The Colton Marine

A troubled hero returns home to a family nightmare in this thrilling Coltons of Shadow Creek tale!

Hired to renovate his family’s former mansion, River Colton hopes to find answers to his deepest questions. Plagued by memories of his fugitive mother, the ex-marine finds danger to his life in the estate’s secret chambers—and danger to his heart in Edith Beaulieu, its beautiful new guardian.

But someone doesn’t want Edith or River in the seemingly haunted house. When Edith falls victim to too many “accidents”—and falls hard for River—the Texas loner risks everything to protect her. If the ghosts of Coltons past lurk in the shadows, it’s up to Edith and River to hunt them down...

River’s broad shoulders moved up and down in a quick shrug. “It’s fine. I get it. You’re not interested.”

But Edith was. She was more interested than she’d ever been before. But she couldn’t admit that now. He might reach for her again. He might kiss her.

Then she opened her mouth because she wanted him to touch her, to kiss her...

But he reached for a broom instead and began sweeping up the shards of the vase she’d dropped. “You seem a little rattled,” he remarked. “Had you been hearing anything else before I showed up?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Any of those weird noises again?” he asked. “Like the clanging or the footsteps on the stairs?”

She shook her head. She almost wished she would have; it would have distracted her from thinking about him, from obsessing about him, about how passionately he’d kissed her, about how he’d carried her up those stairs...

* * *

The Coltons of Shadow Creek: Only family can keep you safe...

The Colton Marine

Lisa Childs

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Ever since LISA CHILDS read her first romance novel (a Mills & Boon story, of course) at age eleven, all she wanted was to be a romance writer. With over forty novels published with Mills & Boon, Lisa is living her dream. She is an award-winning, bestselling romance author. Lisa loves to hear from readers, who can contact her on Facebook, through her website, www.lisachilds.com, or her snail-mail address, PO Box 139, Marne, MI 49435, USA.

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Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Extract

Copyright

Chapter 1

The darkness was all-encompassing. All-concealing. Night was the only time River liked to come out now—like the other nocturnal creatures that rustled around in the brush. The noises made his horse uneasy, and it shifted beneath him.

“It’s okay, Shadow.” He soothed the skittish stallion with a pat along his silky mane.

Maybe he should have chosen another horse from Mac’s barn—one less temperamental. But there was something about the formerly mistreated horse with which River identified. Not that he had been mistreated. Physically. His mother wouldn’t have wanted to leave any signs of abuse on him or his siblings; then she might have missed a photo op. Because she’d been busy with ventures other than parenting, she had missed pretty much everything else, though.

Of course she hadn’t had a choice the past ten years; until her recent breakout, she’d been in prison. For—among those other ventures—murder. The man he’d believed was his father would have been a killer, too, had any of his attempts proved successful. He had just pled guilty to several counts of attempted murder and assault.

River should have been relieved the DNA test had confirmed that Wes Kingston wasn’t actually his father. He’d never had much of a relationship with the man, anyway. Just like all his other half siblings, River used his mother’s maiden name: Colton.

But even though he had never used it, there had been some comfort in knowing he was a Kingston. Now he didn’t know who his father was or who he was, either.

But that wasn’t just because of his paternity.

Despite the warm July night, he shivered and tugged his hat down lower over his face. Hopefully nobody else was out this late. But since his mother’s prison break, there was always someone watching him and his siblings. The FBI, the police and of course the damn reporters—the ones from the national tabloids and that relentless website, Everything’s Blogger in Texas.

River shouldn’t have come back to Shadow Creek. Hell, he wouldn’t have—had he had any other choice. As his fingers slid away from the brim of his Stetson, they brushed down the right side of his face over the strings holding the patch in place over his eye—his empty eye socket, actually—and along the ridge of the not-quite-healed scar on his cheek and jaw.

Now he couldn’t leave Shadow Creek, and not just because he was still healing but also because of his siblings. He’d already been gone for most of the past ten years—leaving them alone to deal with the fallout of their mother’s trial. Since he’d joined the Marines, no one else had accused him of being a coward.

But he knew...

And it didn’t matter how many medals he had; he still considered himself a coward. He could have stayed and helped Mac with his younger siblings, could have worked the ranch with him.

He had been doing that since he’d come back. He’d started helping out while Mac’s son, Thorne, who was also one of River’s half siblings, was gone on his honeymoon. But Thorne and his new wife, Maggie, were back now, working on their house on the property, and River had stayed. It was too late now, though. He couldn’t change the past.

Hell, he didn’t even know his past anymore.

Who the hell was he?

Wes Kingston had no idea. Probably only one person knew for certain, and the police, the FBI and even the reporters hadn’t been able to find her yet.

Livia...

There had been sightings of her in Florida. But Florida in July?

He snorted, and the horse echoed the sound. Livia hadn’t liked the heat of Texas in the summer; there was no way she was in Florida now with the humidity and the bugs. So where was she?

For everyone else’s sake, he hoped far away. For his...

Hell, it wouldn’t matter if he found her. She wasn’t likely to tell him the truth. But maybe she’d written it down somewhere.

If she had, the records or journals would be hidden somewhere on the estate, at La Bonne Vie, which in French translated to The Good Life. But life there hadn’t been good.

The house, the acreage and the parties—it had all just been for show. A pretense. A lie. Like River’s entire life. He needed to know what the truth was. But time was running out. After sitting vacant for ten years, the estate had finally been sold.

River doubted the new owner would let him search the place, especially after all the damage the FBI had done when they’d torn the place apart ten years ago looking for more evidence against Livia.

As if they hadn’t already had enough. They’d searched it again after Livia’s escape. But River didn’t think they’d found what he was looking for. They didn’t know the house like he did. They didn’t know all of La Bonne Vie’s secrets.

Neither did he, but he was determined to discover them. He squeezed his legs, prodding the stallion with his knees so it hurried forward along the trail that led from Mac’s ranch to La Bonne Vie.

The horse felt his urgency and quickened his pace. River wasn’t certain how long he had before the new owner either took up residency or tore down the place. Nobody knew who’d bought it or why.

The stallion bounded easily up the hill toward the expansive shadow sitting atop it. This was it—the house. It was some French-country monstrosity with seven bedrooms and eight bathrooms and countless fireplaces—not that it often got cold enough for a fire. Just like the house, the hearths had mostly been for show.

He and Shadow had already vaulted the fence between Mac’s place and the estate. Then they’d wound around the base of the hill to head up the long circular drive. They now passed the fountain that gurgled in front of the house. If not for the property having a natural spring, the water probably would have stopped flowing years ago.

He tugged lightly on the reins, drawing Shadow to a stop next to that fountain. After sliding off, he tethered the horse to one of the gargoyles sitting on the edge of the fountain. The horse could drink while River found a way into the darkened house.

As he neared the front entrance, his steps slowed, his boot heels scraping across the surface of the brick pavers. This wasn’t a good idea for so many reasons.

First off, he was trespassing.

Second, he might not like what he found.

And third, he might not be alone—because the moon glinted off the metal and glass of the car parked on the other side of the fountain. He cursed. But just as he cursed, he heard the scream.

So did the horse. Shadow rose up with an anxious whinny and tugged his reins free of the gargoyle. He took off toward Mac’s ranch.

But River turned back toward the house. He wasn’t the coward he’d been at eighteen. He didn’t run from trouble anymore. Instead, he usually ran right into it. The last time he’d done that, though, he’d lost his eye and damn near his life.

What would he lose this time?

* * *

She had lost it. Edith Beaulieu was not the type of woman to scream like a banshee. She wasn’t the type to scream at all. Not even as a child. But the dark house and all of its creepy sounds had unnerved her.

She’d called the power company days ago to have the service restored after ten years of the estate sitting empty. They’d assured her that it would be done. But when she’d stepped into the foyer and flipped on the switch, nothing had happened. The elaborate chandelier remained dark, its crystals reflecting only the faint light of stars shining through the tall windows and the light of her cell phone.

Of course, after ten years, the bulbs might have burned out. She had already considered that, so she’d brought a lamp with her. When she’d plugged it into a socket, though, nothing had happened.

Maybe the power company hadn’t been able to get inside and throw the breakers? That was why she’d used her phone light to move throughout the house and try to find the door to the basement. Electrical boxes were usually in the basement. Even with the light from her phone, she stumbled over broken furniture and discarded drawers and papers. And other things that indicated animals may have taken up residence when the humans had left.

So she hadn’t been too concerned about those first scurrying sounds she’d heard. She’d just shuddered at the thought of crossing paths with rodents or spiders or snakes. But when she’d finally found the door to the basement inside the kitchen, she’d heard something else—something that had sounded like footsteps—human footsteps—moving down the steps. And when she’d opened that door, the light of her phone had glinted off a pair of eyes at the bottom of those stairs.

That was when she’d screamed. Nobody else was supposed to be inside this house—nobody but her. But when she looked again, she saw nothing. Had she imagined it? Had it been a person or an animal?

She couldn’t be sure. All she’d seen was darkness but for the glint of those eyes. She shuddered as her heart continued to race. But she heard nothing now—no movement at all. Her screaming had probably scared away whatever it had been.

Torn between running for her car and going down to investigate, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. In the horror movies, the one who investigated always got killed. But then, so did the one who ran for her car. She drew in a deep breath, but it did nothing to calm her. Reaching inside her purse and pulling out her can of pepper spray made her feel a little better.

If Edith Beaulieu was going out, it was only going to happen after one hell of a fight.

She gripped the can tightly in one hand while she held up her cell phone with the other. The light illuminated the steps before her but could not penetrate the rest of the darkness of the basement. Her legs trembled slightly as she began the descent. Despite the heat of the July night, it was cold down there. The damp air instantly chilled her. Goose bumps rose along her usually smooth, dark skin. She had Mama to thank for her complexion; fortunately, that was all Edith had inherited from Merrilee MacKenzie Beaulieu.

Not the illness...

Unless she’d only imagined those eyes in the dark and had screamed for no reason. She shivered again, and it had nothing to do with the cold. As she reached the last step, she shone her light around the darkness, but it glinted off nothing now but boxes and crates and stacks of chairs and other furniture. She moved around the clutter toward a door off the hallway. As she pushed it open, the hinges screeched in protest. And above her the house creaked.

Since she’d unlocked the front door and stepped inside, she’d had a creepy sensation that she was not alone. First those eyes and now the noise against the floorboards—that sounded suspiciously like footsteps—confirmed it. Someone else was inside the house. But how had he or she gotten from the basement to the upstairs without passing her on the steps?

Unless there was another stairwell somewhere...

She’d heard the house had secret rooms. What about secret passageways?

She shivered again. But she wasn’t really cold—not with how quickly her blood was pumping through her veins. She was scared. Her hands trembled so much that she nearly dropped the pepper spray canister and the cell phone, making the light bounce around the room. It glanced off the furnace, a couple of water heaters and a metal box on the wall. She’d found the utility room.

She hurried over to the electrical panel and opened the door. Then she fumbled with the breakers, pushing them the opposite direction of where they’d been. They must have been off because a light from the dirty bulb swinging from the rafters in the ceiling came on.

She expelled a slight breath of relief. At least she had light now. But then her relief fled as she heard more creaks—of the basement door and then on each step leading down. She fumbled with her phone, shutting off the light. Then she reached for the chain hanging from that swinging bulb. She needed darkness so she could hide. But then she remembered she was the one with the right to be there. And she let the chain slip through her fingers while she tightened her grasp on the canister of pepper spray.

Whoever else was here was trespassing, which probably meant he was up to no good. Squatting? Stealing? Or using the abandoned house for other nefarious activities?

She wished now she had a gun. But the pepper spray would have to suffice. She clutched it tightly—pointing it out in front of herself. And she waited.

Within seconds the utility room door groaned as it was opened the rest of the way. A dark shadow filled the doorway. He was too far away for her to spray and hit him. So she lifted her cell phone light toward his face. The brim of a hat pulled low shadowed it, but still she saw the scars and the patch.

And she screamed again.

* * *

The pounding of hooves against the ground sent a cloud of dust rising up into the night sky and a chill of unease racing down Mac’s spine. He had returned only minutes ago from a date with Evelyn. She made him feel like a teenager instead of fifty-six. But the smile she always put on his face had slipped away when he’d found his house dark. No lights shone in the apartment above the stables, either.

Where was River? His truck was parked near the stables. But he realized why when the horse came into view, froth trailing from his mouth down his mane. The stallion looked mad. Or terrified, its eyes wild as it reared up on his back legs and stabbed at the air with his front hooves.

What had that damn stallion done? Had it thrown off River somewhere in the darkness? That unpredictable horse. Mac wouldn’t have had him but for Jade. She wanted to help the horse, but she couldn’t have him at Hill Country Farms. He wasn’t safe for kids to be around, and she had too many young visitors to her place. She worked with him here when she had the time. But she was busy rescuing other former racehorses.

And Jade was scared. Half the time her eyes looked as wild as the stallion’s. Maybe that was why she was so determined to help him.

But what if he’d hurt River?

The ex-Marine was still healing from whatever tragedy had happened on his last deployment. He refused to talk about it. Mac could understand River not wanting to answer the reporters’ intrusive questions about his scars, about his missing eye... But he hadn’t told his family anything, either.

Ever since he’d come back to Shadow Creek, he had seemed so lost.

“River?” Mac called out. Was he lost now? Where was he?

Careful to avoid the hooves, Mac grabbed the reins of the rearing stallion and tugged until the horse dropped to all fours again. With his other hand, he patted the horse’s sweaty neck. “Settle down,” he murmured soothingly. “Shh...”

He whinnied and tossed his head, pulling on the reins Mac tightly clasped. But eventually he calmed enough that Mac could lead him to the barn. He pulled open the door and led Shadow to his stall. There were other horses in the barn—ones River could have, should have, saddled up for his night ride.

Why had he taken the damn temperamental stallion? What had he been thinking?

Mac unfastened the saddle from the stallion and carried it to the tack room. He didn’t trust Shadow—either to be ridden or to lead him back to where he’d lost River. Where the hell was that? From the amount of sweat that had saturated Shadow’s coat, Mac could tell he had been running for a while. So Mac doubted River was anywhere on the ranch. He was farther away than that. But not so far that he would have needed to take the truck instead of a horse. Because of its proximity, the logical place was La Bonne Vie.

But why would River have wanted to return to a place he hadn’t been able to wait to leave ten years ago? What was his sudden interest in La Bonne Vie? And what had happened to him there that the horse had returned without him?

Chapter 2

He should have ducked and run away. But River wasn’t the coward he’d once been. Apparently he wasn’t that smart, either. The last thing he needed was a shot of pepper spray in his good eye. But instead of running away, he rushed forward and clasped the screaming woman’s wrist. Careful not to hurt her, he raised her arm, so if she sprayed, it wouldn’t hit him directly in the face.

She struggled against him, bringing her body flush against his. While she was slender, her breasts were full and lush against his chest. And she smelled so damn good...

Like sunshine and some flower he couldn’t quite place.

“Let me go!” she demanded, her voice sharp despite its thick Southern drawl. She didn’t sound like she was from Texas. She didn’t smell like it, either.

“Let go of this damn can,” River said. With his other hand, he pulled the pepper spray free of her grasp. But he didn’t release his hold on her finely boned wrist, even as he lowered her arm. Her skin was so silky and her pulse pounded wildly beneath his fingertips.

She stopped struggling and stared up into his face. And he saw the recognition dawn in her brown eyes. It was better than the look of horror she’d had when she’d initially seen him. When would he get used to that—to that reaction when people first saw him?

No. They didn’t see him. They saw only the injuries. The damage.

He was damaged—and not just physically. He released her and stepped back into the shadows outside the circle of light cast from the dim bulb, and he pulled his hat down lower over his face.

“You’re a Colton,” she said. “River?”

He nodded, not surprised she recognized him. Every local news broadcast included some kind of report about the Coltons of Shadow Creek—either a history lesson on their illustrious family or a recent Livia-on-the-lam sighting. But this woman looked vaguely familiar to him, as well.

Where had he seen her?

He should remember. She was such a beauty with her flawless dark skin and long, thick, black hair that she would definitely be unforgettable had they ever officially met.

“You don’t own this place anymore,” she told him.

“I never owned it,” he said. And for the past ten years the FBI had had custody of it, having seized it and whatever other assets of Livia’s they’d been able to find. Of course they hadn’t found them all. She had too many hiding places—so many just inside this house. He glanced around the cement walls of the cellar, wondering what lurked behind the concrete.

“Do you own it now?” he asked. She looked young, though, so young that he wondered how she would have been able to afford it. Unless it hadn’t gone for much at auction.

Who would want a house with such a notorious past?

“I am here at the new owner’s behest,” she said. “You’re not. You’re trespassing.”

He shook his head. “No. I was just out for a ride when I heard you. Why were you screaming?”

She shivered. It was chilly and damp in the basement and she wore only a tank top and some long gauzy skirt. But he didn’t think she was shivering because she was cold. She was scared.

“I saw someone...something...” She narrowed her dark eyes and studied him with suspicion. “Was it you?”

He shook his head again. “I didn’t come inside until I heard your first scream.”

She continued to stare at him as if weighing his words for truth.

“It wasn’t me you saw,” he insisted. A frisson of uneasiness chased down his spine, but he resisted the urge to shiver, as well. He reached for his weapon—before he remembered he wasn’t wearing a holster. He wasn’t armed. He hadn’t thought he would need to be when he came home. But he should have known he’d never really been safe here—not with a mother as mercurial as his.