she couldn’t handle the truth?
This case was definitely more than just a book for her; she could admit that now. She’d come here to prove that Nate Corwin had been innocent.
“Nate Corwin was a philanderer,” her grandfather told her the day before she’d left for Whitehorse, Montana. “Of course, he was having an affair with Marianne McGraw. He loved women with money. It’s why he married your mother.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Too bad you can’t ask your mother, but she’s off on some shopping spree in Paris, I hear. But then again, she’d just defend him like she always did,” Wendell St. James had said. “Don’t come crying to me when you find out the worst.”
“I’ve never come crying to you,” she’d pointed out.
“Smart girl,” he’d said.
When she’d first confronted her mother about what she’d found out, Georgia had told her that her father had never liked Nate.
“It was because Nate was his own man,” her mother had told her. “Daddy tried to hire him right after we got married. But your father flat out refused. ‘I’m a horse trainer, not some flunky who sits behind a desk, especially a newspaper one.’” She’d chuckled. “You can imagine how that went over.”
Nikki could. “So there is no truth in the newspaper accounts that he was cheating on you?”
Her mother had smiled. “Your father loved me and adored you. He couldn’t wait to finish his work at the ranch and get back to us.”
“Why would he leave us if that were true?” she’d asked.
“Because his true love was his work and horses. Yes, he was away a lot because of his job, but he wouldn’t have cheated,” her mother had said simply.
Cheated? Or done much worse?
“I’ll get you some aspirin when we reach the house,” Cull said now as he drove along the tree-lined drive. “If you feel too ill, I’m sure you could get your appointment changed to another day.”
She shook her head. “Aspirin would be greatly appreciated. I really can’t put this off.”
The sun flickered through the dark green of the leaves. Ahead, the big white two-story house loomed.
Nikki looked over at him, torn between apprehension and excitement. She was finally going to get into the McGraw house. “I’m a little anxious about my appointment.”
“Yes, your appointment.”
She didn’t like the way he said it and decided to hit him with the worst of it and get it over with. “I’m nervous about meeting your father. I’d thought maybe he would have told you. I’m a true crime writer. I’m going to write a book on the kidnapping.”
Cull swore as he brought the pickup to a dust-boiling stop in front of the house. He seemed at a loss for words as he stared at her and she stared right back as if unable to understand the problem. A muscle jumped in his jaw, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly she thought it might snap. Those blue eyes had turned to ice and peered out just as cold and hard.
Fortunately, they were both saved. The front door of the house opened; a woman appeared. Nikki knew at once that she was the notorious Patricia “Patty” Owens McGraw.
She’d been able to learn little about Patricia Owens, the nanny, or Patty Owens McGraw, the second Mrs. McGraw, other than the fact that she was from a neighboring town and had gotten Ted to divorce Marianne so he could marry her sixteen years ago.
The only photo she’d seen of Patty the nanny had been a blurry black and white that had run in the newspaper at the time of the kidnapping. It showed a teenager with straight brown hair, thick glasses and a timid look in her pale eyes.
That’s why Nikki was surprised to see the woman who came out to the edge of the porch. Patty was now winter-wheat blonde, sans the ugly eyeglasses, and any sign of timidity was long gone. She wore a large rock on her ring finger and several nice-sized diamonds on each earlobe—all catching the sunlight and glittering wildly. The dress she wore looked straight from some swank New York City boutique, as did her high heels and the rest of her tasteful adornments.
Patty had been nineteen the summer when she’d gone to work as a nanny at the ranch, which would make her about forty-four now. Her husband, Travers McGraw, was sixty.
Frowning, Patricia spun on one high heel and marched back into the house, leaving the front door standing open. She didn’t look happy to see that Cull had a woman with him. Had Travers told his wife about Nikki?
She stared at the rambling, infamous house she’d only seen in grainy newspaper photographs—and always from a distance. Was she really going to pull this off? Her heart was a low thunder in her chest as she opened her door and stepped out of the pickup.
She tried to wrangle in her fears. The clock was ticking. She’d done this all before. Once she showed up, anyone with a secret started getting nervous. It usually didn’t take long before the mystery began to unravel.
Nikki had only days to discover the truth before the anniversary, which was usually plenty of time to make progress on a book. But from the look on Patricia’s face before she’d disappeared back inside the house, and Cull’s cursing inside his pickup, it was going to be an uphill battle.
* * *
CULL KNEW HE’D acted impulsively. He should have listened to Sheriff Crawford. Instead he’d offered the woman a ride only to realize she was going to the same place he was—and for a reason he would never have imagined.
“True crime writer?” he repeated as he climbed out of the pickup after her. Had his father lost his mind?
He’d looked up to see his stepmother appear in the open doorway looking like she’d sucked on a lemon before she’d gone back inside in a snit. Did she already know about this? If not, when she found out, she would go ballistic. He felt the same way himself.
Cull wanted to storm into the house and demand to know what the hell his father had been thinking. Not that it would do any good, he thought, remembering the newspaper story.
He saw Nikki St. James rub her temple where she’d hit the pavement. Even if she’d stepped in front of his pickup on purpose, he grimaced at the thought that he could have killed her. He reminded himself that he’d promised her aspirin, while a part of him wished he’d almost hit the gas harder back in town.
Mostly, he was just anxious to see his father. The only one more anxious, he noticed, was Nikki St. James. His father had no idea what he’d done.
Raised voices came from the house. Had Patricia seen the newspaper article and the increased reward her husband was offering? If so, she was already on the warpath. Even after twenty-five years, there was too much curiosity about their family. So much so that they seldom had guests out to the house. They’d isolated themselves from the world and now his father had invited the worst kind of reporter into their home.
What did his father even know about this Nikki St. James? Had he checked out her credentials? One thing was obvious, Cull thought as he walked with her toward the house. All Hades was about to be unleashed.
He hesitated at the porch steps, noticing something he hadn’t before. Clearly this woman wasn’t from around here, given the way she was dressed—in slacks, a white blouse, pale coral tank and high heels—and the faint accent he hadn’t been able to place. It definitely wasn’t Montanan.
“Hold up,” Cull said to her backside as she continued up the steps.
She stopped midway but didn’t turn until he joined her. She looked pale and for a moment he worried that she was more hurt that she’d let on. She touched her temple. He could see that it was red, a bruise forming, and his heart ached at the sight. No matter who she was or what she was doing here, he hadn’t meant to hurt her. If only he’d been paying attention...