When he spied the cut wires dangling from the roof, he understood. “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch!” They’d hoisted someone high enough to make short work of effectively disarming the alarm, which led him to wonder if the culprits were kids at all.
He pulled the set of keys from his pocket with the tiny flashlight attached. It wasn’t much, but it would save time if he didn’t have to go back to the house for a lantern. He entered the cave and did a quick scan of the walls. No additional graffiti, but they wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of cutting the wires without following up with some mischief.
He groped his way around the room slowly, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Beer cans. Cigarette butts. Nothing too awful.
And then his gaze fell on the small belt, curled against the side wall. He approached it hesitantly, not wanting to believe his eyes, but the sinking feeling told him his vision was perfect. Not a belt at all. A dog collar.
He flipped the tag over and read the name. “Jet.” One of the dogs buried in Old Man Turner’s secret burial room. They’d found it. A few feet away lay several more of the collars and what appeared to be a journal rolled up and tied with a shoelace.
He undid the lace and smoothed the periodical under his palm, finding a red marker rolled up inside.
A magazine. He held the light close. The photo on the front was of a cave.
His cave.
Kyndal’s photos.
He slowly leafed through the pages, eyeing the familiar caverns in breathtaking detail thanks to Kyndal’s amazing artistic eye. The window into the vug, enticing crystals sparkling beyond it. The stalagmite teeth, eerily beautiful in their ferocity. Damn, the shots were good. Better than good. Fabulous! His wrath cooled somewhat as he became swept up in admiration for Kyndal’s talent.
How in the hell did she not get that job? What would lure an editor away from someone with talent like hers?
He came to a page that had been dog-eared. A picture of the dog cemetery circled in red with a large check beside it.
They’d left this here to use again. They were going to look for everything pictured. A treasure hunt. A game of search and destroy.
And Kyndal had provided them with a map.
It wouldn’t be long before they found the bats. Disturbing them during hibernation would probably kill them. The vug. The spiders. The lower level.
They’d eventually find the ancient room.
He’d known this would happen. Telling the public about the cave was an invitation to vandalism. But he’d allowed Kyndal to take the photos and given her permission to use them against his better judgments. Kyndal had a way of getting him to do all sorts of things against his better judgment.
Kyndal Rawlings was the disturbance in his force.
His cave. His sleep. His heart. His peace of mind.
The woman seemed to have a knack for wreaking havoc in his life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHANCE CAME AWAY FROM THE meeting with Wharton Barge Lines feeling as if he could take on the world. They hadn’t settled with Harry Holloway, but even their big shot
attorneys from St. Louis had been placating when they realized he was willing to be reasonable. No ridiculously outrageous demands for hundreds of millions of dollars, but in a couple more meetings, Harry would have all he needed to see him and his family through comfortably for the rest of their lives.
Moments like this made him glad he’d decided to follow in his dad’s footsteps and more certain than ever he wanted to be a judge.
But, man! What an exhausting day it had been. The lack of sleep started catching up with him as he shook Harry’s hand in parting.
He checked his watch. Already after eight, and he still had to make an appearance at the Christmas Cocktails event the Women’s League was hosting. He considered changing out of his suit into the sweater he’d brought, but decided against it. He was simply too tired, and he didn’t plan on staying long enough to put in the effort. He would stay long enough to be seen, and then head home and hopefully get a real night’s sleep—provided, of course, he could keep Kyndal from haunting his dreams.
The cocktail party was being held at the Carson Center, just a few blocks away. He chose to walk, hoping the cold night air might bring some life into his weary bones. When he drew