or his siblings; then she might have missed a photo op. Because she’d been busy with ventures other than parenting, she had missed pretty much everything else, though.
Of course she hadn’t had a choice the past ten years; until her recent breakout, she’d been in prison. For—among those other ventures—murder. The man he’d believed was his father would have been a killer, too, had any of his attempts proved successful. He had just pled guilty to several counts of attempted murder and assault.
River should have been relieved the DNA test had confirmed that Wes Kingston wasn’t actually his father. He’d never had much of a relationship with the man, anyway. Just like all his other half siblings, River used his mother’s maiden name: Colton.
But even though he had never used it, there had been some comfort in knowing he was a Kingston. Now he didn’t know who his father was or who he was, either.
But that wasn’t just because of his paternity.
Despite the warm July night, he shivered and tugged his hat down lower over his face. Hopefully nobody else was out this late. But since his mother’s prison break, there was always someone watching him and his siblings. The FBI, the police and of course the damn reporters—the ones from the national tabloids and that relentless website, Everything’s Blogger in Texas.
River shouldn’t have come back to Shadow Creek. Hell, he wouldn’t have—had he had any other choice. As his fingers slid away from the brim of his Stetson, they brushed down the right side of his face over the strings holding the patch in place over his eye—his empty eye socket, actually—and along the ridge of the not-quite-healed scar on his cheek and jaw.
Now he couldn’t leave Shadow Creek, and not just because he was still healing but also because of his siblings. He’d already been gone for most of the past ten years—leaving them alone to deal with the fallout of their mother’s trial. Since he’d joined the Marines, no one else had accused him of being a coward.
But he knew...
And it didn’t matter how many medals he had; he still considered himself a coward. He could have stayed and helped Mac with his younger siblings, could have worked the ranch with him.
He had been doing that since he’d come back. He’d started helping out while Mac’s son, Thorne, who was also one of River’s half siblings, was gone on his honeymoon. But Thorne and his new wife, Maggie, were back now, working on their house on the property, and River had stayed. It was too late now, though. He couldn’t change the past.
Hell, he didn’t even know his past anymore.
Who the hell was he?
Wes Kingston had no idea. Probably only one person knew for certain, and the police, the FBI and even the reporters hadn’t been able to find her yet.
Livia...
There had been sightings of her in Florida. But Florida in July?
He snorted, and the horse echoed the sound. Livia hadn’t liked the heat of Texas in the summer; there was no way she was in Florida now with the humidity and the bugs. So where was she?
For everyone else’s sake, he hoped far away. For his...
Hell, it wouldn’t matter if he found her. She wasn’t likely to tell him the truth. But maybe she’d written it down somewhere.
If she had, the records or journals would be hidden somewhere on the estate, at La Bonne Vie, which in French translated to The Good Life. But life there hadn’t been good.
The house, the acreage and the parties—it had all just been for show. A pretense. A lie. Like River’s entire life. He needed to know what the truth was. But time was running out. After sitting vacant for ten years, the estate had finally been sold.
River doubted the new owner would let him search the place, especially after all the damage the FBI had done when they’d torn the place apart ten years ago looking for more evidence against Livia.
As if they hadn’t already had enough. They’d searched it again after Livia’s escape. But River didn’t think they’d found what he was looking for. They didn’t know the house like he did. They didn’t know all of La Bonne Vie’s secrets.
Neither did he, but he was determined to discover them. He squeezed his legs, prodding the stallion with his knees so it hurried forward along the trail that led from Mac’s ranch to La Bonne Vie.
The horse felt his urgency and quickened his pace. River wasn’t certain how long he had before the new owner either took up residency or tore down the place. Nobody knew who’d bought it or why.
The stallion bounded easily up the hill toward the expansive shadow sitting atop it. This was it—the house. It was some French-country monstrosity with seven bedrooms and eight bathrooms and countless fireplaces—not that it often got cold enough for a fire. Just like the house, the hearths had mostly been for show.
He and Shadow had already vaulted the fence between Mac’s place and the estate. Then they’d wound around the base of the hill to head up the long circular drive. They now passed the fountain that gurgled in front of the house. If not for the property having a natural spring, the water probably would have stopped flowing years ago.
He tugged lightly on the reins, drawing Shadow to a stop next to that fountain. After sliding off, he tethered the horse to one of the gargoyles sitting on the edge of the fountain. The horse could drink while River found a way into the darkened house.
As he neared the front entrance, his steps slowed, his boot heels scraping across the surface of the brick pavers. This wasn’t a good idea for so many reasons.
First off, he was trespassing.
Second, he might not like what he found.
And third, he might not be alone—because the moon glinted off the metal and glass of the car parked on the other side of the fountain. He cursed. But just as he cursed, he heard the scream.
So did the horse. Shadow rose up with an anxious whinny and tugged his reins free of the gargoyle. He took off toward Mac’s ranch.
But River turned back toward the house. He wasn’t the coward he’d been at eighteen. He didn’t run from trouble anymore. Instead, he usually ran right into it. The last time he’d done that, though, he’d lost his eye and damn near his life.
What would he lose this time?
* * *
She had lost it. Edith Beaulieu was not the type of woman to scream like a banshee. She wasn’t the type to scream at all. Not even as a child. But the dark house and all of its creepy sounds had unnerved her.
She’d called the power company days ago to have the service restored after ten years of the estate sitting empty. They’d assured her that it would be done. But when she’d stepped into the foyer and flipped on the switch, nothing had happened. The elaborate chandelier remained dark, its crystals reflecting only the faint light of stars shining through the tall windows and the light of her cell phone.
Of course, after ten years, the bulbs might have burned out. She had already considered that, so she’d brought a lamp with her. When she’d plugged it into a socket, though, nothing had happened.
Maybe the power company hadn’t been able to get inside and throw the breakers? That was why she’d used her phone light to move throughout the house and try to find the door to the basement. Electrical boxes were usually in the basement. Even with the light from her phone, she stumbled over broken furniture and discarded drawers and papers. And other things that indicated animals may have taken up residence when the humans had left.
So she hadn’t been too concerned about those first scurrying sounds she’d heard. She’d just shuddered at the thought of crossing paths with rodents or spiders or snakes. But when she’d finally found the door to the basement inside the kitchen, she’d heard something else—something that had sounded like footsteps—human footsteps—moving down the steps. And when she’d opened that door, the light