Читать книгу Winterkill - P.H. Turner - Страница 12

8

I hadn’t joined a gym yet, but I did get in a two-mile run before meeting Hunter. By eight, I was showered and presentable in my one go-everywhere-but-to-work outfit of a black cashmere dress and heels. Mom would find Hunter a suitable date. I had a few minutes so I called and let her tell me about the charity auction she was working on. Finally, she asked about my job and my house. I assured her the house was safe. “I’m working on a story about a mutilated buffalo bull.”

“Sawyer, honey, I thought you were going to cover environmental stories up there or economic stories, whichever.”

“I am Mom. Ray Foster raises buffalo for profit.”

“Are you safe? Are you going to be okay? You’re not out there by yourself are you?”

“No, Mom. I’m fine. Really it’s okay.”

I closed my cell.

* * * *

“You look great.” Hunter gave me a quick hello kiss. I gave him the short tour of the house. “I like what you’ve done with the place.” He slipped his arm around my waist. I felt warm and protected with that big arm around me. “The ten miles into Cheyenne won’t be too much for you in the winter? The county does a pretty good job on clearing the road but sometimes it’ll be a tough commute.”

“I learned to drive in Denver. I’ll be fine.”

Hunter held the door for me. I slid into his Tahoe. “You need better tires than whatever you were using in San Antonio. That tire place on Main will make you a good deal on crossover tires. I run them on all my vehicles.”

“You ever been to the Little Bear?” he asked as he buckled up.

“No, I don’t remember ever going there.” I said.

“Probably wasn’t open back when you were a kid. Used to be an old Inn and stage stop. When they started the remodel, they found a hundred-foot tunnel connecting the Inn to the stable. When a posse was after an outlaw, he could just drop in the trap door and make it to his horse.”

“Can we see the tunnel?”

“Tunnel’s still there, but it’s crumbling so badly no one can go in it. You’ll like what they did in the old saloon. They kept the old mahogany bar. The food is topnotch and I’ll make sure you get fine service from the staff.”

A grove of trees sheltered the low-slung log building. A wide porch led to hobnail double doors. We crossed the distressed pine floors to a table set in front of a stone fireplace.

Over a rich merlot and great ribeye that would have fed two, Hunter mentioned the mutilation on Shadow Mountain. “I heard around town Ray Foster lost a buffalo. You working on this story? I apologize. I don’t see the local news too often.”

“Yeah, heck of a scene.”

“What happened out there?” Hunter sipped his wine.

I was careful to tell the edited version of the story.

“Bad business.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Foster’s got a small operation out there. What’s he going to do?”

“I asked him that. He’s worried. I don’t know how you babysit stock out on the range. Foster only has three hands and a lot of acres to watch.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem. Stock mutilation is a form of terrorism. You’d have to have an army to watch your whole ranch. You either round up your stock, feed ’em and babysit them, which costs a fortune, or you turn ’em out and hope for the best. Either way, it doesn’t help a man sleep.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I told all my hands to be on the lookout for strangers, tire tracks, signs of anyone camping—anything out the ordinary. Not much else to do.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck.

“I researched stories of stock mutilation. Found a couple in Montana. Do you remember anything from when you lived there?”

Hunter wrinkled his forehead. “I remember some trouble around Missoula. I had a client at the bank who ranched. He had a cow mutilated on his place. It’s been awhile. I don’t remember all the particulars, but I do remember there weren’t any arrests.”

“I didn’t see any arrests. The mutilations just stopped.”

“You find any cases in Wyoming?” he asked.

“A couple out of around Laramie, but that was seven years ago,” I said.

“Not much of a pattern. I hope this is an isolated case out on Foster’s ranch, but it may not be.”

The waiter was hovering. “Will you be having dessert this evening?”

“Sawyer?”

“Nothing more for me, thank you.”

He ordered two brandies. “We’ll have our brandy before the fire.”

Hunter slipped his arm around my shoulders, tucking me close. I enjoyed his embrace, the scent of his cologne and the rasp of his beard when he leaned close.

“I’m happy around you. I can be open with you. Almost like I’ve known you for a long time. I don’t share Emily’s story with too many people.”

I put my brandy on the side table. I was getting too relaxed.

“Do I make you feel that way? I mean—I know we’ve only to begun to see each other, but do you think I can?” he asked.

Before I could answer, Hunter’s focus shifted to the door of the restaurant. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on my shoulder. Jake entered the dining room with a tall, willowy blonde who was laughing at something he’d said.

Hunter snapped his attention back to me. “Know her? The woman with Spooner?”

“No, I’ve never seen her before.”

“Morgan Hall. She owns a successful public relations firm over on Main and Third.” Hunter drained his brandy. He took his arm from around my shoulders, motioning the waiter for a second.

Jake and Morgan stopped by the fire. “Good evening. Sawyer, this is Morgan Hall. Morgan, Sawyer Cahill. Sawyer recently moved here from Texas.” I flushed, remembering the way Jake sat a horse.

Morgan and I smiled our hellos.

Hunter dipped his head to Morgan. Without looking at Jake, he said, “Spooner.”

The waiter showed Jake and Morgan to a table. “What’s with you two?” I asked.

“You could say we have nothing in common.”