The Hidden. Heather Graham

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      “Thanks, Ben,” she told him. “I use computers and cameras all the time while I’m working, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”

      Ben shrugged, then asked, “You going to join us for dinner?”

      She was still offended that he could even think she would do something like that, but on the other hand, she couldn’t really blame him. She forced a smile. “No, I’ve got some paperwork to finish, but thank you for the invitation. You’re sure you don’t mind taking the camera to your friend?”

      “Not at all.”

      “Okay, thanks.” She gave him a little wave and walked away. Terry Ballantree and the Bartons crossed her path, so she paused to say hello, even though she longed to get away and try to sort out what had happened.

      “Scarlet, thanks so much for the tour yesterday,” Terry said. “Any way I can get another look before dinner? I’d love another look at some of those old photos.”

      “We loved it, too,” Gwen said.

      “I’m glad you enjoyed yourselves,” Scarlet said. “Ben is kind of strict about the museum. It’s only open Thursday to Sunday, and this is Monday, but if you’re all here for a few more days, I’ll ask him if I can take you back through for a private tour tomorrow or Wednesday.”

      “Thanks,” Terry said.

      “That would be great,” Gwen said. She and Charles were both in their twenties, and they almost looked like children playing at marriage, but Scarlet had found them both to be open and friendly. Charles had been a football player at Ole Miss, and Gwen had been a cheerleader. Now he had just started his own law practice. Gwen was blonde and blue-eyed, a perfect contrast to his tall, dark and handsome.

      Terry was a nice guy, too, though his never-ending enthusiasm was a bit exhausting. He was good-looking, with sandy-brown hair and large hazel eyes, a generous mouth and a perfect nose. While he was only medium height, he was in good shape.

      But with her nerves completely frayed right now, she just wasn’t up to dealing with any of them.

      “I’ll talk to Ben and let you know,” Scarlet said, then quickly made her escape. “See you all later,” she called over her shoulder.

      The old storage barn had been given windows sometime at the end of the Victorian era, and though plain shades were drawn over the museum windows, those upstairs boasted pretty drapes.

      Scarlet unlocked the door and stepped inside. The security lights, added to the last of the daylight seeping in, created an eerie glow, but it didn’t bother her in the least. She was in love with the place. Many of the displays were the originals, over a hundred years old, as were the placards they held, written in cursive by a gentle hand almost a hundred and fifty years ago.

      There were life-size figures on pedestals arranged throughout the room, ranging from Ute chiefs in full battle regalia to Yankee and Rebel soldiers, fur trappers, gunslingers and frontier women, along with excellent re-creations of real people like Teddy Roosevelt and John Muir. There were twenty-two of them altogether, the oldest nearly as old as the ranch itself. Her favorite was a Ute woman holding a child and looking skyward. There was something so beautiful in her expression that Scarlet was certain she had been modeled from life by an artist who adored her.

      The stairs to her apartment were to the far left. A sign hanging from a velvet rope advised No Admittance. She unhooked the rope and walked upstairs.

      The whole second floor was hers. She had a kitchen, dining room, living room, bedroom and even a guest room. It wasn’t fancy, but to be honest, she preferred it to the main house, which had been fully renovated to offer the rustic, frontier look guests expected.

      In the main house, the parlor was spacious, and boasted Victorian furniture, period portraits and paintings, and a number of mounted animal heads, all of them at least a hundred years’ old. The dining room offered more massive heads, including a giant moose head that stared down at the large central table, which seated twelve.

      The animal heads actually made Scarlet a little sad, but Trisha had told her that they were part of the tradition of the West and the guests expected them. Even so, Scarlet had never quite gotten used to them, and she had actually declined several meals at the main house because she felt so uncomfortable eating with the dead moose looking down at her.

      Her place, however, was, in her opinion, just as nice as the main house, not to mention it was her own.

      And neither her apartment nor the museum had trophy heads anywhere on the walls.

      The apartment had been recently remodeled and refurbished. The master bedroom held two antique dressers, a washstand with a pitcher and bowl and an antique bed frame that held a very modern and comfortable queen-size mattress.

      Scarlet loved her job here and was enjoying the emphasis on the Civil War, Reconstruction and westward expansion. It was so different from her work in Florida, which had focused on the Seminole Wars.

      She walked into the kitchen and decided to brew tea while debating whether to go into town for dinner. She hadn’t actually left the property in a few days, so getting out and about was probably a good thing to do. She could become reclusive all too easily, she knew.

      She was mulling over the strange pictures on the camera and pouring hot water over a tea bag when she heard a thump.

      It was a loud thump. Loud enough to make her nearly spill scalding water over her hand.

      She quickly set down the kettle and frowned. The sound had come from downstairs, where there shouldn’t have been anyone. She was certain she’d locked the door behind her.

      Unease filled her. There wasn’t even a door between her and the downstairs, something she’d never thought about before.

      She dug in her pocket quickly for her cell phone. After the camera incident, she didn’t want to sound like a paranoid idiot, but she didn’t want to take any chances, either.

      She dialed the main house. “Hey,” she said when Ben picked up, “I’m just checking. Is anyone supposed to be downstairs in the museum? I just heard...something down there.”

      “Not to worry, I’ll be right there,” he told her.

      “I hate to bother you.”

      “It’s a bother of about thirty steps. I’ll see you in two minutes.”

      As soon as Scarlet heard Ben’s key in the door she ran down the steps to meet him.

      He hit the switch that turned on all the overhead lights. “Let’s see what’s up, okay?” he asked.

      “Thanks. I didn’t know—I thought maybe someone was supposed to be in here.”

      He shook his head. “You, Trisha and I have keys. No one else. So what did you hear?”

      “A thump.”

      “A thump. Hmm. Well, let’s look around.”

      The museum consisted of a single large room, with the platform holding Teddy Roosevelt and John Muir right in the middle.

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