Whispers Page 8

  “Kendall seemed to think it was official. I talked to Harley’s kid sister at the beach yesterday, and she said that Kendall’s all broken up and refuses to believe it’s over. Paige says that Kendall’s been spending as much time as she can at her parents’ beach cabin in Manzanita, just so she can be close to him.”

  “Paige Taggert is a pain in the backside.” Claire had bent over backward to try and make friends with the only Taggert daughter, but Paige had turned up her recently reshaped nose and wouldn’t give her the time of day.

  “Well she adores Kendall and thinks that whatever Kendall says or does is the gospel truth.” Furrows sliced across Tessa’s smooth forehead as she secured the final roller. “If you ask me, it’s kind of sick. Like she’s got a crush on Kendall or something.”

  “You’re the one who’s sick.”

  “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s weird.” Tessa blotted her face with a tissue. “Harley hasn’t called today, has he?”

  “No, but—”

  “Or yesterday?”

  “He’s been busy—”

  “Or the day before that?”

  “I don’t keep track.”

  “Sure you do. You’ve been hanging around the house, jumping every time the phone rings, hoping that Harley’s on the other end of the line. Why don’t you just call him?” Tessa asked as she adjusted the strap of her bra, then reached for a tube of coral lipstick. “That’s what I would do.”

  “I know it’s what you would do, but I’m not like you.”

  “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Because there’s no way, no way I would ever mope around for a boy, not even Weston Taggert. It’s just not healthy. Believe me. No boy, especially not Harley Taggert, is worth it.”

  Claire rolled her eyes and decided the conversation wasn’t worth having. Everyone, including Tessa and Randa, disapproved of her seeing Harley. Like he was Judas or something. The atmosphere in the house seemed cloying, and she decided, as she always did when her sisters bugged her, that she’d leave Tessa to her makeup and Randa to her books and go for a ride in the hills. She’d always loved the outdoors and sometimes couldn’t stand being cooped up.

  Passing by Miranda’s doorway she spied her older sister tucked in a corner of the window seat, a book in her hands, but her eyes turned toward the open window, as if she were looking for someone. Lately Miranda had been different, not quite so bossy, and there were times when she disappeared for hours. No one knew where she went, but she always had a book with her and Claire assumed she’d found a secret spot in the woods where she read. The strange thing was that Miranda was still reading the same novel, The Clan of the Cave Bear, that she had been reading for weeks. Randa could usually knock off a book in a few days. Something was going on with Miranda, but Claire didn’t have the time or inclination to wonder what it was as she hustled down the back stairs.

  It was a muggy day, all the windows were flung open, and the strains of some love song from a Broadway musical echoed through the halls. No doubt her mother was at the piano again, adding music to a house that she hated.

  Oh, Dominique tried. There were always freshly cut flowers in the foyer and dining room, classical music often wafted from hidden speakers, the silver was polished each week and used, with the crystal and gilt-edged china, at every evening meal. Tutors of French and violin, teachers for ballet and fencing, instructors for riding English style all paraded through the hallowed halls of this old house.

  Claire ran her fingers down the smooth stair rail to stop at the bottom step, where the top of the final post had been rounded and worn from the touch of loving fingers. But not Dominique’s. She thought everything about the house disgusting; the rock fireplace, charred by years of blazes in the grate rustic; the antler chandeliers barbaric.

  Claire loved them all.

  Wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, she dashed down the back hallway and through the kitchen. Ruby Songbird was kneading bread with her thick fingers while quietly humming in soft counterpoint to the piano’s sorrowful notes. Ruby was a statuesque woman with a smooth flat face, dark flashing eyes, and a rare smile that could light up the room. Her hair, if ever unbound, would probably fall to her knees, but as it was, the gray-streaked black strands were wound in a tight bun at the base of her skull, where, Claire was certain, she had a second set of eyes. Nothing seemed to escape Ruby’s detection.

  In Claire’s opinion, not that anyone else seemed to notice, Ruby had changed a little, and lately seemed preoccupied as she went through her daily tasks of cooking or cleaning or keeping “that miserable caretaker and his stepson” in line. She had help, of course, but Ruby was in charge of seeing that the old lodge was kept the way Dominique demanded.

  “Hi,” Claire said, snatching an apple from the fruit basket that had been left on the kitchen island.

  “You’re going off riding again?” Ruby asked as she slanted a glance over her shoulder, her fingers never losing their rhythm in the soft dough.

  “I thought about it.”

  “Hmm.”

  It was unnerving how the woman could guess her thoughts. Sometimes Claire wondered if she had ESP or something. Ruby claimed to be a descendant of the last shaman or chieftain or some bigwig of her tribe, and maybe she’d inherited some of his magic. Not that Claire really believed in all that stuff.

  “Be careful.”

  “I’m not going far.”

  Ruby clucked her tongue. “But sometimes these woods . . .” Her lower lip protruded and she stopped herself, as if she’d said too much.

  “What? What about the woods?” Claire took a bite, and the apple cracked.

  “They’re haunted.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “This was once sacred ground.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Claire said, refusing to be baited and drawn into an argument. Ruby insisted, and maybe rightfully so, that the Indian tribes around these parts had suffered mightily at the hands of the white man. Claire didn’t want to argue the point. She’d read enough history to know that atrocities had been waged against the tribes, but she didn’t really feel it was her responsibility to right some age-old wrong, even if her ancestors had been bigoted rednecks. Fortunately Ruby’s kids, Crystal and Jack, didn’t seem to feel as persecuted as their mother. A pretty girl and free spirit, Crystal didn’t wear her Native American heritage as if it were some kind of badge of honor. Neither was it her personal burden. As for Jack—he was a hellion, pure and simple. The color of his skin didn’t have a whole lot to do with it.

  “Just take care,” Ruby warned over her shoulder again as she deftly rolled the dough and split it into two loaves.

  On the porch, Claire stepped into her favorite pair of boots and noticed a mud dauber building a tiny nest under the eaves. The wasp worked feverishly, its shiny black body in constant motion, its jaws chewing endlessly.

  What did Tessa know about love, Claire thought, as she tossed the rest of her apple aside, followed a flagstone path to the stables, and slung a bridle over Marty’s wide head. Her father had bought the horses already named, and the two geldings—a pinto and a paint—had already been christened Spin and Marty after the heroes of some old TV show that Claire had never seen or even heard of before. The bay mare was Hazel, after an old character from the comics as well as a television show. Dumb names, Claire thought as she clucked her tongue and led Marty out of the stables and through a gate.

  She didn’t bother with a saddle, just flung herself over Marty’s broad back. His ears pricked forward eagerly as they trotted through the stands of old growth Douglas fir. Shafts of sunlight pierced through the canopy of thick boughs, dappling the shadowy hills as they followed an old deer trail that snaked upward along the Illahee cliffs.

  The air was thick and breathless, smelling of salt and seaweed and, motionless in the sky overhead, a few gossamer clouds clung to the tops of the coastal hills. Claire tried to shake off Tessa’s warnings about Harley, but couldn’t. Her sister’s observations lingered stubbornly in her mi
nd, echoing her own worries.

  Since when did she care what Tessa thought? Chiding herself, she slapped the reins against Marty’s shoulder. The horse responded, his legs stretching into a quick gallop that snatched Claire’s breath and caused her eyes to tear. With pounding hooves, Marty sprinted through the trees, vaulting fallen logs that had toppled across the path, shying only once when a startled grouse, wings flapping wildly, flew out of a clump of ferns.

  Marty stumbled, regained his footing, then lengthened his strides as he raced ever upward. At the summit, Claire pulled on the reins as the gelding snorted and fidgeted, sweat staining his coat. “You’re a trouper,” she said, patting his shoulder as she stared across the narrow bridge of land. To the west, the Pacific Ocean stretched in deepening shades of gray. To the east, the serene waters of Lake Arrowhead reflected the sky’s dusky blue. Between the two was this forested ridge, a place she often visited when she wanted to be alone.

  Clucking her tongue, she urged Marty to the edge of the cliff so that she could catch a glimpse of Stone Illahee, her father’s resort that rose from a crescent of sandy beach. Craning her neck, she stared down the steep ridge to the ocean below the jagged rocks. Thunderous waves pounded the shore, crashing wildly against the stony bluffs while shooting frigid white spray high into the air.

  Claire sighed. Her worries melted away. Things would work out with Harley. They had to.

  A quiet cough broke the stillness.

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and, heart hammering, she twisted on Marty’s spotted back. This was private land, owned by her father, and no one who valued his life would be trespassing. In the span of a heartbeat she thought of Ruby’s warning.

  Frantically, she searched the woods until, through a copse of trees she spied the Moran boy, a wild juvenile delinquent who had dropped out of school, worked as a gofer for a local paper owned by one of his relatives, and was always a suspect when any crime was committed near the small town of Chinook. His hair was too long, uncombed, his chin in need of a shave, his jeans nearly white from too many washings and now covered with dust. He was squatting near the remains of a dead campfire, a stick in one hand as he scattered the black embers and ash, but his eyes, the color of the brandy her father sipped after dinner each night, never left her.

  Despite his dark reputation, Kane Moran intrigued her a little, teased at her curiosity, and she knew, from the few times that she’d run into him and felt his gaze move slowly up her body, that he found her just as interesting. Maybe more so. He was the kind of boy to avoid, one who would only cause a girl deep emotional pain.

  “I didn’t know you were here,” she said, as she guided Marty closer to the camp.

  “No one does.”

  “You know this is my father’s property.”

  He raised a golden eyebrow. “So?”

  “There are no trespassing signs posted.”

  His smile was wicked as he rocked back on his heels to stare up at her. “Oh, I get it. You’re part of the Stone Illahee police department. It’s your job to go around”—he motioned widely with his charred stick—“and throw people off.”

  “No, but—”

  “Just me?”

  “I’m not throwing you off.”

  He snorted. “I wasn’t leaving anyway, Princess.”

  The endearment—if that’s what you’d call it—irritated her. “My name’s Claire.”

  “I know. Everybody around Chinook knows.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Getting away from it all,” he said, his eyes glinting a bit. “Couldn’t afford the rates down at your father’s resort, so I thought I’d spend some time here.”

  “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head as he stretched to his feet and she realized how tall and rawboned he was. “I don’t really care what you think.”

  She eyed his camp—old sleeping bag, expensive camera, knapsack, and empty bottle of sour mash whiskey. Nearby, glinting behind a clump of brush, was a motorcycle, a huge chrome-and-black machine that he used to speed down the highway or squirrel around town. But what was odd—or vaguely appealing to Claire—was that he’d spent the night out here alone, near the fire, staring up at the stars and listening to the never-ending roar of the ocean. Not what she would have expected from a small-time hoodlum.

  “So, now it’s your turn,” he said, striding to Marty’s side and touching the animal’s soft nose. “What are you running from?”

  “I’m not running from anything.”

  His eyes accused her of lying. “Whatever you say.”

  “I just wanted to get out of the house.”

  “Your old man give you trouble?” He bristled a bit, the corners of his mouth twisting downward.

  “What? No. No, everything’s fine . . . Sometimes I need to get away from the same old four walls.”

  “So where’s Taggert?”

  “What?” The question surprised her. Though she and Harley had been dating for a couple of months, she didn’t think it was common knowledge or anyone’s business, especially not someone’s who really didn’t know her.

  “Your boyfriend, Princess. Remember? Where is he?” He reached into his shirt pocket and found a pack of cigarettes. Shaking out a couple, he offered one to her, and when she declined with a shake of her head, one side of his mouth twitched, as if she somehow had amused him. With a click of his lighter, he lit up and inhaled deeply.

  “What do you care?”

  “I don’t,” he said in a cloud of smoke. “Just making polite conversation.”

  He was mocking her, she just knew it, but she couldn’t help rising to the bait, like a salmon to a fisherman’s lure. “Impolite conversation.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Look, I don’t like discussing my private life with strangers.”

  “I’m not a stranger, Claire. Lived across the lake from you all my life.”

  “You know what I mean—”

  “I sure do, darlin’.” He took another drag on his cigarette and shot smoke from the side of his mouth. “I sure do.” He didn’t elaborate, just patted Marty on the shoulder near her bare leg and turned. Without another word he gathered up his things, such as they were, swung the strap of his camera over his neck, rolled the rest of his belongings into his sleeping bag, and hooked it by elastic cords to the back of his motorcycle.

  “Want a ride?” he asked, and again she shook her head.

  “Got one.” She motioned to Marty.

  To her surprise Kane lifted his camera, took several shots of her astride the horse, then snapped the thirty-five millimeter back into its case, tossed his cigarette butt into the cold ashes of the fire, and started the big bike’s engine. Marty reared as the cycle sparked to life, but Claire clung on. Then Kane Moran was gone, vanishing into a plume of blue exhaust that chased after him as he raced his bike along the rocky trails.

  Claire was left with a vague feeling of disappointment and a welling sense of despair. Why this was she didn’t understand, but it definitely had something to do with Kane Moran.

  “For the love of Jesus, son, stay away from Claire Holland!” Neal Taggert tossed a file onto the corner of his desk in disgust. Papers flew, scattering like a flock of startled birds to land in disarray on the plush carpet. Neal didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

  Harley wanted to run away and hide. His father’s tantrums had always been a source of fear to him, but he held his ground, standing in front of the polished mahogany desk, spine stiff as a drill sergeant’s, back unbending, as he stood in the den. Let the old man rant and rave. This time, Harley wasn’t backing down. “I’m in love with her.”

  “Holy Christ. Love?” Neal let out a stream of oaths that brought warmth to the tops of Harley’s ears. “There is no such thing as love and let me tell you”—he pointed a fleshy finger at Harley’s nose as he stood and glared at his second-born son—“the very notion of love i
s overrated.”

  “I’m not going to stop seeing her.”

  “Like hell.” The old man swept around the desk more quickly than Harley had expected. Five-nine and topping two hundred pounds, Neal was amazingly agile. “Listen to me, kid. You’ll lose interest in that girl fast”—he snapped his fingers—“or you’ll be cut out of my will, ya hear that?”

  Harley’s heart stood still for just a second, and in an instant he saw his life, his and Claire’s, flash before his eyes. They would be strapped, no money, no frills, living in a tenement of an apartment over a garage or cheap Italian restaurant where the sounds of patrons and loud cooks rattling pans and barking orders filtered through the floorboards, along with the stench of too much garlic and heavily spiced tomato sauce. He’d have to give up his Jag. His fists clenched, and the back of his jaw ached from the clamp of his teeth.

  As if reading his mind, Neal grinned, showing off one gold-capped tooth. “Ain’t a pretty picture, is it?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’m not giving her up.”

  Neal sighed and ran a hand through the sparse strands of hair covering his balding pate. “Shit, son, you don’t have to pretend with me. Oh, sure you’d like to think you were noble and romantic and all that crap, but the truth of the matter is you’re no better than me or Weston. You like the good life more than you love”—again he snorted—“any woman.”

  “But Claire—”

  “Is a Holland. Just like her old man.” He rested a hip on the corner of the desk and sighed as if from his soul. If he had one. The jury was still out when it came to matters of Neal’s conscience or spirit. “I tried to cozy up to old Dutch, y’know. When I came here, I suggested that we form . . . well, an alliance if not a partnership, but Benedict Holland is nothing if not territorial, and he couldn’t see how much money could be made if we worked together instead of in competition with each other. Ever since your mother and I moved here, Dutch has been chewing on his tail, trying to think of ways to get rid of me, your mother, and anything to do with Taggert Industries. If you ask me—and I know you didn’t—Dutch is probably paying his daughter to make eyes at you just to get back at me.”