Stranger on Raven's Ridge Read online

  LOCAL LEGEND SAID THAT SACRIFICE WAS THE TRUEST LOVE OF ALL…

  Returning to her ancestral home, Raven Blume needed a new start. So she opened a medical clinic in order to escape the danger that had torn her life apart—and claimed her husband’s life. But local legend spoke of a ghost, a reincarnated soul haunting her house, the one high up on Raven’s Ridge.…

  Lurking within the mist was the man she thought dead. Aidan McInnis remained out of sight, venturing close enough to touch his Raven, but not daring to. The moment he did, he put a target on her back. Time was running out and Raven was quickly becoming familiar with danger. Aidan would die again if he had to—especially if it was the only way to protect her.

  “Hold still,” he said in a low growl. “Raven, stop fighting me.”

  He’d cuffed her wrists, but it was his voice more than his action that stilled her.

  His hair brushed her cheeks, and she could almost make out the details of his features in the light that filtered through the high window. She added in the scent of his skin—frighteningly familiar—the shape of his muscles, the feel of his body against hers, and…

  Already racing, her heart knocked into her ribs. She couldn’t speak or move, was half-afraid to breathe as she stared into his eyes.

  Planting her palms on his chest, she shoved him back far enough that she could scramble to her hands and knees. Heart slamming, she confronted his shadowed silhouette.

  “You’re a lie,” she accused. “You’re not here. You can’t be—” the denial turned to dust in her throat “—here.”

  Jenna Ryan

  Stranger on

  Raven’s Ridge

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jenna started making up stories before she could read or write. As she grew up, romance always had a strong appeal, but romantic suspense was the perfect fit. She tried out a number of different careers, including modeling, interior design and travel, but writing has always been her one true love. That and her longtime partner, Rod.

  Inspired from book to book by her sister Kathy, she lives in a rural setting fifteen minutes from the city of Victoria, British Columbia. It’s taken a lot of years, but she’s finally slowed the frantic pace and adopted a West Coast mind-set. Stay active, stay healthy, keep it simple. Enjoy the ride, enjoy the read. All of that works for her, but what she continues to enjoy most is writing stories she loves. She also loves reader feedback. Email her at [email protected] or visit Jenna Ryan on Facebook.

  Books by Jenna Ryan

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  393—SWEET REVENGE

  450—THE WOMAN IN BLACK

  488—THE ARMS OF THE LAW

  543—THE STROKE OF MIDNIGHT

  816—EDEN’S SHADOW

  884—CHRISTMAS RANSOM

  922—DREAM WEAVER

  972—COLD CASE COWBOY

  1027—MISTLETOE AND MURDER

  1078—DANGEROUSLY ATTRACTIVE

  1135—KISSING THE KEY WITNESS

  1182—A PERFECT STRANGER

  1227—SHADOW PROTECTOR

  1259—DARKWOOD MANOR

  1298—DAKOTA MARSHAL

  1346—RAVEN’S COVE

  1411—STRANGER ON RAVEN’S RIDGE

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Raven Blume—Two years after her husband’s death, she’s thinking of moving to her ancestral home.

  Aiden McInnis—He faked his death to save his wife, Raven’s, life.

  George Parkins—Aiden’s double-dealing friend wants Raven—at any cost.

  Reverend Alley—The mysterious fanatic is not the person he claims to be.

  Johnny Demars—The cruel crime boss has an agenda—and one very big secret.

  Fergus Smith—He keeps turning up where he’s not supposed to be.

  Weasel—The hired killer has more than death on his mind.

  The “Big Guy”—He stays in the shadows until the last minute.

  Steven Blume—A disbarred lawyer, Raven’s cousin is desperate for money.

  For Alice, Jim and Laurie:

  You never say goodbye to someone you love.

  The loved are always alive in our hearts.

  Contents

  Poem

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Poem

  Great War did end, returning home, so many wounded souls,

  Could not shut out what they had seen, and done, did not feel whole.

  To Maine and Raven’s Cove they came, to convalesce as one.

  They did not know, they were not told, the truth, what had been done,

  By man and evil spirit, joined together, roaming free,

  No war could match a man possessed, for sheer brutality.

  When man was transformed into bird, the Raven’s Tale was born.

  The evil could no more hold sway, Cove dwellers need not mourn,

  Until the soldiers came to stay and one among them learned.

  His brother had been murdered by a friend. That friend would burn,

  In Hell’s own fire, the soldier vowed, and left the hard fought path.

  He let the evil seed take root inside him, let his wrath,

  And bitterness and hatred grow. Forgiveness held no place,

  Inside his broken mind or heart. There was no room, no space,

  For any thought not gripped by evil’s dark and binding claws.

  He killed his friend and threw the body from the ridge, then paused,

  Drew one last breath and shouted from the ridge up to the sky.

  “The deed is done, my loss avenged, an eye plucked for an eye.”

  The soldier ended his own life that night in blinded grief.

  But nothing of the evil died, there was no such relief.

  For those who think to pass through Raven’s Cove without a care.

  Take heed, recall this tale, resist the darkness. And beware.

  Chapter One

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  Aidan McInnis craved a foot-long sub, fully loaded. And a Coke. Well, a beer really, but he was driving, and his police partner, Len Gaitor, was not only fully loaded, but currently weaving his way down the aisle of Pop Daly’s ancient Stop ’N Shop. Their friend, George Parkins, had fallen asleep in the backseat of Aidan’s truck half an hour ago.

  Overstocked and understaffed, the small store smelled of stale coffee and nacho cheese. Just south of two in the morning, it also carried the unmistakable scent of the marijuana one or both of the clerks had probably just smoked in the john.

  Not his problem, Aidan thought, heading for the sandwich section. He and his friends were off duty tonight

  They’d watched the Brewers take apart the Pirates, then switched it up and checked out a handful of UFC matches in a backstreet venue whose operation was at best half-legal. But Aidan had drawn the line at the stripper bar Gaitor had suggested after that. Hey, barely twenty-four months married to a woman like Raven, even a detective of ten plus years could say no without hesitation.

  The out-of-sight door jangled as another customer entered. Aidan heard a squelch of rubber while his gaze explored the piss-poor selection of subs. The store was half a century old and in need of a major renovation. But Pop being a major tightwad wouldn’t lift a finger until the cash flow—substantial due to location�
�dropped off.

  “Only got light beer left.” Gaitor grumbled his way to Aidan’s side. “Can’t keep a buzz on drinking damn soda pop. Your wife’s in Minnesota until Wednesday, McInnis. Let’s find us a girlie bar.”

  Aidan ran his gaze over the display again. Pathetic. “Gotta work tomorrow, Gaitor.”

  His partner snorted. “Night shift. And me a few months from retirement. It’s a kick in the ass by an ass of a captain. I hate it when yes-men brownnose their way to the top.”

  No surprise there, Aidan thought in mild amusement, since Gaitor hated pretty much everything to do with police work these days.

  He was about to downgrade his sub craving to a slightly more palatable ham and Swiss on rye when he caught the angry command up by the cash register.

  Gaitor heard it, too, and scowled. “Wouldn’t you just frigging know it. Stupid punk needing cash for a fix is hell-bent on screwing up my night. Talk about your bad timing.”

  Aidan drew his Glock from the shoulder holster under his jacket. “Kids behind the desk’ll probably consider it good. I’ll take the rear.”

  Gaitor patted his chest and sides. “Musta left my gun in the truck.”

  Maybe lucky for the thief, Aidan reflected, and left his partner muttering in the aisle.

  He spotted the new arrival instantly, a lone male wearing a gray hoodie and ski mask. The 9 mm in his double-fisted grip was pointed at the forehead of the older store clerk. Less than two feet from his target, he was unlikely to miss if he squeezed the trigger.

  The clerk gaped, openmouthed. “We don’t keep—I mean—there’s no money.” His hand fumbled for the cash drawer below. “Pop’s rules. Nothing bigger than a twenty after ten o’clock.”

  “Open it,” the thief ordered.

  He sounded tight—a little edgy and a lot mad. High was a given. Meth or crack, Aidan assumed.

  The old-fashioned drawer pinged as it sprang outward. In the shadows, Aidan took aim.

  “There’s only fifteen bucks.” The clerk’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “See for yourself.”

  Aidan saw the thief’s teeth in profile. One step forward, and he’d have him.

  “Lift the tray out.”

  “But Pop won’t—”

  “Lift it!” the thief snapped. His gun hand shook, and his breath heaved in and out. “You don’t do what I tell you, more than your night’s gonna be over.”

  “Stop right there,” Aidan said from slightly behind him.

  The masked head jerked around. For a moment, nothing and no one moved.

  “I’m a cop,” Aidan warned. “And I’m guessing I’m a helluva lot better shot than you.”

  The thief started to lower his arms. Then the floor creaked, and he snatched them up again. He fired wide twice, and twice more with better aim. The clerks vanished behind the counter.

  Aidan went for the right arm. It should have been an easy hit. But in a lightning-quick move, the thief leaped sideways and exposed his full chest. Aidan’s bullet struck him at the same instant the thief’s bullet embedded itself in a tall shelf. The man took two staggering steps forward. And dropped like a stone to the floor.

  At the entry door, George Parkins stood with an owlish expression on his face that suggested he had no idea where he was.

  Gaitor lurched into sight. With his eyes locked on the fallen man, he used his toe to nudge an unmoving arm. “Who’d have figured he’d pull a dumb-ass stunt like that. Bastard couldn’t have hit you in a million years.”

  Aidan glanced at the bullet hole six inches from his head and wasn’t so sure.

  “Uh, what...?” was the best George seemed able to manage.

  The younger clerk stared, pop-eyed. “Is he dead?”

  “As a doornail,” Gaitor confirmed. He withdrew his fingers. “You had no choice, Aidan. You couldn’t have known he’d turn.”

  “Are you hurt?” Aidan asked the older clerk.

  “Yes—I mean no, not bad. He—he got my arm a little.”

  Aidan made a head motion at George who was alert enough to duck under the pass-through.

  “It’s a flesh wound.” George squinted as if through a fog. “Bullet didn’t penetrate. I’ll call it in.”

  “You saved my life.” The injured clerk’s voice trembled. “He was gonna do me for following Pop’s stupid rules.”

  The eyes of the thief, already glassy, stared upward from the scarred linoleum floor. His mouth sagged open. Aidan tugged off the ski mask that covered his face.

  And, closing his own eyes, he swore long and full.

  “What?” Gaitor demanded. Then he looked down, and his shoulders drooped. “Jason Demars. Hell.”

  Close, Aidan decided. Dangerously close.

  Thoughts spiraled through his head. But the one that stood out, the one that intensified as it repeated again and again and again was simple and concise.

  He was a dead man.

  Milwaukee, Wisconsin

  Twelve days later.

  “IT WAS MY FAULT.” George Parkins rocked back and forth on the creaking church floor, ten feet from a wreath of white lilies. “I should have gone into the store sooner, but I drank too much and passed out in the backseat of Aidan’s truck.” He stopped rocking to clutch at Raven Blume’s arms. “Johnny Demars’s men will come for me and Gaitor now. Demars is all about revenge. It’s his way, and Jason was his son, his only kid. Doesn’t matter there’s no hard evidence, we know it was him who did Aidan. Blew him to hell in pieces. It had to be him.”

  When George’s grip faltered, Raven slipped free. Maybe some part of this nightmare would register later, but for the moment, very little of it, including, thankfully, the pain, penetrated the wall of shock that stood between her and grim reality.

  Aidan, her husband of two short years, was dead. It didn’t sound real even when she thought the words. But George was right. Aidan had been blown to hell in pieces six days ago. Blown there from the inside of a condemned movie theater. The resulting fire had blazed so hot it had consumed everything, human, rodent and insect, trapped within it.

  Captain Beckett said Aidan had made plans to meet an informant in the lobby. No one knew the informant’s identity, or if he’d been blown to hell, as well. However, strong speculation was that the explosives had been set by Johnny Demars himself. Which was absolutely possible since no one, except perhaps his late son, had any idea what the crime lord looked like.

  Beckett had refused further comment, but everyone in the loop recognized Demars’s name. They also knew just how vindictive he could be. Especially where his son was concerned.

  Beside her, George continued to talk, but his words were a weird babble in Raven’s head. Surreal. Like the hundreds of faces swimming in front of her.

  Two of those faces belonged to Aidan’s grandparents, the people who’d raised him. Her own parents had flown in from Illinois. And of course there was the tragic face of Aidan’s police partner. Mere months from retirement, Len Gaitor blamed himself for Aidan’s death even more than George did.

  “I was right there in the store when Jason tried to rob it. I should’ve been there when Aidan...” His fingers closed around the arms Raven had just succeeded in freeing. “We were partners. A good partner would have gone to that theater with him.”

  He continued to talk, wouldn’t let her go.

  Maybe it was just as well, Raven thought, because she’d been floating more than standing all day, and the ordeal was far from over.

  The wreath that surrounded Aidan’s headshot photo was going to be transported to McGinty’s Bar downtown for a full Irish wake, as per the wishes of his grandparents.

  Aidan had been born in Dublin to a pair of restless world travelers. They’d died before his fifth birthday. Afterward, he’d gone to live with his grandfather and grandmother McInnis in New York City.

  The cop thing had been in his blood forever. Sadly, while Raven had always been aware that the meaning of forever could change radically on any given shift, she hadn’t expected it to
be so abrupt. Or so final.

  “Everyone who knows the name knows it was Demars who did this.” Gaitor gave Raven a shake that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with his own self-directed anger. “I knew he’d be out for blood. I should have dogged Aidan from dawn to dusk to dawn.”

  “You or me.” Eyes glazed, George resumed his grieved rocking.

  From her vantage point near the side wall, Raven watched Captain Beckett and Aidan’s grandfather herd the crowd of mourners toward the front doors. In the background, Aidan’s grandmother clung to her rosary and sobbed.

  Friends and family paused to offer heartfelt condolences. Raven shored up her wall and acknowledged them, or hoped she did, with grace and gratitude.

  The church fell silent. The shadows deepened. The setting changed from stoic cemetery to noisy Irish bar.

  There were people everywhere. Laughing, crying, eating, drinking. Recalling. Recounting.

  Gaitor huddled in a dark corner with a bottomless glass of whiskey and brooded. George, eyeglasses askew, danced with Aidan’s grandmother. Raven’s mother made sure everyone was fed well. Her father philosophized with anyone who’d listen. McGinty poured drinks and shouted some tidbit of information about her great-grandfather, Rooney Blume, who was his oldest and most colorful friend.

  An angular woman in a black dress, with lines of strain around her mouth, offered Raven a smoked salmon canapé from a silver tray. A potbellied man in a plaid jacket offered her a puppy from his new litter. A young man with stringy brown hair played the fiddle onstage, while another, hairy as a werewolf, accompanied him on a wheezy accordion.

  The bar was dim, and her head filled with smoke. A thick gray cloud of it that, like the wall, held the worst of the pain at bay.

  Words flowed and, with them, an abundance of liquor. The drink loosened tongues and made those words slightly less guarded.