His brown eyes lowered to her conspicuously bandaged hand. “What happened?”
She hesitated. “Well, it was kind of weird. I reached in a bin for the mud brush, but the hoof pick was there instead, point up. I know I should have looked before I reached, but…everything is in the wrong bin.”
He walked past her into the tack room. Linette heard only silence for a minute, then he came out.
“I didn’t do that.” Sometimes he had trouble holding her gaze, but not now. “I wouldn’t.”
“It’s not that big a deal.”
“It is ’cuz you hurt yourself.” He frowned. “Has anyone else been here?”
The question stunned her, when it shouldn’t have. Maybe she’d been trying not to think about who could have moved everything just to toy with her.
“No,” she said slowly. “Except, someone must have been.”
“Like, a teenager?” His cheeks reddened, because he was a teenager, too. Earnest, though, not the type to commit pranks or deliberately disturb someone. Assuming she really knew him.
Linette shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Let me start cleaning up Ana Rosa,” he suggested. “Maybe you should check around the barn. You know? Make sure nobody has messed with anything else.”
“Yes. Thank you. I’ll do that.” And should have already.
She started in the tack room, then thought in alarm about the gates. Jogging, she set out to check the nearest ones, then returned shaking her head.
“Nothing. It’s just…strange.”
As she put out a new salt block, Linette thought of the couple of nights recently when she’d thought she heard something or someone that didn’t belong. A couple of times, the hairs at her nape had prickled, as if she sensed she was being watched. She’d convinced herself that she was imagining things, but what if she wasn’t? Could a vagrant be sleeping in the barn at night? She hadn’t seen any sign – no food wrappers or anything like that. If someone shook out one of the turnout blankets carefully, she wouldn’t be able to tell if it was substituting as a sleeping bag nights…which were still pretty cold in this country.
This was the kind of thing Theo would have enjoyed. She froze between one step and the next mid-paddock. Her skin stung at the thought, as if she’d been slapped. He was equally capable of sudden violence, but he could ratchet up the tension for days and weeks, feeding off someone’s fears.
No, of course Theo wasn’t around. She hadn’t seen him in four years. He’d never stalk her; the last time she’d seen him, he’d looked at her as if she was something disgusting at the bottom of his garbage can. In fact, his last words were, “You think I’d chase after a woman? You got it wrong, babe. You’re the one who’ll be crawling back to me.” And then he had walked away. Well, she hadn’t crawled back, and she’d never seen him again. Thank God.
Collecting herself, she went back in the barn for a halter and lead rope so she could bring a mare and young foal in for grooming and inspection. Linette made herself shake off the uneasiness. If someone was hanging around, he was trying to go unnoticed. And that was a big if. Who knew, maybe she’d sleepwalked last night and done some reorganizing before wandering back to bed.
She made a face. Since she actually had sleepwalked as a child, the unpleasant possibility wasn’t all that outlandish.
*****
On Wednesday, Grant waved off the hostess at a café where he and Jed occasionally met for breakfast. They preferred to choose their own booth. In the early days of their acquaintance, they’d raced to it, the winner able to sit with his back to the wall, but mostly now Grant conceded the defensive position to Jed. Only once had he said, “You’re the paranoid one.”
The fact that Jed hadn’t disputed the description had been a statement all its own. Really, all he’d done was confirm some of Grant’s suspicions.
Today both ordered without even glancing at a menu. Once they were alone, Grant spoke first.
“I can’t believe these sons of bitches hit another ranch.”
The call had come in before seven this morning, over two weeks since the first report of stolen cattle. Grant knew that Jed had forgone breakfast and coffee to go out to talk to the rancher and look around. The rustlers hadn’t left anything behind he hadn’t already seen. All he’d done was shake his head when he got out of his pickup in the café parking lot and saw Grant.
Now he grimaced. “I talked to that old fool two days ago. Says he had a doctor appointment yesterday, just didn’t think there needed to be such ‘a goldurned hurry’.”
Grant huffed out a breath. “We’ve been spoiled around here. And I’ve got to tell you, I’m glad Jack of all people didn’t hear something during the night and go out to see what was happening.”
“Or wave a gun around,” Jed said. “He proudly showed me a shotgun as old as he is.”
“I think I went to school with one of the Bakers’ granddaughters.” Grant nodded his thanks to the middle-aged waitress who delivered their drinks.
“Yeah, meant to ask you about some of the ranchers who are around your age. I understood when Rob Fullerton wasn’t happy to see me—”
The two men shared wry smiles. Unlike Gene Baxter, Fullerton had been a person of interest during the killing spree this winter. They’d had good reason to think the perpetrator was ex-military and very possibly sniper trained. Fullerton’s dishonorable discharge had caught their attention, although neither of them had thought he had the patience or the self-control to have trained as a sniper or commit several murders and leave behind no trace of his presence. Truth was, Fullerton was just an asshole. Grant had always known that.
As it happened, Jed hadn’t been on the job here more than a few weeks when he’d joined a uniformed deputy in breaking up an ugly bar fight. Jed had sported a black eye the next day after bringing Rob down. The guy was lucky not to face the additional charge of assaulting an officer of the law.
“Did he at least listen to you?” Grant asked now.
“Fullerton? Don’t know. He said, ‘I hope they do show up at my place.’” Jed rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I told him to call us and not confront anyone on his own, but I think it’s safe to say he didn’t hear that part.”
“No.” Grant rolled his shoulders. “I keep thinking—” He broke off, in part because the waitress was approaching with their meals, but also because he didn’t want to put into words what he guessed Jed, too, had been thinking. For any cop, logic led only one way.
This gang had gotten away with a lot of meat on the hoof. They had to know law enforcement was involved and that the ranchers were talking to each other. This would be a smart time to stop. If they were outsiders, Grant would expect them to move their base of operations somewhere the alarm hadn’t yet been sounded. Instead, they were still willing to take their chances. People were mad as hell about these thefts. If the rustlers didn’t back off, a confrontation was inevitable. Grant knew damn well there wasn’t a rancher in the county who didn’t own at least a couple of rifles and probably a handgun, too. The only question was who’d die: a good guy, or a bad guy?
He knew which way he’d vote, but wasn’t happy about either possibility.
As they ate, he steered the conversation to other business. The county was rural, the population sparse, which meant tax money was limited and the sheriff’s department inadequately staffed. Grant had scraped up some additional funding to pay for more training, but Jed remained the only detective, and Grant too often had to take patrol shifts, when as sheriff his time could be better spent.
He mentioned that his parents would be back from wintering in Arizona any day. “Cassie met them, but now she’s panicking,” Grant said with amusement. “She’s not used to family. It’s going to take her some time.”
“I’d panic, too.” Expressionless, Jed shrugged. “People like you who grew up feeling secure don’t really get it. Mother? Father? What’s that?”
Jesus. Grant hadn’t for a second regretted hiring this man.
He and Cassie would both be dead if not for Jed. Grant considered the detective to be a friend, but he’d always known Jed bore deep scars.
Never much for poetry, Grant had made an exception for John Donne’s reflections on why no man is an island, entire of itself. He wondered whether Jed would agree. Jed was a loner, all right, but also a man who wouldn’t hesitate to sacrifice himself for someone else. He’d been in one way the ideal personality for the army to train and field as a sniper. But if he clung to even a shred of belief that any man’s death diminished him, he must be nearly crushed by the guilt of how many deaths he had caused, and while seeing each face.
And Grant had added one more to that toll.
“Cassie had her father, at least,” he said.
“Not sure that’s saying much.”
“No.” Henry Ward had been an angry, bitter man whose temper had soured even more when he’d needed to ask his daughter to come home after he had a stroke. She’d not only taken care of him, she’d kept the local newspaper going in hopes he’d be able to return to work. Even she’d never been sure whether Henry appreciated anything she’d done for him. He’d died without ever answering that question.
“You’ve never said anything about your own family,” Grant commented.
Jed moved his shoulders uncomfortably. “Don’t have one.”
Well, shit. Grant could have guessed as much. Now what should he say? I’m sorry? That wouldn’t go over well.
After a minute, Jed did surprise him. He pushed his plate away and said, “Don’t know who my father was, barely remember my mother.” Pause. “I wasn’t quite what people had in mind to adopt.”
“You’ve turned into a good man, starting from a hard place.”
Jed stared at him for a long minute. Grant had a feeling that Jed was stunned, even though he never let his expression change. At last, he dipped his head. “Thank you. Not so sure which way I’ll be going when the time comes, though.”
What a strange and unexpected conversation.
Voice low, scraped raw, Grant said, “I’ve killed my share of men, too, you know.”
Desperate eyes met his. “It’s not only that. You can’t—” He broke off and shook his head, said brusquely, “Let’s drop it.”
Grant could only nod. For once, he didn’t mind when his phone rang. Dispatch.
“Holcomb.”
“Sheriff, Cliff Avery called in a murder.”
Jed had stiffened.
“Did he say who the victim is?”
“Gary Webb.”
“Oh, hell.” Gary’s son Hayden had been a good friend of Grant’s when they were kids.
“Ah…do you know where Detective Dawson is? He’s not answering his phone.”
“Yeah, he’s right here with me.” Grant pulled out his wallet. No time for pie. “You let Cliff know we’re on our way.” He ended the call.
Jed produced a twenty and dropped it on the table, too. “Who is it?” he asked.
When Grant told him, Jed muttered an obscenity. “I was going out there this afternoon.”
“This isn’t necessarily related.”
Grabbing his hat from the bench seat, Jed said, “What are the odds of that?”
“Probably zero,” Grant conceded, sliding out from behind the table himself. “Cheryl says she tried to call you.”
“What?” Jed patted his pockets. “Damn, I think I set my phone in the cup holder.”
They walked out, Grant nodding a greeting at a few people on the way, Jed thanking their waitress. Outside, they split up to drive separately. Whatever Grant had said, he had no doubt that Gary had heard cattle lowing in agitation or voices that didn’t belong or who knew what and stormed out during the night to threaten the intruders. If only he’d called 911 instead, they might have had a chance to arrest these SOBs – and Gary would have been able to see his grandkids grow up.
Grant turned on the rack of lights but not the siren, speeding out of town, Jed Dawson’s department-issue SUV right behind him.
All Grant could think was about the phone call he’d have to make to Hayden. The one where he said the most useless words he knew: I’m sorry for your loss.
CHAPTER THREE
Jed squatted beside the body of a gray-haired man who reminded him more than he liked of Walt Whitney: build long and lean, skin weathered and wrinkled, wearing faded jeans and denim jacket. When Jed nudged the jacket open, however, he saw not the usual flannel shirt a man like Gary Webb would wear, but instead a pajama top.
So he’d either been getting ready for bed, or already in it when he heard something outside that he felt compelled to personally check out versus calling 911. The lowing of confused cattle, men’s voices, the rumble of a truck engine. That was something they’d never know, but Jed felt sure they’d find the WBB Ranch had lost some cows and calves during the night.
He glanced at Grant, who had a pained expression on his face as he stared down at the blue-and-white striped pajama top.
“Did you know him well?”
Standing above him, Grant said tightly, “His son Hayden wasn’t one of my closest friends, but we played football together, did some local rodeo riding together.” His shoulders jerked. “He was always up for a party at the butt crack.”
Jed winced. The crazed sharpshooter and serial killer who had kidnapped Grant’s girlfriend had set up what he hadn’t known would be his final hurrah at the rimrock that had been a gathering place for teenagers in Grant’s day – and, from what Jed had heard since, was still a favorite hangout despite the bloody events of a few months back.
“Gary and my father have played a weekly poker game as far back as I can remember. After Dad started wintering in Arizona, I don’t know if Gary and the other two men found a substitute, or didn’t play unless Dad was in town.”
That poker game would never be the same.
“He the kind who wouldn’t think twice about grabbing his gun and coming out to stop what he had to guess were cattle rustlers?”
“Oh, yeah.” Grant dropped to a crouch beside Jed. “What’s that under his arm?”
Since he’d snapped on latex gloves and Grant hadn’t, Jed lifted the slack arm slightly. “Phone. Wonder if he’d started dialing?”
Grant scowled and rose to his feet again. “I really don’t want to think these sons-of-bitches are locals. If they are—”
Chances were good they were Grant’s generation rather than his father’s. They might have been in classes with Hayden Webb, too, drank from kegs of beer he’d bought, possibly played on sports teams with him…and hitched rides from his father. They could be younger, of course – Grant was thirty-six years old – but the guys who were much younger were unlikely to own ranch land where they could keep the stolen herds out of sight.
The Oregon State Police CSI van pulled in. Jed walked to meet the investigators, leaving Grant to brood over the body of yet another man he’d known well. Shit, Jed thought; dealing with death was an ugly enough business when the victims were strangers. He wondered if his boss was regretting his decision to return to his home town as county sheriff.
“Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Karin Engstrom said. A sleek blonde in what he guessed was her early forties, she was already suited up to avoid contaminating the scene. Speaking briskly, she asked, “Do you have an identity?”
“Seems we’ve become murder central.” He turned to walk with her. “The dead man is Gary Webb, the rancher who lives here and owns the land. You’ve heard about our cattle-rustling problem?”
“Caught my attention.”
“Once we have permission from the victim’s son, Sheriff Holcomb and I intend to find out if the WBB is short on cattle. It’s the most probable scenario. The M.E. could surprise us with a time of death that doesn’t fit, but to all appearances Mr. Webb came out during the night because he heard something that didn’t belong.”
She surveyed the dead man, her gaze pausing on the evidence that he wore pajamas beneath his jacket, then on the r
ifle lying a few feet from his hand on the hard-packed earth outside the barn. “Let’s see what we come up with.”
Jed watched as they set up a perimeter while the photographer started with the body.
“Crap,” Grant said. “I’ve known the Webbs since I was a kid. Assuming the door is unlocked, I’m not waiting for a warrant to go in the house. The least I can do is call Hayden.” He raised his eyebrows at Jed. “Unless you want to do it?”
“No.”
Grateful his boss was willing to do the notification – probably Jed’s least favorite part of the job – he lingered in the barnyard to oversee the CSI crew. He saw Grant go in through the back door.
Twenty minutes later, Grant reappeared. He’d found the phone number and talked to the dead man’s son, who had given permission for any and all searches on the property that he and his sister had jointly inherited.
“He’s in software, works for Apptio up in the Seattle area.” Grant shook his head. “I think she’s in the D.C. area. I don’t suppose either will be interested in coming home to ranch. They may have trouble even selling the place unless one of the neighbors wants to expand.”
Despite booming real estate prices in urban areas on the west coast, much of eastern Oregon was a stark contrast. Competing with enormous corporate cattle ranches, family ranches on the scale of the ones in this county were less economically viable than they’d been a generation ago. And what were the other choices? A city as small as Fort Halleck had limited jobs available and the two other incorporated towns in the county even less so. Retirees were moving east of the Cascade Mountains for the lower cost of living, recreational opportunities and low rainfall, but they mostly settled in Deschutes County around central Oregon’s largest city, Bend, and Mount Bachelor, famous for powder snow and world-class skiing.
Grant was right; Jed could think of half a dozen small ranches already up for sale.
The morgue crew – i.e. a couple of employees from the town’s only funeral home – arrived to transport the body. By the time they loaded the body bag in the back of the hearse, Grant had saddled two horses he found in the barn.
All the Lost Little Horses (A Desperation Creek Novel Book 2) Page 3
