Riding the Thunder - Deborah MacGillivray [63]
His head snapped around as he heard a faint tapping near the front door, almost like a bird pecking. “‘Only this, and nothing more,’” Jago muttered to the cat, who still lay on the end of the bed, also looking in that direction.
Quickly crossing the bedroom, Jago headed through the living room. Asha’s purse on the counter caught his eye, and he recalled that she carried a gun. Opening the handbag, he found the revolver, the weight feeling as if it was made for his hand. Quickly checking to see it was loaded, he walked straight to the patio doors and silently unlocked them. With a jerk he pulled them open.
Again, there was just the wind lowly whistling through the trees. Jago glanced in both directions, but spotted nothing out of place. No footprints on the walkway, but since the wind had dried off the dew that wasn’t atypical. Barefoot, he stepped out into the damp morning. Going to the corner of the bungalow, he looked toward the rear of the cottages. He paused, listening. No odd sounds. A beat-up truck puttering along the road in front of the restaurant was the only manmade sound.
Walking toward the other end of the cottage, near his own, he tried to put a finger on the vague feeling gnawing at him. Before, when he’d heard the noises, he almost sensed something off, a danger lurking close. Now there was a void. Nothing.
He glanced down to see the cat curving around his leg. “Maybe just my imagination,” he said to the feline, and he might have accepted it as truth but for the cat’s attitude. The puss was calm, curious and just tagging along. No laid-back ears, no growling. “Oh well, the riddle remains unsolved. Come on, race you back to bed. There still might be a chance Asha will wake up and want to abuse my cute little bod.”
As he placed his hand on the door to her bungalow, he heard the phone ringing in his cabin. He looked back and frowned, wanting to ignore it. There would only be three people calling him—Des, Trev or Julian. Des wanted regular check-ins, progress reports. Trev would want to gloat, which Jago could do without. But there was also his mother to consider. Always in frail health, she seemed to be slipping away from them both mentally and physically. Though Des refused to admit there wasn’t anything his money couldn’t fix, Jago feared she was slowly losing her battle with cancer. Sighing resignation, he headed back to answer the call.
Snatching the phone off the table, he barked into it, “This better be good. It’s not yet six a.m. here.”
Not wanting to leave Asha alone in her bungalow, and yet thinking it best she didn’t hear any of the call, he moved to the front door, where he could watch Asha’s cabin. He was still uneasy about the earlier noises.
“My, you’re chipper this morn. Sorry, did I wake you? It’s time for elevenses over here.”
Trevelyn sounded too damn smug. He was lucky he was several thousand miles away or Jago might be tempted to make his twin look a little less like him. Sometimes it was damn irritating to share the same face with one so totally opposite in temperament.
“I suppose there’s some purpose to this call other than to piss me off?”
“Grouch. Isn’t it enough to want to know how my twin is doing in Hicktown?” Trev chuckled, only it grated on Jago’s nerves.
“Don’t call them that.” He didn’t snap, but his tone sounded short. He was irritated, defensive and really didn’t feel like putting up with his twin’s arrogance.
“Oooh, touchy. Tell me little brother”—Trev referring to the fact that he’d been born first, by a whole twenty-one minutes—“are you falling under the spell of Asha Montgomerie?”
“You know, I’d really like to punch your face right now, Trev,” he said, but it lacked real force, just typical brothers fussing.
His twin laughed. “It’s been a while since we had a donnybrook. I’ll give you a rain check, how’s that?”
“You’re on. And for your information—I’m not under the