A Dark Lure Read Online Free PDF Page A

rock fireplace. Cole McDonough seemed to peer down at her with the same deep-set, moody, probing gray eyes as his father’s. Where Myron’s hair had grayed, Cole’s was still wild and dark, his skin deeply sun-browned.
    It was an iconic study of him shot at a Nanga Parbat base camp. He exuded a rugged virility, a devil-may-care attitude. The photo had been used for an Outside magazine cover some years ago, a publication to which Cole had contributed a firsthand account of a tragic Taliban attack on Nanga Parbat climbers, which he later expanded into a book. It had subsequently been made into a movie. One of two to his credit.
    Cole was an ex-military psychology and philosophy scholar turned war correspondent turned narrative nonfiction adventure writer. A literary adrenaline-seeking junkie who lived life on the razor’s edge of death, and sought to psychologically deconstruct others who did, too. It was the underlying theme in all of his works—why men and women did extreme things, why some people survived against all odds, yet others perished. She’d read the jackets of his books lining Myron’s shelves.
    His was a narcissistic pursuit. Olivia had decided this some time ago. She resented the very idea of him—maybe because she envied his freedom, his ability to live life with such full-throttle lust.
    Myron’s gaze followed hers up to the portrait. His hand holding the spoon stilled.
    “What is it?” he said.
    Olivia cleared her throat. “Where is he now?”
    “Cole?”
    “Yes. And Jane. Is Jane still in London, with her family?”
    Myron slowly set his spoon down and reached for his whisky tumbler. He took a deep, long swig and closed his eyes. “You’ve been speaking to Halliday?”
    “Yes.”
    He said nothing. The fire popped, cracked. Ace rolled onto his back, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, relaxed as the puppy he once was.
    “He told me,” she said.
    Myron opened his eyes. “What, exactly?”
    “That you’ll need to make decisions about palliative care. He said someone should call Cole and Jane, let them know what’s happening.”
    His thatch of gray brows lowered, and his eyes narrowed to flint. Very quietly, he said, “Over my dead body.”
    “What over your dead body, Myron?” she said, just as quietly. “Getting nursing care? Going into a hospice, or someone calling your kids?”
    “All of it.” He downed the remainder of his whisky, reached for the bottle beside him and sloshed another three fingers into the crystal. She knew he was on a lot of medication. Drinking like that was probably not a good idea. But good for what, if one was dying anyway?
    “I don’t give a pig’s ass what the fine doctor says. If I’m going to die, I’m going to do it right here. On my terms. On my ranch, in my own goddamn home. Where I’ve lived my entire goddamn life. Where I brought my wife. Where we had babies . . . ” His voice faltered, leaving unspoken words hanging in the void.
    Where my wife died. Where my youngest son died . . . where my family fell apart . . .
    The firelight caught a glint in his eyes.
    Olivia set her glass down and leaned forward, arms resting on her knees.
    “Myron, if you don’t move into a place where they can care for you, you’ll need in-home nursing—”
    His palm shot up. “Stop. Don’t even think about it. The day I need a nurse to wipe my ass, brush my teeth, and empty my bedpan is the day I die. Dignity. Goddamn dignity. Is that too much to ask?”
    “Your children should know. They have a right to—”
    “Enough!” He slammed his glass down, cheeks reddening. “No way in hell. I will not have those two squabbling over their inheritance, trying to sell this ranch out from under my feet. And they will try, mark my words.”
    “You can’t be so sure they—”
    “Of course I can. Cole doesn’t give a rat’s prick what happens to Broken Bar or to his old man. And I don’t need him here, rubbing my face in it. They can have the ranch