“WHAT THE HELL?” Dawson demanded as he reached in and pulled her keys. “Are you drunk?”

  Annabelle stumbled out from behind the wheel and into his arms. He could feel her trembling. “There’s someone in the house.”

  “You can’t just back up like that without looking,” he snapped before her words registered.

  She turned her face up to him. It looked ghastly white. Even her bow-shaped mouth was trembling. “In the house. I saw someone.”

  Her actions began to make sense as he looked from her to the house. “Stay here.”

  She nodded, those blue eyes wider than he’d ever seen them.

  He considered moving the cars out of the middle of the street, but figured if she really had seen someone in the house... He still had her keys in his hand. “A house key on here?”

  She pointed to a large square one.

  “Get back in your car out of the cold and stay there.”

  “Maybe you should call the police.”

  “I just had a long talk with the sheriff, so no thanks.”

  “Then be careful.”

  Was she actually worried about him? He’d fought four cowboys because of her and held his own pretty well. While her concern was touching, he knew it was just something a person said when they were sending someone into a house after an intruder.

  As quietly as he could, he crossed the porch to the front door. He listened for a moment before slipping the key into the lock. Slowly he turned the knob.

  The door swung open. A now familiar fresh-paint smell rushed out at him. He listened, heard nothing while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness before he stepped in and turned on a light.

  He figured if there really had been someone in the house, they were long gone by now. They would have heard the commotion out in the street. They would have seen Annabelle’s headlights when she pulled in.

  But he wasn’t taking any chances as he moved quietly through the house, checking one room after another. There was no sign of anyone. He checked the back door, still locked—just as the front door had been. He checked windows, all locked.

  He walked through the living room into the kitchen and turned on the overhead light. Again, no sign that anyone had been here.

  He went to the wall concealing the alcove, recalling Sadie’s reaction. He’d just squatted down to inspect the white beadboard wainscoting when he heard a sound behind him.

  Shooting to his feet, he spun around only to find Annabelle standing in the doorway. She still looked terrified. Her gaze met his. He shook his head, telling himself he shouldn’t be surprised that she hadn’t done what he told her to—stay in the car.

  “Is he gone?” she asked and saw Dawson’s expression.

  “I couldn’t find any sign of anyone being here. Everything is locked up tight. Nothing looks disturbed, not that there is much to disturb at this point.”

  “But I saw...” She swallowed and shook her head. “Someone.” She met his gaze, hoping he would tell her it was possible. She could see that his knuckles were skinned and there was a cut on his cheek near his right eye, the skin around it bruised.

  “The place was locked up tighter than a drum. If someone broke in... I didn’t see it.”

  She hugged herself. “So, you’re saying I imagined it.”

  He wasn’t saying anything. He looked down at his boots then finally lifted his gaze to her. He saw her bristle. “It isn’t that I don’t believe you thought you saw something...

  “Why are you here?” she demanded.

  He felt himself balk at her sudden anger. Right now, he had no idea. “I thought that after what happened at the bar... I only wanted to check to make sure you were all right. I’ll move your car.”

  She said something he didn’t catch as he started past her and caught a hint of her perfume. It had the same effect on him that it had thirteen years ago. He increased his stride as he headed for the front door. Remembering how she felt in his arms only minutes ago in the middle of the street, he feared that if he even hesitated, it would only make him do or say something foolish.

  “I’ll bring you back your keys,” he said as he walked out the open front door, thankful his senses were starting to clear in the fresh air of the porch. But as he turned, he saw that the keys he’d left in the door were gone and Annabelle had pulled her car into the drive, but his pickup still sat in the middle of the street. Something about that seemed to mock his behavior tonight.

  Hearing her behind him, he said over his shoulder, “Lock up behind me.” He almost added that if she had any more trouble tonight to call him. “Call the sheriff if you see anyone around the house again.”

  He was almost to his truck when he heard the front door of the house slam as if caught by the wind. He looked back to see her pass by the front window. All he caught was a glimpse of her, since she’d turned out all but one of the hall lights. But he could tell that she was crying.

  The sight stirred his earlier protectiveness. “Damn it, Annie,” he said under his breath. “Why do you have to keep doing this?”

  The night had no answer. He saw a light come on in her old bedroom and felt an ache that threatened to double him over.

  He had to get her out of Whitehorse. Get her house sold. Get her on the road. No matter what it took. Otherwise... She was going to get into his heart again.

  And yet, even as he thought it, he feared it was too late.

  * * *

  ANNABELLE KNEW WHAT she’d seen. A man moving through the house. No ghost of her grandmother, even though, for a moment, there had seemed to be a white light around the figure. No doubt a reflection from her headlights. She didn’t believe in ghosts.

  She moved through the house searching every closet and cubbyhole, checking the windows and doors herself, turning on all the lights. Dawson was right. The house was empty. All the windows and doors had been locked.

  He hadn’t believed her. Worse, when she’d come into the house, she’d found him inspecting that stupid wall in the kitchen. Did he think the intruder had escaped through it, somehow?

  Exasperated, tired, upset and generally irritable, she stood in the living room trying to decide if she was going to leave all the lights in the house on tonight. It seemed silly, but she was tempted. Angry with herself for being such a chicken, especially given that apparently she’d only imaged the intruder, she went through the house turning off lights until she reached her bedroom.

  She was still annoyed with Dawson and realized she had no good reason to be. He’d worked here at the house all day, he’d saved her at the bar, he’d driven over to check on her, he’d braved coming into the house to look for the intruder...

  The man just couldn’t stop saving her. He must be getting sick of it. Hadn’t he pretty much told her that the only reason he was helping her with the house was to get rid of her more quickly?

  Well, it wouldn’t be quick enough for either of them, she told herself as she started into her bedroom on the first floor and froze.

  The loose floorboard where she’d discovered the metal box with Frannie’s photos and newspaper clippings was sticking up just enough that only she would notice it. Her heart began to pound as she looked around the room. The board wasn’t the only thing out of place.

  Her pulse a steady panicked throb in her throat, she saw that someone had moved her bed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Annabelle stood nailed to the spot, her mind racing as fast as her heart. Someone had been in the house. Dawson wouldn’t have pried up the floorboard, but he might have moved her bed when he was searching before she came in.

  The thought sent a chill through her, because when she’d searched the house minutes ago, she hadn’t looked under the bed. She glanced toward the closet. All that was in it were her grandmother’s ugly clothes. No trespasser.

  Edging toward the bed, she stopped next to the disturbed floorboard. With her toe, she pushed it back down, knowing whoever had been in here hadn’t escaped that way. Now that she was closer, she could see where the legs of her bed had scraped across the floor all the way to the wall. How strange. The bed had definitely been moved.

  Slowly, she bent down to peer underneath.

  At first, all she saw were dust bunnies, relieved not to find a man hunkered under there. But then she saw something that sent her already thundering heart into overdrive. A scrap of fabric was caught in the corner of one of the floorboards. Another secret hiding place, Grandma Frannie?

  Rising, she went to the side of the bed. It was heavy, the headboard and footboard made of solid wood. But she got it to move an inch at a time until the bed finally stopped at the wall.

  The scrap of fabric appeared to be a gray and white stripe. She touched the cloth. Not an ounce of dust on it. Nor were there any dust bunnies on a large portion of the floor.

  As she moved closer, she saw a spot on the floor that had been carved out like...like a handhold. Blinking, she realized what she was seeing. A trapdoor.

  She started to try to lift it, but quickly thought better of that. What if the man she’d seen was down there? She pulled out her phone. Her first thought was to call the sheriff. Her second was to call Dawson.

  Annabelle was so tired of needing to be saved that she pocketed her phone and went into the kitchen to her grandmother’s utility drawer. Willie had managed to get all the top cabinets and some of the lower ones cleared out and cleaned earlier today, but they’d decided to leave this drawer for now because it held all kinds of keys, screws, bolts, nuts and tools, all things that they might need before they were finished.

  She brought out the hammer and hefted it, gauging its weight, then grabbed a small flashlight that she quickly found worked. Hurrying back into the bedroom, she found the trapdoor was just as she’d left it. If the intruder was down there, he hadn’t tried to get away, because the scrap of fabric was still caught in the corner.

  Leaning down, she grabbed the handhold and lifted. The door was heavy but she managed without having to put down the hammer. It groaned upward. She saw that a table leg had been attached so the door could be propped open.

  Cautiously she shone the flashlight beam into the gaping hole, surprised to find several wooden steps that dropped down into blackness. What was down there? The piece of cloth that had been caught in the door fluttered down into that darkness. She aimed the flashlight beam into the space, only to see what appeared to be a passageway.

  Annabelle listened, chilled to her soul at the sight. Oh, Grandma, what were you involved in? She thought of Dawson earlier on the back porch painting Frannie as a saint. Did saints have hidden trapdoors under beds? Or secret passageways dug under their houses?

  There was no way she was going down there. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. Exhaustion pulled at her. Slowly she closed the trapdoor. In the kitchen, she dug some nails out of the utility drawer. Back in the bedroom, she pounded four nails through the door and into the floorboards next to it. A crude job, at best, but effective. She put the hammer aside and pushed her bed back into place.

  If someone was down there, he wasn’t getting out. Not tonight. She told herself she would deal with it tomorrow.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Annabelle had been hoping to get Dawson alone to tell him about the trapdoor. It was proof that she hadn’t been mistaken last night or overreacted or been trying to get his attention. Or whatever it was that he’d thought.

  He arrived again with his mother and brother and a small crew armed with rollers and paintbrushes. Everyone fell into line with Willie cracking the whip. Drop cloths were put down, paint cans were popped open, rollers and brushes were handed out and in no time the once-dingy walls took on new life.

  Annabelle and Willie emptied the rest of the cabinets in the kitchen and cleaned them in preparation for the painters. Dawson had hauled away the last of the junk. All that was left behind was what Annabelle would need to live here until the house sold.

  Willie had asked if Annabelle wanted her to empty the closet in her bedroom of her grandmother’s things, but she’d declined, saying she would do it later. The truth was, the clothes were the last of her grandmother’s belongings. She’d kept the cookie jar where Frannie had put her “loose change” as well as a few other personal things including several boxes of Christmas tree ornaments, but the truth was, her grandmother hadn’t had much worth hanging on to.

  “Tell me,” Willie said as they cleaned the last cupboards. “What was it like, modeling?” She sounded genuinely interested.

  Annabelle rinsed out the rag she’d been using before she answered. “It was hard work. Hardly anyone believes that. They think you just stand there, turn one way then another, smile and go about your day. It was hours of shooting, often either in the cold or the heat. And that wasn’t even the worst part.”

  She stopped, realizing that she’d said more than she’d originally planned. But Willie was looking at her expectantly, as if waiting for the rest.

  “There is the not eating, but you get used to that. The working out every day of the week to keep in shape. The always being made up in expectation of someone snapping your photo on their cell phone and selling it to the tabloids, with an accompanying story about how sick you look, how fat, how tired, how ill-dressed. So you’re always ‘on’ except when you’re alone in your apartment.”

  “I’m guessing that still wasn’t the worst part,” Willie said.

  Annabelle let out a bitter laugh. “No. There are the men who have power over your career and the desperate young faces who want your job. At first, it was wonderful, unbelievable. The parties, the money, the famous people you get to meet, seeing your photo on the cover of a magazine.” She shook her head. “But none of it is real. Your photos are all doctored. That’s not really you on the cover or in the ads. Because even if you look good, you don’t look good enough without Photoshop.”

  She took a breath, shocked that she’d let all of that out—especially to Dawson’s mother.

  “So, you’re going back after you sell the house?” Willie asked.

  Tears stung her eyes. “I don’t have a choice. I’ll never work again at the level I did before, but it’s all I know.”

  Willie scoffed at that. “We all have choices. Some are harder than others. What I’m hearing is that you feel trapped. Sounds like you’re the only one who can change that. Just make sure you don’t latch on to the first life raft that comes along. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone to find yourself trapped in some other way, now would it?”

  Just then, Luke came in to announce that the other rooms were done.

  But Annabelle had gotten the message loud and clear. Willie’s son wasn’t a consolation prize for the mistake she’d made with her life.

  After a quick lunch, Annabelle and Willie painted trim in the bathrooms, neither talking. Willie’d had her say. Annabelle didn’t blame her for the warning.

  Several of the crew had to leave, which left Dawson and Luke to paint the kitchen.

  “I can’t believe how different this house looks,” Willie said after they’d cleaned their brushes and wandered through the finished rooms. She stopped at Annabelle’s bedroom. “You sure we can’t paint this room today? We can move the bed and—”

  “I’d like to do this one myself,” Annabelle said.

  “Sure, sweetie, if that’s what you want.”

  “I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Annabelle said quickly.

  Willie patted her arm. “Honey, we were glad to help. Now you can get it on the market.”

  She nodded, afraid she would cry. There was so much she wanted to say. She’d hurt this woman’s son, and yet here was Willie helping her. Or maybe she wanted Annabelle out of town so she didn’t hurt her son again.

  * * *

  WHEN THEY WERE finishing up for the day, all Dawson wanted to do was make a quick getaway. But his mother seemed to be dragging her feet. The house was coming along nicely. The only room that hadn’t gotten painted was Annabelle’s bedroom. According to his mother, she wanted to paint that one herself.

  More than likely she was just ready for them all to clear out. He knew he was ready. Every moment he was around her, he was intensely aware of her. It wore him out. It was time to let them both get on with their lives.

  He’d just picked up the cooler his mother had packed and started for the door, when Annabelle said, “Dawson, could I speak to you for a moment?”

  He knew he must have looked like a deer caught in headlights.

  “Privately?” She motioned him back into the house.

  “I’ll catch a ride with Luke again,” his mother said quickly and grabbed up her belongings. “I need to talk to him anyway.” She was out the door before Dawson could argue.

  Now, with just the two of them alone in the house, he shot Annabelle a weary look as he put down the cooler. “If this is about last night...”

  “There’s something I need to show you,” she said without preamble and headed for her bedroom.

  He watched her go for a moment before following. At the bedroom door, he stopped. She was standing by the bed. For a moment, he thought she’d brought him in her to...to do what? Seduce him?

  She shoved the bed with all her strength, sending it skidding across the floor until it hit the wall.

  He blinked in shock, his mind racing. What the—

  She pointed at the floor. His mind was still on Annabelle standing next to a bed in her bedroom and him thinking... His gaze dropped to the floor. He stared.

  “Are those nails?” he asked. They were sixteen-penny nails, large enough that even with half of them embedded in the wood, the other half was sticking out a good three inches. All he could think was that she’d lost her mind—until he saw the handhold carved into the floor and realized he was looking at a trapdoor.

  “What the hell?” he said as he moved closer.