Once a Rebel. Debbi Rawlins

The room was almost black, except for the light from the pool’s reflection intermittently swirling in through the slanted blinds. He stared at the window, still open several inches, and listened. There was only silence now. And his own ragged breathing.

      It was a dream. Just a crazy dream.

      His pulse slowed as his eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness. How long had he slept? His gaze went to the alarm clock on the nightstand. The glowing red numbers told him it was just after midnight. He swung his feet to the floor, feeling shaky from the events of the dream. Not that he remembered much, only fractured bits of recollection filtered past the fog of sleep. No mistake, the dream had been about Masi.

      Normally when he dreamt of his grandmother, he felt comforted. Not tonight. The edginess that crawled over his nerve endings wouldn’t cease. He closed his eyes again, trying desperately to recall more of the dream. He stretched his neck from side to side, trying to ease the tension, as if he could shake loose a memory.

      They’d been sitting at their cook fire on the reservation, that much he remembered. Except they were outside and the sun was beginning to set. His age was fuzzy, and Masi looked like she always had—slightly stooped, leathery skin, old before her time. An eagle soared overhead and she’d pointed skyward…and then…

      Cord exhaled sharply, and opened his eyes. That’s all he could remember. Frustrated, he pushed up from the bed. The wavering light from the pool caught on the outline of a dark lump sitting between the armoire and the closet. He strained to make out what it was. The black leather duffel.

      That’s all it took. Memories of the dream washed over him. The eagle turning into a plane, golden sunlight gilding by the distant hills, the Black Hills, just like in the travel agency brochures. He knew suddenly, deep down in his gut. Masi had plainly told him to go to Deadwood.

      TOO BAD, CORD THOUGHT as he stopped the car in front of the Deadwood property. The house was huge, two and a half, maybe three stories, with a big porch facing the west where you could sit and watch the sun go down. The main door was off center, a peculiarity he kind of liked. He wondered which part of the house they were tearing down.

      The new owner, who was a developer, had had it with both freelance detectives and reporters, according to his secretary. She’d stopped short of giving Cord a key but she made sure he understood the place was currently deserted and, with a flashing dimple, subtly let him know that the kitchen door was likely to be unlocked. He’d promised the cute little blonde a quiet dinner.

      Why not? How much time would it take to find out this case was a dead end? After waiting in crowded airports and then enduring two choppy flights, the whimsy of last night’s dream had worn thin. So had his patience. The blonde would prove a nice distraction tonight. What was her name…? Sue—slightly younger and shorter than he liked them, but she was eager.

      He probed his aching shoulder and took a deep breath against the cramping pain. Flying coach was a bitch for someone as tall and broad as he was, but he had to make the cash Leslie had given him last as long as possible. He had every intention of paying her back the amount he’d siphoned off for rent, and whatever he spent on dinner tonight, but the rest was gonna be on her nickel for sending him on this fool’s errand.

      After following the side of the house, he spied the kitchen through a bare bay window. With the toe of his black snakeskin boots, he carefully picked his way through some debris to the stoop.

      Just like Sue had said, the door was unlocked. Good, they couldn’t get him on breaking, only entering. He smiled wryly, and unnecessarily touched the butt of his gun through his sport jacket. He didn’t need the piece. Transporting it had been more trouble than it was worth. But who knew? Maybe he could finish his business here and still pick up Mad Dog’s trail. General consensus was that the guy had left L.A. and headed east. Cord only needed to swing south to cross his path.

      As soon as Cord stepped over the threshold, a cloud of particle-board dust assailed his nostrils. Coughing, he waved a hand to clear the air. The kitchen had been torn apart, the appliances ripped from the wall, half of it already gone, allowing him to see into what must have been a dining room. Only the chandelier and ripped wallpaper remained.

      Shaking his head, he walked through the room into another and faced much of the same. No furniture, just big empty spaces, barely contained by walls left with gaping holes and framed by dull peeling paint. The scuffed wood floors didn’t look too bad, there were a few warped floorboards, but that was pretty much it. He shouldn’t be wasting his time here.

      Then he noticed the stairs guided by a carved dark cherry banister that ended in two ornate scrolls, and wondered why the workmen hadn’t protected the wood. Surely they would try to salvage this piece. Although his tastes veered to the contemporary end of the spectrum, even he could appreciate the fine craftsmanship.

      Without thinking, he ran his palm over the smooth wood and an odd sensation of familiarity washed over him. It called to mind the many times as a kid that he’d watched the elders carve figures of animals to be sold at souvenir shops. Samuel Wauneka had offered to teach him the dying art, and Cord had balked. He hadn’t thought about that in a long time, either.

      Cord started up toward the landing, briefly considering if it was worth the risk of checking the second floor.

      Not in the hope of finding a lead, but out of simple curiosity. Before he’d consciously made a decision, he tested the stability of the first step. Seemed solid enough for his weight. The workers had to get up there somehow, so he wasn’t too concerned.

      The stairs turned out to be surprisingly solid, but not so the internal walls upstairs. On the left side of the house, half of them had already been demolished and lay in crumbled heaps of wood and plaster. Cord poked his head into each room, but there was nothing to see. When he came to another set of narrow stairs, he decided to leave.

      He stiffened at the sudden feel of pressure against his lower back, as if someone were pushing him. He jerked around, but no one was there. Feeling foolish, he made a complete circle, anyway. He muttered a curse, and then eyed the stairway. Hell, he’d come this far.

      The planks of wood creaked under his weight, although he felt confident that they’d hold him. When he got to the top, the door was stuck, but a firm shove with his good shoulder forced it open. Like the stairs, the entryway was narrow and he had to angle his body sideways to gain access. Ducking his head, he stepped into the small attic.

      Enough light filtered in through a cloudy windowpane that he was able to find a string hanging from a bare bulb, which quickly lit the room. Unlike the rest of the house, the contents appeared to have been untouched. In the corner was a dress form next to a bolt of lacy fabric leaning against the wall. Across the room stood a full-length mirror, and behind it an old oak dresser with two missing knobs.

      Dust coated everything as if untouched by human hands for some time, which didn’t make sense since the rest of the house had been cleared of furniture. He thought about opening the small window but there was no use staying in the stuffy room. Nothing of interest here…

      He saw the chest.

      Sitting by itself on the far side of the room, it appeared free of dust. Frowning, he moved closer, and saw that it was old but in good shape. He crouched down, hoping he wouldn’t have to break the lock, and discovered it unlatched. He lifted the lid and found a pair of vintage toys, hand-carved from the looks of the train pieces. There was a book, too, which he set aside, and a photo album, which he balanced on his knee and flipped open. He was curious because the album didn’t seem as worn as the other things in the attic, though the photos encased in brittle plastic sheets were old and faded, mostly featuring landscapes. When he came to the one of the blonde, he angled the photo toward the light, peering closer.

      Had to be a Winslow. The woman was a dead ringer for one of the missing sisters, except she wore an old-fashioned dress and her hair was longer and pinned up. His gaze skimmed the next picture and his heart thudded. The same blond woman stood with her arm linked with another woman.

      Who looked exactly like the other missing sister.

      He