LITMIR.BIZ

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as sugar and salt.

      Brooke was scowling in the direction of Chantal’s trailer. “Did you know Chantal demanded another stuntwoman and body double? Zander refused, even though Chantal threatened to break her contract.”

      That surprised Jud. Not about Chantal, but about director Erik Zander, who had never seemed like a man with much backbone. But if the rumors were true, Zander was betting everything on this film, a Western thriller. Apparently, it was do or die at this point in his career.

      According to the rumor mill, the director was in debt up to his eyeballs from legal fees after a young starlet had drowned in his pool and the autopsy showed that the woman was chockfull of drugs—and pregnant with Zander’s baby.

      He’d managed to keep from getting arrested, but it had cost him not just his small fortune but his fiancée, the daughter of a wealthy film producer. She broke their engagement, and that was the end of her wealthy father backing Zander’s films.

      Jud paid little attention to rumors but he did have to wonder why Erik Zander had decided to produce and direct Death at Lost Creek, given the publicity after the death at his beach house. On top of that, Zander had cast Chantal Lee and Nevada Wells, former lovers who’d just gone through a very nasty public breakup. Jud feared that would be the kiss of the death for this film.

      Jud had gotten roped into the job because Zander had made him an offer he couldn’t refuse—complete control over all the stunts in the movie as stunt coordinator.

      Suddenly Chantal’s trailer door slammed open. The star burst from it, clutching something in her hand as she made a beeline for them.

      As she drew closer, Jud saw that the star had one of the small rag dolls from the film gripped in her fist. She stalked up to the two of them and thrust the doll into Brooke’s face.

      “I know you left this on my bed, you bitch!” Chantal screamed. “If I catch you in my trailer again…” She threw the doll at Brooke.

      Jud watched Chantal storm away. Everyone in the common area had witnessed the scene but now pretended to go back to what they were doing.

      Beside him, Brooke stooped to pick up the doll that had landed at her feet.

      Jud saw at once that the doll wasn’t one from the prop department. He took the tiny rag doll from her. It was so crudely made that there was something obscene about it.

      Brooke wiped her hands down the sides of her jeans as if regretting touching the ugly thing. “I didn’t put that on her bed.” She sounded confused and maybe a little scared.

      “You’re not buying into that local legend,” he said with a chuckle. “Not you.”

      She smiled at that but still appeared upset. According to the script for Death at Lost Creek and local legend, the recipient of one of these dolls was either about to have some really bad luck, or die.

      “I’ll take that,” Nancy snapped as she came up to them and held out her hand.

      Jud dropped the tiny rag doll into it. From the look on the assistant director’s face she was not amused. But then Jud didn’t think he’d seen her smile since he’d gotten to the set.

      “I can’t wait until this is over,” Brooke said, her voice breaking after Nancy walked away. “I hate this place.”

      He’d heard the crew complaining about the isolation since the closest town was Whitehorse, Montana, which rolled up its sidewalks by eight o’clock every night.

      But Jud suspected it was the script—not the location—that was really getting to them. Their trailers were circled like wagon trains, one circle for the crew, another for the upper echelon in what was called the base camp.

      Not far from the circled RVs was the catering tent and beyond it was the false fronts and main street depicting the infamous town of Lost Creek.

      But it was the real town of Lost Creek farther down the canyon that had everyone spooked. Now a ghost town deep in the badlands of the Missouri Breaks, with its history it was a real-life horror story.

      All that was left of the town were a few rotting wooden buildings along the creek and the Missouri River. The town, like so many others, had been started by settlers coming by riverboats up the wide Missouri to settle Montana.

      The wild, isolated country itself was difficult enough for the settlers. The river had cut thousands of deep ravines into the expanse, leaving behind outcroppings of rocks and scrub pine and hidden canyons where a person could get lost forever. Some had.

      But even more dangerous were the outlaws who hid in the badlands of the Breaks and attacked the riverboats—and the towns. Lost Creek had been one of those towns.

      “I have to get away from here for a while,” Brooke said suddenly. “Are you going into town tonight?”

      “Sorry, I’ve been summoned to a family dinner at the ranch. Which means something is up, or I’d ask you to come along.”

      “That’s right, your family lives near here now. Trails West Ranch, right?”

      He nodded, wondering how she knew that. But it wasn’t exactly a secret given who his father was. Grayson Corbett had graced the cover of several national magazines for his work with conservation easements both in Texas and Montana.

      “I’m dreading dinner tonight,” Jud admitted. He had been ever since he’d gotten the call from his father’s new wife, Kate. That in itself didn’t bode well. Normally Grayson would have called his son himself. Clearly Kate had extended the invitation to make it harder for Jud to decline.

      “Family,” Brooke said. “That’s all there is, huh.”

      “Are you sure you’re all right?”

      She smiled. “I’m fine. You’re a nice man, Jud Corbett, but don’t worry, I won’t let it get around.”

      He watched her walk away, strangely uneasy. He’d worked with Brooke before. She was a beautiful, talented woman with a core of steel—much like Chantal. She didn’t scare easily. He suspected whatever was bothering her had nothing to do with a silly rag doll or the horror stories that went with it.

      BABY SHOWERS were enough to make any twentysomething female nervous. For Faith Bailey it was pure torture. But she had no choice.

      This was a joint shower for the very pregnant Cavanaugh sisters, who Faith had grown up with.

      Laci Cavanaugh had married Bridger Duvall, and the two owned the Northern Lights Restaurant in downtown Whitehorse. Laney Cavanaugh had married Deputy Sheriff Nick Giovanni, and they had built a home near Old Town Whitehorse, where the girls’ grandparents lived. Both sisters were due any day now—and looked it.

      The shower was being held at the Bailey Ranch in Old Town Whitehorse, the only place Faith had ever considered home in her twenty-six years. Another reason Faith had to be here.

      But as she sat in her own ranch house living room, she couldn’t help feeling out of place. Almost all of her close friends were married now, except for Georgia Michaels, who owned the knitting shop in town, In Stitches. And everyone knew what followed marriage: a baby carriage.

      “Can you believe this population explosion?” her friend Georgia whispered. On the other side of Georgia, their good friend Rory Buchanan Barrow was fighting morning sickness even though it was afternoon.

      When they were all kids, growing up in this isolated part of Montana, they’d all vowed not to get married until they were at least thirty-five, and none of them was going to stick around Whitehorse. Instead, they’d sworn they would see the world, have exciting adventures and date men they hadn’t grown up with all their lives and dated since junior high.

      While some hadn’t married the boy next door, they’d all fallen hard for their men and totally changed their big plans for the future.

      Faith couldn’t help but feel annoyed with them as she looked around the crowded living

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