Hot Blooded (Wolf Springs Chronicles) - By Nancy Holder Page 0,39

replied. “It’s under your seat. Where it always is,” he added.

She made a point of raising her feet off the ground.

“I thought your pappy drilled that nonsense out of you,” he drawled.

“He taught me how to shoot, not how to like guns.”

They got out and he retrieved the weapon. As he emptied out his backpack, she put a hand on his wrist. He looked down at it, and then at her.

“Let’s think this through. You got in trouble for breaking into people’s houses.”

“Allegedly.”

“And now we are sneaking onto private property with a gun?”

“It’s okay.” He put the gun in his backpack and slipped his hands through the straps.

It was cold in the darkness; among the ferns and tall, brown grass, Trick pointed out a staircase of tumbled-down stone, and said, “I’ll go first.”

At the top of the stairs, a chain link fence sagged with NO TRESPASSING signs. Weeds had grown among the diamonds. Katelyn found herself listening for the telltale hum of electricity, in case the fence was armed. As far as she could tell, the coast was clear.

“This is the original resort,” Trick said. “I remember some grumbling when Jack Bronson came in to build the center, cuz he didn’t tear down any of the old buildings — I guess the town had expected him to. Said they were a hazard. Sam got all conspiracy theory on me on the phone last night. Said maybe there was something in them Bronson didn’t want anyone to see.”

As he spoke, Katelyn’s vision sharpened. She covered her surprise with a little cough. Then she did a careful sweep for video cameras or guards while Trick worked on a stretched-out section of fencing, trying to make it big enough for them.

Just as they stepped through, the sound of drums filled the air, followed by howls, and she reflexively grabbed Trick’s hand as his arm came around her, shielding her. Then they both exhaled, letting out some tension as the Inner Wolf executives did the same.

“Dang,” Trick said without letting go of her, and she nodded.

Together they stomped through waist-high vegetation. They came to a three-story brick building — the tallest of the ruined structures — and Katelyn held back deliberately as they moved the rotted wood door, which had fallen off its hinges. Trick reached into his backpack and pulled out a flashlight.

They crept into a hallway littered with trash, old bottles, and remnants of upholstered furniture. Trick shined his flashlight on an old oil painting of beautiful grounds landscaped with bushes and statues: in the center, in front of a brick building — maybe this very one — was a beautiful fountain featuring a ring of statues of wolves with their heads thrown back. On the top of the fountain, a single wolf poised as if to attack.

They left the corridor to find themselves in the entrance to the building, a cavernous space with a vaulted ceiling and a grand staircase that led to the next two levels, fanning off into balconies on each of the two floors. Katelyn could almost see ladies in fine velvet gowns and men in top hats and Victorian suits strolling along the balustrades.

They tiptoed up the marble stairs, Trick angling the light so they could see where they were going. He reached behind himself and took her hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and she left her hand in his.

“I wonder how many people have died here,” Trick said quietly. “I mean, I don’t believe in ghosts, but this place feels . . . busy.”

She felt it, too. Like things sliding past them, around them — shadows, whispers. Then she remembered the name of the man who had suffered his fatal heart attack — Barry Cazman. She’d read about him during their research on the mine. He had died on the grounds in 1937.

And he had a drawing in his pocket, she remembered. Could it be the drawing that Sam had given her? Sam’s mother had found it with other old papers in their attic. There was a piece of weathered paper with the sketch of a waterfall and a heart-shaped boulder in it. Cazman described it as a map, and said it showed the entrance to the Madre Vena silver mine.

Her mouth dropped open as she made a connection: Which is exactly what’s in one of the paintings that got taken from our cabin.

In all the chaos after the bite, she had never put the two — the paper