Ominous (Wyoming #2)
Lisa Jackson
Part One
Three Girls
Fifteen years ago . . .
Chapter 1
They came.
As expected.
But this time there were three, not just two.
All young, on the brink of womanhood.
All with nubile, firm bodies.
All unaware that he was hidden, deep in the umbra of the woods surrounding the lake.
The back of his throat went dry, and he licked his lips in anticipation. As the tallest one began to strip in the moonlight, he felt his dick start to come alive, thickening beneath his jeans and hardening in anticipation, as if it had a life of its own. He skimmed his fingers down his zipper, feeling his boner, smiling before reaching for his belt and silently drawing his Bowie knife from its sheath. He traced the smooth steel of the slightly concave clip point with the tip of his finger and imagined the weapon plunging deep between the breasts of the girls who had gathered on the shoreline. Underage, they were here despite their parents’ warnings, because they were brazen and rebellious and . . . not good girls. This, he knew. Sensed. No, they were bad.
He felt his juices flowing, that little zing that sizzled through his blood at the thought of what he would do. Ahh, yessss . . .
But first things first.
He had to wait until the precise moment.
Parting the branches, he watched, his heartbeat accelerating, his breath coming in shorter gasps.
Moonlight was a ribbon on the smooth, unbroken surface of the lake, and the wind rustled through summer-dry branches, the hoot of an owl breaking the stillness.
Come on, he thought, his blood tingling. Take it off. He’d been to his share of strip clubs, first sneaking in when he was underage, then later, when there was no fear of being kicked out, sitting as near the stage as possible, watching the dancers carefully peel off their clothes in the most titillating manner. Over the years he became less interested in what was obviously staged, a practiced tease to turn on the audience and draw money from the viewers’ wallets. But this, three girls on a dock at a deserted Wyoming lake, this was different. More real. More raw. And the fact that these near-women had no idea that he was observing them was the ultimate turn-on.
He squinted, then lifted his night-vision goggles to get a better view. The tall one striding out to the end of the dock was a blonde with an athletic build, and he knew why. Shiloh. She was the cowgirl, a tomboy, though built like a woman, her pale hair braided into a rope that hung halfway down her long back.
The middle girl was shorter, but trim, a petite brunette, her father a cop. He smiled at that. Katrina. Patrick Starr’s kid. She resembled her mother and was a feisty thing. He knew. He’d watched. The fact that she was a detective’s daughter only made her all the more interesting. A taboo.
But the third girl baffled him, and he didn’t think he’d seen her before. Certainly she’d never come to swim nude with the others. He wouldn’t have missed her. She was the smallest. Petite. Her hair was probably some shade of red, he guessed, pinned into a topknot on her head. Despite her small frame, she had big tits. He couldn’t wait until she yanked off that sleeveless blouse she was wearing and showed ’em off.
Again his dick twitched.
He wondered at the color of her nipples. Pale and blushing? The kind that nearly blended into the surrounding soft tissue? Or big, dark discs with pointed little nubs that he’d love to suckle and nip?
Now his damned hard-on was pulsing.
But she was sitting on the edge of the dock now, hugging herself, hesitating. Come on now, girl, don’t hold back now. Who the hell was she? He zeroed in on the features of her face and didn’t recognize her, but he could imagine what it would feel like to have her slim legs wrap around his waist, the tightness of her moist pussy.
He had to look away for a second.
Couldn’t let sex distract him.
At least not yet.
Come on, come on. His whole body tensed as the disrobing began. Of course, it was Shiloh, the cowgirl, who started the strip show. Her friends were following suit. The cop’s daughter, supposedly whip smart, wasn’t shy either, but the third one was still hesitating.
So, now, which one?
Who would be the lucky girl?
He adjusted his ski mask and, raising one finger, pointed at the unwitting three as they innocently removed their clothes.
Eenie, meenie, miney, moe . . .
*
They should never have brought Ruthie.
That was the mistake.
And a huge one, Shiloh thought with more than a little rancor. She shouldn’t have agreed to the change in plans, should never have sat waiting in the truck she’d “borrowed” from her jackass of a stepdad while Katrina had sneaked up the well-manicured street to Ruthie McFerron’s house, tapped on the girl’s bedroom window, and helped her sneak out. Crap! What had Katrina been thinking when she’d suggested that Ruthie join them?
Shiloh should’ve argued the point. After all, she was the one taking all the chances. If Larimer Tate figured out she’d rolled his truck away from the ranch, not turning on the headlights until she was around the corner, taken his crap of a pickup without his permission, there would be hell to pay. Sometimes, she thought, shaking her hair loose from its long braid, she let other people rule her life. Always a problem. Tonight, letting Kat talk her into bringing the third girl was an example.
Obviously, Ruthie was having second thoughts about sneaking out of her parents’ house to join them, and now, of course, the little wimp was nervous, seeing ghosts in the shadows of the large aspens guarding this private lake, feeling as if unseen eyes were watching them.
The fact that the girl still went by Ruthie said it all. What sixteen-year-old would still be called Ruthie? And yet it fit, Shiloh thought, as she stripped off her dusty T-shirt and sweaty bra.
The cold breeze kissed her skin as she dropped both items into a pile on the dock. Ruthie McFerron was a baby. That’s all there was to it. And she’d been coddled by a neat, little holy-roller family, unlike the patchwork of weirdos Shiloh called family. Her mother had married a string of losers—the last, Larimer Tate, to whom Faye was still married, being the worst of the lot.
“But I think I saw something,” Ruthie whispered again.
“Like what? It’s dark as hell out here,” Shiloh grumbled as she worked at the top button of her jeans. She was having none of it. “You’re imagining things.”
“No, I think—”
“Shhh!” Katrina, a few steps behind the other two, hissed a warning. “No one’s out here. Just us.”
“Then why do we have to be quiet?” Ruthie’s round eyes were visible in the moonlight, the whites shimmering.
She was such a wuss.