Читать книгу High-Caliber Cowboy - B.J. Daniels, B.J. Daniels - Страница 9

Tuesday

Sheriff Cash McCall had just gotten to his office when the phone rang.

“This is Johnson Investigations in Richmond, Virginia,” said a woman with a wonderful Southern accent.

“I’m calling in regard to Lenore Johnson. She is in your area on an investigation and we haven’t received word from her for several days. She had made a prior arrangement to call yesterday afternoon at a set time. She did not call. We have reason to believe she might have met with foul play.”

An investigator all the way from Virginia? “I can’t file a missing person’s report for forty-eight hours on an adult, but I would be happy to take the information,” Cash told her.

“We’d appreciate that. Because of the nature of our business, I’m afraid I can’t give you the details of the investigation. However, I can tell you where she was staying, the make and model of the car she was driving and give you her description.”

“All right.” Had she been a tourist, Cash wouldn’t even have done that much in the first forty-eight hours. Usually people just lost track of time and forgot to call. But since she was an investigator… And since he was a nice guy who had taken this job to help people…

“She was staying at the Shady Rest Motor Inn in Sheridan. The rental car was a dark green Dodge Dakota, license MT 3-178649. Ms. Johnson is forty-six years old, five-foot-seven, auburn hair, chin-length, slim build, brown eyes. She was armed.”

“This investigation,” Cash asked. “She considered it dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s all you can tell me.”

“At this point. If we haven’t heard from her in forty-eight hours, I will be happy to disclose additional information. That will give me time to contact our client.”

“Your client? Who you also can’t divulge at this point,” Cash said.

“That is correct.”

He groaned inwardly. “But you’ll call me if you hear from her.”

“Of course. At once. We greatly appreciate your assistance, Sheriff.” She gave him her number and hung up.

Cash called information in Richmond, Virginia, and asked for Johnson Investigations. Same number as the woman had given him.

He had just hung up when he got the call from the Antelope Flats Clinic. He was surprised—and instantly worried—when he heard Dr. Porter Ivers’s stern voice.

“You might want to come down here,” the elderly doctor said….

BRANDON WAS SITTING UP on the gurney at the Antelope Flats Clinic when his brother came in.

“How’s the head?” Cash asked.

Brandon swore under his breath. Dr. Ivers must have called him after Brandon had come stumbling in, bleeding all over the floor.

“Better.” His head hurt like hell. But nothing like his pride.

“You weren’t in that bar fight out at the Mello Dee, were you?” Cash asked. “I’m looking for the guys who tore up the place last night.”

“Nah.” If he told Cash about last night, he’d have to tell him about the night security job at VanHorn Ranch. He already knew his brother’s response to that.

Nor could Brandon tell him about the vandalisms out there since VanHorn hadn’t reported them. As sheriff, Cash would have to pay Mason VanHorn a visit, demanding to know why he hadn’t been called—and warning VanHorn not to take the law into his own hands.

Once Brandon’s name came up, VanHorn would be beside himself to think he’d had a McCall working for him. Heads would roll. And Brandon—if not shot—would be out of a job. And the VanHorns and McCalls would be at it again.

But Brandon didn’t kid himself. None of that was why he couldn’t tell his brother. This was about salvaging some of his pride and that meant getting the vandal in his sights again. Hell, he’d been so close to her that he’d smelled her perfume, seen the hint of perspiration on her upper lip, knew the exact shade of her honey-brown eyes.

Unfortunately, he’d fallen for her helpless reporter act and had a sore head to prove it.

If he told Cash the truth, he’d never get a chance to catch the woman. And he would catch her. He was counting on seeing her again. His gut told him she hadn’t left town, that even though she’d gotten into the safe, she wasn’t finished with Mason VanHorn. And this time, Brandon would be waiting for her.

“So how’d you get your head bashed in?” Cash asked. He had his sheriff face on, which Brandon knew meant he’d keep at it until he got the truth out of him. Or something close.

“It was stupid,” Brandon said sheepishly, looking down at the floor. He’d perfected this look over the years after getting caught in countless shenanigans. All the McCall boys got into trouble. It was almost a tradition. And as the youngest McCall male, he’d had to sow his share of oats, as well. But at thirty-three, he was taking the longest to straighten up.

He looked at the floor and said, “There was this bull out in a pasture and there was this woman…”

Cash groaned. “You were showing off. This woman have anything to do with why you’ve been staying out all night for days on end?”

“’Fraid so.”

Cash shook his head but smiled. “Our little sister thinks it’s serious.”

It was serious all right. Just not in the way eighteen-year-old Dusty thought. “Yeah, that Dusty’s a real authority on romance,” Brandon quipped.

“Doc says you don’t have a concussion.”

“Just a few stitches,” Brandon said, trying to play it down.

“Twelve is more than a few. What’d you hit?”

“Must have found the only rock in the field when I came off the bull,” Brandon said. “But, hell, big brother, you had more stitches than that when you were young.”

“When I was young? I’m only a few years older than you. And I can still kick your butt.”

Brandon grinned. “Might have to see about that someday.” He quickly changed the subject. “Heard Molly’s back from visiting her mom in Florida.” Molly was the woman his brother had fallen in love with and from what Brandon had seen, Cash was more than serious about her. “Is that weddin’ bells I hear? Bet Shelby’s already bought a mother-of-the-groom dress for the wedding.”

Shelby was their mother, but after not being part of their lives for more than thirty years and suddenly returning, her five now-grown children couldn’t bring themselves to call her mother.

“You tryin’ to change the subject?” Cash asked, eyeing him.

“I don’t want to talk about my love life, okay?” His nonexistent love life, especially.

“Neither do I,” Cash said. “You want me to call J.T. and tell him you won’t be doing any work at the ranch today?”

“That would be great,” Brandon said, sincerely touched. Cash was offering the equivalent of an olive branch. “You know J.T. He’ll think I busted my head open on a rock only to get out of work.”

Cash returned his smile. Their oldest brother, J.T., could be a little intense when it came to the ranch. But J.T. had mellowed some since his recent marriage. A woman was exactly what J.T. had needed.

“With Rourke back, they should be able to manage without you for a few days,” Cash said.

Brandon grinned, seeing that his brother was getting him a few days off to recuperate—and spend time with his lady. “You romantic, you. You’re okay, Cash, no matter what the rest of the family says about you,” he joked.

“I got work to do,” Cash said, and turned to leave.

“Thanks,” Brandon said to his brother’s back. He felt a little guilty about keeping things from Cash. But not guilty enough to confess just yet.

Once he caught the woman from last night, he’d collect his bonus and tell Cash everything. Once VanHorn got wind of everything, the job would be over anyway.

Dr. Ivers came back into the emergency room. He had a frown on his face, as if disgusted with the whole bunch of McCall boys. He’d been stitching up McCall boys from long before Brandon was born. The doc had tried to retire but couldn’t seem to make it stick and was only becoming more cantankerous. Kind of reminded Brandon of his father. But then Asa McCall had always been cantankerous and just plain hard to get along with.

That is until recently, when his wife Shelby returned from the dead. Brandon shook off the thought. He didn’t want to think about what was going on between his parents.

“You’re free to go,” Dr. Ivers said, handing Brandon a prescription for painkillers. He checked the bandage on the back of Brandon’s head, adding, “I don’t want to see you back in here. Don’t you have something better to do that get banged up in the middle of the night?” He shook his head again. “Good thing you McCalls are a hardheaded bunch.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Brandon said, reaching for his cowboy hat. He placed it gingerly on his head, wincing a little.

“You’re going to have a scar,” said a female voice from the doorway.

“Won’t be my first scar,” Brandon said with a grin.

“Hi, Taylor.”

“That’s Dr. Taylor Ivers to you,” the old doc snapped. Taylor was Dr. and Mrs. Porter Ivers’s surprise late-in-life child. She had followed in her father’s footsteps, something that Brandon could see pleased the old doc greatly.

Taylor held out her hand. “Hello, Brandon.” He took it, not surprised by her firm handshake. She was all business. He hadn’t seen her since she was a skinny kid with braces and glasses. She hadn’t changed that much, except she had perfectly straight teeth and must have worn contacts.

She’d been one of those gifted kids who went to a special private school, graduating high school at fifteen, college at eighteen and medical school at twenty-two. Last he’d heard, she’d done her residency at some cutting-edge hospital down south.

“You planning to take over for your dad?” he asked her, joking.

“She has bigger fish to fry,” Dr. Ivers snapped. “She’s not getting stuck here.”

“I’ll be staying for a while,” Taylor said, glancing at her father. “My mother isn’t well.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered quickly.

“I want to be near my parents right now,” Taylor said, and turned to her father, “You have a phone call.”

“I’ll take it in my office.” He looked at Brandon. “I’d tell you to take it easy, but I know it would be a waste of breath.” The old doc turned and left without another word.

As Brandon slid off the gurney and headed for the door, Taylor busied herself putting away the equipment her father had used to patch him up.

Brandon left with only one thing on his mind—the woman who’d wounded his pride. The flesh injury would heal.

ANNA’S ATTEMPTS to find out if Brandon McCall had been taken to the Antelope Flats Clinic had failed miserably.

As an investigative reporter, she knew a few tricks for getting information. But the woman she spoke to at the clinic, a Dr. Taylor Ivers, wasn’t falling for any of them.

Anna hung up, hoping McCall was all right. She’d hit him with a cast-iron cowgirl doorstop. Her disappointment in him aside, she hoped it hadn’t hurt him too badly.

She stepped out onto the deck overlooking the Tongue River Reservoir and rubbed the back of her neck, angry with herself for worrying about him. He worked for Mason VanHorn! That should tell her what kind of man he was. More than likely, he deserved anything she gave him.

The morning breeze whispered in the pines and rippled the water’s green surface below her into a glittering chop. She could see a half-dozen boats along the red cliffs of the lake and wished she were on the water.

Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of the lake and almost thought she felt a memory stir her. She and her father fishing in a small boat, just the two of them, on a summer day, the soft slap of the water against the side of the boat, the steady thrum of the motor, the pull of the rod in her hand.

She knew it couldn’t possibly be a memory. She’d never gone fishing with her father. She’d barely known him. At her first boarding school, she’d told everyone that her parents were both dead. In a way, it was true. They were both dead to her.

Going back inside the cabin, she wondered why she hadn’t thought to rent a cabin on the lake in the first place. Staying at a motel, even in Sheridan, Wyoming, even miles from the VanHorn Ranch, had been risky. Here on the lake at this time of year, she could blend in.

In a few hours, when it warmed up, the lake would be alive with the whine of boat motors roaring around, the smell of fires from the campground across the water and wonderful sounds of laughter and voices.

And according to the records she’d uncovered, just down the lake was a piece of recently acquired land that was now part of the VanHorn Ranch. Not exactly lake-front property in the true sense. It was swampy, with lots of trees standing knee-deep in the water with the lake up. The land wasn’t used for anything except the wild horses Mason VanHorn had collected before there were laws preventing it.

This morning, after a sleepless night, she’d come up with a plan. Unfortunately, she could do little until almost dark and she’d never been good at waiting.

She tried her cell phone and still couldn’t get any service in this remote part of the state. Giving up, she picked up the phone in the cabin and dialed the Virginia number.

“Johnson Investigations,” a female voice answered.

“I’m Anna Austin—”

“Ms. Austin, I’m sorry but if you’re calling for Lenore, she still hasn’t called in. As a matter of fact, we have contacted the sheriff in Antelope Flats.”

“That’s why I’m calling. I wanted to give you my permission to reveal the nature of her business here and who she was working for,” Anna said. “I’m worried about her.”

“We’re concerned, as well, but the sheriff said no missing person’s report can be filed for forty-eight hours,” the receptionist said. “He has agreed to keep an eye out for her but can do nothing more at this point.”

Forty-eight hours. “I’m going to do my best to find her in the meantime.” She gave the receptionist the number at the cabin and hung up.

She had hired Lenore Johnson to verify some information she’d received. Lenore had called two days ago to say that at least some of the information was correct. She hadn’t wanted to discuss the case over the phone, adding she had another lead to check out before she flew back. Anna had told her she would be flying out and Lenore had given her the name of the motel where she was staying in Sheridan, Wyoming.

But when Anna reached Sheridan, she’d discovered that Lenore had left the motel without checking out, taking everything with her, and hadn’t been seen since.

Anna’s gaze went to the manila envelope where she’d dropped it beside the phone. The letter inside had been lost in the mail for nine years.

A part of her wished it had stayed lost.

Sitting down, she picked up the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper from inside. The barely legible words had been written in a trembling feeble hand. An elderly woman’s deathbed confession.

At first, Anna had thought the woman must have been senile. None of it could be true.

But she’d been wrong. At least some it was true, or Lenore Johnson wouldn’t be missing.

Carefully, Anna slipped the letter back inside the envelope and, getting up, hid it under the cushion of the chair. She knew she was being paranoid, but it was the only evidence she had. Even if it was worthless in a court of law without proof to back it up, she didn’t want to lose it.

Had the private investigator found the proof? Or had she just asked too many questions?

Anna shivered, hugging herself as she thought of Lenore Johnson. Lenore had known going in just how dangerous this was, and she was trained for this kind of trouble. If she had failed…

Anna knew she was completely out of her league. Not that she would let that stop her. Nothing could stop her. She would find out the truth, because she knew it was still on that ranch. Too many people had been involved in the cover-up. Mason VanHorn couldn’t be sure the others would keep quiet. He would have evidence he could use to ensure they would never talk. He would keep that evidence close to him, so if all else failed, he could get it and destroy it. If it came to that. She didn’t think he felt that threatened yet.

So the evidence had to be in the ranch house. She had to find it and she couldn’t count on him being gone for long. Once he heard about the break-in, he might come back. Or he might just put more guards on the house, assured that he could protect himself and the evidence.

She had to get back into that ranch house. Only this time, she would need a major diversion—something more than vandalizing a few wellheads.

And this time, everyone would be looking for her after Brandon McCall told them what she looked like. At least he didn’t know her name. Nor would she be easy to find.

As she looked across at the marina, she knew she had just raised the stakes and was about to gamble everything. There was no turning back now, no matter who got in the way. Even Brandon McCall.

She would find out the truth. Even if it destroyed them all.

MASON VANHORN PICKED UP the broken lamp in his office and hurled it across the room. It crashed into the wall, dropping with a clatter.

Red Hudson winced but had the good sense not to say a word. The ranch manager had noticed tracks in the mud behind the house, had investigated and called him. Mason had driven home at once, disbelieving that anyone would be stupid enough to break into his house. When he got his hands on the bastard—

“They came in through the window in the bathroom,” Red said behind him. “Had to know you weren’t going to be home.”

“They?” Mason turned to look at him. Red was a big man with a shock of bright red hair, thus the nickname. Mason knew he could count on Red’s loyalty because he had just enough on the man to ensure Red would never turn on him.

But unfortunately, Red had a little something on him, as well, which meant he couldn’t control him like he could the other men. Red could be pushed, but Mason wasn’t sure how far.

“I found two sets of tracks coming and going,” Red said. “One could be a small man. The other large.”

“I thought you hired extra men to make sure the ranch was secure,” he snapped.

Red nodded. “But we were expecting the wells to be hit, not the house.”

“If that’s your excuse—”

“It’s not an excuse,” Red said, an edge to his voice.

Mason opened one of the file cabinets, then slammed it. “You’re saying there are two vandals?”

Red shook his head. “This isn’t the work of a vandal. The house wasn’t torn up. These guys were looking for something.”

Mason didn’t look at him.

“Why do I get the feeling you know what they were looking for?” Red swore. “If I’d known the house might be hit, I would have put some men on it. Whatever was in the safe—”

“It was empty.”

Red shook his head. “So you knew they were coming.”

Mason didn’t have to explain himself to anyone. He’d cleaned out the safe as a precaution. He’d never dreamed anyone would actually break into the house. He wanted to turn his fury on Red, to fire him, to send him packing, but he knew this wasn’t Red’s fault. It was his own.

Moving to the desk, he stared down, suddenly afraid he might have left something incriminating lying around. Living alone, with no one having access to his office, had made him careless, he realized.

“I want guards around the house until further notice,” he ordered. “I want those bastards caught and brought to me.”

Red met his gaze. “You think they’ll come back?” he asked in surprise.

“Just do it and stop questioning me,” Mason snapped.

The ranch manager nodded slowly. “I’ll put my best men on the house. But if you really want to catch them, you need to go back to Gillette. If they have a reason to hit the house again, they won’t be foolish enough to do it with you here.”

Mason couldn’t argue Red’s logic but he had no intention of going anywhere. “I’ll make everyone think I’ve gone back to Gillette, but I intend to be here tonight when they come back.”

“Suit yourself, but it could be dangerous.”

Mason laughed. “Only for the bastards who broke into my house.”

“It would make my job easier if you’d tell me what they’re looking for.”

“What makes you think I want to make your job easier? And get someone to clean up this mess.” Mason turned and stormed out of his office.

Something caught his eye from down the hall. A drop of blood on the carpet. He felt a chill. Was it possible one of the burglars had been hurt breaking in? He knelt down to inspect the spot. It was right in front of his son’s open bedroom door.

He still thought of the room as Holt’s even though his son would never use it again. He’d heard rumors that Holt was in California, Florida, even Alaska. He didn’t care where he was as long as he never had to lay eyes on him again. His own son had stolen from him—shamed him.

He clenched his fist at the memory. He’d built everything for Holt, his only son, the heir who would one day take over the vast empire he’d built. Now Holt was gone and Mason had seen to it that his son would never get a penny.

He closed the bedroom door. He should have cleaned it out the moment he learned of Holt’s betrayal. Should have had everything in it burned.

He moved down the hall, following the droplets of blood and stopped at his daughter’s bedroom door, seeing at once that things weren’t as they should have been.

One of the stuffed animals on the bed had been moved. He knew because that rag doll had been in the same place for the past twenty years—exactly where Chrissy had left it.

That stupid part-time housekeeper he’d hired must have moved it when she cleaned the room. He’d have Red fire her.

He stepped to the bed, picked up the rag doll. Honey. That’s what Chrissy had called it from the day he’d given it to her. He brought the doll to his face, smelled it as if he thought Chrissy’s baby-girl scent would still be in the worn fabric. But of course, it wasn’t.

He put Honey back where she belonged—between the teddy bears—and tried to picture his precious daughter in this room, but it was too heartbreaking.

“Mr. VanHorn?”

He turned from the room, practically fleeing down the hall to where Red stood, giving orders on the phone to whoever was doing the cleanup.

“I found some blood,” Mason said the moment Red got off the phone.

The ranch manager nodded. “There’s some on the bathroom floor and the windowsill, too. One of them must have gotten injured breaking in.”

What had happened here last night? “Who did you have watching the wells behind the ranch house?” Mason asked.

“One of my best men. Brandon McCall.”

Mason couldn’t speak. He started shaking so hard he thought he was having a seizure. Brandon McCall was working security on his ranch? A McCall on VanHorn soil? “Fire him immediately!”

“He’s one of my best men,” Red said, staring at him in stunned surprise.

“He’s a McCall.” It had never dawned on Mason to tell Red never to hire a McCall. But more to the point, what the hell would a McCall be doing working on this ranch? Only one explanation presented itself. “No. Don’t fire him. Bring him to me. Now!”

He stormed back down the hall to the bathroom, stooping to pick up the iron cowgirl doorstop on the floor. As he lifted it, he saw the dried blood. “Get me McCall,” he yelled back at Red, feeling as if he still might have that seizure.

HEAD ACHING, Brandon set out to find the woman vandal. He started in Antelope Flats, cruising down Main Street, keeping his eye out for her. Antelope Flats was a tiny western town in the corner of southeastern Montana. Tiny and isolated, just the way he liked it.

He’d been born here and lived his whole life on the family ranch north of town. This was his stomping grounds and he knew this part of the country better than anyone. If the woman was still around, he’d find her.

Not that he expected to see her walking down the street. She was much too smart for that. But he thought he might see her car. He’d picked up an accent last night that he couldn’t place, but one thing was clear: she wasn’t from around here. That meant she was driving either a car with out-of-state plates or a rental car.

There were a few vehicles in front of his sister-in-law’s Longhorn Café, the only café in town. But he recognized all of them. Most were pickups, since Antelope Flats was born a ranching town. A few of the trucks were from the coal mine down the road, tall antennae with red flags on top so they could be seen in the open-pit mines.

Antelope Flats had only one motel on the edge of town, the Lariat. He drove out there, but wasn’t surprised to see that the parking lot was empty. Anyone who had stayed here last night was already gone.

He found Leticia Arnold in the apartment at the back of the office making what smelled like corncakes.

She saw him and motioned for him to come into the kitchen. “Want some pancakes?”

“No, thanks.” Leticia was his sister Dusty’s best friend. After high school graduation, while Dusty had opted to stay and work the ranch, Leticia had taken over running the motel so her elderly parents could move to Arizona. Leticia had been a late-in-life baby, the Arnolds’ only child.

“I’m looking for a woman,” he said, pulling up a chair as she sat down in front of a tall stack of corn-cakes. Leticia was thin as a stick with a wide toothy smile and all cowgirl.

She grinned up at him. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that?”

He laughed. He liked Leticia’s sense of humor. “I’m too old for you.”

“Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?”

He reached over and took a bite of her pancakes.

“Wow, you’re a pretty good cook. Maybe I’ll reconsider,” he joked.

“You wish. You’re right, you’re too old for me,” she said, trying to sound disappointed.

“You probably have some rodeo cowboy you’ve got your sights on anyway,” he said.

She looked surprised. “Did Dusty tell you that?”

He laughed and shook his head. His sister Dusty never told him anything, but he knew that the two friends had been hitting every rodeo within driving distance and he doubted they were going there for the fried bread.

He described the woman he’d seen last night as Leticia ate her pancakes and then got up to cook a few more.

“She didn’t stay here, but there are tons of motels down in Sheridan you could try. What happened to your head?”

“I thought I was smarter than I was.”

She laughed. “I could have told you that and saved you a lot of pain.” She put the last batch of corncakes onto a plate. “So this woman made a lasting impression on you and yet you don’t know where to find her?” She laughed. “A bad-boy McCall chasing a woman? She must really be something.”

If you considered a scar on the back of his head a lasting impression. “Let’s just say I’m looking forward to seeing her again.”

“Then you’re going to need your strength,” she said, sliding the plate of pancakes over to him. “Dusty told me that you had a woman in your life.”

“Did she now,” he said, seeing that Leticia was just dying to call his sister and tell her he’d been by asking about a woman. No way around that. Let Dusty think she was right and that he’d fallen in love. Better than the truth.

SHERIFF CASH MCCALL made a few calls to Sheridan about the private investigator. He’d just hung up when he got a call from the Wyoming Highway Patrol.

“We’ve got a body just over the state line a few feet,” the patrolman said. “Looks like she’s yours since she’s in Montana. Her car’s parked along the road. Appears to have fallen down the embankment. Ended up at the edge of the river in the rocks.”

“Have you called the coroner yet?” Cash asked.

“Raymond’s on his way. He said he would stay at the scene and wait for you. We’ve got a semi overturned in the southbound lane between here and Gillette.”

“Go ahead and respond. I’m on my way. You ID the body?” Cash asked. He hoped it wasn’t a local. This was the part of his job he hated. Before the day was out, he could be banging on a door somewhere in the county to inform a relative that their loved one was dead. He also hoped it wasn’t the missing Lenore Johnson.

“A woman. I’d say about sixty. The car is locked, keys in the ignition. Her purse is inside along with what looks like a half-empty fifth of vodka. I didn’t attempt to open the car—did run the plates, though. The car is registered to an Emma Ingles.”