A Ranching Man. Linda Turner
not to draw attention to herself. Because not everyone who wanted to touch her, hug her, was a harmless fan.
A chill rippled over her at the thought, and it was all she could do not to glance over her shoulder to see if she was being watched from the street through the open front door. This wasn’t a sprawling metropolis like L.A., where danger had stalked her without her even being aware of it, she reminded herself. Liberty Hill was hardly more than a village, lost in the mountains of southwestern Colorado. There were no hotels in town, nowhere for a stranger to hide. The studio had made arrangements for the cast to board with the local ranchers and townspeople, then booked every hotel within a sixty-mile radius for the crew during the filming of Beloved Stranger. An outsider, left with no place to stay, would stick out like a sore thumb.
When she’d learned the studio had arranged for her to stay in a Victorian mansion that was right in the middle of town and only a block from the sheriff’s office, she’d sighed in relief. It had sounded like it was perfect for her.
And at first glance, the old house certainly lived up to its advanced billing. Dripping in gingerbread and charm, it was beautifully preserved and literally right around the corner from the sheriff. A scream would bring him or one of his deputies running to the rescue in a matter of minutes.
But what if she didn’t have time to scream? a voice in her head taunted softly. An intruder could slip up on her in the dark silence of the night and she’d never know it until it was too late. All he’d have to do was break one of the ancient window latches or jimmy the lock on the front door, and he’d be inside in a heartbeat. While Myrtle slept peacefully in her bed, he could do God knows what to Angel and be gone before anyone even thought to note the danger.
Stricken, she paled and knew in that instant that she couldn’t do it. There was too much at stake. As much as she liked Myrtle and hated to disappoint her, she just couldn’t stay there. “Garrett always did like limos. I prefer to drive myself. Mrs. Henderson, about the house—”
“I knew you would love it,” she cut in, beaming. “Everyone does. And it’s Myrtle, dear. There’s no need to stand on ceremony. After all, we’re going to be housemates for the next two months, and I want us to be friends.”
“Thank you…Myrtle. I appreciate that, but—”
“Think nothing of it, dear. I’m delighted you’re here. And you know, of course, that I don’t expect you to hole up in your suite the entire time you’re here. There’s plenty of room for both of us, so please make yourself at home. I heard you like to cook, so I imagine you’d like to look at the kitchen. It’s probably not as fancy as what you’ve got in L.A., but I made sure it was well stocked for you. C’mon. I’ll show you around.”
She would have given her a guided tour, but Angel couldn’t let her, not without feeling like a heel. To let her continue to think she could accept her hospitality would be cruel.
“Myrtle…wait,” she said when the older woman started to turn toward the arched doorway at the far end of the entrance hall. “I hate to do this to you after you’ve gone to so much trouble, but I’m not going to be able to stay with you, after all.”
“But the studio’s already made the arrangements,” she argued, taken aback. “Your rent’s been paid, your rooms are ready. All you have to do is move in and unpack.” Frowning with a sudden thought, she asked worriedly, “Is it the house? Is it because it’s so old? That nice Mr. Douglas from the studio thought you’d be pleased.”
“I am. I mean I would be but—”
“You’re worried I’ll talk your ear off when you try to study your lines at night,” she guessed. “Don’t be. I’m an old lady, dear,” she confided, trying and failing to look feeble. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I have a little antique store next door, and it takes all my energy just to stay on top of things there. By the time I get home in the evening, I’m so bushed, I’m lucky if I can stay awake long enough to eat a bowl of cereal during Entertainment Tonight.”
Fighting a smile, Angel sincerely doubted that. Myrtle might be somewhere in her seventies, but her blue eyes were sharp and full of life, her step lively. She was a long way from being old. “It’s not you,” she assured her. “It’s me. I need to stay in a place that’s more…private.”
It was a weak excuse, but the only one that Angel was willing to give her. She didn’t know Myrtle, didn’t know if she could trust her with the truth. She didn’t seem the malicious type, but Angel already knew she liked to talk, and that could easily get out of hand. If she inadvertently repeated any of their conversation to any of the reporters that would soon be flooding the area, the news would be all over the papers the next day. She could see the headlines now.
Angel Wiley Threatened By Stalker.
The press would have a field day with that. And so would Garrett. She could hear him now, telling everyone on the set that Angel was so desperate for publicity and her fifteen minutes of fame that she’d do anything to get her name in the paper. Just thinking about it made her cringe.
Not taking her seriously, Myrtle laughed. “This is Liberty Hill, dear, not L.A. You don’t have to worry about people peeking in the windows, ogling you. Anyone who goes around sticking their nose where it doesn’t belong is asking for a fat lip, and I’ll be the first one to give it to them. We respect each other’s privacy around here. Or else.”
Angel made no attempt to repress a smile. Myrtle looked so fierce, she could just see her taking on the tabloid reporters who regularly parked across the street from her house in West Hollywood and snapped pictures of anything that moved. If they tried that here, they’d be lucky if they still had their hair, let alone their cameras, by the time Myrtle got through with them.
“I’m sure everyone is normally very nice,” she agreed. “But we’re not talking about neighbors gossiping over the back fence about the county judge and his secretary. Once word gets out that a movie’s being shot in the area, fans’ll start crawling out of the woodwork. Then the trouble starts.
“Don’t get me wrong,” she said quickly before Myrtle could misunderstand. “I really do love my fans. Most of them are harmless and wouldn’t dream of doing anything more objectionable than asking for a picture or autograph. Those are the nice ones.”
“And the others? The not so nice ones? What do they want?’
“Anything that touches my skin,” Angel said bluntly. “They’ve been known to crawl through a window just to get their hands on a pair of my underwear.”
Her cheeks slightly flushed, Myrtle swallowed. “I see.”
She didn’t. She couldn’t fully understand what fame and adoration was like for someone who just wanted to do her job and come home at night and be left alone. The abhorrence of getting filthy letters in the mail from strange men. The fear that pressed in on her in the dark of night when the phone rang and she knew it was him—
Shying away from the thought, she stiffened. No! She didn’t need to go there for Myrtle to understand that the arrangements the studio had made for her were, unfortunately, unacceptable. “So you see why I need to stay some place more secluded. Please don’t take this wrong—your house is wonderful—but it’s right on the street. There isn’t even a fence. If I’m going to sleep at all at night, I really need a gated community, some place with a state-of-the-art security system and motion detectors in every room. I’m sure you understand. I guess you could say I’m like Greta Garbo. I just want to be alone.”
It was an outrageous request for the wilds of Colorado, and they both knew it. Liberty Hill didn’t even have a movie theater, let alone a gated neighborhood with the kind of security system she described. It was a ranching community, for God’s sake! People worked hard for their money and didn’t need fancy, high-falutin’ houses in town with walls around them to show what they were worth.
Which was more than could be said for a spoiled movie star from Hollywood who thought she was someone special just because she could play make-believe in front of a