The Case Of The Bad Luck Fiance

By Sheryl Lynn

Hell has no fury like a woman scorned

Cattle rancher and single father Tristan Cayle had his sights set on one goal travelling to Colorado to meet a woman he'd fallen for on the Internet. But the instant he arrived at the Elk River Resort, run by Megan Duke's family, he was labelled a con artist and a bigamist.

Though they'd never met, Megan already loved Tristan. But now, through some error, Tristan stood accused of being betrothed to two vengeful wives. And, as Megan fought her warring feelings of love and distrust, a third woman arrived in town one who was ready to kill Megan and kidnap Tristan's son.

Honeymoon Hideaway

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460870709

Book preview

Chapter One

Amy paused on the fourth-floor landing and rested against the railing. She panted, catching her breath as she eyed the stairs leading up. Two more floors to go and she was sweating inside her suit jacket and overcoat. Sweat on her face made her sunglasses slip. She nudged them higher on her nose, then trudged grimly up the stairs. When she finally reached the sixth floor, her side ached with a tearing stitch. She entered the hallway. The ding of an elevator made her shudder.

Boxes. If trapped inside a box, she’d die.

She clutched her handbag with both sweaty hands, eyeing the hallway. Her ears rang with impending vertigo. The hallway was so long, and the doors were as solid as dungeon gates, fastened tightly shut. Every nerve fiber in her being screamed at her to flee.

But Bradley was out there.

With a trembling finger, she eased up the sleeve of her coat and checked her watch. She had no time to waste. Sometimes Susie came home for lunch, and if Amy were missing, Susie might do something silly like call the police or the doctor. Susie didn’t understand. No one understood. No one except Bradley.

She cleared her throat, straightened her shoulders and marched down the hallway. She read each number carefully and finally found suite 615 and the small brass plaque that stated A-1 Investigations and Security. Her hands were so sweaty she feared they’d give away her nervousness, so she pulled a pair of thin leather gloves from her pocket and tugged and jerked them onto her hands.

Inside the office, a receptionist greeted Amy politely. After Amy stated she had an appointment, she had to wait only a few seconds before a door opened and Melvin Place, private investigator, invited her to come inside.

A wide bank of windows with a view of downtown Columbus soothed Amy’s tangled nerves, somewhat.

How do you do, Mrs. Carter. May I take your coat?

Amy leaned for a moment with her ear to the door. It suddenly occurred to her that Susie might have followed her. She didn’t hear her sister’s querulous voice arguing with the receptionist, so Amy relaxed. She pulled a page she’d torn from a magazine out of her handbag and placed it on the investigator’s desk. Thank you for seeing me on short notice, Mr. Place, she said. I want you to find this man for me and I don’t care what it costs. She perched on the edge of a chair.

He was an older man, stout and broad shouldered, his gray hair cut in a brushy flattop. His deep-set eyes were dark and wise, but calculating. Expecting him to start grilling her with questions, she shrank back on a chair.

I see. He picked up the page torn from a copy of Pro Rodeo News.

She had circled Bradley’s photograph in red ink.

This magazine is over two years old, he said.

Despair rolled within her breast like fog. It’s all I have. I found Bradley’s picture in that magazine by accident. A lucky accident. I picked it up in the waiting room and wasn’t even reading it, I was only looking at the pictures and there he was. You must find him for me.

Like the man, the desk was large and stout, littered with baskets holding papers and framed photographs. He tapped thick fingers on the desktop. Why are you looking for this man, Mrs. Carter?

He’s my husband. Your advertisement said you find missing people. Can you find him?

Are there children involved, ma’am? Is this a custody dispute?

Her entire body went rigid. Her child, her son, stolen away, as much a victim as she. A victim of doctors and bureaucrats and uncaring officials. Bradley’s victim. A thief of hearts, a thief of children. She pressed a gloved hand to her mouth.

Mrs. Carter? He straightened on his chair and made as if to rise. Are you all right?

"Yes. Yes! There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing at all. Her chin quivered. It’s Bradley. It’s all his fault. He stole my son."

His eyes moved, sweeping over the photographs on the desktop. The majority were of children. How long ago?

Fifteen years. She lifted her face slightly, using her chin to point at the magazine page. I found that by accident. It’s the only sign of him I’ve found in fifteen years.

So he’s a bull rider, huh? The caption here says his name is Tristan Cayle of Wyoming.

That isn’t his name. He lied. His real name is Bradley Ellis Carter. Can you find him?

Probably. Does Mr. Carter have legal, court-ordered custody of your son?

No.

You’re- positive the man in this photograph is your husband. No doubts?

His demeanor soothed her. He would help her, he was a friend. I am one hundred percent positive. She opened the handbag and rifled through the contents until she found Bradley’s old driver’s license. After fifteen years it was all she had left of his love and her dreams. Reluctance gripped her—she was loath to give up the license. She forced her hand to move, to open her fingers and drop the license on the desk.

Mr. Place picked it up, looking between it and the magazine page. This is from Massachusetts. It’s seventeen years old.

Is that a problem?

No, ma’am. Just find it curious that a New Englander would end up in Wyoming riding bulls in the rodeo.

Bradley had many…interests.

He made a neutral sound and opened a desk drawer. He laid a legal-size printed form on the desk and plucked a pen from a coffee cup with a broken handle. All right, Mrs. Carter. I can probably get you an address. I’ll need your full name, address and phone number.

An involuntary gasp escaped her throat.

I have to be able to reach you, ma’am. When I find your husband. He held the pen poised over the paper. We have to have a contract for services. It’s the only way I do business. Everything is on the up and up at A-1.

I live with my sister, she said. She…she doesn’t approve. She thinks I should leave well enough alone. She doesn’t understand. She snatched Bradley’s driver’s license off the desk and clutched it to her breast. I must find him. Please. Help me.

A slight frown deepened the lines in his craggy forehead. I guarantee discretion. But you must sign a contract, ma’am. It’s the only way I can help you. It’s for your protection as much as mine.

You won’t tell my sister you’re a private investigator?

No, ma’am.

The telephone book was full of listings for private investigators. Melvin Place had been the fifth she’d called, and the first who didn’t demand to know the exact nature of her business over the telephone. She slid a glance at the photos on his desk, reassured by the laughing, smiling children. Mr. Place understood about a parent’s broken heart. She gave him her sister’s phone number and address.

After filling out the contract form, he turned it around for her to sign. My standard fee is eighty-five dollars an hour.

Again she went into the handbag and closed her fingers over the thick stack of hundred dollar bills bound in a bank wrapper. Her brother-in-law always kept cash in the house, locked away in a desk drawer in case of emergency. She knew her sister would be upset. But Bradley was so close—she had to find him. She peeled five bills from the stack and put them on the desk.

I have lots of money. Will this be enough for you to start?

His eyes acquired a gleam. I believe so. He took the money and she signed the contract ALL HEART, NO KNEES.

Megan Duke recalled the words of her former track coach, and added, no boobs, either. Glumly, she held up the purple blouse she’d borrowed from her younger sister. Low-cut and clingy, its plunging neckline emphasized the fact she had nothing to emphasize.

She tossed the borrowed blouse on the bed and groaned. What was a girl supposed to wear when meeting her fiance for the very first time?

She glared at her reflection in a mirror. Clad only in panties and bra, she assessed her body: nothing impressive on top, too many muscles, no hips to speak of. Her shoulders were too broad. Veins corded around her wrists and atop her hands. She looked like a boy!

She jerked- open her closet door and glowered at the skimpy contents. Flannel, denim and chambray shirts, practical cable-knit sweaters, trousers—not a frill or ruffle in sight. She brought out her lone skirt. The black suede mini looked as dumb now as when she’d allowed her sister to talk her into buying it.

Taking a step back, she closed her eyes and hugged the skirt to her breast. Calm down, relax, she counseled herself. All things happen when they should happen. She and Tristan loved each other, they were meant to be. Fate had brought them together and destiny would keep them together—scanty wardrobe or no scanty wardrobe.

She remembered the sweater her mother had given her for Christmas. She pawed through her dresser drawers until she found it. Of cream-colored silk embroidered in same-colored thread with hearts and flowers, the featherweight sweater had dolman sleeves and a wide fitted waistband. The draped collar would soften her shoulders and add some bulk to her meager bust. Perfect…as long as the day didn’t turn blistering hot.

She pulled on the sweater, grimacing as her hair crackled with static electricity.

The photographs Tristan had sent showed a man who could be Val Kilmer’s bigger, vastly better-looking older brother. Please let him think I’m pretty, she prayed.

She snatched a pair of black tights from a drawer and flopped onto the bed to pull them on. Once they were in place, she stepped into the miniskirt. She had to shimmy a bit to pull it over her hips, and she sucked in her tummy to zip it up. She checked her reflection in the mirror again. The skirt was way too short, but the tights concealed the scars on her knees.

A knock on the door startled her. Her younger sister poked her head into the room. Mom sent me up to see if you’re sick, Kara said. Why aren’t you at breakfast? She swept her gaze over Megan and squinted suspiciously. You’re wearing a skirt?

Get in here. Shut the door. She pressed her fists over her racing heart. Tristan’s plane would land in Colorado Springs around ten this morning, then it would take him about two hours to reach Elk River Resort. Elation and apprehension tugged her with equal measure.

Kara’s blue eyes sparkled What’s going on? You’ve been acting like a nut all week. She peered curiously at the open dresser drawers and clothing discarded atop the bed and draped over chairs. Nice sweater. It goes good with the—

Megan thrust a hairbrush and plastic clip at Kara. "Help me with my hair. Do I look pretty? You know, girl pretty?"

Kara obediently took the brush and clip. Since when do you care what you look like? You’re acting like you have a hot date.

Megan plopped onto a chair before the vanity. Her sister moved behind her and began brushing Megan’s shoulder-length hair.

Megan critically eyed her reflection in the mirror and wondered if she wore too much makeup—or not enough. She rarely wore any at all. She compared her pug nose and freckles to Kara’s fine features and creamy complexion, and could have groaned. Both her sisters were gorgeous. If Tristan fell for one of them, she’d die.

Finally, she said, You know the guys who are coming today? Tristan and William Cayle from Wyoming?

Frowning thoughtfully, Kara pulled Megan’s hair high onto the back of her head. I saw the reservations sheet. They’re taking a cabin in the Honeymoon Hideaway. Wait a minute, isn’t he the one you’ve been talking to on the phone? Like a bazillion calls— she gave Megan’s hair a sharp tug —and you never tell me anything about him?

Tristan is a friend of mine, and William is his son. She smiled approval at what Kara did to her wayward tresses. That’s good. Clip it up there. Leave the rest hanging.

When did you meet a guy from Wyoming? Kara stepped back and admired her handiwork.

Even though the sisters were two years apart, they’d always been close. Tristan Cayle was the first real secret Megan had ever kept from Kara. A knot of shame tightened in her chest. Her romance hadn’t been so much secretive as private. In her close-knit family, where all of them lived together and worked together operating Elk River Resort, privacy was at a premium.

She pointed with her chin at the computer set up on a desk. I met him on-line. We’ve been exchanging electronic mail…and stuff.

Are you serious, Meg? He’s coming all the way from Wyoming to meet you? With his kid? Cool.

He’s coming to marry me, she thought uneasily, unless she did something really stupid like scare him off by acting like a tomboy.

I’ll be down in a minute and I’ll tell you all about it. She shooed Kara, who protested all the way, out the door, then closed it and leaned against the wood.

She breathed deeply, in through her nose, out through her mouth. What will be, will be, she muttered, her gaze resting on a wall-mounted shelf laden with silver and gold trophies. Fate hadn’t meant for her to be an Olympic track star. She was fast and she owned the will to win, but her bones were too fragile to withstand the stresses of training and competition. She shifted her attention to the framed guidon mounted on the wall above her narrow bed. Soldiers in her father’s last command had given him the bright yellow flag. Of the Colonel’s four children, only Megan had attempted to follow in his footsteps to make a military career. That dream had gone no further than the induction physical. After one look at her permanently damaged knees, the military doctors had disqualified her from service.

Fate had slam-dunked two dreams. It wouldn’t dare crush this one. All the signs said Tristan Cayle was her destiny. She pushed away from the door. From her desk she picked up the latest letter he’d sent her. Even though they talked on the telephone four or five times a week, he still wrote letters. She loved his letters. She’d fallen in love with his world view and his gentle, self-effacing voice on the telephone and the photographs he’d sent and the whole idea of being a rancher’s wife. She’d fallen in love with him.

A piercing shriek snapped her attention to the window. Frowning, she gazed down at the picnic area along the west side of the lodge. A flash of coppery red hair darting under the trees deepened her frown into a scowl. The McTeague kid again, up to no good. A little girl raced, shrieking, toward the lodge. Hot on her heels, the redheaded ten-year-old terror chased her with a stick.

Some parents, she thought hatefully, ought to be flogged. They brought their kids to the resort then turned them loose, expecting employees to keep them from killing themselves. Megan pushed open the window and leaned over the sill.

Hey! Benny! Benny McTeague!

The boy skidded to a stop and looked around wildly.

Put down that stick, Benny.

The boy stuck out his tongue at her and darted back under the trees.

I don’t need this, Megan muttered, and hurried out of her room. She took the back stairs two and three at a time, ignoring the twinges in her knees. Outside, she found the little girl Benny had been chasing. Seated on a rock, the child was in tears.

What did he do to you, baby? Did he hit you with that stick? With her fingers, Megan combed damp hair off the little girl’s cheeks.

He hit Barbie!

Your doll?

The girl hiccuped and nodded, pointing at a picnic table. He won’t gimme Barbie back. He’s mean!

I’ll get your doll, sweetheart. Where’s your mommy and daddy?

Eating breakfast.

In the dining room or on the deck?

The girl thought about it for a moment, her red-rimmed eyes rolling back and forth. Under the umbrella.

On the deck, then. Good girl. She pressed an impulsive kiss to the child’s forehead. You go right around the corner and you’ll see your mommy and daddy. I’ll get your doll. Okay?

’Kay.

Megan marched into the picnic area, searching the shadows under the widely spaced pines. She spotted a Barbie doll tied with a shoestring to a sapling. Muttering about ill-mannered children and their impossible parents, she released the doll.

A sharp pain exploded in her backside. She jumped, loosing a high-pitched squeal. She turned about in time to see the McTeague kid scampering toward the lodge.

Bad knees or not, she could still outrun a ten-year-old. The kid didn’t get twenty feet before she snared him.

A slingshot! She snatched the contraption out of his hand and stared at it in horror. No cheesy wooden toy, this slingshot was made of gleaming stainless steel with a black rubber sling. The kid struggled, but she maintained her grip. She felt the bruise forming on her rear—the wound throbbed. You could kill somebody with this.

I’m telling my mu-thur!

No, sonny boy, I’m telling your mother. Not that it would do any good, she thought with resignation. The McTeagues allowed the boy to run wild, act disrespectful and generally be a pain.

The McTeagues had been guests for three days, but with Benny pulling one antic after another, it felt like three years. Still, Megan felt sorry for the kid. He was only ten, after all, responding to weak parents in the only way he knew how.

Benny suddenly twisted in her grasp, catching her off guard, and he tore away. He ran like a little demon, elbows and knees pumping. Megan took a step after him, then stopped. She sighed as she studied the slingshot and Barbie doll. Speaking to his parents would accomplish nothing. Mrs. McTeague would go into her oh-dear-mydarling-wouldn’t-do-that mode and Mr. McTeague would hunch like a turtle, his eyelids battened against possible storms.

Eying the slingshot again, Megan shook her head. When she had kids, she’d raise them the way her parents raised her. With loving firmness, encouragement and eagle eyes that missed nothing.

And she sure wouldn’t give them deadly weapons like slingshots.

She found the little girl and gave her the Barbie doll. Then she made a detour into the lobby and slipped the slingshot into a drawer behind the desk, telling the clerk on duty that Benny McTeague didn’t get it back until he was checked out of the resort.

A glance at the clock behind the registration desk made her groan. Her father took a dim view of tardiness. Practicing her speech in her head, she headed for the family dining room.

As she passed the kitchen, she glanced at the bustling going on inside. Sweet and