Resonable Doubt

  Dear God, he's chasing me

  Breanna staggered into a run, her head resounding with the crashing noises behind her. She made it halfway across the orchard before realizing the sounds were growing more distant, heading in the opposite direction. Whirling, she looked behind her and saw the distinct shapes of three men diving for cover at different angles.

  An unnatural quiet filled the night. They're all around me, she thought. The cabin wasn't that far, but it seemed to take forever to reach it. She clawed her way over the retainer wall, pulling herself flat on the ground until the black shadows from the oak tree shielded her. Even then she didn't feel safe. There could be more of them in the yard. She stumbled forward, flattening herself against the cabin to guard her back. Crab-walking, she inched sideways toward the corner.

  Then someone grabbed her hair....

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Catherine Anderson has always wanted to write. Ideas come to her from everywhere, and stories laced with mystery and intrigue are her particular love. Reasonable Doubt sprang from her own background in the Pacific Northwest. Her ancestors pioneered Oregon, settling there to make their living mining for gold. Her hometown, Grants Pass, Oregon, and the nearby settlements on Lower Graves Creek were a veritable "gold mine" of inspiration for her first Intrigue. Currently she lives in Everett, Washington, with her husband and two sons.

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  To Robyn and Sarah

  And to my mother, who inspired me

  Harlequin Intrigue edition published June 1988

  ISBN 0-373-22092-8

  Copyright © 1988 Adeline Catherine Anderson. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9, or Harlequin Books, P.O. Box 958, North Sydney, Australia 2060.

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  ® are Trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in U.S.A.

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Breanna Van Patten Morgan—Ten years ago she

  had run away from her doubts, but now she was

  back and through running.

  Tyler Ross—A man of many talents and no

  past, who always seemed able to be in the right

  place at the wrong time.

  Dane Van Patten—Obsessed with dreams of

  hidden treasure, Breanna's cousin had always

  loved secrets.

  Jack Jones—Tyler's "partner" allowed himself to trust very few people, and Breanna Morgan wasn't one of them.

  Chuck Morrow—A powerful man with a lot to offer when he chose, but a very dangerous man to refuse.

  Prologue

  The cold in the room cut bone deep, dank as a grave. A lantern perched on a wooden shelf, its flickering sphere of light overwhelmed by the shifting shadows that played upon the earthen walls. Four men stood near the door, three to­gether, one alone, the air between them crystallized with tension.

  The heftiest of the threesome unrolled his T-shirt sleeve and lifted out a pack of cigarettes. When he tapped the pack against his ink-stained forefinger, the sound echoed around him. He smiled as he reached for his lighter. With a flick of his thumb, he rasped flint against steel and dipped his head toward the spurt of orange flame. The glow from it rippled over his face, emphasizing his coarse features and cold, flat eyes.

  "It's like this," he whispered, exhaling smoke. "You get rid of her, or I do. It's your decision."

  "How?" Desperation rang in the lone man's voice. "What do you suggest? That I tell her to leave the second she gets here? She won't go. She inherited the cabin in the will. It's hers and the mining claim's filed in her name."

  "If you'd filed before she got here, the claim would have been yours. We could have taken the cabin by default. You screwed up. How you undo it is up to you. The way I see it, if she stays, it's her or us."

  "Just what the hell do you mean?"

  Letting his cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth, the older man leaned against the wall. Lifting his hand to his throat, he made a slashing motion across his Adam's ap­ple. "That clear enough for you, pretty boy?"

  "You aren't serious! A move like that would bring every cop in the country down on our heads."

  "Not if it's done right. No one knows we're here, re­member?"

  "You miserable bastard," the younger man hissed. "How much time do I have? She doesn't scare easy."

  "We can hold off production a few days. Meanwhile, we'll watch her so she doesn't poke around and find our equipment. Sound reasonable?"

  "Reasonable? You don't know the meaning of the word."

  Chapter One

  Hypnotic regression. Those were the only words to de­scribe the feeling that washed over Breanna Morgan as she climbed out of her silver Honda and gazed at her grand­parents' small cabin. In the dusky light, its yellow logs and tin roof looked postcard perfect against the tree-studded backdrop of Hungry Hill. Flashbacks buffeted her, some sweet, some nostalgic, others painful. She stood rooted un­til her mind could assimilate the shock.

  With a determined lift of her chin, Breanna strode to the aluminum driveway gate and swung it wide. The night wind whispered, a decibel louder than the gurgle of Graves Creek, following the stream's course as it twisted and turned through the canyon to spill into the white water of the Rogue River five miles west. Above Breanna, a clapboard sign dangled by one corner from the arbor that formed an entry arch. Its rhythmic, forlorn squeaking underscored the sur­rounding gloom. Glancing at the encroaching laurel and oak trees, she drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. After spending most of her twenty-seven years in the mountains, as a child playing in the surrounding woods, as an adult doing wildlife studies, the remote location of The Crescent Moon mining claim shouldn't bother her.

  But it did. Vague unease wrapped itself around her and refused to let go.

  Turning back toward the Honda, she saw her black dog, Coaly, had exited the car. He seemed bent on exploring everything, and that was a mighty big order when miles of Oregon forests stretched in all directions.

  "Come on, old man," Breanna called as she slid back behind the steering wheel. "It's time to get settled for the night."

  The mostly Labrador mutt led the way down the drive, his incongruous plumed tail waving like a flag over his back. Some of his excitement spilled over to Breanna. Sh
e had al­ways loved it down here. Once she settled in, maybe a little of the magic would return. It was a perfect environment for writing, much better than living in town with all the dis­tractions that neighbors inflicted.

  Parking near the retainer wall steps to facilitate unload­ing her hatchback, Breanna fished in the pocket of her faded jeans for her cabin key as she slid out of the car. Coaly ran circles around her for a moment, then veered away to sniff the foundation of the old barn. As she ascended the steps to the overgrown yard, Breanna could see the ravages of ne­glect everywhere. Weeds flourished in her grandmother's rose beds beside the house. The cement edges of the stone walkway were beginning to crumble. She didn't know what her cousin, Dane, had been doing during his visits here these last seven years, but it was clear he hadn't been caretaking. No wonder their grandmother had given the cabin to Breanna.

  Four paces up the walk, Breanna froze, her gaze riveted on the front door. It hung awry on its hinges, swinging slightly as if someone had bumped against it only seconds earlier. The door frame was split and gouged where the sturdy dead bolt had been forced inward. Myriad emotions rushed through her. Disbelief turned to outrage, and both were quickly smothered by fear. Intruders caught in the act could be dangerous. Standing here, she blocked the only exit as effectively as a cork in a narrow-necked bottle.

  The door swung slowly shut, then yawned open again, creaking on its hinges. Breanna jumped. Then she realized it was only the wind. Coaly lumbered up the steps behind her, tongue lolling, tail whipping against her leg as he passed. With no apparent presentiment of danger, he bounded onto the porch and gave the swinging door a nudge with his nose.

  Trusting her dog's keen sense of smell, Breanna relaxed a bit. He'd be raising a ruckus if anyone was in there. Straining her ears for any unusual sounds, she advanced on the cabin. As she stepped onto the porch, her well-trained eye zeroed in on a footprint in the soft dirt next to the walkway. She leaned over to study it. A man's boot, judg­ing by its size, one with a waffled sole. A hiking boot? It gave her an eerie feeling looking at it.

  "Coaly, wait up."

  The canine's response was a happy bark as he frolicked into the dark entry hall. Pausing on the threshold, Breanna pushed the door wide. No growls from Coaly yet. That was a good sign. She'd need her flashlight, though. It was black as a tomb in there. Hurrying back to the Honda, she dug into the glove box until her fingers curled around the cyl­inder of plastic.

  "Coaly?"

  Breanna switched the flashlight on as she entered the short entry hall. Glossy log walls burnished with age, just as she remembered. Gramps's hand-carved coat rack hung to her right. On her left was a— She came to a dead stop and stared. A white face glowed back at her. For an instant that seemed like eternity, she couldn't move. Her blood pounded in her ears, a loud, rhythmic swish that deafened her. Then she recognized her own distorted image, reflected by an old mirror. She laughed, the sound squeaky and tremulous. If she didn't stop this, she'd have cardiac arrest before she reached the living room.

  "Coaly? Come here, boy."

  The hall spilled into the main living area. She eased for­ward, then fell back, waving her arms. Cobwebs. She sput­tered, shining the light on her shoulder. Gray wisps clung to her sun-streaked brown hair. She brushed them away, then played the light over the river rock fireplace, the battered kitchen table, the lime-green gas stove. A thick layer of dust covered the sheets on the studio couch and sofa. More cob­webs were draped from rafter to rafter.

  "Brother! Talk about a hard day's work; this is it." Her voice rang hollow in the room. The heavy smell of aged pine mingled with moldy dampness, making her shiver. "Gives me the creeps to think of sleeping in here."

  First things first. For now, her major concerns were dealing with the broken lock on the front door and clearing a place to stretch out for the night. When she pushed through the curtained doorway to the bedroom, the tar­nished brass bedstead gleamed back at her. It was the only valuable antique in the house; she'd been half-afraid it would be gone.

  But when she came to think of it, nothing seemed to be missing. Breanna returned to the living room, flicking the light around. Gran's oil paintings of the creek hung above the oak mantle. The mahogany tables stood in their respec­tive corners, the tops littered with Gran's odds and ends. A thimble. A short piece of fishing line. A garden trowel. Nothing disturbed, nothing stolen. A slight frown settled on Breanna's brow. It didn't make sense. Usually if you found your front door kicked in, your house was either vandal­ized or stripped of its valuables.

  "Maybe someone got stranded out here and needed shel­ter," she said to Coaly. "Polite houseguests. They even left the sheets on the furniture."

  The dog didn't respond with his usual bark, but she could hear his claws clacking on the planked floor. Training her flashlight on one of the paned windows, Breanna sighed. Night was closing in fast. She wouldn't sleep a wink unless she could lock up tight. Her earlier feeling of unease had escalated into a full-blown case of edginess. No phone, no electricity. Worse yet, no lantern. Where was it?

  Fanning the light along the rafters, she spotted the old Coleman hanging on a hook above the stove. Red clay dust coated its base. It had probably hung there untouched since Gran's first stroke seven years ago. She could almost see her grandmother in the kitchen, flour streaking her apron, her salt-and-pepper hair swept back with tortoiseshell combs. The cozy picture accompanied her as she returned to the Honda to get her can of kerosene.

  Forty-five minutes later, Breanna jammed a chair se­curely under the doorknob and knelt before the hearth to light a fire. Now that the car was unloaded, she could try to, relax. Flames licked up the crumpled tufts of old newspa­per she had found on Gran's closet shelf, blue tendrils curl­ing hungrily around the sticks of kindling. Mesmerized, she stared at the smoldering newsprint. Then she noticed the date on the right-hand corner.

  August twenty-third, ten years ago. Only a few days be­fore the—

  Her throat tightened and she grabbed the poker, shoving the newspaper into the flames. Why on earth had Gran kept papers that old? And from that particular month?

  Forcing the tension out of her shoulders, she glanced around. The yellow glow of flame and kerosene light cast the rooms into flickering shadow. How many times had she sat in this very spot, knees hugged to her chest, eyes trans­fixed on her grandfather's face as he told stories about John Van Patten's ghost and his legendary gold? Those were the memories she should dwell on, the wonderful ones that were the essence of her childhood.

  Smiling, she rose to double-check the door. If someone wanted in, her makeshift barricade might slow him down, but that was the best she could hope for. Breanna tugged on the knob to be sure the chair was angled under it to the best advantage, still wondering who had broken in; the most likely explanation was treasure hunters. Gramps had sounded so convincing when he talked about the Van Pat­ten gold that most people in this area thought the story was gospel. Even her cousin, Dane.

  Dane,

  She hadn't spoken to him in years, but it wasn't beyond the realm of possibility that her cousin had given the house one last search before Breanna moved in. It would be just like him to come down here on the sly, thumping the walls for a hidden panel, checking the stones in the fireplace to make sure none were loose. Yes, it could have been Dane. On the other hand, it might not have been. Goose bumps rose on her arms.

  As she reentered the living room, she noticed smoke es­caping through the fire screen. Hurrying to the hearth, she grabbed the poker and shoved it up the flue to check the draft lever. Wide open. The chimney was blocked. Just what she needed. "I don't believe this!"

  Coughing and waving her hand to clear the air, she stepped to a French window and threw it wide. Then, kneeling on the hearth, she again seized the poker and shifted the wood so it would burn more swiftly. Dousing it with water would only create more smoke.

  The wood was laurel, deadfall from Hungry Hill. Its scent and the searing of hot smoke in he
r nostrils catapulted her mind into the past—to another night, another fire. August, ten years ago. Her knuckles went white as she tightened her fingers around the brass handle of the poker. Images flashed with Technicolor clarity, faster and faster until they came together in a hot, kaleidoscopic amber glare. Sweat popped out on her forehead, triggered by the panicky shiver of nausea that still swept over her whenever she thought about it. Arson, death, suspecting someone she loved. Guilt roiled within her. She wasn't sure which ate at her the most, believing Dane capable of such treachery or keeping silent about her own inconclusive suspicions.

  Memories of that violent night lingered in Breanna's thoughts as she turned out the lantern and unrolled her sleeping bag on the sofa. She sank wearily onto a cushion, drawing her legs beneath her and propping an elbow on the couch arm. Her nerves were strung so taut that she couldn't lie down and rest.

  The open window made her feel vulnerable. It would be so easy for someone to creep up on her. At least she had Coaly. She gazed out at the shadows in the moonlit yard. Just shadows, not an intruder. A rafter creaked above her. The lantern gave a final sputter, sending a prickle of alarm up her spine before she realized what had made the sound.

  Seconds dragged into minutes, minutes into hours. Nothing but the usual noises. Breanna pulled the sleeping bag close, watched the window, blinked herself awake when her eyelids drifted shut. As exhausted as she was, she didn't dare sleep. An owl hooted. The sound of its call faded into silence, mournful, lonely. It was the last thing Breanna was aware of as she slipped into an uneasy doze.

  It seemed only moments later that birds were singing her awake. She slipped off the sofa to stand at the open French doors, gazing out at the golden shafts of sunlight that spilled through the oak leaves. Home, she thought. This is how I remember it. The sweetness of Gran's roses perfumed the June morning, lightly blended with honeysuckle and the lingering fragrance of withered lilac blooms. Coaly slept on the lawn, warmed by a circle of sunshine.