Deceived Read online

  Cover Image: Cowgirl High Mountain Sunset © Kent Fortie. For more information please call 801-205-3150.

  Cover design copyright © 2014 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2014 by Kathi Oram Peterson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect

  the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: November 2014

  ISBN: 978-1-62108-888-2

  To those who feel lost and alone in this world

  Please know a loving Heavenly Father is always beside you.

  Acknowledgments

  Years ago my sister, Jo, took me on a cattle drive for research. She taught me how to saddle a horse, ride it, and herd cattle. I learned what it feels like to sit in the saddle all day, hear a rattlesnake, and run from a charging bull. Because of these experiences, I have been able to give more depth to the main characters in this book. Thank you, sis.

  I have also been fortunate to travel to Ireland with my daughter Patrizia. We were there on St. Patrick’s Day and found the country alive with celebration. I saw the dolmen at Poulnabrone, strolled on the Burren’s limestone hills, and rode on a haunted bus tour of Dublin (I’m still a little scared). This story is filled with Irish touches. Thank you, Trizia.

  I’d like to thank author Gregg Luke. Though he is a great writer, I leaned on his expertise as a pharmacist to help me find just the right drug I needed in this story. Thanks, Gregg.

  I must thank my writing cohorts: Dorothy Canada, Ann Chamberlin, Terri Ferran, Tina Foster, Elizabeth Lane, Charlene Raddon, Maureen Mills, Linda White, and Roseann Woodward. Thank you, dear friends, for listening, reading, and critiquing parts of this book.

  I am also extremely grateful to my fellow writers who went above and beyond by reading the entire manuscript: Brenda Bensch, Kathleen Dougherty, Kerri Leroy, Amanda Sowards, and Nikki Trionfo. I owe them my heartfelt appreciation.

  I’d like to thank my publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., and especially my wonderful and patient editor, Samantha Millburn. I also appreciate the many people at Covenant Communications for how they diligently strive to make each book a success.

  I must thank my family: my husband for his constant belief in me and my children for their unswerving support. I could not write without them.

  And finally, I am deeply grateful to my Heavenly Father for giving me the gift of writing. Because of this gift, I meet the most wonderful people and learn something new every day. I feel truly humbled and blessed.

  Chapter One

  Reality Becomes Unreal

  Muffled, quarrelsome voices, like arguing ghosts, threaded through Tara Kelly’s half-awakened mind. Murmurs echoed and reverberated, repeating patterns of sound. She struggled to reach full consciousness.

  Thunder rattled the windows, finally jarring her numbed senses. She opened her eyes, but only smothering darkness met her gaze.

  Must be a bad storm. Has to be the middle of the night.

  She rolled onto one elbow in an effort to catch her breath. The pulse of her heart pounded in her ears. Tara pulled up to a sitting position. Gravity seemed to triple. She gasped for breath. What was wrong with her?

  Perspiration soaked her nightgown. The hot room simmered in the silent blackness. Where was she? Had she really heard voices, or had she dreamed them? Perhaps the thunder mingled with sleep had conjured the sounds.

  Just then, thunder echoed far away, and Tara swore she caught stealthy, closer voices beneath the rumble. She listened desperately.

  Nothing.

  But something was wrong.

  She shook her head to clear it; her brain felt unmoored; her temples pounded. A dizziness, as if she’d risen too fast, clouded her vision. She had to get a grip.

  A flash of lightning illuminated the antique armoire and settee near the foot of the bed. Tara’s mind registered two of everything, but the brief double vision was enough.

  Aunt Rosalie’s house. Of course!

  She’d been staying with her aunt for the last week. Even though Tara was more alert now, an unsettling weakness hung on her like a dark curtain. Her mind felt wrapped with gauze, reminding her of years ago when her grandfather had died and her life had spun out of control. All she needed was her aunt to see her in this state and she’d think Tara was having another breakdown and admit her to Twin Pines Psychiatric Hospital again.

  That had been ten years ago. Tara had changed from that fragile nineteen-year-old and was now a successful twenty-nine-year-old bestselling children’s book author and illustrator. Her doctor had taken her off depression meds long ago, and the only pill she was taking now was to help her sleep. She didn’t take them very often; in fact, until she’d ended her relationship with Garrett, she hadn’t taken one in months. Since their breakup and her moving in with Aunt Rosalie, she’d taken one every night.

  Her aunt’s house fell eerily quiet.

  Wait.

  Voices sounded in the living room.

  Frenzied tones.

  The voices are real and not a dream. Was Aunt Rosalie home? She was supposed to work late tonight. An officer in the Los Angeles police force, her aunt had a double shift and wasn’t due home until morning.

  Determined to find out what was going on, Tara swung her feet to the floor and fought a moment of vertigo. She felt her way to the door and panicked at the sudden amnesia she experienced. From the living room, she heard someone shout, “Get out!” and Tara suddenly remembered the thunder and the voices.

  What is the matter with me?

  She shook off her fear and opened the door a crack.

  The living room was dark. From the dim porch light shining through slits in the curtain, Tara made out two blurry figures in the room: one tall and hefty like a man, one short and more slender like a woman. Another surge of dizziness made her grip hard on the door.

  Struggling with a sense of sliding backward, she heard a muffled voice say, “You can’t keep her from me.” The man sounded like Garrett, yet she wasn’t sure. He raised something shaped like a baton club above the woman’s head.

  This can’t be happening.

  Tara’s stomach lurched with nausea. She forced herself to step into the corridor, leaning against the wall to stay upright.

  As though watching a damaged flickering film, she saw the woman swing a hard right cross into her attacker’s stomach. He doubled over. The woman pulled a gun. Taking aim on him, she yelled, “Get out!”

  The man dropped the club and lunged, tackling her. The floor shuddered from the impact. A hard object slid against Tara’s foot. She tried to focus on the swaying floor. Then she saw it.

  Rosalie’s 45 mm Glock.

  A pained grunt came from her aunt, followed by the solid sound of knuckles meeting flesh. The man was going to kill her aunt. Tara had to help.

  She slid down the wall and grasped the gun. The cold steel felt heavy and strange in her hand . . . but real.

  I can do this. Just one clear shot.

  With her last threads of strength, Tara willed herself to stand on unsteady legs. The man now straddled Rosalie, his hands around her neck.

  Tara gripped the gun, her finger on the trigger, sweat stinging her eyes. Rosalie managed to hit her as
sailant in the face. He reeled backward.

  The gun wavered in Tara’s trembling hands. Her eyesight faded; spongy black dots began to blot away what little she could see.

  She tried to keep the weapon pointed at the man as he and her aunt rolled across the floor, knocking over a lamp and an end table. The man’s fist smashed against Rosalie’s head, and Tara thought he’d killed her.

  She had to do something. Now!

  A loud, deafening blast ripped the room. Tara’s vision went from charcoal gray to inky black. Fighting for the last strands of consciousness, the smell of burnt cordite filled her senses like poisonous gas, destroying love . . . destroying memory . . . destroying life.

  * * *

  Joseph White Eagle hated meeting strangers. But mostly, he hated coming to town when he was so badly needed at the ranch. May was the worst time to be called away even for one day. He should be riding the range, helping his men prepare for the spring cattle drive. Instead, he was here waiting by the baggage claim, eyeing passengers who disembarked from the LA flight.

  He leaned his tired back against the cold wall of the Idaho Falls Airport concourse and shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his worn denim jacket.

  Joseph’s cousin Mac had called late last night. He’d been there for Joseph through some mighty rough times; so of course Joseph said he’d do whatever he could to help. Mac’s girlfriend had been murdered, and he needed a place to hide her niece, Tara Kelly, who had witnessed the crime. He didn’t want to use the federal protection program because most of those people the authorities were hiding were criminals. Tara Kelly wasn’t a criminal. She was a victim who needed special care. Besides, this was personal to Mac, and he wanted to make certain Tara was with someone he knew, someone he trusted.

  In fact, Mac had asked Joseph to curtail Internet usage because the murder suspect, who was also a cop, was a computer genius. If anyone Googled names connected to this case, the killer would find them. Staying off the Internet wasn’t a problem. Joseph was the only person on the ranch who used it, but to be on the safe side, he locked his laptop in his gun safe.

  Mac had even taken Tara’s cell phone so she couldn’t be traced through her GPS. Even though cell phone service was sketchy at best in the remote regions of Idaho, a cell phone’s GPS could still give her location to someone who knew what they were doing.

  Joseph had Tara’s name and the flight number, but that was about it. Mac’s description of her was sparse: long brown hair and green eyes. That should be enough. Besides, she would look like she was grieving.

  Grief was familiar to Joseph. His heart skipped as memories of his late wife, Jenny, threatened to surface. He owed so much to the Lord.

  Shortly after his wife died, two Mormon missionaries knocked on his door. They taught him this life was only a step in our eternal progression and families could be together forever. This knowledge had awakened him from grief and made him realize Jenny would always be with him. She was probably the one who’d guided the missionaries to his door. She was expecting him to take care of their little girl, and to do that, Joseph had decided to move back home to his father’s ranch in Little Lost River, Idaho.

  He watched luggage appear on the conveyor belt. People jammed together, trying to claim their suitcases. Scanning the crowd, he couldn’t see a lone woman.

  Frustration bubbled up inside him. He had to get going. This was taking too much time. Time he didn’t have to spare thanks to other troubles they’d had on the ranch.

  All had been well until this last year. First the barn had caught fire, and rebuilding had cost three times what the contractor had estimated. They now had a heavy mortgage to pay off. Then a strange epidemic of hoof fungus had infected over a hundred head of his prime Herefords, which he’d had to put down. Last fall he could only send three-quarters of what he needed to market. He hoped a summer in the mountains on acreage he leased from the Bureau of Land Management would help the remaining cattle grow strong and healthy so by this fall he could recoup some of his losses. At least the Appaloosas were untouched. His herd of prime horses was his pride and joy, though he’d had to sell quite a few to keep the ranch going.

  A tickling panic was continually growing inside Joseph that he might lose his ranch, his late father’s ranch. In the midst of all this trouble, why was the Lord sending a woman in jeopardy his way?

  Staying near the baggage claim area and the exit/entrance, Joseph watched as a trio of giggling girls, a businessman carrying a briefcase, and a matronly woman wheeling a suitcase walked past, all staring at him. Had they only seen a Native American in western movies? Good grief! He wasn’t dressed in Nimi’ipuu buckskins or wearing a feathered headdress, just normal ranching clothes.

  Nearing the exit, one of the straggling passengers lit up a cigarillo on his way out to the smoking area. Tailings of the aromatic smoke drifted to Joseph. He breathed deeply as he savored the scent. Joseph had quit smoking when he’d converted to the Church. The long, thin, brown cigar had been his favorite. His lungs craved one more sniff. Too quickly, the cedarwood scent disappeared.

  As Joseph pined for one last whiff, two men passed him on their way to the ticket counter. One was dressed in an Armani suit, the other in designer jeans and a T-shirt. An odd-looking pair, but both spoke of money. After Suit Man got his ticket and said good-bye, his friend turned to leave. Joseph recognized the tanned and goatee-faced man.

  Denver Harris saw Joseph at the same time. He had been a pain in Joseph’s side for the last couple of years. Joseph had no desire to speak with him, but the man walked straight toward him. Not a person to back down, Joseph stood his ground. “Harris.”

  The lean egotist stopped a few feet from him. “Want to know who I just put on a plane?”

  Joseph didn’t answer.

  “I’ll tell you anyway. My good friend and lawyer, Winston Phillips. Ever heard of him?”

  Again Joseph didn’t say anything.

  Harris went on. “He is famous for never losing a case. He’s going to stop you from grazing your cattle on federal land.”

  “I lease the land where my cattle graze. My money helps pay for the upkeep of the rivers and streams you say you hold so dear.”

  “But your cattle are polluting the streams and killing off the bull trout. I intend to put a stop to it.”

  His tone and stare rankled Joseph. “It’s not my cattle that’s polluting. The BLM built miles and miles of enclosures to keep the cattle out of the streams. What you don’t seem to grasp is that there are other animals that do the damage—moose, bear, elk, to name a few. Are you going to take them to court as well?”

  “I might not be able to stop them, but I can stop you.” The pencil-thin man turned and walked away.

  Joseph pulled a cinnamon toothpick from his shirt pocket and stuck it in his mouth. The taste of cinnamon was a poor substitute for nicotine, but chewing the toothpick calmed his nerves. Harris was as irritating as a mosquito. In the last couple of years, he had sent Joseph a pile of threatening letters. This incident was yet another drop in the bucket of Harris’s threats. And Joseph didn’t have time to deal with him. Not now.

  Finally, the last passenger exited the gate: a slender woman, around five foot six. Her eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. A black scarf covered her hair. She wore a navy blue suit that hung too big on her slight frame. With great trepidation, she neared him, skittish as a colt during a lightning storm.

  This had to be Ms. Kelly.

  She reached up and tugged off the scarf. Thick mahogany hair fell in giant curls to her elbows. Pulling the sunglasses from her face, her cautious eyes—green as watercress under clear creek water—blinked up at him. A timid smile pulled at her lips, and for a second, Joseph’s heart stopped, then drum rolled. A prickling hit his lips and went down his throat.

  He swore standing before him was his late wife, Jenny.

  Chapter Two

  Biting Words

  Blinking back tears, Tara stared at the man in
front of her. His bronzed face could have been sculpted from metal, including the scar that arced over one high cheekbone. A black Stetson dipped low over his forehead. Contemplating eyes shaded by dark brows framed the gaze that probed over her like he thought he knew her. His temples flexed as he stepped back. Staring warily at her, he chewed on the toothpick clenched between his teeth.

  Mac had said his cousin was part Native American, but he hadn’t said he was broodingly good-looking or that he was withdrawn and suspicious of strangers. The last thing she needed was to be around someone who didn’t trust her. She was tempted to make an about-face and return to the airplane. But with her aunt dead, Tara had no safe place to go. She swallowed hard, remembering her promise to stay in Idaho until Mac arrested Garrett.

  She needed to stay put.

  The man’s hand trembled as he tilted his Stetson, and Tara realized he was visibly shaken. She’d misjudged the look in his gaze as suspicion when it wasn’t that at all. What could it be? He finally managed to say, “Ms. Kelly?” His rich baritone voice vibrated from deep within his chest.

  “Yes. Are you Joseph White Eagle?”

  He slowly inclined his head. His eyes were as dark as black onyx, with tiny flecks of chocolate melting into them.

  “Luggage?” He seemed to avoid her gaze, looking at the people clustered around the baggage claim area.

  “No. There wasn’t enough time. Mac grabbed these clothes and my purse.” Tara was grateful her makeup and pills were inside.

  He bit on the toothpick in his mouth and nodded like he understood.

  “I have a little cash, but Mac told me not to withdraw money from my bank or use my credit cards. He even took my cell phone from me.” Her voice faltered.

  “Where we’re going, you won’t need one.” His dark eyes locked onto hers. “Don’t worry. We have a landline at the house. My cell phone is in my glove box most of the time. I rarely use it. As far as not having a change of clothes, I’m sure Bear will find you some at the ranch.” Again he studied her, and just as Tara wanted to ask who Bear was, the man said, “Sorry ’bout your aunt. Truck’s out front.” He headed for the exit.