Dangerous Revelations

By Jacki Ring

Dillon Johnson is reeling from the death of his beloved stepmother Paula. When her will is read, he finds she has not only had a daughter he knew nothing about, but also gave her up for adoption. Paula's will had left a bequest to this young woman, Carly James.

Carly, upon receiving word of the bequest, travels from Oregon to Dillon's remote Nebraska ranch to learn more about her birth mother. Upon meeting, they experience an intense attraction toward one another. As they become acquainted, however, strange men threaten them and bring violence into their lives. It all seems to be connected to Paula's journals. But why?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Apr 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509235735

Jacki Ring

Biography Jacki Ring grew up in the Sandhills of western Nebraska, riding horses, herding cows, and driving tractors. Although she has lived in other states and settled in Colorado, she is still a country girl at heart. She loves nothing more than plotting murder and romance and putting these plots on paper. She lives with her husband, daughter, and a feisty feline at the foot of the Rocky Mountains.

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Carly pulled her robe around her more closely and practically flew out of the house, looking with scorn at the young man secured on the front porch. Dillon sat in a chair, his rifle across his lap, and pulled on a T-shirt that he’d collected from somewhere in the house, the dirty laundry no doubt. He held the young man’s wallet in his hand and was opening it when Carly snatched it, pulled out the driver’s license, and inspected it under the porch light.

Since you couldn’t introduce yourself the two times we’ve met in person, Mr. Michael Barnes of Atlanta, Georgia, she read, let me just tell you that I am Ms. Carly James and I am fed up. You and the other goons have intimidated and frightened my family and me. You have ransacked this house and left the mess for us to clean up. It stops right now.

She couldn’t help herself; she marched right over to him and jabbed her index finger in his chest enjoying the look of surprise and wariness on his face while ignoring the strong arms of her cowboy wrapping around her and lifting her gently back. Calm down.

She whirled on him, I will not calm down, Dillon Johnson, until I have some answers.

Dangerous Revelations

by

Jacki Ring

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Dangerous Revelations

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Jacki Ring

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Abigail Owen

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3572-8

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3573-5

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my parents and the other strong, independent men and women of the Nebraska Sandhills.

Chapter One

1975

Barbara Fields caressed her slightly rounded stomach as she peered around the thick redwood trunk, silently counting the followers as they filed into the compound’s meeting hall. Thirty-five. Until two weeks ago there’d been thirty-six. She felt sick thinking about the missing man. No one ever escaped. Over the past days, a sense of dread and urgency overwhelmed her. Ever since their leader Jerome returned to the compound from an overnight trip, he had been in a very dark mood. He carried his automatic rifle with him everywhere and met in private with his senior deacons twice. Then, this morning, he announced a mandatory meeting. When he did so, that feeling of dread morphed into doom and panic.

As though he felt her watching him, Jerome turned from where he stood a few feet from the meeting hall, scanning the trees at the edge of the forest. Had he been counting the members as they passed into the hall? Did he suspect she’d slipped away?

Barbara pressed her lips together and turned her back on the compound and all it represented. Squaring her shoulders, she struggled toward the top of the steep hill, grabbing at tree trunks and undergrowth to aid her progress. She’d just crested the hill when she felt the jolt of an explosion. Looking back, she doubled over with a gut-wrenching sob as she saw the flames and smoke where the building once stood, where her friends once sat, waiting for Jerome. After giving into a sudden bout of nausea, she reminded herself that she must survive, she must give this tiny life she carried a better chance. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she hoisted her heavy backpack higher and increased her pace on the downward slope.

The night’s darkness surrounded her like a cloak as she emerged from the forest near a rest area on an interstate. She used the facilities, then paused in the shadows of the building to survey the parking lot. Selecting a flatbed trailer covered with a bright orange tarpaulin, she started to walk again, making sure she appeared to be casually crossing the parking lot. The last thing she wanted was to attract the attention of anyone who may have heard news of a fire at the compound.

A row of trees blocked the view of the rest area from the interstate, so she rounded the truck and stopped under the branches. Standing silently, she looked for any observers, listened for voices or footsteps. After hearing or seeing nothing suspicious, she used the wheel hub to hoist herself and her backpack up under the tarp. Coming face to face with a large piece of equipment she thought was a commercial heating or air conditioning unit, she crawled around to the front of its smooth, gray metal housing and lay down. For a while, she stayed awake, nervous at every sound. Finally, she let herself drift off to sleep.

Unsure of how much time passed, she awoke to the sounds of a diesel engine. Only moments later, the trailer began to move. It was still dark, so she let the sound of the engine lull her back to sleep. When she next awoke, it was light outside. The orange of the tarp glowed eerily under the bright sun, reminding her of the sky above the burning compound. Barbara squeezed her eyes shut against the memory and once again tried to push down nausea. It took a few moments to realize the truck was not moving and the engine silent. Staying low, she crawled to the edge of the trailer bed and peered out from under the tarp. The truck was parked at a construction site. Chain-link fence surrounded the lot, and a group of men in yellow hard hats stood some distance away. With her backpack looped over one arm, she decided it was now or never, so she slipped over the opposite edge of the bed and walked away quickly, not looking back. Luck was with her, for she made it out of the chain-link gate and onto a sidewalk without being noticed.

She paused after a block to get her bearings. A short distance away she saw a sign that stated a business name beginning with Medford. Could she be in Medford, Oregon? Barbara allowed herself to relax just a bit. When her stomach rumbled, she checked her watch. It was after ten in the morning, almost a day since she’d last eaten. Choosing a direction that she felt might take her downtown and to busier streets, she walked until she saw a familiar fast-food chain restaurant. It had been well over a year since she ate at one, but she assumed they still offered a value menu. She’d managed to squirrel away a small amount of money. Volunteering for laundry duty at the compound literally paid off.

After a small and late breakfast, Barbara emerged into the morning sun looking for a place she could sit and think about the next step of her plans. Wandering aimlessly along the street, she came upon a cemetery where she thought she might find solace. A paved path wound through the gravesites, and soon she found herself outside a low wrought-iron fence that enclosed small headstones, many of them decorated with balloons or stuffed animals. How sad, she thought, as she cupped her belly protectively. Then a niggling memory teased her.

She remembered reading how people who wanted to change their identity often looked for the grave of a child who would be approximately their age if they lived. Ah, yes! If she could find one, perhaps she could go to the public library and research their newspaper archives for the obituary and obtain enough information to order a birth certificate. Once she had that, she could get the identification that would allow her to work legally while leaving her past behind in case Jerome came looking for her.

After all, she was his stone left unturned.

Barbara wandered between the rows, watching for the year of birth on each one. She was sixteen, but everyone said she looked older. Less than a quarter of an hour later, she found it. Paula Anne Samuelson. March 10, 1971 to May 6, 1974. Beloved daughter of Jonathan and Linda.

Getting her journal and a pencil out of her backpack, Barbara quickly jotted down the information and then, with a feeling of hope, she turned and walked out of the cemetery. It was time to go to the library and then find a way to Portland. There, she would find resources for the homeless until she established her new identity and earned enough money to support herself.

****

Two months later, Barbara stopped at the mailbox for her room. She lived in a derelict boarding house in a poor part of Portland, but at least there was a roof over her head at night and a relatively soft surface to sleep on. Now known as Paula, she spent very little time there other than to sleep and bathe. She needed an ID to obtain a legal birth certificate under her new identity. Luckily, when you only were required to mail in a photocopy of the ID, perfection wasn’t required. Her job as a waitress at a seedy diner was a boon. Here, she found someone who claimed he could make her an illegal document. Getting a fake license under her assumed name did not cost as much as she feared it might. She pulled open her mailbox to find a large envelope from the vital records office. Yes! Now she could truly become Paula Samuelson.

The very next day she asked her boss if she could leave early. He had been kind to hire her without legal proof of a tax ID number when she explained that her card was stolen. The man may have suspected that all was not above board, but he didn’t seem the type of character to care. Consequently, by the end of the day, she possessed all the documents she needed.

One day at the diner, not long after she became legal, Paula met a cop by the name of Roger James. Cops tended to make her nervous. Her mother had earned money in some illicit ways, and when Paula got picked up for shoplifting when she was twelve, she spent the night in juvie. Ever since then the police made her nervous, but Roger seemed nice. He frequently stopped at the diner with his partner Al for lunch. By chance one day, Paula overheard Roger telling Al how he and his wife could not have children and that he worried about her.

Since she teaches, the school year isn’t so bad, but the summers really stretch for her, and she gets down about not being a mom.

Can’t you adopt? Al asked.

We’re on the list, but Marian wants a baby, and the list is long. Also, we don’t have the money for a private adoption.

Paula started asking other diners and people in the neighborhood about Roger. She found out that people thought of him with the highest regard. His reputation was that of a good man who treated everyone equally no matter their skin color or income level. A week later, she got up her nerve and, when Al left the booth to go to the restroom, she timidly approached Roger.

I couldn’t help but overhear you speaking to your partner the other day about you and your wife wanting to adopt a baby.

His eyes swept over her abdomen, which clearly displayed her pregnancy. Oh yeah?

I know you told him you couldn’t afford a private adoption, but I’m wondering if you could afford the hospital bill and an attorney for a private adoption. She didn’t wait for him to speak but rubbed her belly and went on. This baby needs loving parents who can give it a far better home than I ever could. I haven’t got enough to pay for the hospital bill, although I’ve been to the free clinic each month and the doctor tells me that the baby is healthy. I have tried to eat right and take care of myself. I don’t smoke, drink, or use drugs. Here she paused.

Roger looked up at her hopefully. Are you saying that my wife and I could adopt your baby if we paid for the attorney to draw up the adoption papers and your hospital bill? Nothing else?

Paula shrugged. Nothing else. I just want it to have a loving home and a wonderful future.

The next day Roger came back and reported that his wife was jubilant and made an appointment with her OB/GYN for Paula. If the doctor gave her and the baby a clean bill of health, he would hire an attorney to write up the agreement for them all to sign.

Only two months later, Paula called Roger and his wife to let them know she was in labor. They picked her up and accompanied her to the hospital. There, Marian held Paula’s hand and coached her through the labor while Roger paced anxiously in the waiting room. Paula declined to hold her baby girl. She didn’t think she could do it and walk away. But she listened as Roger and Marian told her they selected the name of Carly Anne, choosing to use Paula’s middle name. Little did they know, she was a fraud.

Two days later, as she left the hospital, Roger pressed a card into her hand. We will always give you an update on Carly, any time you want it. You can call, and as she grows up, we’ll always tell her how much you loved her.

Paula hugged them both and walked away, wiping tears from her cheeks. She hesitated at the nursery window and looked at her daughter, wisps of dark hair escaping from her little knit cap. Turning, she made her way to the elevator and took the bus back to her lonely rented room. After a night spent curled up on her bed and sobbing, she rose, packed her few belongings, walked to the diner to collect her last paycheck, and then made her way to the bus depot.

Stepping up to the ticket counter, Paula politely told the man how much money she had to spend on a one-way ticket and asked where it would take her on the next bus available. Many hours later she stepped off the bus in Butte Valley, Nebraska. The bus driver told her it was a sizable town with a population of around thirty thousand. Paula bit back a laugh. After growing up on the streets of Los Angeles, this seemed like a village, not a town. But after she spent a surprisingly little amount of money renting a room in a mom and pop motel, she thought that the small size was a blessing. She followed the horrible news reports on the television and in the papers about what Jerome had done, and that a manhunt was out for him. She wrote out her feelings of guilt over her inactions to save her friends from the fire in her journal. But even if Jerome figured out she was alive, why would he ever look for her in a small town in western Nebraska?

The next day she went to a local café for some breakfast. Over a filling bowl of oatmeal and a cup of coffee, she perused the local want ads. When her eyes landed on the word housekeeper, her heart lifted.

Wanted: Live-in housekeeper on a family owned Sandhill Ranch. Duties include cooking, laundry, housework, and help raising a five-year-old boy.

Reading on, Paula found a number to call. Asking the cashier for a dollar’s worth of change, she made her way to the back of the café and used the pay phone, hoping it wasn’t too early to call.

Hello, a friendly sounding male voice answered.

Hi. My name is Paula Samuelson. I’m calling about the ad you placed in the Butte Valley paper for a housekeeper.

What kind of experience do you have? You sound pretty young.

Remembering her new identity, Paula told the man that she was twenty-one. I’ll be honest, she stated. I have never been a housekeeper. She didn’t mention that she cooked and did laundry for a small crowd at the compound. But I am a hard worker and can clean and do laundry and cook. I recently worked as a waitress in Portland, Oregon, and I helped in the kitchen sometimes. You could call my boss there. He’ll tell you I did a good job.

Portland, Oregon, huh? What brings you to Nebraska?

Paula crossed her fingers and took a deep breath. I don’t have a family, and I’m tired of the rush and crowds of the west coast. I guess I’m looking for a fresh start somewhere different. I got on the bus and ended up here.

How would you feel about taking care of a motherless five-year-old boy?

Paula managed to swallow a sob. I would enjoy it. I like children. They’re so happy to learn and experience new things. Taking care of him would give me a chance to experience something new myself.

And maybe it could make up in some way for giving up Carly.

My ranch is about a two-hour drive from Butte Valley. Do you have a car?

She didn’t want to lose this opportunity but chose honesty. No, I’m afraid I don’t.

Do you have a place to stay?

I found a motel room that I can afford for a few more days.

Why don’t I meet you someplace tomorrow? I’ll bring my son with me, and we can have lunch together.

I would like that, she replied with renewed hope.

Great. My name’s Leland Johnson. Where are you calling from, ’cause it kind of sounds like a café in the background?

It’s the Butte Valley Cafe next to my motel.

I know where that is. How about if Dillon and I meet you there at noon tomorrow?

Perfect. I’ll be here, Mr. Johnson.

The next day Paula made sure she arrived at the café early. She waited in the glassed-in foyer, so nervous she felt sick to her stomach. Her stash of money was dwindling, but hope was disappearing on a faster rate. For once, she wished for a break, a step up in life. And then she saw them approaching, a good-looking cowboy holding the hand of a cute little boy.

Inside her heart, hope flared.

Chapter Two

2020

Dillon Johnson pulled off his brown leather cowboy boots and settled in behind the old roll-top desk. His stepmother’s will lay on top of the paperwork in the center of the workspace. Picking it up, his eyes settled on the words my daughter, Carly Anne James.

He never knew his beloved stepmother gave birth to a child before she came into his and his dad’s lives. The day the attorney read the will, Dillon was shocked and, if he were honest with himself, a bit angry. Hadn’t she loved him enough to tell him? It left him wondering if his father knew.

Daddy?

He looked up to see his six-year-old daughter Taylor making her way down the stairs clad in her pajamas, her blonde hair mussed. She clutched the rag doll that the woman his child called Grandma made for her last Christmas in the crook of one arm.

Dillon sat up straighter and held out his arms to her. What’s the matter, sweet pea? Can’t sleep? Brushing back her long hair from her face, Dillon picked her up and sat her on his lap, wrapping both arms around her.

She leaned her small body against his. I miss Grandma.

Heart aching, he gently kissed the top of her head. I know. I do, too.

Paula Johnson was the only mother Taylor knew since his wife died in childbirth. In fact, Paula had been the only mother he ever knew. The memories of his birth mother were vague since she presented unexpected divorce papers to his father when Dillon barely turned five. She left so quickly, she failed to even say goodbye to her son.

Sing to me, Daddy, came his daughter’s soft command.

As he did since the day she came home from the hospital, Dillon began by humming and then broke into soft words. Twinkle, twinkle little star…

Taylor’s eyes drooped, and by the end of the song, she was asleep. Rather than immediately carry her back upstairs to her bed, Dillon enjoyed the feel of her warmth within his cradled arms. He leaned his head back and let his thoughts drift. He still remembered the first time he met the woman who became his stepmother.

Dillon’s dad woke him and said they were going to town that day.

Which town, Daddy?

Butte Valley.

Dillon remembered being excited. Butte Valley was the biggest town he and his dad ever went to, and when they did go, his dad usually stopped at the farm and ranch supply where Dillon was allowed to pick out a toy. There were so many choices—toy ranch animals, little barns, corral fences, tractors, and trucks. He owned an entire collection that practically filled his bedroom floor, but there was always room for another cow, a pig, or a horse. At that age, he always liked the horses best, but the cows were a close second.

It took a long time to get to Butte Valley—over two hours of driving time. Dillon and his dad talked about many things on the way. Dillon sat in a little booster seat that allowed him to set up higher in the truck and see out the windows. That way he could tell his dad about the horses and cows that he saw, if the little ponds they passed were full or drying up. On the way, his dad told him what they were doing.

We’re going to meet with a lady who might come to live with us as a housekeeper.

What does a housekeeper do?

She would clean the house, do our laundry, cook our meals, and take care of you.

But I’ll be in kindergarten in the fall.

I know you will, but you will still need someone to drop you off and pick you up from school. And you can’t stay in the house alone after school, you know.

Dillon wasn’t giving up that easily. But I like going out to work with you.

I know you do, and I like that, too, but sometimes it’s too dangerous. Rowdy isn’t very big, you know, and one of those mean old black cows could just run over you and him.

Dillon loved his pony Rowdy, but the cows were awfully big, and he was sometimes scared around them, so he didn’t have a comeback.

His dad went on. We need help, so let’s give this lady a chance. We’re meeting her for lunch, and I want you to mind your manners while we’re at the café.

Dillon adored his daddy. He hadn’t left him like Mommy did. I promise, Daddy.

As they walked into the café, Dillon tucked his small hand into his dad’s much bigger one. Someday, he thought, his hand would be big and roughened from work, just like Daddy’s. Thinking about it made him feel more grown up. They went into the area between the two sets of outer doors, and there stood a woman with long hair that was almost the same color as Daddy’s horse. A bay, that’s what Daddy called it. And her eyes were the color of a chocolate bar. She was chewing her lower lip and, when she saw them, she stopped. Hi, are you Leland Johnson? Her voice was sort of breathy, like she’d been running.

His dad stopped and let go of Dillon’s hand, reaching his