Читать книгу A Lasting Proposal - C.J. Carmichael - Страница 8

Fall, 1999

IT WAS A NIGHT OF ORANGES, golds and blood, blood red. The sun had not quite set on the Thunder Bar M ranch outside Canmore, Alberta. Yet already clinging to the foothills on the eastern horizon was the harvest moon, heavy and florid. Aspens, dripping in their amber foliage, framed the old log ranch house. At the center of it all raged a bonfire. Prongs of orange flames and spears of thick, black smoke lashed out at the darkening sky.

Two groups, mostly men, stood on opposite sides of the blaze. The oilmen versus the ranchers—a centuries’ old animosity.

Max Strongman knew that the men on the other side of the fire saw him as a sellout. He was married to the woman who owned this land. Today he hoped to finalize a deal on her behalf with Beckett Oil and Gas to explore, develop and produce the black gold upon which the wealth of Alberta was based. The CEO of the company, Conrad Beckett, stood beside him with his teenage daughter, Jilly.

There were others. Max’s grown son, James. Harvey Tomchuk, Max’s retirement-age accountant. Several executives from the oil company, too, as well as lawyers and investment representatives from the nearby city of Calgary.

A deal was imminent, despite Beckett’s unexpected posturing as they’d discussed terms a few hours earlier. Max hoped that good food and plenty of expensive wine would nudge the executive in the right direction. Inside the ranch house, his wife and the caterer had huge beef ribs marinating in a smoky-red barbeque sauce, next to salads, breads and more. When the fire died down a little, he would start cooking.

Or so he’d planned. But fifteen minutes ago a gang of men had marched up the lane from the public access road. His wife’s son, Dylan McLean, a dark-haired, fiery-tempered man with strong opinions on the heritage of the land his great-grandfather had homesteaded, led the entourage. With Dylan was his cousin, Jake Hartman, a towering blond mountaineer. They were at the forefront of the group of neighboring ranchers and local environmentalists who opposed the deal Max had worked out with Beckett.

This problem Max didn’t need right now. The deal just had to go through! He’d staked his future and his son’s on this land. Together, they would earn millions—

A movement distracted him. Mick Mizzoni, editor of the Canmore Leader, had just stepped forward to whisper something to Staff Sergeant Thad Springer of the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment. Rumors of trouble had drawn both men tonight.

But it was Mick Mizzoni who concerned Max the most. The journalist had been against him from the first day Max had been elected as the mayor of Canmore. Undoubtedly Mizzoni was itching to portray him unfavorably yet again.

Max couldn’t let that happen. He had other plans for this land—beyond the oil wells—that required he keep town council and public opinion on his side.

He needed something, anything, to make the protesters appear unsympathetic. Earlier in the day, he’d talked the situation over with the woman he loved, and with his son. They’d agreed that for now all he could do was try to appear more calm and rational than the other side. But was that really his only option?

A fifteen-minute tirade by one conservationist ended. Then an experienced trail guide got up to give his spiel. Would they never shut up? Max could see Beckett growing increasingly anxious. Conrad had his arm around his daughter, and the girl had started shooting some pointed questions to her dad about his company’s environmental standards.

Maybe it was time for Max to have his say. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket.

A second later, a streak of silver flashed against the carbon sky. Loud pops sounded as a firecracker blazed in a celebratory arc above the crowd, fizzling out just meters above their heads.

After the unexpected explosion came a short second of silence. Then a father’s anguished cry filled the void.

“Oh, my God! My daughter’s bleeding—she’s been shot!”

Crimson blood appeared almost black in the fading light. The liquid seeped over Jilly’s chest, over-flowing to her father’s arms.

There was another second of silence as Conrad Beckett’s words, and the image of the wounded girl, penetrated the stunned minds of the surrounding men.

And then—chaos. Someone with first-aid experience rushed forward. Staff Sergeant Springer began barking orders to the crowd. Confused and frightened, everyone was talking, shouting.

Max alone didn’t move. Coolly, he analyzed the incident and its most likely aftermath. Jilly Beckett had been shot—but the intended target had surely been her father, Conrad. The cops would figure that the firecracker had been a decoy, covering the report from the gun. But who would be blamed for the shooting?

Someone—dared he hope Dylan—from the group of ranchers and environmentalists was the obvious answer. Max held back a smile. His prayers had been answered. Public opinion would be on his side now, his and Conrad Beckett’s.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beckett. Your daughter is dead.”

Max heard the pronouncement and the crowd’s answering gasp. He remained still as a new possibility suddenly occurred to him. For the first time, fear squeezed his heart, bringing pain to his chest. He scanned the crowd anxiously, unable to single out James in the melee.

Where was his son?