Angel's Rest(25)

“So Celeste’s place—Cavanaugh House—belonged to Harry? That explains the silver bars we stumbled on last night.”

“Money and murder. The sheriff told us that they found bullets with the bones—but that’s not why I’m here. Gabe, has Jack Davenport shared details about how his family ended up with Murphy Mountain or the conditions of the family trust?”

“No.” Gabe helped himself to a second brownie.

“It’s an involved story and I won’t go into all of it. If you’re curious, you can read the town history that Sarah’s father wrote. It’s in the Davenport library in town. What’s pertinent to my business here today is that Lucien Davenport was an early conservationist. He put the Murphy land in a trust that has prevented road construction or development, which meant that growth occurred in other parts of Colorado. In many ways, Eternity Springs hasn’t changed in over a hundred years.”

“Colorado’s own version of Brigadoon,” he interjected. “You do know that Eternity’s isolation contributes to its charm.”

“Yes, but it’s both a blessing and a curse. The town is dying, Gabe. We’ve been looking for ways to save it, and that’s where you come in.”

He straightened and moved away from the window. “If you’re looking for a conduit to Jack Davenport in order to promote roads to ski resorts, you’re wasting your breath.”

“No, that’s not it at all.”

“You want an investor for a brownie business?”

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea, but it’s not why I’m here. Gabe, Celeste wants to hire you to help design the transformation of the Cavanaugh estate into a healing center.”

Gabe opened his mouth to explain that he no longer practiced his profession, but Nic forged ahead. Speaking rapidly and with enthusiasm, she explained the idea. Despite his best intentions, he listened, and for the first time in months his professional interest was engaged.

The plan had merit. With the right marketing and the right facilities, it just might work. Cavanaugh House could be a good foundation for such a facility. From what he’d seen last night, the house had good bones, which for the most part had survived the fire. The surrounding acreage offered plenty of space for what Nic had described. “The hot springs are on site?” he interrupted.

“They sure are. There are natural pools along the creek south of the house. Harry Cavanaugh picked the perfect spot to build because the breeze usually blows the odor from the pools away. The mineral springs stink.”

“But people love them.”

“True.”

He was tempted. He needed something to do. The work on the retaining wall had taught him that. But working again would mean interacting with people. Was he ready for that? He’d managed last night, but everyone’s focus had been on the fire. They’d accepted his help, and he’d been spared the questions. He couldn’t manage questions.

Nic Sullivan hadn’t asked him many personal questions. Yet. He saw them in her eyes, though.

Gabe turned to stare out the window and vaguely noted that the redhead had set up a tripod. Did he want to work again? Was his head in the right place for it? He rubbed the back of his neck. He guessed he was better than he’d been a month ago. He didn’t want to die anymore. But he wasn’t at all certain that he wanted to live, either. Taking on this project meant interacting, which meant living.

And yet the thought of those springs made his fingers itch to sketch.

He finished his coffee, then set the empty cup atop a coaster on the end table. “If I decide to do this, I would have some conditions.”

She brightened, and hope shined in the sky of her eyes. “I can’t imagine that being a problem. Celeste has already said you can name your price.”

“It’s not about money.” He folded his arms. “It’s about control.”

Standing, Nic reached out and touched his arm. “Don’t worry. I get creative people. Sage is an artist, a painter, and she—oh!”

He followed the path of her gaze and saw Sage Anderson down on all fours, her head hanging, her body trembling, the tripod and camera knocked to the ground beside her.

In an instant, both Gabe and Nic dashed for the door. She was fast, but his legs were longer and as he pulled away from her, he heard the note of fear in her voice as she called her friend’s name.

The woman on the ground shook like a tree in a gale. He saw no blood. No outward sign of trauma. Was she convulsing? “Ms. Anderson?” he called as he neared. He pulled up beside her. Touched her back. “Sage?”