Brock disagreed there. He had a say in this situation. He just wasn’t sure how he wanted to word everything with Trixie. Where Mitch was concerned, dealing with Trixie was like handling fine china. One never knew when she might break.
“He’ll only hurt her, Kane.”
“That’s about the straight of it.”
Brock held out his hand and Kane returned his keys.
Kane gripped the truck door with both hands and a stark look of concern washed across his face. “Brock, when you get home, you need to tell Trixie you saw Mitch. She’s gonna find it out anyway because if I know Colony, he’ll show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night and make sure she knows you and Rory paid him a visit. You let her hear that from you. If you don’t, she’ll never forgive you.”
“She’ll never forgive me for what I said to him. And knowing Mitch, he’s already plotted how he’ll tell her.”
“What did you say exactly?”
“I told him he’d play hell getting to her.”
“I see,” Kane said, stroking his chin. “Well then, son, here’s what you do. You make good on that promise. Peyton and I will be over at your place in the morning. Have the kids ready. They can stay with us and you can take Trixie on a little retreat. It would do you some good to get away for a while.”
“You want us to leave tomorrow?”
“I’d have you packing now if I didn’t cherish my sleep,” Kane said, inching closer with unwavering determination burning in his eyes. “You listen to me, Brock. There are certain times in a man’s life when he must be as good as his word. This here situation is a prime example.
“If you told Colony he’d play hell getting to my daughter, then you make that promise count. You take her out of town and stay out of town until he’s gone. I’ll have Pete work with you so you can keep tabs on Colony’s whereabouts. But you leave. You make sure Colony doesn’t come near my daughter unless he works his ass off to find her.”
“And what if he does?”
“He won’t.” Kane grinned. “But if he does? Then maybe you and I can admit we were wrong.” He slapped his hand against the truck and added, “Let’s see what Colony is made of. If I’m right, we won’t have to wait too long. He’ll run off and find another woman and sooner or later, Trixie will realize he’s right where he belongs.”
* * * *
Cash couldn’t sleep. Ghosts from the past existed around him, only he didn’t know their names. He couldn’t see their faces, but they were there, taunting him, laughing at him, poking fun at him because those ghosts knew he was desperate.
He longed to know what he’d missed. He wanted just a small glimpse of life as it was, as it had been for those who’d lived and worked there at Cow Camp.
Tossing and turning, he finally left the bed and stood at the floor-to-ceiling window. The full moon shone on a recently cleared path leading from the stables to the main camp, a camp that hadn’t been in operation since Mitch Colony’s incarceration.
Surprisingly, the grounds had been well kept. Sure, there were some obvious repairs to be made—gates to put up, paint to apply—but overall the place looked like a rustic camp someone still frequented.
The groundskeepers must’ve known Colony had been recently released. He shuddered at the thought as a cool waft of air flew out of the vents high above him.
He had to admit, he hadn’t expected electricity and running water. All things considered, he viewed the utilities as extra benefits.
Cash walked in the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and grabbed an orange juice. He’d have to remember to thank Colony for his hospitality. No, the residential quarters weren’t stocked, but the utilities were on and the grounds were inviting. Hell, he even had access to the boat keys and a few camp vehicles.
Fresh out of prison, and Cash already felt like he’d hit pay dirt. His brother would’ve set him up, but he wouldn’t have provided a lakefront estate. Here, he even had an Olympic-size swimming pool. Then again, he couldn’t rejoice over that one. Damn thing looked like a science project with its overgrowth of algae.
He narrowed his eyes on the kitchen table. A few pictures of Trixie Cartwell were scattered about. Those images were familiar. Given the fact they had tiny pinholes in the corners, Cash believed the snapshots may have been those Stephen Pratchert had once displayed on his prison cell wall.
Maybe this was where Stephen Pratchert spent the last days of his life. He wondered why the groundskeeper had seemingly cleaned around all of the personal effects left behind, particularly since the property had been abandoned for over seven years.