Читать книгу The Coltons of Wyoming - Beth Cornelison - Страница 10

Prologue

Ten years ago

If he were the kidnapper, how would he have made his getaway? How could someone have gotten off the ranch with a baby, unseen?

Officer Roland Kent of the Dead River, Wyoming, police department moved the beam of his flashlight across the grass and along the fence line at the employee entrance to Dead River Ranch. He mulled over the questions that had stumped the local police for the past twenty years. Intrigued by puzzles and determined to solve the cold case of Cole Colton’s twenty-year-old kidnapping, Roland Kent had volunteered to work on the mystery, even if it had to be on his personal time. His boss, Chief Drucker, was not pleased with Roland’s overtime investigations but couldn’t give him a valid reason why he shouldn’t work on the cold case. Roland had taken that as grudging consent and had begun his after-hours detective work three weeks ago. So far, he’d met nothing but resistance, silence and stone walls from the family and staff at Dead River Ranch, a mystery in its own right. Didn’t the Coltons want their heir found?

Walking closer to the driveway gate, Roland examined the locking mechanism. Had the gate or locks been changed in the past twenty years? This one seemed rather old and rusty. Perhaps if—

“Stop right there or I’ll shoot!” a voice shouted. A bright flashlight swung up to shine directly in Roland’s eyes, blinding him. “What are you doing?”

Roland made out a dark figure, and his attention zeroed in on the weapon aimed at him. He reached for his own weapon. “Don’t shoot! I’m—”

But before he could identify himself, the muzzle of the gun aimed at him flashed. A bullet punched his chest, knocking him backward. Pain exploded in his torso and he struggled to draw a breath. He tried to raise his weapon to defend himself, but his arm hung limply at his side. His legs buckled, and he sank to the grass at the foot of the entry gate.

The dark figure moved closer, and the flashlight beam stayed on his face.

“Officer Kent?” his shooter rasped, clearly frightened by the notion of having shot a cop. “I didn’t realize... I didn’t mean to—”

Roland clutched his chest, felt the warm seep of blood through his shirt. “Can’t...breathe.”

The shooter moved closer, but Roland’s vision was dimming.

Dying...I’m dying. Roland struggled to suck in oxygen. The bullet must have hit his lung.

His thoughts turned to Slade, his only son... I love you, cowboy. I’m proud of you.

Above him, his shooter was frantic. The flashlight beam swung about wildly until it landed on the fence. The shooter stepped over Roland, offering him no comfort, no assistance. Instead, Roland watched with fading sight as the shooter scrabbled in the dirt for a loose nail and dug something out of the fence post and slipped it in a jacket pocket. The bullet. Evidence. Covering up the murder of a cop.

Roland’s hand slipped weakly from his chest. Gasped for breath. Closed his eyes. Murdered...

I’m sorry, Slade.

* * *

Early the next morning, Agnes Barlow, the head cook at Dead River Ranch, drove out toward the sunrise farmers’ market for fresh fruit to serve the Colton family at breakfast. When she reached the employee entrance, she climbed out of the ranch truck and lumbered up the driveway to open the gate. In the predawn darkness, the truck’s headlamps shone on a dark lump by the fence.

She slowed her steps, narrowing a wary gaze on the object. A trash bag? A dead animal? Moving cautiously, she edged closer. A tingle of apprehension crawled through her. It looked like a body. Was some riffraff sleeping there, waiting to waylay an employee?

“Hello?” she called.

No response.

Shuffling closer, she approached the figure, nudged the man with her toe. “Hey, you can’t sleep he—”

The body rolled onto its back. Officer Roland Kent of the local police. Why would—

Then Agnes noticed the dark bloodstain on his chest, the dead, fixed stare of the man’s eyes.

And she screamed.