The Rancher Bodyguard

She got out of the car, grateful to escape the small confines that smelled of him—a wonderful blend of clean male and expensive, slightly spicy cologne. It was the same scent he’d worn when they’d been dating, and it only helped stir memories she would prefer to forget.

Charlie pulled away the crime-scene tape, and Grace used her key to open the front door. They walked into the massive entry with its marble floor and an ornate gilded mirror hanging on the wall.

“Wow,” Charlie said, obviously impressed. “I’d heard this place was a showcase, but I had no idea.”

“William was an extremely successful man,” she replied. “He liked to surround himself with beautiful things.”

“I know you said your mother married him when you were sixteen. What happened to your father?”

“He died of a heart attack when mom was pregnant with Hope. We were left with no insurance and no money in the bank.” Grace paused a moment, thinking about those days just after her father’s death. There’d been a wealth of grief and fear about what would happen to them now the breadwinner was gone.

She walked from the entry to the sweeping staircase that led to the second floor. Placing a hand on the polished wood banister, she continued: “William was like a knight in shining armor. He and Mom met at the grocery store, and he swooped into our lives like a savior. He was crazy, not just about Mom, but also about me and Hope.”

“He didn’t have children of his own?” Charlie asked.

“No. He’d been married years before, but it ended in divorce and there had been no children. We were all the family he had.”

“Who is his beneficiary?”

Grace looked at him in surprise. “I have no idea. I hadn’t even thought about it.”

“Maybe your mother?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Grace agreed, although she wasn’t so sure. Grace’s mother had ripped the very heart out of William when she’d disappeared. William had been a good man, generous to a fault, but he hadn’t been a foolish man, especially when it came to money.

“Let’s get Hope’s things and get out of here,” she said, her heart heavy as she climbed the stairs.

Charlie followed just behind her as she topped the stairs and walked down the long hallway toward Hope’s room. The door was closed and she hesitated, unsure she was ready for whatever was inside.

Hope had been found covered in blood, clutching the knife in her hands, her room trashed. Grace grabbed the doorknob and still couldn’t force herself to open the door.

Charlie placed a hand on her shoulder. “We don’t have to do this. We can buy Hope whatever she needs for the time being.”

How could a man who had been incredibly insensitive eighteen months ago, a man who had been so thick he hadn’t recognized the depths of her feelings for him, be so in tune to what she was feeling now?

She didn’t have the answer but was grateful that he seemed to understand the turmoil inside her as she contemplated going into Hope’s room. Deep within, she knew she was grateful that he was here with her.

“It’s all right. I can do this,” she said, as much to herself as to him.

She straightened her shoulders and opened the door. A gasp escaped her as she saw the utter mess inside. She took several steps into the room and stared around in horror.

Ripped clothes were everywhere. The French provincial bookshelf had been turned over, spilling its contents onto the floor. A hole was punched in the Sheetrock wall, as if it had been angrily kicked.

The bed had been stripped. She imagined that the investigators had taken away the bedclothes. “Definitely looks like somebody had a temper fit in here,” Charlie said from behind her.

Grace’s mind whirled with sick suppositions. Was it possible that a rage had been festering in Hope for some time? Their mother’s defection had been difficult on Grace, but it had been devastating for Hope. Grace had been twenty-eight years old when their mother had left, but Hope had been a thirteen-year-old who desperately needed her mom.

“I’ll just grab some clothes,” Grace said. She’d taken only two steps toward the closet when her foot crunched on something.

She looked down and saw the arm of a porcelain doll. She knew that arm. She knew that doll. It had been Hope’s prized possession, given to her on the birthday before their mother had disappeared.

Crouching down, she found the rest of the doll among the mess of clothes and books and miscellaneous items that had fallen from the bookcase.

The porcelain arms and legs had been pulled from the cloth body. The head was smashed beyond repair, and the body had been slashed open.

Rage. There was no doubt that rage had destroyed the doll. The rage of a daughter whose mother had left her with a man who hadn’t been able to understand her needs, her wants?

Hope’s rage?

The breakdown that began in Grace started with a trembling that seemed to possess her entire body. Her vision blurred with the hot press of tears, and for the first time she wondered if her sister had committed the crime, if it was possible that Hope was guilty.

Chapter 4 (#ulink_54484416-abea-5735-a4ba-3dceb0d55005)

Charlie saw it coming: the crack in her strength, the loss of her control. Until this moment Grace had shown an incredible amount of poise in dealing with the mess that had become her life.

Now she looked up at him with tear-filled eyes and lips that trembled uncontrollably, and he knew she’d reached the end of that strength.

“Grace.” He said her name softly.

“She couldn’t have done this, Charlie? Surely she didn’t do this?” They weren’t statements of fact but questions of uncertainty, and he knew the agony the doubts must be causing her.