the obligatory bantering is out of the way," she said, conscious of her proper east coast diction, "can I ask you some questions about the ranch?"
Something flickered in his eyes. "Sure. What would you like to know?"
For the next half hour, as they ate, she pumped him about his operation. How many guests could he accommodate? How many were currently registered? How often did new guests arrive? Did most of them come on the shuttle bus from Calgary, or did they just drive up? What about customer demographics? Mostly men, or did he get lots of women too?
But talking about business, and by extension, himself, didn't seem to be Cal Taggart's favorite pastime. His answers grew progressively shorter, until he clumped his coffee cup down.
"Ms. Townsend, if you're looking to start your own ranch, you'd be better off pickin' someone else's brains. There are plenty of more established, more successful outfits in these parts."
"Oh, no! I have no desire to get into the business."
"Then why the twenty questions?" His eyes drilled her.
What to say? I'm conducting a homicide investigation -- before the fact? Hardly. She licked suddenly dry lips, searching for inspiration. Then the solution came to her.
"I'm a writer," she lied. "My publisher thought it would be a great idea to set my next book on a guest ranch," she said, warming to the idea. "It's research of a sort."
"A writer?" He sat back in his chair and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Should I know you, then?"
Yikes! She'd as much as said she was published, hadn't she? "Oh, I don't think so."
"Despite my too-strong face, I have been known to read the occasional book."
"Not these books."
There was that eyebrow again. "And what kind is that?"
She searched her brain feverishly for something. Romance? No, too risky. Just her luck he'd have a mother or a sister who was an avid fan of the genre. Then inspiration struck. With a perfectly straight face, she said, "Female erotica."