a warning shot, so the creature would amble off without doing any harm.
Without warning, he was hit. A blow to the head sent him stumbling forward, tripping over the steps to the porch, and he landed hard in the dirt with his head spinning so wildly that he saw stars in the sky that weren’t there.
He blinked to clear his eyes and realized that he’d been attacked by a monster.
No, not a monster.
A man.
A man in a bizarre mask and hat.
“Coward,” Nathan whispered. “Show yourself.”
And then he knew. He’d never really found peace.
And he was going to die.
Colorado, Present Day
A majestic elk stood stock-still on the hill, long neck arched to the sky in the sunset, antlers large and proud. Scattered wildflowers nestled within the long grass, and the colors of the horizon were almost whimsical in their beauty.
Scarlet Barlow kept her distance, though the animal didn’t seem to be the least bit afraid of her. The elk in the area were accustomed to people who came to hike the mountainous country, the crests and valleys and little plateau where the onetime Conway Ranch was now a bed-and-breakfast, complete with a gift shop and museum. No one disturbed the elk that came here to graze the lush meadows, and the elk apparently knew that. The B and B was a mere stone’s throw from the eastern entrance to Rocky Mountain National Park, so those who came to admire the animal life there meant it no harm.
The big bull elk seemed to be aware that he was posing like a model; it was almost as if he was happy to offer her the photo op.
She snapped several pictures, paused and glanced at them on the screen, then smiled, pleased with what she had captured.
“Thank you, sir,” she said to him, then turned away and looked out over the natural splendor of the Rockies and the town of Estes Park, nestled among them.
People came here for many reasons.
One of the biggies was The Stanley Hotel. Stephen King had been staying there when he’d been inspired to write The Shining. The hotel offered both ghost and historical tours, and Scarlet loved it. She liked to imagine what the author had thought and to hear the staff talk about how the events in the book related to what had really happened there.
The Conway Ranch, where she’d been working as a researcher and curator for the past two months, had a history just as unique and intriguing, even if not as well-known. She loved knowing that her contributions to the small on-site museum were helping it to become more and more of an attraction on its own. The ranch had been founded in the 1860s, just a few years after Joel Estes had established the town and a few months after Welsh explorer Griffith Evans had opened a dude ranch in the area. Ranching was no easy matter in this mountainous country seventy-five hundred feet above sea level. And as far as the Conway Ranch went, “ranching” had long meant guided trail rides for the tourists.
Scarlet smiled. She couldn’t get over the awe she always felt as she looked at the towering snowcapped peaks of the Rockies.
She’d been told nothing compared to the Canadian Rockies, but she couldn’t imagine that any scenery could be more beautiful than this.
Even the town felt special to her, with its unique shops and restaurants, everything nestled in a natural paradise of mountain peaks and forests cut through by brooks that were bubbling and bright in the sunlight, cool and mysterious by night. Hikers, horseback riders and tubers and rafters, who took their chances with the rapids, came year-round to enjoy the scenery.
This place was as different from her native South Florida as it could get, but both were natural playgrounds, and this was a perfect place to be. At least for now.
Her apartment was on the top floor of what had once been a storage barn for feed and ranching equipment. Now it housed the museum on the ground floor and her two-bedroom apartment on the second. The museum had actually come about accidentally. The original builder had started out organizing his own Civil War and Native American memorabilia, then added more pieces as he acquired them. Over the years various people had taken a stab at cataloging everything, but finally the current owner had decided it was time for a professional to come in and make sense of it all.
And that was where Scarlet had entered the picture.
She’d been a bookworm all her life, with a particular interest in history. At college she’d majored in history and minored in archaeology, going on to get master’s degrees in both. What she loved most wasn’t the bare bones of dates and places but the stories that went along with events, stories about the people who’d actually lived at the time and whose experiences provided a unique perspective.
After college she had worked in New York for several years before she had been invited to come home to South Florida to work a new dig in the field she considered her specialty, eighteenth and nineteenth century America, at the mouth of the Miami River. She had followed both the lure of the job and her heart, taking the position not only for itself, but also to be closer to the man she’d loved, FBI agent Diego McCullough. And now, thanks to the current owner of the ranch, Ben Kendall, she was here in Colorado.
Ben, a descendant of the original owner, Nathan Kendall, and his wife, Trisha, had purchased the place five years ago. For them, restoring the Conway Ranch was a labor of love. They’d refurbished it with the money he’d made as a New York stockbroker, having given up the city life to return to his family roots.
A history buff from way back, he had tracked down Scarlet in New York City after discovering that she, too, had a family connection to the ranch and to him, and they’d stayed in touch when she went back to Florida, where she’d eventually married Diego. And he’d been right there with a job offer after the divorce, when she’d wanted and needed to get away.
“Scarlet! Afternoon!” Ben called out to her now from the wide porch of the main house, breaking into her thoughts.
Given the time, she realized he must have just returned from leading the afternoon trail ride, just as he did six days a week. Angus Fillmore—the quintessential cowboy, with his long white hair and beard, solid shoulders and strong arms—was still leading horses into the stables. One of the guests, Terry Ballantree, thirtyish and another descendant of Nathan Kendall, was talking animatedly to Angus, who was nodding politely but didn’t seem to be saying much. Gwen and Charles Barton, newlyweds from Mississippi, were waiting for their chance to say something to Angus, but Terry seemed to be nothing if not long-winded.
“Scarlet, I’m glad to run into you,” Ben told her, just as the head housekeeper, Linda Reagan, tall, slim and very pretty, stepped out on the porch behind him.
“Don’t forget to wipe your boots off before you come inside,” Linda said, then waved to Scarlet.
“I will, I will!” Ben promised, then joined Scarlet on the wide front lawn.
She smiled, wondering how he had ever been a stockbroker. He was fifty-five and blessed with a full head of snow-white hair that he liked to keep long. He always had a smile on his face now, which he hadn’t had when she’d first met him. The stress of working on Wall Street had kept him looking harried and worn, but now he was a happy man. He’d told her once that he was certain he’d really been made for the great outdoors.
“You’re welcome on the ride anytime,” he told her. “I know you love the horses.”
“Believe it or not, Ben, I grew up around horses.”
“South Florida? That’s beach country.”
“There are lots of horses all over the state,” she said. “I grew up in Davie. We had horses there, and my folks still do.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “So how’s it going?