by B. J Daniels
Back up on Rachel’s floor, he parked himself in the waiting room and sipped his beverage. It was hot and bitter, which suited him just fine. He thought of Humphrey, but quickly pushed his image away. Instead, he tried to remember how it had all started and realized that would have been the moment he first saw Rachel. The moment Humphrey also saw her and Ford lost her.
It had been in the park near the university. He and Humphrey had been sitting on the grass under a large oak tree like they usually did after their chem class when a woman had caught Ford’s eye. She was a vision in an orange-and-white polka-dot sundress that accented her slim, sun-kissed form. She was trying to feed a squirrel a scrap of bread from her lunch. He watched her for a few minutes, amused by her patience. Humphrey had been lying back on the grass, smoking and staring up at the blue sky overhead. Ford had been leaning back against a tree, watching the world go by.
He remembered that carefree feeling with his whole life ahead of him. It had felt as if anything was possible. That was when Rachel had caught his eye. She and the squirrel chattering at her from a nearby tree. What fascinated him was the way she could hold so perfectly still, kneeling on the grass, her arm extended, the scrap of bread pinched between two fingers. He’d been impressed by her perseverance, her naive belief that if she waited long enough the squirrel would come to her.
He hadn’t been able to help himself. He’d pulled out the cell phone he’d gotten for Christmas and snapped a photo of her. The movement caught not just her eye, but also that of the squirrel, which took off up the tree.
Getting to her feet, she’d mugged a face at him as he’d gotten up and walked over to her. “I’d almost had him convinced to take the bread.” It was a rebuke.
Ford had laughed. “That squirrel was never going to take that bread.”
“How do you know that?” she’d demanded, glaring at him.
“I heard what he was saying to you.” He’d grinned. “He doesn’t eat white bread.”
Her face had softened into a glorious smile, one that would haunt his dreams for years to come. “You understand squirrels?”
“Clearly better than you,” he’d joked. “I’d be happy to teach you, though. I’m Ford Cardwell, squirrel whisperer.”
Her smile had broadened as she said, “Rachel Westlake. You do know that has to be the worst pickup line I’ve ever heard.” Her gaze had shifted to Humphrey, who had spotted the two of them and gotten up to join them.
Ford had taken one look at his friend’s face and known that he’d been as captivated by the woman as Ford had been. The difference was that Rachel had been looking at Humphrey with that same expression.
Rachel and Humphrey used to joke that it had been love at first sight. Ford knew it had been for him, not that he’d ever told anyone, especially the two of them. Rachel and Humphrey had started dating after that, the three of them often together. He thought of all the photos with Humphrey with one arm around Rachel and one around Ford. Humphrey always said that he couldn’t live without either of them. It had been like that right up through graduation and their wedding.
Now in the waiting room, he felt that old guilt and pain. What hurt was how much he’d missed his best friend the past fifteen years and now Humphrey was gone.
As the waiting room door opened, Ford started. He’d expected it to be the sheriff. Instead, it was a man he’d only met a few times but recognized at once. Bartholomew “Bart” Collinwood walked in as if he owned the hospital. He certainly could have bought it if he wanted to, Ford knew. Humphrey and his father had had a tense relationship back in college. His friend always felt that he would never live up to his father’s expectations. Ford wondered if that had changed over the years.
Bart stopped short in the middle of the room and frowned as he stared at him. “Ford, isn’t it?”
“Ford Cardwell.” He was a little surprised the man even remembered him.
“I recall you saying it was an old Texas family name, right? Or was it Montana?” The shock of his son’s death wore heavily on the man. He seemed confused and unsure of himself for a moment. Then his gaze seemed to clear. “You know, you’re the reason my son bought the ranch out here. All those stories you used to tell about ranch life.”
He heard accusation in the man’s tone. Did he believe that if his son hadn’t bought a ranch in Montana he’d still be alive? Ford didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. The man was grieving. He was probably also looking for someone to blame.
“You two were good friends, roommates,” Bart continued. “Had a falling-out at the end of your senior year at college, right?”
Was that how Humphrey had explained it? “I joined the military,” Ford said.
“That’s right.” The man shook his head. “I’m surprised my son didn’t follow you right into boot camp since he wanted to do whatever you did. Rachel knew how much he admired you. She must have stopped him. She wouldn’t have allowed him to do anything but make more money for her to spend.”
Ford shook his head, recalling that Bart had never been a fan of Rachel’s. “Humphrey loved her.”
The man let out a bitter laugh that almost sounded like a sob. “And look what it cost him.”
Ford started to argue that Humphrey hadn’t been the only victim in what had happened, but Bart cut him off.
“So you’re here for his wife.”
Was that an accusation or just Ford’s guilt making him hear it that way? “It isn’t like that.”
“It sure looks like that.”
The sheriff stuck his head into the door of the waiting room, drawing both of their attention. Bart moved swiftly to the lawman and grabbed his arm as he began demanding justice for his son.
The sheriff shook him off. “I thought you might be here wanting to know how his wife is doing after being severely beaten almost to death by your son,” Charley Cortland said. “She’s recovering nicely.”
Bart huffed. “I want to see her.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the sheriff said. “You’re just going to upset her and she’s been through enough.”
“She’s been through enough. She killed my son! I was just at the morgue. She shot him in the face!” Bart’s voice broke with emotion. “I will see her. She will look me in the eye and tell me the truth.”
At the raised voices, a security guard pushed open the waiting room door.
The sheriff turned toward the uniformed man. “Hal, show this gentleman out of the hospital. If he comes back, let me know so I can arrest him.”
“You have no idea who you are dealing with,” Bart said angrily. “You’ll be lucky to be the dogcatcher when I get through with you.”
Chapter Six
Back at the morgue, dressed and ready for the autopsy, Hitch studied the corpse lying now on the metal table. After Mr. Collinwood had left, she’d gone online. It had been easy to find information about Humphrey Collinwood and his wife, Rachel. He’d been handsome, wealthy and a successful businessman. There were dozens of shots with him and his wife at gala affairs and fund-raisers before they’d moved from New York City to the ranch north of Big Timber, Montana. The two had been photographed at every party they attended as the VIPs they were.
That had been until about a year ago, when they’d bought the ranch and moved here, from what Hitch could tell. Was that the beginning of the end?
She’d also done research on Ford Cardwell. A cowboy turned hero flyboy who’d received a medal of honor after his plane had crashed because of a mechanical failure in war-torn Afghanistan. Miraculously surviving the crash, he’d fought to save his crew, rescuing some but losing others when the plane exploded. He’d only left the military a few months ago. Interesting, she’d thought. Before that, it had appeared he was making the military his career.
But what intrigued her more was how he’d gotten involved in Humphrey Collinwood’s death.
Cause of death: a single gunshot wound. She went through the steps, documenting each into the camera.
She frowned as she noticed the deceased’s hands. If he had been beating his wife, there would have been bruises, abrasions, some sign of trauma.
Carefully, she removed first his wedding ring and bagged it. Then the ring on his other hand. His right hand. It was large, gold and heavy with a diamond at its center. She noted the blood and skin that had been caught in the design before taking a sample and bagging the ring. If he’d been right-handed, then this was the hand he would have used to hit his wife.
Still, the lack of abrasions or bruising on his hands bothered her. She took photographs of each hand. But until Hitch saw the extent of her injuries, she wouldn’t know if he had used something other than his fists.
The sheriff had already decided it had been a case of self-defense. But she knew most were never as simple as that. Had Rachel Collinwood feared for her life? Had she used the proper amount of force based on that fear? Had she shot to stop the man or kill him? Hitch recalled one case where the location of the gun had been a deciding factor in whether or not the woman had planned to kill her husband—and whether she was exonerated.
Rachel had a witness of sorts already waiting in the wings. Hitch couldn’t wait to meet Ford Cardwell and hear how it was that his old friend from college just happened to call him at one of the most tragic times of her life.
* * *
“HOW LONG ARE you going to be in town?” the sheriff asked Ford after the security guard left with Bart in tow.
“I’m not sure yet,” Ford told him. “I’m not leaving right away. I want to be sure that Rachel’s all right. Truthfully, I also would like some answers. I still can’t believe any of this. Humphrey was like a brother to me. This just doesn’t make any sense.”
“People change,” the sheriff said. “Either that or he was always like that and just hid it well.”
After being told that Mrs. Collinwood was down in X-ray and he wouldn’t be able to see her again until tomorrow, Ford left. He’d just walked out the front of the hospital when he saw a woman etched against the last of the sunset. She stood off the sidewalk, at the edge of the deep shadows that had settled in around the hospital. It had been a long day, so no wonder he thought he was seeing things. The woman resembled someone he used to know. He was about to turn toward his pickup when the woman spotted him and called his name.
“That is you, isn’t it?” she said as she stubbed out her cigarette and moved from the shadows so he got a good look at her.
“Shyla?” He couldn’t help his surprise. Like with Rachel, it had been years since he’d seen her best friend from college. He frowned. How had she known about what had happened and gotten here this quickly? “What are you doing here?”
“The same thing you are, I would imagine,” she said. “Have you seen Rach? Is she okay? The guard wouldn’t let me in to see her.”
“I mean, how did you get to Montana so quickly? Did you fly in with Bart?”
“Bart? Good Lord, no! I live here now. I guess you haven’t heard. My last name’s Birch now. I married a cowboy.” She laughed. It was high-pitched and loud—just like it had been in college. Like Humphrey, Shyla had come from old money. It was no surprise that she’d said at college that her family considered her the black sheep. “I know. It was my dream, right?”
“How long have you lived here?” he asked.
“I was out here visiting Rach a year ago and...” She waved a hand through the air. “It just kind of happened. Listen, if you aren’t doing anything right now, I could really use a drink. Think we can find a bar close by?”
Ford had to smile. Shyla Earhart hadn’t changed in the least. Brash, abrasive, loud and completely without filters. He didn’t want or need a drink, but he needed to know about Rachel and what had led up to today’s tragedy.
“I’m betting that you already have a bar in mind,” he said.
She laughed again and looped her arm through his. “You know me so well. So how have you been, Ford?”
“Just dandy,” he lied as they walked to his pickup.
The bar Shyla chose was small and dark and surprisingly quiet. It definitely wasn’t a cowboy bar. He wondered idly about her husband and how they’d met, but after getting them two drinks from the bar, he asked about Rachel.
“So what happened with Rachel and Humphrey?” he asked.
Shyla mugged a face. “He turned out to be a real bastard.” She quickly raised a hand as if she thought he would argue and rushed on. “I know he was your friend, but he’d changed.” She grimaced. “You have no idea how bad it got once they moved out here. Rach didn’t want to move here, you know. She hated living out in the sticks. Like he cared. He was often gone to the big city on business, so she was out there, terrified in that big house, all alone. That’s why I came out to stay with her for a while and ended up meeting my cowboy and getting married. My family had multiple heart attacks over it.” She laughed and picked up her drink.
“Did you know he was abusive to her?” Ford asked as Shyla drained her glass and signaled the bartender for another. He hadn’t even touched his yet.
“Sure, I knew. I mean, I’d seen the bruises a couple of times. She always had a story. Walked into a wall. Got hit by a tree branch. Fell off her horse. The usual.” Shyla rolled her eyes. “I knew something was wrong.”
“Why didn’t she leave him?” He took a sip of his drink.
“Why do you think? His father forced her to sign a prenup before they got married. Divorce was out of the question unless she wanted to live like a pauper.”
“She could have gotten a job.”
Shyla laughed. “Rachel? She majored in psychology at college and hasn’t worked all these years. You want fries with that?”
“But if he was abusing her—”
“He traveled a lot and it didn’t happen all the time, but I had suspected it was getting worse when he returned to the ranch. When they first married, she’d wanted kids. He didn’t. You knew about the miscarriage, right? Then they moved out here and he decides he wants kids. She reminds him that she can’t get pregnant. Something about that miscarriage after their wedding. He wants to adopt. At thirty-two, she felt like that ship had sailed.”
“A lot of women are having babies later in life,” he said.
“Not with a husband who is abusive,” Shyla said, leaning toward him. He could smell cigarette smoke and her cloying perfume mixing with the booze she’d drunk. “He was a spoiled rich kid and he wasn’t happy, so he took it out on her.”
He didn’t remember that about Humphrey. Sure, his friend came from wealth, but he’d seemed almost embarrassed by it. Ford reminded himself that he was getting only one side of the story: Rachel’s, as told to Shyla. But then again, that might be the only side he was ever going to get now.
“She might go to prison,” he said.
Shyla’s eyes widened. “How is that possible? For killing the bastard when he was trying to kill her?”
“I heard a lot of it while it was happening,” he said.
She froze. “You what?”
“Rachel called me. I heard her screaming and pleading with him not to hurt her—”
“Wait. You two have been talking?”
“No. She contacted me on social media recently. We exchanged phone numbers. That’s all it was. I never planned to call her...”
“She called you for help?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that. I think she pocket dialed me by accident. Anyway, I heard all of it right up to the gunshot before the call ended.”
“You told the sheriff this?” He nodded. “Then there is no way she’s going to prison, Ford. Clearly, it was self-defense, right?”
�
�It sure sounded that way,” he said as he finished his drink and she downed her second one.
Her cell phone rang. He could hear only one side of the conversation but it seemed pretty clear. Her husband was reminding her that she was supposed to be cooking dinner and she needed to get home.
“We should go,” he said, although Shyla had told her husband that she’d be home when she was good and ready and it was high time he learned to cook.
She smiled almost sheepishly. “He really is a good guy. Just a little too much sometimes.”
He took her back to the hospital where she’d left her car. “Are you going to try to see Rachel again?”
“Tomorrow,” Shyla said as he walked her to her car. It had gotten dark while they were in the bar. She opened her car door and turned to look at him. “Is it bad? What he did to her?” Ford nodded. “She was lucky he didn’t kill her. You asked what happened between them. She thought he was having an affair. And get this—it was with a local woman who works as a waitress at the Corner Café in town. Emily Sutton.”
“You know her?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Rachel only told me a couple of days ago. She’d just found out. I went by the café after that, but Emily wasn’t working, and the next thing I knew, I heard about what had happened out at the ranch earlier today. Thanks for the drinks.” She climbed into her car and drove away.
Ford watched her go. Shyla was out here in Montana married to a cowboy. He couldn’t believe that any more than he could that Humphrey was having an affair, had beaten Rachel and she’d felt forced to kill him. But as the sheriff said, people changed. Ford wondered if the alleged affair was what the two had argued about. Or was it about adopting children?
His cell phone rang. He pulled it out, saw that it was his father and realized he wasn’t in the mood to explain everything that had happened today. Or how he found himself involved again in Rachel’s life. He knew his father wouldn’t have thought it was a good idea. Jackson had met Rachel and Humphrey back in college. And while his father had been taken with Humphrey, he hadn’t been a fan of Rachel’s. Or maybe what his father hadn’t liked was Ford’s obvious infatuation with the woman who was clearly more infatuated with Humphrey than his son.
