Fatal Burn (West Coast 2)

When her life returned to normal. If it did.

Around a final turn, the trees gave way to a clearing and a lake of clear water. Near the shore was a rambling cottage that had been built between the First and Second World Wars. It was two full stories, though the upstairs hadn’t been used in years. A well-kept barn, stable, separate double-car garage and several utility sheds had been built on the north shore of the spring-fed lake. A boathouse and dock jutted into the water where dragonflies flitted, and trout swam below the clear surface.

From the instant Shannon had set eyes on the place, she’d felt at home, though she couldn’t explain why. This quaint, albeit run-down ranch had touched her. True, it needed a lot of TLC and elbow grease, but it was larger than her current home, it was more private and most of all, it held no memories of the past; no ghosts walked the hallways here.

And though the old house needed repair, the outbuildings were in fairly good shape, and the grounds were perfect for the new life she’d carved for herself since Ryan’s death. She already imagined how she could expand her business, placing more emphasis on water-rescue dogs and training them on the private lake.

The configuration of the large field behind the barn could be changed to include a circular enclosure for Nate and his horses.

Nate.

Still missing in action.

Theirs was a unique union, she thought. Most people assumed they were lovers—two misfits who lived on the same compound, two loners. The gossips in Santa Lucia who whispered that she and Nate shared a bed were wrong, not that she disavowed any of the tongue-waggers of their speculation. Nate worked with the horses, she with the dogs. Nate had spent eighteen months in prison before his murder conviction had been overturned with new DNA evidence. She’d been accused of killing her husband…No, they weren’t lovers, at least not yet, and that was her decision, not his. That was probably the crux of their recent disputes, the primary reason he was against her buying the place from Demitri. He thought she was running away.

From him.

Shannon grimaced. She didn’t want to think about him and what he wanted from her because she knew, deep in her heart, she’d never fall in love with him. Probably because he might just be the “right” kind of man for her, despite her brothers’ protests. But then, she never did go for the right guy. Even now, the only man she found interesting was Travis Settler, and no matter how damnably male he was, that thought was just plain absurd. He had suspected her of stealing his daughter away

from him. He had been found at her place on some kind of mission, loaded with military-like equipment and weapons. Since he’d come to California, things had gone from bad to worse and now her sister-in-law was dead.

Travis Settler was definitely a man to avoid at all costs. Getting close to him, even if he allowed it, would be another mistake. And hadn’t she made enough for a lifetime?

She had only to think of Brendan, the college boy she’d dated in high school and a friend of her brother Robert and how that had turned out. Then, of course, there had been Ryan, the man she’d married on the rebound—and the biggest mistake of her life. The few men she’d dated since Ryan had been few and far between, no one to write home about.

Remembering her husband, Shannon shuddered. What a nightmare. One of the reasons she’d finally decided to leave her home was to get away from the house they’d shared, a place where unspeakable acts had occurred. Though she’d long ago moved out of the main downstairs bedroom, converting it into a kind of office, and had bought a new bed and placed it upstairs, the memories of Ryan and what he’d done to her still lingered.

This new place, though about a dozen tiers below rustic, was a fresh start. One with bright, broad horizons, she told herself while unloading paint cans, rollers, trays, cleaning supplies and a few essentials such as toilet paper, paper towels and trash bags, hauling them all inside.

The kitchen had yellowed pine walls, the floors throughout were a scarred, scratched hardwood. The chimney was river rock and, she suspected, from disuse was home to either birds or hornets. But, in her mind’s eye, she saw the place as it would be with fresh paint, a new glossy surface on the plank floors, repainted cabinets and new tile on the counters.

She imagined a few rugs scattered strategically between her old rocker and antique sofa, a fire burning cheerily in the grate. Best yet, just off the kitchen, through a porch that opened on both sides of the house and doubled as a laundry facility, there was an attached woodshed. Long and narrow with a sagging roof and a door on the far end leading to the backyard, this unused space would become the new kennel for all the dogs she boarded and trained. She would build individual runs that would open into a general exercise and play area.

It would be perfect!

“Heaven on earth,” she muttered sarcastically, knowing there was no such thing, as she took the key Alexi had given her and opened the door to the sagging woodshed. The scents of dry kindling, sawdust and dirt filled her nostrils and she made her way to the back door while swatting at the spiderwebs draping from a ceiling that would need to be replaced. She wondered if any of the woodshed’s existing walls could be saved, deciding as she reached the back door that the whole one-room shed was probably a teardown. Besides, she would need insulation, plumbing, updated electricity, heat and more windows to let in natural light for the dogs. She would also have to rip out the rotting wood floors and replace them with cement and tile. It would take time and money—lots of both; but Shannon had been saving for three years, determined to move from the place that had caused her such heartache, pain and shame.

She was about to unlock the shed’s back door when she realized it hadn’t been latched, the shiny new deadbolt wasn’t slipped into its place.

In fact, as she touched the knob, the door itself creaked open, revealing a broken back step and an overgrown yard with a weed-choked path to the gate.

A tremor of unease whispered through her.

Why would Alexi go to all the trouble of installing a new lock, then negligently leave the door unlatched?

A mistake?

Or had someone broken in?

She stepped outside, turning slowly, scanning the house and grounds once again. She dismissed that thought. The only people who would be interested in the place were either teenagers looking for a place to party—although she’d seen no evidence of anyone inside the house, no empty beer bottles or tossed cigarette butts, or other trash—another realtor hoping the sale would fall through, or some hiker or hunter who’d stumbled upon the place and was just curious.

No one evil.

Nothing serious.

She was just projecting because of all the weird stuff that had happened. Because of the fire and attack. “Stop jumping at shadows,” she muttered as she locked the door firmly, then tested it. The unlatched door was probably just an oversight. No big mystery.

She left the woodshed and called to Khan, wading through ankle-high grass to the front of the house where the lake, with its still waters, beckoned. The old dock was sound except for a few rotten boards, so she made her way to the edge, kicked off her running shoes and socks and dangled her feet into the cool depths. The water felt like heaven! She undid her ponytail, letting her hair spring free to her shoulders. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and sighed.