Between Dusk and Dawn Read online

  Between Dusk and Dawn

  by Val Daniels

  “You were in my house yesterday.”

  Jonna's voice shook.

  "What makes you think so?" She felt Sam's deadly stillness.

  "Magic was out. She was inside when I left"

  "Magic?"

  "The cat"

  "Yeah, I know. I just don't understand what that has to do with me."

  "She couldn't have opened the door herself." Was Magic the only reason she had thought he'd been in her house? She couldn't remember.

  But she did remember the hair standing up on the back of her neck as she toured the rooms, looking for a hint of something out of place. And she had felt his presence....

  To Danedri, my all grown-up, spectacular baby girl. May you always be able to tell the good guys from the bad—especially now that I'm not with you everyday to point them out.

  Between Dusk and Dawn

  Val Daniels/Alfie Thompson

  Published by Waverly Rd. at Amazon

  Copyright 1994 Vivian A. Thompson

  ISBN 0-373-27042-9 BETWEEN DUSK AND DAWN

  Amazon Edition, License Notes

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  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the Waverly Rd. Press at

  ***

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Other Books by the Author

  Sneak Peek, Bad Boy of Madison County, book 1, out in 2012

  PROLOGUE

  He'd always liked his hands. Always. But lately, they were more expressive, even more artistic than ever. He flexed them, held them up to the light, admired the beautiful strength of them as he paused in his task. His hands re­flected his growing power, his competence, what he was destined to be.

  He could hardly wait until he could face her with his accomplishments. He would lay the meticulously prepared book in front of her, watch her face fill with surprise, with pride at the quality of his work. And when his mother's surprise turned to dismay as she comprehended his true tal­ent, his real genius, he would snicker and add her to the pages he had reserved for her.

  His attention returned to the record. The Record, he revised in italics in his mind. He closed the leather-covered book, letting his thumb mark the page he had just com­pleted. Perhaps he would have the words The Record engraved here in gold leaf. Certainly such a chronicle deserved that dignity.

  Yes. That was what he would do.

  With that decision made, he resumed his work, pausing to study his neat block lettering across the top of the last finished page. He had framed the clipping with a lightweight mat and carefully centered it on the page. He double-checked the margins he'd left around the edges. Perfect. Each one exactly the same. Setting the ruler aside, he re­read the obituary.

  Leah Thurston Darcy

  Leah Thurston Darcy, 37, formerly of Keysbrook, Kentucky, died April 6 at home. Born in Ohio and raised in Kentucky, she received a bachelor's degree in journalism at North East Texas State University. She moved to Colorado after her marriage to Steven E. Darcy. She worked for the Denver Chronicle until her death. Mrs. Darcy was a member of the First Christian Church of Denver and the National Association of Women Communicators. She recently received the prestigious National Communicators Award for Ex­cellence in Government/Political Reporting.

  Survivors include her husband of sixteen years; two daughters, Regan and Cynthia; her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Donald Thurston, Keysbrook, KY.; and her sis­ter, Amy Thurston Collins, Keysbrook, KY.

  Burial took place at Woodlawn Memorial Cemetery, Denver, Colorado.

  He sighed with satisfaction. Lovingly turning to the next unblemished page, he took the yearbook photo from its protective sandwich bag. A thrill gripped him as he antici­pated his next project. He'd been fortunate enough this time to find a color photo. "Fortunate, indeed," he murmured, handling the glossy print with ritualistic care. He didn't want to mar it with fingerprints.

  Too bad it isn't bigger, he thought, moving the picture from one spot to another. Only when he had found its proper position on the creamy page would he begin the te­dious process of lettering.

  "There," he said finally, marking each corner where the picture would fit with a barely discernible dot. He set the picture aside to pick up the specially nibbed pen.

  This was the crucial part. The lettering must be right, es­pecially since he did it freehand: names in flowing script, everything else in block style.

  His brow grew damp with intense concentration, his tongue dipped out of the corner of his mouth with each downward stroke of the pen. At last, he laid the photo in­side the precisely placed marks and stood to view his labors from a wider perspective.

  "Yes." He praised his meticulous work with a pleased nod, then lifted his small glass in a toast. "Congratulations on winning my award, Jonna Sanders," he said softly. "You're the best so far. You'll get only my best. I prom­ise."

  CHAPTER ONE

  He came with the dusk, blending with the lengthening shadows beneath the cottonwoods that stood sentry along the road leading to the farmstead. Jonna sensed his pres­ence before she heard him; heard him long before she saw him. She peered over her shoulder into the gloom as a twig snapped. She rose from where she'd been kneeling to paint the bottom of the screen door as a footstep scraped against the hard dirt of the rutted drive. A shiver rippled through her as he appeared, taking several purposeful steps into the unshaded yard and what was left of the light.

  He was dressed in black, his long dark coat open and flowing behind him in the ceaseless Kansas wind. He stopped, watching as she dropped her paintbrush into the drip-decorated can. She grabbed a rag from beside her tools and forced herself to come forward to greet him.

  "Hi," she called tentatively. She struggled to see his eyes as she sensed them on her.

  He moved another step or two.

  She suddenly felt isolated and vulnerable, reluctant to have him close in on her. She squared her shoulders and edged toward the porch steps, trying all the while to give her uneasiness a name. By nature, she was open, too trusting for her own good her friends said—and she'd proved this over and over again. But something about this man made her feel wary.

  Her farm was far away from the beaten path, so maybe it was simply that strangers, even salesmen, rarely stopped here. Perhaps it was t
he time of day or that someone had been asking questions about her in town. Maybe the fine hair on her neck stood on end because darkness was closer than she had realized, and he, like the night, had crept qui­etly upon her.

  Or maybe, she realized, it was the stranger himself. He was tall, muscular, yet he came on cat's feet—silent, grace­ful. The incongruity seemed menacing.

  And where was his car? She was nine miles from any­where so no one came to visit on foot.

  Car trouble. Of course! He must have walked in from the highway. Jonna felt herself breathe a little easier, but not much. After all, she never knew who might be traveling the stretch of Highway 50, which ran for two miles through the middle of her land.

  She nervously rubbed at the gray paint splotches bruis­ing her hands and finally saw his midnight-dark eyes as they followed the motion.

  She descended to the lowest step and immediately wished she'd kept her vigil from the top of the porch. His height left her at a disadvantage and his intense wordless stare pinned and paralyzed her, like a fly trapped in a web. His nearness seemed to force the air from her lungs.

  She mentally shook herself. Her apprehension was ridic­ulous, uncalled for. She refused to give it credence.

  "Can I help you?" Her voice, friendly yet controlled, was near its normal tone, only a fraction higher than usual.

  "Jonna Sanders?" It was a question but his voice was sure. He knew exactly whom he was talking to.

  "Yes?" she answered cautiously. Who wants to know? The cooling autumn wind whipped around the corner of the house, layering her response beneath its low moan, and a premonition of inevitable change gripped her. Jonna dis­missed the thought that he had brought the dusk and the chill in the wind with him.

  "Winter's coming," he said softly, as if in answer to her unspoken thought. He studied the landscape around him as if trying to decide what that season would do to it.

  Jonna's brow wrinkled impatiently. "Can I help you, mister? If you came to speculate about the weather—" she waved vaguely toward the half-painted screen door "—I'm afraid I need to get back to work."

  One corner of the man's mouth attempted a smile, but whatever motivated it didn't reach his troubled eyes. "I came about the job," he said. "I hear you need a hired hand?"

  "Moss sent you?" She released a long sigh she hadn't known was building. "I wasn't expecting you until Fri­day."

  He opened his mouth, then obviously changed his mind about explaining why he was early. "Then the position hasn't been filled?" he asked.

  "No." As far as she knew, he was the only person inter­ested. "But quite frankly, the more I think about it, the more I think I should just lease out all the grazing land and quit trying to keep things going myself." She'd been mull­ing the whole issue again just before he arrived, so the thought came easily, but she wasn't sure why she told him. Probably because she wanted something to fall back on if she told him she couldn't hire him.

  "Why don't you?"

  His question seemed odd, since he wanted the job him­self. Jonna busied her fingers with the rag. "You mean why don't I lease the land?" She felt him nod and shrugged. "I guess because my father would roll over in his grave at the thought," she admitted. "And I don't have the nerve to face his ghost if he came back to haunt me."

  Her attempt at humor did nothing to relax the tension between them.

  "How much did Moss tell you about what I'm looking for?" she asked, grasping for her common sense. It wasn't exactly the corporate world, but this was a job interview, for heaven's sake. And certainly nothing for her to be nervous about. Especially since the determined set of his lean face and his powerful body said he really wanted this job.

  "Not much," the man admitted.

  "Did he tell you I wasn't going to be able to pay much right now?"

  "No, ma'am." His nose lifted slightly. "But I don't have much experience either so it will probably be about what I'm worth."

  He had a slight drawl. An Okie, perhaps? "At least you're honest." Again, his gaze whipped away and Jonna couldn't help but ask, "Aren't you?"

  He stared off toward the hills that rose behind the house. "Honest as the day is long—most of the time," he added quietly, and his gaze returned to capture and hold hers.

  "And when aren't you honest, Mr…?"

  "Barton. Sam Barton," he filled in for her.

  "When aren't you honest, Mr. Barton?"

  His hesitation was infinitesimal. "Some people can't deal with the truth."

  "Does that include you?"

  She almost hoped he would say yes so she could be rid of him, but she couldn't doubt his honesty at the moment.

  His jaw tightened. His eyes were fierce. "You can't pro­tect yourself from the truth."

  She cringed under his intensity. "No, you can't, Mr. Bar­ton," she agreed, drawn to him in spite of herself.

  "Why don't you tell me a little about the experience you do have," she invited, more out of curiosity than because it mattered.

  She wanted to hire him. His reluctant honesty drew her in much the same way she imagined a June bug was drawn to yard light. And she had to get someone established in the job before she left for L.A. in a little more than a week, didn't she? She wanted it to be him.

  He said he'd grown up around horses, though he had never worked with cattle. "But I can learn anything," he assured her solemnly.

  And she believed. Looking at him, at the tightly con­trolled power he exuded, at his square, determined face, at his long capable fingers, she didn't doubt for a second that he could do anything he set his mind to.

  "What does the job entail?"

  A muscle tightened in his jaw and she realized that it was the second time he'd asked.

  She'd been staring. "For the next few months anyway, what I need is pretty simple," she said. "I need someone to take care of the horses every day—there are two of them," she began, then gave him an abbreviated list of the daily routine of raising range-fed cattle.

  From time to time he muttered, "I see." But of course, he didn't. He was peering past her, watching the night over­come the last bit of light.

  She sighed wistfully. "Then, my next priority this fall is mending fences. First, of course, we have to see exactly what needs fixing. You'll need to use Murphy—the sorrel with white-stocking forelegs—and ride the fences, repairing the minor things, making notes of the bigger problems so you can take the truck out to them with the equipment and nec­essary supplies later.

  "That reminds me," she added, "my truck is inside the front end of the barn, but it needs to be repaired before anyone will get much use out of it so—except when I need it—you'll have to use my little pickup. But as long as the weather holds, you'll be doing yourself a favor to take one of the horses when you're out and about. At least until you get acquainted with the uneven terrain, a vehicle can be a drawback." She was rambling.

  "I see." This time he did. He was actually looking at her. Some of the tension in his stance was gone and she realized that somewhere in the middle of the last statement, she'd pretty much said he was hired.

  She smiled at him hopefully. He still had not answered a single one of her smiles with anything more than a weary twist of his lips.

  He did now.

  "I don't suppose you're mechanically inclined?" she said breathlessly.

  "I'm not bad."

  Lord, what an understatement! The subtle grin spread from his mouth to his eyes, warming them momentarily, sparking the same warmth in her veins.

  "I've had a lot more experience with engines than with cattle," he continued.

  She couldn't seem to take her gaze from his lips, even though the smile had disappeared. "I think the truck might need a new starter."

  "I'll take a look at it first chance I get," he promised.

  Now that she had his attention, she contrarily wished he would become engrossed in their surroundings again. She licked her lips nervously. "Anyway. That gives you some idea of what you'll be doing for the next month or
two. Next spring the real work begins, but we'll put on an extra hand for that."

  "I doubt I'll be here by then."

  She laughed in nervous surprise. "Then why am I hiring you?"

  "You need me," he said, his voice a quiet rasp, as if the smile had been so rusty it caused everything else to creak. "And I need to be here."