Marrying for King's Millions / The Spanish Aristocrat's Woman. Maureen Child

      The pickup topped the grade and settled into the long glide toward a wide valley below where he’d have several miles of flat. Good. Now he could make up time.

      Hell of a thing. He’d driven from the ranch all the way to Fort Davis, even checked into the hotel so he could be at the bank first thing in the morning.

      But he’d no sooner placed his duffel bag beside the bed than he realized he’d left the papers he needed for the bank on the kitchen table.

      There was nothing else to do but return to the ranch and get them, then make the long drive back to town.

      Just went to show the state of mind he was in lately. He’d never been this forgetful. Why, he’d even left his hat with his lucky jay feather back in the hotel room.

      Now on the flats, Caid sent the ancient truck flying down the highway. The sun was low in the west and he hadn’t passed another vehicle in the last twenty miles—not unusual in this part of Texas.

      “You ever stop to think that leaving those papers might be a way of telling you something?”

      Caid shook his head angrily, wishing he could somehow yank his other, softer side completely out of his body. This constant inner debate with himself interfered with every decision he knew he had to make.

      “I’ve got to sell and that’s all there is to it. It’s that or lose the whole damn ranch. I’m doing what I have t—”

      A deer! Stepping right into the headlights.

      With no shoulder to the road, he swerved off the highway completely to avoid the petrified animal. By the grace of God and three good inches, he missed it.

      Unfortunately, he didn’t miss the sixty-year-old ponderosa pine.

      “Your man is a western man, honey.”

      “Oh, Gram. Please. I’m going to West Texas for a vacation, not another man. After Nicholas, I can’t think of anything I want less.”

      “The Great Ones don’t care if you want him or not, Marlie. They just told me he’s in Fort Davis. Take him or leave him, it’s yours to decide.”

      “I’ll leave him, then, but you can tell The Great Ones thanks for the playmate while I’m there. Just warn them that I’m not bringing home any souvenirs.”

      “Don’t be flip, dear. It’s not becoming. Besides, the heart has a mind of its own.”

      “Sounds like a country-western song, Gram. And I don’t have a heart anymore. Nicholas threw it out with yesterday’s leftovers.”

      Recalling the conversation she’d had with her grandmother before leaving San Antonio, Marlie smiled grimly to herself and signaled to exit the interstate. Forty more miles and she’d be in the picturesque little town of Fort Davis where she planned to get a grip.

      Forty extremely dark miles. The state highway had even less traffic than I-10, and led her through the kind of darkness San Antonio hadn’t experienced for over a century. A million stars spangled the sky.

      Gradually, however, the stars along the horizon blotted into a jagged line that Marlie assumed were the Davis Mountains. The road twisted and turned as it wound among them, slowing her driving to a nervous crawl.

      Marlie’s neck and shoulders ached with tension and exhaustion.

      Sighing, she thought of the brightly lit motel she’d passed eighty miles behind her.

      She’d almost stopped. Why hadn’t she? After all, she didn’t have hotel reservations to keep. Her friend, Jill, who had recommended Fort Davis as a great place to relax and hike—a good place to recover, she’d meant—had said reservations weren’t necessary this time of year.

      Yet Marlie had passed up the motel and was now figuratively kicking herself for it.

      This was supposed to be a vacation, not an endurance race. It didn’t matter if she spent the night in Fort Davis, for Heaven’s sake! Yet here she was, seven hours out of San Antonio and eighty miles past common sense.

      Her part Native American grammie would say The Great Ones guided her. But then, Gram didn’t like to admit that any of her family were stupid. Stupid over men, stupid over sticking her nose into what was none of her business.

      To Gram, descended from a noted shaman, everything was a sign. Take the blue feather that now rested in Marlie’s shirt pocket, for instance.

      After uncharacteristically stalling her with errands and lunch and cleaning the kitchen, Gram had finally allowed Marlie to head out the door to get her vacation underway.

      She’d placed a loving arm around Marlie’s shoulders and walked her to the car. “You’ll see,” the older woman said. “Your happiness is in the west, sweetness. Look. Here’s your sign.”

      Following Gram’s pointing finger, Marlie obligingly looked down. A small blue feather lay on the concrete drive right beside the car door.

      “Take it with you, dear. Your man has the other one.”

      But Marlie had hesitated before picking it up.

      The family had a saying: “When you’re going on a trip, never accept one of Gram’s little presents if she didn’t buy it.” All of them knew strange things happened when Gram decided to give “just a little something” from her own possessions.

      Not bad things, mind you, but…strange ones.

      So far, Grammie’s “little somethings” had brought into the family two husbands, a wife, a baby, a pet iguana and a 1970s VW bus for a delighted teenager—all of which came at considerable surprise to the cousins involved who had thought they were merely going from Point A to Point B for a little R and R.

      Still, Marlie reasoned, the feather was a found object, not truly a gift. It ought to be safe.

      She picked it up. The vibrant blue of the feather seemed to glow against her palm.

      How very appropriate, she had thought. My bluebird of happiness is molting.

      Fort Davis, two miles. Thank God.

      Chapter One

      Marlie’s eyes popped open.

      Something had wakened her. What?

      And then she knew.

      Coming from nowhere, from everywhere, a soft, elongated groan seemed to fill the hotel room. With her heart slowing to a shallow, desperate chugging, Marlie held her breath, which wasn’t easy when what she really wanted to do was scream.

      Inch by cautious inch, she sat up to peer into the darkness, but only the clock on the bedside table had any substance. Twelve thirty-six, it declared precisely in bilious, luminescent green.

      Another soft groan floated into the darkness and Marlie gasped, yet squint as she might, she couldn’t see a thing.

      Clutching the blankets to her chin, she considered hurling them over her head. Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Certainly the maneuver had taken care of monsters when she was a kid.

      The eerie sound began again, starting on a soft note then gathering strength for another stretch of oral misery. Yep, she was heading under the covers.

      Suddenly, however, the building ooo-ooohs snorted and strangled and gasped themselves into an explosive and decidedly damp Ker-choo!

      Ghosts don’t sneeze!

      Without thinking, Marlie reached out a hand and switched on the bedside lamp.

      The room was empty.

      Her gaze swung to the door, but the chain was still on, the deadbolt still in place. The room’s one window was up, but only about three inches, the exact amount Marlie had raised it. Surely no self-respecting intruder would come through a window, then close it behind him once he was in the room.