Читать книгу Redemption - B.J. Daniels - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

SHERIFF FRANK CURRY SHOVED back his Stetson as he watched the assistant coroner inspect the body. The sun was high and hot, another beautiful spring day in southern Montana. A breeze stirred the new leaves of the cottonwoods along the crystal-clear Yellowstone River. In the distance, the snowcapped peaks of the Crazy Mountains gleamed like fields of diamonds.

A fisherman had stumbled across the body in the weeds this morning after hooking into a nice-sized cutthroat. He was trying to land the fish when he’d practically fallen over the dead man.

From a nearby limb that hung out over the water, a crow cawed, drawing Frank’s attention away from the body for a moment. The bird’s dark wings flapped before it settled its black, beady eyes on him, as if to say he’d seen it all and could tell volumes if only Frank were capable of understanding a bird.

The crow cawed once more and flew off as Assistant Coroner Charlie Brooks stepped out of the weeds, rubbing the back of his neck. He was a short, squat man with timber-thick legs and a bald cue-ball of a head.

“I’d say he was killed sometime in the wee hours of this morning. Cause of death? Strangulation.” Charlie, like a lot of coroners, was a huge mystery fan. “The body hasn’t been here more than a few hours. Dumped, I would imagine, from up there.” He pointed to an embankment that led up to a gravel access road into Otter Creek. “Appears he rolled down, to come to rest at the edge of the river.”

Frank nodded—that had been his opinion as well. That was why he had one of his deputies up on the road making plaster casts of the tire prints closest to the edge of the embankment.

“Going to need to take some fingerprints once you get him to the morgue,” he told the coroner. “No identification on him that I could find.”

“We’ll put him on ice until you can get a positive ID and notify next of kin.”

Frank figured it shouldn’t take long. The man had spent some time in a penitentiary somewhere, given the array of prison tattoos on his arms and neck. His prints should be on file.

“What’s that he was killed with?” the coroner asked. “Appears to be some kind of fancy braided rope.”

“Hitched horsehair,” Frank said. “They make a lot of this up at Montana State Prison. That’s why around here, hitchin’ is synonymous with doing time. You ever heard the legend of Tom Horn? It’s said that he was hung with a rope he hitched while doing time in a territorial prison.”

“Horsehair dyed bright colors, huh? I’ll be damned.” A retired doctor, Charlie was new to Montana after living all his life in the big city.

Standing back, Frank watched as the assistant coroner and one of the local EMTs put the victim into a body bag and carried him to the fishing-access parking lot. In the distance he could hear the thrum of traffic on Interstate 90. Closer, a trout rose out of the water, the splash sending sparkling droplets into the morning air.

Frank watched the wavelets from the fish spread across the smooth surface. Murder had its own ripple effect. Shaking off the thought, he followed the path the body had made tumbling from the road. He hoped to find a wallet or something that might have fallen out of the man’s pockets.

Fortunately, in Montana, few people littered, so there were only a half dozen rusted beer cans, a couple of plastic water bottles and several pieces of dew-wet cardboard in the weeds. He was about to give up when he spotted what looked like a scrap of white paper caught high in the grass.

His hands still covered by the latex gloves he’d donned earlier, he plucked the scrap up, surprised to see that it was a photograph folded in half. Yellowed with age, the snapshot was also cracked down the middle because of the fold and worn at the edges as if it had been handled a lot. The people lined up in the shot appeared to be a family, the youngest still in Mama’s arms.

Frank turned the photo over and saw that something had been written on the back. The faded marks were impossible to read. But what made his heart beat a little faster was the realization that the photo hadn’t been in the grass long. It wasn’t even that damp from the morning dew.

All his instincts told him it had belonged to the unidentified dead man.

* * *

JACK WOKE TO POUNDING on his cabin door. He pulled on his jeans and stumbled barefoot to the door. “What in the—” He cut off his words with a grin as he saw who was standing there.

“Sorry to wake you so early, but I’m hungry,” Carson Grant said, smiling.

Jack reached for his friend’s hand, clasped it and pulled Carson into an awkward quick hug.

“It is so good to see you,” Carson said.

“You, too. Come on in.”

Carson had offered to come up to the prison and pick him up when he got out.

“Actually, the warden had my pickup released from Evidence and sent up here along with my horse and horse trailer, right after I was sent to prison. So I’ll be traveling in style,” Jack had joked about his old truck. “I will need a place to corral my horse, though, until I get settled.”

Carson had laughed. “That was awfully nice of the warden. Hell, Jack, you really do make friends everywhere you go. Just drop your horse at the W Bar G. I’ll tell my sister.”

“Give me a minute,” he said now as he snapped on his Western shirt. “I’ll get dressed and we can walk down to the café.”

“I was surprised to hear you weren’t staying out at your folks’ place,” Carson said as Jack pulled on his boots.

“Just needed a few days in town,” he said, hating to admit even to his best friend that he wasn’t prepared for the memories the homestead would evoke. He’d kept the property taxes up on the place, but still wasn’t sure he wanted to stay in Beartooth. “Ready?”

They walked down the mountainside through the pines, the morning sun shining through the branches to make golden puddles in the dried pine needles. A cool breeze blew down from the still-snowcapped peaks, but the sun felt warm as they walked to the Branding Iron. Jack swore he’d never smelled any air that was better than this.

Overhead, Montana’s big sky was a clear brilliant blue that stretched across the vast horizon. It was the kind of day that made a cowboy glad he was alive—and in Montana.

As Jack pushed open the café door, a bell tinkled overhead. The cook waved from back in the kitchen. Lou had been a permanent fixture at the Branding Iron for as long as Jack could remember.

“Sit wherever you like,” Bethany Reynolds called as she came out from behind the counter carrying a half dozen plates filled with food. Bethany, now close to thirty, had been waitressing at the café off and on since high school.

Jack breathed in the scent of coffee and crispy fried bacon as he slid into a booth across from Carson. “Bethany’s looking good,” he said.

“I wouldn’t let Clete hear you say that,” Carson warned. Bethany had married Clete Reynolds, a former football star. Clete owned the Range Rider bar and kept a variety of weapons behind the counter.

Jack was just marveling at how nothing in Beartooth ever changed when another woman came out of the kitchen. Her hair and eyes weren’t as dark as they’d appeared last night in the alley. Her slim body under her apron was tucked nicely into a pair of jeans and a Western shirt that set off her assets—something else he hadn’t gotten a good look at last night.

As she swept up to his table with two cups and a pot of coffee, she gave no indication that she recognized him.

“Good morning,” he said, studying her as he removed his Stetson and placed it on the seat next to him. She had a bruise on her cheek that she’d done a pretty good job of covering with makeup.

She put down the cups and filled them without looking at him or Carson, but Jack noticed that her hand trembled as she filled his. There was no doubt in his mind that she recognized him. Without a word though, she headed for a large table at the front of the café where a group of ranchers were seated.

Jack’s gaze followed her before finally turning back to his friend. “Who is that?”

Carson, who’d apparently also been watching the woman, gave a secretive smile. “You heard Claude Durham died a few months ago, right? That’s the new owner of the café, Kate LaFond. At least that’s the name she’s going by now. I swear I know her from somewhere and, wherever it was, Kate LaFond was not her name.”

“Really?” Jack said, letting his gaze return to the woman.

“Just saying you might want to stay clear of that one.”

Jack turned back to his coffee and took a sip. He figured that was probably good advice given what he’d seen last night, and yet his gaze strayed to her as she disappeared into the kitchen.

“So how are you settling in?” Carson asked after Bethany had taken their orders.

“It’s as if I never left.” Jack could feel his friend studying him.

“You aren’t still thinking about getting even with whoever set you up for the rustling fall, are you?”

Jack smiled and glanced toward the group of ranchers at the big table at the front of the café. He recognized all of them, including Hitch McCray. “Water under the bridge.”

Carson laughed. “If I didn’t know you so well, I might believe it. I just don’t want to see you end up back in prison.”

“That makes two of us.” Jack smiled as he leaned back in the booth and stretched out his long legs. “So how are you doing?”

“Gamblers Anonymous meetings in Big Timber once a week. Working the ranch the rest of the time.”

Jack nodded. He knew Carson had been through hell the past twelve years. First, the woman he’d loved had been murdered. Everyone in the county thought he’d killed Ginny West. To keep from losing his son to vigilante justice, Carson’s father, W.T., had sent him away for eleven years. Carson had ended up in Vegas, of all places, and gotten into trouble gambling.

Just recently he’d been cleared of the murder. But Jack knew that Carson was still paying off gambling debts and dealing with his father’s death. It didn’t matter that he’d never gotten along with W.T. Blood was always thicker than water, even when you wished it wasn’t, Jack thought, with his own regrets.

“So you’re sticking around?” he asked. Carson had sworn that the last thing on earth he was going to be was a rancher, and yet Jack knew for a fact that his friend was now wrangling on the family’s W Bar G ranch with his sister, Destry.

“For now,” Carson said. “Have you made any plans?”

Jack shook his head. He’d purposely not let himself think about the future, or the past, for that matter. Especially about how he’d ended up in prison. Or who might have put him there. Or maybe more to the point, what he intended to do about it.

“Interested in a job?” Carson asked.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Wrangling on the W Bar G.”

“Destry offered me a job when she heard I was getting out, but I thought she was just being nice.”

Carson laughed. “When it comes to the ranch, my sister doesn’t offer anyone a job just to be nice. If you’re serious about sticking around and staying out of trouble, I know she’d be happy to hire you on. Or maybe you’re planning to start ranching your folks’ place.”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do, to tell you the truth.”

“Well, we’re going to be working the roundup the next few days and sure could use your help with branding if you’re going to be around.”

Jack considered Carson and Destry’s generous offer, then studied his worn but lucky cowboy boots for a moment. Was he staying? He knew it could mean trouble if he did and yet... He watched Kate LaFond walk past their table again.

“Thanks for the offer. I’ll give it some thought.”

“You do that.” Carson seemed to hesitate as if afraid to broach the subject. “Have you seen Chantell yet?”

Ah, Chantell Hyett. Jack knew it was just a matter of time before he crossed paths with his former girlfriend. “The only letter she sent me in prison made it clear she wouldn’t be waiting around for me.”

“You don’t sound all that broke up over it.”

He laughed. Chantell’s father was the judge who’d sent him up—and the only one who’d taken their relationship seriously. Maybe too seriously. Two years at Deer Lodge was a stiff sentence for rustling one bull that was returned unharmed within twenty-four hours after it had gone missing. Jack recalled the self-satisfied gleam in Judge Hyett’s eyes the morning he’d sentenced him. Jack had felt lucky he’d gotten only two years.

As the large table of ranchers paid and began to leave, Jack saw Hitch McCray headed for their table and swore under his breath.

“Jack French,” Hitch said, smiling around a toothpick stuck in the side of his mouth. The rancher was on the south end of his thirties. He ranched with his mother on land just down the road from the French place. Ruth McCray ran her son and her ranch with an iron fist. When Hitch could escape her, he sneaked away to chase women and drink, both to excess.

But none of those were the reasons Jack couldn’t stand the sight of the man.

“Hitch McCray,” he ground out through gritted teeth.

Jack had heard all the stories, even while in prison, including Hitch’s driving-while-intoxicated arrests. Not that he could blame the man for drinking. If Ruth McCray had been his mother, he would have tried to stay drunk, too.

Word around town was that Ruth was on the warpath over Hitch’s brushes with the law, as well as his drinking and his taste in women. Hitch chased after any woman he saw. But if he ever caught one, his mother wasn’t about to let him keep her. Ruth had never approved of any woman her son had brought home—and, no doubt, never would.

“So you’re back?” Hitch said, sounding surprised.

“This is where I was born and raised. Why wouldn’t I come back here?” Jack asked.

Hitch shrugged, his gaze sliding across the table to Carson. “Well, if you decide you want to sell your family’s place...I know it’s not much, but I might be interested.” He looked at Jack again. “You let me know. You two have a nice day,” he said, and laughed as if he’d said something funny.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” Carson said as Hitch left. “You don’t know for sure that he had anything to do with you going to prison or what happened to your old man.”

Jack nodded. No, he didn’t know. Not yet, anyway.

Bethany brought out their breakfasts. They ate, talking little. Jack found himself watching the woman he’d met last night in the alley. Kate LaFond. At least that was the name she was going by now, apparently.

It wasn’t until he and Carson had finished their breakfasts and left that Jack could no longer help himself. He had to ask more about the new owner of the Branding Iron.

“I’ve been trying to place her since W.T.’s funeral,” Carson said. “I know I met her somewhere in the eleven years when I was away from Montana. But I’d swear her name wasn’t Kate LaFond.”

“You can’t remember where?”

“No, and it’s driving me crazy.”

“Why don’t you just ask her?” Jack suggested. When Carson said nothing, Jack eyed him more closely. “You think she was in some kind of trouble back then?”

“Or now. Why else change your name?”

Good question, Jack thought. “Maybe you have her confused with someone else.” Hadn’t he heard her say something like, “You have the wrong woman,” to the man in the alley last night? “She could just have one of those faces.”

Carson laughed. “Yeah, right.” Kate LaFond had the face of an angel. “But I suppose it’s possible,” he added doubtfully.

“Is that the rig she drives?” he asked as they walked past a newer model red pickup.

“Yeah,” Carson said and frowned. “Jack?”

“What?”

“I know that look. Don’t get involved with this woman.”

Jack nodded. Clearly the woman had secrets and some questionable acquaintances, considering the man she’d been arguing with last night. But right now he was more curious about what he’d seen in the bed of her pickup. A shovel covered in fresh dirt. Kate LaFond had been doing some digging—but not in the flower beds at the front of the café, which she’d let go to weeds.

“Where does she say she’s from?” he asked Carson.

“She doesn’t. No one seems to know anything about her. She just showed up after Claude Durham died and took over the café. Not even nosy Nettie Benton at the general store has been able to find out anything about her.”

“A woman of mystery,” Jack said, smiling with relish.

Carson swore under his breath. “Why did I bother warning you?”

How could Jack not be curious about her? He’d been warned to keep his distance by not only his friend, but also the woman herself.

* * *

KATE LAFOND WATCHED the two cowboys leave. She didn’t have to ask about the blond, blue-eyed handsome one who’d come in with Carson Grant. She’d already heard more than enough about Jack French.

“Just like his father,” one of the older ranchers had said, with a shake of his head, this morning before Jack and Carson had come in. She’d been busy refilling coffee cups at the large table of regulars who met in the café each morning. They’d mentioned they’d heard Jack had gotten out of prison and was back.

“Delbert French was one wild son of a bee in his day. He could ride anything and damned sure wasn’t afraid to try. But he couldn’t stay out of trouble for the life of him. The acorn didn’t fall far from the tree when it came to Jack.”

“Sad what happened to ol’ Del,” another rancher agreed. “Wonder if his boy plans to keep the family place.”

Hitch McCray had spoken up. “Smartest thing Jack could do is clear out. His father never amounted to anything on that piece of land. I doubt Jack will take to ranching any better than his old man did. He’d rather be a saddle bum.” Apparently, it was no secret Hitch wanted to buy the old French place.

Kate remembered how the others had gone quiet with disapproval. Hitch was the youngest of the regulars. She got the feeling that they didn’t particularly like him but put up with him because of his mother.

“Jack has as much right to be here as anyone,” Taylor West had said into the silence. “He’s paid for his mistake. If he really was the one who took that bull to start with.”

“Why would you say that?” Hitch had challenged. “He was caught dead to rights.”

“If Jack did rustle that bull, he was either drunk or just foolin’ around,” Taylor said. “Either way, Judge Hyett went awful hard on him. I suspect if Jack hadn’t been dating Judge Hang ’Em Hy’s daughter he would have gotten off with jail time served.”

The table had gone quiet after that. Kate had finished filling the coffee cups and gone to pick up their orders. By the time she’d returned with their breakfasts, the conversation had moved on to the weather.

Overhearing the earlier discussion now made her more curious about the man who’d come to her rescue last night. She’d been angry that he’d thought she needed rescuing. She’d been taking care of herself for so long she resented any help. The last thing she wanted was to be beholden to any man—especially one like Jack French. And now the cowboy thought he’d saved her last night.

She’d seen how surprised he’d been when her attacker had taken off without a fight. What Jack hadn’t seen was the small gun she’d pulled. The other man had seen it, though. One look at her and the gun, and he’d hightailed it.

Kate shuddered inwardly at the memory. She’d hoped she would have more time before one of them showed up. But she couldn’t let it rattle her. She’d deal with it, the same way she’d dealt with everything else in her life. But it did make her all the more aware that she needed to speed things up.

Late last fall, she’d barely gotten settled in before winter had hit with a fury. She’d realized quickly that she would have to wait it out. But now that spring had finally come to the mountains, she wasn’t about to let anything stop her. Or anyone.

Kate watched Jack French and his friend Carson Grant meandering up the street. She saw Jack peer into the bed of her pickup, then turn to look back as if he knew she’d be watching. She quickly turned away. Across the street, she saw movement in the room over the general store and groaned.

Jack French wasn’t the only one who was too curious about her and her personal business. Nosy Nettie Benton had been spying on her for months.